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| | LV is now a blog site… | | | Monday, August 4, 2008 (4:07 PM)
(I'm feeling nostalgic) | | Okay, since blogging is the medium of choice here now, I thought I’d do a short song. Yeah, it would be better in video format (with audio), but we can only work with what we have. So here goes…
Sung to the tune of “What Will We Do with the Drunken Sailor”
What will we do with the drunken admin!
What will we do with the drunken admin!
What will we do with the drunken admin!
Early in the morning!
Put him in charge of the LV web site!
Put him in charge of the LV web site!
Put him in charge of the LV web site!
Early in the morning!
And it’s yea hey and it’s down she’s sinking
Why don’t they share what they’re drinking?
Yea hey and a down we’re sinking
Please make mine a double
Thank you and happy blogging everyone.
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| | The thing about freedom of speech is… | | | | Sunday, July 27, 2008 (12:16 PM) | | The thing about freedom of speech is…
You have to allow those you disagree with to speak. I realize this is really annoying, but any attempt to silence them is abridging the principle. Sorry, but that’s the way it is – tough old world.
Yeah I know, some types of speech are not protected. The classic yelling “FIRE!” in a crowded theater is disallowed, as is slander (right, there’s one we never see). And of course, any words used as part of a crime are not protected - though this exception, kind of, strikes me as a sleazy way to ignore double jeopardy protection.
And briefly, there are certain combinations of words that we, as a civilization, have decided are too heinous, too dangerous, to allow. Typically such speech is about violence and directed towards our young. Using such words is a crime – and rightfully so.
Everything else is allowed. Someone may declare the real God is female and the source of all creative energy – and that’s okay. While another may claim to have a personal relationship with the son of the only true deity – and that’s okay too. No harm, no foul.
Still others may preach there is no such thing as a supreme being and may even make fun of the convictions of others. Sorry, it’s still allowed. All ideas (and all of us, even me) are candidates for critique. Live with it.
Shouting down a person who has an unpopular opinion is not exercising freedom of speech. Rather, it is exercising censorship. Plus, frankly, I want to hear from people who say crazy, poorly thought out and dumb things. I want to know who they are and what they are thinking - though, not all the time.
We are supposed to argue. A world where we all agree on all matters of the mind, body and soul is my idea of hell. Rest assured, we will disagree - it’s just a matter of how.
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| | Shooting Stars | | | Sunday, July 20, 2008 (7:09 PM)
(I'm feeling amused) | | There’s this certain kind of person who I’m pretty sure you’ve seen. You know, they appear seemingly out of nowhere, sometimes high in the sky, unmistakable; sometimes near the horizon like obscure specks of pale heat lightening – far off.
They catch your eye.
You’ve seen it - after a brief moment they begin to shine with an intensity of purpose. They hurl down their path with the abandon of a burning meteorite. The journey’s end is always the same.
Yeah, you’ve seen them, known them, perhaps you have loved them. I call them shooting stars.
Shooting stars show up, do something amazing (or even soul stirring) for awhile – even a long while. Then, suddenly, poof (or more likely splat) – they are gone.
Sometimes the excesses of success (or lack success) destroy their bodies or sprits. Other times, they simply burn out and are left with nothing more to say. And I believe many simply, one day, choose another path and fade into comfortable obscurity.
Yes people, shooting stars. And I suspect there are several right here – living among us.
fgj
7/20/2008
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| | Five Word Challenge | | | Saturday, July 12, 2008 (1:03 PM)
(I'm feeling silly) | | This is in response to CallMeHol’s Five Word Challenge. See her blog for further details. Actually see her blog anyway; she’s a fine writer.
The words for today are chimerical, confession, linguini, salamander, and trampoline.
Why don’t I just get the money from my rich wife you ask? I’ll tell you why.
As usual, she thought my plan was chimerical (the bitch), but I know it’s fully realizable. All I need is a little encouragement and some space – a few weeks at the most. Oh, and the financing of course – since she won’t float me a dime. (the cheap bitch)
Well okay, I realize that sometimes it appears like I’m just bouncing ideas off a trampoline. But, like I said in my written confession, the chocolate dog food was just poorly researched. And okay, the American consumer is probably not ready for any kind of insect stew, no less cricket gumbo. But this time I have a winner. I’m surprised no one has thought of this before now.
Just think about! For a small dollar investment you could own half of first company to offer the public salamander linguini.
fgj
7/12/2008
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| | one page | | | Thursday, July 10, 2008 (7:58 PM)
(I'm feeling rushed) | | Okay, so you have one page to do this thing; yeah, about two hundred and fifty words. So, you better make the opening punchy – set the hook.
Once they’re hooked, you will need to start softening them up right away. (not much time – only one page) Get the narrative going; establish a story line. With any luck, by now you’ll have set a cadence. Try to make each paragraph smoothly flow into the next.
You know, each sentence should both set the stage and tempt the reader. Make them want to find out what’s next. And always remember to vary the both the sentence and paragraph length, but keep it balanced. Oh, and try not to get monotonous. If you pay attention to the rhythm you can lead them into the story. Lull them.
Then say something off-center. You want to keep them guessing (or at least wondering).
You should get back to the rhythm right away. By now things should be established. So, start moving toward the crescendo. (Or at least allude to it and use a distraction to put it off a little longer.)
It may be a good idea to pepper the flow with small, off topic, sidelines. This tactic, when used well, can add color. Just remember, they must propel the story forward. Keep them short.
Finally, after a maybe quick setup, give them a clean punch line. Don’t be coy; don’t just imply it. After all, they did stick with you for one whole page.
fgj
7/10/2008
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| | Life’s Characters | | | Wednesday, July 9, 2008 (8:49 PM)
(I'm feeling cheerful) | | Back when I was married my wife managed a modern dance company. Please understand, dear reader, I know full well what an incredible oxymoron that phrase is. To manage a dance company is similar to herding cats or acting as defense council for the Senate ethics committee. A self contradicting job for sure, but that’s not what I’m here to talk about.
Now, most dancers don’t make a living from their art. No, most have one or more other gigs. A few have, shall I say, real jobs; you know office or retail stuff. Even fewer go over to the dark side and remove their clothing in front of strangers for pay - two or three nights a week.
It’s been my experience that most supplement with other theater related activities – things like clown (it’s amazing how much demand there is for good clowns) or novelty characters for seasonal festivals (apple princess, sausage kings – yes, really). One particularly enterprising group of five choreographed sword fights and rented themselves out to Medieval and Renaissance fairs. They were very entertaining, but I found it somewhat unnerving when they rehearsed in my living room. But, I again digress.
So you see, my two daughters grew up watching a never ending stream of costumed characters walking in through our front door. Leprechauns (in full green body tights) would stop by to pick up stage passes; radiant young women dressed as fairy queens, toting a lute in one hand and a bottle of Jim Beam in the other would drop in to “take the edge off” between performances. Microbuses loaded with young men dressed in armor and chain mail would show up in the middle of the night seeking a place to sleep.
My children grew up thinking this was normal. Though, I suspect, my neighbors did not. But, once again I’m getting off topic.
What I really want to talk about is Father’s Day - specifically, this last Father’s day.
This last Father’s day the two grown women who are my children invited me out for dinner and drinks. And, of course, it was my pleasure to accept. It’s now pretty rare for me to ‘throw back” a few with such lovely company.
So, I arrived on the appointed time at my oldest daughter’s third floor walk-up flat. Huffing and puffing (third floor!) I knocked on her door. Through my heavy breathing I could smell incense – sandalwood, and something else. When the door opened I found myself gazing at a young man dressed either as Marilyn Monroe or Madonna – I’m still not sure which.
“Ah, dude,” he said looking directly into my eyes. “You must be dad. Come on in dad.”
I hesitated for, perhaps, half a moment then stepped across the threshold.
“Daddy, that you?” sounded a voice from the bathroom. “I’ll be right out. Have a seat.”
I turned toward the living room and saw in front of me a clown (floppy shoes, black and yellow checkered vest), a ballerina (green leotard, pink tutu) and a guy dressed like Robin Hood strumming my daughter’s old Martin D15. Marilyn Madonna was behind me pouring him/herself three finger of twenty year old scotch.
“Ah, okay. Who are your friends?” I asked as I sat down next to the ballerina. (I never could resist a dancer, but that’s a story for another time.)
“Oh, this is Belle, Kurt and Jan,” my first child, Bri, answered as she joined us. “That’s Billy in the kitchen. They are The Lumbering Tulips – ya know. They do performance art.
They needed a place to practice and crash tonight so I invited them to stay here. They just fished up at the Alternate Arts Festival.”
I said hello to everyone and asked Marilyn Madonna (Billy) to pour me one. We drank some; we talked some. The guitar was passed around and we even sang some. (I played a Zeppelin number, newest song I know.) After about an hour or so Bri’s sister Amy arrived. She greeted everyone by name – apparently they were all friends. Then the three of us headed out for a night of further merriment, leaving The Lumbering Tulips to rehearse and drink Bri’s scotch. (Bless her heart.)
So we walked down those stairs (three floors!) I recall thinking while watching my girls descend before me. “My work is done here.”
fgj
7/9/2008
| | | | 129 Views | 10 Thumbs Up | 6 Comments | |
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| | Reacting to the environment – a slightly dark blog. | | | Thursday, June 19, 2008 (5:00 PM)
(I'm feeling cynical) | | “Honey, the children are squabbling again! Isn’t it your turn to deal with it?” Yes, I know this is a parental cop-out, but, damn it, it was her turn.
“What’s it about?” She called from the other room. Her voice had that above-it-all tone that annoyed the hell out of me.
“Little Nic took his ball and bat and went home mad,” chirped Maddie, our youngest. “The playground monitor wouldn’t let him talk to the other kids!”
“That’s silly,” I replied hoping to end it. Why was I dealing with this? It’s her turn!
“No really,” added Olive, our middle child. “Nic was telling us all about Mr. Mystic. About how he was a bad witch. Yeah, he eats kids!”
“That’ ridiculous,” I replied. Damn, I wish I could get some help with this shit from my significant other. She always tunes out when the kids get into it. Damn it!
“No really!” yelled out big Mason, the somewhat overbearing neighbor boy. “The playground is boring anyway. Let’s all go over to my place and play there.”
“No you don’t,” the, so far uninvolved, voice from the other room yelled back. “Your parents aren’t home”
Well at least she said something, even if it wasn’t very helpful. But after the briefest of pauses (couldn’t have been more than thirty seconds) they were back at it.
“He’s a witch! He’s a witch!” chanted Olive.
“No he’s not!” echoed some other kid I didn’t even know.
“You’re all thick! Let’s go to my place!” insisted big Mason.
“I want Nic to come back! I want Nic” wailed Maddie.”
On and on it went. Finally I called out again for help. I was thinking maybe if I sounded pathetic enough she might decide to give me a hand with these kids.
“Honey, please, the kids are squabbling again! Isn’t it your turn to deal with it?”
“No dear, the last one was mine, it’s your turn now,” was her reply.
“Well, officer, that’s when I got my gun.”
Drama
06/19/2008
| | | | 126 Views | 10 Thumbs Up | 6 Comments | |
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| | Fear of English Teachers | | | Thursday, May 1, 2008 (9:08 PM)
(I'm feeling cynical) | | The very worst teacher I have ever had was an English teacher. This is why I try to avoid them. Even while in a post-grad creative writing program I found myself avoiding these keepers of the language – no mean feat. So, in order to confront this fear I will now attempt to relive the defining incident through the written word. Ironic hey?
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Mrs. K must have been all of twenty five years old. Slim, attractive, brunette with pale blue eyes; she always spoke in complete sentences. She seemed the dream teacher to all the seventh grade boys. I just knew I was going to ace her class.
Language Arts (back then the politically correct term for English Class) had always been a snap. Whether it was writing a theme, discussing Dickens or even the dreaded spelling test it all came pretty easily. I felt I had mastered the required skills back in fifth (or maybe sixth) grade. “Bring it on,” I thought, “What’s it going to be this term – more gray British novels? Perhaps, diagramming compound complex sentences? Maybe further review of the parts or speech?” (Yawn) I had this English shit down.
Imagine my surprise and confusion when she announced, “Class, I expect each one of you to bring a sharp pencil and an eraser to class every day. I will ask you to show me these items at the beginning of each class. If you have them you will receive and an A; if you don’t you will receive an F. At the end of the term this activity will be counted as one third of your grade.”
I recall thinking, “What the fuck!” (Yes we said “what the fuck” back in the sixties – just not so frequently.) I just couldn’t believe she would use daily possession of a pencil and eraser as the basis for an English grade. I don’t really recall deciding not to play that game, but I did.
So the game began. At the start of every class Mrs. K would call out each student’s name. And each student would obediently raise the requisite pencil and eraser. Well, every student but me. Now please understand, I never really decided to be blatantly rebellious. I just could not take the requirement seriously. Surely she would grade me based upon my writing, my spelling, my class participation. Not some arbitrary possessions. Right?
Well, maybe not. After several weeks of passive resistance I began to notice a marked change in my academic fortune. Seemingly, I was never called upon in class, even when I was the only one with my hand up. My themes were handed back full of red symbols and circles. Strange new critiques were scrawled over my words. “You are too young to be using absolute constructions!” was among the most memorable. I was once caught writing “That being the case, screw you.” on top of that comment. My parents were not amused.
My mom began handing me a pencil and eraser as I left for school in the morning. Somehow, between home and English class I would always lose them. My father threatened me with St John’s military school. I figured he was too cheap to spend the money. The vice principal gave me the standard “You are so smart, it would be a pity to waste it” lecture – several times. But, I just could not let go, and neither could she.
So it came to pass that I failed seventh grade English. I had to go to summer school. I was taken out of the “Academic Honors” program and placed in program for “less talented” children. But ultimately, it wasn’t so bad. The “less talented” kids were actually more fun (especially the girls) and the lowered expectations made getting good grades incredibly easy. And over the course of a life, seventh grade English is of little importance.
But, I have avoided English teachers ever since.
So, there you have it – a basis for a slightly strange fear. Oh, and one more thing: Mrs. K - this being the case, still screw you.
| | | | 124 Views | 12 Thumbs Up | 7 Comments | |
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| | Overbooked Time | | | Saturday, February 23, 2008 (12:47 PM)
(I'm feeling lazy) | | People -
I have a maddening tendency to overbook my time. I suspect a few of you can relate.
Even after filtering your content with shotgun editing and squeezing it into a tiny web window the signs ring out. You may be here, but you actually should be doing something else. I know I should.
For example, here’s the list of things I wanted to do today:
1. Go grocery shopping to replenish my stock of frozen and otherwise prefab food. (I really should learn how to cook sometime before I die.)
2. Get to a big box store to stock up on all the consumer stuff we consume. (No Walmart!)
3. Brush Lulu. She has begun to shed; perhaps spring is on the way.
4. Buy a new brush for Lulu since she ate her old one yesterday.
5. Call vet to find out how many bushes a dog can eat before some sort of treatment is required.
6. Shoot the footage for the collaborative video I’m trying to do with Chig.
7. Come up with an idea for the collaborative video for Chig.
8. Kick off the three machine simulation for work. As a smoke test, let it run for at least 24 contiguous hours. Check the logs every few hours; keep an eye out for iterative or recursive error situations that could lead to a deadly embrace.
If you understood the above paragraph I can recommend a qualified therapist.
9. Practice dulcimer for next video – maybe, something Irish.
10. Walk the dog – or else.
11. Call Mom – she will be pissed because Hillary lost the primary.
It’s nearly 2:00pm and here’s what I’ve accomplished so far today.
1. Got out of bed
2. Drank coffee
3. Watched Live Video
4. Showered and got dressed at around noon.
5. Watched an old episode of the Mary Tyler Moore show (the one where she does
dancing exercises and meets her downstairs neighbor.)
6. Played with Lulu
7. Brushed Lulu with one of my brushes; decided that I don’t have enough hair to justify more than one brush.
8. Called Mom – she was pissed. (“This country is afraid of strong women,” she declared. Perhaps she’s right.)
9. Wrote this blog
Hmm, maybe I have a time management issue.
Well, got to go now - think I’ll rearrange the furniture in my studio.
f
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