Sunday, October 25, 2009
writer's block of an enormous sort
I need to learn how to write better. I always have this feeling that I want to write something, be it a journal entry or a meaningful blog post or that column that I keep telling Matt I'll write for the sports section of The Daily. There's always something that inspires me, but when I go to put pen to paper (fingers to keyboard, rather) my mind goes blank, and I've got no idea what to say. I try thinking of those great things I had thought about before...but the ideas have dissipated! I'm wondering if this is some inherent part of me or if I can make an attitudinal switch that will enable me to write. Maybe it's fear that's keeping me back. I guess I sometimes read other people's writing (in newspaper and magazine stories, in blogs, etc.) and think how good they are and how I wish I would have gone to journalism school. I know I'm preaching to an empty pew in this post, but I think I need some help...some motivation or some tricks?
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Michael Vick
So this might be a little past-due, but I am still seeing articles and blog posts all over the place asking the question of the century: Should Michael Vick be allowed to play?
YES.
Why the hell not? Yes, he did something awful. PETA, you were fine to climb all over him for it then, but no longer. He has served his sentence in prison and is now making an attempt to get his life back on track.
Do PETA members think that, once you've partaken in animal abuse, you should be resigned to a life without hope, without opportunity, even after serving two years in jail?
I love animals, I really do. But this is just outrageous. Give the man a chance.
If you don't give him a chance and, instead, tell him he must sit at home or work in retail the rest of his life - taking away his passion, his love - what do you think he will turn to? If it's not dog fighting again, it'll be some other destructive activity. If you make a man feel worthless and hopeless, what else will he turn to?
Andy Reid, you've done something commendable in welcoming Michael Vick with open arms. I hope you continue to support him and show him that he can rise out of the rock-bottom depths he sunk to.
YES.
Why the hell not? Yes, he did something awful. PETA, you were fine to climb all over him for it then, but no longer. He has served his sentence in prison and is now making an attempt to get his life back on track.
Do PETA members think that, once you've partaken in animal abuse, you should be resigned to a life without hope, without opportunity, even after serving two years in jail?
I love animals, I really do. But this is just outrageous. Give the man a chance.
If you don't give him a chance and, instead, tell him he must sit at home or work in retail the rest of his life - taking away his passion, his love - what do you think he will turn to? If it's not dog fighting again, it'll be some other destructive activity. If you make a man feel worthless and hopeless, what else will he turn to?
Andy Reid, you've done something commendable in welcoming Michael Vick with open arms. I hope you continue to support him and show him that he can rise out of the rock-bottom depths he sunk to.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
So small, so intimidating
Hornets are terrifying creatures, and three of them have been disposed from my dorm room within the past week.
I actually spent just about half an hour on the phone with my mom discussing my plan of attack on one of these little devils. She and I had been talking for ten or so minutes when I saw a nice sized black mass moving across the wall to my right. When I focused in on the drooling beast, I leapt up and threw myself against the door, screaming to my mom that there was a large flying insect on my wall. In retrospect, for those 30 minutes that thing was alive in my room, it owned my room. Although my room was full of my stuff, it wasn't mine anymore. It was this hornet's stuff. It buzzed about as it pleased, from bed to chair to jeans to window. And I moved accordingly, trying my best not to take up the thing's oxygen.
I managed to kill it by smushing it between the curtain and the window when it couldn't see me (or so I would like to think). It fell into the radiator, though, so for all I know, it could perform some crazy stunt and come back to life to make babies in the radiator and kill me in my sleep. Let's hope that's not the case.
At any rate, once I killed the hornet, I found a second one already dead and curled up in the corner of the window. Oh boy, this meant there was a nest nearby and that these little beasts were somehow crawling in through some hole in the screen. What the hell? Not fair. Not fair at all.
After living in fear for a number of days, my boyfriend (Matt) convinced me to open the window once again so that we could breathe the sweet air of the outdoors. I was hesitant (oh SO hesitant), but I complied. There were no hornet problems for a while...until yesterday, when Matt had just gotten back to the dorm with some to-go food from Norris. He flung open the curtains to reveal a nice, big, juicy hornet just chillin' on the screen.
He took just about 30 seconds to find some paper towels and murder the hornet, but the experience was frightening enough for me to say, "I told you so."
We then found a roll of duct tape that had been stuffed in a bag in my room, and Matt taped the entire perimeter of the window, leaving no room for error...no room for these inch-and-a-half long creatures to re-enter and terrorize our human lives.
I actually spent just about half an hour on the phone with my mom discussing my plan of attack on one of these little devils. She and I had been talking for ten or so minutes when I saw a nice sized black mass moving across the wall to my right. When I focused in on the drooling beast, I leapt up and threw myself against the door, screaming to my mom that there was a large flying insect on my wall. In retrospect, for those 30 minutes that thing was alive in my room, it owned my room. Although my room was full of my stuff, it wasn't mine anymore. It was this hornet's stuff. It buzzed about as it pleased, from bed to chair to jeans to window. And I moved accordingly, trying my best not to take up the thing's oxygen.
I managed to kill it by smushing it between the curtain and the window when it couldn't see me (or so I would like to think). It fell into the radiator, though, so for all I know, it could perform some crazy stunt and come back to life to make babies in the radiator and kill me in my sleep. Let's hope that's not the case.
At any rate, once I killed the hornet, I found a second one already dead and curled up in the corner of the window. Oh boy, this meant there was a nest nearby and that these little beasts were somehow crawling in through some hole in the screen. What the hell? Not fair. Not fair at all.
After living in fear for a number of days, my boyfriend (Matt) convinced me to open the window once again so that we could breathe the sweet air of the outdoors. I was hesitant (oh SO hesitant), but I complied. There were no hornet problems for a while...until yesterday, when Matt had just gotten back to the dorm with some to-go food from Norris. He flung open the curtains to reveal a nice, big, juicy hornet just chillin' on the screen.
He took just about 30 seconds to find some paper towels and murder the hornet, but the experience was frightening enough for me to say, "I told you so."
We then found a roll of duct tape that had been stuffed in a bag in my room, and Matt taped the entire perimeter of the window, leaving no room for error...no room for these inch-and-a-half long creatures to re-enter and terrorize our human lives.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Grant Me a Wish
I actually just realized how much I've taken some people in my life for granted.
For instance: When I was a little girl, I actually told my mom I wished I had this other girl's mommy instead. What a preposterous thing to say. First of all, although I didn't realize it then, I have the best mom there is. (Well, I'm sure everybody does, right?) She has done so much for me. And I told her I wanted another mommy? What the hell is that?
Also, as silly as it sounds, I wish I had paid more attention to the people around me in middle school and high school. Where are they now? I don't know. But I wish I did. I kind of miss them.
Ah, and I wish I had continued playing soccer. I loved that game so much, and I was a mighty fine midfielder/defender. Pretty athletic, too. I could have been up there with Mia Hamm. Maybe not. But maybe so. Who knows?
And what about when I was in kindergarten and wrote in a 15-page "About Me" booklet that I wanted to be a policewoman? Or when, a year later, I wrote in another "About Me" booklet that I wanted to be a veterinarian? Or when, a few years later, I dreamed of being an animal trainer at Sea World? Where do these dreams go?
People change. The only reason you ever feel that there's something or someone you have "taken for granted" at some point in your life is that hindsight is 20/20. Everything is clearer in retrospect. Your values and ideals now are much different from what they may have been when you broke your mother's heart by telling her you wanted another mommy. They may be different from when you pushed that kid into the sandbox. Or when you told somebody else's secret. Or when you broke a promise to your dearest friend. Or when you screwed up and had to start all over. Or when you lost your only love. Or your first love.
I guess that's why I actually don't want to be able to go back and change things. Sure, if I were the same person then as I am now, I would probably have done things a little differently. You know, if I knew where in my life I'd be. But I wasn't. Obviously. Every little detail comprises who we are. I don't think we should wish to change it.
Although...I do wish I had clearer skin. =]
For instance: When I was a little girl, I actually told my mom I wished I had this other girl's mommy instead. What a preposterous thing to say. First of all, although I didn't realize it then, I have the best mom there is. (Well, I'm sure everybody does, right?) She has done so much for me. And I told her I wanted another mommy? What the hell is that?
Also, as silly as it sounds, I wish I had paid more attention to the people around me in middle school and high school. Where are they now? I don't know. But I wish I did. I kind of miss them.
Ah, and I wish I had continued playing soccer. I loved that game so much, and I was a mighty fine midfielder/defender. Pretty athletic, too. I could have been up there with Mia Hamm. Maybe not. But maybe so. Who knows?
And what about when I was in kindergarten and wrote in a 15-page "About Me" booklet that I wanted to be a policewoman? Or when, a year later, I wrote in another "About Me" booklet that I wanted to be a veterinarian? Or when, a few years later, I dreamed of being an animal trainer at Sea World? Where do these dreams go?
People change. The only reason you ever feel that there's something or someone you have "taken for granted" at some point in your life is that hindsight is 20/20. Everything is clearer in retrospect. Your values and ideals now are much different from what they may have been when you broke your mother's heart by telling her you wanted another mommy. They may be different from when you pushed that kid into the sandbox. Or when you told somebody else's secret. Or when you broke a promise to your dearest friend. Or when you screwed up and had to start all over. Or when you lost your only love. Or your first love.
I guess that's why I actually don't want to be able to go back and change things. Sure, if I were the same person then as I am now, I would probably have done things a little differently. You know, if I knew where in my life I'd be. But I wasn't. Obviously. Every little detail comprises who we are. I don't think we should wish to change it.
Although...I do wish I had clearer skin. =]
Selfish
One thing I don't think I'll ever understand is how selfish some people are.
Namely men.
Why are they entitled to all the pleasure and fun? It's a little much to ask for ALL of the time.
And by a little, I mean a lot.
It makes something that was fun (in my mind) turn into something hostile and insensitive. It leads to thick air in the room and an unfriendly separation. None of it makes any sense to me.
Namely men.
Why are they entitled to all the pleasure and fun? It's a little much to ask for ALL of the time.
And by a little, I mean a lot.
It makes something that was fun (in my mind) turn into something hostile and insensitive. It leads to thick air in the room and an unfriendly separation. None of it makes any sense to me.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
The More You Know Someone
"Everyone's disappointing, the more you get to know someone."
Of all the little tidbits of wisdom in Synecdoche, New York that make you hardcore reevaluate your life, this little fella is my least favorite.
I think, for me, the case is that people actually disappoint me less the more I get to know them. There are exceptions, of course - maybe 1/3 of people I know end up disappointing me. Oh, but isn't that awful to think of? Just thinking about thinking of those people makes me uncomfortable, like I'm betraying somebody somehow. If you knew I was thinking how disappointed I am by you, would you feel betrayed?
I must be betraying you; otherwise, I would be able to list your names here, because you would already know how I feel.
There are some people who have disappointed, then redeemed. Then, perhaps, disappointed again and redeemed again. And with them, I think I am just waiting for another disappointment, likely meaning that I am indeed still disappointed with them. And I know them more. I know they disappoint, so I am disappointed. Probably more disappointed with the fact that I feel I have to live on edge waiting for the day they disappoint me again...than with the fact that they have disappointed me in the past.
This whole issue of disappointment is actually a little depressing to ponder.
And I have used some form of the word "disappoint" entirely too many times in this post.
Of all the little tidbits of wisdom in Synecdoche, New York that make you hardcore reevaluate your life, this little fella is my least favorite.
I think, for me, the case is that people actually disappoint me less the more I get to know them. There are exceptions, of course - maybe 1/3 of people I know end up disappointing me. Oh, but isn't that awful to think of? Just thinking about thinking of those people makes me uncomfortable, like I'm betraying somebody somehow. If you knew I was thinking how disappointed I am by you, would you feel betrayed?
I must be betraying you; otherwise, I would be able to list your names here, because you would already know how I feel.
There are some people who have disappointed, then redeemed. Then, perhaps, disappointed again and redeemed again. And with them, I think I am just waiting for another disappointment, likely meaning that I am indeed still disappointed with them. And I know them more. I know they disappoint, so I am disappointed. Probably more disappointed with the fact that I feel I have to live on edge waiting for the day they disappoint me again...than with the fact that they have disappointed me in the past.
This whole issue of disappointment is actually a little depressing to ponder.
And I have used some form of the word "disappoint" entirely too many times in this post.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Taken for Granted
I just realized that I am a huge fan of warm weather and sunshine. Why oh why did I ever leave Florida?
The salt drifting in the heavy air. The blue crabs covering the streets in the summer. The hot sand littered with shells, both jagged and smooth. No wonder Vero Beach is such a coveted tourist spot. It's one of the most beautiful places on Earth.
The salt drifting in the heavy air. The blue crabs covering the streets in the summer. The hot sand littered with shells, both jagged and smooth. No wonder Vero Beach is such a coveted tourist spot. It's one of the most beautiful places on Earth.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
The Festival
I want to take a moment to reflect on my days with Troupe 2047, Vero Beach High School's ever-so-scintillating competitive theatre bunch.
The 2008-2009 squad is currently in Tampa for arguably the most important five days of any theatre-obsessed high school student in Florida. They are at the Florida State Thespian Festival. This event, my friends, is heaven.
The first year I graced the streets of Tampa wearing that elastic necklace name tag (no doubt spelled wrong, either on the part of Dee Rose or of the student staff of the sequined Michael J. Higgins himself) was 2004, when I was a freshman at VBHS. I roomed with juniors and seniors and felt so overwhelmingly cool.
But, that first year, I didn't actually participate in theatre. At all. Well, except for the fact that I performed and garnered a superior rating with my monologue pair. Seriously, though, other than that, I carried around my camera and, accompanied by the beautiful Liz Blackburn, flirted endlessly with the boys who we found sitting around in the convention center. I put way too much effort into dressing up for the evening mainstage outings, worried that I might run into someone who could judge me for not shaving my legs or for having frizzy hair.
This was the year Liz and I became enamored with Eric Diaz, who we nicknamed "Bang Bang"...because one of his Critics' Choice Award-winning monologues was from Bang Bang, You're Dead. Not as perverse an origin as many would have thought, I'm sure. Bang Bang was the source of many a song and sigh. And he promised us each a dance at the final closing night shabang. He totally failed to deliver and (as a result of Liz and me creepily catching him as he walked back to his hotel from the ceremonies) gave us random, unromantic slow dances with no music.
Although I had the time of my life, I consider that first year a little bit of a fluke. Who pays upwards of $300 (this was before the high school started legit fundraising initiatives) to try to pick up guys?
Regardless, I couldn't WAIT to get back to Morsani Hall my sophomore year. That year, I took workshop upon workshop and saw handfuls of individual events. I met people, sure, but our discussions were based on theatre, not what our plans for the evening were. I found the experience infinitely more rewarding and thus planned to act the same the two years after.
Junior year, there was a little snafu with the unofficial Anything Goes cast party, whereby a drunken cast member apparently nearly died (I wasn't there and don't really know the specifics), so the entire troupe was punished by leaving the festival a whole day or two early. This, dear friends, was torture. Unless you have been to the state festival, you cannot possibly understand the agony. The pain. The pissed off nature of all of us who weren't involved in that tactless night at Michelle's house. We were missing the dance. Never mind the final ceremonies – we were missing the largest orgy north of Miami. We were missing the climax of the festival.
Nobody almost died closing night of Cinderella the next year.
Senior year, I was District XI Student Representative, so I was even further involved than in the two years prior. I felt a sort of responsibility and proudly donned my District Rep ribbon, letting everybody know I was someone they could trust and ask questions. I'm not sure anybody actually asked me questions, but at least I felt important. That's essential to the self-esteem of a high school senior. We all wanted to feel cherished heading off to college, especially to Northwestern, where everybody arrives from high school with twenty leadership positions on their resume.
The most jarring realization following these state festival experiences is that they are nothing but a memory - they merely exist to remember fondly and tell stories about. Those of you who are there now or are just coming back from there probably won't believe me when I say this, but...the Florida State Thespian Festival does not live on forever. When you're there, you think it's the single most important event or place of your life. On the bus ride home, you begin the countdown to the next one. Or you cry silently because you are a senior, and this one was your last.
You will never again come nearly to tears when Michael J. Higgins says, to a packed Morsani Hall during the opening ceremonies, "Welcome home." You will never again cheer in unison with thousands of other thespians - from now on, you will not be united with them at all; they will turn into distant "friends", competition, or forgotten acquaintances. You will never again feel the rush of getting a superior rating at state. You will never again complain of the overpriced food at the convention center. You will never again sit around that lovely fountain at the end of that long walkway at the Tampa Bay Performing Arts Center. You will never again wait in the Morsani Hall lobby for an hour to get good seats to that night's mainstage. You will never again complain of the mold in the Tampa Theatre. You will never again admire the ceiling art of the Tampa Theatre.
Today is Friday; closing ceremonies are tomorrow night. Then, it is over. Everybody leaves Sunday morning or early afternoon. You'll probably witness throngs of students loading their own buses for departure before you have even dressed. Let it sink in. It will all be gone tomorrow.
Monday, when you go back to school, nobody will care what amazing adventures you had over the past five days. You will have to write papers, do problem sets, and take tests just like all the other students.
It's exactly the same when you go off to college. These past four years you had with Troupe 2047 mean nothing. Except to you. So, remember these moments vividly and completely. Don't waste a second. Who knows: Maybe when you get to college, you'll have a fellow once-Florida State Thespian to reminisce with. I've had a couple such encounters. These people have come to me only in chance meetings, and we've only talked about the festival once.
It's a time for you. Embrace it while you can.
The 2008-2009 squad is currently in Tampa for arguably the most important five days of any theatre-obsessed high school student in Florida. They are at the Florida State Thespian Festival. This event, my friends, is heaven.
The first year I graced the streets of Tampa wearing that elastic necklace name tag (no doubt spelled wrong, either on the part of Dee Rose or of the student staff of the sequined Michael J. Higgins himself) was 2004, when I was a freshman at VBHS. I roomed with juniors and seniors and felt so overwhelmingly cool.
But, that first year, I didn't actually participate in theatre. At all. Well, except for the fact that I performed and garnered a superior rating with my monologue pair. Seriously, though, other than that, I carried around my camera and, accompanied by the beautiful Liz Blackburn, flirted endlessly with the boys who we found sitting around in the convention center. I put way too much effort into dressing up for the evening mainstage outings, worried that I might run into someone who could judge me for not shaving my legs or for having frizzy hair.
This was the year Liz and I became enamored with Eric Diaz, who we nicknamed "Bang Bang"...because one of his Critics' Choice Award-winning monologues was from Bang Bang, You're Dead. Not as perverse an origin as many would have thought, I'm sure. Bang Bang was the source of many a song and sigh. And he promised us each a dance at the final closing night shabang. He totally failed to deliver and (as a result of Liz and me creepily catching him as he walked back to his hotel from the ceremonies) gave us random, unromantic slow dances with no music.
Although I had the time of my life, I consider that first year a little bit of a fluke. Who pays upwards of $300 (this was before the high school started legit fundraising initiatives) to try to pick up guys?
Regardless, I couldn't WAIT to get back to Morsani Hall my sophomore year. That year, I took workshop upon workshop and saw handfuls of individual events. I met people, sure, but our discussions were based on theatre, not what our plans for the evening were. I found the experience infinitely more rewarding and thus planned to act the same the two years after.
Junior year, there was a little snafu with the unofficial Anything Goes cast party, whereby a drunken cast member apparently nearly died (I wasn't there and don't really know the specifics), so the entire troupe was punished by leaving the festival a whole day or two early. This, dear friends, was torture. Unless you have been to the state festival, you cannot possibly understand the agony. The pain. The pissed off nature of all of us who weren't involved in that tactless night at Michelle's house. We were missing the dance. Never mind the final ceremonies – we were missing the largest orgy north of Miami. We were missing the climax of the festival.
Nobody almost died closing night of Cinderella the next year.
Senior year, I was District XI Student Representative, so I was even further involved than in the two years prior. I felt a sort of responsibility and proudly donned my District Rep ribbon, letting everybody know I was someone they could trust and ask questions. I'm not sure anybody actually asked me questions, but at least I felt important. That's essential to the self-esteem of a high school senior. We all wanted to feel cherished heading off to college, especially to Northwestern, where everybody arrives from high school with twenty leadership positions on their resume.
The most jarring realization following these state festival experiences is that they are nothing but a memory - they merely exist to remember fondly and tell stories about. Those of you who are there now or are just coming back from there probably won't believe me when I say this, but...the Florida State Thespian Festival does not live on forever. When you're there, you think it's the single most important event or place of your life. On the bus ride home, you begin the countdown to the next one. Or you cry silently because you are a senior, and this one was your last.
You will never again come nearly to tears when Michael J. Higgins says, to a packed Morsani Hall during the opening ceremonies, "Welcome home." You will never again cheer in unison with thousands of other thespians - from now on, you will not be united with them at all; they will turn into distant "friends", competition, or forgotten acquaintances. You will never again feel the rush of getting a superior rating at state. You will never again complain of the overpriced food at the convention center. You will never again sit around that lovely fountain at the end of that long walkway at the Tampa Bay Performing Arts Center. You will never again wait in the Morsani Hall lobby for an hour to get good seats to that night's mainstage. You will never again complain of the mold in the Tampa Theatre. You will never again admire the ceiling art of the Tampa Theatre.
Today is Friday; closing ceremonies are tomorrow night. Then, it is over. Everybody leaves Sunday morning or early afternoon. You'll probably witness throngs of students loading their own buses for departure before you have even dressed. Let it sink in. It will all be gone tomorrow.
Monday, when you go back to school, nobody will care what amazing adventures you had over the past five days. You will have to write papers, do problem sets, and take tests just like all the other students.
It's exactly the same when you go off to college. These past four years you had with Troupe 2047 mean nothing. Except to you. So, remember these moments vividly and completely. Don't waste a second. Who knows: Maybe when you get to college, you'll have a fellow once-Florida State Thespian to reminisce with. I've had a couple such encounters. These people have come to me only in chance meetings, and we've only talked about the festival once.
It's a time for you. Embrace it while you can.
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