ENG 001: Language and Writing

Saturday in the Car with Dad

2008-05-08T01:38:00.007-05:00

My musical education started at a young age during Saturday morning errand-running with my dad. We had a midnight blue Lincoln Town Car, circa 1980, with a landau top, making the car into a faux convertible. The equally blue leather bench seats were unbelievably wide to my four-year-old eyes and were so hot that they seared my little legs in the summertime. I had quite the attachment to that car. The shining chrome that ran all around it and the sheer size of the thing made me feel like I was riding in a limo. The backseat, to which I was relegated on trips to Omaha and other seemingly far off places, had an armrest that pulled out of the back of the seat. I’d often hide things in there, looking forward to “finding” them again the next time I was back there. The pocket on the back of the passenger seat was also a hiding place for my toys and other miscellaneous things. I especially loved to sit in the open trunk. Just like any other kid, I sought out places that were just the right size for me and the trunk was one of those places. The one thing that kept me continually entertained, however, was the radio. As we drove to our first destination, I’d play with the dials, tuning in to our favorite station and we’d drive on, bopping along to the oldies. One of my favorites was Roy Orbison’s “Oh, Pretty Woman.”

My dad would wake me up early on Saturday with a cheery “buenos dias,” one of the few bits of Spanish we shared as if it was a secret language. While I was getting dressed, he’d make me an “orange juice sunrise” (something I thought was extraordinarily unique until years later when I realized that “grown-ups” usually added tequila). Once I drank it down, we’d be off. On the way to our first stop, we’d invariably hear one of our favorite songs: “Great Balls of Fire” by Jerry Lee Lewis. Pretty soon we’d be pulling up at the recycling center where we took our pop cans. I loved the metallic sound of the cans clinking against each other in their plastic garbage bags. The recycling center was exciting and different, the smell of stale beer and the gently sticky cement floor were a novelty. My dad would dump the cans into a metal basket that was bigger than me in order to be weighed before going into the compactor. I was allowed to keep the change we received from the cans—never more than two dollars, often just a small assortment of quarters, dimes and nickels. The men at the center were always very nice, bringing a small wicker basket full of suckers down from shelf so I could pick one. I’d unwrap my sucker and look around while my dad talked about the Huskers with the guys for a few minutes. Soon, we were on our way to the next stop.

On our way to continue the errands, we’d turn the radio back up. This time Elvis’ “Jailhouse Rock” came on. I’d bounce around in my seat, trying to sing along, but failing miserably because I couldn’t really decipher the lyrics. That was half the fun, really. We’d swing by Russ’s Market to pick up some pecan rolls, my favorite treat that I only got on those mornings. I’d pull apart the roll, saving the inside for last and then feel around in the bottom of the white paper bag for any pecans I’d missed. Once I’d eaten my breakfast, I was left with sugary, sticky fingers and a happy smile. Of course, pecan rolls weren’t a constant—sometimes we’d pick up doughnuts. They were never the big glazed ones, though. I always insisted upon cake doughnuts, either cinnamon and sugar or iced with sprinkles. Just like I’d look for missing pecans, I’d also root around for any sprinkles that had fallen off. The sprinkles were easily the best part of the doughnut. Then again, licking the sticky, sugary goodness off of my fingers was also pretty great.

Our next stop on those Saturdays was the Farmer’s Market. Held downtown in the Haymarket, it was somewhat of an adventure trying to find parking. Since the streets were blocked off, there was never anywhere to park within about three blocks, unless you got really lucky. Most times, we’d park under the viaduct and hope that the plethora of pigeons didn’t poop on the car too much. The Farmer’s Market was another place that always seemed exotic and exciting. The fruits and vegetables made for colorful displays and there was always some sort of entertainment. While the food was definitely fascinating, my favorite part was the variety of arts and crafts booths. I’d walk with my dad, hand in hand, looking at the booths, occasionally stopping to examine the wares. There was one selling polished stones, another had wind catchers and stained glass. Still others sold original works of art or garden statues made out of tool parts. After several weeks of looking at these statues, we bought one, a large colorful bird with rebar legs and rake spokes for a tail. If we hadn’t already gotten our pecan rolls, we’d pick up a couple of extra-large ones from the woman selling baked goods in front of the Empyrean Ales brewing facilities. After a while, my legs would get tired of navigating the cobblestone roads and we’d move on. Back in the car, I’d turn on the radio, my spirits revived by the cocky strumming of the Everly Brothers’ “Bye Bye Love.”

While we were downtown, we’d swing by the University of Nebraska Federal Credit Union at 17th and Q streets. My dad would pull the big car into the small parking lot and we’d climb the four steps to enter the lobby. The smell of paper money permeated the building, giving the whole place a crisp, fresh scent. Waiting in line gave me time to check out my surroundings. I especially liked hopping along the variously colored polished granite tiles. My active imagination made up new routes every time we were there. Once a window opened up, we’d advance to the teller, my head just high enough to see over the ledge and I’d pass my recycling earnings to the woman. Oddly enough, I don’t remember any men working as tellers. I didn’t exactly understand the importance of putting my money into a savings account, but my dad said I should, so I did. A few years later, when we started taking trips together as a family, I’d proudly exchange my cash for American Express traveler’s cheques. The colors on the cheques made them more appealing than regular old bills and made me feel very adult when I paid for something with them. They came in larger denominations than I’d ever held before—a twenty dollar traveler cheque was my ticket into the grown-up world of real commerce. After my very small transaction, we’d head back to the car and move on. This time Buddy Holly’s “Peggy Sue” filled the car with his signature hiccup.

The short drive to Nebraska Bookstore, the University of Nebraska bookstore, was executed to the end of “Peggy Sue” and the beginning of “Chantilly Lace” by the Big Bopper. The minute I’d hear the opening “hellllloooooo baby” I’d insist upon hearing the song out. If the song wasn’t over by the time we’d parked, we would sit with the battery on until the song ended. Afterward, we hopped out of the car and walked back to Nebraska Book. The large building seemed truly gargantuan to me, filled with the smell of paper, and I was constantly interested in the bumpy gray rubber flooring. My dad would deposit me in the “gifts” area while he went to look at other things. This section was filled with stuffed animals, charm bracelets, plastic dinosaur sets, gag license plates and other odd, but fascinating, items. There were also shelves of children’s book. From a very young age I loved to read, so shelves of books that seemed to be just for me was wonderful. I’d pull some down and sit on the floor, reading about trees and fossils, anything I could get my hands on. Evidently I was well-behaved enough for him to trust me alone. If I was done reading before my dad came back to find me, I’d invariably wander over to read greeting cards. I didn’t understand many of them, but I liked reading them anyway. Once my dad was ready to go, we might walk around campus a little bit before heading back to the car again.

At this point in the day, we usually had a couple of things left to do. One was to stop by Earl May and pick up bulbs and seeds for my mother’s garden. The other was to peruse the garage sales. Living close to Sheridan Boulevard usually afforded us with plenty of opportunities to check out the rich folks’ leftover possessions. Knowing we had plenty of time to peruse other people's trash (but perhaps our treasure), we went to Earl May first. Grass seed was almost always on the list for spring planting, but we often picked up tulip bulbs, impatiens, marigolds, petunias and, my favorite, snapdragons. Walking into the store was like walking into a fairy garden. The overwhelming smell was of grass seed and soil, a heady mixture. I’d walk around the store and look at the garden decorations, the fountains and lawn furniture. There were two parts of the store that drew my attention equally, though: the pets and the greenhouse. I loved the greenhouse because of all the flowers. The atmosphere was humid and full of floral aromas. I liked to walk around the aisles looking for fallen blossoms on the damp cement floor. I also liked the animals, mostly because I knew I’d never have any of them. The fish were deadly dull, but the birds and chinchillas were two of my favorites. Nearly every time I’d ask my dad if we could get a parrot. Predictably, the answer was always a heartbreaking “no.” Back in the car even the raucous sounds of Little Richard and “Long Tall Sally” couldn’t cheer me up.

Soon enough, I was back to my happy self because we were pulling up to a garage sale. Garage sales were great because I was more likely to convince my dad that I needed some random toy or article of clothing. One of the best buys we ever made at a garage sale was the Pass the Pigs game. Even when I was young, I was intrigued by the peculiar sensation of sifting through someone’s life. Each item on a table or rack had once held meaning for someone, if only briefly. I was never fully comfortable with the idea that someone might look over my baby crib or stuffed animals in the same manner someday. However, that didn’t stop me from accumulating armloads of things I didn’t really need. My dad used garage sales as a way to help me with my math skills too, having me add up the purchases before we bought anything. He is brilliant at math, but was never condescending or mean when I got something wrong. We’d gather up our newly acquired things and pile back into the car for the last time, heading home, usually to do some yard work or plant the seeds we’d bought. The strains of Chuck Berry singing “Johnny B. Goode” carried us right up into the driveway. There was really nothing I loved better than spending Saturday mornings with my dad and this is the music that will always remind me of him.

Life Soundtrack Rough

2008-05-07T01:47:00.007-05:00

My musical education started at a young age during Saturday morning errand-running with my dad. We had an old Lincoln Town Car, circa 1980, with a landau top and midnight blue leather seats that were unbelievably wide to my four-year-old eyes. My dad would wake me up early to do anything and everything that needed being done. One of my favorite errands was taking pop cans to be recycled. I love the metallic sound of the cans clinking against each other in their plastic bags. The recycling center was exciting and different, the smell of stale beer and the gently sticky cement floor were totally novel. My dad would dump the cans into a metal basket that was bigger than me in order to be weighed before going into the compactor. I was allowed to keep the change we received from the cans—never more than two dollars, often just a small assortment of quarters, dimes and nickels. On the way to the next place we had to go, my dad would turn on the radio or slip a tape into the tape deck. This was my first introduction to music that I remember and Tennessee Ernie Ford, Harry Belafonte and especially Roy Orbison;s classic "Oh Pretty Woman" bring back happy memories of those Saturdays spent with my dad. We’d often stop to get pecan rolls, leaving me with sugary, sticky fingers and a happy smile. There was nothing I loved better than those mornings spent with my father.

Until seventh grade, I had the unique distinction of growing up the daughter of a TV producer. Working for Nebraska Educational Telecommunications, my dad helped produce shows like Backyard Farmer and organizing the televised pledge drives and auctions that took place at the station to raise money for NETV. When I was about six I was often put in front of the camera to help with simple things like drawing the names of winners on national television. Wearing my baby blue dress with the white satin sash, I’m sure my main reason for being on camera was for the “cute factor”, but I didn’t know that then. It was just exhilarating to be under the hot stage lights and feel like I was doing something important. Due to this upbringing, I watched a lot of PBS shows and one of my absolute favorites was “Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego” with the catchy theme song performed by Rockapella. It wasn’t until years later, when I was in high school, that I connected Rockapella to Carmen Sandiego. During those pledge drives I practically had the run of the studio as long as I wasn’t getting in the way. I spent hours exploring the cavernous storage areas where costumes, props and set pieces were kept. I learned how to manipulate the huge stationary cameras used to film television shows in the studios. I made forts under tables with yards of used audio tape serving as grass or bedding or anything I could imagine. And when my dad worked late I spent late nights napping on a couch in Studio 2, a smaller studio with a set of false stair built into the set and a bay window that looked out on fake potted plants and an ever-changing backdrop depicting a yard in various seasons.

One of the early passions in my life was dancing. I had fast growth spurts—often three inches at a time—so my mother enrolled me in tap and ballet classes to help my muscles keep up with my bones. So, from the time I was four until I was 17 I was at Karen McWilliams’ dance studio at least three days a week. When I was younger I was more interested in the sequined costumes and excessive makeup of the recital than the actual study of dance, but in a few years I’d learned to love the art form. In ballet there was a kind of control that was refreshing, even as it was elusive. Barre exercises were always a challenge because of the strict attention to every detail of your body. Posture, turnout, hand position, arm position, neck position…everything counted. During tap lessons you learned a precision that extended to your toes, but still had the opportunity to make plenty of noise. It was about this time that musicals really started to interest me. I loved nothing better than to pretend I was Debbie Reynolds tapping my heart out with Gene Kelly to "Good Mornin'" from Singin' in the Rain and being admired by one and all for my grace and talent. Once I had the opportunity to move to pointe shoes, I opted to save my feet from potential destruction and started taking lessons in Irish step dancing, which is a whole different form of dance. I love the speed and flamboyance of the feet while the upper half of the body maintained a paralytic stiffness, lending all the more emphasis to the incredible things happening on the floor.

My introduction to more contemporary music was long coming, delayed pretty thoroughly until my 8th grade year when I was shown the light of the Red Hot Chili Peppers by my friend Adam. He was a smart, talented guy who turned out to be one of my best friends for many years. He was a particularly good artist and would often draw nonsense designs on my planner. He sat in front of me in our chemistry class, which I remember consisting of a lot of down time in which we were allowed to do homework or talk. One day, he turned around and, while we were chatting, he wrote the lyrics to “Otherside” on a Saturday in my planner. He ended it with a centered asterisk, which I would later learn was the emblem for the Chili Peppers. His precise handwriting emphasized the poetry of the lyrics. And that was it for me. I was hooked on the Chili Peppers. Californication was one of the first albums I owned on CD (Alanis Morissette’s Jagged Little Pill was the first, something that felt like an act of rebellion at the time) and “Otherside” remains one of my favorite songs to this day, serving as a rather nostalgic reminder of a friend with whom I’ve lost contact.

One day in 5th grade it was announced that instrumental lessons were going to begin. Sheets were passed out with a list of instruments. We were to take these sheets home and discuss with our parents the instruments that we might be interested in learning, choosing three in case our first choice was already full. I don’t remember what all I put down, but evidently saxophone was one of them because from the first lesson on I loved the instrument. The sound (once I’d learned how to coax sound out of it) was soothing and something else I couldn’t quite define. I’d later realize that the “something else” was a sexiness that doesn’t come naturally to many instruments. One of the songs that I aspired to play was the “Pink Panther Theme”by the great Henry Mancini. I don’t know that I ever mastered or even attempted it, but I spent many, many hours practicing my sax. I wasn’t satisfied just playing in my room—the acoustics weren’t quite what I was looking for. To remedy that, I’d take my flimsy wire stand and a chair into my fully tiled bathroom, close the door and wail away. I’m sure my parents were less than thrilled by the late night one-person jam sessions, but they never said anything, preferring me to pursue something that I enjoyed. It was around this time that I also started taking piano lessons, which didn’t stick quite as well as the sax did. Today, though, I wish I’d kept up with my lessons in both instruments.

My high school career was fully defined by two things: academics and performing arts. I finished 9th grade at Irving Middle School after participation in varsity jazz band and Spirits, the upperclassmen swing choir. In the summer of 2002 I made my first trips to the newly opened Lincoln Southwest High School for a number of auditions and try outs. I’d been playing volleyball since fourth grade, so it was no great surprise when I tried out and got a spot on the reserve team. I never had a career-making skill in volleyball, but I was pretty good and really loved playing. I also auditioned for jazz band and show choir, spending the next three years in both varsity groups. Show choir competitions made up a lot of weekends for the last two years of high school and, hard as we tried, we never took home first place trophies. Omaha Westside’s Amazing Technicolor Show Choir, however, had a killer group and often swept the competitions. My senior year saw the beginning of an ongoing love affair with Michael Buble and, coincidentally, an excellent performance of “Feeling Good” by a soloist in Westside’s group. Even though I was bitter about losing the competition, I had to sit in awe of this skinny blond boy with the huge voice. It was weeks until I could stop talking about his performance with more than just a hint of jealousy. Even if it wasn’t my performance, it was a fitting end to a very satisfying run in LSW’s show choir.

After a wholly unsatisfying year on the volleyball team, I lost a lot of my love of the game. I decided not to try out the next year, instead opting to audition for the theatre productions. I’d always loved theatre, but had never been a part of a show. The beautiful, multi-million dollar theatre at Southwest seemed like a perfect place to get my start. The first show I was a part of was Footloose and I fell in love. The stage lights were just as hot and exhilarating as they were when I was six and in front of a television camera, but this was even better. I had the chance to put my years of dance to use. There is a very ephemeral quality about theatre—it’s a transient art. Even so, my participation in Southwest theatre turned out to be some of the most memorable times of my life. Before every performance the cast and crew would congregate in the black box, the small theatre. Mr. Bob, our director, had everyone close their eyes and, while “This is the Moment” from the musical Jekyll and Hyde played, we envisioned the show. While the swelling orchestration of the song rang through me I’d watch the success of the production unfold in my mind’s eye. Even now, the song gives me goose bumps, quickening my breath and filling me with a confidence.

Fast forward a few years. After my freshman year of college at UNL, I was astonishingly unsure of what direction my life was taking. I started off as a political science major, but soon found that political theory made me inexplicably violent toward puppies, so I switched majors to English for lack of a better idea. My sophomore year started and was filled with pressure from my parents to decide what I was doing with my future. One October day, during an infrequent meal with my parents, my mother told me of an internship she’d seen advertised. It afforded students the opportunity of living and working in Orlando, Florida at the Disney World Resort. I was unsure at first, but it seemed like an exciting opportunity and a chance to get out of Nebraska, so I applied. January 16th, 2007 saw me arrive in Orlando for what would turn out to be one of the biggest adventures of my life. I made some great friends there, including Nick, a flamboyant and sassy gay guy. We quickly became inseparable. As the end of my college program drew near, we spent more time together, especially outside of work and “A Whole New World” (composed by the musical genius Alan Menken) became our theme song of sorts. We’d drive through the Florida humidity in his blue Neon with the windows rolled down, singing Disney songs as loud as we could. It seemed to be expected that if you worked at Disney, you’d had several CDs full of the songs and Nick did. On my second to last day of work, Nick picked me up at my apartment and we drove to work, holding hands and singing “A Whole New World.” It felt oddly like the end of an era.

Extra Credit - Mathias Svalina

2008-04-28T15:53:00.003-05:00

“I am writing you a letter in the weather reports and my every prediction is wrong.” This excerpt from the writing of Mathias Svalina is, in my opinion, heartbreakingly sad. And, coincidentally, rather apropos to Nebraska weather. There is such a sense of ongoing defeat in this sentence that it’s hard to read without becoming a little sad yourself. The persona is separated from the “you” of the letter and making an effort to connect, but just can’t seem to get it right. Despite this, the persona keeps trying. To me, there seems to be an admission of eventual capitulation to the circumstances. If you read this as the description of a long distance relationship, you have to wonder just how long this relationship is going to last. One thing that I love and loathe (but mostly love) about literature is that the construction of characters invariably leaves something to the imagination. Whether that be the continuation of the story or the beginning of events, the reader is left to fill in the information. I think this is wonderful because it gives the reader some sense of control and the ability to change the events at will. Even if it’s a familiar piece, the reader can always come back and find something new not only in the text, but also the information that’s not provided. Ultimately, it all comes back to the text, but it’s an interesting exercise to suppose about the characters based on the information you actually have. Take Steinbeck’s “The Chrysanthemums” for example. What happens when Elisa and Henry make it to town? She’s devastated by the treachery of the salesman, but perhaps she’s strong enough to not let that bother her for long. Maybe she comes home and rips up all the chrysanthemums that gave her so much pleasure. There are endless possibilities.

I Just Can't Stand It

2008-04-25T22:39:00.003-05:00

Because I cannot stand this video, I’m going to talk instead about the time surrounding the first time I was made to watch it. I moved to Orlando on January 17th, 2007. I was going to Florida to take a job I was unfamiliar with, live with people I’d never met and try to survive in a climate approximately 800% more humid than I’d ever experienced for an extended period of time. I was excited and nervous, especially about these girls with whom I was going to be rooming. I’d never lived with five other people before, not to mention five girls. We had an interesting spectrum of girls going on in that apartment; there was the dumb one, the sorority girl, the badass, the one who thought she was black, the weird one and me. We got moved in and had a couple days of general training before we had time to share stupid YouTube videos with each other. The very first one just had to be the “Shoes” video. I remember leaning over Mallory’s shoulder as we watched the monitor of her laptop. I honestly have no memory of the “plot” of the video or anything that goes on in it. I do remember the scratchy pea green carpeting that covered the entire apartment and the lumpy paint job covering past tenants’’ nail holes. The weather was startlingly warm, especially coming from the subarctic winter of Nebraska. We’d been vehemently warned to keep windows shut and take out the trash every day because of the pervasiveness of bugs. Inside the apartment though, for the next eight months, the most used words were “betch” and “shoes”. I love those girls, but dear God, I hate this video.

Repeat One Ad Infinitum

2008-04-23T17:03:00.002-05:00

“I can’t get to sleep, I think about the implications of diving in too deep and possibly the complications. Especially at night I worry over situations I know will be alright, perhaps it’s just imagination.” Through my childhood, there was one thing for which I was highly praised: my imagination. My parents were pleased because it meant that I, as an only child, could entertain myself. But my imagination got me in trouble some times. Granted, it was never real trouble and I think it helped me, ultimately, to mature. Just as JD is haunted by Colin Hay in this (fairly genius) opening from Scrubs, there were things that haunted me. For me, they were ghosts of things to come that plagued the time when I ought to have been sleeping. I’d lay awake in my bed, covered by the quilt my mother made from pieces of lamb-patterned fabric she’d collected, staring across the room to the hanging lamps that looked just like pineapples. I loved those lamps during the day, but at night they cast odd shadows. The neighbors’ native grasses they’d planted swished eerily. But the most terrifying thing was thinking about my parents. I knew they didn’t love each other and didn’t get along and I tried for years to be OK with the idea that they were going to get divorced. I’d tell myself that it was going to be fine; I had friends with divorced parents and they got along well enough. More than fearing my parents were going to separate, the knowledge of how unwell my dad was horrified me. Just the thought of him dying made me cry. It’s these sort of things I remember when I hear this song, but there’s something in it that’s soothing and reassuring.

(Also, Lazlo Bane does a pretty decent cover featuring Colin Hay)

Selah Saterstrom reading

2008-04-20T20:55:00.003-05:00

Thursday’s reading by Selah Saterstrom was definitely interesting. In comparison to the other two authors, she seemed a little bit less dynamic. That being said, her writing is definitely pretty solid. She had a few lines, though, that left me puzzled. “Boredom, when identified, leads to new opportunities” is one such line. It sounds good and profound, but what does it mean? Under what circumstances does identified boredom lead to opportunity. I often sit around bored, really just looking for opportunities and finding none. Perhaps I’m not looking hard enough. Or perhaps I’m looking too hard. Maybe the real trick with opportunity is not to track it down, but to recognize it when it comes to you. Admittedly, I’m spectacularly lacking in life experience, so I guess I’ll just have to see if opportunistic boredom is something that comes with age. Is it the quiet desperation that Thoreau talked about that leads to being able to shape boredom into something life changing. But what if one doesn’t want their life changed? What if they just want a little excitement, a little difference. I think that’s why women shop so much. God knows that when I feel down, there’s nothing that picks me up like a high-waisted pencil skirt and a new pair of killer stilettos. Take yesterday, for example. That self-same pencil skirt is looking super hot hanging in my closet right now, but that euphoria of possibility has, sadly, already worn off. So I’m back to boredom and out a good chunk of money. And completely lacking in motivation just like always, but after writing this I’m depressed about it as well. Where comes the point when boredom relents to something better? Wouldn’t it be lovely to find something in your life that would be truly satisfying? Jesus, talk about your aimless stream of consciousness posts.

Few and Far Between

2008-04-20T16:25:00.004-05:00

My mother and I fight. Constantly. About everything. However, lately I've been getting this kind of vibe from her:

Whereas I've been getting this kind of vibe from my dad:

Please note my less-than-amused expression. If there was audio associated with this clip it would sound something like "OK, dad, it's 8am in New York in January and we've just gotten back from two weeks in the Caribbean putting up with your picture taking. It's not that I don't appreciate the lasting memories, but perhaps now is not the time."

Really, it's just one thing after another with these people. First they want me to do well in school and then suddenly they're curious as to why I'm not having "fun". The quotation marks are because I'm sure that my parents' definition of "fun" and mine are significantly different. Currently, my idea of "fun" would be residing somewhere else (preferably another country) and not worrying about school. Alas. Really, though, why does this whole degree thing have to be so integral to societal success. How awesome would it be if we could resurrect a 1950s society where they men were men and the women were pretty? It wouldn't be so awful...

I wonder sometimes how I would have turned out if I had parents who were a little less paranoid about my safety and success and a little more willing to let me make my own mistakes. Chances are, the mistakes I'd make wouldn't be so awful. Of course, I also wonder about how I would have turned out if I hadn't been adopted and had been raised by my birth mother. That path of wondering takes me somewhere significantly less pleasant so I tend not to wander down that one too often.

At this point in the post I'm tempted to wrap it up by charmingly relenting and conceding how much I really love my parents and I know they just want wonderful things for me. Granted, it's true. But, Jesus, I'm annoyed. Naturally, I'm ignoring all the blame that I ought to be shouldering in the examination of this annoyance. But what are blogs for, after all, if one can't be self-centered and unreasonable?

Masquerade!

2008-04-17T00:57:00.001-05:00

Had dinner with my parents the other night after seeing Phantom of the Opera at the Orpheum. Amazing show. The Orpheum’s gorgeous house just added to the whole experience. While perusing the deserts, one of the (female) employees came up to me and told me how much she loved my glasses and hair and outfit and everything! It was a little overwhelming. She might have been hitting on me. I thanked her and sat back down. Then, as we were about to leave, I had this conversation:

Tall Scruffy Woman: I saw you earlier and just wanted to say that you look wonderful.
Cady: Thank you so much!
TSW: You know, you’re tall like me…
Cady: isn’t it great?
TSW: Yeah, but I can’t get skinny like you.
Cady(what do you say to that?): hahaha…
TSW: Got any kids?
Cady (horrified): Oh God no! I’m only 21.
TSW (in a conversational and possibly too personal tone): I got pregnant with my boy when I was 20 and had him when I was your age. And you know, he’s so tall…he’s probably about 3 inches taller than me. And he’s got this curly hair. People ask me all the time if he’s half black. He’s white as milk, but people think he’s half black!

(At this point, her totally sketchy husband/boyfriend was clearly getting impatient to go and said her name in a very “get over here, woman!” sort of tone. We all ignored him. She continued to tell me all sorts of things I didn’t care to know about her life…)

TSW: Well, I gotta go, but I just wanted to tell you how nice you look.

My mother, quite correctly, pointed out that in Council Bluffs you’re either in high school or married and having kids. Uck. What a life. There’s so much to do before getting married. If I get married. That’s a post for another day, though.

Rhetorical Analysis

2008-04-13T23:41:00.004-05:00

Dark, sexy, alluring. The glamorized side of drug use is chic, just like this commercial. But there is a distinct dichotomy between the positive perception of drugs and reality. As this commercial analogizes, taking drugs is like “lining up to destroy [yourself].” Extensive support of analogy and the acute effect of sights and sounds make the pathos of this commercial truly effective.

While there are many important factors to this piece of rhetoric, the overarching device used to support pathos is analogy. The entire commercial is an extended analogy for the self-destruction of drug use, specifically the use of cocaine. It is clear that this is the target drug due to the visual similarity of the line of brain matter to lines of coke. The analogy is that doing coke is like fishing around inside your cranium for a chunk of brain, cutting it into lines and snorting it. This analogy is very carefully constructed to make sure that the point comes across clearly. For this to work, the analogy must rely upon a comparison and contrast of actual drug use. The scene is easily compared because it is a realistic place. There is nothing out of the ordinary or fantastic about a club and its bathroom. The actual preparation and ingestion of the substance is also realistic. What is incredible and bizarre is what the man is snorting. This is the crux of the analogy, where it really comes to a head and makes apparent that drug use is detrimental to one’s self. Ultimately, in case you weren’t paying attention to the man snorting the bloody mess, the analogy is stated clearly at the end: “Every day people are lining up to destroy themselves.” As if this wasn’t enough, the authors of this commercial utilize a pun to place more stress on the specificity of the drug. The text states that “people are lining up…” The dual connotations of this phraseology aren’t blatantly apparent like the brains on the toilet. However, this cleverness is a bit of purposeful irony, which also supports the emotional claim.

Other elements central to this ad are the sights and sounds present. This commercial, supported by Care NZ, a New Zealand rehabilitation service, starts the narration with a trendy club scene. The narrative arc builds steadily, peaking with a moment of grotesque realization when the main character pulls open his head. The visuals and sounds leading up to that point are important, but not nearly as important as they become the second he steps into the bathroom. At this point, the sounds are noticeably reduced, creating a private, intimate, perhaps even clandestine feel. The idea is presented that this kind of drug use is a person, secret act. The deed is an internal action that isn’t necessarily deliberate. It is an internalized process over which the person may have no control. The colors, which were previously muted, but representative of most of the spectrum, become sharply black and white. Learned color associations put white into the schema for “good” and black into “bad”. However, this commercial plays with those associations, perhaps providing an illustration of how your perceptions are altered by drugs. While the split colors of the bathroom stall imply that the black bottom half is a “hell” in which he is crouching, the pristine white of the toilet argues the opposite, as does the white associated with cocaine. Of course, these sharp colors also serve to reinforce the shock value of this man’s actions. This shock value is where the pathos of the ad really hits home. The scare tactics utilized by this ad might be an exaggerated use of pathos, but they do work. The colors set up the scene for a visceral (literally) reaction to the action taking place. There is a certain gross-out factor that makes your eyes widen and your stomach clench, but which draws you in even while it makes your emotions throb just like this guy’s exposed brain.

Not only do the colors have an emotional effect, but the sounds serve to enhance the experience. The action in the bathroom has been taking place in relative silence until he peels back his scalp. We are then assaulted with a noise that falls somewhere between a saw and dial-up internet. This mechanical, metallic sound grates on the nerves, just like the credit card slicing through his brain. It’s a nails-on-a-chalkboard effect which, in most people, causes a physical reaction. It makes your brain hurt and sends shivers down your spine. It’s these kind of details that make this commercial creepy—and therefore, effective. Sensory correlations such as sound and smell are important to humans, especially when stimulating emotional responses. Everyone has a song that they associate with a place or a person. People definitely associate particular sounds with particular objects. This is exactly what this commercial aims to do. This piercing sound is quickly associated with horror and undesirable reactions.

Just as distinct, associative sounds are important in the Care NZ commercial, they add a unique focus to some of the most interesting scenes of the movie Requiem for a Dream. In this clip, many of the sounds actually belong to the image with which they are portrayed, like the lighter. Some however, have no direct connotation, such as George Washington and a giggle. However, there is an association that is made between the action and the sound, no matter how disparate the two might be. There is quickly a kind of autonomic Pavlovian response. The increasing speed of the sounds, coupled with the percussion beat creates a physical and emotional response. You’re drawn in to this cadence of drugs, not unlike how the club scene in the commercial serves to draw you in with a good beat. Then, there is also the mirrored gross-out factor at the end of the clip. The image of the needle sliding into that infected puncture mark and the knowledge that it’s self-inflicted makes your stomach churn. Both of these sickening moments illustrate how using drugs is a form of self-annihilation. Indeed, the conclusion of Aronofsky’s film shows the four characters in various states of destruction. One is dead, one is in jail suffering from painful withdrawals, one is institutionalized and the fourth is hospitalized with an amputated arm. All of them wind up hurting because of drug use.

While Requiem for a Dream definitely showcases a more realistic approach to drug use than the commercial, the message is still the same: drug use is analogous with massive devastation. These pieces of rhetoric advance the dark and dirty side of drug use, whether the end result is physical or mental. They state quite clearly that no amount of rhetorical appeals can save you from the destruction that is the corollary of this action.

William Henry Lewis Extra Credit

2008-04-10T22:21:00.003-05:00

If there is one thing I strive for in my creative writing, it is the kind of lyricism exhibited in William Henry Lewis’ prose. “Sounds making themselves on dark pages” exactly describes my impression of his work. I really just don’t have the words to sufficiently explain how much I enjoyed hearing him read. I was particularly interested by his admission that he doesn’t remember his dreams. I guess that I’ve always just taken it for granted that I’ll be able to wake up in the morning and remember most of my dreams from the last night. For someone who doesn’t remember his dreams, he manipulates time, space and somnolent probability exceedingly well—at least in my experience. He captured the fluidity of dreams accurately, especially how you can start in one place and find yourself in another. Of course, maybe I just don’t remember the “traveling” parts of my dreams, but it always seems as though I jump from one place to another. His writing reminds me a lot of e.e. cummings, whose work I adore. It doesn’t all make sense, but it certainly does make an impression. His words are unfamiliar, thrown together in novel combinations—like jazz—washing past. He has a talent for making the vernacular align to his cause, not unlike Jason Robert Brown’s music. Finally, the whole experience was topped off by his wonderful, musical voice. It made me want to start hitting the writing harder.

rhetorical analysis draft

2008-04-07T22:40:00.007-05:00

This commercial, supported by Care NZ, a New Zealand drug rehabilitation service, starts the narration with a trendy club scene. Mirrors on the wall and nondescript, but hip club music plays. The colors are dark, but varied. There are blues, reds, greens, yellows. While it is clear that the focus is on one man, the other people and objects also draw attention. Everything else is forgotten, however, twelve seconds in when the audience’s focus comes completely to this one man. He enters the men’s restrooms, the sound dims and the colors become shades of black and white almost exclusively. He enters the stall, kneeling in front of a pristinely white toilet (something unseen in clubs) and lays out a couple of things on top of it. The audience is then horrified when he reaches back and peels open his head, accompanied by a metallic/mechanical sound that has that nails-on-a-chalkboard effect. Here, a brilliant red is added to the colors, emphasized by the pure white of the toilet. He picks up his credit card and starts cutting the piece of brain he just pulled out and this is the point that the audience truly understands what he’s doing. That same sound follows for the next few seconds while he forms lines of the brain matter and then licks the card clean. He then rolls up a bill and snorts the lines, coming to a close up of the bloody mess being sucked up the tube. The shot then pulls out and the man gets up, leaving his credit card, incidentally. The next shot is a close up of blood dripping out of his nose, him wiping it away and licking it off, and then the dilation of his eye, all set to that same piercing sound.

The logos of this ad is supported by some of the only text in the spot: “Every day, more and more people are lining up to destroy themselves.” The cause and effect aspect is clear. If you do drugs, then you’re destroying yourself. The next line of text furthers this cause and effect reasoning. “If you need help call 0508 CARE NZ.” The commercial suggests that that getting help should be the next logical step. The wording is also significant because it reinforces the specificity of the target drug. It isn’t just drugs in general this ad is going after. It’s cocaine, which is made clear by the lines that he’s snorting, but also in the text, “people are lining up.”

Ethos, defined as an appeal to the goodwill of the speaker, is also important in this commercial. The “speaker” in this case does no speaking, but ethos can also be inferred through actions. The focus of the ad is a young man probably in his mid-twenties. The audience is unaware of his intentions through the first twenty seconds of the commercial. What we do know is that he’s well-dressed and good looking. Perhaps he’s looking for someone or going to the bar for a drink. There is a slight element of suspense while we wait to find out what he is doing or what is going to happen to him. The ethos of this figure, then, falls into the realm of ambivalence. We don’t trust or distrust him initially, but we’re willing to give him a chance. The audience is then horrified when he reaches back and peels up a part of his scalp to reveal what should be his brain. Whether intentionally or not, it looks nothing like a real brain. This might be a statement to say that he’s been pulling his brain apart for a while and so all that’s left is a soupy mess. His ethos is sent crashing down when he starts cutting the piece of brain into lines, clearly insinuation that this is a parallel to coke use. Thanks to years of being told that drugs are bad, especially hard drugs like cocaine, most people now view this man as distasteful and untrustworthy. This is both an illustration of the analogy of the whole ad. It is illustrated that doing coke is like destroying a part of yourself, and an important part at that. He didn’t cut off a bit of skin, he pulled out part of his brain.

The pathos here is controlled almost exclusively by sights and sounds. It is important to note the target audience for this commercial as well. The setting, specifically, sets the target range at club-going age, somewhere between 18 and 28. This scene appeals to that age group. The music is something you immediately recognize as something you can dance to. The dark colors make it seem intimate and sexy. We feel interested and good about what’s going on in the first twelve seconds. The man then goes into the restroom, something with which we’re all familiar. At this point, the sounds are noticeably reduced, creating a private, intimate, perhaps even clandestine feel. The colors, which were previously muted, but representative of most of the spectrum, become sharp and black and white. Outside the bathroom is a happy club scene; inside, things are serious. The camera follows him into the stall, which is split, top and bottom, into white and black, respectively. Learned color associations put white into the schema of “good” and black into “bad”. This can been seen as reinforcement of the negative connotations of what he’s about to do. The audience can see this stall as representative of heaven and hell, then, and he is crouching quite firmly in hell. The purity of the colors also serve to highlight the shock value of that bright red piece of brain plopping down on the toilet lid. This has been taking place in relative silence until the point when he pulls back his scalp. We are then assaulted with a noise that falls somewhere between a saw and dial-up. This is a noise that can be equated with what one might imagine a “brain ache” would sound like. The noise is creepy and intended to give goosebumps and make one feel queasy. It cuts across your nerves just as the credit card is cutting across this chunk of flesh.

The emphasis in the next 4 seconds is on the “drugs”, to increase the audience’s horror of what’s going on here and make sure that the analogy between using drugs and damaging yourself is clear. There is a wide shot and then a return to a close-up of his hands rolling the bill. The blood under his fingernails is clear. It’s these kind of details that make this commercial truly creepy—and therefore, effective. The next shot is wider again, but quickly returns to a close-up of the end of the rolled bill and the bloody matter disappearing up it. That same noise can be heard, but it’s more subtle now, allowing the full conscious focus to be on the fact that his man is snorting his own brain. The shot then pans upward, creating a well-like effect and this guy is at the bottom of it. The implication is that he’s in a place from which he can’t escape. The final shot is a close up of his nose, blood dripping from it just as coke might. The noise, which we have now come to associate with ingestion of blood and bad things is back in the foreground. He wipes away the blood and, as if it weren’t bad enough already, licks his finger clear. The noise then sustains in something like a crescendo through the focused dilation of the eye.

Just as sounds are important in the Care NZ commercial, sounds add a unique focus to this clip from the movie Requiem for a Dream. And, just as seen in the advertisement, there is a gross-out factor in the insertion of the needle in the infected puncture mark. (Etc, etc, more tying in and wrapping up.)

Clinton's Rhetoric on Women

2008-03-30T16:06:00.004-05:00

“Hillary has fought the relentless and insidious efforts by far-right Republicans to limit the protections of Roe v Wade, while also working hard to expand access to family planning services.” Hillary Clinton’s campaign site is remarkably free of overt mentions of opposing candidates. The above quotation demonstrates one response to the opposition without naming names. The word choice in the quotation paints Republicans in a negative light. Interestingly, the word “relentless” can have positive connotations, but “insidious” is rarely every a positive trait to possess. Hillary, according to her website, as fought with, what one must assume, is equal relentlessness. Hillary’s website employs other rhetorical strategies. As a presidential candidate, the rhetorical strategies seen aren’t blatant as opposed to those we might see in commercials and product advertisements. Another rhetorical device used is example. The website uses examples of past acts to show how Hillary has been an advocate for women and will continue to do so. This is directed at women and people who care about women to show them how Hillary will impact their lives. And, with more than half the population being women, this seems like a pretty smart move to make. The website also constructs a persona for Hillary through the glowing depiction of her character. Based purely on the website, one has no choice but to believe that she is the upstanding leader portrayed. The character set up here fits most comfortably into the “entertainer’s stance” outlined in chapter three. The text is clearly important and it is aimed at gaining the approval of the audience, but in order to do so the character is elevated above all. The “canons of rhetoric” are also present. According to chapter three, arrangement and style “assume particular importance” and those are both used to good effect on Hillary’s website. The page on women’s rights starts out with a strong thesis and goes on to support that thesis multiple times in a logical order. The style supports the image that Hillary wants to portray: strong and assertive, but also a woman, and a classy one at that. As any good piece of advertising, the website also employs rhetorical appeals. The whole piece is steeped in the logos of her previous achievements. It stands to reason that she would continue her track record. Ethos can be found in her work to prevent teen pregnancies. Who really approves of teen pregnancies? Probably no one. Hillary has also worked “to empower low-income women”, which plays upon our knowledge that poverty can be awful and anything that can be done to remedy that situation, especially where children are involved, is a wonderful thing. Finally, we have ethos. One must believe that Hillary would not jeopardize something as hugely important as her presidential campaign by giving a false representation of her character. American’s never want to be lied to and now more than ever voters are going to be looking for a president who is going to be straight forward. For someone to start out their campaign with lies would be extreme folly.

Rhetorical Appeals in Advertising

2008-03-16T21:59:00.001-05:00

As with most commercials, this Geico spot utilizes many rhetorical appeals to sell its product. There is a narrative in the form of Steve O’Dell’s story. This narrative establishes that O’Dell is a real person, just as his caption states in the commercial. It also plays on ethos, meaning that the audience has to trust O’Dell’s veracity. His story, which could ostensibly happen to anyone, is an appeal to pathos. His father could be your father, hijacked at knifepoint. This makes the audience sympathize with how outraged he must have been feeling when he found out about the incident. He is all the more gratified, then, with the treatment he received at Geico and we should be led to assume that we would be treated with the same consideration. Joan River’s comedic commentary also qualifies as an appeal to pathos because the amusement you feel puts you in a better, more receptive mood. There is a very obvious comparison and contrast between O’Dell and Rivers. This comparison is intended to enhance his claim by making it even more obvious that he’s just like one of your neighbors. The example is made that not only does Geico treat its customers well, but switching insurance will save you lots of money. The cause and effect strategy proves pretty much the exact same thing; because of his father’s excellent treatment, O’Dell switched insurance and saved money. Finally, there is logos. It is logical that one would want to save money. Car insurance is expensive, why wouldn’t someone want to save money on it and get good service in the deal? While there are no statistics quoted, our reading (chapter two) cites “deductively reasoned arguments” as forms of logos. Saving money, especially for Americans, is something that is logically appealing.

Extra Credit - Ben Marcus

2008-03-12T21:50:00.002-05:00

“Adulthood looks like an exhaustion farm. Who would willingly purchase a ticket to that?” Who indeed? Ben Marcus’ convoluted and experimental brand of writing initially left me a bit confused. The interview he read first lacked the contextual structure I think I needed to understand it a bit better. The entire piece was littered with references that I either didn’t catch fast enough or didn’t catch at all. Once I found his rhythm, however, I found him highly entertaining and more than a little mind-blowing. Take the above quotation, for example. Marcus flies straight in the face of every societal convention that says that we must grow up. While I missed much of the point of the interview from which this came, this idea stuck with me. The older I become (though, granted, I’m not that old), the more I become disillusioned with life and responsibilities. Adulthood is exhausting. I believe Marcus was referring both to the physical and emotional states of adulthood. Some people reach it sooner than others. I have a friend who’s been an emotional adult since high school whereas others are still working toward it. Still others will never reach emotional adulthood though they may be adults on the outside. But why should we have to grow up? Personally, I’m not sure that remaining a child my whole life is something I want to do. While I certainly had no idea that I was going to live years at a time undernourished and sleep deprived, I might have chosen to forgo college. I certainly don’t intend to live many more years exhausted like I am. I just hope that I can find something to do with my life that I’ll enjoy. Don’t we all? I just wish I knew what that might be.

Commercial

2008-03-12T21:46:00.002-05:00

Here we have another excellent commercial from Geico. As with the other “testimonial” commercials, the scene is one long shot of a “real person” and a celebrity. The real person and the celebrity, Steve O’Dell and Joan Rivers, respectively are sitting in front of what the viewer is lead to assume is Steve’s garage in a pair of run of the mill lawn chairs. It’s a little messy and one can see a grill and a bike, complete with training wheels. Steve is dressed in a grey t-shirt and jeans and what might be a class ring. Joan Rivers, on the other hand, is dressed glamorously and well made-up. Steve tells the story of his father’s hijacking at knifepoint and how impressed he was with Geico’s sensitive handling of the situation. Joan Rivers adds commentary aping herself and the criticisms of her numerous plastic surgeries. The only sounds in the commercial are the voiceover that starts begins and ends the segment, Steve’s narrative, Joan’s commentary and outdoor ambient noises like birds and wind. One of the most interesting parts of this commercial is that Steve O’Dell is probably telling the true story of his father’s carjacking and how he switched to Geico and saved more than 600 dollars. However, what the view is most taken with is Joan Rivers and her particular brand of comedy and Steve’s story falls to the wayside. The commercial is finished with the slogan, “Geico: real service, real savings”. What I think is particularly appropriate about Joan Rivers taking part in this commercial is that the viewer contrasts Steve, who looks like anybody’s father, and Joan, who is quite possibly one of the least “real” people around, thanks to all the plastic surgery she’s had. She’s well dressed, talking about Benihana, nicely juxtaposed with Steve and his garage while he looks like he’s going to mow the lawn before grilling some hamburgers for dinner for the family.

Zaireeka reflected

2008-03-09T16:44:00.003-05:00

I have one word to succinctly describe this experience: cacophony, but I'd like to have none of the negative connotations associated with it. Never having really listened to the Flaming Lips, this was my first extended introduction and it was amazing. Right away, I started to feel those familiar physical symptoms of liking something. A ball in the pit of my stomach, the feeling of my eyes becoming unfocused, a weight on my chest and the belated knowledge that I wasn’t breathing all signaled that there was some good stuff going on here. I knew more than ever that I should have accompanied my friend Lauren to the Flaming Lips show in high school. Experiencing Zaireeka was like being at a concert, but being inside the music. The surround sound effect was interesting, having the ability to fill the room with barking dogs, plunge one into the center of an orchestra, or make one feel like they were sitting with just a friend and an acoustic guitar. Not only that, but it’s refreshing to encounter a group who knows how to have fun with their music. One thing that really sealed the deal for me was the very Beatles-esque feel to the whole thing. The very best part of the whole experience was the knowledge that this was something completely ephemeral that could never be exactly duplicated. It was that lack of synch when CD 4, like Seabiscuit, pulled ahead of the rest that made this particular listen special. Furthermore, each of us has a similar, but ultimately distinct feeling about the experience. I know that what I heard is completely different from what the people across the room heard. What reminded me of Sgt. Pepper probably reminded someone else of a wholly different album. It was a personal and, at the same time, collective experience.

2008-03-05T16:48:00.002-06:00

The opening bass riff is catchy, upbeat, up tempo. Already, one is surrounded by sound. You catch bits of words here and there, but mostly it’s just the wash of sound. The track two count off is mechanical. The CDs name themselves in order. There are strings and something that might be a sitar. A huge orchestral crescendo, then sudden silence. Now lyrics, words taking the forefront. The voices are straight ahead, coming from the other side of the room. And now a rolling timpani effect from behind and moving right. There are dueling basses that move opposite, right to left and staggered voices that are indiscernible. Horns sound, mirrored by a bass guitar. Track three. A accelerating sound, like an airplane taking off, starts the track. Liberal use of echo and reverb are starting to be a trend and it’s obvious that the CDs are more and more out of synch. Track four starts with lyrics, sounding more conventional in its instrumentation. But then there is growing dissonance which coincides with the acoustic opening that plays on. There are different tempos competing, perhaps even different keys. Reeds can be heard to the left, maybe an oboe. And then bees. The sound of lots of bees. A huge buildup and then a fade back to the simplicity of the beginning. Track five has a pretty opening, a waterfall effect on a guitar broken by a sudden staccato burst from a snare drum. The drums from different speakers line up for two, three beats and are off again. Six consists of nothing more than a high pitched tone that blocks out anything else. Seven opens with a piano and builds steadily into a crescendo of percussion, but then backs down to leave a pair of trap sets. Eight is a narrative that loses itself in an overwhelming crush of barking dogs. And then…nothing.

Observational Essay

2008-03-02T19:16:00.005-06:00

Books are satisfying. For bibliophiles like myself, libraries represent endless possibilities. Gere Branch Library, located at 56^th and Normal in Lincoln, Nebraska is one such library. The subtle yellow paint of the walls is calming and puts one in a studious and exploratory frame of mind. Invariably, I find myself quickly toting more books than I can reasonably hold and am soon sitting in the stacks riffling through a disparate assortment of leather-bound literature. Perhaps that’s one reason why I’ve always loved public libraries: just like late night YouTube wandering, subject leads on to subject with nearly infinite opportunities to follow a train of thought wherever it may lead.

It starts the second you walk through the doors. The smell of paper wraps itself around you, like a friend taking you by the hand. This contrasts sharply with the smell of any building in which printing takes place, where the smell is of hot paper, paper being made to work. But in a library, it’s as if the books are content to wait for you to find them instead of imposing themselves harshly on your senses. As of late, the public has been less inclined to present themselves bodily for their literary experiences. Technology has made the finding of sources and the exploration of books a simpler task, one that can be accomplished in pajamas, in the safe haven of one’s bedroom. Still, the library is still a place that hums with human activity. Just sitting still and listening presents one with a multitude of sounds. Hands shuffle papers. Muted discussions of facts. The metallic screech of book ends being snugged. Squeaking wheels on book carts. Children crying. Librarians directing patrons to resources. A man behind me complains loudly to his wife in a Southern accent, “I can’t believe they woke me up! I was just resting my eyes.”

Not only does the library present a veritable symphony of sounds, but one can also witness case studies of sociology. People visit a library for any number of reasons. Some do research, some read the paper, some just need a place to warm up for a while. Public libraries are so much more hospitable than academic libraries. Aside from the generally more pleasing aesthetics, people are welcome to come into the library for just about any reason. On a college campus one is often confronted with glowering librarians and unenthusiastic student employees. The almost exclusively artificial light tires your eyes. Row upon row of unnecessarily boring books presents a daunting collection to decipher. At a public library, you’re much freer to read up on what interests you, instead of feeling like you’re wasting time if the secondary sources you dare to consult don’t pertain directly to Shakespeare’s 37^th sonnet. Not only that, but I’ve always found the Dewey Decimal system to be far less confusing than the numerical jumble that is the Library of Congress system. Once you get past the initial feeling of the library, there’s the literal feeling of the library. I always find the air to be either heated or cooled just beyond the needs of human comfort. During the winter, I strip my coat off as soon as I enter because the climate inside is the exact opposite of the arctic elements outside. On the other hand, during the summer I find myself toting a sweater to keep myself from losing feeling in my extremities thanks to the enthusiastic air conditioning system. Book paper runs an interesting gamut of touch: some are rough and thick, as if made to withstand handling, while others are brittle and nearly translucent. The green and blue patterned carpet cushions and quiets your step.

I love walking around a library and familiarizing myself with the location of everything. It’s like strolling through a party and seeing old friends again. I particularly enjoy the oversized books. They’re satisfyingly heavy and unwieldy and invariably contain interesting things like art and auto maintenance. Then there’s adult nonfiction. Numerically ordered, this section contains an endless amount of information. There are manuals about software and other aspects of technology in the 004s, right at shoulder-height. Identity and personality in the 137 range. Social work can be found around 361, near one’s knees. If one were to stumble quite specifically upon 613.96, they would find books on the Kama Sutra and just a bit farther on at 741.5, you can pick up some collections of original X-Men comics, conveniently shelved so you can sit on the floor and still have them just a reach away.

Moving on, there’s adult fiction which, of course, encompasses a huge body of work. It would take ages to even begin trying to read through it. Once you become familiar with a particular library, it only takes a moment to find your favorite Crichton novel or a nice copy of Jane Eyre. Of course, you might be more interested in genres like mystery, westerns or science fiction. My favorite part of the mystery section is the deliciously menacing skull sticker that goes on the spine to warn you that you’re not just picking up another romance novel. In the Lincoln City Libraries system, this sticker is white on red as if to emphasize that there will inevitably be blood spilled in this book. From here, lying between you and youth nonfiction is the reference section. You can either adore reference books or find them insufferably tedious. I can’t imagine one person in the world who wouldn’t be excited to see that huge dictionary lying open on its revolving dais. Talk about depths of knowledge. The gilt-edged pages of an enormous old dictionary and the feel of those pages take me back to my childhood when I used to read the dictionary for fun. The good old days, indeed.

Just across the way is the enticing youth nonfiction section, which presents nearly as many possibilities for edification as adult nonfiction, but in a much more truncated style. Really, though, everyone enjoyed brevity in their research materials. Especially when that someone is 10 years old and doesn’t really care about Antonio’s potential homosexuality in The Merchant of Venice, but wants rather to know only that Shakespeare was born on April 23^rd, 1564 and wrote a lot of plays. Sometimes the bare facts are all you really need. One of the most interesting areas of youth nonfiction, in my opinion, is the books of Braille, awkwardly shelved due to size and lack of cover. If you thought Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix was thick, you should look at the Braille translation.

Alongside these are youth paperbacks (which always seems to be in wild disarray, no matter the efforts of the library staff to organize them) and youth fiction. Of any of these sections, youth fiction is the area that I think most people from my generation can identify with. Judy Blume, Beverly Cleary, Philip Pullman and Donald Sobol were close friends for a long time and I still go back and say hi to them every once in a while. Didn’t everyone love Encyclopedia Brown and how he cracked those incredible cases? Finally in the youth area, there are picture books, a collection I still love to wade into. In no other book do you get a good solid moral lesson coupled with excellent illustration. Not to mention that the picture book section always seems to have the most comfortable furniture. At Gere especially, there is a cozy little reading nook with a high arched ceiling and a window seat that looks out on the waving sea of native grasses in the summer. Someday I hope to have a space like this in my own house.

From the time I was little, libraries were a place where I felt happy and safe. I grew up thinking that everyone must love libraries as much as I did. Since then, I've learned that this simply isn't the case. Some people just don't like books, but I think that everyone could learn to at least appreciate everything that a library has to offer. Everyone is bound to be able to find something of interest in the collection, whether it be CDs or Nostradamus, there's a little something for everyone to be found at a public library.

Diagramatic Exposition

2008-02-23T14:09:00.002-06:00

Not being much of an artist myself, I can’t find it within my heart to fault the artist ability in this drawing. Undoubtedly, mine would have turned out much worse. I wonder about the story behind this particularly diagram. At first glance, it’s a pretty straightforward drawing of a house with pretty standard labels. Then, you start to notice things like “cushion walls”, “dead-bolted door” and “barred windows”. I’m curious as to the choice to make some of the labels reflect an insane asylum or something scarier and some are just typical house things. Why not turn the attic into a more ominous space? Perhaps under the steps is a crawlspace for hiding bodies. Maybe the cement sidewalk is actually a garage full of freezers where dead bodies are kept. The choices people make are always interesting. Where one person would look at this drawing and see just a regular house, someone else might look at it and see something entirely different. Maybe someone else would be reminded of the house where they grew up. This house could be reminiscent of an idyllic and happy childhood or it could bring back memories of abuse, sadness, a parent losing their job. To me, this looks like one of the houses in the Russian bottoms. Who knows what kinds of hardships those immigrants survived—or didn’t survive. In the first few years after the German-Russian immigrants after they built their houses, there was flooding in the area, driving people from their homes and undoubtedly causing property damage. What interesting stories those houses could tell.

White Sand, Skin Cancer and Just Five Albums

2008-02-20T16:16:00.003-06:00

The Red Hot Chili Peppers—Stadium Arcadium

Though it was a hard call between Californication and Stadium Arcadium, I'm goign to have to go with the Chili Peppers' latest album. While Californication served as my introduction to the Chili Peppers (courtesy of my 7th grade pal, Adam, with whom I shared a love of The Beatles as well), Stadium Arcadium presents a more continuously cohesive group sound than any of their albums to date. This, however, doesn't detract from the stylistic elements that are each member's signature. Flea is still rocking his slap/funk/punk bass, which is nothing short of amazing, and Frusciante's guitar seems more beautiful and incendiary (to borrow from Almost Famous) with every song you listen to.

The Beatles—Abbey Road

Again, it was a hard decision to pick just one Beatles album. My entire list could easily have been Beatles, but I decided that I didn't want to end up hating everything the Beatles every did while on my desert island stint, so it came down to a choice between Rubber Soul and Abbey Road. While I really love The Beatles' older stuff, the later albums are a well deserved move from pure pop to whatever they wanted pop to be. Abbey Road had calmed down from the psychedelic sound of Magical Mystery Tour and Yellow Submarine and even when it's rough, Abbey Road has a smoothness rivaled only by Let it Be. Additionally, "The End" contains one of the best guitar solos in history (though, technically, it's a duet).

Julie London—The Very Best of Julie London

What's not to love about Julie London? Her torchy, sensual vocal qualities are enough to make any girl want to quit school and sing in a smoky lounge somewhere. She imbues every word of every song with meaning and leaves meaning to the imagination at just the right moment. One listen to "Cry Me a River" reaffirms every woman who's every been slighted and took a firm stand. And what other singer has every pronounced the word "plebeian" with so much grace?

John Mayer—Continuum

John Mayer has quickly established himself as, arguably, one of the most talented guitarists on the scene today. Aside from his comfortably pop/blues-y guitar work, his lyrics are poetic enough to be a bit cryptic at points, but still able to be related to by all those angst ridden 13 year old girls who adore him. This album is the only thing I ever listen to while studying as it seems to flow perfectly with my work rhythm. As an added bonus, it includes a really sexy cover of Jimi Hendrix's classic "Bold as Love".

James Taylor—Greatest Hits

Originally, this fifth place was going to belong to Stevie Wonder, but James Taylor has helped me through some of the worst moments in my life and I'd have to make sure he was around to get me through the rest of my life on an uninhabited island. The music is a simple, stunning blend of folk and rock with true harmonies and an open invitation to sit down and make a connection.

Electric Nostalgia

2008-02-17T23:39:00.004-06:00

I’ll have to admit that I started out 2007 as one of those people who enjoys the entertainment that Disney puts out, but looked with a bit of scorn upon folks who were completely enamored with the whole Disney thing. Eight months later, I hadn’t quite gone to that extreme, but I now have a fondness for Disney that belongs only to people who have worked there. My work experience began that first day that I was introduced to the costuming department and thrust into the organized chaos that is the Disney Dreams Come True Parade (or Day Parade, as those of us working it call it). I soon found myself working 10 hour shifts from 4:30 at night to 3 in the morning, six days a week, for almost 6 months straight on SpectroMagic, the night parade at Magic Kingdom. Of course, I have more stories than I even care to remember from those long, humid nights. One of the things that stand out most vividly in my mind is the time I was almost run over by one of the floats carrying the ostriches from “Fantasia”. Near death experiences aside, I get overwhelmingly nostalgic when I see pictures from the parades I worked. It was, without a doubt, the best eight months of my life and even though I worked with character performers who thought they were God’s gift to entertainment and was always sticky with sweat, I’m glad I did it. There are things that I’ve done that few other people can claim; I’ve carried Cinderella’s dress and helped Minnie put on her shoes. Though I’ve undoubtedly set up a rather utopian idea of the whole experience, it will forever stand out as one of the most rewarding things I’ve ever done. I made more friends and had more fun in Orlando than I feel I’ll ever have again.

Ever Gentle on My Mind

2008-02-14T22:20:00.005-06:00

My feelings about the warped realm of popularity helped develop sensitive, personable side, giving me the ability to empathize with the down trodden and broken hearted.

I’m sitting here in my room, headphones plugged in to my computer, Dean Martin turned up to an unhealthy volume and flowing straight into my temporal lobe (undoubtedly killing brain cells) and I’ll have to admit that anything sensitive, personable or empathetic in my character has completely abandoned me. I’m annoyed. I’m glowering. I’m clenching my jaw (something my dentist has specifically warned against). Why? Dare you ask? Of course you do, however subconsciously. It’s because my roommates have seen fit to throw a dance party in our living room in honor of their Fabulous Valentine’s Day Girls’ Night. I’ll have to admit something at this juncture: I get inwardly annoyed easily and the thing that really gets me is when people are inconsiderate. Of course, since this is an inward annoyance I don’t act upon it. If I did people would start crying and, when you get right down to it, I only make people cry for really good reasons. I also like to think that I’m holding myself to a higher behavioral standard than people who snap at the slightest provocation (go ahead and draw your own conclusions as to whether that’s true or not). I understand it’s Valentine’s Day and most everyone with some semblance of a heart (which clearly excludes me) wants to believe that they’re loved on this day if on no other day out of the year. I however, couldn’t care less. What’s important to me right now is the fact that I have this essay to write, another paper due next week I’d like to get a jump on and, overshadowing every other consideration this evening, a botany test that I have no real desire to fail. And here are my darling roomies playing generally crappy music at a decibel level that makes me feel like I’m living in a speaker. Got to love when Housing tosses you in with people you’d never met before the day you moved in. Cheers, ladies, and I hope you find what you’re looking for out of life.

"Are You Gonna Be My Girl"

2008-02-07T14:20:00.000-06:00

Ideally, this would end up being an essay about how music affects me and then I would go on to demonstrate the depth of my music knowledge and how I find meaning in every lyric every penned. However, it’s not. Trying to prove yourself through music is often an exercise in futility as people are bound to judge you based on your musical preference. Despite this, I put some serious thought into what video I was actually going to post. Since my parents are ancient, my musical tastes tend to run more to oldies, classic rock and other music that proves some modicum of actual talent. That being said, I don’t think Jet is a particularly amazing band and this is really a bad music video, but sometimes you need something to crank up and rock out to while driving around with the windows down . If I want to have an intelligent musical experience, more often than not I’ll be listening to The Beatles. Or Simon and Garfunkel. Or the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Or Cake, Julie London, Charlie Parker, Herbie Hancock. But I’m disinclined to turn this into an extensive list because, when you get right down to it, I don’t really care what other people think of what I listen to. I suppose it’s not about the music video itself, but the incisive Lester Bangs-esque commentary I should feel obliged to provide. Sad to say, this is not the song to evoke heart rending anecdotes and observations. Nonetheless, every time I hear that opening bass riff, my body involuntarily starts moving and my legs send that little tickle to my brain saying that they want to dance. Lack of chord variation and allegations of stolen ideas aside, there’s something powerful in the kind of music that just makes you want to get up and move.

Contemplations on a bird's wing

2008-02-05T21:10:00.000-06:00

Essays, written on everything from exquisite mold creations to the delicate arch of a bird's wing can speak to audiences in ways never imagined. Really, it is art itself—in all its forms—that hold the ability to open the minds of people and make an impact. It’s that pit-of-your-stomach feeling when you encounter a piece of art, regardless of form, that speaks to you. Recently, I saw The Phantom of the Opera and had a moment like that. It was what theatre should always be. Superbly balanced and excruciatingly acute in its perfection, I walked out of the theatre overwhelmed with senses awhirl. The poetry of e.e. cummings has this same effect on me. I don’t always understand it, but the first reading has a power to confound beyond the capabilities of conventional comprehension. Upon study, more meanings come through which only adds to the layers of appreciation. Dickinson has the reverse effect. Casually intriguing at first glance, study of her syntax leads me to that light bulb feeling of dawning realization. As an English major, I love literature, but even someone who hasn’t invested four or more years of study to the subject can appreciate it. But who holds the power to completely define “art”—or “appreciation”, for that matter? What relevance does a definition hold if the impact remains? One can be equally awed by innovative architecture and a perfect bass line. I argue that nearly ever task calling on concentration and finesse can be considered art. Why should book binding and cooking not be held on the same plane of sophistication and creativity? There is astounding beauty of form even within objects we consider soporific. In my life I will make more of an intentional effort to welcome value where I might initially see none. Of course, even the cynics of the world are needed to perpetuate our existence. If the cynics disappeared, who would be left to laugh at the schadenfreude of everyday life?

Quotation from Atwan02

2008-01-31T14:15:00.000-06:00

"The influential essayist is someone with an acute sense of what has not been (properly) talked about, what should be talked about (but differently). But what makes essays last is less their argument than the display of a complex mind and a distinctive prose voice."

-Susan Sontag

The beauty of this quote is that it opens the possibility of a well-received essay to the entire world. Anyone who has a reasonably perceptive mind and is aware of the world around them can sit down and write what is, potentially, a very hard-hitting essay. Sontag says that the “influential essayist” is someone who understands “what has not been (properly) talked about [and] what should be talked about (but differently)”. If this is true, then the key to good essay writing is to notice one’s surroundings and to make connections, perhaps disparate ones but, connections nonetheless. As in much writing, Sontag point to a “distinctive prose voice”—the way in which something is said—as more important than what is being said. While this is certainly open to argument, it cannot be denied that voice is one of the most essential elements in literature.
This puts me in mind of nearly every conversation I have with my friends. No matter the starting point, we are led from topic to topic, every person making a contribution with ideas and observations which are unique to themselves. In the end, we walk away less impressed with ideas that were presented and more satisfied with the knowledge that we carried on a meaningful conversation. Though we are unquestionably made to think as a direct result of our interaction, that isn’t necessarily the most important part of the interval spent. This is how a good essay should make one feel. When one reads an essay, there should be a sense of the author; one ought to feel as though they are having a dialogue with a friend. The feeling should be one of greater understanding, greater provocation and an appreciation of not only the words used, but also the way in which they were used.

Super Awesome Test Post

2008-01-24T14:27:00.000-06:00

Here is a link to our course's Main Page