Public Speaking is quite natural to me. I’m not a braggart I just don’t fear being in front of a crowd. I have done many speeches in front of crowds and each time it becomes a little more boring. I am often disgusted and at times amused by the corniness that comes out of in front of people but people like corn. It’s easily digestible and culturally hypo-allergenic. The process of becoming a public speaker of note began for me with an inauspicious and well-received speech for Mr. Tralka’s seventh grade English class. It really marked a turning point for me in terms of my own confidence. In my freshman year of high school I suffered a speech flop that is the stuff of most shy people’s night mares. Instead of creating a phobia for me though it did the opposite and steeled my confidence. They say that after you drop a brick on your toe you’ll never again fear a feather. After that kind of flop, it was all feathers.
Mr. Tralka was very tall and looked suspiciously like Alan Alda. He had a big white mustache and I truly believe that he hated me. Much of his time in class was spent stretched out behind his desk with his gangly limbs extended far too long for his clothes, a scarecrow regaling us with tales of past business glory and completely neglecting the lesson on subject/predicate. No wonder we failed the tests. Whenever he would assign us writing, like a one act play or short story, I would do my best to annoy him with absurd, almost surreal pieces of absolute nonsense. I remember the one play entitled “SHOT the GOLDFISH again!?!?!” Where I oh so endearingly entreated my friend not waste his ammunition on his little swimmy pets and to save it for important things like Mimes and the Neighbors kids. Had I published such a piece of nonsense today homeland security would be called in. He gave me a speech to write on any topic I wanted, though, and I did it on one of my favorite topics. I spent two weeks constructing a well-thought out and well-worded speech that I practiced literally dozens of times. As you might suspect it went off without a hitch and Tralka begrudgingly had to give me an “A.”
One hard puberty later I was in high school and cocky, foolish, and arrogant. Back then I had a penchant for banging my head into a wall for no good reason. I suppose many young people have these self-consuming over estimations of their own abilities but I was a unique flake. Theater and debate were two interests of mine but they were at the same time after school so I had to choose one. I signed up for theater and for debate thinking like a sitcom writer, I suppose, that I could just run from one to the other and no one would be the wiser. I cockily missed cues in the play, I just stopped showing up. I was unhappy that in my first year doing the play I had only secured a minor part. I was, in my own mind, far more talented than any of the other hacks who had paid dues for three years prior. So I focused on debate. I spent a lot of time telling the coach I was her Golden Calf. I made up all kinds of experience that I didn’t have and then the day of the first debate came. I had no strategy, no prepared remarks, and was in all ways completely unprepared. I knew I could handle it though. I stood at the podium to answer to the opening remarks of my opponent. I cleared my throat, took a breath, smiled irreverently and said… Nothing. For it was at that moment, as the fugue began to play across my face, I realized that I had no idea what I was going to say. I turned crimson and stumbled through a horrific mish mosh of unconnected syllables, all the while the moderator regarded with a mix of pity and disgust.
My next public speaking class was with Mr. Duffin, one of the great ones. This man was such a natural born teacher that I’m sure he shared his mother’s womb with a compass. In his public speaking class we did many exercises that made me love being in front of people. I got to act out a scene from Cyrano, it was the opening scene, where Cyrano creates twenty clever insults to chastise a noble for simply stating that ‘His nose is rather large.’ I read the Raven, I enjoyed the freedom to make speeches up on the spot since he never asked for a paper copy. I must admit that the freedom to stand in front of an audience became quite a rush. I learned that with the right words and the right body language they would actually listen to what you had to say. In five minutes you could convince as many people as would listen of something, anything… you could affect them emotionally, happiness, sadness, joy, nostalgia. You have an ultimate responsibility to make the infinitely valuable time that they lend you worthy of having been wasted watching you.
So I was sipping sullenly on a Nestle Quick Chocolate Milk and walking from Psych class to Algebra. In the previous class one of the students had been allowed to teach. I believe that he was going to start student teaching soon and the instructor graciously shared the spotlight to give the new teacher a moment’s practice. He shook so badly that the lines on the board were squiggles and he would stand in front of you awkwardly, searching for his next point even though it was obvious that he was well versed with the material and had much to teach. I approached him after class and offered him some free advice. To his credit he didn’t scoff at me, he acted like a true academic and said, “Sure, what can you teach me?” I spent almost a half an hour telling showing him how various postures and non-verbal communications can get your audiences attention. I told him about different tactics for movement and many other urbane topics that he patiently and intently listened to. He even took some notes, which I found very gratifying. It was all horse flop compared to the last two sentences I said, “The secret to confidence in front of an audience is to practice the material until you can’t get it wrong. Once your past trying to remember all the crap you have to say to the people in front of you, you can focus on speaking to your audience.”
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Graf #11
It is with a small tinge of regret and sadness that I write this last graph. This class has really built some confidence for me as a writer. I admit that when I began this I thought I was a pretty good writer. After weeks and weeks of writing every day just a little bit I went back and checked out my earlier pieces and I was blown away at the difference. It has been a humbling experience in many respects, making me realize that I started with much less skill than I thought I did. I have watched the skill develop and the freedom to simply write what I wanted made it something I looked forward to. I would often be mad that I wrote my freestyle on one thing when another idea popped up later that week. It was almost therapeutic when you think about it. The notes were also very helpful, it was sometimes like a puzzle to figure out what they meant but they were always good natured and constructive. All in all I can only thank you for a very enjoyable and educational experience that I will take quite a bit from.
Matt Lee
Matt Lee
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Essay #9
Should I be walking down a cold and poorly lit street one winter evening, I might huddle into my coat and suppress a shudder. It's funny how many senses are tied to memory and how it can make a tragedy linger on so much longer than it should. The cold always reminds me of Great Lakes, Illinois. That was the site of the beginning of the end of my innocence. I joined the Navy in a weak moment, I was lost and living in the shadow of grief. My first love have ended our association and I was five hundred miles away in rural Pennsylvania. I spent two years trying to make something of my career and then three years falling apart. My lack of maturity cost me everything but I was too proud to understand, too strong to be broken, and too stupid to capitulate. It has been almost ten years but I still remember the event so vividly, maybe someday it will leave me alone. My parents had interred us in Wilkesbarre, Pennsylvania for the winter of my discontent. I had made one ill-fated attempt to move back to New Jersey but was unable to make it on my own at eighteen. I had made the embarrassing call to the parents for a ride home and then had spent many months sequestered in my room. My meloncholy seemed to have no remedy but I found hope in my fathers suggestion of the military. I signed up with the all-too eager recruiter and was off to Great Lakes for my personal nightmare.
The entirety of the entrance processing is meant to begin the breaking down of your psyche. You head is shaved, you are issued the same clothes as your neighbor and every transgression against the rules whether you know them or not is punished with the wrath of God. The Company Commander was your mother and father. Their was little sleep, hard work, and church on Sunday. They called us 'Rickies,' or recruits. They herded us like cattle through a line of corpsman holding pnuematic guns that pumped doses of various antibiotics and vaccines and then sat us down and fed us. We were kept exhausted so that we were more docile and suggestable as they fed us their way of life like a cult. The Krishna's would still be around today if they had the cold efficiency the military uses to turn your children into weapons. They had said eight weeks, and that was all they kept us for. Only certain days of the month were considered 'Training Days' so the eight weeks took several months. The whole humiliating process culminated with our parents all showing up at our graduation. Four boring Admirals spoke for thirty minutes a piece while our families waited anxiously in the bleachers. We were told if we passed out we would not be allowed to graduate that day or see our family. That we would be immediately put back in boot camp with a company set to graduate in two weeks. I made it through, although a few did fall. I was unceremoniously released to my parents custody. The drive to their hotel was strange, all the colors were so bright. I realized that through the whole of the last four months I had rarely seen anything that was not grey or blue.
I was the in one of the last classes for Data Systems Technicians ever held at the Mare Island Naval Shipyard. I failed. My academic performance was worthy only of two words so there I will leave it and sincerely apologize to the cheated reader. I was so distracted by the freedom I now had that school seemed like a fools passion, I became drunk on life. I was transferred to Meridian, Mississippi where I was reassigned to become a Yeoman, in other words an officers secretary. Women ruined both of the schools that the Navy had offered me. How could I choose between love and boring curricula? I had many girlfriends in between the beginning of my first school and the ending of my last but every year their memory fades a little more. Now they are such trifles and yet I did love each of them. I was not wise enough to know each of them, any one of them, would have married me only based on the intimacy we shared. We had intense friendships and love of a quality some never shate. I was fearless, then. The memory of the heartache I paid for the loss of each of them is a masochistic tribute to the quality of the ladies, may we all remove our hats for just a moment in remembrance. Eventually I passed but I went to my ship unprepared for the politics, the abuse, and the nature of the life I had volunteered for.
The ship was a dreary place full of unfortunate souls, each with their own sad story. I met many officers who had joined from patriotism but few enlisted. The enlisted men were all there for less lofty goals. All in search of better grub and a better place in which to consume it. So many simple souls put to the dark purpose who were so naively unware that their flesh was being made to serve death. The point of our lives was to 'Fight the Ship," better described as killing. You can label a bullet peacemaker but that is little comfort to an unfortunate recipient. I was there when I had to be and never studied to increase my paygrade, hence my paygrade never increased. I ignored anyone who could have helped me actually succeed because of my ignorance and immaturity. They began to berate me in the hopes I would either strike one of them so that they could send me to jail or kill myself. Noone ever said that but it was implied. I was hindering the careers of all the people in my leadership with my constant drinking offenses and I was a lousy sailor. I had three choices: Kill myself. Hit one of them. Find a way to get a Psyche Discharge, what you might call the Klinger Solution.
I chose the Klinger way out since it had the least threatening consequences. Some are not so lucky. There were many young men there who were treated the same way as I was and who didn't make it to the end of their careers, either. One young man ate forty hits of acid at a club and after a brief hospital stay ended up in federal prison for five years, yet another cut his wrists. One young man wet his bed on purpose and was discharged. My friend Shawn came home and, like me, fell into a horrific battle with alchohol that neither of us may ever win. I might try and project blame at the Navy but instead I blame myself. I have great regret at the poor showing I made in the Navy and for all the pain and trouble I caused some great fighting sailors. I was not made to be one of them, not a Boatswain, Yeoman, or Machinist. I was not a good person then, and God used this horrible experience to build the man that I am. When I started out in the Navy I was a bold young man with endless aims and a surplus of courage. I openly mocked God. Now I am a careful thirty-three and I'm just a humble cook. If I could ask for anything out of this experience it would be forgiveness from all those who tried so hard to help me learn. I was not asked what I wanted out of this though, I was simply payed a fair wage of wisdom with a bonus of regret.
The entirety of the entrance processing is meant to begin the breaking down of your psyche. You head is shaved, you are issued the same clothes as your neighbor and every transgression against the rules whether you know them or not is punished with the wrath of God. The Company Commander was your mother and father. Their was little sleep, hard work, and church on Sunday. They called us 'Rickies,' or recruits. They herded us like cattle through a line of corpsman holding pnuematic guns that pumped doses of various antibiotics and vaccines and then sat us down and fed us. We were kept exhausted so that we were more docile and suggestable as they fed us their way of life like a cult. The Krishna's would still be around today if they had the cold efficiency the military uses to turn your children into weapons. They had said eight weeks, and that was all they kept us for. Only certain days of the month were considered 'Training Days' so the eight weeks took several months. The whole humiliating process culminated with our parents all showing up at our graduation. Four boring Admirals spoke for thirty minutes a piece while our families waited anxiously in the bleachers. We were told if we passed out we would not be allowed to graduate that day or see our family. That we would be immediately put back in boot camp with a company set to graduate in two weeks. I made it through, although a few did fall. I was unceremoniously released to my parents custody. The drive to their hotel was strange, all the colors were so bright. I realized that through the whole of the last four months I had rarely seen anything that was not grey or blue.
I was the in one of the last classes for Data Systems Technicians ever held at the Mare Island Naval Shipyard. I failed. My academic performance was worthy only of two words so there I will leave it and sincerely apologize to the cheated reader. I was so distracted by the freedom I now had that school seemed like a fools passion, I became drunk on life. I was transferred to Meridian, Mississippi where I was reassigned to become a Yeoman, in other words an officers secretary. Women ruined both of the schools that the Navy had offered me. How could I choose between love and boring curricula? I had many girlfriends in between the beginning of my first school and the ending of my last but every year their memory fades a little more. Now they are such trifles and yet I did love each of them. I was not wise enough to know each of them, any one of them, would have married me only based on the intimacy we shared. We had intense friendships and love of a quality some never shate. I was fearless, then. The memory of the heartache I paid for the loss of each of them is a masochistic tribute to the quality of the ladies, may we all remove our hats for just a moment in remembrance. Eventually I passed but I went to my ship unprepared for the politics, the abuse, and the nature of the life I had volunteered for.
The ship was a dreary place full of unfortunate souls, each with their own sad story. I met many officers who had joined from patriotism but few enlisted. The enlisted men were all there for less lofty goals. All in search of better grub and a better place in which to consume it. So many simple souls put to the dark purpose who were so naively unware that their flesh was being made to serve death. The point of our lives was to 'Fight the Ship," better described as killing. You can label a bullet peacemaker but that is little comfort to an unfortunate recipient. I was there when I had to be and never studied to increase my paygrade, hence my paygrade never increased. I ignored anyone who could have helped me actually succeed because of my ignorance and immaturity. They began to berate me in the hopes I would either strike one of them so that they could send me to jail or kill myself. Noone ever said that but it was implied. I was hindering the careers of all the people in my leadership with my constant drinking offenses and I was a lousy sailor. I had three choices: Kill myself. Hit one of them. Find a way to get a Psyche Discharge, what you might call the Klinger Solution.
I chose the Klinger way out since it had the least threatening consequences. Some are not so lucky. There were many young men there who were treated the same way as I was and who didn't make it to the end of their careers, either. One young man ate forty hits of acid at a club and after a brief hospital stay ended up in federal prison for five years, yet another cut his wrists. One young man wet his bed on purpose and was discharged. My friend Shawn came home and, like me, fell into a horrific battle with alchohol that neither of us may ever win. I might try and project blame at the Navy but instead I blame myself. I have great regret at the poor showing I made in the Navy and for all the pain and trouble I caused some great fighting sailors. I was not made to be one of them, not a Boatswain, Yeoman, or Machinist. I was not a good person then, and God used this horrible experience to build the man that I am. When I started out in the Navy I was a bold young man with endless aims and a surplus of courage. I openly mocked God. Now I am a careful thirty-three and I'm just a humble cook. If I could ask for anything out of this experience it would be forgiveness from all those who tried so hard to help me learn. I was not asked what I wanted out of this though, I was simply payed a fair wage of wisdom with a bonus of regret.
Monday, April 28, 2008
Essay #8
It is easy for one to find common themes in literature, so common in fact they have a name 'Universal Themes.' These days our entertainment tends to favor not only these themes in constant repetition but seems to downright plagiarize older works.
As an example I present three different pieces of art produced in different time periods, by completely unconnected creators and with completely different production methods. Star Wars was created by George Lucas from the seventies into the new millenium. The Matrix was produced by Andy and Larry Wachowski in 1999. The Lord of the Rings was written by J.R. Tolkein more than sixty years ago and only made it to film in the last ten years. All three are remarkably similar from a reasonably objective standpoint.
Star Wars centers around the character of Anakin Skywalker who is the true tragic hero. There is technology that borders on magic and if that weren't enough, there is actual magic. It is through an all powerful but mystical force dubbed, 'the force.' How original. The main character is messianic in nature since he must sacrifice himself to restore order, peace, and harmony to the galaxy. His order, the 'Jedi' all have lightsabers, a powerful weapon that can only be wielded by someone strong enough in the force. Yoda, the most powerful Jedi in the order has a wizards powers and is still a fierce warrior, despite being a sage who constantly counsels against anger. In the end Anakin casts his master Darth Sidious into a flaming pit to save the galaxy from his evil powermongering.
The Matrix centers around 'Neo.' After a great war between humanity and the newly spawned machine society humanity is taken prisoner in it's entirety and hooked up to the machines' power grid like batteries. They put us in artificial comas and plug our brains into an artificial world, "The Matrix" created just for us to keep us producing more power than truly comatose humans would. Neo must use his almost magical powers in the Matrix to assist his order, the humans who occupy the last human city called Zion. His mentor is a fierce warrior named Morpheus who wields a katana like an expert in the Matrix and helps Neo realize his full potential. In the end Neo is forced to sacrifice himself to broker a peace between the machines and humans and save the world from their evil powermongering.
In 'the Lord of the Rings' Frodo Baggins, a hobbit from the Shire, is forced to accept the burden of the One Ring. An insidious tool of power used by the Dark Lord Sauron to enslave the world. The Elves assist him in his journey with their ancient magic and their mystical weapons. Other fierce warriors accompany him, including the true king of Gondor and a sage wizard named Gandalf who is also a warrior of great power. Instead of dying, Frodo's sacrifice is his piece of mind, the ring begins to drive him insane with it's power and he almost becomes Saurons puppet. At the last minute he destroys the one ring and saves the world from Saurons Evil Powermongering.
When compared side by side in this fashion the similarities of these films and books jump off the page. The cookie cutter nature of these films is indicative of many pieces of contemporary art. The Samurai epic, or the Sci-Fi space opera, the whole Harry Potter series, most have a common thread running through them. All of this art seems to focus on the idea of one character with a terrible mission. They must give their own lives to rescue humanity from an awful fate at the hands of a despotic tyrant. A familiar story that has repeated in one form or another for the last five thousand years.
As an example I present three different pieces of art produced in different time periods, by completely unconnected creators and with completely different production methods. Star Wars was created by George Lucas from the seventies into the new millenium. The Matrix was produced by Andy and Larry Wachowski in 1999. The Lord of the Rings was written by J.R. Tolkein more than sixty years ago and only made it to film in the last ten years. All three are remarkably similar from a reasonably objective standpoint.
Star Wars centers around the character of Anakin Skywalker who is the true tragic hero. There is technology that borders on magic and if that weren't enough, there is actual magic. It is through an all powerful but mystical force dubbed, 'the force.' How original. The main character is messianic in nature since he must sacrifice himself to restore order, peace, and harmony to the galaxy. His order, the 'Jedi' all have lightsabers, a powerful weapon that can only be wielded by someone strong enough in the force. Yoda, the most powerful Jedi in the order has a wizards powers and is still a fierce warrior, despite being a sage who constantly counsels against anger. In the end Anakin casts his master Darth Sidious into a flaming pit to save the galaxy from his evil powermongering.
The Matrix centers around 'Neo.' After a great war between humanity and the newly spawned machine society humanity is taken prisoner in it's entirety and hooked up to the machines' power grid like batteries. They put us in artificial comas and plug our brains into an artificial world, "The Matrix" created just for us to keep us producing more power than truly comatose humans would. Neo must use his almost magical powers in the Matrix to assist his order, the humans who occupy the last human city called Zion. His mentor is a fierce warrior named Morpheus who wields a katana like an expert in the Matrix and helps Neo realize his full potential. In the end Neo is forced to sacrifice himself to broker a peace between the machines and humans and save the world from their evil powermongering.
In 'the Lord of the Rings' Frodo Baggins, a hobbit from the Shire, is forced to accept the burden of the One Ring. An insidious tool of power used by the Dark Lord Sauron to enslave the world. The Elves assist him in his journey with their ancient magic and their mystical weapons. Other fierce warriors accompany him, including the true king of Gondor and a sage wizard named Gandalf who is also a warrior of great power. Instead of dying, Frodo's sacrifice is his piece of mind, the ring begins to drive him insane with it's power and he almost becomes Saurons puppet. At the last minute he destroys the one ring and saves the world from Saurons Evil Powermongering.
When compared side by side in this fashion the similarities of these films and books jump off the page. The cookie cutter nature of these films is indicative of many pieces of contemporary art. The Samurai epic, or the Sci-Fi space opera, the whole Harry Potter series, most have a common thread running through them. All of this art seems to focus on the idea of one character with a terrible mission. They must give their own lives to rescue humanity from an awful fate at the hands of a despotic tyrant. A familiar story that has repeated in one form or another for the last five thousand years.
Monday, April 21, 2008
Essay #7
Did you ever notice how formulaic television is? I have found at least three examples of the exact same show run through three different time periods. It started with the Flinstones where we have a modern working man married to a gorgeous but accepting redhead who doesn't mind the poverty. The Jetsons were the next big thing where we had a modern working man married to a gorgeous but accepting redhead who didn't mind the poverty. The next time was on Family Guy where we had (you see where I'm going with this?) a... you already know. The funny thing is that all of these series were animated and not for children, they were all run later in the evening and catered to adults.
The Flintstones had the quirky neighbor who was also the best friend, and the spitting image of Art Carney.. There was a strange resemblance to the Honey Mooners which I think was a little more than incidental. Fred represented the hard working blue collar man of the fifties and early sixties. He was tough, a little grouchy but really a good guy at heart. His wife was the fantasy woman, thin and pretty but patient with his working mans salary. They really had love in their relationship. And she was a redhead. They had a pet which was different than the Honey Mooners, but although we saw Dino all the time we never really saw the Sabertoothed Tiger that locks fred out of the house in the end credits.
The Jetsons were slightly different but the same basic concept. It was set in the far future and the gimmick of technology was the hook. George was more of a lower middle class schlep. He had a nice house and a maid. He also had a hot wife who was patient with his working mans salary. And she was a redhead. The Jetsons had the notable addition of talking children, different than the babies in the Flintstones, but a vast improvement from the Honey Mooners which had no kids at all. The Jetsons had Astro the huge dog which was like Dino with a speech impediment.
We move into the nineties and now we have Family guy. The dog talks well and is a Brown Alumni, there are three kids, and the setting is the present time in a little Rhode Island town called Qouhag (pronounced Ko-Hog.) Peter Griffin the fat working man with no real intellect to speak of who marries Louis Peuterschmidt, the daughter a wealthy new England blueblood. She is patient with his working mans salary because there is genuine love between them. The baby is supposed to be an androgenous anti-christ figure who progressively becomes less of the latter and more of the former. The langauge is filthy compared to the first two series I mentioned. If by some cosmic accident in the space-time fabric Family Guy were to accidentally play during the Flintstones live air in the fifties it might actually kill someone.
These shows have subtle differences but are still essentially the same plot. Variations on a theme though they may be they are what the people want. You may not want to admit it but at some point you have probably fallen prey to the T.V. Land Ministry of Love's wiles. You don't think so? Did you like The HoneyMooners, Eight is Enough, Leave it to Beaver, Happy Days, Everybody Loves Raymond, Roseanne, The King of Queens, The War at Home, Father Knows Best, The Donna Reed Show, Eight Simple Rules for Dating My Daughter, Seventh Heaven, Married With Children, The Jeff Foxworthy Show, Home Improvement, Bewitched, Mr. Belvedere? The worst part is I could go on. I sometimes wonder at the grand variety of the same thing we are presented with on television. On Channel One we have music video, two is video music, three is videos to a song and etc. etc... etc....
The Flintstones had the quirky neighbor who was also the best friend, and the spitting image of Art Carney.. There was a strange resemblance to the Honey Mooners which I think was a little more than incidental. Fred represented the hard working blue collar man of the fifties and early sixties. He was tough, a little grouchy but really a good guy at heart. His wife was the fantasy woman, thin and pretty but patient with his working mans salary. They really had love in their relationship. And she was a redhead. They had a pet which was different than the Honey Mooners, but although we saw Dino all the time we never really saw the Sabertoothed Tiger that locks fred out of the house in the end credits.
The Jetsons were slightly different but the same basic concept. It was set in the far future and the gimmick of technology was the hook. George was more of a lower middle class schlep. He had a nice house and a maid. He also had a hot wife who was patient with his working mans salary. And she was a redhead. The Jetsons had the notable addition of talking children, different than the babies in the Flintstones, but a vast improvement from the Honey Mooners which had no kids at all. The Jetsons had Astro the huge dog which was like Dino with a speech impediment.
We move into the nineties and now we have Family guy. The dog talks well and is a Brown Alumni, there are three kids, and the setting is the present time in a little Rhode Island town called Qouhag (pronounced Ko-Hog.) Peter Griffin the fat working man with no real intellect to speak of who marries Louis Peuterschmidt, the daughter a wealthy new England blueblood. She is patient with his working mans salary because there is genuine love between them. The baby is supposed to be an androgenous anti-christ figure who progressively becomes less of the latter and more of the former. The langauge is filthy compared to the first two series I mentioned. If by some cosmic accident in the space-time fabric Family Guy were to accidentally play during the Flintstones live air in the fifties it might actually kill someone.
These shows have subtle differences but are still essentially the same plot. Variations on a theme though they may be they are what the people want. You may not want to admit it but at some point you have probably fallen prey to the T.V. Land Ministry of Love's wiles. You don't think so? Did you like The HoneyMooners, Eight is Enough, Leave it to Beaver, Happy Days, Everybody Loves Raymond, Roseanne, The King of Queens, The War at Home, Father Knows Best, The Donna Reed Show, Eight Simple Rules for Dating My Daughter, Seventh Heaven, Married With Children, The Jeff Foxworthy Show, Home Improvement, Bewitched, Mr. Belvedere? The worst part is I could go on. I sometimes wonder at the grand variety of the same thing we are presented with on television. On Channel One we have music video, two is video music, three is videos to a song and etc. etc... etc....
Friday, April 11, 2008
Essay #6
My mother would never let me have any toy modeled after an instrument of violence. I was not allowed to have so much as a water pistol. I think this was to teach me the meaning of those objects. Guns kill people, read that again, guns kill people. Swords rend flesh and clubs flatten heads, tools of war are no good she taught me. In the eighties computer games were just beginning and my mother wouldn't let me have any part of them either, now I understand why. The horrid images portrayed in these living nightmares of futuristic apocolyspe would frighten anyone sane. Anyone, that is, but our children. Our children are exposed to a daily diet of violence that makes them numb to the absurdity of it all. They are taught from the time that they are around seven or eight that violence is not only cartoonish, it is fun and cool. On television they see killing and maiming, gun violence and rape. In the movies they see even more graphic examples of the worst in human character. In video games they are taught bloodlust, they are taught to thrive in environments where violence is par for the course. In other words, theory becomes practise. Our children have four thousand calories a meal of deep fried carnage and it is only getting worse.
Visual media has always had violence. It started with Punch and Judy, it's emblazoned on the human mind from an early age that people hit one another regularly. In television it hit it's first good stride. We had a new media with which to describe the wonderfully destructive urges we all feel, art represents life after all. We had a new media that would let us live vicariously the feeling of power that violence gives. It started with Westerns. The men would run around and the bullet'ers' would shoot eachother but the bullet'ee's would show no blood or wound, they would just fall down. Later in the episode everone was still alive and just wrapped in bandages or some such ludicrous premise. Then a little later when shot the cowboy died. Then in the sixties we prefered more sex in our advertising but by the late seventies violence was beginning to become entertainment again. We had cop dramas with many deaths or murders per episode. We had crime dramas where they had to solve a murder. We had the A-Team where thousands of rounds flew but no one was ever actually shot. Eventually we had educational television. Did you ever watch this stuff? It is about weapons we have, weapons we had, or weapons we want. There are myriad documentaries about world war 2 yet few about the life of Mother Theresa and Ghandi, even on the biography channel. There are movies about those kind of people.
Movies started before even television had become ensconsed in our homes. People went to see them even before they had sound. A man played a piano score timed to coincide with major points in the film until they finally figured out how to sync a soundtrack. Then the great war movies began. Howard Hughes made his world war one airplane epic and people felt what being a combat pilot was like. John Wayne let us feel what it was like to fight in the Great War and then the Westerns started again. Clint Eastwood taught us to enjoy shooting down foes for justice, Charles Bronson let us all be vigilantes. We learned how to enjoy slaughtering teens at campsites in the Friday the Thirteenth movies. Stephen King showed us how it would feel to kill your whole family in the Shining and how it felt to telekinetically kill a whole prom full of people in Carrie. Always before these acts a jusitification, a circumstance that made the violence seem reasonable was presented and then the acts made a sort of sense. Steven Segal, Jean-Claude Van Damme and Sylvester Stallone starred in good examples of this. In their films we lived the experience of punishing those who have offended justice, we give pain to those who have hurt us. Their message is always the same.
Then in the early eighties we were given video games. The first was 'Pong', it was addictive and non-violent. That wasn't enough, eventually we developed the Atari and it came with a game cartridge that had over ten games on it. Some warplanes, some tanks, and a few sports. Then the nineties brought us Nintendo, Playstation, and X-Box. This is where video games reached the pinnacle of realism. The games allowed us to combat eachother through the realm of anonymity known as the internet. We could shoot, stab, slash and hack eachother to bits in any fictional reality we wished. We could kill eachother as our favorite movie star or in the context of our favorite Sci-Fi heroes world. We had 'UnReal Tournament' which was known as a 'First Person Shooter' where you moved through the game in a first person perspective and shot and killed enemies up close. The idea of the game was a tournament to the death with the galaxies hardest fighters. We had 'Real Time Strategy' where you moved and developed whole armies and fought them against eachother. People the world over log on even now for the chance to kill eachother in the cyber world. Now we have Grand Theft Auto. These games involve becoming the head of a crime organization by stealing, killing, sleeping with prostitutes and taking drugs.
The question is does the popular media influence our minds? The answer is not simple. One could speculate that poplular entertainment simply represents a progressively more violent civilization but the entertainment seems to outmatch the violence in civilization to a great degree. If you want to understand the effect of the media in peoples lives, however, you might steer clear of the facts and figures. The empirical data would confuse the issue and at it's heart is a question no numbers can describe anyway, a moral one. The effect of the media is best described by the media itself. I witnessed a gruesome and unimaginable beating on the news today. Apparently a young girl had been posting negative statements about some other girls on the internet and those girls had read them. They invited her to one of their houses, locked her in a room and beat her into unconciousness. They waited until she woke up, and then beat her into unconsciousness again. They beat her so badly that she could not see or hear for two days later and the worst part is that they taped it. They taped it with digital camera and then posted it on the internet so that everyone could see it. Why would they tape violence and post it for all to see? Simple, the media is where that kind of thing belongs. You tell me, what is the media doing to us?
Visual media has always had violence. It started with Punch and Judy, it's emblazoned on the human mind from an early age that people hit one another regularly. In television it hit it's first good stride. We had a new media with which to describe the wonderfully destructive urges we all feel, art represents life after all. We had a new media that would let us live vicariously the feeling of power that violence gives. It started with Westerns. The men would run around and the bullet'ers' would shoot eachother but the bullet'ee's would show no blood or wound, they would just fall down. Later in the episode everone was still alive and just wrapped in bandages or some such ludicrous premise. Then a little later when shot the cowboy died. Then in the sixties we prefered more sex in our advertising but by the late seventies violence was beginning to become entertainment again. We had cop dramas with many deaths or murders per episode. We had crime dramas where they had to solve a murder. We had the A-Team where thousands of rounds flew but no one was ever actually shot. Eventually we had educational television. Did you ever watch this stuff? It is about weapons we have, weapons we had, or weapons we want. There are myriad documentaries about world war 2 yet few about the life of Mother Theresa and Ghandi, even on the biography channel. There are movies about those kind of people.
Movies started before even television had become ensconsed in our homes. People went to see them even before they had sound. A man played a piano score timed to coincide with major points in the film until they finally figured out how to sync a soundtrack. Then the great war movies began. Howard Hughes made his world war one airplane epic and people felt what being a combat pilot was like. John Wayne let us feel what it was like to fight in the Great War and then the Westerns started again. Clint Eastwood taught us to enjoy shooting down foes for justice, Charles Bronson let us all be vigilantes. We learned how to enjoy slaughtering teens at campsites in the Friday the Thirteenth movies. Stephen King showed us how it would feel to kill your whole family in the Shining and how it felt to telekinetically kill a whole prom full of people in Carrie. Always before these acts a jusitification, a circumstance that made the violence seem reasonable was presented and then the acts made a sort of sense. Steven Segal, Jean-Claude Van Damme and Sylvester Stallone starred in good examples of this. In their films we lived the experience of punishing those who have offended justice, we give pain to those who have hurt us. Their message is always the same.
Then in the early eighties we were given video games. The first was 'Pong', it was addictive and non-violent. That wasn't enough, eventually we developed the Atari and it came with a game cartridge that had over ten games on it. Some warplanes, some tanks, and a few sports. Then the nineties brought us Nintendo, Playstation, and X-Box. This is where video games reached the pinnacle of realism. The games allowed us to combat eachother through the realm of anonymity known as the internet. We could shoot, stab, slash and hack eachother to bits in any fictional reality we wished. We could kill eachother as our favorite movie star or in the context of our favorite Sci-Fi heroes world. We had 'UnReal Tournament' which was known as a 'First Person Shooter' where you moved through the game in a first person perspective and shot and killed enemies up close. The idea of the game was a tournament to the death with the galaxies hardest fighters. We had 'Real Time Strategy' where you moved and developed whole armies and fought them against eachother. People the world over log on even now for the chance to kill eachother in the cyber world. Now we have Grand Theft Auto. These games involve becoming the head of a crime organization by stealing, killing, sleeping with prostitutes and taking drugs.
The question is does the popular media influence our minds? The answer is not simple. One could speculate that poplular entertainment simply represents a progressively more violent civilization but the entertainment seems to outmatch the violence in civilization to a great degree. If you want to understand the effect of the media in peoples lives, however, you might steer clear of the facts and figures. The empirical data would confuse the issue and at it's heart is a question no numbers can describe anyway, a moral one. The effect of the media is best described by the media itself. I witnessed a gruesome and unimaginable beating on the news today. Apparently a young girl had been posting negative statements about some other girls on the internet and those girls had read them. They invited her to one of their houses, locked her in a room and beat her into unconciousness. They waited until she woke up, and then beat her into unconsciousness again. They beat her so badly that she could not see or hear for two days later and the worst part is that they taped it. They taped it with digital camera and then posted it on the internet so that everyone could see it. Why would they tape violence and post it for all to see? Simple, the media is where that kind of thing belongs. You tell me, what is the media doing to us?
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Essay 5 last graph rewrite
I added one sentence and I think it fixed a lot of my issues, go figure. I reread this so many times that it eventually got painful. When you look at something so many times, it's hard to see the answers. I would ask your honest opinion as to whether this expressed it's target or crossed the line into pretentiousness. I was trying to express the division between my past, intellectually obsessed and shallow self by stylisticly contrasting the excessive exaggeration of my perceptions of my first love, and the slightly deeper future-me who more modestly expresses the value of the greatest love I know, my wife. I really tried at something here and was not quite satisifed with the results. I couldn't go as far into flowery language as it required without lapsing into poetry. I also had trouble melding the two styles, flowery and plain, anywhere in the middle so I had to resort to a jarring and confusing complete shift downward. It then fell on the reader to understand the meaning. There were fallbacks in case the reader missed the nested message and it could have been the division between the two loves or the loss of the one. That would just be sloppy, though.
I walked away, destiny forked a bit to the right and I haven't seen her in many, many years. I am going to be thirty three in May. I have been married to Petra, who I met only three years ago, for over two years. The living room is our usual haunt and life is simple. My nice blue chair is torn to shreds, that grey cat she loves so much sharpens his claws on it every chance he gets. She is sitting next to me watching T.V. and Matthew is playing on the floor. He screams and runs away from the cat then chases it with a yellow plastic hammer. I have gotten fat and learned to laugh at myself, what does it matter, I'm married? She's a furnace underneath that blanket and I am freezing, I think I might join her. I don't recall all the details from the day we met, in fact there is a lot I don't remember about our relationship. It seems neither of us really cares since we know tomorrow could be our anniversary and we would celebrate it the same way. I would sit on this chair, she would sit on that couch underneath her blanket. Matty would play on the floor. There are no more brown eyes but hers, and the whale can go chase itself. I am satisfied and I don't wonder, wander or worry anymore, my wife has got my back. We put Matty down for a nap and climb onto the couch together. Falling asleep with my wife on a sunny afternoon is better than spaghettios with parmesan cheese.
I walked away, destiny forked a bit to the right and I haven't seen her in many, many years. I am going to be thirty three in May. I have been married to Petra, who I met only three years ago, for over two years. The living room is our usual haunt and life is simple. My nice blue chair is torn to shreds, that grey cat she loves so much sharpens his claws on it every chance he gets. She is sitting next to me watching T.V. and Matthew is playing on the floor. He screams and runs away from the cat then chases it with a yellow plastic hammer. I have gotten fat and learned to laugh at myself, what does it matter, I'm married? She's a furnace underneath that blanket and I am freezing, I think I might join her. I don't recall all the details from the day we met, in fact there is a lot I don't remember about our relationship. It seems neither of us really cares since we know tomorrow could be our anniversary and we would celebrate it the same way. I would sit on this chair, she would sit on that couch underneath her blanket. Matty would play on the floor. There are no more brown eyes but hers, and the whale can go chase itself. I am satisfied and I don't wonder, wander or worry anymore, my wife has got my back. We put Matty down for a nap and climb onto the couch together. Falling asleep with my wife on a sunny afternoon is better than spaghettios with parmesan cheese.
Friday, March 28, 2008
Essay 5
"To Sherlock Holmes she is always THE woman. I have seldom heard him mention her under any other name." says Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's character Dr. Watson in the book "A Scandal in Bohemia." I hadn't grasped the fullness of that expression until I met her. Cascades of chestnut brown perfection rolled over her shoulders. She casually cast a glance to the back of the bus and those brown eyes, the brown eyes I would never again be able to forget, pierced me like sunlight through darkening skies. I was only thirteen but I thought that I knew everything I ever needed to know in that moment. It took me six months to finally get to the front of the bus to talk to her, but I did it. She became the source of something simultaneously great and terrible. I fell in an instant and didn't land until almost a decade later. She became the White Whale and I chased her through all weather. I was given closure and release from this obsession only by what eventually became my family.
I first spoke to her under the most obviously false pretenses. It was charming in its befuddlement if nothing else. I spoke to her briefly but would spend almost every waking moment from then on thinking of her. It was not her beauty or charm. It was the opposite, it was her awkwardness. She had a way of smiling nervously and listening when she should have been talking. She was the most sublime creature, perfect in form... she had perfect lines that were not simply beautfiul to me. She was the uncatchable quarry, all the boys tried but she would giggle and turn away. It takes the courage of David to approach even a terrestrial, common female, much less an angel. If you suspect only a glimmer of mockery you might completely lose your nerve and she laughed at most. I was the exception. I approached her with guile, and respect. I had to wait hours, days, sometimes weeks until I could find a convienent excuse to see her again. I had to engineer brilliantly choreographed cooincidences. Sometimes I traded a week for an hour of conversation and laughed slightly for cheating the universe.
Our lives progressed in opposite directions for a time. I moved to Pennsylvania and her constant struggle with her mother resulted in her commitment to a mental health facility. I wrote letters to her and she to me, but she put a veil over anything in her life she didn't want me to see. Looking back I realize that she was hiding things from me as a declaration of affection. She hated herself. She felt corrupted and soiled, she had finally begun to buy into the horrible things said about her at home. She thought that she had to hide her true self to make me like her. During our coorespondence she always used scented, pink paper to write the longest, absurd letters about nothing. They were three pages of pretty small-talk with a sentence of true feeling at the end. I remember the day that I recieved the shortest of them, it was the last that I recieved before my family moved back and she was let out of the institution. The letter was three paragraphs explaining how hard it is to say I love you and the words, "I love you."
We became teenagers in love very quickly. She and I shared untold intimacy in our body, mind and spirit. We shared ideas, philosophies, curiosity, and silent moments. Sadly, things this good can only last for a short time. Our relationship reached its critical mass when I turned eighteen. We had grown distant over the intervening years. I had begun to take her for granted. I was pompous and arrogant even when she remained patient and hopeful for our love. When it became too much for her to bear and I was too full of myself she severed contact suddenly and I fell like a meteor from the sky. All life lost it's lustre and I was adrift in the world I had so long delayed joining, the angel had let me fall to Earth. I denied, got angry, bargained, was depressed and then finally completely failed to accept the death of our relationship. It could not die, it was a flame burning eternally in my heart. I chased for years flying halfway around the world when she call and want to see me. One man had let her go or another had frightened her so she needed someone safe. I was always at beck and call. We drifted apart in the intervening years, she found others and began to treat me callously. She found a man she thought she might marry. I cursed his very existence.
I walked away, destiny forked a bit to the right and I haven't seen her in many, many years. I am going to be thirty three in May. The living room is my usual haunt and life is simple. My nice blue chair is torn to shreds, that grey cat she loves so much sharpens his claws on it every chance he gets. She is sitting next to me watching T.V. and Matthew is playing on the floor. He screams and runs away from the cat then chases it with a yellow plastic hammer. I have gotten fat and learned to laugh at myself, what does it matter, I'm married? She's a furnace underneath that blanket and I am freezing, I think I might join her. I don't recall all the details from the day we met, in fact there is a lot I don't remember about our relationship. It seems neither of us really cares since we know tomorrow could be our anniversary and we would celebrate it the same way. I would sit on this chair, she would sit on that couch underneath her blanket. Matty would play on the floor. There are no more brown eyes but hers, and the whale can go chase itself. I am satisfied and I don't wonder, wander or worry anymore, my wife has got my back. We put Matty down for a nap and climb onto the couch together. Falling asleep with my wife on a sunny afternoon is better than spaghettios with parmesan cheese.
I first spoke to her under the most obviously false pretenses. It was charming in its befuddlement if nothing else. I spoke to her briefly but would spend almost every waking moment from then on thinking of her. It was not her beauty or charm. It was the opposite, it was her awkwardness. She had a way of smiling nervously and listening when she should have been talking. She was the most sublime creature, perfect in form... she had perfect lines that were not simply beautfiul to me. She was the uncatchable quarry, all the boys tried but she would giggle and turn away. It takes the courage of David to approach even a terrestrial, common female, much less an angel. If you suspect only a glimmer of mockery you might completely lose your nerve and she laughed at most. I was the exception. I approached her with guile, and respect. I had to wait hours, days, sometimes weeks until I could find a convienent excuse to see her again. I had to engineer brilliantly choreographed cooincidences. Sometimes I traded a week for an hour of conversation and laughed slightly for cheating the universe.
Our lives progressed in opposite directions for a time. I moved to Pennsylvania and her constant struggle with her mother resulted in her commitment to a mental health facility. I wrote letters to her and she to me, but she put a veil over anything in her life she didn't want me to see. Looking back I realize that she was hiding things from me as a declaration of affection. She hated herself. She felt corrupted and soiled, she had finally begun to buy into the horrible things said about her at home. She thought that she had to hide her true self to make me like her. During our coorespondence she always used scented, pink paper to write the longest, absurd letters about nothing. They were three pages of pretty small-talk with a sentence of true feeling at the end. I remember the day that I recieved the shortest of them, it was the last that I recieved before my family moved back and she was let out of the institution. The letter was three paragraphs explaining how hard it is to say I love you and the words, "I love you."
We became teenagers in love very quickly. She and I shared untold intimacy in our body, mind and spirit. We shared ideas, philosophies, curiosity, and silent moments. Sadly, things this good can only last for a short time. Our relationship reached its critical mass when I turned eighteen. We had grown distant over the intervening years. I had begun to take her for granted. I was pompous and arrogant even when she remained patient and hopeful for our love. When it became too much for her to bear and I was too full of myself she severed contact suddenly and I fell like a meteor from the sky. All life lost it's lustre and I was adrift in the world I had so long delayed joining, the angel had let me fall to Earth. I denied, got angry, bargained, was depressed and then finally completely failed to accept the death of our relationship. It could not die, it was a flame burning eternally in my heart. I chased for years flying halfway around the world when she call and want to see me. One man had let her go or another had frightened her so she needed someone safe. I was always at beck and call. We drifted apart in the intervening years, she found others and began to treat me callously. She found a man she thought she might marry. I cursed his very existence.
I walked away, destiny forked a bit to the right and I haven't seen her in many, many years. I am going to be thirty three in May. The living room is my usual haunt and life is simple. My nice blue chair is torn to shreds, that grey cat she loves so much sharpens his claws on it every chance he gets. She is sitting next to me watching T.V. and Matthew is playing on the floor. He screams and runs away from the cat then chases it with a yellow plastic hammer. I have gotten fat and learned to laugh at myself, what does it matter, I'm married? She's a furnace underneath that blanket and I am freezing, I think I might join her. I don't recall all the details from the day we met, in fact there is a lot I don't remember about our relationship. It seems neither of us really cares since we know tomorrow could be our anniversary and we would celebrate it the same way. I would sit on this chair, she would sit on that couch underneath her blanket. Matty would play on the floor. There are no more brown eyes but hers, and the whale can go chase itself. I am satisfied and I don't wonder, wander or worry anymore, my wife has got my back. We put Matty down for a nap and climb onto the couch together. Falling asleep with my wife on a sunny afternoon is better than spaghettios with parmesan cheese.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Essay #4
I have three cats and they are all like children to me. Each is as unique as the next and they all have stories. Splat showed up the May before September 11th. We call him Splat because he used to have a habit of hitting a wall at full speed. Bit was a street kitty I picked up from a friend who planned to feed him to a Rottweiler. I call him Bit because if you've known him for any length of time you probably have been bit. Jedi was rescued from a prison yard where his mother was raised by a prisoner. I promised my young bride a pet and Jedi was the inevitable result. I didn't name him, my wife did, but we are both avid Star Wars fans so it worked out. Since I brought them to Maine Splat and Bit have been outdoor kitties. The dirt and dust, the fleas and mud have resulted in many baths for the boys. The simplicity of the last statement only describes a shadow of the challenge involved in the actual process. There is a look a cat gets when a bath is impending that seems as if it should be beyond their expressional repertoire. It is the look I might imagine a man going to the gallows would have. They begin looking around for escape and hiding under the heavy furniture. As you carry them down the hallway a harmonica plays softly in the distance and you can almost hear the other cats shouting "Dead man walking the Green Mile!" The bathroom door shutting them in is the final straw. They bolt around the bathroom franticly looking for any avenue of escape, but there isn't one now. It's time for the inevitable, little one.
I always prefer bathing Splat first. He was my first-born and as such is my favorite (don't tell the others). He is a tuxedo cat, with a black body, white paws, and a white nose. A struggle ensues the closing of the door and I am forced to catch him in a towel to get him in the tub. Once I have him in the tub just the turning on of the water is enough to send him into hysterics. He doesn't weigh eight pounds but I have trouble holding him down. I have to use both hands until he calms down a little. I carefully release one hand and pour a small amount of shampoo on his back. His one soggy paw creeps toward the edge of the tub in a clandestine attempt to gain traction for an escape. I gently push it back and begin to massage the soap into his coat trying to talk soothingly to him. He begins to caterwaul as if I am killing him. "Roooooowwwwwwwwww" with his head turned up as if he is a lone wolf in the cold woods begging the moon for companionship. He bays and howls louder and louder and the other cats begin running around the house in horror. Eventually I get him rinsed off pouring cup after cup of water onto his coat and he looks up at me, hurt and with offended dignity. I wrap him in a towel and he is compliant with a face that stares into mine with a "Why?" expression as if I have just brutalized him. His wet paws find the bathroom carpet and he stands there for a moment while I towel him gently. Then I open the door and he runs out into the hallway where the other two cats are waiting for him and the three bathe eachother trying to help him get dry. All the while they take turns looking up at me with accusational eyes that seem to say "you monster."
Bit is next in the tub. He is a white Kitty with twin grey tornadoes running across his back and little grey patch on his nose. I have to be more careful with him because he is more dangerous than the others. He has been very aggressive since I brought him home and this situation should only serve to exacerbate his natural tendencies. I have to wrap him in a towel first and hold him tightly. Bit goes into the tub and he is calm and relaxed. I turn on the water and he lazily licks a paw as if to say "Get on with it." The whole thing goes off without a hitch. Imagine punching Mike Tyson in the face and him crying like a girl, that is the level of surprise. I wash him and rinse him, then pull the plug on the water and he jumps out onto the carpet, waiting for me to dry him off. Once his fur is only a little damp I open the door so he can join the others but they aren't waiting for him. He sits on the bathroom floor and grooms himself deliberately. I tap his bottom to shoo him into the hall and he sinks his teeth full into my hand. Now I get it, he knew what was coming. Instead of demeaning himself with a struggle he couldn't win he suffered through the process and then revenged himself when I wasn't expecting it. Sneaky little git.
Jedi is the final constestant. He is a greay tabby with black stripes. One could not ask for a more mellow kitten although he is the largest. He is so trusting that if you drop him on his back, he will not right himself like other cats and land on his feet, he just plops onto his back. I put him in the tub and all hell breaks loose. He climbs me like a scratching post fully embedding his claws into my arms and shoulders and wailing like a fire engine. He deftly leaps into to the sink and springboards onto the toilet tank several feet away. I reach for him in seeming slow motion as he bounces off my head and rushes for the door. I corner him and finally get him into the tub again, filling it quickly and holding on for dear life. I manage to get half of him washed before I have three bites on my hand and many slashes and punctures. The other half I buy with a few upper arm scars and then finally let him go. He slides and slips over the side of the tub flopping onto the floor like a drowned rat. He won't let me come near him with a towel so I have to chase him around the house to dry him. Finally I give up and the other boys take care of him. I say a small prayer of thanks that this is now over.
The days battle is won. I have three clean kitties and only minor injuries. Bit and Splat are outdoor kitties so I open the front door to let them out. They run through my legs before sniffing their way onto the porch. Bit immediately begins to roll in the dirt at the bottom of the steps and Splat hides in their little igloo. Bit locks eyes with me. He is covering his nice clean coat with dirt to shoot me the bird without fingers. Jedi is sitting on the back of the couch and staring daggers. He claws the couch and meows loudly. Luckily I don't have to do this again for a long time. It was like a long, long trip or dental work, something you dread but resign yourself to. You remind yourself it is a labor of love and then put on some band-aids and peroxide. A pet owner has responsibilities, you remind yourself. This is what you signed on for. Still the memory gets a shudder. The wife is relaxing with the baby on the floor and looks up. "How did it go?" I laugh and she inhales sharply as I show her my arms.
I always prefer bathing Splat first. He was my first-born and as such is my favorite (don't tell the others). He is a tuxedo cat, with a black body, white paws, and a white nose. A struggle ensues the closing of the door and I am forced to catch him in a towel to get him in the tub. Once I have him in the tub just the turning on of the water is enough to send him into hysterics. He doesn't weigh eight pounds but I have trouble holding him down. I have to use both hands until he calms down a little. I carefully release one hand and pour a small amount of shampoo on his back. His one soggy paw creeps toward the edge of the tub in a clandestine attempt to gain traction for an escape. I gently push it back and begin to massage the soap into his coat trying to talk soothingly to him. He begins to caterwaul as if I am killing him. "Roooooowwwwwwwwww" with his head turned up as if he is a lone wolf in the cold woods begging the moon for companionship. He bays and howls louder and louder and the other cats begin running around the house in horror. Eventually I get him rinsed off pouring cup after cup of water onto his coat and he looks up at me, hurt and with offended dignity. I wrap him in a towel and he is compliant with a face that stares into mine with a "Why?" expression as if I have just brutalized him. His wet paws find the bathroom carpet and he stands there for a moment while I towel him gently. Then I open the door and he runs out into the hallway where the other two cats are waiting for him and the three bathe eachother trying to help him get dry. All the while they take turns looking up at me with accusational eyes that seem to say "you monster."
Bit is next in the tub. He is a white Kitty with twin grey tornadoes running across his back and little grey patch on his nose. I have to be more careful with him because he is more dangerous than the others. He has been very aggressive since I brought him home and this situation should only serve to exacerbate his natural tendencies. I have to wrap him in a towel first and hold him tightly. Bit goes into the tub and he is calm and relaxed. I turn on the water and he lazily licks a paw as if to say "Get on with it." The whole thing goes off without a hitch. Imagine punching Mike Tyson in the face and him crying like a girl, that is the level of surprise. I wash him and rinse him, then pull the plug on the water and he jumps out onto the carpet, waiting for me to dry him off. Once his fur is only a little damp I open the door so he can join the others but they aren't waiting for him. He sits on the bathroom floor and grooms himself deliberately. I tap his bottom to shoo him into the hall and he sinks his teeth full into my hand. Now I get it, he knew what was coming. Instead of demeaning himself with a struggle he couldn't win he suffered through the process and then revenged himself when I wasn't expecting it. Sneaky little git.
Jedi is the final constestant. He is a greay tabby with black stripes. One could not ask for a more mellow kitten although he is the largest. He is so trusting that if you drop him on his back, he will not right himself like other cats and land on his feet, he just plops onto his back. I put him in the tub and all hell breaks loose. He climbs me like a scratching post fully embedding his claws into my arms and shoulders and wailing like a fire engine. He deftly leaps into to the sink and springboards onto the toilet tank several feet away. I reach for him in seeming slow motion as he bounces off my head and rushes for the door. I corner him and finally get him into the tub again, filling it quickly and holding on for dear life. I manage to get half of him washed before I have three bites on my hand and many slashes and punctures. The other half I buy with a few upper arm scars and then finally let him go. He slides and slips over the side of the tub flopping onto the floor like a drowned rat. He won't let me come near him with a towel so I have to chase him around the house to dry him. Finally I give up and the other boys take care of him. I say a small prayer of thanks that this is now over.
The days battle is won. I have three clean kitties and only minor injuries. Bit and Splat are outdoor kitties so I open the front door to let them out. They run through my legs before sniffing their way onto the porch. Bit immediately begins to roll in the dirt at the bottom of the steps and Splat hides in their little igloo. Bit locks eyes with me. He is covering his nice clean coat with dirt to shoot me the bird without fingers. Jedi is sitting on the back of the couch and staring daggers. He claws the couch and meows loudly. Luckily I don't have to do this again for a long time. It was like a long, long trip or dental work, something you dread but resign yourself to. You remind yourself it is a labor of love and then put on some band-aids and peroxide. A pet owner has responsibilities, you remind yourself. This is what you signed on for. Still the memory gets a shudder. The wife is relaxing with the baby on the floor and looks up. "How did it go?" I laugh and she inhales sharply as I show her my arms.
Friday, March 21, 2008
Essay #4
It has been said that there is more than one way to skin a cat, but I submit that washing it may be slightly crueler. The way a cat reacts to being bathed you would think they shared DNA with Oz's late great Western Witch. Notwithstanding the difficulty it still must be done. The cat cleans itself with its tongue so when it loses its winter coat you have to bathe it. A favor so that it doesn't spend many unfortunate and painful hours hawking loudly in the back of your closet and depositing the hair in your loafers. The first thing you have to accomplish is the placing of an animal terrified by drops of water flung at it into a full tub. The second is to get the screeching and clawing animal with the strength to jump five feet straight in the air to sit still while washing it. The third is to get this poor, damp wretch into a towel and out of the tub safely. If you can accomplish all these things for the welfare of your furry friend you are sure to be rewarded with many cuts and scratches and scars, psychological and physical. Loving cats is such a masochistic thrill. To begin with, focus on remembering that it has sharp, sharp claws.
A tub is a wonderland of fright for a cat. One method of disciplining cats is to spray them with a stream of water from a squirt bottle when they exhibit undesired behaviors.
This frightens them so much that they will leap, juke, or bolt in any direction. I have witnessed my one cat leap from the floor to the top of my refrigerator (a distance of almost six feet) to avoid getting wet. Consider, now, the difficulty in putting this animal into a tub of water. The Garfield cartoons are a pretty accurate resource of what this looks like. The cat will throw all four limbs out and cling to the sides of the tub as if for their very lives. Cats always go to high ground so if you release your hold at all, make no mistake, they will climb you to get away since the top of your head is the highest point in the room. The secret is so simple you might immediately overlook it. Put them in a dry tub and then fill it very slowly with water. The cat is not at all afraid of being in a dry tub. They will be wary, of course, because they are smart enough to know what's coming. Remember it has claws.
Hold them gently but firmly with the forefinger and the ring finger split like a yoke on their neck and the thumb and remaining fingers behind the shoulder bones (which will be very easy to feel as the cat struggles against you. Assert a very, very gentle pressure to try and encourage the cat to lay down, they will be easier to keep in one place if they are not standing up. Slowly turn on the water to a trickle and let them get slowly comfortable with it, they will not capitulate but they will stop resisting after a small while. Using the same hand position try and restrain the cat, then pour water over their back using a plastic cup. They must be as wet as possible before you put a cat-specific shampoo across the back in a thin line. The shampoo is important for two reasons. Cat skin is sensitive and easily irritated by too harsh a cleaner and cats swallow the hair they groom from themselves with anything that's on it. Once you have massaged the shampoo in try and gently wash to face if the cat will let you. Wash their back and paws, then their legs, then try to get them to stand and wash their underbelly. Slowly pour water over the back of the cat to rinse it agitating the hair to release the soap. It is important for the previously mentioned reasons to get all the soap out of the cats fur. Again, remember it has claws.
Once you have the cat clean the third, difficult step will seperate the men from the boys. If you let your hand up the cat will try and climb the nearest thing to it, namely you. If you quickly jump away from the tub the cat will scramble out possibly injuring itself with the flight but certainly dragging nasty bathwater and tons of hair with it all over your carpet. If you just stay put eventually your hands will get pruny, and nobody wants that. So here we go... First pull the plug on the bathwater. With one hand you must drape a towel over the struggling feline and try to wrap it up. With the water gone the cat will start to relax. Gently drape the towel and slowly release your hand while sliding the towel around the cat. Cocoon the cat with the towel and pick it up, ensuring all of the cat's limbs are wrapped up. Move it to the floor and carefully dump the towel. It is likely the cat will be insulted, but will also be compliant now. As compliant as any cat will ever be, anyway. It will let you towel dry it but mostly will want to be left alone to soothe it's offended dignity with a long bath and a nap. Try to make sure you give it a can of tuna for the healing process, they are vindictive but quick to forgive if your nice to them.
If you manage to survive this process you are brave and skillful. Your cat will thank you and the rest of the house is sure to appreciate the slightly thinner coating of hair this year. The last thing I might mention is the first aid. Mostly the cat will leave you with gouges, scrapes and puncture wounds. The puncture wounds will heal without being covered but should be swabbed with alcohol. The scratches and scrapes, gouges and slashes should all be carefully cleaned and covered. They will itch but that's natural. If you experience any strange symtpoms like fever, nausea, chills or fatigue you should definitely get medical attention as there are a number of infections a cat's claws could open you up to. The risk of Toxoplasmosis is very real to pregant women so do not attempt to bathe a cat if you are with child. It is a parasitic infection found in cats droppings that can be on their claws from scratching in their litter. Toxoplasmosis can do quite a bit of harm to the baby so steer clear, mommy. It is recommended to bathe your cat four times a year. I have found that once a year is plenty for me but every cat and every circumstance is different. You will find the best routine for your situation. Try not to dread bathing your cat, to coin the phrase, it is more afraid of the bath than you are of bathing it.
A tub is a wonderland of fright for a cat. One method of disciplining cats is to spray them with a stream of water from a squirt bottle when they exhibit undesired behaviors.
This frightens them so much that they will leap, juke, or bolt in any direction. I have witnessed my one cat leap from the floor to the top of my refrigerator (a distance of almost six feet) to avoid getting wet. Consider, now, the difficulty in putting this animal into a tub of water. The Garfield cartoons are a pretty accurate resource of what this looks like. The cat will throw all four limbs out and cling to the sides of the tub as if for their very lives. Cats always go to high ground so if you release your hold at all, make no mistake, they will climb you to get away since the top of your head is the highest point in the room. The secret is so simple you might immediately overlook it. Put them in a dry tub and then fill it very slowly with water. The cat is not at all afraid of being in a dry tub. They will be wary, of course, because they are smart enough to know what's coming. Remember it has claws.
Hold them gently but firmly with the forefinger and the ring finger split like a yoke on their neck and the thumb and remaining fingers behind the shoulder bones (which will be very easy to feel as the cat struggles against you. Assert a very, very gentle pressure to try and encourage the cat to lay down, they will be easier to keep in one place if they are not standing up. Slowly turn on the water to a trickle and let them get slowly comfortable with it, they will not capitulate but they will stop resisting after a small while. Using the same hand position try and restrain the cat, then pour water over their back using a plastic cup. They must be as wet as possible before you put a cat-specific shampoo across the back in a thin line. The shampoo is important for two reasons. Cat skin is sensitive and easily irritated by too harsh a cleaner and cats swallow the hair they groom from themselves with anything that's on it. Once you have massaged the shampoo in try and gently wash to face if the cat will let you. Wash their back and paws, then their legs, then try to get them to stand and wash their underbelly. Slowly pour water over the back of the cat to rinse it agitating the hair to release the soap. It is important for the previously mentioned reasons to get all the soap out of the cats fur. Again, remember it has claws.
Once you have the cat clean the third, difficult step will seperate the men from the boys. If you let your hand up the cat will try and climb the nearest thing to it, namely you. If you quickly jump away from the tub the cat will scramble out possibly injuring itself with the flight but certainly dragging nasty bathwater and tons of hair with it all over your carpet. If you just stay put eventually your hands will get pruny, and nobody wants that. So here we go... First pull the plug on the bathwater. With one hand you must drape a towel over the struggling feline and try to wrap it up. With the water gone the cat will start to relax. Gently drape the towel and slowly release your hand while sliding the towel around the cat. Cocoon the cat with the towel and pick it up, ensuring all of the cat's limbs are wrapped up. Move it to the floor and carefully dump the towel. It is likely the cat will be insulted, but will also be compliant now. As compliant as any cat will ever be, anyway. It will let you towel dry it but mostly will want to be left alone to soothe it's offended dignity with a long bath and a nap. Try to make sure you give it a can of tuna for the healing process, they are vindictive but quick to forgive if your nice to them.
If you manage to survive this process you are brave and skillful. Your cat will thank you and the rest of the house is sure to appreciate the slightly thinner coating of hair this year. The last thing I might mention is the first aid. Mostly the cat will leave you with gouges, scrapes and puncture wounds. The puncture wounds will heal without being covered but should be swabbed with alcohol. The scratches and scrapes, gouges and slashes should all be carefully cleaned and covered. They will itch but that's natural. If you experience any strange symtpoms like fever, nausea, chills or fatigue you should definitely get medical attention as there are a number of infections a cat's claws could open you up to. The risk of Toxoplasmosis is very real to pregant women so do not attempt to bathe a cat if you are with child. It is a parasitic infection found in cats droppings that can be on their claws from scratching in their litter. Toxoplasmosis can do quite a bit of harm to the baby so steer clear, mommy. It is recommended to bathe your cat four times a year. I have found that once a year is plenty for me but every cat and every circumstance is different. You will find the best routine for your situation. Try not to dread bathing your cat, to coin the phrase, it is more afraid of the bath than you are of bathing it.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Graf #10
Sometimes when my insomnia kicks me hard I kick the books harder. I have always loved to research for fun but my need for information was never fully satiated until the internet hit full stride. My heavily ADD brains love to jump from one subject to the next. Instead of inundating my brain with tons of useless facts about one subject I can can actually answer a question by jumping from information to information and relevant subject to relevant subject. It's like completing a quest in World Of Warcraft. You go all over the place and eventually return to the original idea. It takes a lot of battles with your own attention span. I have learned so much for no good reason, really. I managed to figure out how to get a large craft to Mars with no fuel once using what amounted to a giant Gauss Rifle in space but my math skills are pretty bad so the physics stymied me. Thrust generated my elecrtomagnetic rails on a craft the size of a city block calls for some thinking. It took hours of coffee and cigarettes and a manic devotion to a meaningless topic that required hyperfocusing on boring figures for a very, very long time. Eventually it was all for naught since the cost of getting the damned thing into orbit was the combined yearly income of every nation on Earth but damn it was impressive in my mind. Isn't that what counts?
annotated source list
"How to Write a Joke" Google 9 Mar 08 http://www.wikihow.com/Write-a-Good-Joke
Incredibly helpful and seemingly common sense advice for the would be funnyman. There is, however, nothing common about sense. I got a great start here.
"Comedians Advice" Google 7 Dec 08 http://www.humormall.com/diary/bin/2000-815.shtml
This is a great column about how hard it is to take even the first small step in writing and the one giant leap onstage. It has links to many more useful sites.
"Richard Pryor Freebasing" YouTube 25 Feb 08 http://youtube.com/watch?v=V7XHcqmDxYA
Richard is a master and one can study him for advice on timing, content, and how much need be, or need not be said. If you can figure out how he made this funny you have all the answers you'll ever need about being a comedian.
Incredibly helpful and seemingly common sense advice for the would be funnyman. There is, however, nothing common about sense. I got a great start here.
"Comedians Advice" Google 7 Dec 08 http://www.humormall.com/diary/bin/2000-815.shtml
This is a great column about how hard it is to take even the first small step in writing and the one giant leap onstage. It has links to many more useful sites.
"Richard Pryor Freebasing" YouTube 25 Feb 08 http://youtube.com/watch?v=V7XHcqmDxYA
Richard is a master and one can study him for advice on timing, content, and how much need be, or need not be said. If you can figure out how he made this funny you have all the answers you'll ever need about being a comedian.
Monday, March 10, 2008
Essay #3
My best friend John in High School had much wealthier parents than I did, so he always had the cool toys. He had a Commodore 128 and a new MacIntosh computer. The Commodore wasn't really very good for anything but video games unless you were a hacker, but the MacIntosh was so easy to use it invited even the most mechanically challenged person to sit and play. It had a one button mouse that the PC world had yet to embrace and a host of applications that were years ahead of their time. P.C. at this point had yet to evolve into anything impressive, monochromatic screens (That's one color for the non-geek) and only a keyboard with a boring interface that only accepted B.A.S.I.C. commands. If you don't know what B.A.S.I.C. is then count yourself fortunate. It was the nasty first langauge of PC that caused the untimely death of many PC's at the hands of too frustrated uber-geeks with baseball bats everywhere. Then D.O.S. was released and some really cool stuff started to happen with your computer, you could custom order the parts and have it designed to your own needs, unlike the MacIntosh which came simply as it came. Then Window's 3.1 came out giving P.C.s hardware compatibility with everything from a mouse to a printer with ease, and the age old debate between which was better, P.C. or Mac was born. Of course we all know which one is better, or do we?
Essentially there are two camps in computers. Those who use them for productivity and those who use them for fun. This discussion really only comes up when it is time to actually buy a computer since they are very expensive and you want to get the one you’ll get the most use out of. In definition Mac refers to all computers made by MacIntosh while P.C. typically refers to machines made by any number of computers that run Microsoft Operating Systems like Windows XP or Vista. Mac and P.C. are both strong and weak for different purposes. In general I have found that those who need productivity and need a computer to work with choose Mac and those who use a computer for fun tend to use P.C. The reasons for this range from technical to the feel of the interface. Cost and the availability of different kinds of software are also key issues to many professionals but not so much to gamers and those who just want to E-mail Grandma the pictures of little Stedman’s first potty.
If you are a graphic artist or a web designer you will probably choose Mac. Moviemakers and sound editors as a rule ALWAYS choose Mac. The graphics are better and the hardware is quite a bit more powerful in the higher ends. Since designing for the web and creating graphics requires a lot of horsepower and a lot of memory Mac is the choice of those who can really afford it. Movie making and sound editing actually require the computer equivalent of a Mack truck (no pun intended) and Mac specifically designs many machines for just those industries. If you are very knowledgeable in the building of a P.C. from individually purchased parts you can really trick one out, sort of like building a car from ordered parts, but this can be prohibitively expensive and there is only limited technical support. You have to know how to put it together right the first time (and I mean that, there is no lee way) or else you have a cool looking paper-weight. You could pay someone to do this for you but by that time and for that amount of money you might as well just buy a Mac.
If you are a techno-geek extraordinaire, someone who really just wants a cheap computer for E-mail, or a hardcore gamer chances are you want a P.C. Software for P.C. is a lot cheaper and there is vastly larger amount of it. Most games aren’t ported to Mac unless they are widely popular so as a gamer you have to choose P.C.. The downside of this is that to get great gameplay you have to purchase some expensive upgrades like more R.A.M., a nifty and costly Graphics Card, and possibly a better sound card. Most gamers are willing to make that expenditure and at the end of it all the cost is about equal to that of a lesser equipped Mac. You can get an E-Machine to use for E-mail that practically teaches you how to use it for less then four hundred dollars. That price tag is much less intimidating to Grandma and Grandpa who think the internet is around the goal on a soccer field. There is one exception to the productivity rule, though. In the case of companies with little Web Based business the usual choice is P.C. for their offices. Microsoft sells bulk amounts of software licenses to companies cheaper than Mac so that they can outfit a whole office with word processors, spreadsheets, and databases. This software can run on a computer that is much, much cheaper and much, much slower than a Mac with reliability and the networking of those machines is much easier too.
Many of the geeks I grew up with are totally devoted to one machine and one company yet this may be a nearsighted view when presented with the facts. When you choose a car you check out many different brands and models trying to find the best one for the purpose you intend to use it for. Buying a Corvette as a family car seems a little foolish as much as buying an E-Machine for your son who intends to be a film editing student. In the debate between Mac and P.C. you have to turn off the commercials and turn on the intelligence to make an educated and informed decision. It turns out in the end of this whole thing that the choice is not what MacIntosh would have you believe it is, the choice between stodgy old thinking or the choice of a new generation. It is the choice between to equally valuable pieces of technology suited for, and eventually used for, dramatically different things.
Essentially there are two camps in computers. Those who use them for productivity and those who use them for fun. This discussion really only comes up when it is time to actually buy a computer since they are very expensive and you want to get the one you’ll get the most use out of. In definition Mac refers to all computers made by MacIntosh while P.C. typically refers to machines made by any number of computers that run Microsoft Operating Systems like Windows XP or Vista. Mac and P.C. are both strong and weak for different purposes. In general I have found that those who need productivity and need a computer to work with choose Mac and those who use a computer for fun tend to use P.C. The reasons for this range from technical to the feel of the interface. Cost and the availability of different kinds of software are also key issues to many professionals but not so much to gamers and those who just want to E-mail Grandma the pictures of little Stedman’s first potty.
If you are a graphic artist or a web designer you will probably choose Mac. Moviemakers and sound editors as a rule ALWAYS choose Mac. The graphics are better and the hardware is quite a bit more powerful in the higher ends. Since designing for the web and creating graphics requires a lot of horsepower and a lot of memory Mac is the choice of those who can really afford it. Movie making and sound editing actually require the computer equivalent of a Mack truck (no pun intended) and Mac specifically designs many machines for just those industries. If you are very knowledgeable in the building of a P.C. from individually purchased parts you can really trick one out, sort of like building a car from ordered parts, but this can be prohibitively expensive and there is only limited technical support. You have to know how to put it together right the first time (and I mean that, there is no lee way) or else you have a cool looking paper-weight. You could pay someone to do this for you but by that time and for that amount of money you might as well just buy a Mac.
If you are a techno-geek extraordinaire, someone who really just wants a cheap computer for E-mail, or a hardcore gamer chances are you want a P.C. Software for P.C. is a lot cheaper and there is vastly larger amount of it. Most games aren’t ported to Mac unless they are widely popular so as a gamer you have to choose P.C.. The downside of this is that to get great gameplay you have to purchase some expensive upgrades like more R.A.M., a nifty and costly Graphics Card, and possibly a better sound card. Most gamers are willing to make that expenditure and at the end of it all the cost is about equal to that of a lesser equipped Mac. You can get an E-Machine to use for E-mail that practically teaches you how to use it for less then four hundred dollars. That price tag is much less intimidating to Grandma and Grandpa who think the internet is around the goal on a soccer field. There is one exception to the productivity rule, though. In the case of companies with little Web Based business the usual choice is P.C. for their offices. Microsoft sells bulk amounts of software licenses to companies cheaper than Mac so that they can outfit a whole office with word processors, spreadsheets, and databases. This software can run on a computer that is much, much cheaper and much, much slower than a Mac with reliability and the networking of those machines is much easier too.
Many of the geeks I grew up with are totally devoted to one machine and one company yet this may be a nearsighted view when presented with the facts. When you choose a car you check out many different brands and models trying to find the best one for the purpose you intend to use it for. Buying a Corvette as a family car seems a little foolish as much as buying an E-Machine for your son who intends to be a film editing student. In the debate between Mac and P.C. you have to turn off the commercials and turn on the intelligence to make an educated and informed decision. It turns out in the end of this whole thing that the choice is not what MacIntosh would have you believe it is, the choice between stodgy old thinking or the choice of a new generation. It is the choice between to equally valuable pieces of technology suited for, and eventually used for, dramatically different things.
Friday, March 7, 2008
I Search 'What'
Now how the hell am I supposed to sum up the total of my experience in Comedy with a brief retelling here? Well, the journey of a thousand miles... The first thing I learned from the greats was the Theory of Relativity. Not everybody finds the same stuff funny, in other words, humor is relative. So how do you tailor your material to the people that you're in front of? I have gleaned two answers to this from listening and reading. On the one hand you can get to know all kinds of people and tailor your humor to each individual audience. The only problem with that is a mixed audience makes for a forced, choked act. You are afraid to appeal to only one section of your audience, or to offend them. On the other hand you have a more open approach that produces humor that appeals to a very broad spectrum of people and can be used in most situations. The latter seems to be the smarter approach and keeps one from getting forced into a niche like Jeff Foxworthy or Steve Martin. Jeff Foxworthy is trapped into doing 'Redneck' humor and has only one kind of audience. The inevitable result in his case is creative stagnation since his audience only wants to hear the same thing over and over again. That kind of formulaic repetition is fine for him since his audience never seems to tire of it and it was never relevant to begin with. Here let me try one... If you've ever killed a deer with your truck because you were too drunk to shoot it, you might yada yada yada. The material writes itself.
Steve Martin achieved an almost rock star status with his slapstick brand of humor and was locked into it for too long. It was hell for him to be so well educated in Philosophy and the performing arts but to be telling off color jokes to drugged out audiences wearing Groucho glasses and a fake arrow through his head. Jeff Foxworthy seemed happy with his success, his standup is based on personal experience and he caters to an audience of like-minded people. Steve, though, was trapped by the comedic lowest common denominator for an audience and felt completely out of place. He actually describes himself as a very unfunny person and his approach to comedy was more academic. He would write the material and try it out noting where the laughs happened. Then he would rearrange the material like a composer writing a symphony with chuckles, chortles, snickers, and guffaws as his notes and precisely practised comedic timing his measure and meter. Eventually Steve moved on to write, direct, and star in many feature films. A great deal of them accentuating his talent as a serious actor as well as a comedic actor like "Grand Canyon" or "A Simple Twist of Fate" based on Silas Marner. Jeff had a sit-com and the blue-collar comedy tour. Again we see relativity. Jeff was relatively as happy with his limited exposure as Steve was with his great variety of performance outlets.
The broad Spectrum approach is much more common and much more useful. You find many of your television comedians use this approach, talk show hosts like Jay Leno or David Letterman and anyone who hopes to have their own sit-coms. They use topical humor and tried and true, time tested quips at everyday troubles and toils that anyone can relate to. "My mother in law used to live with us. We had to Euthanise her, though. It was the only time I ever had an animal put down so that I would stop suffering." or some such. The greater percentage of these comedians work with very non-offensive subject matter and would find it uncomfortable to 'Work Blue.' Some can work with racy subject matter and using great command of langauge and context make it palatable to a surprisingly wide audience slice. It is a dangerous gamble, though. The greatest success in this kind of Comedy comes from those who with intelligent, current and avante garde subject matter attract the youthful and educated audiences wishing to come out of a comedy show having learned something, having their perceptions changed while still being entertained. If any audience appeals to me it is they. They are also the hardest to attract.
The next tool in their belt seems to be flop, the human side of that is ice cold flop sweat. There doesn't seem to be a comedian who hasn't had an audience hate them and that is very telling. Even the best of the best had to fail. It is the initiation to the fraternity of the sad clown. There is a sick and masochistic quality to this that seems to echo through the performance arts in general. Failure is important in all lines of work though. In my first job as a waiter I worked for Red Lobster, two weeks into it they fired me and said I would never be a server. Since then I have done nothing but. That failure lit a fire in the woodstove that won't go out. One can go too far and get too involved in the performance arts, letting the audience fill emotional holes best occupied with better things. Jerry Lewis can't do telethons anymore and is but a shadow of his former self. He has become quite obese and racked with pain for the falls he took on stage he really took. He used pain medicine to dull the aches from his physically destructive act but nothing could fill the emptiness, nothing but more laughter. It is a sad irony that the man who was so brilliant in movies like the "Nutty Professor" could be ridiculous in his own written acts. He never learned to write a joke, hence he had to destroy his body to just stay competitive with younger comedians. There is a strong lesson here to develop fundamentals in this game early and keep them honed and strong. Again we see the importance of the construction of the basic joke.
The audience is the ultimate boss here and they don't tolerate a liar. They may tolerate a clown, but not a liar. Carlos Mencia said in his act that he did a show for Cerebral Palsy victims and they wouldn't let him off the hook. One of the said to him "You do Black jokes in front of Black people and White Jokes in front of White people, why can't you make fun of us?" In that is, in my opinion, to be found the crux of humor. The lessening of tension about situations that cause us anxiety like the loosening of chains around our hearts. As important an occupation as any other when employed with ethical and moral conscience. Now, with all this stuff out of the way, I guess the basic sum total here still equals: How do you write one funny joke?
Steve Martin achieved an almost rock star status with his slapstick brand of humor and was locked into it for too long. It was hell for him to be so well educated in Philosophy and the performing arts but to be telling off color jokes to drugged out audiences wearing Groucho glasses and a fake arrow through his head. Jeff Foxworthy seemed happy with his success, his standup is based on personal experience and he caters to an audience of like-minded people. Steve, though, was trapped by the comedic lowest common denominator for an audience and felt completely out of place. He actually describes himself as a very unfunny person and his approach to comedy was more academic. He would write the material and try it out noting where the laughs happened. Then he would rearrange the material like a composer writing a symphony with chuckles, chortles, snickers, and guffaws as his notes and precisely practised comedic timing his measure and meter. Eventually Steve moved on to write, direct, and star in many feature films. A great deal of them accentuating his talent as a serious actor as well as a comedic actor like "Grand Canyon" or "A Simple Twist of Fate" based on Silas Marner. Jeff had a sit-com and the blue-collar comedy tour. Again we see relativity. Jeff was relatively as happy with his limited exposure as Steve was with his great variety of performance outlets.
The broad Spectrum approach is much more common and much more useful. You find many of your television comedians use this approach, talk show hosts like Jay Leno or David Letterman and anyone who hopes to have their own sit-coms. They use topical humor and tried and true, time tested quips at everyday troubles and toils that anyone can relate to. "My mother in law used to live with us. We had to Euthanise her, though. It was the only time I ever had an animal put down so that I would stop suffering." or some such. The greater percentage of these comedians work with very non-offensive subject matter and would find it uncomfortable to 'Work Blue.' Some can work with racy subject matter and using great command of langauge and context make it palatable to a surprisingly wide audience slice. It is a dangerous gamble, though. The greatest success in this kind of Comedy comes from those who with intelligent, current and avante garde subject matter attract the youthful and educated audiences wishing to come out of a comedy show having learned something, having their perceptions changed while still being entertained. If any audience appeals to me it is they. They are also the hardest to attract.
The next tool in their belt seems to be flop, the human side of that is ice cold flop sweat. There doesn't seem to be a comedian who hasn't had an audience hate them and that is very telling. Even the best of the best had to fail. It is the initiation to the fraternity of the sad clown. There is a sick and masochistic quality to this that seems to echo through the performance arts in general. Failure is important in all lines of work though. In my first job as a waiter I worked for Red Lobster, two weeks into it they fired me and said I would never be a server. Since then I have done nothing but. That failure lit a fire in the woodstove that won't go out. One can go too far and get too involved in the performance arts, letting the audience fill emotional holes best occupied with better things. Jerry Lewis can't do telethons anymore and is but a shadow of his former self. He has become quite obese and racked with pain for the falls he took on stage he really took. He used pain medicine to dull the aches from his physically destructive act but nothing could fill the emptiness, nothing but more laughter. It is a sad irony that the man who was so brilliant in movies like the "Nutty Professor" could be ridiculous in his own written acts. He never learned to write a joke, hence he had to destroy his body to just stay competitive with younger comedians. There is a strong lesson here to develop fundamentals in this game early and keep them honed and strong. Again we see the importance of the construction of the basic joke.
The audience is the ultimate boss here and they don't tolerate a liar. They may tolerate a clown, but not a liar. Carlos Mencia said in his act that he did a show for Cerebral Palsy victims and they wouldn't let him off the hook. One of the said to him "You do Black jokes in front of Black people and White Jokes in front of White people, why can't you make fun of us?" In that is, in my opinion, to be found the crux of humor. The lessening of tension about situations that cause us anxiety like the loosening of chains around our hearts. As important an occupation as any other when employed with ethical and moral conscience. Now, with all this stuff out of the way, I guess the basic sum total here still equals: How do you write one funny joke?
I Search 'Why'
The average person rates Public Speaking somewhere above Death on the fear-o-meter. The idea of being embarassed in front of people seems to terrify the masses but like with most things, I am grossly different. I love getting in front of people. I just always seem to have something to say. This springs from many different sources. I have an insatiable need for attention matched with an overactive brain. When I was in public speaking in High School I never wrote a single speech. I made them all up on the spot, it was the way I liked it. When many people hear this they get queasy. The very idea of getting up in front of people without a script is alien and wrong. I was just a natural I suppose. One might think that a person like this belongs in theatre. I wish I could have. It just never happened for me but I always wanted the adulation. I could never make myself get in line behind those I felt were less talented than I. How obnoxious is that? Even I am offended by own lack of modesty sometimes. As I grew up I realized that there is truth in the phrase "There are no small parts, just small actors." By the time I had the maturity to actually try, it was too late, I had to be satisfied with performing table-side and I find myself unsatisfied with that. I tried Childrens theater for a while and they are the greatest audience you can have. I was fortunate to get paid for my efforts and to always have good strong roles. The problem was it never paid the bills entirely. I got involved with restaurants and started a family, that became my satisfaction. I find I still long for a performance art so I listen to my comedy albums and dream.
I have the unsatisfied artists demon that claws and bites the inside of my heart until I can't help but let it burst forth screaming and sucking air for I have smothered it far too long. I dream of being in front of people and releasing the frenetic energy that infuses my soul. As I move through my day it seems that all around me move in slow motion, in their lives they do not have the angst and emotion that I struggle to contain with every moment. I have tried Guitar, Crochet, Sketching, Painting, Singing, Running, Skiing, Video Games and Poetry but in total not one has ever landed me where I want to be: in front of adoring fans. I got hoop dreams, Coach, I got em Bad!
I have manic states that sometimes persist for weeks at a time where I feel I can take on the world. I have learned that in the same way an unusually warm day in winter is usually followed by a storm these periods of great creativity and energy are usually followed by depression and anxiety so I make the most of them. They are also unfortunately accompanied by maddening insomnia. During one of these I found my channel finger lighting gently upon the history channels "History of the Joke." I listened to all of the comedians talking about their first flop. The first time they were in front of an audience and they really bit it hard. It may sound crazy but I kind of understood. All my life I have endeavored to win the affection of those around me with humor yet I am rarely taken seriously. It is no surprise really, as even my best efforts are really disingenuous and plageuristic attempts to port someone elses humor through my own corny perspective.
The freedom with which all comedians seem to express themselves is appealing to me. I loved the way that they fearlessly brought out into the light things that most people bury deep in the untouchable reaches of their psyche for fear of their essential humanities exposure. I adored their candor and the ability they had to open their audience up to their ideas. I want that power, I want the ability to make people laugh. As Robin Williams once said, "Once you have people laughing, their open to you." I want my chance.
So what do I want, what do I need to learn to begin to create this form of art? That question alone is a lot bigger than it seems but let's put some spears in this mammoth.
- Why do people want to make other people laugh for a living? Is there a greater significance to this as a job? Do they do it just to get a check? Why would someone take the very real chance of failure in front of a very unforgiving audience as their livelihood?
- Is there any reason someone couldn't learn to be funny? Before I invest myself in this I want to know if I can do it or not. I remember my wife was in a recital once for her piano teacher. I had to sit through twenty some horrific performances before I got to her. The most memorable was an African-American gentleman who obviously was very educated from his diction singing Andrew Lloyd Webbers "Music of the Night." Somewhere softly in the distance I thought I heard Michael Crawford having a massive Coronary. There are people who just shouldn't sing no matter how much training they have had. Are there people who just shouldn't try to be funny? I suppose the other side of that is that later I found out that he was doing it to overcome his fear of public performance to make him a more effective speaker and all around more confident person. Is this an end unto itself?
- Who can I learn this from? David Copperfield doesn't have a pow-wow with his audiences after the show to demonstrate how his tricks are done. If he did he would find himself in the dole queu (That's British for Unemployment Line) awfully quick, don't you think? So where do you get genuine information about the process of constructing actual material to take in front of people?
- How do you make people laugh? Is it always just the right timing with the right mix of universal symbolism or is it inextricably intertwined with truth and emotions at the heart of all people? This is the heart of the matter, the construction of the basic unit of measurement in comedy, "The Joke." How do you build one good joke and then another, and another... and then how do you combine them into just five minutes of hilarity, let alone an hour?
- Historically what is the failure rate? How many of those who try actually get one good act out of their exertions? How many end up working at the post office instead?
- What is my comedic style?
- How far am I prepared to take this? O.K. here is the million dollar question that should be on the mind of anyone reading this, "Is this guy just an academic or is he going to put his funny where his mouth is and take it on stage?" How much am I willing to wager on this bet, Hmmm? I might be prepared to bet my success against one flop. Or two. I haven't decided yet, check back with me in about twenty three paragraphs.
I have the unsatisfied artists demon that claws and bites the inside of my heart until I can't help but let it burst forth screaming and sucking air for I have smothered it far too long. I dream of being in front of people and releasing the frenetic energy that infuses my soul. As I move through my day it seems that all around me move in slow motion, in their lives they do not have the angst and emotion that I struggle to contain with every moment. I have tried Guitar, Crochet, Sketching, Painting, Singing, Running, Skiing, Video Games and Poetry but in total not one has ever landed me where I want to be: in front of adoring fans. I got hoop dreams, Coach, I got em Bad!
I have manic states that sometimes persist for weeks at a time where I feel I can take on the world. I have learned that in the same way an unusually warm day in winter is usually followed by a storm these periods of great creativity and energy are usually followed by depression and anxiety so I make the most of them. They are also unfortunately accompanied by maddening insomnia. During one of these I found my channel finger lighting gently upon the history channels "History of the Joke." I listened to all of the comedians talking about their first flop. The first time they were in front of an audience and they really bit it hard. It may sound crazy but I kind of understood. All my life I have endeavored to win the affection of those around me with humor yet I am rarely taken seriously. It is no surprise really, as even my best efforts are really disingenuous and plageuristic attempts to port someone elses humor through my own corny perspective.
The freedom with which all comedians seem to express themselves is appealing to me. I loved the way that they fearlessly brought out into the light things that most people bury deep in the untouchable reaches of their psyche for fear of their essential humanities exposure. I adored their candor and the ability they had to open their audience up to their ideas. I want that power, I want the ability to make people laugh. As Robin Williams once said, "Once you have people laughing, their open to you." I want my chance.
So what do I want, what do I need to learn to begin to create this form of art? That question alone is a lot bigger than it seems but let's put some spears in this mammoth.
- Why do people want to make other people laugh for a living? Is there a greater significance to this as a job? Do they do it just to get a check? Why would someone take the very real chance of failure in front of a very unforgiving audience as their livelihood?
- Is there any reason someone couldn't learn to be funny? Before I invest myself in this I want to know if I can do it or not. I remember my wife was in a recital once for her piano teacher. I had to sit through twenty some horrific performances before I got to her. The most memorable was an African-American gentleman who obviously was very educated from his diction singing Andrew Lloyd Webbers "Music of the Night." Somewhere softly in the distance I thought I heard Michael Crawford having a massive Coronary. There are people who just shouldn't sing no matter how much training they have had. Are there people who just shouldn't try to be funny? I suppose the other side of that is that later I found out that he was doing it to overcome his fear of public performance to make him a more effective speaker and all around more confident person. Is this an end unto itself?
- Who can I learn this from? David Copperfield doesn't have a pow-wow with his audiences after the show to demonstrate how his tricks are done. If he did he would find himself in the dole queu (That's British for Unemployment Line) awfully quick, don't you think? So where do you get genuine information about the process of constructing actual material to take in front of people?
- How do you make people laugh? Is it always just the right timing with the right mix of universal symbolism or is it inextricably intertwined with truth and emotions at the heart of all people? This is the heart of the matter, the construction of the basic unit of measurement in comedy, "The Joke." How do you build one good joke and then another, and another... and then how do you combine them into just five minutes of hilarity, let alone an hour?
- Historically what is the failure rate? How many of those who try actually get one good act out of their exertions? How many end up working at the post office instead?
- What is my comedic style?
- How far am I prepared to take this? O.K. here is the million dollar question that should be on the mind of anyone reading this, "Is this guy just an academic or is he going to put his funny where his mouth is and take it on stage?" How much am I willing to wager on this bet, Hmmm? I might be prepared to bet my success against one flop. Or two. I haven't decided yet, check back with me in about twenty three paragraphs.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
intro contrast essay take 2
You see the cute commercial on T.V. where the handsome young man says he's MAC and the beaurocratic and officious looking middle-aged man says he's PC. They would have you believe that MAC is the wave of the future and that you're stuffy and old for wanting to use PC. The differences between the two are myriad but their similarities make the debate of which one's better one of very narrow margins. The original difference begins with the men who made them, Bill Gates and Steve Jobs. Bill Gates didn't create the platform like Steve Jobs did, he just created an operating system that was more convenient than hacking in Binary for days and hoping. Steve Jobs originated the idea of the Graphical User Interface that Windows is known for and even started proprietary hardware standards. The two started out working together and eventually had differences that caused a rift, resulting in Microsoft and Apple Computers becoming two distinct entities. The discussion does not really begin and end with them though since their intellectual children have become decidedly different entities with their own vivid personalities. It begins with the user.
My best friend John in High School had much wealthier parents than I did, so he always had the cool toys. He had a Commodore 128 and a new MacIntosh computer. The Commodore wasn't really very good for anything but video games unless you were a hacker, but the MacIntosh was so easy to use it invited even the most mechanically challenged person to sit and play. It had a one button mouse that the PC world had yet to embrace and a host of applications that were years ahead of their time. P.C. at this point had yet to evolve into anything impressive, monochromatic screens (That's one color for the non-geek) and only a keyboard with a boring interface that only accepted B.A.S.I.C. commands. If you don't know what B.A.S.I.C. is then count yourself fortunate. It was the nasty first langauge of PC that caused the untimely death of many PC's at the hands of too frustrated uber-geeks with baseball bats everywhere. Then D.O.S. was released and some really cool stuff started to happen with your computer, you could custom order the parts and have it designed to your own needs, unlike the MacIntosh which came simply as it came. Then Window's 3.1 came out giving P.C.s hardware compatibility with everything from a mouse to a printer with ease, and the age old debate between which was better, P.C. or Mac was born. Of course we all know which one is better, or do we?
My best friend John in High School had much wealthier parents than I did, so he always had the cool toys. He had a Commodore 128 and a new MacIntosh computer. The Commodore wasn't really very good for anything but video games unless you were a hacker, but the MacIntosh was so easy to use it invited even the most mechanically challenged person to sit and play. It had a one button mouse that the PC world had yet to embrace and a host of applications that were years ahead of their time. P.C. at this point had yet to evolve into anything impressive, monochromatic screens (That's one color for the non-geek) and only a keyboard with a boring interface that only accepted B.A.S.I.C. commands. If you don't know what B.A.S.I.C. is then count yourself fortunate. It was the nasty first langauge of PC that caused the untimely death of many PC's at the hands of too frustrated uber-geeks with baseball bats everywhere. Then D.O.S. was released and some really cool stuff started to happen with your computer, you could custom order the parts and have it designed to your own needs, unlike the MacIntosh which came simply as it came. Then Window's 3.1 came out giving P.C.s hardware compatibility with everything from a mouse to a printer with ease, and the age old debate between which was better, P.C. or Mac was born. Of course we all know which one is better, or do we?
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Intro Contrast Essay
My wife inevitably rounds me out no matter how hard I try to stay the rigid and uncompromising male. I try to keep the hard edge but she softens it with graceful ease. The best example I can think of to illustrate this is her devious plot to get me into her favorite T.V. show "The Gilmore Girls." She puts it on while I play video games or do my homework. So often has she watched it that I know the entire plot of a seven season show and never once put it on myself. I must admit begrudgingly that the writing is superlative. Among the rich and deep character development there are two characters which stand out to me. I find them especially fascinating for their troubled relationship which mirrors a similar relationship in my family. Lorelai Gilmore and her Mother Emily Gilmore are an amazingly enthralling pair whose battles with eachother have become legendary in the small town of Stars Hollow, Connecticut. I find an amazingly accurate characterization of the relationship with my mother in the two. Lorelai is the fiercely indepent daughter who was on her own at the age of sixteen. She raises her daughter Rory (short for Lorelai) and runs a Bed and Breakfast called the 'Dragonfly Inn." Her mother Emily is a wealthy Daughter of The Revolution whose whole life is fulfilling her responsibilities to her husband, Richard and her social obligations to the 'Blueblood' world. They seem like polar opposites but are in reality more similar than either would like to admit.
The characters of Lorelai Gilmore and Emily Gilmore present a literary spectacle of Dicken's quality. In the television show "The Gilmore Girls," the character of Lorelai is really the focal point. She has a remarkable relationship with her equally remarkable daughter, though each episode further illustrates one or another of the quirky denizens who live in a small town called Stars Hollow in Connecticut. The most often chronicled besides Lorelai or her daughter is Lorelai's mother, Emily Gilmore. The basic meat of the plot is flavored by Lorilei's emancipation from her mother at the age of sixteen due to pregancy. Her mother and father were society people greatly mortified by their daughters indiscretion. Their inability to communicate in any meaningful way led to the split and Lorelai had no contact with them for a very long time. The show begins with Rory getting accepted to a school called Chilton which Lorelai could not hope to afford. There is a very awkward episode where she must reconcile with her mother and father to ask them for the money to send her daughter to Chilton. The differences between Lorelai and her mother seem profound and insuperable yet over time you begin to see that the apple didn't fall to far from the tree.
The characters of Lorelai Gilmore and Emily Gilmore present a literary spectacle of Dicken's quality. In the television show "The Gilmore Girls," the character of Lorelai is really the focal point. She has a remarkable relationship with her equally remarkable daughter, though each episode further illustrates one or another of the quirky denizens who live in a small town called Stars Hollow in Connecticut. The most often chronicled besides Lorelai or her daughter is Lorelai's mother, Emily Gilmore. The basic meat of the plot is flavored by Lorilei's emancipation from her mother at the age of sixteen due to pregancy. Her mother and father were society people greatly mortified by their daughters indiscretion. Their inability to communicate in any meaningful way led to the split and Lorelai had no contact with them for a very long time. The show begins with Rory getting accepted to a school called Chilton which Lorelai could not hope to afford. There is a very awkward episode where she must reconcile with her mother and father to ask them for the money to send her daughter to Chilton. The differences between Lorelai and her mother seem profound and insuperable yet over time you begin to see that the apple didn't fall to far from the tree.
Monday, March 3, 2008
I-search "Why"
"The Joke."
The Joke and I have a long and troubled history. I have admired it from afar. It's many purveyors I have loved and listened to. I have studied at the feet of masters. The construction of even one really funny joke has still yet eluded me. I get off a few amusing lines and sarcastic snipes now and then but have never really created any meaningful humour. It is much harder than it looks. Our troubled relationship began with my brothers room.
In the impenetrable fortress of my brothers room lay untold treasure. I was four years younger then he and it seemed that he was a sage on the order of the Pharisees to my little eyes. The door was always just a little ajar, a dim light shining throught the dingy curtains. A musty, unpleasant, and yet familiar odor wafted from that room and it called to me. Whenever I was home sick I would sneak in and look through his books and magazines. Most of them bored me, they were about sports or weight lifting. The others I was much too young to understand. Mixed into the barbells and clothes on the floor were different colored tapes and their discarded, shattered cases. I picked up a few that interested me and scuttled off to my room like a racoon with a particularly tasty bit of rubbish he must defend from the others. First I had taken note of their exact position on the floor and how they had been laid so that I could return them later. My brother would kill me if he knew I had violated the forbidden threshold.
I had listened to Bill Cosby in the past and I loved his routines. I had all his albums even though I knew that many of them had been recorded twenty years before I was born. His style and the attention he paid to each joke was mesmerizing. I loved the long stories with the rewarding punchlines, I could have done many of his routines by rote from just the hearing. Many of my tapes had been listened to so many times that the text on them was rubbing off. I knew their names without it. I also knew the names of some of the comedians my brother listened to. The tapes that I pilfered were Eddie Murphy's "Raw" and Richard Pryor's "Live on the Sunset Strip." It was twice as sweet knowing that he didn't know and would be mad if he did but also knowing that in hearing the content of the albums I was getting away with something that would enrage both my parents too. It was a win-win situation. I settled in at noon and prepared for a long day of listening and laughing.
After the first five minutes of "Raw" I was rolling on the floor. The actual substance of what was being said ran right past me, it was the absolutely filthy words being spit out with staccatto intensity that made me laugh from sheer nervousness. I didn't know some of the words and some of the jokes were beyond me, not having even reached puberty yet. His use of profanity transcended mere swearing and sailed boldly into the realm of genius. He worked in dirty words the way Van Gogh worked in oils, the way Emeril works with garlic, it was glorious. I didn't know that anyone could produce this effect in me, and I wanted more. I listened to Richard Pryor and it was a very different experience. Although he used the same langauge it seemed even more purposeful. As if some of the things that he had been through had to be expressed that way. In fact it seemed that many of the words had been created simply for him. The shocking part of his comedy wasn't the potty mouth, it was the honesty. He was so honest about horryfing situations like running down the street on fire. "I didn't burn up freebasing! I burnt up cuz I QUIT freebasing, I lit my arm accidentally!" This was where I first got the impression that there was something deep embedded there. Richard reached into his soul stuff and slopped out heaping spoonfuls of the awful truth onto the floor for everyone to see. No topic was too intimate, too taboo. He could stand on that stage and bare his soul, eviscerate himself and be laughed at for it... but it was okay. There was no Pagliacci backlash, just goofy fun. It changed me, that day I became a wiser man and I owed it all to Richard.
I replaced the albums after copying them for myself and made a point to hide the copies. I could only listen to them when I was alone since I was not allowed to have these kinds of records. I was restricted by age and disturbingly aware and apt parenting to having Wierd Al Yankovic and Ray Stevens. Ray was wonderful and so was Old Al but after you taste Filet Mignon, you'll never feel the same about oatmeal. I managed to score a Robin Williams album from a friend and I was dissapointed. There was truth, there were laughs. It was slapstick, somewhat less genuine. I loved Robin Williams' movies but his comedy wasn't really my bag. I got into Gallagher for a while since my mother would let rent his videos and it was the same thing. Funny, well constructed, and orginal, but slapstick. You can only smack so many watermelons I didn't want to laugh at someone, I wanted to learn something about myself and the world around while laughing.
Then I spirited a copy of Sam Kinison's "Have You Seen Me Lately?" from my friends. He had no fear, he had no reservations, and he was painfully honest about hellfire relationships and heavenly parties. He played a beautiful strain of piano music that ended in "You lying Whore! You used me! I hope you slide under a gas truck and taste your own blood, Die! Die!" He screamed and it was lightning hitting the stage, he laughed and it was gunfire strafing his audience... his technique was impressive and his potential unlimited. At that time Sinbad and Howie Mandell came out and they were O.K. Howie bored me after only one pass and Sinbad only had one or two albums.
I was older when I first heard George Carlin. He changed my outlook on a lot more than just comedy. The sheer amount of material he had produced made him appealing to me, I wanted to hear it all. His early stuff was funny and spirited, with political satire and characters. Stories of his youth, material that he had to write to make it on T.V. Then the seven words came to my attention. All seven delightful little parsnips of profane pleasure will forever be emblazoned on my soul. He had the courage to overcome the censors, he stood up to everyone in seven dirty seconds. He made a case for the absurdity of denying the first amendment that everyone had to stand up and listen to making me aware of just how silly it was to show pictures of men dying in war casually and often but restricting people from discussing their bodies and making love as if they were things to be ashamed of. I listened to him often and heeded what I heard. His love of language and his ability to use it to fight more vicously and with more violence than any warrior has ever hoped to prosecute his conflict sold me on the power of words. He also changed my thinking, he convinced me that words are powerless, it is the intention behind them that is significant.
Lenny Bruce came into my life when I was ready, and I still contemplate a lot of what he said. His barbituate induced manias produced some incredible routines. It became at once apparent that he had started the whole of the tradition of amusing sages I had come to know and love and I cherished each of his works. He is the only comedian to make me cry while trying to make me laugh. He made a song called "All Alone" that was so bitter and sad that in the midst of a healthy chuckle I found myself choked up.
Since then there has been Lewis Black, Mitch Hedburg, Dave Chappelle, Chris Rock, Eddie Izzard and Dane Cook. I'm sure there will be a score more and there is constantly standup on Comedy Central so I am never without. Those brave few I have mentioned and their contemporaries have taught me to love and respect words and their power. They have taught me to never be afraid to laugh at myself and to be above all other things honest. Honest with everyone, including myself. I have always envied them, though. For I am not really very funny. So I endeavor then, with research and method, to construct one funny thing. Anecdote, story, joke, limerick, Haiku, I don't care. Someone will laugh at my efforts and in that there will be ultimate success!
The Joke and I have a long and troubled history. I have admired it from afar. It's many purveyors I have loved and listened to. I have studied at the feet of masters. The construction of even one really funny joke has still yet eluded me. I get off a few amusing lines and sarcastic snipes now and then but have never really created any meaningful humour. It is much harder than it looks. Our troubled relationship began with my brothers room.
In the impenetrable fortress of my brothers room lay untold treasure. I was four years younger then he and it seemed that he was a sage on the order of the Pharisees to my little eyes. The door was always just a little ajar, a dim light shining throught the dingy curtains. A musty, unpleasant, and yet familiar odor wafted from that room and it called to me. Whenever I was home sick I would sneak in and look through his books and magazines. Most of them bored me, they were about sports or weight lifting. The others I was much too young to understand. Mixed into the barbells and clothes on the floor were different colored tapes and their discarded, shattered cases. I picked up a few that interested me and scuttled off to my room like a racoon with a particularly tasty bit of rubbish he must defend from the others. First I had taken note of their exact position on the floor and how they had been laid so that I could return them later. My brother would kill me if he knew I had violated the forbidden threshold.
I had listened to Bill Cosby in the past and I loved his routines. I had all his albums even though I knew that many of them had been recorded twenty years before I was born. His style and the attention he paid to each joke was mesmerizing. I loved the long stories with the rewarding punchlines, I could have done many of his routines by rote from just the hearing. Many of my tapes had been listened to so many times that the text on them was rubbing off. I knew their names without it. I also knew the names of some of the comedians my brother listened to. The tapes that I pilfered were Eddie Murphy's "Raw" and Richard Pryor's "Live on the Sunset Strip." It was twice as sweet knowing that he didn't know and would be mad if he did but also knowing that in hearing the content of the albums I was getting away with something that would enrage both my parents too. It was a win-win situation. I settled in at noon and prepared for a long day of listening and laughing.
After the first five minutes of "Raw" I was rolling on the floor. The actual substance of what was being said ran right past me, it was the absolutely filthy words being spit out with staccatto intensity that made me laugh from sheer nervousness. I didn't know some of the words and some of the jokes were beyond me, not having even reached puberty yet. His use of profanity transcended mere swearing and sailed boldly into the realm of genius. He worked in dirty words the way Van Gogh worked in oils, the way Emeril works with garlic, it was glorious. I didn't know that anyone could produce this effect in me, and I wanted more. I listened to Richard Pryor and it was a very different experience. Although he used the same langauge it seemed even more purposeful. As if some of the things that he had been through had to be expressed that way. In fact it seemed that many of the words had been created simply for him. The shocking part of his comedy wasn't the potty mouth, it was the honesty. He was so honest about horryfing situations like running down the street on fire. "I didn't burn up freebasing! I burnt up cuz I QUIT freebasing, I lit my arm accidentally!" This was where I first got the impression that there was something deep embedded there. Richard reached into his soul stuff and slopped out heaping spoonfuls of the awful truth onto the floor for everyone to see. No topic was too intimate, too taboo. He could stand on that stage and bare his soul, eviscerate himself and be laughed at for it... but it was okay. There was no Pagliacci backlash, just goofy fun. It changed me, that day I became a wiser man and I owed it all to Richard.
I replaced the albums after copying them for myself and made a point to hide the copies. I could only listen to them when I was alone since I was not allowed to have these kinds of records. I was restricted by age and disturbingly aware and apt parenting to having Wierd Al Yankovic and Ray Stevens. Ray was wonderful and so was Old Al but after you taste Filet Mignon, you'll never feel the same about oatmeal. I managed to score a Robin Williams album from a friend and I was dissapointed. There was truth, there were laughs. It was slapstick, somewhat less genuine. I loved Robin Williams' movies but his comedy wasn't really my bag. I got into Gallagher for a while since my mother would let rent his videos and it was the same thing. Funny, well constructed, and orginal, but slapstick. You can only smack so many watermelons I didn't want to laugh at someone, I wanted to learn something about myself and the world around while laughing.
Then I spirited a copy of Sam Kinison's "Have You Seen Me Lately?" from my friends. He had no fear, he had no reservations, and he was painfully honest about hellfire relationships and heavenly parties. He played a beautiful strain of piano music that ended in "You lying Whore! You used me! I hope you slide under a gas truck and taste your own blood, Die! Die!" He screamed and it was lightning hitting the stage, he laughed and it was gunfire strafing his audience... his technique was impressive and his potential unlimited. At that time Sinbad and Howie Mandell came out and they were O.K. Howie bored me after only one pass and Sinbad only had one or two albums.
I was older when I first heard George Carlin. He changed my outlook on a lot more than just comedy. The sheer amount of material he had produced made him appealing to me, I wanted to hear it all. His early stuff was funny and spirited, with political satire and characters. Stories of his youth, material that he had to write to make it on T.V. Then the seven words came to my attention. All seven delightful little parsnips of profane pleasure will forever be emblazoned on my soul. He had the courage to overcome the censors, he stood up to everyone in seven dirty seconds. He made a case for the absurdity of denying the first amendment that everyone had to stand up and listen to making me aware of just how silly it was to show pictures of men dying in war casually and often but restricting people from discussing their bodies and making love as if they were things to be ashamed of. I listened to him often and heeded what I heard. His love of language and his ability to use it to fight more vicously and with more violence than any warrior has ever hoped to prosecute his conflict sold me on the power of words. He also changed my thinking, he convinced me that words are powerless, it is the intention behind them that is significant.
Lenny Bruce came into my life when I was ready, and I still contemplate a lot of what he said. His barbituate induced manias produced some incredible routines. It became at once apparent that he had started the whole of the tradition of amusing sages I had come to know and love and I cherished each of his works. He is the only comedian to make me cry while trying to make me laugh. He made a song called "All Alone" that was so bitter and sad that in the midst of a healthy chuckle I found myself choked up.
Since then there has been Lewis Black, Mitch Hedburg, Dave Chappelle, Chris Rock, Eddie Izzard and Dane Cook. I'm sure there will be a score more and there is constantly standup on Comedy Central so I am never without. Those brave few I have mentioned and their contemporaries have taught me to love and respect words and their power. They have taught me to never be afraid to laugh at myself and to be above all other things honest. Honest with everyone, including myself. I have always envied them, though. For I am not really very funny. So I endeavor then, with research and method, to construct one funny thing. Anecdote, story, joke, limerick, Haiku, I don't care. Someone will laugh at my efforts and in that there will be ultimate success!
Friday, February 29, 2008
Essay #2
"There are only so many types of people that can handle this kind of work." Algier said in his thick indistinguishable accent. There was a construction area in the back of Maggiano's Little Italy in Philadelphia which was no more than a hollowed out section of the block sized building. We would often sit there and smoke during down time, and we would gab about this or that. Today the topic was why anyone would subject themselves to the life of a restaurant worker. "The first," he said, "Is people in transition. They are in college or moving, maybe waiting for something else after they get their degree. Somebody just wanting simple circumstances in between two sets of complicated ones. Divorce, jail, stuff like that. They don't know where they're going to land so they take a job they don't have to stick with." He dragged on his long cigarette and exhaled slowly. The love he treated the nicotine delivery device with made his next statement a double entendre. "The second is druggies. They always need quick cash. You can work a day on the floor after a hard night of partying, or while you're high. The third is single moms. They don't have many other choices and most of them can't do a regular work schedule, they have no one to watch their kids." He paused for a long moment and the busser next to me got up and went back into the building. "Then there's you and me. We wouldn't want to do anything else. We are the dyed in the wool professional who lives at the table." He stabbed out his cigarette and patted me on the shoulder as he went back inside the kitchen. I have considered this moment many times since and have yet to prove him wrong.
It always makes me sad to see the cherry of my cigarette burn closer to the filter. It means that my respite from the floor is almost over. I take a long puff and hold it while tossing my smoke into the sand next to us and stomping it under. Emerging from the relative calm of the storage area into the chaos of the restaurant floor is like having a bucket of cold water thrown onto you. The noise is suddenly deafening and from years of experience I instantly get my bearings and remember where I left off. Next to me is Andrea making coffee for table 21. Andrea is a pretty blond, very much a wilting flower. She recently divorced her husband, even though she has a Masters in journalism she chooses to work the floor until she knows where she is going to live. She is estranged from her family because they set her up with her husband right after college and has nowhere to go. She flits by and I pick up a tray to start coffee service for my table then ring in an order on the computer next to the coffee warmers. Ismael keeps bumping into me and apologizing in his pidgeon English. He is a busser, originally from Mexico. A strange looking fellow made all the more interesting by his habit of shaving his head. During a late night drinking session he and I bonded once and he told me he was an "Abogado," a lawyer. He has a Doctorate in Mexico and it is worth nothing here. He works with good humor during the day, doing his best to put up with the condescension. He simply waits for a better opportunity when he takes his hard earned American dollars home where they are a fortune. Drunk one night he gave me a hug and smacked me hard on the back saying, "El cobarde es incapaz de mostrar amor, porque el hacerlo esta resevado para los valientes." A coward cannot demonstrate affection, because that kind of reward is reserved for the valiant.
The order goes in and I trust the food runner Miguel to get it there on time. His father and mother, Alejandro and Maria work with us too. In Mexico city Alejandro was a waiter for many years and raised many children with Maria, all of whom moved with him to Philadelphia. Miguel is the troubled boy, who is in love with Andrea even though he knows she will break his heart. The vice that Alejandro says he purveyed secretly to his tables in Mexico was called "Cafe Blanco," or white coffee. Poetic Justice has it's place in Miguel's love of blow. He wouldn't show up a day without his forty bag and his huge Dunkin Donut's vanilla shake to calm the sore throat the "yeah-o" always gives him. He moves frenetically yet with the purpose and grace years of soccer have given him and never misses a beat. At night when the crew meets at Iron House or Moriarty's he always consumes his weight in beer just to help him sleep. The rest of the crew smoke joints at home but he doesn't like grass. It makes him stupid, he says. Table 53 in the bar requires much of my attention since the salon owner there will only be served by me. He spends a ton and tips well, but drinks a full bottle of Skyy vodka every time he comes in and smacks my ass frequently. I feel like a whore but at least I'm paid well for my shame. Coming back to the kitchen Michelle is sitting on the steps, crying. We have learned to let her cry when she has to. The track marks on her bare forearms say that she doesn't have long left at the restaurant and like soldiers in Vietnam, you don't get close to the already dead. Table 52 needs me now.
"You know, Matt, you got a good thing going,'" says Momma as I pass through the kitchen. I'm sure that she once had a name but now it's Momma and no one has ever heard any other. Six kids later she has gargantuan hind quarters and an easy smile. If she ever had a husband, or if her children had the same father noone knew. She never spoke of it and we never asked. She saunters past me on the way to smoke displaying surprising speed and agility and says "You finally took my advice and learned how to get all your tables done at the same time. Good on ya." Once she had explained to me that when you are sat many tables at once you have treat them all as one big table or you will go nuts trying to coordinate their service. It was seems like such common sense but as Robert Heinlein's four thousand year old character Lazarus Long said "There's nothing common about sense." "You know, Matt," Momma once said to me "When you work tables it's great for your family. If you little girl wants Jeans you just give her the cash, and you know you'll make more tomorrow." She was remarkably succinct. Momma had an amazingly deceptive quality of simplicity derived from a dizzying and immense wisdom. Hard lives often reward the world with amazing people. Fifteen tables and $850.00 in sales later I can finally start my side work and prepare my cash-out. I can almost taste the Guinness.
The end of every night on the floor is like a reckoning. You have experienced so many things, some emotionally edifying and others destructive. It's like at the end of every performance an actor has to answer superficially to the audience, but ultimately to the harshest critic imagineable, themselves. You finish up your side work and you consider why you put yourself through the days exertions. Every single mistake you made in service eats at your heart like an ulcer with an attitude.
I hand the restaurants cut of my nightly take to Algier.
"You're right about the who, Algier, the dyed in the wool professional. You didn't say why. Why do we keep putting ourselves through it? Is it the money? The prestige? The thrill of serving the rich and famous?" He smiles bitterly and thinks for a moment. Then he lights the famous cigarette and says,
"You think Picasso would have gotten the same credit for being a Janitor? 75% of the people here are just passing through. You and me, we're artists. This is our canvas."
It always makes me sad to see the cherry of my cigarette burn closer to the filter. It means that my respite from the floor is almost over. I take a long puff and hold it while tossing my smoke into the sand next to us and stomping it under. Emerging from the relative calm of the storage area into the chaos of the restaurant floor is like having a bucket of cold water thrown onto you. The noise is suddenly deafening and from years of experience I instantly get my bearings and remember where I left off. Next to me is Andrea making coffee for table 21. Andrea is a pretty blond, very much a wilting flower. She recently divorced her husband, even though she has a Masters in journalism she chooses to work the floor until she knows where she is going to live. She is estranged from her family because they set her up with her husband right after college and has nowhere to go. She flits by and I pick up a tray to start coffee service for my table then ring in an order on the computer next to the coffee warmers. Ismael keeps bumping into me and apologizing in his pidgeon English. He is a busser, originally from Mexico. A strange looking fellow made all the more interesting by his habit of shaving his head. During a late night drinking session he and I bonded once and he told me he was an "Abogado," a lawyer. He has a Doctorate in Mexico and it is worth nothing here. He works with good humor during the day, doing his best to put up with the condescension. He simply waits for a better opportunity when he takes his hard earned American dollars home where they are a fortune. Drunk one night he gave me a hug and smacked me hard on the back saying, "El cobarde es incapaz de mostrar amor, porque el hacerlo esta resevado para los valientes." A coward cannot demonstrate affection, because that kind of reward is reserved for the valiant.
The order goes in and I trust the food runner Miguel to get it there on time. His father and mother, Alejandro and Maria work with us too. In Mexico city Alejandro was a waiter for many years and raised many children with Maria, all of whom moved with him to Philadelphia. Miguel is the troubled boy, who is in love with Andrea even though he knows she will break his heart. The vice that Alejandro says he purveyed secretly to his tables in Mexico was called "Cafe Blanco," or white coffee. Poetic Justice has it's place in Miguel's love of blow. He wouldn't show up a day without his forty bag and his huge Dunkin Donut's vanilla shake to calm the sore throat the "yeah-o" always gives him. He moves frenetically yet with the purpose and grace years of soccer have given him and never misses a beat. At night when the crew meets at Iron House or Moriarty's he always consumes his weight in beer just to help him sleep. The rest of the crew smoke joints at home but he doesn't like grass. It makes him stupid, he says. Table 53 in the bar requires much of my attention since the salon owner there will only be served by me. He spends a ton and tips well, but drinks a full bottle of Skyy vodka every time he comes in and smacks my ass frequently. I feel like a whore but at least I'm paid well for my shame. Coming back to the kitchen Michelle is sitting on the steps, crying. We have learned to let her cry when she has to. The track marks on her bare forearms say that she doesn't have long left at the restaurant and like soldiers in Vietnam, you don't get close to the already dead. Table 52 needs me now.
"You know, Matt, you got a good thing going,'" says Momma as I pass through the kitchen. I'm sure that she once had a name but now it's Momma and no one has ever heard any other. Six kids later she has gargantuan hind quarters and an easy smile. If she ever had a husband, or if her children had the same father noone knew. She never spoke of it and we never asked. She saunters past me on the way to smoke displaying surprising speed and agility and says "You finally took my advice and learned how to get all your tables done at the same time. Good on ya." Once she had explained to me that when you are sat many tables at once you have treat them all as one big table or you will go nuts trying to coordinate their service. It was seems like such common sense but as Robert Heinlein's four thousand year old character Lazarus Long said "There's nothing common about sense." "You know, Matt," Momma once said to me "When you work tables it's great for your family. If you little girl wants Jeans you just give her the cash, and you know you'll make more tomorrow." She was remarkably succinct. Momma had an amazingly deceptive quality of simplicity derived from a dizzying and immense wisdom. Hard lives often reward the world with amazing people. Fifteen tables and $850.00 in sales later I can finally start my side work and prepare my cash-out. I can almost taste the Guinness.
The end of every night on the floor is like a reckoning. You have experienced so many things, some emotionally edifying and others destructive. It's like at the end of every performance an actor has to answer superficially to the audience, but ultimately to the harshest critic imagineable, themselves. You finish up your side work and you consider why you put yourself through the days exertions. Every single mistake you made in service eats at your heart like an ulcer with an attitude.
I hand the restaurants cut of my nightly take to Algier.
"You're right about the who, Algier, the dyed in the wool professional. You didn't say why. Why do we keep putting ourselves through it? Is it the money? The prestige? The thrill of serving the rich and famous?" He smiles bitterly and thinks for a moment. Then he lights the famous cigarette and says,
"You think Picasso would have gotten the same credit for being a Janitor? 75% of the people here are just passing through. You and me, we're artists. This is our canvas."
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Outro
The end of every night on the floor is like a reckoning. You have experienced so many things, some emotionally edifying and others destructive. It's like at the end of every performance an actor has to answer superficially to the audience, but ultimately to the harshest critic imagineable, themselves. You finish up your side work and you consider why you put yourself through the days exertions. Every single mistake you made in service eats at your heart like an ulcer with an attitude.
I hand the restaurants cut of my nightly take to Algier.
"Your right about the who, Algier, but you didn't say why. Why do we keep putting ourselves through it? Is it the money? The prestige? The thrill of serving the rich and famous?" He smiles bitterly and thinks for a moment. Then he lights the famous cigarette and says,
"You think Picasso would have gotten the same credit for being a Janitor? 75% of the people here are just passing through. You and me, we're artists. This is our canvas."
I hand the restaurants cut of my nightly take to Algier.
"Your right about the who, Algier, but you didn't say why. Why do we keep putting ourselves through it? Is it the money? The prestige? The thrill of serving the rich and famous?" He smiles bitterly and thinks for a moment. Then he lights the famous cigarette and says,
"You think Picasso would have gotten the same credit for being a Janitor? 75% of the people here are just passing through. You and me, we're artists. This is our canvas."
Monday, February 25, 2008
Classification Intros
Number 1
"There are only so many types of people that can handle this kind of work." Algier said in his thick indistinguishable accent. There was a construction area in the back of Maggiano's Little Italy in Philadelphia which was no more than a hollowed out section of the block sized building. We would often sit there and smoke during down time, and we would gab about this or that. Today the topic was why anyone would subject themselves to the life of a restaurant worker. "The first," he said, "Is people in transition. They are in college or moving, maybe waiting for something else after they get their degree. Somebody just wanting simple circumstances in between two sets of complicated ones. Divorce, jail, stuff like that. They don't know where they're going to land so they take a job they don't have to stick with." He dragged on his long cigarette and exhaled slowly. The love he treated the nicotine delivery device with made his next statement a double entendre. "The second is druggies. They always need quick cash. You can work a day on the floor after a hard night of partying, or while your high. The third is single moms. They don't have many other choices and most of them can't do a regular workschedule, they have noone to watch their kids." He paused for a long moment and the busser next to me got up and went back into the building. "Then there's you and me. We wouldn't want to do anything else. We are the dyed in the wool professional who lives at the table." He stabbed out his cigarette and patted me on the shoulder as he went back inside the kitchen. I have considered this moment many times since and have yet to prove him wrong.
Number 2
I have almost ten years of experience in the service industry, specifically food service, and I have discovered that there are a limited number of people who can stomach it. In fact there can be discerned four seperate sub-species of Camerera Normalis or the garden variety server. The first is my favorite, I.E. me. We are the ones who get up at noon every day and work until two in the morning because we would have no other livelihood. We are the millions who serve you your breakfast, lunch and dinner every day and we truly love doing it. We are bred for it and many consider us sick and deranged. Then there are the 'heads.' These hapless guys and gals caught an addiction right between the eyes and noone but the night world of waiters and waitresses will take them. They come to work on pills or blow, maybe worse. Sometimes they are drunk before shift. Sometimes they will be before the shift is over. They have bloodshot eyes, white upper lips, and hurting souls. Species 3: the moms with little ones waiting on them to come home and tuck them in. They work in restaurants to have cash when they need it and so that if their little ones need them, they can be there. The broadest category and largest sub-species is the transitionaries. They come from all countries and all walks of life. They only want to work in the dining room to bridge the gap between two states of being. Like college and the real world or jail and the harsh reality of living alone after being inside. In many cases between two states of citizenship. They are just passing through and most of them don't care who knows it. Although seemingly diverse one would be surprised at how predictable the speciation in any given population of servers really is.
"There are only so many types of people that can handle this kind of work." Algier said in his thick indistinguishable accent. There was a construction area in the back of Maggiano's Little Italy in Philadelphia which was no more than a hollowed out section of the block sized building. We would often sit there and smoke during down time, and we would gab about this or that. Today the topic was why anyone would subject themselves to the life of a restaurant worker. "The first," he said, "Is people in transition. They are in college or moving, maybe waiting for something else after they get their degree. Somebody just wanting simple circumstances in between two sets of complicated ones. Divorce, jail, stuff like that. They don't know where they're going to land so they take a job they don't have to stick with." He dragged on his long cigarette and exhaled slowly. The love he treated the nicotine delivery device with made his next statement a double entendre. "The second is druggies. They always need quick cash. You can work a day on the floor after a hard night of partying, or while your high. The third is single moms. They don't have many other choices and most of them can't do a regular workschedule, they have noone to watch their kids." He paused for a long moment and the busser next to me got up and went back into the building. "Then there's you and me. We wouldn't want to do anything else. We are the dyed in the wool professional who lives at the table." He stabbed out his cigarette and patted me on the shoulder as he went back inside the kitchen. I have considered this moment many times since and have yet to prove him wrong.
Number 2
I have almost ten years of experience in the service industry, specifically food service, and I have discovered that there are a limited number of people who can stomach it. In fact there can be discerned four seperate sub-species of Camerera Normalis or the garden variety server. The first is my favorite, I.E. me. We are the ones who get up at noon every day and work until two in the morning because we would have no other livelihood. We are the millions who serve you your breakfast, lunch and dinner every day and we truly love doing it. We are bred for it and many consider us sick and deranged. Then there are the 'heads.' These hapless guys and gals caught an addiction right between the eyes and noone but the night world of waiters and waitresses will take them. They come to work on pills or blow, maybe worse. Sometimes they are drunk before shift. Sometimes they will be before the shift is over. They have bloodshot eyes, white upper lips, and hurting souls. Species 3: the moms with little ones waiting on them to come home and tuck them in. They work in restaurants to have cash when they need it and so that if their little ones need them, they can be there. The broadest category and largest sub-species is the transitionaries. They come from all countries and all walks of life. They only want to work in the dining room to bridge the gap between two states of being. Like college and the real world or jail and the harsh reality of living alone after being inside. In many cases between two states of citizenship. They are just passing through and most of them don't care who knows it. Although seemingly diverse one would be surprised at how predictable the speciation in any given population of servers really is.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
I-Search Worksheet Take III?
Sorry for the indecisiveness but I have read my last worksheet again and again. I really was quite ashamed. I think my last two topics were very forced. The one I finally settled on has proved a stymie. I haven't made very much progress despite a lot of wasted text and filespace. All my lines feel lame and just written for an assignment. The material is so dry I am afraid the reader may fall asleep and break their nose on their keyboard. I do not like to write disingenuously and boredom is death to me. Last night I was watching the history channel and a show called 'History of the Joke' came on. Lewis Black detailed the process involved in creating jokes, delivering jokes, and developing your own comedic style. I was SO hooked! I instantly realized what fun I could have with this topic therefore I would like your permission to do this one instead. I already have material I like on this one and I just started writing.
What do you want to write about? How do you write a truly funny joke?
What do you want to find out about your topic? Can I do it? Can I, using tried and true technique be funny?
What are your questions about the topic?
1. How do you know which jokes will work and which ones won't? What is funny? Why is it funny? Is the same joke always funny and will it work on every crowd?
2. How do you create material that is designed almost scientifically to make people laugh? What happens when they get offended?
3. What does it feel like to get on stage and tell a joke that gets a great response. What is your first flop like?
How does it connect to your life?
Although I find myself hilarious and think I have a wonderfully dry wit I cannot help but notice the sympathetic but wincing smile I get at the punchline of any joke I tell. That is if anyone actually realizes that I was joking and not making another absurdly random and morbid commentary that they completely failed to understand. I am an excellent and accomplished public speaker. I can think on my feet and love attention. I want a new skill, I want to tell jokes and see if I can make a crowd laugh! The trick is writing one joke, you start there. I want to learn how someone like George Carlin constructs his act and then pulls it of in front of thousands. How many times did he have to flop? How about Sam Kinison, Buddy Hackett, Lenny Bruce, or Bill Cosby? Let's start simple. I want to learn a method and then write one truly funny joke.
Give three reasons you like the topic
1. I have been enjoying the craft of many of the above named comedians and so many others for many years ... to an unhealthy degree at times. Funny never rubbed off though. The seven words you can't say on television only ever got me detention.
2. I have always dreamed of having an art form I could exhibit in public. Karaoke (although I have a beautiful tenor) is very unsatisfying. At least I impressed the bartender.
3. The mechanics of langauge and how it is percieved and constructed fascinate me. This offers me yet another insight into my favorite topic. George Carlin's father wrote the collected works of Shakespeare several times. I identify with him.
Give three ways your life might change if you answer your questions
1. I have always wanted to get inside the head of a professional comedian and this might give me a look that is uncomfortably close. Many of them are my personal heroes.
2. If I find I have a skill and a new talent I might then be morally obligated to use it. Caveat Audience!!!!
3. I might be a bit more likeable to more different types of people. That improves everyones life, don't you think? It would be nice to be laughed WITH for a change.
What do you want to write about? How do you write a truly funny joke?
What do you want to find out about your topic? Can I do it? Can I, using tried and true technique be funny?
What are your questions about the topic?
1. How do you know which jokes will work and which ones won't? What is funny? Why is it funny? Is the same joke always funny and will it work on every crowd?
2. How do you create material that is designed almost scientifically to make people laugh? What happens when they get offended?
3. What does it feel like to get on stage and tell a joke that gets a great response. What is your first flop like?
How does it connect to your life?
Although I find myself hilarious and think I have a wonderfully dry wit I cannot help but notice the sympathetic but wincing smile I get at the punchline of any joke I tell. That is if anyone actually realizes that I was joking and not making another absurdly random and morbid commentary that they completely failed to understand. I am an excellent and accomplished public speaker. I can think on my feet and love attention. I want a new skill, I want to tell jokes and see if I can make a crowd laugh! The trick is writing one joke, you start there. I want to learn how someone like George Carlin constructs his act and then pulls it of in front of thousands. How many times did he have to flop? How about Sam Kinison, Buddy Hackett, Lenny Bruce, or Bill Cosby? Let's start simple. I want to learn a method and then write one truly funny joke.
Give three reasons you like the topic
1. I have been enjoying the craft of many of the above named comedians and so many others for many years ... to an unhealthy degree at times. Funny never rubbed off though. The seven words you can't say on television only ever got me detention.
2. I have always dreamed of having an art form I could exhibit in public. Karaoke (although I have a beautiful tenor) is very unsatisfying. At least I impressed the bartender.
3. The mechanics of langauge and how it is percieved and constructed fascinate me. This offers me yet another insight into my favorite topic. George Carlin's father wrote the collected works of Shakespeare several times. I identify with him.
Give three ways your life might change if you answer your questions
1. I have always wanted to get inside the head of a professional comedian and this might give me a look that is uncomfortably close. Many of them are my personal heroes.
2. If I find I have a skill and a new talent I might then be morally obligated to use it. Caveat Audience!!!!
3. I might be a bit more likeable to more different types of people. That improves everyones life, don't you think? It would be nice to be laughed WITH for a change.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)