Favorite thanksgiving story...

From Grandma Prijatel:
In response to Millhouse's [my sister's dog] Batman Halloween costume...
"I used to dress up Twinkle [her former schnauzer] all the time. One time I dressed Twinkle up like a little cowgirl (laughs). She had on her little denim jeans and shirt, and her little 'kerchief. I put her on a leash and took her over to the dog park and all the neighborhood kids got a real hoot out of her, thought she was really something. And then she got worms. I never took her to that dog park again."

I have figured out the ultimate late 90's/early 2000's anti-climatical situation...

'Eiffel 65' on a Segway, drinking Pepsi Blue and discussing Y2K, holding a 50-state quarter map.

Starry Night Over the Rhone

I feel like I have to justify any blog post I do/state that it's beneficial or funny so it doesn't look like I'm thinking "hey everyone, come see how great I am!" I am not going to do that (instead, I'll end up inserting a more sophisticated disclaimer right here, right?-Take that awareness of the awareness!) But here's assignment for advanced composition: name something that worries you, and construct an essay with that thing and Van Gogh's Starry Night Over the Rhone. 

...
Depending on lighting and the quality of the camera when the picture was taken, the overall tone of Starry Night Over the Rhone is blue or green. I think it’s green, but the closest I'll ever get to it are search engines and digital images of different sizes and shades. My favorite version is deep, sickly green; it has the calming effect of completion and symmetry. Rather than abrupt transitions or sudden cutoffs, the distinctive lines are blurred and lights fade softly. The subjects of the picture are calm, quiet under a sky of stars that look germy and the streetlights reflecting down like static waves, like trails of sneezes.

The sneeze is the release of tension; it cleanses the nasal cavity. Sneezing is the body’s natural defense against viral infections, pathogens and other harmful particles. It can be induced by extremely minty tastes and or an overstuffed stomach. There is also what is known as the photic sneeze reflex, when exposure to light overwhelms the nerves and contracts the pupils. The sneeze is designed to cope with overstimulation. To sum it up neatly, it clears the head.

The sneeze is powerful; it’s been called ‘a force akin to a fire hose,’ recorded to expulse air at the power of 135 feet per second. Stifling something of that magnitude has its effects. Suppressing a sneeze can burst the eardrums and possibly spread germs the body expels into the sinus tissues. Stifling can cause the face to swell, the bleeding of the retinas, and can even rupture dormant brain aneurisms. To stifle the sneeze is to violently reprimand our body for its natural reactions.

I’m supposed to analyze the painting, but I’ll allow Starry Night Over the Rhone to carry me away with it. My eyes will involuntarily close, I’ll allow the composition and components to grant me harmony, clear away my mind's dissonant particles.

PSA: Don't stifle sneezes, friends. I hate it.

Why We Should Read Hamlet...

Background: My Western Literature professor (Futrell) decided on whim that we had to write a 1 page paper on 'Why Everyone Should Read Hamlet' (For the record, I have had to do an assignment similar to this every time i have read Hamlet).  I wrote this response; I thought I would put it up here cause I thought there was a chance it might get you to laugh. I figure there's a small chance that at least Nate Reed might find it funny....

Why We Should Read Hamlet

Although Hamlet, Prince of Denmark is a book specifically designed for a young male audience, it is a book that every teenager, both male and female, should read! In a sex-saturated culture, from billboards and advertisements to clothing, Hamlet provides practical tips for young men on how to get the grips on their thought-life, wandering eyes and their wandering minds, and outlines a realistic plan for boys on how to stay pure.

William Shakespeare, author of Hamlet writes the play to challenge boys to live up to the standard of Ephesians 5:3-”“there must not be even a hint of sexual immorality.” Shakespeare addresses the hard-to-discuss topics and answers the tough questions many boys have, but are afraid to ask about masterbation, sexuality, and ‘how far is too far.’

But this play isn’t only a great read for guys. Hamlet is great for girls as well, providing a picture of how the male mind works and learn how they can help guys stay pure as well.

Hamlet is a great read or gift for any person, small group, or bible study. Combined with the numerous discussion guides available online, Hamlet, Prince of Denmark is a helpful and beneficial resource on winning the battle against temptation.

*Update: I received credit for this paper.

Tentative copy of 'I hate birds.' Feel free to make suggestions.

 I hate birds

I had never seen Winston before that economics class, but no one else knew him either. He was a weird presence: that schnauzerous name combined with a bored face and an ambiguous hefty build--“Is he on the football team?" "No.”-- Really nothing about him was distinct: he sat relatively toward the back of room C35 between 9:04-9:52 the second semester of my third year of high school, two-thousand seven in the year of our Lord. 

The hideous florescent colors public schools paint their walls with promote attentiveness, which is why C35 had been graced with the finest off-whites, sea-foamed greens and siennas. Even if the allegation is true, the room was so comfortably warm, the desks were already broken-in, and those florescent lights were much too bright for morning eyes. 

It didn't help that Dr. Peterson was as turtle-like as the next high school Economics teacher. He had a beaky philtrum, skinny neck and underbelly sweater vests, coupled with a pinched voice. His teaching philosophy was to strongly encourage discussion, and therefore his grading policy solely on participation. He learned early in his career that the only way to fight against the elements was to phrase nearly everything he said as a question; the twenty of us would wait for the moments we could raise our hands and feign passion on some economic issue we knew nothing about so that Dr. Peterson would check our name off three times on the attendance sheet-except for Winston. Winston never participated; he never uttered a word. While we all rushed to stockpile our grade and hear ourselves speak, Winston sat like a stone. An unexplained and unaffected elephant-shaped stone that only I seemed to be baffled by. I needed to know what his deal was: where did he come from? Why had I never seen him before? What sort of things did he like to do? Was he on drugs? Was he a total idiot that had no idea what was going on, or was he some sort of genius that was so intelligent, he found no use taking part in our half-assed conversations? 

“By a show of hands, how many of you know what the state bird is?” Dr. Peterson said one unparticular day. “The state bird? the state bird is the cardinal. Yes, the cardinal. Some people like to joke and say that the other state bird is the orange barrel, the orange barrel meaning road construction, and those barrels, that seem to just drop in for half the year”

Then Winston spoke. “I hate birds,” he said.

Dr. Peterson went on with the lecture. He said the point was to illustrate supply and demand economics, like when a trend suddenly is in high-demand and everyone has to have one of something, and the prices fluctuate.

I was disoriented: that illustration had absolutely nothing to do with our conversation. It tied in so loosely to the subject matter that I thought some sort of divine intervention had just taken place. But what did it mean? Why did he hate birds? What horrific wrong did birds commit? What could birds have done that had lodged itself so strongly in his psyche, that he could not remain silent on this issue? What had birds done that he just couldn't take anymore? Is 'birds' symbolic? 

Winston might've worked in a pet shop last summer. Among his lengthy list of duties would be to clean the bird room. Every day, he'd enter their congested quarters that was louder than Eden, inhaling their tufts and cleaning up their shit. He would wonder if the birds could even understand one another or if each obnoxious squawk or twittering outburst was only an attempt to make their presence known, to capture anyone's attention long enough to be registered or affirmed. He hated cleaning up their shit.

Maybe when Winston was ten his parents got divorced. On the day that they told him, they might have called him inside from the backyard, where he was watching the bird feeder he made in class the day before. He had slathered peanut butter over a pine cone and rolled it in bird seed and now twirled on an oak in the backyard. He just stared at his parents and the cordial distance between them on the couch, not sure what to think, and he would have wished the birds hadn't flown away whenever he tried to come closer, before he was called inside. Now whenever he thinks of birds, all he can remember is their standoffishness.

Maybe his girlfriend broke up with him on the bench in the park where they made out for the first time. It was dark then, but this time it was early afternoon, and instead of warm winds, serene stars and his mouth on hers, the pond was mephitic and the bench was surrounded by a minefield of limp green turds. She probably said “It’s not you, it’s me,” but she was tired of him, and he never opened up to her, anyway. He would awkwardly reach out to touch her shoulder and she'd flinch. Then he would've sat there long after she left, watching geese run after one another's tails sauntering over to him, desiring crusts of bread over companionship.

Maybe Winston hated that birds were always in the peripheral, out of reach, elusive. Maybe he hated that whenever he tried to mimic their caws, they seemed unimpressed with his efforts. Maybe they just reminded him of something that continues as he gets older: that he feels very unable to connect with anyone and that he is unable to communicate effectively, and it makes his voice falter and his words jumble. Maybe they reminded him that he's confined to one way of observing the world and all he'd ever be was someone else's peripheral. It's completely absurd that I will never know Winston outside of 'I hate birds' and nor would he, if he even paid attention, know me outside of my tally marks. 

Winston doesn't require faith in the thought that despite fragmentation, muddled words and dissonance, it is possible and holy that we might be able to receive a glimpse of a person. He probably doesn't find that miraculous.

Gilead

"There was a young couple strolling along half a block ahead of me. The sun had come up brilliantly after a heavy rain, and the trees were glistening and very wet. On some impulse, plain exuberance, I suppose, the fellow jumped up and caught hold of a branch, and a storm of luminous water came pouring down on the two of them, and they laughed and took off running, the girl sweeping water off her hair and her dress as if she were a little bit disgusted, but she wasn't. It was a beautiful thing to see, like something from a myth. I don't know why i thought of that now, except perhaps because it is easy to believe in such moments that water was made primarily for blessing, and only secondarily for growing vegetables or doing the wash. I wish I had paid more attention to it. My list of regrets are unusual, but who can know that they are, really. This is an interesting planet. It deserves all the attention you can give it."- Marilynne Robinson, Gilead.

Thomas Kinkade

*Reason #13 Why I hate Mentor, Ohio:

I was driving past my former bank when I noticed a large, bold-print sign strewn across the 'art gallery' next to it.

This sign read "THOMAS KINKADE GRAND OPENING."

Aw, Ef.

*For those of you who are not familiar with Thomas Kinkade...

-Thomas Kinkade is the smell of old women, and not nostalgic baking grammas- the bitter ones who heckle over a dime on miniature glass baskets at garage sales: the staunch smell of mothballs and senility.

-Thomas Kinkade is the sound of an elementary school Recorder recital.

-Thomas Kinkade is the third bite of that second Cadbury Creme Egg hitting your stomach.

-Thomas Kinkade is the old sweatshirt with the bear in a rocking chair printed on it for sale at the Salvtion Army that is so faded, oversized, and lame that not even scenesters will buy it for irony.

(Interjection: I think we should start doing Thomas Kinkade jokes like these all the time. Chuck Norris is old.)

-Thomas Kinkade is the douchebag responsible for paintings like these:

So the other night, my friends Mark and Brett and I were discussing how Mr. Kinkade is the worst painter ever and wondering what he is like in real life, so we took a trip over to his Wikipedia page. This is what was found:

"In 2006 John Dandois, Media Arts Group executive, recounted a story that on one occasion ("about six years ago") Kinkade became drunk at a Siegfried and Roy magic show in Las Vegas and began shouting "Codpiece! Codpiece!" at the performers. "

"The Los Angeles Times has reported that some of Kinkade's former colleagues, employees, and even collectors of his work say that he has a long history of cursing and heckling other artists and performers. The Times further reported that he openly groped a woman's breasts at a South Bend, Indiana sales event, and mentioned his proclivity for ritual territory marking through urination, once relieving himself on a Winnie the Pooh figure at a Disney site while saying "This one’s for you, Walt."

-WHAT THE HECK. 

I am actually quite impressed. If anything, Kinkade has more credit in my book. I mean, I used to think he was only a horrible artist, but the guys gotta know what he is doing: he can't be all that  much of a total unrealistic idiot if he also has the gull to urinate on Winnie the Pooh, you know? Maybe Kinkade is actually a mastermind who has us all fooled.

Well played, Thomas, you sick freak.

Thanks, Mom and Dad

Adam Sandler in "The Wedding Singer"

Lord have mercy.

Not quite, Grandma. Not quite.

Evaluation of a study carrel, of which I've spent my Saturday in...

*Pros of Study Carrel Usage:
-quiet
-'work mode' much easier to conjure
-right balance of business-like and personal-touch
-access to computer at my convenience


*Cons of Study Carrel Usage:
-computer is F-ing slow.
-tight spatial quarters/soft color scheme akin to mother's womb; naps are encouraged
-I am lonely :(
-Library hours= still terrible


Special thanks to j bolander for access to carrel.

Arts and Crafts!!~~~~

How to make a D. Gresh Sign (Inspired by Sean Ewing)
1)Print out picture provided below
2) Liberally apply tape to back of sign
3) Stick on insides of your dorm's bathroom stalls
4) Enjoy!

Melodramatic Blog Entry #1

All the glory when he took our place,

but he took my shoulders and he shook my face

and he takes and he takes and he takes

-Sufjan.

I wish I could write something as thorough and profound as that, but that itself says so much so well, and the current state of things has rendered me lyrically impotent. Life can feel so not good sometimes. That's all, I guess.

Oh hey.

I quit facebook because I am exhaustively self-absorbed.

So now, question; if self-absorption is my motive for quitting facebook, is constructing a small shrine within the internets dedicated solely to the public showings of my incoherent ramblings/insignificant thoughts really an okay idea?

Probably not. 

We'll see. I ate nearly a whole box of Life cereal today. Its really good with yogurt.

Ps- I think if you haven't seen this, you should, its really funny.