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Silence is Only Golden if You Listen to Shitty Music.

Another 'Tude Moment

Some of you might remember the last story of my best student, 'Tude. She struck again, this time in fun. I sent out a mass email that informed my students of the shortly upcoming due date for their current rough draft. This was her response:

Jared,
I know you said no complaints, but this is gay!! I just had to say it. Have agood night. Seeya in class tomorrow.
'Tude


This was my response to her:

Let's both have fun.

Though it depends on what exactly is due, whether it is sexy or not, due dates are sexless, genderless. Theoretically speaking, one gender of due date doesn't "typically" have eyes for the opposite. A smaller percent doesn't have eyes for same-gendered due dates, or even dress up in the opposite's apparel and dance for money. This smaller percent doesn't have marches proclaiming their pride for their eyes for each other. To extend the stereotypes even further, this percent isn't tidier, better-dressing, or apt to get more emotional than hetero-sexy due dates.

:p

Besides, why are YOU of all my students the only one that puts up a fuss about due dates when you're too good to NEED more time: You transcend due dates. Due dates are but dust to you, mighty Swiffer. No one else even thinks about due date extensions until you pipe up. The expression "thorn in my side" comes to mind.

Tee hee

Toods, 'Tude.

Jared

While Peeing...

"[He] imagined that the sound of urination after drinking tea would be dainty, like aiming pinky-up."

Do Two Things Count as a "Hodgepodge?"

I guess I can't confidently say I know what the hell a hodgepodge is. This post might qualify as such.

First:
I've never considered myself a reader. I don't read, like in the Love Connection sense when stupid bitches in six-second clips rattle off vote-grabbing hobbies like scuba-diving, cats, and reading. Just shut up. I've got something you can snorkle. And cats aren't hobbies--kitties, however, are. No, your hobbies are proportionately big hair and shoulder pads.

Anway, like I said: I don't read. This goes against all writerly logic since the equation goes: We, as writers, should read more than or equal to how much we write. The amount of materials-read catches up pretty quick to materials-written during a semester without workshop. Distance closes the more our professors call us out. Since that blessed challenge, I've strapped one on and learned to read all over again--yes, read in that Aussie Hairsprayed-bangs Love Connection sort of way.

Since then, I hammered out Don't Let's Go to the Dogs Tonight, About a Boy, The Lovely Bones, and Vernon God Little. Just for Terry's class. I'm not bragging--especially since all twenty-ish of us did the same thing. I don't know about them, but I never thought I'd do it. Not all of it. If they thought I'd do it, what in our history together made them think I'd be capable of doing that? (I love vague Owen Wilson quotes.)

I was all page-turning-too-fast-to-fergodsakes through Fuller.

I "read" Hornby last year. I read it this year.

I did 175 of Sebold in one day. The time spent traveling home from Iowa in a van listening to RT's jazz band helped, but it didn't require me to finish the last hondo once I got home and slipped into Nathan's unmentionables.

I "read" Veron fucken God fucken Little--as Vern might say--last year. I read it this year. 200 pages to-fucken-night. Just now, since 9pm. Boo yah, bitches. OK, so it's 3:45am now, having taken me 6-ish hours for two-hondo. My current MSN display name: "I May Read Slow, But I Read 200 Pages."


Next:
When Patrick was here this weekend he brought me treats in the form of disc'd mp3s--which is much better for me than lousy audio discs. My ROM dates back to ROMe and barely works anymore. It's nice to drag-n-drop-load into iTunes. What? A CD burner in my machine? Ha. Why would a guy with 71gig have a CD burner? It's not that I'm selfish; it's that I'm so stuck in 2000.

Assume these are immediate additions to the never-ending-recommended-list (never-ending because I just may never finish it).

The Treats:
*Interpol - Antics (My fave of the litter.)
*System of a Downed - Hypnotize and Mezmerize (I could be wrong, but I don't think Hypnotize is even released yet. Pat?)
*Arcade Fire - Funeral (Haven't gotten around to this one yet. Interpol has been that impressive.)
*Atmosphere - You Can't Imagine How Much Fun We're Having (Haven't gotten around to it yet either.)
*Casanatra - Primo Impacto advance (Unreal Mpls. RAUGHK! Can't wait for the full release.)
*Kayne West - Late Registration (Git down, Girl. Go'on 'head git down. Git down, girl. Go'on 'head git down.)
*Radiohead - Me and This Army (Radiohead classics mashed up with emcees--all remixed by DJ Panzah Zandahz).
*Ugly Duckling - Bang for the Buck (Haven't gotten to it yet.)
*Nujabes (Fat John) - Samurai Champloo Soundtrack (If you haven't seen Samurai Champloo yet, I guess you hate yourself and the Japanese.)

Mace...out.

More Excerpts from The Notebook

Had a great, long weekend with Sal and Patrick, but there's not enough time for details. So I'll just reach into the ol' notebook for another inappropriately-timed idea:

One thing you couldn't generalize, [he] thought, was that the tickling of this random girl's whale tail would mean the same intellectually to each man. One guy might think of her as thonged ass and little else. But his extended fantasy involved her looking at him while he tickled his palm on her ass, her smiling and knowing that this was his candy. She'd believe that giving candy was often more rewarding than receiving.

It was about head-to-tail connection, as he often heard in dance classes. Of course, the instructors always meant this in the physical sense: a movement involving the contraction of the spine's two points, the head and tailbone. But for him, the connection meant every ass was connected to a head with a brain, thoughts and feelings, memories, urges, fears--shit: a soul! For him, objectifying women limited the fantasy, limited the fun they could both have. Yeah, fantasies were supposed to be personal and selfish, but he was selfish enough anyway and "personal" was just an acronym for "lonely."

Mace...out.

Fly My Pretties!

I need help.
I challenge you all to find the screenplays for Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory ('71) and/or Charlie and the Chocolate Factory ('05). I don't think it can be done. They don't exist. How do they make movies when screenplays don't exist. Don't directors download the scripts from teh intrawebw0rx like all the rest of us? :(

Congrats, Pat!

Some of you know my old roommate, Patrick. You've probably heard about the shit he's gone through over the last year trying to get a job with The Gov. About this time last year I proofed Patrick's letter of interest for the job for which he's still been awaiting officially official confirmation. That's how long it takes.

Baltimore shall wait no longer for Pat's Bean. Yesterday, I heard from The Master of The Flying Bean himself that The Gov gave its officially official confirmative stamp of official confirmation that they want him to work for them. All of my life I've been saying I know people with top-secret security clearance--but now I won't be lying! But Pat's always had clearance for my pants.

This is a good thing. Pat's been getting desperate, so desperate that he's resorted to substitute teaching little kids. Not that there's anything wrong with substituting--I've been happily dating a substitute teacher for over five years (honey, don't hit me)--but we're talking about Pat... and kids.

One summer in Minoqwa, Wisconsin, I witnessed Patrick encouraging his young cousin to sneak over to the boy's brother, grab his ears, twist, and yell, "Crank it up, fuckers!" So it's good that The Gov has finally got of it's ass.

If you know and love Pat as much as I do, head over to his movie blog and tell him how proud you/we are of him. Also, Patrick's going to be in town this weekend, at least Saturday night, to celebrate, Boulevard Wheat-style. Come out and cheers him away with us.


Mace...out.

Movie Assignment

Here's what I just whipped up for my comp students' fifth assignment:

Movies
General assignment description: This assignment is based on your opinion of what you think makes a “good” comedy, drama, etc—based on which category gets the most votes. Think back to the critique: You’ll build and clearly stated criteria—or necessary elements—for whichever type of movie we watch.

So, if "parody comedy" is picked, you’ll tell me what you think makes a good parody. Based on that criteria, you’ll look at both movies and judge whether or not each movie succeeds your strict test. Since this requires criticism, you’ll assess the “argument”—how the writer/director attempts to succeed at being funny/dramatic/etc. Then, you’ll respond to their “argument” with your opinion. Remember me yelling a lot about keeping your opinion out assessment? Yeah: It applies here too.

Allz I’m asking for is three full pages. After these last two assignments, you should be able to shit three pages. The assignment sheet on Friday will be way more in-depth than this. I promise. Use www.imdb.com (The Internet Movie Database) to check out these movies if you’ve never heard of them. I’m going to try to find the screenplays for the chosen pair of movies for you to reference during the writing process. You have until Thursday, 7 pm to choose. Email me your choice of pairings. You cannot mix-n-match: These movies are paired together for a reason. Happy choosing.

Dark Comedy versus Slapstick:
Rushmore (’98, Jason Schwarztman versus Bill Murry) vs. Tommy Boy (’95, Farley physical genius)

Parody:
Blazing Saddles (’74, Mel Brooks, western) vs. This is Spinal Tap (’74, Christopher Guest mockumentory, rock)

Romantic:
Garden State (’04, Delicious Portman, dark) vs. As Good as it Gets (’97, Old Jack romantic comedy, lighter)

Personal Journey:
Rocky (’76, Sly versus the world) vs. Good Will Hunting (’97, Damon, Robin, and Lousy Affelck)

Cop/Drugs:
Heat (’95, Pacino versus De Niro) vs. Blow (’01, It’s Depp—‘nuff said, cop/drugs)

Family:
What’s Eating Gilbert Grape? (’93, aloof Depp) vs. Meet the Parents (’00, Stiller awkwardness)

Psychological:
The Shining (’80, Young Jack) vs. One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest (’75, Even Younger Jack)

Re-do:
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory (’71, Gene Wilder genius) vs. Charlie and the Chocolate Factory (’05, Depp genius)

Re-do:
Yojimbo (’61, Toshiro Mifuné, samurai) vs. Last Man Standing (’96, Bruce Willis, gangster)

Existential:
Total Recall (’90, Ahnold) vs. The Matrix (’99, man vs. machine)



Here's the problem: I don't own any of them. Hmm...

Did Someone Say 'More?'

Blame Mike.

Here's another gem from the same string as the previous two notes:

"No chick actually likes being pissed on unless--and [he] wasn't exactly sure about this--unless she's Japanese and on the internet."

It was a weird conference.

Mace...out.

I Went to Non-FictioNow...

...and all I got was a sack of Nathan's dirty laundry. I wore your boxers for a while, Nate, grading papers and reading Alice Sebold's The Lovely Bones. Reed's found himself a new cocksock or two. We'll have to work out a trade, but it's your job to come up with an item attractive enough for me to part with said sack since, as you all know, I'm fond of sacks.

Someone say, "Enough about sacks. How was the conference?"

I don't like to make grand statements. I think women are full of shit if they say they knew the exact moment they caught pregnant. Noses don't itch because someone's talking about you--or whatever they say. It usually just means boogers or dust. Scratching things that itch doesn't send cosmic responses like, "Stop talking about me--unless it's good stuff." Back me up, fellas: My balls itch all the time. And I scratch them all the time. Like obedient, loyal puppies, they deserve to be scratched. Does that mean someone's talking about my balls? Perhaps I should just be content that at least someone's talking about my balls.

I digress.

My grand statement: I'm rejuvenated. The conference informed; it inspired; it started very early and ended very late. I don't remember another time when I came up with so many great ideas. I can't decide the reason for the inspiration from which I'm now coming down. I think I've narrowed the reasons down to two main sources:

1) Gather near-400 people together--who are focused on the same ideas, who are there for inspiration, who want to be inspired just like me--and something happens to the air. Something happens to all the elements in the few-block radius: Even Reed breathed a little easier, I think. The water was sweeter, that rusty sweetness like at campsites. The concrete underfoot up those steep Iowa City hills gave more, cushioned our progress from inspiration, to fuel up on Indian Food, and back to more inspiration. Even the rain felt like a shower meant to rinse resistance away. It's the site of The Iowa Writer's Workshop, Mecca fergodsakes: The land is blessed as a result.

2) I was away from home, from the things I love to let distract me from getting shit done. The distractions range from hockey with Sire to music to poker with Doobs to futbol to, sadly, blogs. I had none of these in Iowa. I had my 'pod but no time or reason to use it during the trip. Things were very simple on the road, Spartan. If I didn't take notes and read, there wouldn't have been much else to do.

Here's the weird thing: None of the notes I took had anything to do with Non-Fiction. Damn near everything I wrote with red pen in my magic notebook had to do with Fiction projects I'm working on. And none of it was "appropriate" for the setting at all. While any given panelist was rambling on about the importance of distinguishing between "The Author, The Self, The 'I'"...

I was writing things like:
"...no matter who you are, how worn your hands, palms are ticklish, asses feel good, and silk is still silk even though it snags on the cracked pads of worked hands."

Or when Pico Iyer spoke with such exactness and smooth English English about existence as neither Indian, English, nor American...

I was writing:
"People always say, 'Everyone should try acid once--for the experience!' That's how he felt about anal. Unfortunately, he thought, he'd never tried either."

Inspiration is a funny thing. Even when you want inspiration to strike, and you're holding on to a lightning rod in the form of a Non-Fiction conference, inspiration will not be told how to strike. Don't argue about being struck in not quite the right way. Just be struck and happy.

Mace... back and out.

Dear Shit Swamp Authors

You almost had me. You almost made me feel sorry today. I almost gave into your pressure to push back the Argumentative Synthesis Rough Draft Due Date three days. You won my heart with the request for more in-class work time. I almost believed that you cared about your papers. But then...

Then, during lecture and your whined-for in-class work time, I saw screens--screens with terrible, miscellaneous images not offered on D2L. I saw screens prompting you to "Poke Her!" and screens with live camera feeds of not only our classroom but others, and the gym with pretty girls on treadmills (this I understand), and--for some reason--feeds to the ACC and all the adventure it offers. I saw other screens that advertised cute shoes and scarves, daily "hilarious vids", and forums--so many forums and so many forum goons.

You almost had me. Each set of misting eyes and each quivering bottom lip and soft-puttered, "Pppplease?" almost took the cup. But your screens triggered to fester something in me, something that made you question, "Why're you so crabby today?" You still didn't get it when I replied, "Facebook." Some kept clicking, kept poking.

The oddest thing, O spewers of shit swamps, is that your inspirator who caused the fire in you is arguably the best among you, your champine. Yes, she's got a 'tude on her--which has even turned into a cute, fitting nickname, Tude. But you, O malicious spark, wouldn't EVER need an extension. You're too good. Then why ask? Why ask when you don't need it. You weren't even abusing in-class work time. It must be charity.

That's the kicker. The irony. Your charity almost gathered the arms, strawed my back; but the one's who would've benefited most from your fruit, the ones who'd need an extension, are the facefuckbooking ingrates that ultimately ruined it for themselves. I would have done it for you, Tude, and the heaping handful of others that would deserve an extension.

But, dear students: too fucking bad. How's that for 'tude?

I'll trust you with ownership of content and scheduling when you stop poking and start blogging.

...

No time nor anything good to report.