This isn't right ... I should be bouncing off the walls with the sheer exuberance of youth; I should be so high on life and/or sugar that the very mention of sleep would make me double over in scornful delight; I should be ready to pull an all-nighter just to watch the sun rise over the coastal sands.
But I'm not.
I'm tired.
And, as soon as I write in my journal, I'm going to bed.
God save my aging body.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Trogging ...
Hallelujah and Pass the Tax Rebate! After months of anticipation, preparation, and ________tion, I finally made it the big "Back East." (I still think it's slightly odd that we speak of going "Out West" and "back East," but never "out East" or "back West." It's almost like we just can't escape the East as America's birthplace ... ). Last Friday after three glorious days of asphalt and amazing good times (in Nauvoo, Kirtland, Hershey, and other places), my father, sister and I finally pulled in to the land I'll be calling home for the next year. And boy was it humid.
Now, though I've been here for a full five days, tonight was the first time I was able to go about exploring the area next to my house ... and I'm kickin' myself that I waited this long. Turns out that right next to my new apartment is a 600-acre State park called White Clay Creek - a Godsend for a nature lovin', Utah-mountain-missin' boy like me.
I actually stumbled across it while jogging through the neighborhood. Noticing an oddly placed trail off the side of one of the roads I was running on (which afforded very little space between me and oncoming traffic), I decided to try it out. Two seconds in, I was in a different world. And now that I've been there, I'm not going back anytime soon.
See, I love to jog. Have for about two and a half years now. It's fun; it's energy building & releasing (quite a lovely combination); and it's just what the doctor ordered to keep my weight at a manageable level. But more than that, it really puts me in touch with my surroundings. My senses are always at their fullest during a run ... I see better, I hear better, I feel better and I smell better (at least in one sense). But now, after traipsing across the trails of White Clay Creek State Park, I've decided that in my heart of hearts, I'm actually a Trogger.* That's right, a Trogger ... a Trail Jogger.
Honestly, I'd like to be a Trunner/Trainner (Trail Runner), but I'm a little too slow and pudgy (some would say cute, cuddly, and stuffed with fluff ... and who am I too quibble). So, for now I'm just gonna have to enjoy the beauty and love of the great outdoors in Delaware via the occasional morning Trog.
* After thinking about the word, I Googled it ... and oddly enough, it turned out someone else had already coined the term, albeit with an entirely different definition: According to the web dictionary, "trogging" is a verbal portmanteau (thank you Mr. Carroll) created by combining Trust + Blogging. That is, to "trog" is to "use blogs to build trust and transparency."
I like my definition better.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
So close ... so close ...
I couldn't help but laugh.
As I walked through the muggy parking lot at the Desmond Hotel, 1.5 miles from the Albany airport, I saw a girl's face as she sat in her car talking on a cell phone ... and I couldn't help but laugh.
All of the sudden, the whole, sadistic hazing-on-a-grand-legalized-scale just smacked me in the face. I mean, the girl looked like she was about to cry. Now, it may not have been because of the bar. She might have been experiencing some other tragic, painful, drawn-out and confidence smashing event I didn't know about; but then again, res ipsa loquitur* ... ha, ha.
But even if her near-tears were entirely unrelated to the exam, seeing her face made me realize the tremendous silliness of the whole process. And I just had to chortle a little.
As I write this, I still have one-fourth of the bar left ... the second half of the Multistate portion. It's not over yet ... and if I don't pass, maybe it never will be ;)** Still, I can't help but feel a little relief that even in the midst of the most sorrow-inducing academic event of my life, I was able to detach myself, look back at everything unfortunate that's happened over the past few months - the craziness, the anger, the frustration, and the hopelessness - and laugh.
And if I don't pass***, that may be one heck of a consolation prize.
* Latin meaning "The Thing Speaks for Itself." A little legal joke ... very little ... so little that ... oops, there it goes ...
** Knock on wood ... knock on wood ... find me a piece of wood, dang it!
*** More wood ... MORE WOOD!
As I walked through the muggy parking lot at the Desmond Hotel, 1.5 miles from the Albany airport, I saw a girl's face as she sat in her car talking on a cell phone ... and I couldn't help but laugh.
All of the sudden, the whole, sadistic hazing-on-a-grand-legalized-scale just smacked me in the face. I mean, the girl looked like she was about to cry. Now, it may not have been because of the bar. She might have been experiencing some other tragic, painful, drawn-out and confidence smashing event I didn't know about; but then again, res ipsa loquitur* ... ha, ha.
But even if her near-tears were entirely unrelated to the exam, seeing her face made me realize the tremendous silliness of the whole process. And I just had to chortle a little.
As I write this, I still have one-fourth of the bar left ... the second half of the Multistate portion. It's not over yet ... and if I don't pass, maybe it never will be ;)** Still, I can't help but feel a little relief that even in the midst of the most sorrow-inducing academic event of my life, I was able to detach myself, look back at everything unfortunate that's happened over the past few months - the craziness, the anger, the frustration, and the hopelessness - and laugh.
And if I don't pass***, that may be one heck of a consolation prize.
* Latin meaning "The Thing Speaks for Itself." A little legal joke ... very little ... so little that ... oops, there it goes ...
** Knock on wood ... knock on wood ... find me a piece of wood, dang it!
*** More wood ... MORE WOOD!
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
An Avian Nightmare ...
I woke up last night in a cold sweat (literally ... cold ... sweat). * For the first time in a score of years, I had a fully cognizant, heart-wrenching, scream-until-your-voice-gives-out Nightmare. Like most things in my life, though, it was far from typical and, hence, I thought I'd share the highlights.
Apparently sick of the insanity that bar review brings, I must have decided it was time for a vacation because in this dream I found myself in Australia. That's right, Australia. Walking around what I can only assume was the "Outback," I came across a cute, cuddly Kookaburra.
It sang lovely little songs, danced lovely little dances, and in all other ways exuded lovely little cuteness (and fluffiness and all that is good in this world).
Things remained rather pleasant for a few more minutes as I moved on to examine some of the other animals that call Australia home (and to eat something the may have been grilled Toad). When I turned back to look for the Kookaburra, though, I discovered that it had been transformed into a sixteen-foot tall Cassowary.
Excuse me ... a really pissed off sixteen-foot tall Cassowary.
With the presence of mind that only dreams can bring, I knew - immediately - that the Cassowary wanted only one thing: To pound my head repeatedly with that large, sharp beak from Hell. Having a fairly keen survival instinct, I did the best thing I could: I fled like a cubbed-out Swede being chased by Finnish bullies. In the end, though, the Cassowary caught up. And it did not end well. My head became the nail to it's hammer beak.
If only I had had a table.
Of course, it's hard to tell what the inspiration behind this dream was (or any dream for that matter). I can only speculate - and mind you, it is pure speculation - that the dream was a devilish combination of "Up":
And Alfred Hitchcock's "The Birds":
Not sure. Still, it made for one heck of a memorable morning.
* This is a lie: Actually, there was no sweat involved, cold or otherwise.
Apparently sick of the insanity that bar review brings, I must have decided it was time for a vacation because in this dream I found myself in Australia. That's right, Australia. Walking around what I can only assume was the "Outback," I came across a cute, cuddly Kookaburra.
It sang lovely little songs, danced lovely little dances, and in all other ways exuded lovely little cuteness (and fluffiness and all that is good in this world).
Things remained rather pleasant for a few more minutes as I moved on to examine some of the other animals that call Australia home (and to eat something the may have been grilled Toad). When I turned back to look for the Kookaburra, though, I discovered that it had been transformed into a sixteen-foot tall Cassowary.
Excuse me ... a really pissed off sixteen-foot tall Cassowary.
With the presence of mind that only dreams can bring, I knew - immediately - that the Cassowary wanted only one thing: To pound my head repeatedly with that large, sharp beak from Hell. Having a fairly keen survival instinct, I did the best thing I could: I fled like a cubbed-out Swede being chased by Finnish bullies. In the end, though, the Cassowary caught up. And it did not end well. My head became the nail to it's hammer beak.
If only I had had a table.
Of course, it's hard to tell what the inspiration behind this dream was (or any dream for that matter). I can only speculate - and mind you, it is pure speculation - that the dream was a devilish combination of "Up":
And Alfred Hitchcock's "The Birds":
Not sure. Still, it made for one heck of a memorable morning.
* This is a lie: Actually, there was no sweat involved, cold or otherwise.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
(Nearly) Universal Appeal ...
Waltzing into Barnes and Noble a few months back, I happened across this:
Truly, one of the oddest literary concepts I've seen in recent years. After guffawing heartily at the gruesomely appropriate cover art, I nearly squealed with devilish glee after reading a few of the books passages.
Here is the beginning of the plot summary found on Wikipedia:
If the novel lives up to even half of the tremendous potential inherent in the title (and concept), then this may be a book to unite the genders, bring us all together in a euphoric, Utopian literary world. After all, what man or woman could turn down a tale filled with (1) unflinchingly true romance AND (2) hordes of the undead.
I may cry.
Update 1: I just purchased a copy of PPZ on Amazon. Through the virtue of Amazon Prime I'll have it in two days. I tingle with anticipation.
Update 2: A old friend of mine (with whom I have recently reopened correspondence after years of silence and neglect ... and whose Facebook profile re-sparked my interest in PPZ) alerted me to another fascinating exercise in Austen-esque imagination. The series, "Lost in Austen," gives us a rather witty, surreal glimpse at one young woman (Amanda Price) whose Austen obsession opens a door to the world of Pride and Prejudice.
Favorite quote (thus far): "How lovely to have the society of ladies who are not promiscuous with speech."
Truly, one of the oddest literary concepts I've seen in recent years. After guffawing heartily at the gruesomely appropriate cover art, I nearly squealed with devilish glee after reading a few of the books passages.
Here is the beginning of the plot summary found on Wikipedia:
["Pride and Prejudice and Zombies"] follows the plot of Pride and Prejudice, but places the novel in an alternative universe version of 19th century England where zombies roam the countryside. The undead are generally viewed as a troublesome nuisance, albeit a deadly one, and their presence often affects the plot of the story in subtle ways — messages between houses are sometimes lost when the couriers are captured and eaten; characters openly discuss and judge the zombie-fighting abilities of others; women weigh the pros and cons of carrying a musket (it provides safety, but is considered "unladylike").
Elizabeth Bennet and her four sisters live on a countryside estate with their parents. Mr. Bennet trains his daughters in martial arts and weapons, molding them into a fearsome zombie-fighting army. On the other hand, Mrs. Bennet plans to marry the girls off to wealthy suitors.
If the novel lives up to even half of the tremendous potential inherent in the title (and concept), then this may be a book to unite the genders, bring us all together in a euphoric, Utopian literary world. After all, what man or woman could turn down a tale filled with (1) unflinchingly true romance AND (2) hordes of the undead.
I may cry.
Update 1: I just purchased a copy of PPZ on Amazon. Through the virtue of Amazon Prime I'll have it in two days. I tingle with anticipation.
Update 2: A old friend of mine (with whom I have recently reopened correspondence after years of silence and neglect ... and whose Facebook profile re-sparked my interest in PPZ) alerted me to another fascinating exercise in Austen-esque imagination. The series, "Lost in Austen," gives us a rather witty, surreal glimpse at one young woman (Amanda Price) whose Austen obsession opens a door to the world of Pride and Prejudice.
Favorite quote (thus far): "How lovely to have the society of ladies who are not promiscuous with speech."
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Bar Break
Covering dozens of topics, asking hundreds of questions, forcing intense review of books upon books of legal rules, and requiring the testing endurance of a Nobel prize winning economist, the bar is the single most daunting academic experience of my life thus far (makes the first year of law school seem like a stroll down cherry tree lane on a warm day in June).
Most of my days are spent crouched over a review book, taking practice tests, or watching any of the dozens of (inane?) lectures covering every legal topic imaginable in order to prepare for that "special day." Nine times out of ten, I probably look (and feel) like this:
But sometimes, there are reasons to laugh.
Where else, other than bar review, would I find questions focusing on the religious rights of "The Lucifers," a Druidic religious group that likes to hold bonfires on mountains to expunge the sins of the world? Or where would I find cities passing statutes to keep their streets from turning into "strip mall jungles illuminated by neon signs from Hell"? And where would I find such fun, diverse, and interesting names as Dryden, Knepper, Yancy, Wapner, Pru, Prell, and Snoop "Piggy" Pigpen (the lead singer for the Deadheads, a popular Santa Cruz rock band)?
So I guess despite all the ick, uck, eck, and arrrggghhh that is bar review, sometimes you just have to take a moment, grab a cold root beer, and enjoy the ride.
Update 1: Funniest. Question. Ever.
Question: A woman with a bladder control problem lived in State X and was angry about the state legislature's rejection of a proposed "Women's Restroom Equity Bill." The legislation would have required all new public buildings to maintain a two-to-one ratio of women's bathroom stalls to men's stalls and urinals. the woman believed this legislation was vital to eliminate longer lines that often form at women's bathrooms. To express her frustration and to attract attention to the issue, she went down to the state capitol building one afternoon, armed with a toilet plunger and a roll of toilet tissue. She held the plunger and roll, as she delivered an angry speech on the capitol building's front steps. "Members of the legislature, shame on you! Judgment day is here for you, and you are doomed! I will strike you down with my mighty plunger, and I will bind you with toilet paper until you can no longer breathe! Legions of warriors for 'potty parity' are ready to do whatever it takes to pass the Women's Restroom Equity Bill! We will put firecrackers in every toilet in this building, until they all overflow and a mighty wave sweeps every legislator out of this building and drowns them!" If the woman is prosecuted for violation of a state statute which prohibits "the making of any threat to the life or safety of a public official in any way related to that official's public duties," what will be the likely outcome of the prosecution?
Answer: The judge will chortle, chuckle and guffaw for a few minutes ... and then throw the case out.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
The Art of Website Biography ...
While perusing an Immigration Law Firm Website, I came across a true gem of legal auto-biography. Seriously, if I had the cojones to put something like this online (for all my clients to see), I would consider myself a real man. The first paragraph of the biography is reproduced below (remember ... this is the biography people read when deciding whether to retain his services):
And if that wasn't awesome enough, check out his 1970s-era-Chinese-farmer caricature. Jerry, my hat goes off to you.
And someday, my friends, someday, I will be half that cool.
"Jerry Z. Zhang was born in Nanjing, P.R. China in 1957 and grew up in a small town called Hua Nan in the Heilongjiang Province. Jerry was a mischievous and naughty teenager during his early years of middle school and high school. Although Jerry did not steal with the other hooligans, he always fought with his fists as well as his teeth; showing a great promise for being a lawyer in the future.
And if that wasn't awesome enough, check out his 1970s-era-Chinese-farmer caricature. Jerry, my hat goes off to you.
And someday, my friends, someday, I will be half that cool.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
A Billboard in Action
"If it's life or death, call 911 ... if it's not, don't." - Utah Billboard
Dispatcher: Police operator 3332, what is your emergency?
Caller: Hello? (static) Hello? Are you there?
Dispatcher: Yes, ma'am, I'm here. What is the nature of your emergency?
Caller: I'm ... I'm trapped. We're stuck inside of a small tunnel.
Dispatcher: Ok, stay calm. Now ma'am, I must ask you a very important question. Please, answer as best you can: Is this a life or death situation?
Caller: What? ... What?!
Dispatcher: I mean, as far as you can tell, is this the type of situation where somebody could end up dead?
Caller: What are you talking about? I'M TRAPPED IN A TUNNEL! We can't get out of here!
Dispatcher: Well, yes, I know. But ... do you have enough air? Is there a source of water around you? Could you survive for a while in there if you had to?
Caller: Are you insane? What part of trapped in a tunnel are you missing here?! My daughter and I are stuck ... trapped ... we can't get out!
Dispatcher: I wouldn't even bring it up at all, ma'am, but you see ... due to the recent financial crisis, we've had to cut back on our emergency support staff and what not and, well, if this isn't life or death, you have to call another number. So you see, I just have to make sure this is really a life or death situation ... and I'm just not sure being trapped automatically qualifies.
Caller: What the hell is wrong with you? Yes, this bloody well is a life or death situation ... GET US SOME HELP!
Dispatcher: Ok ... if you say so, ma'am. I'll transmit this call to Search and Rescue. Please remain on the line.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
The Songs that Speak to Us ...
"Music has the power to cause emotions to well up within us. ... These feelings color our moods [and] affect our perceptions ... Music has the ability to tap the still, mysterious deep well of our emotions."
We live, and we love. We live, and we laugh. We live, and we sing. And ain't it just amazing? No matter the difference in creed, color, culture, or continent, we are all drawn to music. It's powerful, it's emotional, it's rather a lot like an addiction ... and we can't help but keep coming back for more.
I can't even begin to list (much less analyze) all the songs that have come, for one reason or another, to represent pieces of me and my life (some good ... and some not so much).
Of course, most of them are tied to love ... often the lack (or unrequited nature) thereof. And it makes sense, if you think about it. After all, love is one of the most powerful emotions out there. It controls our moods, our schedules, and even our eating habits (just try eating when you're pining away for that perfect someone ... tough going at best). Combine that with the fact that there are approximately 3.6 dekillion (10 to the power of 30) love songs out there and you're bound to find at least one that speaks to your heart (or the hole where it should be).
Even the toughest among us are prone to the love song jitters. Case in point: Have you ever seen Tommy Boy? Remember the scene where Chris Farley and David Spade are driving along and the radio begins playing "Superstar" by the Carpenters? Both Farley and Spade feign non-interest ... then we cut to the a scene where they are both singing at the top of their lungs weeping like fat Swedish school boys who've just lost their chocolate bars (I know, a Tommy Boy reference? Still, I think it proves the point).
Because of our different experiences, there are songs that speak to us more than others. There are those (often in the unrequited love category) who seem fairly drawn to stalker songs. For instance, I once knew a girl who, after realizing that the boy she loved wouldn't return the favor, clung like a life raft to the lyrics from Dido's "White Flag":
"I will go down with this ship
And I won't put my hands up and surrender
There will be no white flag above my door
I'm in love and always will be."
As far as I can tell, that's not typically the kind of song you'd want in your "it speaks to me" repertoire ... but sometimes, that's just the way we feel and there ain't nothing that's gonna change it. In truth, though, there are lots of songs like that ... one's we connect with but feel ashamed about.
Recently, the songs that have been speaking to me fit into that category. The "I'd rather not have those lyrics EVER describe any part of my life" category. (And they're all by Death Cab for Cutie). The music, per usual, is lovely ... but it's the lyrics that really seem to be making sense to me. See, these songs seem to reflect a rather sizable problem on my part in the realm of love ... and I'm only just realizing the full extent of that problem.
Even though I won't be going into why I've connected with these songs, I thought I'd finish this post off with the pertinent lyrics from two of them. So, without further ado, here they are ... for your viewing (and psychoanalytical) pleasure:
"I was Once a Loyal Lover"
I was once a loyal lover
Whose lips did never seek anothers
But now each love's more like a match
A blinding spark that burns out fast
And they all conclude with the same sentence:
"I've never met someone more self-centered
Who thinks that life with a nice girl's like
Waiting for a bus to work"
And you can't even begin to know
How many times I've told myself 'I told you so'
"A Diamond and a Tether"
Pity, take pity on me
Because I'm not the man that I should be
I'm always turning to run
From the people I should not be afraid of
And darling, you should know
That I have fantasies about being alone
It's like love is a lesson
That I can't learn
So I make the same mistakes at each familiar turn
I know you can't hold out forever
Waiting on a diamond and a tether
From a boy who won't swim
But who will dip his toe in
Just to keep you here with him
I've got this habit I abhor
When we go out, I'm always watching the door
As if there's someone I'm going to see
Who could out-do the things that you do to me
I know you can't hold out forever
Waiting on a diamond and a tether
From a boy who won't jump
When he falls in love
He just stands with his toes on the edge
And he waits for it to disappear again.
Friday, May 15, 2009
A brief rant ...
Sometimes people just need to get away ... a hike, a run, a drive up the canyon. Something. Anything. Well, last night was one of those times for me. And so, at a quarter to midnight (local time) I grabbed my camel pack, threw on my hiking shoes and headed up Y mountain trying to get to this particularly picturesque, solitary spot in Slide Canyon I have been known to visit from time to time(for those who have yet to experience the joy of Utah Valley hiking, Slide Canyon is located just south of the Y).
I'll admit it ... I was angry. I felt misused, somewhat betrayed, and woefully misunderstood. And no, I won't go into the details, though, as you might have expected, they involve a representative of the somewhat misnamed "tenderer sex." Suffice it to say, the hike was just what I needed ... a moderately hard, uphill climb to solitude where I could listen to music and tune out. But as my iPod flicked through a particularly enjoyable playlist, a song by Ben Folds popped on that, believe it or not, actually seemed to sum the situation up (I know ... who wants ANY part of their life captured in a Ben Fold's song?). I listened to it three times. And while not entirely on point, the song did seem to capture a lot of my thoughts:
Last night, I didn't get what happened. In reality, I still don't ... but I'm not about to waste any more time on the matter. A man can only do what he thinks is right; what others think about what he does is entirely beyond his control (and should be beyond his concern).
So say we all.
Well, thanks for reading. It does feel good to get that out there, though it is kind of funny that my first blog post in three months turns out to be nothing more than an elusive (though brief) rant about an obscure moment in my life largely too personal for anyone else to relate to. Funny.
I'll admit it ... I was angry. I felt misused, somewhat betrayed, and woefully misunderstood. And no, I won't go into the details, though, as you might have expected, they involve a representative of the somewhat misnamed "tenderer sex." Suffice it to say, the hike was just what I needed ... a moderately hard, uphill climb to solitude where I could listen to music and tune out. But as my iPod flicked through a particularly enjoyable playlist, a song by Ben Folds popped on that, believe it or not, actually seemed to sum the situation up (I know ... who wants ANY part of their life captured in a Ben Fold's song?). I listened to it three times. And while not entirely on point, the song did seem to capture a lot of my thoughts:
You Don't Know Me At All
"I wanna ask you - Do you ever sit and wonder,
It's so strange that we could be together for
So long, and never know, never care
What goes on in the other one's head?
Things I've felt but I've never said
You said things that I never said
So I'll say something that I should have said long ago:
You don't know me at all
If I'm the person that you think I am,
Clueless chump you seem to think I am,
So easily led astray,
An errant dog who occasionally escapes and needs a shorter leash,
then why the #%^@ would you want me back?!
Maybe it's because ... You don't know me at all."
Last night, I didn't get what happened. In reality, I still don't ... but I'm not about to waste any more time on the matter. A man can only do what he thinks is right; what others think about what he does is entirely beyond his control (and should be beyond his concern).
So say we all.
Well, thanks for reading. It does feel good to get that out there, though it is kind of funny that my first blog post in three months turns out to be nothing more than an elusive (though brief) rant about an obscure moment in my life largely too personal for anyone else to relate to. Funny.
Monday, February 23, 2009
A Little More Song and Dance Please ...
If you follow the Oscars (and there aren't as many as there used to be ... though things are looking up) then you know that this year was dominated by two things:
(1) Slumdog Millionaire; and
(2) Hugh Jackman.
Slumdog took home a bevy of statues including (1) Best Picture, (2) Best Director, (3) Best Original Song, (4) Best Original Score, (5) Best Film Editing, (6) Best Sound Mixing (7) Best Cinematography, and (8) Best Adapted Screenplay. And not a single acting prize among the lot! (though things are looking good for Dev Patel and Freida Pinto). You want remarkable? That is remarkable. And it just goes to show how far a movie of unknowns can go when you've got a good story (Salmon Rushdie can go eat his own head) and a lot of heart (I mean, did you see Danny Boyle's Tigger Dance as he accepted the Best Director award? Or his constantly grinning face? If he's as infectiously fun in real life as he was on the Oscars last night, I would work for that man in a heartbeat ... as the coffee guy ... or the trash guy ... or the guy who gets the coffee for the trash guy ;)
All I can say is Bravo, Slumdog. Bravo.
But the real news of the night was the return of Entertainment to entertainment's (traditionally) least entertaining awards ceremony (though the Grammy's are right up there). And that is all thanks to one man:
No longer just Wolverine ... no longer just the Boy from Oz ... no longer just the Sexiest Man Alive ... Jackman has rightfully jumped his way to best Oscar host of the decade (Sorry Billy ... I love you too). As one commentator summed up the night's festivities:
Get that ... he entertained. Makes sense, right? I mean, why wouldn't a show honoring entertainment's most palpable medium (the silver screen's been the entertainment vehicle of choice since the mid-1920s) actually try to be entertaining?
Time and again (and as long as I've cared about the academy which, admittedly, isn't that long), the Oscars have turned helplessly to would be comedians and ended up with flop after flop. I mean, I love to laugh (and comedy is good for the soul), but do we really need to see Jon Stewart mocking Hollywood off of the Daily Show? No, my friends. No.
Jackman was just what this recession-weary nation needed. A good, old-fashioned, entertainment extravaganza so darn happy that, at one point, it made my roommate John jump up and start dancing.
And Jackman's good-time show stoppers were capped off with wonderful segments by Ben Stiller (doing a lovely send up of our friend Joaquin), Seth Rogen and James Franco, and Steve Martin and Tina Fey.
Now it wasn't all smiles and laughs. Parts were downright boring or nauseatingly self-righteous (Sean Penn ... Bill Maher ... Dustin Lance Black). But though not perfect, the Oscars were quite an entertaining telecast. So, if you missed the live version (shame on you ...) or you just want to see the good parts again (and again and again and again ...), check out Jackman's fantastic numbers here and here.
Hopefully, with a little luck, this is the sign of things to come.
(1) Slumdog Millionaire; and
(2) Hugh Jackman.
Slumdog took home a bevy of statues including (1) Best Picture, (2) Best Director, (3) Best Original Song, (4) Best Original Score, (5) Best Film Editing, (6) Best Sound Mixing (7) Best Cinematography, and (8) Best Adapted Screenplay. And not a single acting prize among the lot! (though things are looking good for Dev Patel and Freida Pinto). You want remarkable? That is remarkable. And it just goes to show how far a movie of unknowns can go when you've got a good story (Salmon Rushdie can go eat his own head) and a lot of heart (I mean, did you see Danny Boyle's Tigger Dance as he accepted the Best Director award? Or his constantly grinning face? If he's as infectiously fun in real life as he was on the Oscars last night, I would work for that man in a heartbeat ... as the coffee guy ... or the trash guy ... or the guy who gets the coffee for the trash guy ;)
All I can say is Bravo, Slumdog. Bravo.
But the real news of the night was the return of Entertainment to entertainment's (traditionally) least entertaining awards ceremony (though the Grammy's are right up there). And that is all thanks to one man:
No longer just Wolverine ... no longer just the Boy from Oz ... no longer just the Sexiest Man Alive ... Jackman has rightfully jumped his way to best Oscar host of the decade (Sorry Billy ... I love you too). As one commentator summed up the night's festivities:
Rather than the typical routine of stand-up comedian type monologues, Jackman did a sort-of song and dance that not only drew in the audience, but really entertained like no host has done before.
Get that ... he entertained. Makes sense, right? I mean, why wouldn't a show honoring entertainment's most palpable medium (the silver screen's been the entertainment vehicle of choice since the mid-1920s) actually try to be entertaining?
Time and again (and as long as I've cared about the academy which, admittedly, isn't that long), the Oscars have turned helplessly to would be comedians and ended up with flop after flop. I mean, I love to laugh (and comedy is good for the soul), but do we really need to see Jon Stewart mocking Hollywood off of the Daily Show? No, my friends. No.
Jackman was just what this recession-weary nation needed. A good, old-fashioned, entertainment extravaganza so darn happy that, at one point, it made my roommate John jump up and start dancing.
And Jackman's good-time show stoppers were capped off with wonderful segments by Ben Stiller (doing a lovely send up of our friend Joaquin), Seth Rogen and James Franco, and Steve Martin and Tina Fey.
Now it wasn't all smiles and laughs. Parts were downright boring or nauseatingly self-righteous (Sean Penn ... Bill Maher ... Dustin Lance Black). But though not perfect, the Oscars were quite an entertaining telecast. So, if you missed the live version (shame on you ...) or you just want to see the good parts again (and again and again and again ...), check out Jackman's fantastic numbers here and here.
Hopefully, with a little luck, this is the sign of things to come.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Aiming High
"The world makes way for the man who knows where he is going." - Ralph Waldo Emerson
I want to be that man. I've been working toward a few new goals this year (and some modified old ones) and the past month has been excellent ... but to date I have not written anything down. And we all know that a goal not written down is just a wish (the non-destiny driven equivalent of fortune cookies and palm readers). So, here goes - some of my goals for the next year (more may appear as I discover them):
(1) Run Four Half-Marathons: Last year I ran my first (the SLC Half-Marathon) and absolutely loved it (for four weeks leading to the race I ran over 13 miles each Saturday ... a glorious time to be alive). This year, the first two are already on deck (Provo and SLC in April). And while the others remain to be chosen, they will be run.
(2) Stay awake in All Church Meetings: I have been, up to this point, one of the most horrendous church sleepers imaginable. It's certainly offensive to those around me and to the speaker (or teacher) ... but more importantly it's offensive to God. And so, it will stop.
(3) Go to Institute Every Week: I've had trouble making institute attendance a regular occurrence during law school. This semester I'm at 100% ... and I plan to keep it that way.
(4) Find Love: Note, this is not a goal to be married (how ridiculous would that be). It's a goal to look outside myself and find someone that I can really, truly love (romantic or otherwise). For too long I've lived the good life ... the life of the people of the Brother of Jared who tarried for four years at an oceanside paradise because why would anyone want to built barges or cross an ocean when things are going so good? But I know I need to look beyond that. I need to look beyond the "Me, myself, and I" world that so many young singles inhabit. And a large part of getting beyond that world is opening my heart to love ... and to serve that person/people. It means refusing to play the game (you know, the one for control of a relationship) and giving myself without requirement. It may hurt ... it may make me feel downright depressed ... but I do believe it's never a mistake to love. Never.
Well, that's it for the moment. Updates will be posted as they come to me (after all, why wait for New Year's to make a resolution). Good luck to you all in 2009 - may this be the best year for all of us.
UPDATE: (5) Share My Testimony More Often: Not just in church. Not just while home teaching. My dad can share the reason for the hope that is in him at the drop of a hat (and frequently does ... sometimes at odd times ;) I want to be like that.
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UPDATE: (6) Create (and stick to) a Budget: Sooner or later, I have to come to grips with the fact that, while I'm not exactly a spendthrift, money does seem to fly out of my account in swift (and unusual) ways. I need to create a monthly budget that will give me the financial firmness to resist the temptation to blow $30 on Neil Gaiman books because, well, why not. February will be my test month ... I go all out in March.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Civil War at the Y
About three times a week as I arrive at the law school, I pick up a copy of the Daily Universe (DU). I read it not for its deep insight or journalistic & linguistic achievements; no, I read it mostly for the letters to the editor. These letters are almost always argumentative, flawed, brash, inane and ... hilarious. But other than a good laugh, the opinion section (and the paper) typically serves little purpose.
Earlier this week, though, the DU printed an article titled "Textbook return policy puts 'tax on honesty'" prompting a controversy that, at least to me, deserves special attention.
The article dealt with a three-year-old BYU Bookstore policy. The policy says the bookstore will refuse to refund students who attempt to return a book that has been replaced by a book from another source (internet, friend, etc.). The policy is unique among Utah colleges largely because, lacking an honor code or the moral guilt that goes with it, those colleges simply have no way to enforce such a policy.
At BYU, though, guilt keeps the students, by and large, in compliance and, consequently, a subtle rift has arisen between poor students (who feel the policy is capitalism at its worst) and the bookstore (who feels the policy necessary to prevent wanton abuse of the system, allowing students to, essentially, check out books from the bookstore while they shop around for a better price).
The article, in a unique move for the DU, was pretty well balanced; both sides got in some good hits. Tom Hirtzel, head textbook guy at the bookstore, put in plenty of points and did a decent job backing the bookstore's perspective. On the other side was, among others, BYU econ. prof. Mark Showalter who, in no uncertain terms, condemned the bookstore's policy as a "tax on honesty." The editors/writers at the DU rightly clung to this phrase in their title. (I mean, it got my attention).
But other than the impartiality (in a paper renowned for its pro-BYU bias), there was nothing extraordinary about the article. And it probably would have gone the way of all issues of the DU (kindling for homeless cougars?) had the bookstore not taken its next, stunning move.
The next day, they pulled ALL of their advertising from the DU.
This was a tizzy fit of the highest order. A brash, boisterous, and blatantly bad move on the part of a Bookstore who must be riddled with self-doubt and fear that they may lose a semi-monopoly if students find out what's really going on.
As the DU pointed out in a subsequent editorial, "[p]ulling advertisements for pointing out a real, continuing subject of public dialogue is petty" - AMEN - "[t]he Bookstore's response demonstrates narrow-mindedness" - AND AMEN.
As you may know, I'm graduating soon. I've already made my last foray into the cankerous world of college textbook economics (and what a twisted, troubled world it is). But if I weren't, the Bookstore's actions would have given me all the impetus I need to NEVER BUY ANOTHER TEXTBOOK FROM THEM AGAIN (they say ALL CAPS is the written equivalent of shouting ... TRUE THAT)! I've always been upset by the Bookstore's seeming disregard for the students who keep it in business. As an arm of the University, the Bookstore should be putting us first. That they do not (and will not) is more disturbing now than ever before.
A tax on honesty? No ... what we have here is something far worse.
Earlier this week, though, the DU printed an article titled "Textbook return policy puts 'tax on honesty'" prompting a controversy that, at least to me, deserves special attention.
The article dealt with a three-year-old BYU Bookstore policy. The policy says the bookstore will refuse to refund students who attempt to return a book that has been replaced by a book from another source (internet, friend, etc.). The policy is unique among Utah colleges largely because, lacking an honor code or the moral guilt that goes with it, those colleges simply have no way to enforce such a policy.
At BYU, though, guilt keeps the students, by and large, in compliance and, consequently, a subtle rift has arisen between poor students (who feel the policy is capitalism at its worst) and the bookstore (who feels the policy necessary to prevent wanton abuse of the system, allowing students to, essentially, check out books from the bookstore while they shop around for a better price).
The article, in a unique move for the DU, was pretty well balanced; both sides got in some good hits. Tom Hirtzel, head textbook guy at the bookstore, put in plenty of points and did a decent job backing the bookstore's perspective. On the other side was, among others, BYU econ. prof. Mark Showalter who, in no uncertain terms, condemned the bookstore's policy as a "tax on honesty." The editors/writers at the DU rightly clung to this phrase in their title. (I mean, it got my attention).
But other than the impartiality (in a paper renowned for its pro-BYU bias), there was nothing extraordinary about the article. And it probably would have gone the way of all issues of the DU (kindling for homeless cougars?) had the bookstore not taken its next, stunning move.
The next day, they pulled ALL of their advertising from the DU.
This was a tizzy fit of the highest order. A brash, boisterous, and blatantly bad move on the part of a Bookstore who must be riddled with self-doubt and fear that they may lose a semi-monopoly if students find out what's really going on.
As the DU pointed out in a subsequent editorial, "[p]ulling advertisements for pointing out a real, continuing subject of public dialogue is petty" - AMEN - "[t]he Bookstore's response demonstrates narrow-mindedness" - AND AMEN.
As you may know, I'm graduating soon. I've already made my last foray into the cankerous world of college textbook economics (and what a twisted, troubled world it is). But if I weren't, the Bookstore's actions would have given me all the impetus I need to NEVER BUY ANOTHER TEXTBOOK FROM THEM AGAIN (they say ALL CAPS is the written equivalent of shouting ... TRUE THAT)! I've always been upset by the Bookstore's seeming disregard for the students who keep it in business. As an arm of the University, the Bookstore should be putting us first. That they do not (and will not) is more disturbing now than ever before.
A tax on honesty? No ... what we have here is something far worse.
Friday, January 9, 2009
Genie in a Jug: A Practical Alternative to Radar?
While evaluating whether a court should take judicial notice of the accuracy of radar in detecting speed in 1959, Judge Ruark of the Missouri Court of Appeals had this to say:
After all, we all know that "Genies" first gained prominence as part of their important role in the Islamic religious tradition. The Genie, or Jinn, is a supernatural fiery creature which possesses free will (mentioned in the Qur'an where an entire Sura is named after them (Al-Jinn)). Analysts suggest that the decision not to use Genies to enforce speeding ordinances is a clear sign that this country does not accept Islam or those who practice it.
But I think the real answer is far less troubling. Clearly, there are vital reasons NOT to use the "Genie in a Jug" method: Namely, Genie's are often PURE EVIL (as, apparently, are the ones Judge Ruark proposes using). While some are good (see Aladdin) evil genies are said to lead humans astray. In fact, in Islam, Satan, known in Arabic as Iblis, is the iconic genie that refused to bow down to Adam when ordered to by Allah.
This nation simply cannot afford to let Genies shoot their "evil emanations" at its citizens merely to enforce speeding laws accurately. Clearly, the costs (humanity's destruction based on unchecked use of evil, mystical powers leading to some sort of Armageddon) far outweigh the benefits (more fines for speeding).
I say the time has come to put the "Genie in a Jug" argument to rest. After all, radar works ... and I for one will sleep better knowing a disgruntled trooper won't be able to use his speed-detection device to enslave the general populace.
"Whether the radar device is an instrument applying known laws of science, or whether it is a genie in a jug, emitting evil emanations, makes no difference; the important thing is that it works."Of course, Judge Ruark's brilliant quote begs an important social question: Why has the law enforcement community ignored the enormous potential of the "Genie in a Jug" speed-detection method? After all, troopers around the country have known about this important tool for decades (ever since Officer Van Laddaman of the Vermont State Troopers first employed the technology to pull over speeding semi-trucks in the early 1950s). Some have argued that the conscious disregard of this vital technology may simply be another form of religious intolerance in a country that professes acceptance of all creeds.
After all, we all know that "Genies" first gained prominence as part of their important role in the Islamic religious tradition. The Genie, or Jinn, is a supernatural fiery creature which possesses free will (mentioned in the Qur'an where an entire Sura is named after them (Al-Jinn)). Analysts suggest that the decision not to use Genies to enforce speeding ordinances is a clear sign that this country does not accept Islam or those who practice it.
But I think the real answer is far less troubling. Clearly, there are vital reasons NOT to use the "Genie in a Jug" method: Namely, Genie's are often PURE EVIL (as, apparently, are the ones Judge Ruark proposes using). While some are good (see Aladdin) evil genies are said to lead humans astray. In fact, in Islam, Satan, known in Arabic as Iblis, is the iconic genie that refused to bow down to Adam when ordered to by Allah.
This nation simply cannot afford to let Genies shoot their "evil emanations" at its citizens merely to enforce speeding laws accurately. Clearly, the costs (humanity's destruction based on unchecked use of evil, mystical powers leading to some sort of Armageddon) far outweigh the benefits (more fines for speeding).
I say the time has come to put the "Genie in a Jug" argument to rest. After all, radar works ... and I for one will sleep better knowing a disgruntled trooper won't be able to use his speed-detection device to enslave the general populace.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Barestaugmo ...
While texting a friend, the predictive function on my phone pulled up this wonder of a word as the MOST PROBABLE entry. Now, granted, I probably missed a letter (or added one in), but it was hard for me to understand how something like "Barestaugmo" could even be an option (extra letter or not)?
As I thought about it though (and yes, this does reveal a rather Everest-ian level of boredom), I realized that mayhaps this is just my phone's subtle way of encouraging me to break out of society's linguistic sinkhole and really stick it to the man with words that inspire both confusion AND admiration (I mean, people who can come up with words that imaginative should be leading this country ... or at least the BCS).
And what's more, I realized that making up words has a long and glorious tradition. After all, where would the world be if Lewis "the Dodgson" Carroll or ol' Bill hadn't jumped the verbal mores of their day? We certainly wouldn't have words like "chortled" and "galumphing" or "dexterously" and "assassination" (though, of course, in Shakespeare's case he may not have invented the words so much as been the first one to write them down ... still, give the man props).
So in honor of Carroll, Shakespeare and ... my phone, I propose the following words to both gladden the heart and spicen the tongue (most words provided by my phone's predictive text function):
Barestaugmo: Formal name for a class of psychological conditions tied largely to television viewing. Includes, among others, Festaction (an unexplainable need to spend hours watching various reality television shows, esp. The Hills) and Nubbitasteesm (a belief that one is wittier and has a larger vocabulary than one actually does, typically arising after multiple hours of watching Gilmore Girls or Buffy the Vampire Slayer).
Tuckervine: A type of dance originating in the hinterlands of Canada. Performed while wearing up to six layers of thick animal fur, the finer movements of this dance are often indistinguishable from standing. However, practitioners frequently claim that if observers could see their legs, they would be utterly astounded.
Nurtuaj (silent 'j"): A type of creature resembling a large squirrel the makes its home predominately among a library's bookshelves. While sometimes resembling young undergrads with weeks of facial hair growth, these easily-frightened creatures are fond of both peanut butter and soothing music. They are frequently observed towards the end of scholastic semesters.
Monday, January 5, 2009
Life is a Musical ...
A dear friend of mine asked me via text (and rather randomly) "when you think of the most loved musicals of all time, which names come to mind?" Jolly good question, wot. I mean, are there certain shows that, by their cheery goodness and musical prowess, immediately rise above the dross in all their melody-driven glory?
Well, taking a rather broad definition of the term musical (including shows originally created for film as well as those written for the stage), here are the first five that jumped to mind when I thought about the phrase "Most Loved Musicals of All Time":
(1) The Sound of Music: After all, the hills are alive with it - the very foundations of Nazi Germany quake at the mention of it. Anything Julie Andrews touched was pure gold (and a reason her shows make two of the top five - see below). Funny, family-friendly and filled with some of the most catchy, nay, infectious tunes of all time, this Rogers and Hammerstein standby remains classic for good reason.
(2) Fiddler on the Roof: I took a class from Michael Ballam as an undergrad all about the power of music (and its history). We spent a lot of time talking about musicals. One day he told us the story of Fiddler. Apparently, when the show was set to open the writers, director and producer were all on pins and needles because they didn't think anyone could like a show about Russian Jews. They suffered through opening night steeling themselves for boos while hoping for cheers. What they got, however, was silence. No one moved. No one clapped. No one did anything for a long while. Then, slowly, the audience began to disperse. The next day, feeling certain that the show was a complete disaster, they came to the theater and saw a line of people longer than they could imagine. The show went on for a (then) record-setting total of 3,242 performances. All I can add is my own "Bravo."
(3) Les Miserables: Who'ld a thought that unadulterated tragedy could turn into one of the most amazing musical productions ever seen? Of course, I gotta give props to Victor Hugo and his source material (perhaps the most amazing novel every written), but an equally well-deserved cheer goes out to Claude-Michel Schönberg and Alain Boublil whose genius transcends blog description. Good on ya, Frenchies.
(4) Mary Poppins: Can you possibly not love this show? I mean, really ... try. It's not possible. We've got singing bankers, dancing penguins, semi-neurotic nannies, and Dick Van Dyke ... who could ask for anything more? And with SNL's lovely send up to supercalifragilisticexpealidocious ("a disease of the liver ... "), this one must be at the top of any musical-junkies list.
(5) White Christmas: It may be the season ... it may be the snow, but whatever the reason, this one does float to the top. After all, how can you beat that Danny Kaye/Bing Crosby dynamite.
(6) My Fair Lady: Most beloved of all time or not, I had to throw this one in because it's my personal favorite. Why, you ask? For the complexity of the plot, the lovely tunes, the undiluted chauvinism of Prof. Henry Higgins and ... for the following lyrics:
Well, that about does it for me. For those two or three of you who may read this, feel free to add to the list. I'd be interested in what pops into your head.
Well, taking a rather broad definition of the term musical (including shows originally created for film as well as those written for the stage), here are the first five that jumped to mind when I thought about the phrase "Most Loved Musicals of All Time":
(1) The Sound of Music: After all, the hills are alive with it - the very foundations of Nazi Germany quake at the mention of it. Anything Julie Andrews touched was pure gold (and a reason her shows make two of the top five - see below). Funny, family-friendly and filled with some of the most catchy, nay, infectious tunes of all time, this Rogers and Hammerstein standby remains classic for good reason.
(2) Fiddler on the Roof: I took a class from Michael Ballam as an undergrad all about the power of music (and its history). We spent a lot of time talking about musicals. One day he told us the story of Fiddler. Apparently, when the show was set to open the writers, director and producer were all on pins and needles because they didn't think anyone could like a show about Russian Jews. They suffered through opening night steeling themselves for boos while hoping for cheers. What they got, however, was silence. No one moved. No one clapped. No one did anything for a long while. Then, slowly, the audience began to disperse. The next day, feeling certain that the show was a complete disaster, they came to the theater and saw a line of people longer than they could imagine. The show went on for a (then) record-setting total of 3,242 performances. All I can add is my own "Bravo."
(3) Les Miserables: Who'ld a thought that unadulterated tragedy could turn into one of the most amazing musical productions ever seen? Of course, I gotta give props to Victor Hugo and his source material (perhaps the most amazing novel every written), but an equally well-deserved cheer goes out to Claude-Michel Schönberg and Alain Boublil whose genius transcends blog description. Good on ya, Frenchies.
(4) Mary Poppins: Can you possibly not love this show? I mean, really ... try. It's not possible. We've got singing bankers, dancing penguins, semi-neurotic nannies, and Dick Van Dyke ... who could ask for anything more? And with SNL's lovely send up to supercalifragilisticexpealidocious ("a disease of the liver ... "), this one must be at the top of any musical-junkies list.
(5) White Christmas: It may be the season ... it may be the snow, but whatever the reason, this one does float to the top. After all, how can you beat that Danny Kaye/Bing Crosby dynamite.
(6) My Fair Lady: Most beloved of all time or not, I had to throw this one in because it's my personal favorite. Why, you ask? For the complexity of the plot, the lovely tunes, the undiluted chauvinism of Prof. Henry Higgins and ... for the following lyrics:
"Women are irrational, that's all there is to that. Their heads are full of cotton, hay, and rags. They're nothing but exasperating, irritating, agitating, calculating, vacillating, maddening and infuriating hags."
Well, that about does it for me. For those two or three of you who may read this, feel free to add to the list. I'd be interested in what pops into your head.
Monday, December 15, 2008
Economic Rec-depr-ession ... or Surviving in the Lean Times
It's depressed the dollar, yanked the yen, and pounded the pound and now it's coming after you and your once-impenetrable piggy bank. It's the looming shadow - the wolf in the darkness who breaks into your home, eats your instant noodle soup and spends hours on your couch racking up the pay-per-view bills (and ordering infomercial-based fitness programs and blenders). Of course, I'm talking about the Recession ... or the Neo-Depression ... or ... well, let's just call it the #$!%^&-ession.
Now, you may be behind TARP ... or you may think the bailout is the worst trick since Edward Bernays’s 1929 campaign to recruit women smokers (Bernay's campaign successfully tied smoking to the women's liberation movement and gave us little white "torches of liberty." He's probably more responsible than anyone else for the last eighty years of smoking-related disease and death among women).
Either way, it really doesn't matter. I mean, we can chitter, chatter, and complain all we want about the crisis and the government's (ill?) response to it ... but that's not gonna keep the wolf from shoving his money-sucking snout into your wallet (not sure how I feel about this metaphor anymore ... oh well). When it comes down to it, we can be "mad as hell" and "not gonna take it anymore," but how will that help you keep your home (or buy lunch for that matter)? Righteous indignation just ain't gonna pay them bills.
Truth is, we've got some tragically tough times ahead. And while I still feel optimistic - after all, no one ever starved with a law degree as long as they were willing to order takeout - I realize it's high time I started cutting back. I mean, that hedonistic, devil-may-care approach to finance that most of my generation has known since birth has finally broken down ... and hallelujah, it's just in time.
I mean, we all want to blame Wall Street and those fat-cat execs who have been livin' life high on the investor's dime ... but let's get a few of those fingers pointed in the right direction. After all, an absence of liquidity in the markets wouldn't really hurt most of us if we were already out of debt and putting our surplus in safe, time-tested investments. And even a deep drop in the stock market wouldn't mean as much if we protected our principal and left high-stake risk to the crew from Ocean's 11.
This crisis seems the perfect storm ... it's destructive, it's dangerous and it's likely to destroy small fishing vessels who care more for profit that personal safety; but those folks who built a shelter and have hunkered down to weather the mess have nothing to worry about. Fail or fortune, we've only ourselves to blame.
So suck in that belt, kick off those extravagances and follow these basic principles to get and keep yourself in the black (lovingly ripped off from The Richest Man in Babylon):
(1) Fatten Your Wallet: Take one-tenth of EVERYTHING you bring in and save it for the future. Pay it like clockwork ... like tithing ... like your financial success depended on it. (It does). Don't let a paycheck pass without retracting your tenth.
(2) Control Your Expenditures: Don’t buy frivolous things. Avoid the "it's on sale mentality." Frugality and fortune go hand in hand.
(3) Multiply Your Money: Once you've built up some savings, invest it wisely, safely and with a clear eye to the future. If you start saving money, it shouldn’t just sit in a mattress. After all, a high-yield savings account can double your principal in about fifteen years.
(4) Protect Your Assets: Only invest where the principal is safe. For the most part, this would discourage stock investing. Sound crazy? Just talk to someone who lost 45% of their net worth in two months.
(5) Ensure a Future Income: Keep your eye on retirement (no matter what age you are) and make sure your family will be taken care of if you pass. Buy an affordable home ... keep your belongings in good shape.
(6) Invest in Yourself: Work hard, find opportunities, get educated. Today, a college education is one of the best investments you can make; I’m not saying that it’s a requirement to be successful, but it opens the door to greater possibilities.
Of course, there are countless more bits of advice, but in the end, the key is this: Follow the prophets, get out of debt, and use your common sense. And if nothing else, try and smile each time you stop at those gas pumps. After all, these #$!@#&-essions ain't all bad.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
A Little Holiday Spirit (Part I) ...
It’s been far more difficult to start off this little memoir than I thought. You see, I wanted to give a go at some homage, pay the piper and all that, but I stuck myself in a bit of trouble because homage demands “literary prowess” (whatever the hell that is). In the end, though, it finally came to me—the perfect beginning.
It was so simple. So clear. I had gone through a few drafts (i.e., “It was the most exciting of times, it was the dullest of times” and “Whether I shall be the hero of my own memoir or whether some other git-faced spirit will take that role remains to be seen,” and simply “Hell.” I liked that last one best, but I wasn’t sure anyone would get it), but when this popped into my head, I was done. I could add nothing more.
I mean, it’s nice—not too highhanded or over-the-top or anything like that. Pure, solid homage. After all, I gotta hand credit to the book that really put me on the map, literarily speaking, I mean. Why, if it weren’t for Monsieur Dickens (that cheeky little bastard) no one would care a two-pence or a haypenny or a hey nonny-nonny for me or the other so called “spirits” that “haunt” (can you believe this insanity? Words in quotes?! Hah!) A Christmas Carol.
Ok, I guess I better back up two shakes. First off, the name’s Edward—Edward Salberry, to be precise. I know what you’re thinking, “Who the hell is Edward Salberry?” (or, if you’re a bit higher minded and moral and all that, probably like, “Who, perchance, is Edward Salberry?”). And I can’t blame you one bit. I mean, no one knows me by that name anymore. Not since Dickens anyway. Like as not, you’d recognize me as the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come. But actually, just to set the record straight, that’s more of a title. It’s like knowing a knob named Bill Accain who shovels dirt at the cemetery and thinking his name was really “the Shoveller” or “the Man who Moves Dirt For Recompense” or something like that. Nice when talking with friends about a bloke, but no good if you wanna talk with the man himself. So, by all means, call me Edward. And, like I said, I am the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come … and Hannakuh Yet to Come … and Ramadan Yet to Come … and Diwali Yet to Come … and, well, let’s just say that if it’s an up-and-coming religious holiday you want haunted, I’m your spirit.
Didn’t used to be that way, though. Back in the day it was straight up Christian holidays and nothing doin’ with those heathen jobs living in their deserts and jungles and the like. Fact was, most of those pagans were already filled to the brim with kindness and charity and Christian cheer … well, in a blood-sacrifice kind of way. Mind you, I don’t recommend the cannibalism or the “human sacrifice to please Baal,” or anything like that. I’m just saying that when they weren’t chanting and chirping and gorging on their victims, they could be pretty damn civil. And did they know how to party. Wow! This one feast in Papua New Guinea before they offered up virgin triplets probably blasted the doors off any other dinner in history. Really.
But I digress.
Fact is, we’re living in an increasingly global society with political correctness and equal opportunity kicking you in the face every time you turn around. Buddy of mine once got fined half a month’s wages for failing to properly haunt this Scientologist guy into repentance and redemption and what not. Well I just have to say, bugger that. What if I got some problem haunting the man … you know, on moral grounds or something. It just ain’t right that some union can come in and make me fork out some hard earned cash because I'm not gonna do anything "repugnant to my nature" or whatever. It's a bloody mess, if you ask me.
And who do we have to thank for all that? Why, Dickens himself. I mean, he just waltzes in with his serial novels and his "realistic" characters and … well, I'll get to all that. Guess what I need to do is tell ya more about myself. I mean, sure, Dickens will play a part, but we’ll keep him in the wings more than not. Gotta head out now ... busy time of year and all that. But don't worry. More to come. More to come.
The ghost was bored, to begin with.
It was so simple. So clear. I had gone through a few drafts (i.e., “It was the most exciting of times, it was the dullest of times” and “Whether I shall be the hero of my own memoir or whether some other git-faced spirit will take that role remains to be seen,” and simply “Hell.” I liked that last one best, but I wasn’t sure anyone would get it), but when this popped into my head, I was done. I could add nothing more.
I mean, it’s nice—not too highhanded or over-the-top or anything like that. Pure, solid homage. After all, I gotta hand credit to the book that really put me on the map, literarily speaking, I mean. Why, if it weren’t for Monsieur Dickens (that cheeky little bastard) no one would care a two-pence or a haypenny or a hey nonny-nonny for me or the other so called “spirits” that “haunt” (can you believe this insanity? Words in quotes?! Hah!) A Christmas Carol.
Ok, I guess I better back up two shakes. First off, the name’s Edward—Edward Salberry, to be precise. I know what you’re thinking, “Who the hell is Edward Salberry?” (or, if you’re a bit higher minded and moral and all that, probably like, “Who, perchance, is Edward Salberry?”). And I can’t blame you one bit. I mean, no one knows me by that name anymore. Not since Dickens anyway. Like as not, you’d recognize me as the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come. But actually, just to set the record straight, that’s more of a title. It’s like knowing a knob named Bill Accain who shovels dirt at the cemetery and thinking his name was really “the Shoveller” or “the Man who Moves Dirt For Recompense” or something like that. Nice when talking with friends about a bloke, but no good if you wanna talk with the man himself. So, by all means, call me Edward. And, like I said, I am the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come … and Hannakuh Yet to Come … and Ramadan Yet to Come … and Diwali Yet to Come … and, well, let’s just say that if it’s an up-and-coming religious holiday you want haunted, I’m your spirit.
Didn’t used to be that way, though. Back in the day it was straight up Christian holidays and nothing doin’ with those heathen jobs living in their deserts and jungles and the like. Fact was, most of those pagans were already filled to the brim with kindness and charity and Christian cheer … well, in a blood-sacrifice kind of way. Mind you, I don’t recommend the cannibalism or the “human sacrifice to please Baal,” or anything like that. I’m just saying that when they weren’t chanting and chirping and gorging on their victims, they could be pretty damn civil. And did they know how to party. Wow! This one feast in Papua New Guinea before they offered up virgin triplets probably blasted the doors off any other dinner in history. Really.
But I digress.
Fact is, we’re living in an increasingly global society with political correctness and equal opportunity kicking you in the face every time you turn around. Buddy of mine once got fined half a month’s wages for failing to properly haunt this Scientologist guy into repentance and redemption and what not. Well I just have to say, bugger that. What if I got some problem haunting the man … you know, on moral grounds or something. It just ain’t right that some union can come in and make me fork out some hard earned cash because I'm not gonna do anything "repugnant to my nature" or whatever. It's a bloody mess, if you ask me.
And who do we have to thank for all that? Why, Dickens himself. I mean, he just waltzes in with his serial novels and his "realistic" characters and … well, I'll get to all that. Guess what I need to do is tell ya more about myself. I mean, sure, Dickens will play a part, but we’ll keep him in the wings more than not. Gotta head out now ... busy time of year and all that. But don't worry. More to come. More to come.
TO BE CONTINUED ...
Monday, November 24, 2008
Emotive Twenty-Somethings ...
This morning, while looking through old files on a long-forgotten flash drive, I found a poem I wrote during my senior year of college. Thinking back, it seems like I used to write a lot of silly things like this. Up 'til now I've rarely shared them with anyone ... but this one was too good to pass up. I mean, what was I thinking? How bored must I have been to even start, much less finish, something so inane? Oh, well. Nothing can keep an emotive twenty-three year old down ;)
Still, given my last entry and the upcoming fun & food-filled holiday season, this poem* may even be slightly apropo. Cheers to ya'll, and good luck keeping those upcoming New Year's Resolutions.
* WARNING: THE FOLLOWING POEM MAY CONTAIN NUDITY
Still, given my last entry and the upcoming fun & food-filled holiday season, this poem* may even be slightly apropo. Cheers to ya'll, and good luck keeping those upcoming New Year's Resolutions.
* WARNING: THE FOLLOWING POEM MAY CONTAIN NUDITY
“Weighed Again, Come January”
Mid-January, I stood in the shower and realized
I couldn’t see my feet without moving my head forward
(more than I care to admit).
Only with effort could I make out what lay beyond
the titan mound of all too solid flesh.
I stood stark naked as water trickled down a drain
(to be reused by others in a perverse, yet telling,
cycle of modernity), and thought how easy corpulence would
melt away
in the sweat of a rubber-padded weight room.
And so I came to the meat auction
where scores of ruddy-faced men and women
whored themselves in public spectacle. (The world of weights
revolves around breasts and biceps).
But I was not so degenerate.
Or rather, I was (am) but didn’t (don’t) have the right figure.
So, I wore baggy sweats.
An acrid smell drifted across the checkered floor
and I nearly left because I couldn’t stand to breathe in the mix of five-year old sweat and hairspray.
But looking down I saw nothing
but my Dionysian stomach and so ...
Weight machines stood in a row like a collection of
sculpted scrap metal that once may have composed the guts of a Chevy or a washing machine. The machines were foreign,
their magic made more potent by mystery
and the Alchemic ability to transform fat into figure.
I stepped to a machine as music blared inanely across the room.
“Dirty deeds done dirt cheap ... ”
And I remembered why the progression of time
is such a good idea. (Good one, God).
Others in the room moved like large, shapely specters,
seemingly unaware of the rest of the room, but secretly staring
and lusting. “Dude, throw thirty more on,”
the blue-shirted shape said;
perhaps meant to entice the girl with the butterfly tattoo.
The hour passed and gravity took its toll. I straggled home,
legs tense and arms quivering.
Even in this frozen wasteland, my body found a way to sweat. (Thanks again, God).
In the apartment, I stripped down and stepped into the shower, consumed by Promethean pain.
And as the water spilled out, I looked down and smiled weakly.
I still couldn’t see my feet.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Will Run for Food ...
Those dark moments of life (death, divorce, destruction, disease, decomposition, etc.) often create just the right batch of ingredients for a rebirth. It's a bit like that whole Phoenix thing. We can't be reborn until we've been burnt to a charcoal-covered crisp.
See, midway through second semester of my first year of law school (a time of life universally recognized as a trip through physical and mental hell ... even if you enjoyed yourself most of the time) I looked down one day to discover that I had slowly devolved into a 285 pound mass of jelly-filled humanity. This was bad ... high cholesterol & blood pressure just added to what I now refer to as the MOST ABYSMAL PHYSICAL CONDITION OF MY LIFE.
After commiserating with some of my fellow chubbed-out first years, I decided to begin an activity that would significantly change my life: Running. Throughout my high school and undergrad years, I had avoided this most polarizing of activities like it was the smelly guy in science class. See, I related with the Morgan High Cross-Country club motto: "What most call hell, we call home." I was firmly on the "hell" side of that dichotomy.
Nevertheless, I disregarded my prior bias and began on a program aimed to get me from couch potato to half-Kenyan marathoner in sixteen weeks. Those first several weeks of running, I felt (and probably looked) like this:
But despite the back aches, the leg aches, the head aches, and the generally feeling that if I went one more step I would probably keel over along the side of the road, I kept going. And things got better. My lung capacity deepened and my legs, back, and stomach began to support my considerable girth. The highlight of that time of my running life came three months later when I set out on an idle Friday night and ran for an entire hour without stopping. I felt invincible; I felt like superman; I felt like this guy:
Even though I FELT good, however, I didn't actually look much different. Sure, I lost a few pounds (down to 250 at first and later down to 240 when I started training for a half-marathon), but my body still looked like an M&M - a lot of good stuff covered in a thick candy shell. It was only then that I began to realize the other half of my problem: Food.
Most of the seven deadly sins are relatively under control for me. Anger? Not since I beat up that kid in fourth grade (topically enough, for calling me fat) or punched a whole through our living room window screen have I let that emotion really take control. Envy? Well, I do live with Eric Vogeler, so ... yeah. And Lust? Well, I think Henry Higgins put it best when he asked "Have you ever met a man of good moral character where women are concerned?" (OK, after reading what I just wrote, I realize I might need to work on those as well). But the worst of all the game, by far, has always been Gluttony. We're a nation whose main passtime is overeating ... and I've always been proud to be an American.
But the problem with my greedy need for food is that it counteracts the majority of good that can come from a solid and consistent running program. I could run 25 miles a week and, thanks to my habit of mercilessly choking down Twinkies, end up two pounds heavier than I was the week before (this has happened ... how sad is that?).
So I'm going to cut down. Seriously ... this time it's going to happen. This life is all about learning to control our finicky, fickle bodies, no? Let that be my goal. My heart is healthy, my legs are strong and, while a flat and chiseled belly may be too much to ask for, hopefully cutting out the junk will help me move closer to that optimum 220.
See, midway through second semester of my first year of law school (a time of life universally recognized as a trip through physical and mental hell ... even if you enjoyed yourself most of the time) I looked down one day to discover that I had slowly devolved into a 285 pound mass of jelly-filled humanity. This was bad ... high cholesterol & blood pressure just added to what I now refer to as the MOST ABYSMAL PHYSICAL CONDITION OF MY LIFE.
After commiserating with some of my fellow chubbed-out first years, I decided to begin an activity that would significantly change my life: Running. Throughout my high school and undergrad years, I had avoided this most polarizing of activities like it was the smelly guy in science class. See, I related with the Morgan High Cross-Country club motto: "What most call hell, we call home." I was firmly on the "hell" side of that dichotomy.
Nevertheless, I disregarded my prior bias and began on a program aimed to get me from couch potato to half-Kenyan marathoner in sixteen weeks. Those first several weeks of running, I felt (and probably looked) like this:
But despite the back aches, the leg aches, the head aches, and the generally feeling that if I went one more step I would probably keel over along the side of the road, I kept going. And things got better. My lung capacity deepened and my legs, back, and stomach began to support my considerable girth. The highlight of that time of my running life came three months later when I set out on an idle Friday night and ran for an entire hour without stopping. I felt invincible; I felt like superman; I felt like this guy:
Even though I FELT good, however, I didn't actually look much different. Sure, I lost a few pounds (down to 250 at first and later down to 240 when I started training for a half-marathon), but my body still looked like an M&M - a lot of good stuff covered in a thick candy shell. It was only then that I began to realize the other half of my problem: Food.
Most of the seven deadly sins are relatively under control for me. Anger? Not since I beat up that kid in fourth grade (topically enough, for calling me fat) or punched a whole through our living room window screen have I let that emotion really take control. Envy? Well, I do live with Eric Vogeler, so ... yeah. And Lust? Well, I think Henry Higgins put it best when he asked "Have you ever met a man of good moral character where women are concerned?" (OK, after reading what I just wrote, I realize I might need to work on those as well). But the worst of all the game, by far, has always been Gluttony. We're a nation whose main passtime is overeating ... and I've always been proud to be an American.
But the problem with my greedy need for food is that it counteracts the majority of good that can come from a solid and consistent running program. I could run 25 miles a week and, thanks to my habit of mercilessly choking down Twinkies, end up two pounds heavier than I was the week before (this has happened ... how sad is that?).
So I'm going to cut down. Seriously ... this time it's going to happen. This life is all about learning to control our finicky, fickle bodies, no? Let that be my goal. My heart is healthy, my legs are strong and, while a flat and chiseled belly may be too much to ask for, hopefully cutting out the junk will help me move closer to that optimum 220.
Monday, November 10, 2008
A Lot Like Love ...
"We are all a little weird and life's a little weird, and when we find someone whose weirdness is compatible with ours, we join up with them and fall in mutual weirdness and call it love."
I found that statement while looking through quotes some of my friends have up on Facebook (the most socially acceptable way to stalk ...). The quote reminds me a bit of a comic strip by Bill Watterson (a genius of the highest order, comic or otherwise). In one segment written several years ago, Calvin is walking along a path with Hobbes while the pair, as they are want to do, have a VERY illuminating conversation:
Calvin: What's it like to fall in love?
Hobbes: Well... say the object of your affection walks by...
Calvin: Yeah?
Hobbes: First, your heart falls into your stomach and splashes your innards. All the moisture makes you sweat profusely. This condensation shorts the circuits to your brain and you get all woozy. When your brain burns out altogether, your mouth disengages and you babble like a cretin until she leaves.
Calvin: THAT'S LOVE?!?
Hobbes: Medically speaking.
Calvin: Heck, that happened to me once, but I figured it was cooties!
It may not be Valentine's Day or Christmas or really any day that might spark the heart or quicken the pulse ... but it is raining outside. And, on a rainy day, a little love can go a long way.
Cheers to ya'll ... and much love.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
"America will never forget ... "
Today, while reading through the so-called "Great Speeches" of the last one hundred years, I came across one delivered by current President George W. Bush to Congress nine days after the terrorist-driven destruction of 9/11. Among many other poignant and well-crafted lines (two points to his speech writer for coming up with "whether we bring our enemies to justice or justice to our enemies, justice will be done") was the following promise and observation.
And on behalf of the American people, I thank the world for its outpouring of support.
America will never forget the sounds of our national anthem playing at Buckingham Palace, on the streets of Paris and at Berlin's Brandenburg Gate.
We will not forget South Korean children gathering to pray outside our embassy in Seoul, or the prayers of sympathy offered at a mosque in Cairo.
We will not forget moments of silence and days of mourning in Australia and Africa and Latin America.
Nor will we forget the citizens of 80 other nations who died with our own. Dozens of Pakistanis, more than 130 Israelis, more than 250 citizens of India, men and women from El Salvador, Iran, Mexico and Japan, and hundreds of British citizens.
America has no truer friend than Great Britain.
Now, I don't want to end up sounding like some melodramatic country song, but with the lowest global approval rating since ... well, ever ... I can't help but think that we have forgotten those sentiments. And we've lost (or are losing) many of our friends as a result.
Why, for instance, did we decide to twiddle away our previous political prowess and relatively unsullied foreign image (remember when EVERYONE wanted to be us ... except France ... and they did too, secretly, from a distance) for a turgid, dumb war in Iraq?
And why have we decided to take the lone wolf, devil may care approach to foreign policy that ends up alienating the new Russia, the new China and the old everyone else? (Granted, we are doing better with some countries, such as India, but we've dropped significantly in the eyes of many, many others).
Before going on, I must point out that yes, I am several years late and a few well-thought-out phrases short of having a really meaningful entry here. (In my own defense, though, I must say that's largely because I was out of the country during 9/11 and the ensuing two years of US foreign relations rebound while I was serving an LDS mission in Southeast Asia leading, as you might expect, to a very different perspective on this whole thing). Obviously, disregarding the downward glances of our foreign friends isn't a new trend or a hot issue - it's been going on for years. For whatever reason though (call it fate, call it destiny, call it being at work with absolutely nothing else to do), my personal apathy toward the whole mess has finally begun to fade away and I've started wondering how to get our country back to where we were eight years ago - at least as far as foreign relations are concerned.
I don't think I'm being naive (idealistic, maybe, but not naive). I'm aware that we've always had a way of grating foreign cultures and countries with our brash, uncouth ways. I mean, we've always sort of done it our own way - but at least we used to have the diplomatic sense to keep more doors open and more friendships alive. And at least we used to try and make sure that when we went into some country, we went in with a wink and a nod from our friends across the pond and around the world (as opposed to the curse and jeer that seem more the preferred greeting today).
In that speech Bush gave nearly seven years ago, he paid homage to the right idea and the right approach to foreign policy: America cannot forget the good the world has done for her. America cannot choose to go it alone anymore (and whoever the next president is, he's got to clue in on that concept pretty darn quick). Sure, we'll continue to have our difference and we can't always just "play nice" with the schoolhouse bully, but if we don't make friends with the other countries on this large global playground, we'll be little more than a bully ourselves.
I may not be the most insightful chap this side of CNN (ha ha), but I do love this country and I always pray for her continued success. God bless America (and God give her sense enough to deserve it)!
God of our fathers, known of old--
Lord of our far-flung battle line
Beneath whose awful hand we hold
Dominion over palm and pine--
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget - lest we forget!
The tumult and the shouting dies;
The captains and the kings depart:
Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,
An humble and a contrite heart.
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget - lest we forget!
Far-called, our navies melt away;
On dune and headland sinks the fire:
Lo, all our pomp of yesterday
Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!
Judge of the Nations, spare us yet,
Lest we forget - lest we forget!
If, drunk with sight of power, we loose
Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe--
Such boasting as the Gentiles use
Or lesser breeds without the law--
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget - lest we forget!
- Rudyard Kipling
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
[title]
I got this e-mail a few months back from a co-worker at the Utah Supreme Court. Funny man. I kept it (for the love of a good guffaw) and am only now getting around to publishing it. Enjoy.
Hello [witty moniker]:
It's that time again. I realize that you are all busy with [seasonal non-religious activity], but [pop culture reference], don't you think? Our [regularly occuring, work-related outing] is just around the corner and should be great time to share our impressions of cases, practice caricatures of our favorite jurists, and [pinky and the brain reference].
With that in mind, I say we get together for an informal brown bag lunch on Friday at noon. I realize the notice is short but remember [cite to fake statute], and we took an oath to uphold the law, right? Ha ha!
As usual, feel free to attend even if case discussion is "verboten." We won't make you talk or even eat the dessert unless you are [ambiguous, possibly inappropriate joke]. Chattham house rules apply.
I hope to see you there.
Cheers,
[clever, likely self-deprecating nickname]
Hello [witty moniker]:
It's that time again. I realize that you are all busy with [seasonal non-religious activity], but [pop culture reference], don't you think? Our [regularly occuring, work-related outing] is just around the corner and should be great time to share our impressions of cases, practice caricatures of our favorite jurists, and [pinky and the brain reference].
With that in mind, I say we get together for an informal brown bag lunch on Friday at noon. I realize the notice is short but remember [cite to fake statute], and we took an oath to uphold the law, right? Ha ha!
As usual, feel free to attend even if case discussion is "verboten." We won't make you talk or even eat the dessert unless you are [ambiguous, possibly inappropriate joke]. Chattham house rules apply.
I hope to see you there.
Cheers,
[clever, likely self-deprecating nickname]
Friday, July 4, 2008
Balancing the Court
Finally, for all us "right-brained" lawyers out there - a bit of pictorial magic detailing the voting styles of our current Supreme Court (showing the "major" cases - as judged by the NY Times - over the past term). This pictograph begs two questions, as far as I can see:
(1) Will Kennedy ever NOT be the swing vote? I mean, really ... isn't it time for Stevens to step into the limelight a little? Just a little? (And, while we're on the topic, how 'bout Steven's bow tie? A perfect complement to Thomas's slant-lipped stare of death).
(2) Can Scalia and Ginsberg let bygones be bygones and join together on some issue of universal importance, thus rising above their political biases?
Thanks to those happy-go-lucky NY Times people from whom I lovingly stole this image.
Saturday, May 17, 2008
My town ... that created all the bass sounds ...
What ever happened to the sweet, sweet hip-hop that pervaded the 90s? I know, I know ... most of you are shaking your head in disbelief - as if there could be such a thing as "sweet hip-hop" - but just read on ... you'll see what I mean.
Take for instance "I Need a Hot Girl" by Hot Boyz, one particularly rousing anthem from the end of that era. Here, verbatim, are the first four lines:
'You need a hot one I got one, I take and bend
Shake it down, break it down, with me and a friend
Biggity bounce, slide, ride, work that thing to the right
Push it down, push it up, boom you dynamite' (add appropriate inflection)
And then there's "My Projects" by Coo Coo Cal:
'In my projects, my project thick
In my projects, everybody cooks bricks
In my projects, my projects thick
Don't come to my projects if you ain't wit dis clique'
Or how about the unforgettable Western/Hip-Hop crossover "Ghetto Cowboy" by Mo' Thugs from 1998:
'The names Powder P can I get a twelve gauge
Outlawed everyday on the front page
Mr. Kid, if you give me the low down
Me and Blackjack, we ready for the showdown
With two double barrels pointed at whatever
We'll stick together, I'm perdy clever'
(Perhaps the best use of the word "perdy" in any song ever. Period).
But need I quote more? For everyone in touch with their inner, sex-crazed thug, the genius of these hip-hop masterpieces is beyond reproach (My Inner-Thug Name: T. Four Piece). For the true believer, there was never a better era.
So the question is, what happened? Where are the Koopsta Knicka's, Tupac's and Krayzie Bone's of today? I know, I know ... some of those guys retired. Some overdosed on heroin. Some are serving time in maximum security prison. And some are dead urban icons rumored to be coming back in 2007, but not really actually coming back. (You know who you are).
I just don't think today's hip-hop has that same, undefinable quality ... we've seem to have moved past that time when music was able to eternally straddle the line between completely depraved and lovable 'gansta magic.' No, the hip-hop of today has definitely crossed that line. The music of today can best be described only as "Fergalicious."
Oh, well ... I guess some things will just never be the same. I'll just have to resign myself to being one of those crazy old guys who embarrasses their "hip" grandkids by rapping on the front porch with his dawg's and remembering the days when the Notorious B.I.G. reigned supreme.
Take for instance "I Need a Hot Girl" by Hot Boyz, one particularly rousing anthem from the end of that era. Here, verbatim, are the first four lines:
'You need a hot one I got one, I take and bend
Shake it down, break it down, with me and a friend
Biggity bounce, slide, ride, work that thing to the right
Push it down, push it up, boom you dynamite' (add appropriate inflection)
And then there's "My Projects" by Coo Coo Cal:
'In my projects, my project thick
In my projects, everybody cooks bricks
In my projects, my projects thick
Don't come to my projects if you ain't wit dis clique'
Or how about the unforgettable Western/Hip-Hop crossover "Ghetto Cowboy" by Mo' Thugs from 1998:
'The names Powder P can I get a twelve gauge
Outlawed everyday on the front page
Mr. Kid, if you give me the low down
Me and Blackjack, we ready for the showdown
With two double barrels pointed at whatever
We'll stick together, I'm perdy clever'
(Perhaps the best use of the word "perdy" in any song ever. Period).
But need I quote more? For everyone in touch with their inner, sex-crazed thug, the genius of these hip-hop masterpieces is beyond reproach (My Inner-Thug Name: T. Four Piece). For the true believer, there was never a better era.
So the question is, what happened? Where are the Koopsta Knicka's, Tupac's and Krayzie Bone's of today? I know, I know ... some of those guys retired. Some overdosed on heroin. Some are serving time in maximum security prison. And some are dead urban icons rumored to be coming back in 2007, but not really actually coming back. (You know who you are).
I just don't think today's hip-hop has that same, undefinable quality ... we've seem to have moved past that time when music was able to eternally straddle the line between completely depraved and lovable 'gansta magic.' No, the hip-hop of today has definitely crossed that line. The music of today can best be described only as "Fergalicious."
Oh, well ... I guess some things will just never be the same. I'll just have to resign myself to being one of those crazy old guys who embarrasses their "hip" grandkids by rapping on the front porch with his dawg's and remembering the days when the Notorious B.I.G. reigned supreme.
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