Monday, 25 February 2008

  • Oh, by the way.


    ... hello? 

    * taps mike *

    HELLO?

    Oh, there you are. All two of you, still on Xanga...

    Go check out Kritik Magazine [ link fixed ], the publication that I've started with three of my friends ( we launched on Friday, whoo-hoo! ).

    I'm the "Editor-In-Chief" which apparently means I am required to write stuff frequently or I'm forced to get really mad at me.

    We're pretty proud of it so far, and the results have been encouraging.  Let me know what you think!

    -Jennifer



Thursday, 04 January 2007

  • Currently Listening
    The Sunlandic Twins
    By Of Montreal
    see related


    have yourself a merry little pilgrim . . .


    Well, it's a New Year at the Carden house, which means it's out with the old, in with the new and all that good newish yearish stuff.

    In short, it's time to put up the Thanksgiving decorations. 

    You think I'm kidding, but we Cardens generally abide by a specific holiday theme circa Christmas. Last year, it was "Deck the Halls and Maybe Your Aunt," followed closely by 2nd place, "O Little Town of Extreme Dysfunction." 

    This year, my brother Jason received the top honors in our traditional "Cynical and Depressing Holiday Song Rip-Off / Holiday Theme" contest with a strong entry: "Squanto Under the Mistletoe."  I submitted  "Can We Please Have Real Eggnog This Year?" but was disqualified when everyone realized that was an actual  request, not a contest entry.

    Anddddd yes.  It's at this point in her reading my mother begins to panic in earnest, having experienced doubts about this entry's positive impact on my  family's reputation and future marriageability as early as the "Deck the Aunt" crack.  Just for you, Mom, I will not say "crap" in this entire post ( um, other than that time ), which means I may still secure a husband while yet unwrinkled, despite my father's wit and sailor's mouth.

    Anyway, our extended family traipsed to our house for Thanksgiving this year, and while I was in Virginia learning to sleep again after midterms, my mother was slathering our house with fall leaves and gourds and pilgrims and actual remnants of the original Thanksgiving feast, which may or may not have been passed around as hors d’oeuvres.  I’m not going to say it was overboard, because it looks beautiful, but when I came home December 21st, I found my Christmas spirit of consumerism lapsing into thanksgiving, which was just disconcerting. And I think Google had just put our house on global warming level orange.

    All the Thankgiving stuff had stayed up because my mom had been working a lot and didn't have time to decorate, and she and I  left for New York from Virginia on the 17th, knowing we wouldn't return 'til right before Christmas. As I have three very heterosexual brothers who could care less about Christmas decor, the Thanksgiving glory stayed up, and the Christmas tubs stayed in the attic.

    I had a few observations about the Thanksgiving glory when I got home. Looking at a few of our tables, which were duly decorated with idyllic thanksgiving tableaux, all pilgrims and Indians and plastic food and orange, I realized that scale had been entirely disregarded.  If I were Squanto, I would be very, very upset by the fact that me and my kinsmen were nestled with Our-Future-Funny-Hatted-Enemies between GIANT GOURDS and MIRACLE GROWN CORN sized to make me look less like a fearsome, yet caring savage and more like a small, fair child wearing buckskin pajamas and poorly applied eyeliner.

    I mean, seriously, do they not make figurines that LOOK Indian?  Is tan paint in really short supply, 'cause of the oil shortage or something? We had a baby Jesus figurine a few years back with very Jewish blonde hair, fair skin and blue eyes. Blue eyes. My brothers and I referred to it as The Little Hitler Child, but then again, Santa was also kneeling in front of its cradle holding a bible, so historical accuracy wasn't really a major player.

    I suggested that this year we COMBINE all of decorations in the Christmas spirit of togetherness. The Pilgrims, Baby Hitler, and the Wise Men. Frankincense, Easter Eggs and Indian Venison. And, of course, Squanto Under the Mistletoe.  All huddled together in a mixture of snow and Easter astroturf.

    My idea was, shockingly, rejected, and so we ended up opening presents around the Thanksgiving goose on our wooden coffee table, which resembles a Christmas tree in that it's made of wood. And our couches are green. And we have red blankets, so hey, close. And, in unrelated news, our den is decorated with approximately 470 roosters, which I have come to believe are one of the most frightening animals figuring in home decor. Beak, pointy nails and that wattle / comb thing, which has obviously led to generations of pompous compensation via rage and marital infidelity... cute?

    But hey, despite my love of everything bright, cheery and mistletoe-y - I am like a CHILD around Christmas; it's really quite sad - I've decided our method of avoiding that post-holiday season depression is simple, yet genius.  Instead of spending 12 hours carefully wrapping mouse figurines in 147 sheets of paper so that they, in their $2.00 glory, WILL NEVER EVER LOSE A CERAMIC WHISKER, just… don’t ever get them out.

    Leave them in the attic.  Imagine what they'd look like on the table. Think of sugarplums, etc. That encourages Christmas spirit, because, I mean, you know you have them.  I am not sure why you have them, however, since small disease infested rodents don’t necessarily convey the glory of Christmas in my mind, but I get it, Christmas is that time where we accept things we don’t, normally, when families come together, and when women find mice to be adorable Christmas spirit disease infested woodland creatures.  I won’t go into my thoughts about Nutcrackers- but seriously, an actual army regulation-sized unit of Nutcrackers is frightening, not festive.

    Anyway, although this year's Christmas somewhat unorthodox ( My brother Jason and I picked out each other's presents in front of each other. Which is awesome, by the way, 'cause you KNOW they like it, until the saleslady asks how long you've been married, and then it's kind of more awesome 'cause of the funny ), it was great.  I was glad Squanto and his merry band of ceramic indians were able to join us, and I'm not going to lie, he and that one Pilgrim(ess?) looked pretty cozy in the shadow of the Gourd that Ate Santa.

    Now if we can heave all the fall leaves into tubs before Easter rolls around, we'll be in good shape for Thanksmas next year.

    . . .

    ETA: I've been researching why girls aren't so much with the funny. I'll let you know soon, I promise.

Saturday, 23 December 2006

  • Currently Listening
    Love
    By The Beatles
    see related


    Rejected Rocky Balboa Taglines


    My most recent source of amusement, from my beloved Fametracker:

    "It ain't over 'til it's over" is the stirring tagline for the new, now-older-than-ever Rocky Balboa movie, the sixth in the Rocky series and the first since 1990. Of course, Rocky is a beloved movie character -- but people were making "Rocky 16" jokes back when they made the fourth one of these. Also, Stallone turned sixty this year. So how do you market an unnecessary sequel with an implausibly aged star? And when did Rocky get all that work done on his face? As Fametracker has uncovered, the movie's marketers ran through a bevy of excellent ideas for titles and taglines before they finally got it just right:

    Rocky 6: The Final Chapter, Unless It Does Really Well

    No limits. No rules. No solids.

    It's about never knowing when to quit -- even when you're ahead.

    This one's for Mickey, the guy who died three movies ago.

    One last shot. One last fight. One last chance for permanent brain damage.

    Don't worry. This time Rocky Jr. isn't played by Stallone's son. Now it's the guy from Heroes.

    Because no one ever asked Rocky to be the spokesman for a grill.

    All the original fire. None of the original facial features.

    It ain't over 'till the old guy boxes.

    Hey, Mr. T came back too.

    Don't listen to anyone who says you can't achieve your dream, especially if they're doctors.

    Rocky Balboa: Because Audiences in Lucrative Overseas Markets Are Less Familiar With the Idea that a Sixty-Year-Old Man Boxing Professionally Is Ludicrous

    Because Cop Land tanked.

    Question: What does Rocky wear when he fights? Answer: Depends.

    Rocky Balboa: If you think this looks stupid, just wait for the new Rambo

    Because the one thing the plastic surgeons couldn't change was his heart.

    Anything Bruce Willis can do, I can do older.

    Because sometimes punch-drunk is just another way of saying "hero."

    Rocky 6: Bum Fights



Thursday, 02 November 2006

  • Currently Listening
    Begin to Hope
    By Regina Spektor
    see related


    unpopular mechanics, or "how i write xanga entries" . . .



    I see all you Thomas' out there. Already doubting.  Thinking "No way she has an actual approach... I read this stuff. I should know."

    And granted, unless you call two liters of Dr. Pepper and extended couch time an “approach,” you’re right on target.  

    [  And, on a side note, if you gleaned conclusive evidence from that sentence for the direct link between college and weight gain,  you're also right on target.  ]

    Anyway, I do have a general mode of activity leading up to the point where I post.  And I’m thinking that disclosing that mode will probably aid you in your attempts to understand exactly where in the shallow end of the gene pool I was born... and keep you from wondering why the heck I write about the things I do.

     

    . . .


    The following takes place the night before I have an exam scheduled or a paper due. Like, tonight.

    9:00 p.m.  Pry study guide / essay outline from clawlike fingers.  Rub eyes, which are screaming, "THANK YOU FOR STARING AT A LAPTOP IN THE DARK ALL DAY."  Hope I still have 20/10 vision. Need a break. Think about writing a Xanga post.  Ponder “duty to fans.”  Wonder if that's pretentious.

    9:01 p.m.  Read last few posts. Wonder how I manage to write such lengthy pieces about spam and bugs. Wonder if I used to be funny. Read archives.  Conclude that I have grown increasingly less funny with age.  Worry about future and ability to snag a husband. 

    9:04 p.m.  Come to terms with the fact that humor isn’t my thing.  Tweeze eyebrows, cultivate charm, return to study guide / paper.

    . . .
     

    2:45 a.m.  Pry study guide / essay outline from clawlike fingers. Rub eyes, which are screaming "THANK YOU FOR STARING AT A LAPTOP IN THE DARK ALL NIGHT LONG." Cling to hopes of 20/20 vision.  Think about writing a post.  Ponder duty to fans. Come up with philosophy behind the relationship between blogger and the blog reader involving both Nietzsche and J.R Packer.  Share said phillosophy with everyone online, that they might marvel at my genius.  Consider switching to Theory.

    3:20 a.m.  Read last few posts. Wonder HOW I managed to write such lengthy pieces about SPAM and BUGS?!  I am HILARIOUS!  Forget journnalism, I am going to BLOG for the REST OF MY LIFE. I WILL BE THE QUEEN OF THE BLOGGERS IN MY XXL SWEATSHIRT with CHEETO DUST COATING MY FACE AND IT WON'T MATTER! 

    Come up with topic. Write, write, write, giggle, write, write.

    3:35 a.m.  Proof post. Laugh hysterically. Plan to post the next day, after a good night’s 2 hours of sleep.  I am awesome.

    5:45 a.m.  Wake up on couch amongst approx 47 empty cans of Dr. Pepper.  Check paper.  6 pages to go before 8 o' clock.  Screw academics, I'm going to be a blogger!

    ( Hi, Mom!  My education is not being wasted! Nor do I stay up late, ever.  This is all hyperbole! ).

    Groggily proof post.  Realize I’ve written 2,000 incomprehensible words about my favorite pen, My Little Pony, the toaster, Frank Hardy and Styrofoam “poppie thingies.”  Vow never to write after 2:00.  Or ever again.  Feel renewed sense of duty to correctly capture the spirit of the Emergent Church in a 10 page research paper.  Go back to sleep.
     

    . . .

    Yeah, so basically, that’s my method.  It aint perfect, but it keeps things nice and sparse around here, except for those few posts which actually go through in that 3:00-4:00a.m. window.  For which I am truly, truly sorry.  If you had but seen the ones I didn’t post, you would appreciate the gravity of my benevolence.


Tuesday, 31 October 2006

  • Currently Listening
    Nice and Nicely Done
    By The Spinto Band
    see related


    Concert Etiquette, part one . . .


    Dear Indie Children of the Corn,

    All things considered, I am glad you attended The Decemberists’ show Monday night.  You were there, after all.  You were not watching The Pussycat Dolls [ who I believe to be mute Victoria’s Secret mannequins outfitted with clever, clever engineering ] undulate their mechanical way into the hearts of the unsuspecting American consumer. You were not paying to see Fergie “The Man” Pea historicize her “London Bridge” in desperate entendre hack romance novel writers would reject on grounds of "complete lack of subtlety."

    No, you were at the same show as I was— a darn good show in which multi-talented musicians performed well-written, original music. Stylishly.  Fully clothed.  With only a tiny bit of tasteful undulation.

    Now maybe we had different reasons for attending the show, and maybe this introductory section will be the only part of this piece in which I attempt to be charitable, but hey, golf claps and faint praise all around, okay?  Bask for a moment.

    . . . . .


    Ok, on to the business at hand.  While I appreciate the fact that you, a small pack of walking prepubescent hormones, actually attended a decent show, I would have rather have remained unenlightened as to your presence in my immediate vicinity.

    You see, kids, there is a sort of unwritten etiquette for concert goers… kind of a natural law apprehended by just about anyone with a modicum of self-awareness and consideration for their surroundings.  


    Obviously, I'm not describing you.  Thus, I’m attempting codification:

    1. Thou shalt not attempt to push past those nearest to the stage in order to acquire a better vantage point during the first few minutes of the headliners’ show.


    Those situated in the immediate area around the stage have earned their place by arriving early and tolerating a marginally talented and / or wretched opening band. 

    You, conversely, did not appear until after the opening band.  That you might better understand why this is important, let me tell you a little bit about Monday’s opener, Lavender Diamond. 

    Picture a young, drunk Loretta Lynn on Valium,  pontificating in dulcet sing-song tones about her junior high experiences, The Cure, and her inability to smell the audience, all while wearing your grandmother’s prom dress and her great grandmother’s jewelry ... swaying and pirouetting in time to some imaginary drunken ballet directed by Elizabeth Taylor.

    Yeah.  For the first five minutes, my only thoughts circled around the hope that she’d shaved her underarms.

    It’s not that she didn’t have a pretty voice - she really did.  But when she sang, she contorted her face to the point where she could have passed for an extra in The Great Mouse Detective.  And when she stopped singing, it got worse.  Think desperate Garden State aficionado intent on emulating Natalie Portman’s character’s quirks with none of her charm…

    Oh, and add a side of blow.  

    “See how charming and unpretentious I am?” soon became “SEE HOW CHARMING AND UNPRETENTIOUS I AM?!! LA LA LA LA LUU LLAAAA! *cartwheel*”

    The thing is, I stood through her act – I clapped when she finished, and I waited ( in heels ) for the Decemberists to come on. For a long time. 

    You did not.

    No, you showed up as The Decemberists took the stage, and then, with the innocence of youth, attempted to push past both my friends and my newfound show-friends.  We experienced a moment of group bonding, traded looks of utter disgust full of our  parents' age-old "Kids these days" sentiment and formed a wall of cynicism and distrust -- making sure Generation Why Won't You Stop Talking didn't trespass our borders. 

    Because, um, our view of the rockstar would have been seriously obstructed. 

    Ahem.  And, judging by the fact that I repeatedly heard the world "grillz" with an emphasis on the 'z' used unironically from the sector behind the Society of Old Angry People ( or  S.O.A.P- as in what we'd like to use to wash out your mouth ), our minds would have taken quite the hit as well. I'd rather lose brain cells in far more entertaining ways, thank you.  And don't think all that loud quoting of Pitchfork made me feel better about you, your brain and your eyeliner, because, yeah, I was actually BORN when Justin Timberlake was originally popular, and thus your dissertation on his current state of indie cred rings a tad bit empty.  But I digress.

    I realize that my points have been a little subtle here, so I'll recap:   1 )  No attempt to arrive early = no cush front row spot. 2 ) If you attempt to garner that cush ront row spot, everyone around you will hate you, and grow to love each other.  This is bad news for you.  One well-sloshed beer and it's all over for that lacey-webby-it's-not-fashion-it's-art thing you're sporting as a bodice.  3 ) Man, I sound old.


    2. Thou shalt not pretend that you are elbowing your way past me on your own, coaxing me into a false state of security and grace, then “save” a spot with your elbows, bad breath and sheer mass for your boyfriend and 14 of your annoying, unsanitary or unconscionably tall friends to join you as there is “PLENTY OF ROOM. SERIOUSLY!!!  THEY DON’T CARE.  I CANNOT MAKE OUT WITH YOU IN AN INVASIVE PUBLIC MANNER IF YOU ARE THAT FAR AWAYYYY. ”

    Oh, how we do care.  And we care more when you begin to make out in an invasive public manner, ‘cause seriously, no one wants to see that. I’m glad you’re his adolescent Red Right Ankle and he’s your teenage Engine Driver, but… take it outside.   Like, to Cambodia.  If I wanted a tongue-bath, I’d have asked, and to be frank, he doesn't look like he's enjoying it either.  You're ruining both romance and a good song for me at the same time ( Much like Lavender Diamond! Connection! ), and that, well... that I can't forgive.

    Also, that Cambodia outing?  Take your friends with you.  I stepped politely aside for you, not your colony, and I swear by the fact that I am 3 feet taller than you that I will, I WILL become That Person who helpfully yells out song suggestions for the band, just in case they've not managed to come up with a set list sometime in the duration of the tour, or, you know, have managed to entirely forget their repertoire.  "PLAY MARINER'S REVENGE SONG!!!!"  in your ear. All night.  Those who take advantage may often experience side effects of inner ear bleeding, intense frustration, and, eventually, despair.  Weigh the oppportunity cost very carefully.


    That's it for now.

    Jennifer, for all of the S.O.A.P.



  • Currently Listening
    The Crane Wife
    By The Decemberists
    yep, still listening. saw them last night!
    see related

    a South American cheese wheel flies into a rage . . .


    Yeah, so a few of you insinuated that I made up the content of my last, extremely long spam-email post.


    I didn't.


    Frankly, I'm just not this creative:


    "Most people believe that a dolphin pours freezing cold water on a tape recorder, but they need to remember how thoroughly the cloud formation beams with joy. For example, some avocado pit indicates that a tabloid competes with a power drill. A scythe secretly admires an incinerated apartment building.

    Most people believe that some salad dressing feverishly makes a truce with a roller coaster behind a CEO, but they need to remember how single-handledly a South American cheese wheel flies into a rage [ Editors Note:  DON'T WE ALL?! ].

    A defendant beyond another grain of sand is worldly. The mitochondrial power drill wisely competes with the usually highly paid globule. The skyscraper of the bartender flies into a rage, because a precise girl scout throws a phony chestnut at a spider. Indeed, a girl scout near the recliner laughs and drinks all night with the girl scout related to a fairy [ Editor's Note:  True story. ].

    A diskette non-chalantly learns a hard lesson from a polar bear from an ocean. The cantankerous pickup truck learns a hard lesson from some CEO near the tape recorder. [ Oh snap! ] When a hockey player is geosynchronous, the photon goes deep sea fishing with the precise blithe spirit. A psychotic wheelbarrow makes love to a pickup truck. When the pathetic grand piano is feline, the tornado overwhelmingly makes love to the crank case of some traffic light [ Editor's Note: ... ].

    Now and then, a movie theater conquers an annoying mating ritual [ Yup. Thank you, Weatherford High School, for making The Lion King 'R.' Don't think I've forgotten. ]. The anomaly toward the cloud formation hesitates, because a garbage can around some tomato non-chalantly organizes an abstraction about the razor blade [ No! ]. 

    A pork chop defined by a razor blade, another tomato, and some cyprus mulch living with a cowboy are what made America great! Any plaintiff can carelessly require assistance from a skinny cashier, but it takes a real scooby snack to dance with the power drill [ Darn right. ]. Now and then, the fairy toward some short order cook knows a mating ritual.

    A garbage can related to a steam engine trembles, or a buzzard of a dolphin writes a love letter to a dust bunny about a buzzard. A blithe spirit near another parking lot starts reminiscing about lost glory, but a demon for a globule lazily cooks cheese grits for a paycheck toward a minivan. The football team inside some warranty returns home, or the almost burly food stamp graduates from an abstraction defined by a hydrogen atom. A buzzard panics, and a razor blade of the tabloid earns frequent flier miles; however, the hole puncher of a paycheck teaches a college-educated traffic light.

    [     Yeah, you go, you hole puncher of a paycheck.. you TEACH that college-educated traffic light.  One year of undergrad and they think they know everything about demon globules and hydogen cocker spaniel atoms.  Yeesh. ]

    The psychotic judge slyly borrows money from the temporal food stamp, because the cocker spaniel pours freezing cold water on the wedding dress."


    . . .



    Beaming like a cloud formation,


    -Jennifer



    P.S. Post I will hopefully be able to write tomorrow:  "Concert Etiquette for the Stupid and /or Adolescent."


Friday, 27 October 2006

  • Currently Listening
    The Crane Wife
    By The Decemberists
    see related

    wherein you do my work for me . . .


    So, Wired Magazine is brilliant, and at this time, I'd like to use my blog as a platform to both pay homage to and shamelessly rip off their idea.

    Use the comment section, people. Write the Great American Novel in six words.  Here are the instructions  (they're simple) and the examples ( original link seen here ).  You don't have to read them all, but if you have the time, take it. They're fascinating studies of concision.

    . . .


    "We'll be brief: Hemingway once wrote a story in just six words ("For sale: baby shoes, never worn.") and is said to have called it his best work. So we asked sci-fi, fantasy, and horror writers from the realms of books, TV, movies, and games to take a shot themselves.

    Dozens of our favorite authors put their words to paper, and five master graphic designers took them to the drawing board. Sure, Arthur C. Clarke refused to trim his ("God said, 'Cancel Program GENESIS.' The universe ceased to exist."), but the rest are concise masterpieces.


    Failed SAT. Lost scholarship. Invented rocket.
    - William Shatner

    Computer, did we bring batteries? Computer?
    - Eileen Gunn

    Vacuum collision. Orbits diverge. Farewell, love.
    - David Brin

    Gown removed carelessly. Head, less so.
    - Joss Whedon

    Automobile warranty expires. So does engine.
    - Stan Lee

    Machine. Unexpectedly, I’d invented a time
    - Alan Moore

    Longed for him. Got him. S***.
    - Margaret Atwood

    From torched skyscrapers, men grew wings.
    - Gregory Maguire

    Internet “wakes up?” Ridicu -
    no carrier.
    - Charles Stross

    With bloody hands, I say good-bye.
    - Frank Miller

    Wasted day. Wasted life. Dessert, please.
    - Steven Meretzky

    “Cellar?” “Gate to, uh … hell, actually.”
    - Ronald D. Moore

    Epitaph: Foolish humans, never escaped Earth.
    - Vernor Vinge

    It cost too much, staying human.
    - Bruce Sterling

    We kissed. She melted. Mop please!
    - James Patrick Kelly

    It’s behind you! Hurry before it
    - Rockne S. O’Bannon

    I’m your future, child. Don’t cry.
    - Stephen Baxter

    1940: Young Hitler! Such a cantor!
    - Michael Moorcock

    Lie detector eyeglasses perfected: Civilization collapses.
    - Richard Powers

    I’m dead. I’ve missed you. Kiss … ?
    - Neil Gaiman

    The baby’s blood type? Human, mostly.
    - Orson Scott Card

    Kirby had never eaten toes before.
    - Kevin Smith

    Rained, rained, rained, and never stopped.
    - Howard Waldrop

    To save humankind he died again.
    - Ben Bova

    We went solar; sun went nova.
    - Ken MacLeod

    “I couldn’t believe she’d shoot me.”
    - Howard Chaykin

    Don’t marry her. Buy a house.
    - Stephen R. Donaldson

    Broken heart, 45, WLTM disabled man.
    - Mark Millar

    TIME MACHINE REACHES FUTURE!!! … nobody there …
    - Harry Harrison

    Tick tock tick tock tick tick.
    - Neal Stephenson

    Easy. Just touch the match to
    - Ursula K. Le Guin

    WORLD'S END. Sic transit gloria Monday.
    - Gregory Benford

    Epitaph: He shouldn't have fed it.
    - Brian Herbert

    Batman Sues Batsignal: Demands Trademark Royalties.
    - Cory Doctorow

    Heaven falls. Details at eleven.
    - Robert Jordan

    Nevertheless, he tried a third time.
    - James P. Blaylock

    God to Earth: “Cry more, noobs!”
    - Marc Laidlaw

    Help! Trapped in a text adventure!
    - Marc Laidlaw

    Thought I was right. I wasn't.
    - Graeme Gibson

    Lost, then found. Too bad.
    - Graeme Gibson

    Rapture postponed. Ark demanded! Which one?
    - David Brin

    Dinosaurs return. Want their oil back.
    - David Brin

    Bang postponed. Not Big enough. Reboot.
    - David Brin

    Time Avenger's mistaken! It wasn't me...
    - David Brin

    Cyborg seeks egg donor, object ___.
    - David Brin

    Deadline postponed. Five words enough...?
    - David Brin

    Metrosexuals notwithstanding, quiche still lacks something.
    - David Brin

    Mind of its own. Damn lawnmower.
    - David Brin

    Please, this is everything, I swear.
    - Orson Scott Card

    I saw, darling, but do lie.
    - Orson Scott Card

    Osama’s time machine: President Gore concerned.
    - Charles Stross

    Ships fire; princess weeps, between stars.
    - Charles Stross

    Will this do (lazy writer asked)?
    - Ken MacLeod

    Cryonics: Disney thawed. Mickey gnawed. Omigawd.
    - Eileen Gunn

    Clones demand rights: second Emancipation Proclamation.
    - Paul Di Filippo

    We crossed the border; they killed us.
    - Howard Waldrop

    H-bombs dropped; we all died.
    - Howard Waldrop

    Your house is mine: soft revolution.
    - Howard Waldrop

    Warskiing; log; prop in face.
    - Howard Waldrop

    The Axis in WWII: haiku! Gesundheit.
    - Howard Waldrop

    Salinger story: three koans in fountain.
    - Howard Waldrop

    Finally, he had no more words.
    - Gregory Maguire

    There were only six words left.
    - Gregory Maguire

    In the beginning was the word.
    - Gregory Maguire

    Commas, see, add, like, nada, okay?
    - Gregory Maguire

    Weeping, Bush misheard Cheney’s deathbed advice.
    - Gregory Maguire

    Corpse parts missing. Doctor buys yacht.
    - Margaret Atwood

    He read his obituary with confusion.
    - Steven Meretzky

    Time traveler's thought: "What's the password?"
    - Steven Meretzky

    I win lottery. Sun goes nova.
    - Steven Meretzky

    Steve ignores editor's word limit and
    - Steven Meretzky

    Leia: "Baby's yours." Luke: "Bad news…"
    - Steven Meretzky

    Dorothy: "F*** it, I'll stay here."
    - Steven Meretzky

    . . . 


    Awesome, no?  Show me what you got.  Break a literary leg.


    -Jennifer


    P.S. I'm doing quite well, thanks.



Friday, 28 July 2006

  • Currently Listening
    Set Free
    By The American Analog Set
    see related

    my spam > your spam . . .

    So I don't get regular spam, full of asterisks and "enlargement," and enough exclamation points to make your average MTV veejay choke on his endless plastic tape reel of enthusiasm.

    I get literary spam.

    I imagine that some major company's over-eager unpaid intern got smart and thought, okay, sure, Gmail highlights our stuff with a pretty telling "'*Spam?*" but at least it leaves a question mark in the reader's mind...  If we can just hire languishing scrub writers to make that first preview line as compelling as a b-grade fantasy novel, people will totally make the click of faith, email us back, beg us for the second installment, and that's when we'll surprise them with a heaping suprise helping of ***BUYtt OURXXX V1AGRA!!!!!***   Itts a fo1prof pln!!!

    At least, I assume that's the background for the stylistic gem of an email preview I received a few minutes ago:

    "Dat what give her her powah. There was a calf, and a thigh, and then a sickening bunch in the middle that looked like a salt-dome."

    See, at this point, We're confused with a side of interest... almost clicking, not quite sure of ourselves. Lingering.  Our brains whirl.  Thighs. Calves. Are we talking about chicken? Cows?  Women?   Is the narrator a white guy masquerading as a nonsensical rap DJ, thereby explaining the variance in tone?  What IS a salt-dome?  Is it located around the kneecap?  Or in a KFC bucket, perhaps?  What in the world is "dat," and how does it provide her with the essential "powah?"

    *click*

    "Annie didnt care for it at all. Pry open the medicine cabinet door and then just knock a bunch of stuff out into the basin. When she straightened up she was holding the axe from the shed in one hand and a propane torch in the other. She giggled like a child at the jokes on M*A*S*H* and WKRP, laughing especially hard at the jokes which were mildly off-color (which, in the case of WKRP, was most of them."

    Ok, so immediate disappointment.  Unless Annie isn't caring for the SALT-DOME, which MAY OR MAY NOT have given her "powah," none of our prior questions have been answered.   However, we do have a pretty exemplary characterization that would have made my AP English teacher cry.  And look at that style.  No more ebonics, guys. It's breezy,  it fits Annie, who doesn't care for "it" at all, much like the author doesn't care about the strenuous, grasping restraints of proper grammar and punctuation.  She's knocking stuff in the basin!  Not caring!  She's wielding axes and propane torches in CONJUCTION!  But she's got a softer side... giggling like a child at old, very cancelled cast-esemble TV shows  ( one of which was not funnier than NewsRadio )!  We love Annie!  She's just like us!

    Oh, wait, TWIST! Annie, that dirty, axe wielding, stuff-knocker --  she's laughing at the OFF-COLOR jokes.  We judge Annie.  We hope her salt-dome of powah dissolves. 

    We shift on our high horses and continue reading.

    "    The picture was of a flowered meadow and the month said May, but Paul kept his own dates now on a piece of scrap paper, and according to his home-made calendar it was June 21. "Ive got your paper, Paul!"

    Ooh, nice scene change, scrub-author!  Suddenly, we're transported into a new, axe-free world, with a hardworking do-it-yourselfer who honorably eschews the flowered meadows of the bourgeois for scraps and NEVER EVER knocks stuff, even when pressed. Paul probably watches Price Is Right at home with his grandmother on Monday mornings while he teaches her new knitting patterns and sits comfortably in a plush doiley-covered plum la-z-boy, retaining his masculinity. He gets all kinds of girls.  

    But now someone has his paper... someone excited... and we're all wondering who, hoping its not some kind of enemy, hoping Annie DirtyJokely isn't outside his homemade door with her propane torch, threatening his paper...

    On pins and basins, we arrive at the thrilling conclusion:

    "    Because you wouldnt respect me in the morning, he thought of saying, and clamped down on that. She had told no one he was here, and if she hadnt by now, that meant she didnt mean to."

    Ok, ok, okay. WHAT?!  Paul?  Is he retaining his self-respect?  Or is he giving up his life?  She's HOLDING A TORCH, PAUL!  SAVE YOURSELF.  What is he clamping?  Is he clamping Annie's powah-filled salt-dome?  Say it isn't so!  Wait, no, Paul... he wouldn't do that... he loves to knit.  Granted, she's insane, but... they couldn't have been together, could they?  We worry.   Surely they would never.. it's Paul, after all, but... she knows where he lives, and she hadn't told anyone he was here. And didn't mean to. And she has his paper!  His paper... his calendar!  It's all he stands for!  What, is she his caregiver?  Is this some sort of strange spin-off of Benny and Joon, rated NC-17 for "craaaaazy?"  WHAT WILL BECOME OF THEM?


    We're left without answers, only a cryptic attached .gif entitled "dallas.65:"




     
    [ yes, this is the .gif.  it doesn't show up in the email either. ]


    Upon careful inspection, it appears to be a shot of two eyes (one green, one blue ) and a particularly full, rosebud of a mouth superimposed on a piece of scrap paper representing Paul's soul. 

    It's torn. 

    Oh, Paul. 

    We now know that the the "it" Annie didn't care about was you.  She thought of you as an OBJECT, Paul! You were worth more than that. So you had beautiful eyes and beautiful full lips....that didn't mean she could forget your SOUL!  We mourn for you.  It's all so clear now.  Annie, that base giggler,  has taken I-65 to Dallas, having destroyed you, the hardworking crafter that we had come to love for your meadow abstention and hardy, good-time-oldies self-respect.  We hope you clamped her salt-dome but good.

    And hey, Paul?  We'll  make sure your grandmother finishes that afghan.  We promise.


    . . .


    ETA:  Apologies to all of you who saw this post earlier and weren't running Mozilla... The picture part should make more sense now.  I forgot that IE has a different "no picture" icon



Monday, 24 July 2006

  • Currently Listening
    Tourist
    By Athlete
    see related

    help a brother out . . .

    So, it's almost August, which means an army of little incoming freshmen hearts are beating wildly, frantically, as they inch towards the end of the nest and beginning of the rest of their lives ( anddddd there's my flair for the dramatic ) . . .

    At this point ( can it have been TWO years ago?), I still had no idea I was coming to PHC, but I was definitely freaking out on a large scale, hoping someone, anyone, would shepherd me into the imposing arms of higher education with a little bit of advice, a few good ideas, and maybe just a leeeetle bit of experience to help out with the pitter-patter-what-am-I-going-to-DO! of my heart.

    Here's my idea. Basically, I think it'd be pretty nice if we all ( by this, I generally mean PHC people, but hey, if you non-PHC people want to chime in, super! ) took a second to jot down a few ideas, suggestions, helpful hints, etc., for the benefit of the new guys.  Anything, including class schedule suggestions, tips for balancing the admittedly freaking heavy workload, making the dorm rooms your own, buying books on discount, getting involved in student life, living in a state of sanity for as long as possible, etc...  is fair game.  Heck, I could probably still use a few ideas on those topics! : )

    If you'll post your thoughts in the comments, I'll compile them and update this post ( and post a few ideas of my own ) as they come in. 


    See ya in a few weeks.


    -Jennifer


    . . .


    Ok, so after a night of wisdom brewing ( *cough* ), here are a few of my thoughts:

    First, for all of the ladies:  The dress code?  Is not all that bad.  Pick a few basic colors that you can mix and match, buy a few pairs of slacks and skirts in those colors, and then have more creative fun with your shirts... they're easier to alternate cheaply than other pieces.  Don't buy a ton of cute patterned skirts that only go with one shirt. Don't worry too much about the strictness - really, if you just don't wear anything way too tight, too low, or too short ( shirt or skirtwise ), you'll be fine. Skirts are in style this season, so you shouldn't have any trouble finding a few decent, basic styles. It's pretty intuitive.  Oh, and a nice, warm, tailored coat ( or 9, in my case - my downfall ) is essential... and covers a multitude of wrongs for 8 a.m classes. ; )

    Really, really try not to get into a romantic relationship freshman year.  Yes, I know, you've finally found that one special person who makes your heart filllll weeth the sound of muuuuuuusic, and there were birds all around and you'd never heard them singing, and you're experiencing palpitations at the rate of 200 baby rattles per second, but seriously, you go to the same school... if they are THE ONE, then you'll probably end up going out at some point.  However, if they AREN'T the one, and you go together all freshman year and then break up, you're going to end up wondering where you were when the sign up list for friends was passed out.  PHC is not your VERY LAST CHANCE to find that special someone.

    On the other hand, if you DO get into a romantic relationship, don't lie to me and tell me you're spiritual accountability partners.  Whatever, googly eyes.

    Student Life is not perfect.  Student life is also not evil.

    Don't be any of these people. [ Apologies for the formatting issues ]

    Be very, very nice to Avril.  Not only is she actually really cool, but she will probably save you at some point.

    Don't fence yourself in.  Yes, I know, there are quite a few "groups" at PHC that you might feel you must choose between... but seriously, you're missing out if you only hang out with one group of people.  Make an effort to branch out... get to know people outside of your immediate comfort zone.  There was a big freshman clique my first year, and we all ended up pulling about 50 chairs around one table just so we wouldn't be separated for ONE MEALTIME, doing absolutely everything together, having an actual NAME for ourselves. Needless to say, the upperclassmen mocked us. Don't make us return the favor.

    Please don't come in already campaigning for Student Body President.  If nothing else, it will annoy me.

    If you DO come in campaigning, at least come up with a catchy slogan. 

    Bring stuff to decorate your dorm room walls ( preferably not medieval armor ).  I swear to you, sterility is just not the ideal working environment.

    Get a fish!  They're great.  And then try to keep him alive, or else NO ONE WILL EVER LET YOU LIVE HIS DEATH DOWN, AND YOU WILL CRY AT NIGHT FOR YEARS...

    *cough*

    Don't make it a point to take a ton of upperclassmen classes when you come in 'cause you have something to prove.  Sometimes the wait really adds to the learning process  For example, I really, really recommend taking Freedoms and Philosophy at the same time sophomore year... you'll be more academically mature, and the topics / texts studied overlap and mesh well.

    Along those lines, take Biology freshman year, while you have time to study.  It's gotten harder over the past few years, and it'll be more difficult to balance when you have other, non-freshman classes.

    Don't stay in your room all the time.  It'll depress you.  Seriously, Freshman year is an important time. You're building the relationships you'll hopefully carry with you for your entire collegiate experience. That really is way more important than over-studying for your Johnson quiz ( If they still have those? ).

    Then again, don't do as I did, and go out like, every night freshman year. : ) Studying IS important, and while your classes may seem easy at first, they're gonna get harder, and a strong foundation of good work habits will come in handy.

    Get involved in something ( or in my case, far too many things ).   I don't care if it's Eden Troupe, Soccer, Basketball, Student Gov't, Philosophy Club,  ATS Society... just something.  It's a great way to get to know people, it looks good on your resume, and will keep you sane when you're fighting to keep your head above water.

    We don't care about your SAT score.  Begin to realize that no one's ever going to ask about it ever again outside of the application process.

    We don't care about your past life as a debate SUPERSTAR.

    We don't care about your Student Government aspirations.  And on that note,  Student Government is good and all, but you're going to be disappointed if you take it over-seriously.

    Please don't shamelessly hit on upperclassmen girls.  However, if you're a cute underclassmen girl, please hit on Kirk Anderson.  Excessively.

    Get to know your professors.  We have the opportunity to actually have personal relationships with them, which is something that very few other colleges can offer.  Eat lunch with them, think of questions you have for them, find out what pop culture stuff they enjoy.  There's no reason for you to just be that guy who sits in the third row.

    Invest in good computer speakers.  Way better than buying a stereo.

    Don't become a mere academic.  They're living empty lives all over the world.  You have truth, you have a relationship with God, and that is what sets you apart from the intellectual beast. If you neglect that relationship, you've lost your foundation.  If you have no time for your spiritual life and yet you find time to study, you're doing something wrong.

    READ THE FREAKING MATERIAL.  Lots of PHC classes are taught in the Socratic method, at least most of the time.  Class discussion can be awesome, or it can be the silent killer of many a morning.  You're a freshman.  You have time to read the text and come up with questions.  Do it.  And don't try to participate in class if you haven't read.  The prof will know, most of the students will know, and both will judge you.

    Also, don't ever, ever, ever seriously posit any material you read on Sparknotes.com as your own thought.  In any situation. I don't care if you were asleep in the corner desk drooling on The Metamorphosis until you were rudely awakened by a welly, welly hawd question. Suck it up. Several of the professors have read the Sparknotes on various texts, and they will KNOW. ALWAYS.  FEEL THE TERROR. 

    Be nice to your roommates.  That's a make or break relationship you really cannot afford to screw up.  It's possible to get along with ( notice I didn't necessarily say "like") anyone. 

    Lots of upperclassmen keep their books every year, and sometimes they'll let you borrow them. Way cheaper than buying everything.

    Try to go to bed early.  Try to go to bed early.  Continue trying to go to bed early.

    PHC is not the last frontier for young evangelicals.  Don't be a snob and think we're better than everyone else.  Yes, we're blessed to be getting an incredible education, it's an awesome opportunity, and we can learn a lot while we're here.  However, other people are learning a lot elsewhere.  You are not your education. You are not your knowledge of Alexis de Tocqueville. You are not your score on that last Smith exam.  Enjoy all of this while it lasts, 'cause The Real World ( not the TV show, I hope ) will eventually follow, and your strength will not lie in what you know, but how you use it.

    .... and that's all I've got for now.  Read everyone else's thoughts in the comments.  There are some great ( and really funny ) suggestions.


Thursday, 13 July 2006

  • Currently Listening
    Nashville
    By Josh Rouse
    see related

    now i lay me down to scream . . .

    Everyone goes through it at some point.

    Just one of those nights where the forces of good and evil, mother nature, modern irrigation, the texas federation of junebugs, ancient board games and suffocatingly comfortable down duvets unite in one truly vindictive napoleonic campaign to keep you from getting anything resembling "actual sleep."

    And the sad part is that you can't really lash out at anyone, because, well, it WAS your freaking tilt-a-whirl of brain refusing to turn off, rebelliously continuing it's relentless  "Never when you need me" efficiency policy and churning out ruminations of philosophical importance like...  Is Zach Braff really as attractive as I think?  Does he have the Ben Stiller 'Almost-Attractive-Except...Something's-Just-Not-Right' curse?  And, of course,  What circle of hell might be reserved for those who consume an entire can of Eagle Brand Milk at 2:30 a.m.?  And wouldn't it be a shame if I never found out?

    *sigh*

    Okay, fine, stop right there.  Many humorous writers encourage young padawans like myself to add breadth to their stories by simply using an approach they call "Making up a lot of the substance."  Others have shortened said approach to "Lying" and / or "Making all of it up."  While I'm sure this comes as heartbreaking shock,  I need to confess that even in the few short paragraphs preceeding this statement, I've trespassed The Dark Side�.  That thought?  The one about the Eagle Brand Milk?  Yeah, that thought didn't occur at 2:30 a.m. It actually occured 2:30 p.m., at which time the caves where my wisdom teeth used to frolic and I ventured into the pantry looking for something sooooofffhhhttt.  To my credit, I didn't even make it to the kitchen table before something akin to whiplash hit myself respect, and I realized it wasn't worth sacrificing for a taste of  the sweet, sweet, faintly-milk-like nectar of all that is right in the world. 

    ...Also playing a slight role in that turnaround is my little brother, who walked in on my moment of weakness, and... would have mocked me. 

    Annnd I'm sorry, I just took a Hydrocodon, so my sentences are long, and I WILL be changing tenses throughout this entry.  I'm reading Hemmingway, I swear.  I'm learning.

    Anyway.  So I'm lying in bed trying to lull myself into a false sense of peace. I get to the low point where I'm surfing from Myspace profile to Myspace profile, gawking at various and sundry members of my church who seem to live alternate jailbait lifestyles online. An hour later, I'm exhausted with Myspace, the world, and young prostitots.  Sleep is sounding great.  I'm exhausted.  I haven't stayed up this late in weeks, as I've been out like a light around 11 due to the influx of self-medication. 

    Finally, I begin to drift of to YayNowICanDreamAboutZachBraff-Land ( 3rd star to the left, straight on 'til forever ), lulled by the gentle, rocking melody of the lovely italian cricket family that perches on my windowsill and serenades the greater DFW area.

    This moment marks the beginning of the Night of NoSleepForYou!

    The sprinkler system switches on. It's new, apparently. We have a big house on three acres, and as much as we'd like to leave the watering up to my grandmother, we really can't in accordance with certain biblical principles about respecting the elderly.  I don't deny that some sort of sprinkler implementation was necessary.

    I DO deny that it was necessary to plant the freaking sprinkler head two feet outside of my bedroom windows, so the peaceful, constant sound pattern goes something like pit-it-it-it-it-it-it-it-it-it-tuuuuut, pit-it-it-it-it-it-it-it-it-it-tuuuuut, PITTITTIITITITITITUUUUTTTTT across the window, back across the window, and in general, like the Texas Confederation of Junebugs that Hate Jennifer Carden More Than She Hates Them have begun the harmonic speed Mancala contest of the decade and are stationed in age-appropriate tribes outside her window, maniacally manipulating teeny tiny glass baubles up and down and across miniature wooden game boards at the highest decible level POSSIBLE, going so far as to out-do the Little Drummer Boy's strong bid to annoy the Christ Child.

    I've illustrated what I feel may have been the impassioned call to legs made by Captain Horatio J. Hornbug of the Flowerpot Battalion last night.  To give you a little background, I hate junebugs... more than spiders, snakes and a few choice liberal politicians, and the Captain is believe to have survived many repeated footfalls of death outside my front door, which is the site where he's led his sticky-legged compatriats in a stream of failed attempts to eat all of my hair.  He's obviously holding a grudge.

    His stump speech:







    { click to enlarge }



    After what seems like hours, the last strains of the bitter tribal Song of the Mancala Junebugs transition to the slightly more unsettling Death Chant, and while I briefly contemplate throwing myself out the window and into the throes of their well-organized, probably merciless ranks, I finally snap out of the medication-induced weakness and concoct a daring escape plan.

    I get out of bed. Venturing upstairs into my mom's room,  I throw myself upon the mercy of her king sized bed in retreat ( FYI - She's at my Aunt's, so it wasn't one of those, "Mummy, the junebugs are attacking me again, please stroke my forehead and give me another painkiller, oh, and can I pweeeaaase sleep in here and watch Space Jam?" type situations. ).

    What I hadn't considered in my retreat plan is that my mother has the constitution of a block of ice.  Her room, accordingly, is extremely conducive to the forcible removal of anyone else with a different idea of, say, "Arctic Temperatures."  

    It's cold. Very cold. No blankets in sight.  Goosebumps forming on my eyebrows, I stumble out of her room to the gameroom, where, wonder of wonders, down duvet of duvets, sitting on the couch, at my disposal, is yes, a down duvet.   It's definitely 4:45 at this point, but hey, some sleep > no sleep, so I hoist the king sized duvet back into my mom's frostchamber, onto the bed, and situate myself under its warm, fluffy protective covering, very, very ready to drift of to a down-enchanted wonderland.

    Except for the part where we need to cross out "its warm, fluffy protective covering," and fill its space with "its BONE-CRUSHING,  PERMANENT BODY STRUCTURE-ALTERING protective covering."

    I'd failed to notice, while spreading the duvet across the bed in a stupor, that this particular duvet had the general weight and consistency of a polar bear, and while polar bears are generally cute and sweet in animated movies, sleeping directly under one for an extended period generally reduces your chance of survival by, say, 140%.  Not looking good for the home team.

    I was still cold.  I was smothering.  I was losing the use of my legs.   I was still groggily angry at the Junebug Federation, and it was 5:30.  There are no happy places, happy thoughts or cartons of pixie dust floating around at this moment.

    Finally, I threw off the duvet,  hobbled downstairs, grabbed a blanket, earmuffs and a sweatshirt, hobbled upstairs, and crawled, thoroughly defeated, into the cold sterility of my mother's cavernous bed. 


    . . .



    An hour later, my grandmother's adorable little dog "Joy" began to bark.  Incessantly.


    Probably at the junebugs.


    The great, cosmic Sleep Nazi had denied me once again.


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