JEREMY and HIS CAMERA

Readerly

2012-01-17T18:31:00.000-08:00

These are the books I read in 2011.

Cold Concrete

2011-11-11T15:54:00.000-08:00

There was blood on the tracks this morning
before I reached the first full
stop.

When I passed by that way
later in the day,
the car catapulted
just the same,
just … the same.

Though it makes a living underground,
where dust is merely dust,
I could not smell the death
apart from earthly
must.

Reason & rhyme could not compete
against the cold (and)
concrete.

So let us pause … to imagine
the shattered bone
the soul, incomplete
and the weight of severed limbs
what now separates us

from them.

Wild Life

2011-08-06T16:10:00.000-07:00

Me and My Friends

2011-07-21T17:38:00.000-07:00

Creative Travel

2011-07-19T02:26:00.000-07:00

^ Main + Key v

Hella Cool

2011-06-18T18:26:00.000-07:00

Horsing Around

2011-06-17T11:09:00.000-07:00

These Are A Few...

2011-03-15T15:47:00.000-07:00

The Year in Books

2011-01-02T08:16:00.000-08:00

I didn't take these pictures, but I read these books in their entirety in 2010.

A Foggy Rad Cam

2010-12-29T09:04:00.000-08:00

Breaking Fast Slowly

2010-11-21T10:01:00.000-08:00

Fallible

2010-11-14T20:34:00.000-08:00

Speech Impediment

2010-10-18T09:18:00.000-07:00

When I was a boy

I couldn’t say your name,

’round letters went stiff

Now I need a drink because

a drunken sailor needs the sea,

…a gentle float adrift.

Oh, what little sounds we enter

where boisterous waves cry out,

‘Hey let me in!’

—no doubt.

So there you go

passing by my boat.

You’ll stay afloat, just pine,

creaking sound of caring drowned.

Enjoy the floor and remember dear,

‘The words endear only how we hear,

for those who speak with silver tongues

bring gentleness ashore,

heretofore.’

Scrabbled

2010-10-11T14:12:00.000-07:00

Garbage and Laughter

2010-08-18T23:12:00.000-07:00

sitting by the window
the scent of garbage and laughter comes in equal measure
then there’s a room silent
cavernous
and low

its emptiness glows
what a lonely sound echoing voices make with pleasure
all that remains
hollowness
bows

lying seditiously shallow
against a state of affairs, love evicted still rules writ
a law for fools
careless
fallow

the buildings and the trees
everything coated in painter’s black, bright moonlit
hope in the gallows
writhing
pleas

how many lines
that break and form again, never myself to permit
a peace that partakes
retreats
repines

The Amusement Park Wilderness Revisited

2010-08-12T23:23:00.000-07:00

The First Visit

The Second

Skyscraper towers of rock silhouette the sunset sky

The evening star pokes a hole in the imminent darkness,

A promise that morning will come

But what dreams may pass between the shadow and the bluebird,

before the rise and fall of wild calls?

My hollow voice will echo faintly,

watch the ripple crawl across the watery table

The moon will glow and the sun will shine, ever brightly,

and where that ripple goes,

only they know

Reverse and Refrain

2010-08-12T10:15:00.000-07:00

Bolted to the ground and bruised at the hip
Broken at the rib, where you once lived
The alpine wind comes and goes, who whispers while it whirs?
Something old, something blue, something eternally askew
Psalmist, sinner, and drunken lover never rest
the penultimate play, each must wearily address

Time shuffles forward and now my sins are my own
Paramours of the past echo flowered fields
circling a constellation crookedly sown
Truth survives the second coming intact
but some splendors were never meant to last

Dusky illusions will yield
while parched lips forever compromise in haste
Descending from the rocky summit, will you remember
or did you forget
The broken, the bruised, and the beautiful
sublimely written, wonderfully chaste

Forest corpses reverse and refrain
Only the sun redeems everything sane
Aspen groves gesture comically in the air
waving with faint flickers hello, then goodbye
Golden dusted lines crest every hair
before the cool breeze blows, a fasting sigh

I Love You Dear

2010-07-25T01:32:00.000-07:00

‘I love you dear’ that’s an awful thing to say
lovely to my ears, dreadful to my knees
Wish upon afar, the future ain’t so bright
Will we ever clear the atmosphere
that breaks the song from sight

This is the first letter and the last
that you’ll ever receive from me
I’m going to shout I love you
clear and bright and blue
But don’t you worry endlessly
as you dream about the past
Names will change, you’ll stay the same
a puzzle to the angels, hopeful to the last

‘I love you dear’ that’s an awful thing to say
lovely to my ears, dreadful to my knees
Wish upon afar, the future ain’t so bright
Will we ever clear the atmosphere
that breaks the wrong from right

There’s no place here I’d rather be
than knitting your felt heart
With the words that come so frayed
from a pocket full of gray
A paper matter breaks apart with a solitary mark
to sad maybes we’ll wait and see
how the drama lacks a part

You’re a treasure to the ocean
and a puzzle to the angels
Break of dawn and you’ll be gone
across a lifeless sea, high and dry,
the only green you’ll ever see envy
In the games we play you’ve never been
a girl that shows her cards, then again
I wish again I only knew your tells
I’ll go with you a thousand miles
and lie before the desert lone
while you’re walking down the aisle
a vision all my own

‘I love you dear’ that’s an awful thing to say
lovely to my ears, dreadful to my knees
Wish upon afar, the future ain’t so right
Will we ever clear the atmosphere
that breaks the dark from night

The end I fear is so sincere
so can you tell me please for once
What can I do to be with you
the Lord will have his say
I’ll go with saints and martyrs
who never fail to pray, then have a drink of beer,
I’m sorry dear, this letter came so late

‘I love you dear’ that’s a lovely thing to say
awful to have known you, come back another day
Wish upon a shooting star that stands upon my chest
It’ll pierce the skin and cut the chord, always second best

So I’ll go with God and look for you wherever angels slay
you’re a puzzle to the ocean, a treasure in my heart

Living Room

2010-07-13T09:00:00.000-07:00

Ciao Baby!

2010-06-30T18:26:00.000-07:00

*guest photo by Ruth Judge on set one (the orange building with bicycles).

No Relation

2010-05-18T10:29:00.000-07:00

A Sea of Tense and Tea

2010-04-14T19:12:00.001-07:00

is there no assurance of things long remembered?

a steady rhythm to recall the object of my derision

I, a small and feeble thing

confessing words that strain to match the intensity

of men with chests, barreled full of poetry

a thing long forgotten, it not I

and a placid sea of tense and tea

maybe it’s better to be blessed

than to arrange fallen line comedies,

an orangutan harangue and pitiful pigs

the procession never ends

this evolution is revolving round

flaccid round a cosmic point that dwindles

it must be something that collapses into nothing

what then remains of things long remembered?

better left lamented, love cements itself

till the bitter end begins again

and again I strain to see the point

where the small and feeble thing

becomes worthy of a king, it not I

pardon me, pardon me amidst the sea

find a steady rhythm to recall

a line forgotten in royal geometry

the wave stands still yet what remains

a pillar of salt just right, his not mine

then left a tragic stain

remember the pronouncement, again

a thing long remembered,

never more, never mine, I resign

There's A Sinister Side to Life

2010-02-22T06:29:00.000-08:00

There’s a sinister side to life.
Brutal and real in that imaginary sort of way.
Flesh torn asunder
a violence
poured into coronary caverns.
It thunders and pulses
Fingertips throb with the nadir frequency of fear.
It’s a throttled, hushed tone
that knocks pernicious at your door.

The smokey breath of death slips beneath the threshold,
a bellicose bromine pools around your feet.
Suddenly the vivid stench of darkness goes quiet and flat.
The idle golden lock turns and clicks.
The shape it takes,
Altogether average but for a tilt and a tear
etched beneath the skin.

In the dusty corners of your eye, the world is black and white—
Stare this terror in the face
and see the hideous splendor of your own.
Escape the mirror of caprice
before its image breaks the plane.

Company

2010-02-21T14:01:00.000-08:00

[On the left...]
“Sensationalism! Somebody’s drinkin’ it—it exploded. It’s all about personalities.”

[On the right…]
“That’ll clear out all the alcohol and the junk. What sort of insurance do you have?
—Detox! I love it.”
[Squealing]

“It’s just do what you will… what you will.
I’m the invisible third argument, trying to bridge the gap between urban youth culture and the church, the Christian World and the non-Christian world, which is bigger and more influential, and clearly.”

“Oh! Definitely ‘It’s Complicated’. No Question. Burn that one.
Precious? Never heard of it.
Sherlock Holmes? Oh! Yes, yes yes!”

[With affection…]
“My students…”
[With respect…]
“…my students.”

“Have you seen Twilight? No? It’s that vampire movie with—”

“You’re a little walking bibliography, here.
[laughter, page flipping]
Mm. Young people.”

“—young people.”
[tantalized]
When’s your birthday?
The 27th.
The 31st! Aquarius.
[High-five]
My ex-husband’s the 23rd.
[Eye roll]
Oh God. Oh, wait, no, he’s not a real aquarius.”
[Relief]

[Lean in]
“There’s a difference between being counter-culture and anti-culture.”
[Lean back]

[One departure]
“He just has a love addiction. That was the deal this time. He said give me a daughter, I’ll marry you—she’s 30.”

Schnee

2010-02-06T15:20:00.000-08:00

Red White and Blue/Black Brown and Blurry

2010-01-29T08:27:00.001-08:00

Holy Days

2010-01-11T11:37:00.001-08:00

(Some) People Speak

2009-11-30T19:12:00.001-08:00

I haven't posted in a while, an unfortunate by-product of starting a PhD. Alas, I did write a blog post for takepart.com. It's a response to a Howard Zinn film project speaker tour event, starring Lupe Fiasco, no less. You can read it here. Comments are encouraged.

Namaste

2009-09-06T14:16:00.000-07:00

Until We Meet...

2009-08-05T00:27:00.000-07:00

Sheets of lightning
they blanket the sky
Do you see them too
casting shadows
on the wall. it's writing,
a perilous sigh.
What watery death it portends.

But, an eye for an eye,
the storm's only grace,
a chance to save face.

The cool wind blows
Do you feel it too

The horizon disappears,
the clouds cover the corners.
Is it too late for fasting and fears
Where is that heavenly wisdom,
bid an earthly welcome

Time to build a tent
the lights go out
Do you have the time,
two in the dark, express all you mean

Sleet Sleet Sleet
Sleep, Sleep, Sleep,
until we meet

Sprouts

2009-07-11T10:57:00.000-07:00

Squaring Off

2009-06-14T07:20:00.001-07:00

Hands On

2009-05-31T16:11:00.000-07:00

Trinity (Term)

2009-05-21T15:25:00.001-07:00

SWales

2009-05-18T15:43:00.001-07:00

It's a Blog!

2009-04-18T07:54:00.001-07:00

This month three years and sixty blog posts ago, jeremyandhiscamera (.blogspot.com) started. Here is a rundown of the three most significant changes that took place during its terrible twos:

1a. Tragically, the laptop that nurtured and mothered this blog to life, receiving the digital semen from my Canon Digital Rebel, as it were, is now on life support. Having drowned in a bath of drinking water, it now rests comfortably and humanely against the radiator. In the words of every college sports fan to their favorite superstar upper-classman, "One More Year... One More Year..."

1b. On another down beat, my camera has also suffered a few bits of wear and tear, which I have neglected to fix. Every photo now comes with dust and scratches; one especially annoying black streak in the corner that I feel compelled to remove from all publicly released photos.

2. More excitingly, my camera has taken a trans-Atlantic flight to the old country, spending the last seven months away from the Los Angeles sun. Stop overs in various continental locations have provided some of the best and most enjoyable photographic experiences yet.

3. A minor format and design change at the brink of the new year brought with it more photos in less space, and a little bit of photographic/design sex appeal, now that the blog is coming of age.

There will be more of the same and, hopefully, some new things in the coming year. There will, inevitably, be a shift in location this fall (possibly) to even colder and gloomier conditions. Most importantly, the name of the blog is officially changing to Jeremy and his Camera. Please enjoy.

*the painting marking this anniversary is from Wayne Thiebaud—a beloved painter of beloved food.

A Dollar Short

2009-04-03T17:28:00.000-07:00

It's very late, but I'm posting a favorite films of 2008. There are only five because, frankly, I did not see a lot of movies I loved.

1. Gomorrah

2. Wall-E

3. The Dark Knight

4. The Class

5. Man On Wire

Some decent movies that I wouldn't want to rank or include in a "top" list: I've Loved You So Long, The Changeling, Forgetting Sarah Marshall, Vicky Christina Barcelona, The Edge of Heaven.

Here are some movies I wish I would have seen: Ballast, Young@Heart, Waltz With Bashir, Taxi to the Dark Side.

Here's a list of notable films I didn't see that are meant to be good: Milk, Rachel Getting Married, In Bruges, The Reader, Revolutionary Road, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, Doubt, The Wrestler, Frozen River.

Currency Exchange

2009-03-26T14:37:00.000-07:00

S/Know

2009-02-07T12:09:00.001-08:00

Turn the Other Cheek

2009-01-23T09:34:00.000-08:00

turn that other cheek, figurative and sweet
then shoot 'em in the back, knock 'em off his feet

sheath that sword of truth, dull and rusted
then bury a bullet in the brain, it can't be trusted

watch those guardians descend unseen
then rain down rockets red, all the good you mean

say a prayer for a piece, heavenly and rich
then clamor for a curse, go to hell you bitch

know the end is near, final and complete
then jump-start judgment with all you meet

What's That You Say?

2009-01-13T16:44:00.000-08:00

Listen to the melting pot mouthpiece
above the frozen waves
Watch the tower of talk
brush ashore a knave

Observe the fragile dollar
atop that sandy bank
Blurred beneath the noise
foaming white and rank

Silence all the subtleties
of treasures young in fold
Flock to that false fire
burning all but gold

Food!

2009-01-06T05:34:00.001-08:00

Foreign Objects, part V

2008-12-31T14:11:00.000-08:00

Foreign Objects, part IV

2008-12-30T05:07:00.000-08:00

Foreign Objects, part III

2008-12-30T04:10:00.000-08:00

Foreign Objects, part II

2008-12-29T04:24:00.001-08:00

Foreign Objects, part I

2008-12-29T02:38:00.000-08:00

It's Beginning to Look A Lot Like(...) London

2008-11-23T09:00:00.000-08:00

Shades of Gray and Others

2008-10-16T06:05:00.000-07:00

Fishtail

2008-09-20T16:11:00.000-07:00

The Wooden Whining Box

2008-09-18T13:17:00.000-07:00

the wooden whining box
it's my instrument of choice
when the world goes grey
and words just won't suffice

it moves to the rhythms
of a melancholy mood
it sings a gentle song
only time cares to forget

it's my surrogate heart
with a four string pulse
it's the heartbreak I hold dear
on seven simple bars, only I can hear

I'm standing in the doorway
looking at you, looking somewhere else
I've got one foot out the door
and one hand, on my wailing wooden box

someday I'll find a hammer
and smash that box to pieces
because every time I play
the sound remains the same
on that wooden whining box

Evergreen

2008-09-08T23:31:00.000-07:00

In the amusement park wilderness, through the narrow gates
Sloping horizons lie
Tilting my memory head
and sifting sentimental traces onto the rocky creek shore

Time and terrain feel tightly compressed, violently pushed together
But only with finger tips, Earthly and Otherwise
The stately tenants, invisible, whisper through their shadows
language unknowable but felt cooly across the neck.

This world, raw but ripe for rotting, demands a particular attention
A loop of thought that begins and ends in front of a mirror
may infect the spotless dew

In the midst of nature's tour, exposed, vultures pluck away affections,
secret hearts ride the lightning wind
They strike the distant plains—too quick for you to see
too wild to explain.

These are traces of beauty lining the prickly dirt path,
fading with each step
leaving just a dream—thoughts of you and evergreen trees

transient

2008-08-21T18:01:00.000-07:00

that ethereal place
that baptismal river flowing through my fingers
pushing and pulling, lulling me hypnotic
craggy faces mask the twists and turns
unto ocean depths untoward

all I see is what I feel
suppressed beneath the current and the blinding sunset light
peaks and valleys do not hide, they are not seen
fingers feeling firmament
firm is the spiritual grip supine
weak is the clasping hand, grasping watery straws

Curly Strands of Grammar

2008-08-11T16:09:00.000-07:00

I wanted to start writing—a lyric, a line, a poem, something provocative, something true or clever—but the waves of thought and feeling crushed and crippled my body. A poison that ran through me, starting in the brain and striking the tips of my fingers like lighting. My hands hovered just over the keyboard, nervously miming actual typing. Before a sliver of an idea could take hold, there came another, and another, and another. I had to contend with the dual handicap of immodest literary expectations and, the more seriously debilitating ailment, an influx of inexpressible, conflicted, and confused ideas. Where do I start? Start with the subject, the source. Write write write. If an errant word or foolish rhyme made its way onto the page, what does that matter? This is not pen and ink, nor a page, just ones and zeroes. There is no perfect plan, just catharsis. Edit Edit Edit—this is no fine-tooth comb. It's a loving hand flowing through curly strands of grammar, loosely straightening the ignominious, and crudely obscuring imperfections. What happened to the source? Maybe the best I can hope for is this—describing the overwhelming task of describing the seemingly indescribable.

Kern River

2008-08-04T19:11:00.000-07:00

"243"

you look a little haggard
we all looked a little worn
the sun and the rocks and the water didn't have to exert any special force
or divine power
we willingly mingled with their nature
stubborn, hot, rugged and raging
cool local beer and plain local women
never seemed so pleasant
so simple
deception is the name of the game
undercurrents and murky water that shimmers like gold
a closer look reveals the truth
but don't look too closely
or too long
you'll be swept away, another number on the sign

Graduation (Friends Forever... Or Until College Starts)

2008-06-11T00:10:00.001-07:00

Happy Birthday Blog

2008-04-22T12:54:00.000-07:00

Happy Birthday Blog! Though the very word "blog" still makes me shudder, I am quite proud of my own little web log. Maybe it's the but-my-baby-actually-is-the-cutest-baby-ever syndrome that allows me to keep publishing posts while ridiculing everyone else. To mark this anniversary, I've browsed through a handful of random blogs using the Next Blog feature on the blogger tool bar. Some things I noticed in the course of browsing... There are many blogs written on the behalf of a beloved pet or newborn baby (i.e. Scotty's Weekly Adventures, Scotty being a grey terrier from Michigan). People enjoy customizing the look of their blog, away from the templates provided by blogger, frequently to their detriment. It's great that you discovered HTML, but in the (paraphrased) words of Ian Malcom, "They're so preoccupied with whether or not they can, they never stop to think if they should." Lastly, there are more blogs in foreign languages than I would have ever imagined. I suspect some of them are written in a language invented by the author.

I know a few other people with blogs, and a lot of them talk about their blog like a flashy toy they had as a kid. They reminisce about the good times, "Ohhh yeahhh! I had a blog once. I used to post all the time when I first got it. I haven't updated that thing in years." All the while smiling and staring off into the distance. It's quite touching.

With the exception of July 2007 (the Harry Potter massacre) I've managed to post at least twice a month, keeping my camera active and in shape, while expanding its definition. So here's to another year of posting.

Black and White and Red All Over

2008-04-12T20:39:00.001-07:00

Three for Free

2008-04-05T17:28:00.001-07:00

Best of the Loft Show

2008-03-20T21:19:00.000-07:00

A Rising Passion

2008-03-06T16:07:00.000-08:00

The Most Honest Prayer

2008-02-12T12:23:00.000-08:00

On a brisk late afternoon, a nine year old boy bobbled awkwardly across an elementary school playground. As the wind battered his sandy hair and pushed against his thin frame, he offered up the most honest prayer a boy ever imagined. He didn't conjure dreams of fame or fortune, nor the power to repel playground tyrants. No, the only destiny God could satisfy was lying some three hundred yards away—the boy's restroom. Born with the bladder control of a mother in waiting, he often found himself in the same dire predicament. Those sadistic slave drivers known as elementary school teachers, with their torturous, unbending policies on restroom usage, strike down the child that dare request a second trip within a single day! Sweet relief became synonymous with 3:00 PM, or more accurately, 3:07 PM—the amount of time necessary to gather one's belongings and race to the nearest pee stained urinal. The longest seven minutes in human experience, he would argue. Face wrenched in agony, his thoughts entered the divine realm, "God, I don't know if you exist, but if you do, let me make it safely to the bathroom. I'll be good from now on." That was the deal he was prepared to broker with the creator of the universe—lifelong perfection, and nothing less. In his moment of most desperate need, nothing and no one could save him from that most embarrassing, that most shameful fate. He knew trauma—school yard fights and family strife. Yet, no moment of helplessness could hold a candle to those three hundred yards. Three hundred yards of concrete and grass, rusty swings and chain link basketball hoops. Would God look upon his image and grant thee grace? Ever so gently, with a great stream of gratitude, that poor boy knew what it meant to be thankful.

February Tastes of Sand and Salt

2008-02-11T22:27:00.000-08:00

2008 Movie Year in Review

2008-01-31T11:40:00.000-08:00

This is my movie year in review, in accordance with Oscar season, the timetable on which all movies are judged.

My top five movies of the year*:

1. No Country for Old Men
First, Javier Bardem. A memorable and stunning performance, he's one of the creepiest villains in recent memory. Second, every other performance in this film was spot on (Kelly Macdonald, Josh Brolin, Tommy Lee Jones). Third, its blend of humor and cynicism was enjoyable without feeling forced or overwritten (a nod to the final scene as well).

2. There Will Be Blood
First, Daniel Day-Lewis. Easily the best actor of the year—he carries all two hours and forty some odd minutes of this movie (all due respect to Paul Dano). Second, the authenticity of early American capitalism and moving west fascinates and resonates (greed, obsession, the rape of natural resources). Third, Daniel Day-Lewis.

3. The Diving Bell and the Butterfly
First, Julian Schnabel takes material that shouldn't translate well to film and makes it work. Second, very creative cinematography and editing keep things moving briskly, giving insight into Bauby's state without dragging the audience down too much. Third, all the beautiful women cast in this movie.

4. Zodiac
First, I love when movies take a genre or sub-genre and transcend it—this movie transcends the thriller/police procedural genre with understated direction and calculated performances. Second, the attention to detail is stunning without becoming overly burdensome. Third, I love the expanse (scope) of everything: location, shots, characters (in number and depth), clues and evidence, etc.

5. Juno
First, a very funny, original script that manages to infuse some level of deeper human emotion. Second, they managed to make a movie about teenage pregnancy, abortion and adoption without obviously offending anyone. Third, fantastic supporting (and lead) roles by Allison Janney, JK Simmons, Jennifer Garner, Jason Bateman, and Michael Cera.

*No Country for Old Men is my top movie of the year, everything after that is basically on equal footing.

My top movies not in the top five:

Michael Clayton:
Good... Completely compelling, well cast, well written. There's really nothing bad about this movie, or very little anyway. Stunning performances from Tilda Swinton and Tom Wilkinson.
Falls short because... It never raises its level of art to a level of significance matching There Will Blood or No Country for Old Men (or any of the top five movies really). The final scene might be a bit too theatrical and tidy, though highly satisfying, nonetheless.

Atonement:
Good... A beautifully directed and shot movie with smart casting choices. The final scene instantly ups its rating a star.
Falls short because... At the end of the day, there are only two scenes that will make anyone think about this movie well after they've seen it (the aforementioned final scene, and the red curtain hospital bed). Nothing terribly original or ground breaking here.

The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford:
Good... The photography is some of the best of the year, if not the best. The pacing of the story and its landscape are intertwined exceptionally. A gunshot in this movie really feels like a gun being fired.
Falls short because... it's a bit meandering and aimless in areas. The sum of its parts leaves one wondering if there's enough meat in the story for a lasting impression beyond the artistry with which it was made.

Once:
Good... The music and performances feel authentic and real. The film makers managed to make a musical without offending reality. Lastly, it's heart warming and satisfying without crossing into saccharine fantasy (think not Romantic Comedy territory).
Falls short because... it's still basically a small little musical love story. "Best Picture" movies tend to have a bit more power than this, however likable it may be.

Ratatouille:
Good... Beautiful animation aside, there's lots to love about this movie: funny, original, clever, warm. It has at least a few memorable scenes (Ego's first bite and flashback, the Granny firing off her shotgun, the très français couple fighting and embracing within seconds).
Falls short because... it's still message-y in places. Remy's speech about changing nature comes across a bit heavy-handed.

Lars and the Real Girl:
Good... Ryan Gosling finds the right mannerisms to keep you moving along with this character. In the wrong hands, this movie could've easily fallen short or fallen apart completely. Often funny and makes some interesting points about community along the way.
Falls short because... A little sitcom-like in places. I usually balk at this sort of criticism, but it takes situations that could be more subtle and layered and plays them too straight, usually for the sake of a laugh at the expense of authenticity.

My Oscar predictions for the major awards*:

Best Picture:
No Country for Old Men

Best Director:
Julian Schnabel - The Diving Bell and the Butterfly

Best Actor:
Daniel Day-Lewis - There Will Be Blood

Best Actress:
Julie Christie - Away From Her

Best Original Screenplay:
Diablo Cody - Juno

Best Adapted Screenplay:
Joel and Ethan Coen - No Country for Old Men

Best Supporting Actor:
Javier Bardem - No Country for Old Men

Best Supporting Actress:
Tilda Swinton - Michael Clayton

*These are one part what I think will win and one part what I hope will win.

Christmas Up Close

2008-01-04T22:46:00.001-08:00

Happy Happy Birthday

2007-12-09T17:42:00.001-08:00

(with guest photography on the 10th and 11th photos by Marina Brenden)

Profile Wars

2007-12-07T14:39:00.000-08:00

On a cool winter's morn some three years ago, I joined the social network of Facebook. Having previously been duped into joining Friendster (one friend to date in three and a half years of membership), I joined Facebook with some trepidation. Social networking sites scared me for a few reasons. First, they were social. Second, they were networks. Third, there was the MySpace factor. Designed by a blind circus freak with a masochistic streak, nobody dared navigate its pages without poor quality music blasting from some unknown region of the scattered layout; fatuous wall postings stretching downward endlessly, written in the contemporary techno-gobbledygook of all people under the age of twenty-two or over the age of forty with a criminal record. One could easily fall off the cliff of acuity while driving in the fog of anti-elocutionary dialogue or aimless quiz results ("which color is your aura?") dominating the MySpace landscape.

Facebook, in contrast, offered a clean and pleasant graphic style, and its network operated on an educational hierarchy in which the lower classes were shut out (this system is now defunct, however). These two selling points were enough to rope me in. After a few months of facebooking, I better understood some of my initial social networking fears. There's an irony in the "social networking" craze that lies in its fundamentally selfish underpinnings, in which the user creates a universe centered around his or her own activities, interests, and biographical data, and from time to time, one universe will collide with a parallel universe. Profile pages take on the qualities of a political candidate campaigning for causes, albeit in a warped passive-aggressive style. People take on traits and associations they would never publicly broadcast or, at least, hesitate to share after a first encounter. Yet in the world of Facebook, the girl you drunkenly added as a friend after a night of beer-pong already knows about your religious preference, dating history, and not-so-secret love affair with Kelly Clarkson. Usually people prefer to dole out their insanity to new acquaintances over time, not any more.

Obviously, users control what content they wish to reveal about themselves and to whom they wish to reveal it. In light of this, one of the more intriguing social networking factions I come across is the religious profile versus the secular profile. Even more specifically, there exists the clash between super Christian and docile Catholic. In one corner, we have Sally Super Christian. Under her religious affiliation section, she is no mere "Christian", she is an entire biblical passage. Her group affiliations run the gamut from pro needy children groups to anti popular culture object (whatever movie or book is pissing off the conservative right at the moment); if she's single, Sally is definitely only interested in friendship (no devout person is openly interested in dating); activities include at least one non-church related religious group; God, Jesus, and the Bible interest Sally; her favorite movies include one or more of the following: Braveheart, Gladiator, and the Shawshank Redemption; favorite book number one is the Bible, but let's not leave out specific books from within the Bible, either; favorite quotes contain a biblical passage or something cryptically Christian from C.S. Lewis; Sally branches out under favorite music, going for a few obvious choices (Chris Tomlin, Johnny Cash, Worship) but also mixing in something wacky like Rap or the Spice Girls.

In the opposite corner, we have pretty much everyone else, though I want to make special note for those of us that are reluctant to digitally proclaim our righteousness (be it religious or not, they both exist). At the risk of alienating Sally Super Christian, I admit to a great deal of empathy toward her position. Why should we hide our beliefs from anyone? Judge not lest ye be judged first. Whether docile Catholic or secular humanist or otherwise, no amount of fear should keep us from being who we are, right? I got caught in the middle of a rant amongst friends, railing against Facebook personalities with too much zeal for their religion. It begs the question, what line can we draw between alienation and shame? Surely, Sally Super Christian intends to save as many souls as possible, but who knows how many potential converts she turns off through her technological religiosity. On the other hand, those who hide away in shame probably never provoke any change at all. What are we ultimately trying to communicate to people through a lone page on the world wide web?

The issue that sparked this commentary was a group focused on not supporting the film the Golden Compass. I have not seen the movie or read any of the books from the series. With a degree of certainty, I wager most of the 54,000 plus members in the group have not either (the creator of the group managed to falsely place Kevin Bacon in the cast). The arguments against the movie claim that its story and message will corrupt children through its representation of religious power as oppressive (the magistrate) and god as a figure to be displaced. In a well thought out, satirically acerbic indictment on the movement to protest the Golden Compass, one writer captured many of my frustrations (click here). There's a place for protesting bad art or entertainment, but I wonder how much of our time we need to devote to fruitless, self-congratulatory causes. For every protest of the Golden Compass, why not protest political incompetence? I scarcely consider myself an advocate of liberal politics, but the lack of concern over blatantly poor leadership at the highest levels of political power scare me a lot more than the Golden Compass. I suspect a lot of pride is at stake in combating leaders most of the conservative Christian community supported at one point in time. Christians risk little embarrassment by objecting to the Golden Compass—that scourger of secular brainwashing. Standing up against someone who outwardly shares your social convictions on abortion, gay marriage, and religion, yet may privately contradict the most important of all holy tenants (love your neighbor as your self), that makes for a more complicated battle.

Does this mean we should protest more things? No. Should we stop inundating our Facebook profiles with our pious fervor? Maybe. Protesting can be good, though less persuasive than dialogue or reasoning. Pious fervor is good, though more beneficial when conducted inwardly first and outwardly second.

Giving Thanks Twice Is Doubly Nice Unless There's No Pie Slice

2007-11-24T11:11:00.000-08:00

Gorging and a Gourd

2007-11-01T19:40:00.000-07:00

The Golden Treasure Chest

2007-10-16T17:13:00.000-07:00

Every boy entertains dreams of sailing the seven seas and discovering treasure on a fevered tropical island (preferably with a skull shaped mountain or volcano). Appropriating that dream and manipulating it for all its literal worth, Amazon.com presents the Gold Box.

At the top right corner of Amazon.com lies a small golden treasure chest. Click on the icon and a bevy of assorted sale items appear, broken into two sections. The first section is made up of generic items appealing to the broadest audience possible, replete with not just a deal-of-the-day but also a deal-of-the-hour and a deal-of-the-hour countdown clock ("Lighting Deals", to quote the exact phraseology). At this very moment, 1 hour 28 minutes and 45 seconds remain before 14k Gold Hoop Earrings cease to fly out of the warehouse for $35 and return to the normally discounted rate of $60. That's a Gold Box savings of 56%. Curious what current owners of this posh accessory make of its value? Check out the user comments—an average rating of four stars out of five. One purchaser notes the versatility of the 14k Gold Hoop Earrings, "These hoops are sexy for night time and still professional enough for the office." Want to know what percentage of the item is still available? Check the real-time sale meter—12% and counting thus far. If this seems like a lot of numbers, it is (not to mention all the graphical accoutrements used in tandem).

Further down the Gold Box web page, you can explore the treasured discounts designed specifically for you. This quotidian chest of gold morphs into new jewels each morning to slake the ever fickle and fleet consumer appetite. My gold coins of the day are Citizen Cane, Pixar's Cars, and G.K. Chesterton's Everlasting Man. Though DVDs and books make up the bulk of my Gold Box, a more peculiar assortment of goods crop up once in a while: Huggies Ultra-Slim 22/pk, V-Smile Family Edutainment System, Gilette Mach 3 Fusion razor blades (24 pack), and Little Tikes Hide and Slide Climber. In the matrix of web user statistics, one day out of seven Amazon deduces that I am a 36-year-old father of three that shaves twice a day and changes diapers even more.

The trafficking of user statistics on the web might strike some as invasive. With Amazon, the site catalogs your viewing habits before you even log in; covertly taking advantage of users that frequent the same computer. At first, I felt free to graze the pastures of numerous items both practical (Chicago Manual of Style) and quixotic (a 50 inch plasma television). But as my Gold Box offerings shifted with the items I viewed (for how long and how frequent), paranoia set in. Did I want to read the pithy abstract from Stephen Colbert's new book, I Am America (and So Can You!)? Yes. Did I want recommendations for fifteen other political satires? Not so much. Thus, with every purchase of a Disney animated classic came a Gold Box discounted jumbo pack of Huggies. The day after ordering the latest Harry Potter book I received an offer for a factory refurbished brick red Kitchenaid 5 quart mixer. I started to embrace the process in an attempt to cozen a discount on something I really wanted—the Maltese Falcon 2-disc Special Edition—by claiming ownership of comparable items I did not want—The Big Sleep (there's a check box for items you already own that Amazon recommends).

It's a game I play all too willingly, at least if you're a freedom loving, Corporate America-phobic hippie. Months after discovering my first chest of gold (of the Amazon variety), I confess to catching a bit of Corporate America phobia. I searched for treasure a few times a day, wending through DVD jungles and literary caves of wonder. But after acquiring so much booty, all that glitters is no longer golden—no matter what box it comes in. My treasures were too commonplace to possess any adventuresome appeal. Consumerism as a means to happiness was always a desultory endeavor anyway. Perhaps in response to this, I ordered Essays of Elia by Charles Lamb, printed in 1905 by the Amalgamated Press with blue embossed cover gilt titles. I wasn't quite sure what that meant but it sounded lovely. This gem arrived only yesterday and fulfilled many of my treasure hunting fantasies. The packaging was slight and efficient, wrapped in ordinary brown paper, compact, and covered with exotic postage—thrillingly reminiscent of the grail diary from Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. Once open, the rich must of its yellowed pages wafted through the air, inducing envy from its young mass market cousins sitting across the room. Though a more genuine find, this too will be unmasked as fool's gold. The exhilaration of treasure seeking lies in the pursuit and discovery, not in the possession. Its perfidy shines bright once the proprietor sets out to exploit the value of his or her fortune (for consumer goods at any rate).

My other favorite modern marketing strategy is a bit more traditional, to those born in the last fifty years. It's no secret that television ads cater to the channel and program they air on. As an avid fan of Scrubs, I experience roughly three to four Vagisil Feminine Cream commercials per evening. I can also proudly admit to a thorough knowledge of the modern advancements in tampon technology—wings, guards, pads, strings, and all. More so than the programming itself, the advertising agencies that ally themselves with my purchasing and viewing habits help me identify my place in the consumer landscape; be it 36-year-old father of three or someone more... femininely inclined.

The Languid Lexicon: Part Two

2007-10-05T10:42:00.000-07:00

This edition of the Lexicon (the new official shorthand reference for those of you dropping its pearls into casual conversation) is brought to you by the letter P, for please don't take this too seriously. This is the making-fun-of-your-family version; in that, sometimes it's fun to poke fun at your alcoholic uncle, but it stings a bit if anyone outside the family takes a jab. The family of young hip Christianity, in this case, takes center stage. To reiterate the purpose of this series, I hope to illuminate ways in which we mask greater meaning with familiar jargon. We can so deeply entrench ourselves in a niche of vocabulary that nothing we say carries much weight any more. Hopefully some fresh, creative dialogue will blossom forth.

Chapter 2: Young Hip Religion

1. come along side (verb/phrase) the act of joining a person or group in a cause that is superficially pleasing toward a dispassionate and gullible audience. Feeding the poor is something God calls us to do, so please come along side me in this journey.

2. step out (verb/phrase) a call to action, often into an unfamiliar and awkward situation; see also —comfort zone, —in faith. Sometimes God calls you to step out in faith when you're on the edge of a cliff, facing imminent death. OR John was asked to step out of his comfort zone and tell seventy-five people about the gospel in one day, no matter how uncomfortable or inappropriate it may be.

3. fellowship (verb) a way to turn any instance in which like minded religious folk hang out into a time pleasing to God. John and Sally went to get ice cream after church and fellowship together.

4. quiet time (noun) a time that is quiet; also, a discipline assumed to be practiced by all serious young Christians; the first thing to go when people get "crazy busy". I had such an awesome quiet time yesterday, especially since I didn't have any QTs in the last few weeks with my insane schedule.

5. small group (noun) a gathering of people in (sort of) small quantities for the purpose of studying the bible while maintaining a level of relevance in concept to a culture increasingly skeptical of anything dogmatic. Jane explained to her friends that small group was different from bible study because you didn't need to know the bible to come, and also they went out for fro-yo afterward.

6. love on (phrase) a method for over bearing Christians to seem less preachy when "sharing" Christ's love. This week the preacher commissioned his congregation to love on as many people in their work place as the holy spirit would allow.

7. out reach (noun) an activity less abrasive in name than proselytizing. This Saturday the local church scheduled an out reach for homeless people in need of food, shelter, and education, in which numerous tracts and pamphlets would be distributed.

8. awesome (adjective) the correct answer to any experience involving church or a Christian organization. Q: How was the retreat? A: Soooo awesome.

9. challenge (verb) to call someone to action in a positive, non-confrontational tone. At the end of the talk, James challenged the group to find a way to share the gospel at least once this week.

10. talk (noun) a poor man's sermon. Because there was no real educated clerical authority on-hand, the campus director gave a talk.

Chapter 3: College Football Commentary...

A Healthy Diet

2007-10-04T18:05:00.000-07:00

When I first started working full time, I was five months out of college and less than twenty-four hours out of an internship with a publishing company. Reading played a fairly central role in daily life to that point. But as that proud day arrived, roughly fifteen years of reading sundry books—intended to prepare me for that exact moment—suddenly became an occupation of the past. I could go an entire lifetime without reading another book, hypothetically, and be perfectly successful in all the ways a 21st century man can be. Though this prospect enticed my increasingly impassable intellect, its fustian half proved more capable of exercising power. Thus the question arose, "What kind of reading does a man in my position undertake?" Novels, poems, journals, magazines, essays, paperbacks, hardbacks, classics, fiction, non-fiction, historical fiction, sci-fi, wi-fi, blogs?

There were issues to consider. First, when would I find time to read? More accurately, would I want to make time for reading? Are lunch breaks long enough? What about after work? During work? I determined that reading of some kind might ease the transition from academic to serf. I fashioned myself the image of day time laborer and moon light bohemian; joining the likes of Bach and Harrison Ford as closet geniuses immured by societies unwilling to financially support idealism. A subscription to the Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism seemed rather erudite, though woefully impractical. All those dense articles and no forum to discuss them in; no mentor to weed out wayward parsing. My next foray into continued literary practice was more traditional—a novel. I selected Great Expectations, an unintentional irony. Barely into chapter two after three weeks, Dickens' classic proved to be supernally daunting and returned to the shelf. Strike two.

In an email exchange with a friend and practicing philosopher (maybe society can support idealism), he recommended a few authors. One of those authors happened to write essays, of which she published two collections. I wrote about one collection a few weeks back (At Large and At Small) with stirring enthusiasm. One week of perusing its pages and... Eureka! This was the answer. Essays, a particular kind anyway, were digestible; packed with enough intellectual integrity to retain mental acuity, but not so stuffy as to stifle abderian fits. The topics are broad enough to relate in common conversation but written smartly enough to educate and expand the mind.

Dietitians stress the importance of finding a program that suits your lifestyle. During college, my lifestyle was loose and expansive. I covered all the food groups of literature with relatively pleasant ease. There was a time in high school when books were the cauliflower and Brussels sprouts in my literary diet. I liken this latest dietary selection of reading to cheese and wine—not life sustaining on its own, but something refined and leisurely. Occasionally, a full scale meal will work its way into the rotation, but for now I'm enjoying an 89 Opus One with gruyere and crackers.

Everything Is Art Not

2007-09-27T13:40:00.000-07:00

Just a link to an on-going debate about video-games as art, and all the side dishes you can serve with that meal of a discussion.

Everything Is Art?

(try reading the post title in a Borat voice).

The Languid Lexicon: Part One

2007-09-25T17:24:00.000-07:00

This will be the first in a series. Each series will devote itself to a list of words and phrases, which pertain to a particular field or group, that are so overused as to elicit feelings of contemptuous insouciance. These are the words of the parasitic argot bug that burrow into your vocabulary, unknowingly turning you into a predictable ticker of maxims. On first use, these terms often seem clever and spry, happily engaging the target audience. There comes a point, however, where this jargon hollows out, leaving nothing but a shell of motivational power. At first you accepted the idea of being a "team player", now you'd rather ride the bench than hear one more analogy about "taking one for the team". The goal is not to ridicule these expressions or those who spout them, but to ease the pain of hearing them over and over again—maybe even inspiring some glossarial discoveries.

Chapter 1: The Work Place

1. dive in (verb) to fully engage in a project or undertaking so as to appear ready and willing to work hard. We need someone to write a report on our first quarter stats; why don't you dive in and get back to me by Friday?

2. deep in (verb) to give others the impression you are too busy for anything but the very important task at hand. John missed lunch this afternoon because he was deep in a conference call with our biggest client.

3. _blank hell (noun) a specifically torturous place, within the greater realm of torturous places and activities. Q: Where's Bob today? A: He's in planning hell getting ready for next week's event.

4. that's a _blank question (phrase) a savvy response used to redirect a query to someone else when you don't have the answer. Q: Do you know where the paper clips are? A: That's a Jane question.

5. land (verb) to be successful in a highly subjective way. The cover design doesn't quite land for me.

6. knock out (verb) to encourage another to complete something quickly. Can you get on that in the morning and knock it out by Thursday?

7. ducks in a row (phrase) the act of covering one's ass. The boss is taking off for a dinner, so make sure we have all our ducks in a row for the morning presentation.

8. in the mix (phrase) in competition; in the running; particularly when previously feared to be out of the mix. We're still in the mix because the competing vendor failed miserably.

9. get on that (phrase) a less severe 'knock it out'. We just got a huge project in, can you get on that right away.

10. we (noun) a euphemism used by a superior to make a subordinate feel less subordinate. Picking up lunch for all the managers is something we do here.

Chapter 2: Young, Hip Religion...

Something Old, Something New

2007-09-18T00:37:00.000-07:00

Wishy-Wash

2007-09-02T20:30:00.001-07:00

On Essays

2007-08-15T22:51:00.000-07:00

Consider this one part book review, one part essay in miniature...

On the advice of a friend and former teaching assistant, I picked up a collection of essays called 'At Large and At Small' by Anne Fadiman. I've never read a collection of essays, or read a great many essays at all really. After finishing the preface to the collection, it was easy for me to drop all pretense of familiarity with an essay qua essay. It also seemed clear that to ally articles or academic papers with the type of purist essay prescribed by Fadiman was tantamount to heresy.

The first of twelve essays in the collection, titled 'Collecting Nature', recalls Fadiman's youth spent catching butterflies (and other oddities of nature) with her brother, Kim. That basic description does little justice to the breezy rhythm she carries throughout the piece; casually transitioning between historical landmarks in the research of lepidoptera and her melancholic recollection of youthful euphemisms exposed—'the relaxing jar' in lieu of 'the killing jar'. Subsequent essays reveal similarly balanced recipes of levity and gravitas (two parts levity to every pinch of gravitas). Her discourse on Ice Cream, my all time favorite food, tickled my fancy with relative ease, but, surprisingly, so did her essays on night owl living and Charles Lamb, her literary (and personal?) hero. The latter resonated faintly upon first mention, but it wasn't until Fadiman referenced 'A Dissertation Upon Roast Pig' that I remembered my first acquaintance with Lamb. My own personal hero of sorts, Dr. Dallas Willard, quoted Lamb's essay as often as any piece of philosophy or biblical wisdom (during his classes anyway). "Something to think about," he deemed Lamb's little fable, ever the understated plenipotentiary of truths worth knowing. With regard to Ms. Fadiman, a shared disinterest in fruit flavored ice cream officially sealed our fate. Alas, it's safe to say I am smitten with Ms. Fadiman and her revivalist essays.

I first started reading 'Collecting Nature' sprawled on the grass, barefoot and sweaty on a summer day in the park. An idyllic setting in abstraction only, as the modest park has few trees and a few too many concrete walls. Still, I enjoyed extrapolating Fadiman's childhood encounters with Mother Earth, of which I had scarce few, into my present setting. Late in the Spring, I noticed tiny white flowers blossoming in unison, closely followed by hundreds of bees floating from bud to bud. As quickly as the bees came, they left (within a matter of weeks). The flower population depleted, a rusty colored moth now roams the thinning patches of grass. Fadiman obsessively labeled and classified the bounty of creatures she encountered, leaving me with a tinge of embarrassment I could not identify any of the members in the minuscule ecosystem a lunch break afforded me.

A love of superfluously long and obscure words did inspire me with a bit more rapture; though, perhaps not in the most obvious way. After reading a brief news story featuring a rather obnoxious interviewee, I came up with a new word; unnecessarily long, inherently obscure (I just made it up), and a bit silly:

blabberwonky (n) blab-er-wonk-ee
one who excels or demonstrates proficiency in excessively foolish talk: she could not stand to hear some blabberwonky discussing UFOs much longer.

Inspiration or perversion? I'm not quite sure. Quite surely, this small, charmingly heady collection has sparked in me a kind of puppyish amor for the essay and its modern champion.

It's American As...

2007-08-05T20:29:00.000-07:00

Harry Potter and the Book That Never Came

2007-07-23T18:09:00.001-07:00

July 21st, 2007 will go down, for many I'm sure, as the day the last Harry Potter book was released. I pre-ordered my copy on Amazon about a month ago. Having pre-ordered the previous book through Amazon, with guaranteed release date delivery, I felt comfortable I would be reading Harry's final adventure sometime Saturday afternoon. The build up to the release date was well planned: I re-read the sixth book for a memory refresher, saw the Order of the Phoenix Wednesday, and even glanced at a few predictions for the final book (but not too many). I checked my Amazon account to make sure the book was on its way; UPS confirmed that it was en route to its final destination.

I arrived at my previous residence around 9:30 am Saturday morning (I moved two weeks earlier than expected, thus 'my old residence'; thankfully the house hadn't been turned over to new tenants yet). A last remaining roommate had no news of the book turning up prior to my arrival. So I planned to wait, with waiting kit in tow: a backpack containing water, the previous book, my phone, a camera, a change of clothes, a few snacks, an ipod, and a bible.

Within 30 minutes of waiting, I noticed a postal truck stopping across the street. My heart beat a little faster, clammy palms... could it really be here this early? Alas, the postman only stopped to drop off a package across the street, a book sized package. "It's fine, it's still early" I told myself. Besides, it gave me more time to finish re-reading book 6. The next two hours passed rather quickly. Though I held hopes of the book showing up before noon, I knew there were no guarantees.

As the weather grew warmer and the bedroom more humid, I moved camp to the downstairs porch. Flumped for two hours on a tiny $6 chair, I decided to wander down the street a bit, always keeping the house in view, checking other mail boxes. Most of the houses on the block possessed empty mail boxes. One apartment complex, however, had four of its six boxes stuffed to the brim with mail. I thought carefully about what conclusions could be drawn... did the mail come to the house before 9:30, unbeknownst to its only tenant, without my book? Was this yesterdays mail in the neighboring homes? Did everyone else collect their mail already? What was that rogue mail man delivering when I first arrived? Could that have been my book?

The heat sweltered near 85 degrees, and my anxiety bubbled. I moved locations again and made my way onto the first tier roof, accessed by an ordinary doorway through a second floor bedroom. This was the meat of the day, only a matter of time before it had to come. 3 o'clock... 4 o'clock... the hot, sticky sandpaper roof was melting into my leg. A sparing breeze did little to help as those passing by looked on curiously. Still no sign of a delivery, I took another trip down the street, this time more adventurously, further down the street; hoping for any sign that a package might be on its way, a postal truck or UPS delivery person. 5 o'clock. Nothing.

Panic seeped in. I checked online again and again, the UPS delivery status still read 'in transit'. I googled to find out how late postal service workers could deliver mail. My backpack full of items started to seem rather meager and pathetic as the ninth hour of waiting passed. The UPS website said it delivered packages between 9 AM and 7 PM. 7 PM... that was my deadline.

6 o'clock... the sun was starting to set. Obscured behind clouds, the day grew more dim with every passing minute. I paced the street, checked the time, more pacing, looking... nothing. 15 minutes till seven. The sun peaked back through the clouds. Perhaps there would be a shining moment of miraculous redemption, the book riding in on a wave of light through the dreary twilight sky.

6:58. I started packing my things, then slowly moved towards my car, defeated. Hope all but drained, twirling down the sink of despair.

7 PM.

I drove to Borders not knowing what to feel any more. I should've been half way through the book by now, if not further. What if I accidentally found out what happened? Could I file a lawsuit against UPS and Amazon? Would there be any copies left at the store? Would it be crowded? I couldn't bare the thought of driving to work Monday without completing the epic series. Suddenly the midnight release parties seemed less devout nerdiness and more practical, fun Friday night. What was happening to me?

I made it to Borders half an hour later. There it was... shining, golden, accompanied by angelic hovering voices and gentle chimes. I clutched the book, one eye glancing to see if anyone noticed my subtle enthusiasm. 'Were there any DVDs on sale?' My mind wandered for a split second. 'Wait, there's no time for that! Go Go Go! Race for the register!'

7:43 PM. At last... the world was right again, and all was well.

On (Date)...

2007-06-21T14:31:00.000-07:00

I thought this might be a little humorous, as well as an insight into my job. Here are some of the failed copy ideas I had for various film and television marketing campaigns (these are real, by the way, though I might have known they wouldn't be used). Just so you're familiar with the lingo, "alt." means it's an alternative piece of copy to the line above it and "copy" just means written for publication. I also changed character names since some of these movies aren’t out yet. Enjoy...

#1
FROM THE BOWELS OF LOSERHOOD
(alt.: FROM THE DEPTHS OF NERD-DOM)
A HERO WILL RISE

#2
IN THE GAME OF PARENTING
HE DIDN'T KNOW THE RULES

NOW HE'S LEARNING TO PLAY
THE MOST IMPORTANT GAME OF HIS LIFE

#3
IN THE GAME OF BASKETBALL
THERE'S ONE MAN
PUTTING THE FUN
INTO FUNDAMENTALS

#4
THE ONLY THING WORSE THAN LOSING IT
IS NOT LOSING IT

#5
EVERYONE MAKES CHOICES FOR BETTER...
OR WORSE
THIS MAY
ONE HERO WILL CHOOSE BETWEEN A DESIRE FOR JUSTICE...
AND THE LURE OF VENGEANCE

#6
THIS (DATE)
WHEN YOU CAN'T RUN
YOU BETTER HIDE

#7
FOR THREE FRIENDS
BECOMING MEN
MEANS ACTING LESS LIKE WOMEN

#8
ADVENTURE
NEVER
DIES
...BUT MONKEYS DO.

#9
IN THE HISTORY OF SUCCESS STORIES
BOB HASN’T QUITE MADE IT

BUT ON AUGUST ---
HE’LL BE HERO FOR A DAY
…(AND) A LEGEND FOREVER

#10
THIS MAY
THE ONLY WAY TO REACH THE END…
IS TO GO BEYOND IT.

Nothing Except Everything

2007-06-17T21:16:00.000-07:00

I don't know if I know what this quote means exactly, but it seems to be interesting...
"A man cannot have the energy to produce good art without having the energy to wish to pass beyond it. A small artist is content with art; a great artist is content with nothing except everything." - GK Chesterton

Some old drawings and one sort of new one.

Going to the Chapel

2007-06-10T21:38:00.001-07:00

Skipped Over

2007-06-05T23:44:00.000-07:00

Some photos that I took, that weren't up yet, that I like.

House Sitting

2007-05-28T14:26:00.001-07:00

200,000 Blinks Later...

2007-05-23T15:47:00.000-07:00

...he published a memoir. Another article to read. This one is much shorter.

A man suffered a stroke, came out of his coma four months later with full mental capacity but no ability to move or speak. He then proceeded to write an entire book by blinking the alphabet to his secretary. There's a movie based on the book currently screening at Cannes, directed by Julian Schnabel (a compelling director and artist in his own right).

It's interesting to read how the exacting and sluggish process effected the act of "writing". Only someone with a tremendous imagination could have the patience to work through time so slowly. I like to picture each word dictated as if it were drops of honey trickling from the bottom of a jar. Incredible story.

The Diving Bell and the Butterfly

Summer

2007-05-20T20:30:00.000-07:00

Mother's Day

2007-05-11T13:33:00.000-07:00

An early gift... flowers and a drawing.

Everyone Has An Opinion

2007-05-08T17:17:00.000-07:00

Just a quick note. I updated the settings so that anyone can post comments; which I would love to hear what people think (about any topic that comes to mind, not just specifically related to a post). The feedback thus far has been excellent, and now you can share it with the whole world!

The prize for first comment posted goes to Anna and Marina. Although I told them they had to comment or face the dire consequences, they receive one free painting to be claimed by August 21st, 2007. Congratulations.

Dirty Laundry

2007-05-06T23:17:00.000-07:00

One car filled with dirty laundry.
Two loads of colors.
One mine; one somebody else's.
Lots of little children.
Five shirts.
Two pairs of pants.
One beer soaked hoody.
Six pairs of socks; one stranded.
Seven pairs of underwear.
Do you call them pairs?
Seven arcade cabinets.
Two television sets; two spanish language shows.
One missed call.
One brief conversation (with the girl on the phone).
One briefer conversation (with the woman nearby: "Why are you taking pictures of the cart?").
One long conversation (with the man upstairs).
Fourteen quarters.
One box of detergent.
One book on mathematics (not mine).
Two and a half chapters from the book of Daniel (mine).
Twelve songs from an iPod; three of them from the Beatles.
One hour forty-five minutes of time.
Less than a quarter tank of gas.
Twenty-seven pictures.
Five online.

Pearls Before Breakfast

2007-05-01T10:57:00.000-07:00

I do not plan on including many links on this blog, but from time to time, should I run across something topical (i.e. something about music, art, or life) and brilliant, I shall pass it along.

Very plainly, it's the story of what happened when a world famous virtuoso performed during rush hour at a Washington DC metro station. This, in itself, is of mild interest. But the ensuing commentary speaks volumes to American culture, beauty, and the state of art in society. I hope you can take the time and I would love to hear comments from others...

Pearls Before Breakfast

Jam Session and Pie

2007-04-28T10:29:00.000-07:00

2007-04-22T22:09:00.000-07:00

People and pets. (and red)

2007-04-15T21:23:00.000-07:00

This week's activities.

A Little Something...

2007-04-15T19:51:00.000-07:00

"Well," I concluded, "we seem to be pretty well agreed that the artist knows little or nothing about the subjects he represents and that the art of representation is something that has no serious value."