Hint: It's a play.
As usual, I’m out this weekend – though it may be hard to tell.
This is an entry that forward-casted (or written prior to the time in which it popped up).
Right now. I should be preparing for the fourth last weekend in a row.
You know the drill… “this is the latest last weekend… yada, yada, yada… closing out the Sullivan house… blah, blah, blah… maybe the pigs will finally take flight.. yeah, yeah, yeah… though we won’t know for sure until we’re done.”
In the meantime, to continue to provide content over the long weekend (since I don’t seem to post on Monday that often – and it I appear to, it’s because I messed with the dates so that it reads “Monday” even when it was entered Tuesday) I have something… in store.
I hesitate to interject the word “special” prior to the “in store,” because I don’t know how it’s going to fly. This is new for me and I’m not sure how it’s going to go/be received/etc…
Okay. Here’s the deal:
My sister has been asking me for several years to write a one-act or monologue for her while she’s trying to earn her Theatre degree from Truman up in Kirksville. The requests have often stroked my ego, though I rarely did wrote anything in response.
I have dabbled with the idea, however. “Playwright” is a cool title one to add to any job listing. See how it livens up the following vocations:
Actor/Playwright/Producer
Poet/Playwright/Pulitzer Winner
Short Story Writer/Playwright/Nobel Prize Winner
It even works for those who labor beyond the artistic fields
Fisherman/Playwright/Boat Owner
Playwright/Coal Miner/Canary Specialist
Postal-Worker/Sharpshooter/Playwright
It adds a touch of class to anyone’s skill set.
I’ve written a lot of skits or what passes for plays in public school or junior competitions. Some of them I’m still proud of; others have been forgotten and won’t be brought up again by me.
Note: I’m sure there are some of you out there who are eager to quote from past performances (especially in cases where the best lines were never officially in the script). Please, save those for another day. The horse has been flogged enough. He’s dead. Get over it.
Further note: By requesting that no comments be made on this subject, I realize this will cement certain character’s resolve to engage and said previously mentioned behavior. I’ll throw in one “Where are me buccaneers?” but that’s all you’ll get me. Okay. Maybe “Inadvertently nukes Canada), but that’s it.
In addition to the class assignments, I’ve started about a half dozen plays on my own time. I never finished one before, as is the case with most of the stories I start. Without consulting the physical archives (in packing up the Sullivan house, I filled a Tupperware container or two with notebooks alone), I believe they’ve all been would-be comedies.
I say "would-be," simply because I'm not sure.
When one is writing in a vacuum, without an audience, you question whether something is serious funny. I remember a video project I worked on in high school that suffered from the lack of outside feedback. Working with a partner, we spent many hours cooped up at the local cable access center putting together a mini-epic on the unexpected snow we’d had and how it might impact the length of the school year. I won’t go into detail about how bad it was, but I will admit the low point was when we inserted mocking subtitles into a lengthy interview with the school superintendent. They were distracting, barely related to topic, and extremely insulting to the man who was talking about adding to the school calendar. I suggested the line about the superintendent consulting his “lucky decoder mood watch” to decide whether or not to cancel school. It was my partner, though, who inserted a demonic cackling voice when the man said we might have two extra weeks of school.
It was idiotic, anything-but clever, and painful to watch. It is also what happens when you forget to take a breath of air and make contact with the outside world.
And I guess that is the final warning before this post wraps up and you can move on to the play below.
This play has only been screened by one other person. While many of the jokes are based on the pep band who traveled to Tempe, Arizona – many taken verbatim – most haven’t been seen in this form. The plot that I threaded through them is untested. The ending was the last thing I wrote because it took me so long to come up with any ending that didn’t involve bloodshed (and I’m only half being dramatic there).
I make no claims that the following play is good. It is only barely plucked from the rocks and I’m not even sure if it’s worth polishing much more. I wrote it initially for my sister to consider for her senior one-act, since she had so much trouble finding anything worth directing, and it took on a mini life of its own. The fact that it's still going is far more than what I expected when I tried to come up with airplane jokes that hadn't been made before (I only used one outside source to write the jokes (or two if you count the one from the Garfield Hawaiian special. See if you can find the single Carlin, homage).
I like what I came up with. I find the trio to be interesting, entertaining people.
I would like to be quick to point out the best lines are not my own, but were composed on the fly, so to speak. I sat behind these people, and some of their jokes were too incredible to be included in the play. My favorite is as follows:
Matt: Hey Kyle! Do you have a wing on your side of the plane, because I don't.
Rachel: (Frantically looks out of the window, before slugging Matt)
This whole play is something in my blogging. We’ve had short stories, we’ve even had haiku days, but this looks to be the biggest leap yet.
If you finish the whole flight, tell me if I cleared the gap.
- Caleb Michael Smith, blogger/playwright/kazoo player
Friday, September 30, 2005
2:01 PM - A word about the lengthy post bellow
2:00 PM - Earning Wings (or Going Plane Crazy)
by Caleb Michael Smith
Synopsis: The Clifton University women’s basketball team is going to the NCAA tournament for the first time in the school’s history. And riding on the team’s coattails – all the way to Arizona – is the pep band. Not everyone is excited about the pending take off, however. Rachel has never flown before and is facing a long-postponed confrontation. Fortunately, or unfortunately for her depending on her point of view, she’s joined by who two friends: Kyle and Matt who are there to provide support in their own unique way. Before they get off the ground, the trio will discuss post-9/11 security, feasting on the crumbs of the athletic department, airline safety manuals, and other laughable subjects.
(Curtain – or whatever – opens to reveal three seats at center of stage. They should be rigged together closely or otherwise bolted down so that they remain in place despite the motions of the actors )
Rachel: (Enters stage from left. She curves to start coming up from behind the chairs, as if going up a row. She carries with her a purse in one hand and a ticket that she frequently consults. Stopping along side the chairs, she pointedly rechecks the seat against unseen numbers on the unseen chairs. She hobbles in sideways, as if squeezing past a row of chairs invisible to the audience, to sit in the far right seat, as viewed from the audience. She stores her purse beneath her seat and situates herself. She stretches out her arms and pats her knees to reassure herself. She turns to her right and looks back ahead, tapping her knees again. She shakes her head and turns to look out an imaginary window. She puts her hand on the glass and cranes to see back and forth around the wing. Shaking her head more prominently, she gets up and moves over one seat. She is pulling out her purse to put it under her new seat when Kyle and Matt arrive, tracing the same path Rachel took up the aisle)
(Matt is a tall, hulking guy whose larger frames holds a witty mind. Kyle is a bit smaller – especially in comparison to Matt – though no less playful and just as sharp)
Matt: I can still barely believe it. The women’s basketball team made it to the NCAA tournament, and the pep band gets to ride along.
Kyle: You’re on the plane, what more is there to believe?
Matt: I’ll believe it when we’re on the ground in Phoenix.
Kyle: Where we get to stay a whole week whether the team wins or not.
Matt: It’s like we’ve sold our soul to the Devil.
Kyle: Or at least rented it temporarily, like a Faustian time-share.
Matt: With a hefty per diem.
Kyle: All thanks to those beautiful basketball playing ladies. (Pauses) I guess technically that makes me a kept man.
Rachel:Scratch one more item off your long-term “to do” list, Kyle.
Kyle: Thanks for reminding me, Rachel. (Pulls out imaginary notepad and crosses off an item with a flurry) Let’s see… What to do next… Climb Everest or compete in an Iron Man competition.
Rachel: Wouldn’t a Tin Man competition be more appropriate?
Matt: Hey, lay off “Dorothy.” (makes the classic quotation fingers phrasing)
Kyle: Thanks, Matt.
Matt: We all know Kyle would make a killing at the Aluminum Foil trials.
Kyle: (Swings a pointing finger back between his two friends) You both suck, though I’m going to say Rachel sucks more because she made the initial joke.
(Kyle and Matt plop down on the open seats to Rachel’s sides. Matt is in the far right seat that Rachel originally vacated and Kyle is in the “aisle” seat)
Rachel: At least it doesn’t take me an eternity to get on the plane. I was beginning to wonder where everyone else was. What to you all so long?
Kyle: It seems some of the members of the band were detained by the crack security guards.
Rachel: You mean those two disgruntled women who looked like former P.E. teachers?
Matt: Yep. America’s first line of defense in the war on terrorism. Don’t you just feel safer knowing they’re there, (puts his hands on his hips while making a stern grimace) glaring at passengers and making potential hijackers run laps.
Kyle: (Points at imaginary terrorist) He’s got a bomb! (Points at ground and growls) Drop and give me 60 one-armed push-ups.
Rachel: Alright, alright… So what really happened? Did someone forget they had a pocketknife or a pair of clippers with them?
Kyle: No, but Billy did forget he was wearing steel-toed boots.
Rachel: (Sigh and shakes her head) What else can you expect from a drummer?
Matt: Spoken with a disdain worthy of a trumpet player.
Rachel: (Shakes off the compliment) How many times did he set off the metal detector?
Kyle: About a dozen times. It’s a good thing he remembered when he did, because they were about to run of out of things to strip.
Matt: (As he pulls on an imaginary rubber glove) And I think one of the ladies was itching to perform a cavity search.
Rachel: (Scrunches at mental image) So… was it smooth sailing after that?
Kyle: Not quite. After Mr. Security Risk came Katy with her bum leg.
Rachel: I thought she had an air cast.
Matt: She did, but apparently there’s metal supports or something mixed up in there.
Kyle: They had to take out the magic wand for her (starts pantomiming the waving motion of the security matron, throwing in some chirps and buzzes like a Jedi lightsaber). Though even that wasn’t working.
Matt: The lady’s saying “You need to lift your leg. It’s beeping.” And Katy’s going, ‘That’s not gonna’ happen.’”
Kyle: How’d she hurt her leg again?
Rachel: Oh, I was there at when it happened. It was a simple combination gone wrong: dry bar, not so dry Katy. She took a tumble the broke up both her leg and the party.
Matt: Of course, the security matrons weren’t too broken up by her condition. They put who through the ringer to maker sure she wasn’t hiding drugs or anything in her cast – as if some dealer would hire a one-legged mule.
Rachel: I understand why they err on too much security rather than too little, but you sometimes if it’s worth all the trouble when put into practice. I know it’s selfish, but
we want everybody else to go through the serious stuff but us. You can tell people are thinking: Hey! I’m cool. I swear. I’d say something if I wasn’t.
Kyle: If only all the terrorists in the world were as honest as you, Rachel. It’d be a kinder, gentler place.
Matt: Only you wouldn’t be there to enjoy it, because you’d be dead for telling the truth.
Rachel: Thanks, Matt. No utopia for me. Finish your story.
Matt: So anyway, after all that, Kyle and I breezed through security like we had nothing to hide.
Kyle: We didn’t. After waiting so long we’d already taken all the drugs and booze we’d previously planned on smuggling.
Matt: We had a head start on Billy, since he had to go and re-dress himself…
Kyle: Without his mother’s help this time.
Matt: And it was pretty easy to pass the cripple hobbling across the tarmac, and here we are (holds up ticket) in seats… Hey wait a minute!
Kyle: What?
Matt: We’re not in the right seats.
Kyle: Huh?
Rachel: (Nervous at their discovery) Um, yeah… I kinda changed seats because I wasn’t so thrilled about sitting next to the window.
(There’s a brief pause as Kyle and Matt take this information in. Upon comprehension, they exchange knowing glances)
Kyle: First flight?
Rachel: Pretty obvious, huh?
Matt: Don’t worry about it. I’m probably better off sitting near the window and the emergency exit.
Rachel: Why do you say that?
Matt: The airlines usually prefer a big strong, muscular guy to have this spot to man the emergency escape hatch, just in case.
Rachel: Just in case what?
Matt: It’s just a safety precaution that never really comes into play. They do it in all the airlines.
Rachel: So you’ve flown before?
Matt: Lots of times.
Matt: Me too. Statistically, it’s been proven that planes are safer than driving compared to miles traveled.
Rachel: What’s your source for that?
Kyle: “Scientific American” magazine… and my insurance rates.
Matt: That’s what you get for treating traffic signs as mere suggestions.
Kyle: Okay. I’ve had two noteworthy accidents and the last one wasn’t even my fault. (Grumbling) There was a design flaw…
Matt: I’m sure that excuse went over well with the traffic cop.
Rachel: (Playfully) Isn’t that just like an engineering student, blaming the machine and not the person behind the wheel.
Matt: (Directed at Kyle) All I know is I’m not letting you drive the car to Vegas.
Rachel: What?
Matt: It’s our tentative plan for our per diem money.
Rachel: (Makes an “explain more” expression with arched eyebrows)
Kyle: (Pulls an laminated airline booklet from a pocket beneath his seat). If you look at the United States, you see Las Vegas is close to Phoenix.
Rachel: No it isn’t.
Kyle: It’s one state over.
Matt: It’s like two, two and half inches on the map, tops.
Kyle: And if the team loses early in the tournament….
Matt: Like in the first round as all the sports journals predict.
Kyle: Then we’ll have plenty of time and university provided capital to try our luck.
Rachel: How are you supposed to make it across the desert?
(Kyle and Matt hesitate and look at each other)
Matt: We really haven’t thought it out that much.
Kyle: We only came up with the idea while waiting to go through security.
Matt: My plan was to spend it all on food. (Beckons imaginary waiter) Garcon? Steak please! Clap, clap. (Claps twice)
Rachel: You’ll blow though all your money in two days living like that.
Matt: (Dreamily) But what a fine two days it will be. (Contentedly sighs) And after that, I’ll just live off my good looks and the kindness of strangers.
Rachel: And when both fall through you’ll mooch off of us.
Matt: Probably. But it’s a plan.
Rachel: Between the two of you, can’t you think of something better to spend your money on?
Kyle: (In a correcting tone) The athletic department’s money.
Rachel: Whatever.
(Kyle returns the plane packet back beneath his seat. There is a pause while the two think, suddenly the two are simultaneous struck with the same thought)
Matt: Tattoos.
Kyle: Per diem tattoos.” (The two slap each other high fives over Rachel)
Rachel: You guys are pathetic (She starts out in a lecturing tone, but soon starts laughing).
Matt: (Gestures at window) Hey. It looks like the flight crew is getting on the plane.
(All three lean over, squeezing around each other, angling to get a better view. Suddenly all three react to something outside the line of sight. Rachel grows slightly serious as Matt and Kyle become bemused)
Kyle: Our pilot just tripped going up the stairs to the plane.
Matt: That’s a good sign.
Kyle: (Talking in a slurred, drunken tone) Oh man! That was a crazy night in the pilot’s lounge. Walking it off, walking it off.
Matt: Does anybody remember where I parked the plane?
Rachel: You guys are ridiculous.
Kyle: Are we? Didn’t you read about the pilots who were convicted for drunk flying?
Rachel: (Incredulously) What? An F.W.I., Flying while intoxicated?
Kyle: Well, someone intervened before the plane took off, but as a matter of intent, yeah.
Matt: (Waves his arms acting belligerent) I know my limits. I know how much I can drink. I know when to stop to make sure I don’t have a hangover impairing my performance.
Kyle: So are you hung over?
Matt: (Thinks it over) Well, since I’m technically still intoxicated, I guess not. Cheers! (He and Kyle clink imaginary glasses)
Rachel: Are you two about done?
Kyle: I bet the stewardesses keep the black coffee flowing all through the flight.
Rachel: Finished?
Kyle: I’ve got one more joke about drinking “literal kamikaze shooters” but I can let it go.
Rachel: And you?
Matt: On this subject, yes.
Rachel: Good.
Matt: I do have a question though… (Sees her temper starting to flare up again and waves her down) No, no. Not a funny “gotcha” question. A real one.
Rachel: (skeptically) Shoot.
Matt: I’m curious how someone your age got this far in life without taking off into the wild blue yonder, on family a vacation or class trip or something.
Rachel: (Hesitates before replying) It’s a long story.
Matt: (Gestures around) We’re not going anywhere.
Kyle: And the team hasn’t even gone through security yet, and you know they’ve all got switchblades.
Rachel: Alright… I never really traveled much before college. My family had rough experience driving to Disney World once. My brothers and I were all old enough to be territorial about our personal space and yet young enough to not to be mature about it. Imagine the whole clan crammed into an already overstuffed minivan with a history of breaking down. Throw in the fact we were driving on Memorial Day weekend and you’ve got a combination that will produce a “Lord of the Flies” scenario in any backseat, guaranteed. (Briefly lets that sink in before proceeding on, even more direly) And if the drive down sounds bad, imagine how much worse it would be on the way back when you didn’t have Mickey Mouse, roller coasters, or swimming pools to look forward to. We never really took any family trips after that. I don’t think my Mom ever quite forgave Dad. Even now, if you say the words “Road trip,” she develops a facial tic. (Cheers up slightly) It’s funny except for the fact it sometimes isn’t.
Matt: So being high-strung is genetic in your family? That explains a lot.
Rachel: (She threatens playfully) Watch it. (Drops the mock severity) Okay. Since you two are flight veterans, you should be able to answer a flight question for me. (The boys shrug to show they’re game, mumbling affirmatives) Is airline food as bad as they say?
Kyle: Well, I once heard of a flight of rugby players that ended up eating each other.
Matt: That was after their plane crashed into the Andes Mountains.
Rachel: (She sinks slightly into her chair at this news)
Kyle: True... Maybe we shouldn’t treat them as a representative case.
Matt: More serious, there are usually two schools of food preparation. It usually boils down to a question between quantity or quality.
Rachel: Let me guess: airline cooks flunked out of both schools.
Matt: (Thumbs at her) The girl is catching on.
Kyle: I think the plane guide had a sample menu. Let’s check it out. (All three pull at their passenger guides).
Matt: And while we’re looking, check to see if this bird has an in-flight movie.
Kyle: Like “Passenger 57?”
Matt: “Con Air”
Kyle: “Executive Decision”
Matt: “Air Force One”
Kyle: “Die Hard II”
Rachel: “Casablanca?”
Matt: What?
Rachel: There’s a plane at the end... (Kyle and Matt gawk for a second) And Nazis...? This game is stupid.
Kyle: Only because you don’t fully appreciate the cinematic quality of such big action, big budget action movie productions.
Matt: Jean Claude van Damme is a true actor’s actor. (Reconsiders) Or is that Steven Segal?
Kyle: Same thing.
(Kyle and Matt start pumping their arms in slow motion saying “Nooooo!” “Ruuuun!” until Rachel elbows both of them simultaneously)
Rachel: You two are full of it. Besides, the guide says there’s no movie on this flight.
Matt: Well, since we have them out, we shouldn’t miss an opportunity to go over the safety procedures digest.
Kyle: Do I get to make the hand motions (starts pointing to all the exits) while you read, or do I get to do the safety monologue?
Matt: I think we could do it more like a quiz.
Rachel: That doesn’t sound like a bad idea.
(All three start to flip through the booklet)
Kyle: I like how happy the crashing people are in the illustrations. So calm, collected, not freaking out… It’s totally counter-intuitive.
Matt: Okay, here we go… (Speaking in authoritative voice) If you see the wings shaking… scream.
Rachel: (Sarcastically) Ha, ha. (Moves on) In case of a water landing, between here and Arizona…”
Kyle: Hey, I’ve got some ocean front property in Arizona!
Matt: Skip it. If you see a monster on the wing tearing out the plane’s electronics…
Rachel: It doesn’t say that.
Matt: Does to!
Rachel: Where?
Matt: On page 23B, (reaches over Rachel starts to flip pages for Kyle and Rachel and points) under “Nightmare at 20,000 feet” scenarios. See, Kyle has it.
Kyle: Well so it does. Wow, contingencies for both “Shatner” and “Lithogow” creatures. Not many people know the subtle differences between the two.
(Rachel shakes them off and the trio flips through more pages)
Rachel: I love it how they have both written and pictorial directions on how to work a safety belt.
Matt: It’s for cases like rocky turbulence.
Rachel: Turbulence never gets that bad, does it?
Matt: Well… To let you in on a secret, the little paper bags aren’t to hold all the candy from the piñata that the flight attendants bring out partway through the flight.
Kyle: If you ask me, the whole concept of seatbelts on an airplane as a safety feature is bunk.
Matt: What do you mean?
Kyle: Seatbelts in airplanes. They’re a bit like having sky divers wear helmets. It will protect you from the little things, but if something bigger comes along. (Shakes his head) Think basic physics. Newton: An object in motion stays in motion…
Rachel: . Until acted upon by an equal or greater force.
Kyle: (Makes smacking noise with his fist) The laws of physics can get pretty nasty when you corner them - you learn that in engineering.
Matt: I tried to warn him that ignorance was bliss, but no, no, Mr. Know-it-all wanted to keep learning, reading, eventually earn a higher paying job. (Dismissively) Loser.
Rachel: Right… (Flips some more pages then stops) Does “explosive depressurization” mean what I think it means?
Matt: If you mean something like the cargo doors opening and stuff being sucked out of the plane. Yeah.
(There is a pause as Rachel grows grim. Kyle pokes her in the ribs to get her attention)
Kyle: Can you imagine tubas flying out from 35,000 feet? (Makes a falling whistle sound)
Rachel: (Starts to smile weekly)
Matt: (Nudges Rachel) Technically, it’d be deeper. (Makes an octave lower, “ooohhh” sound)
(Now tickled, Rachel smiles more genuinely until interrupted by the sound of cell phone ringing. All three shift to hear better and Rachel pulls out her purse to retrieve her phone)
Matt: You have the school fight song as your ring tone?
Rachel: Yeah. I programmed it in myself.
Matt: How school-spirited of you.
Rachel: If I recall correctly, your ring tone is Funky Town.
Matt: Hey! Lips, Inc. are going to make a comeback.
Kyle: (Deadpans) Talk about it.
Matt: I don’t want to even hear from you Mr. Crazy in Love ringer.
Kyle: (Silently holds up his hands in mock defeat)
Rachel: (Finally pulls her phone from her bag) Hello? (Starts pausing for every unheard reply) Oh hi Dad. No, we haven’ taken off yet. I’m doing okay, considering.
Matt: I guess those all those pretty purple pills must be kicking in.
Kyle: We may be on the ground, but she’s already flying high in the sky.
Rachel: Oh, it’s nothing, Dad. Some guys behind me are talking about… their mother. Yes, drug abuse is very, very sad. Of course, I say “No” to drugs.
Kyle: Oh tell the truth about how you pop Valium like a Pez addict pops… Pez. (He pauses even as Rachel twists to better tune them out) That wasn’t so smooth, was it?
Matt: No. You should have thought that through another second or two. Follow through is important.
Rachel: (Shifts position to better tune the boys out) Changing the subject, I got through security okay.
Matt: Tell him about all those pocketknives you’ve got secreted on your person.
Rachel: Shh!
Kyle: Don’t make me get the Air Marshal.
Rachel: No. It’s nothing Dad. (Looks pointedly at Kyle and Matt as she describes them) It’s just two immature twelve-year-olds who are making pests of themselves.
Kyle: Did you hear what she called us?
Rachel: (Waves to silence him) No, I don’t need a lecture, Dad. (Rolls her eyes) Yes, I remember puberty is a troublesome period to go through.
Kyle: Ain’t that the truth.
Matt: Acne, body odor…
Kyle: No longer being able to throw rocks at girls you had a crush on.
Matt: Having to fill out those stupid “Do you like me – yes or no” notes instead.
Kyle: Throwing rocks was much more satisfying.
Rachel: So how’s Mom doing?
Matt: Hey Kyle?
Kyle: What?
Matt: Do you see any brown liquid pouring of out your side of the plane?
Kyle: (Strains his neck to see across the aisle) Nope. Just blackish oil.
Matt: As long as it’s not fuel. We need that.
(Rachel looks about ready to start slugging her friends before she is interrupted by the intercom)
Offstage announcer: (In a cool, seemingly sedated voice) This is your chief flight attendant speaking. The crew has finished their preliminaries and we’ll be taking off shortly. We’d like to remind you to have all cell phones, music players, and other wireless devices turned off prior to takeoff, to ensure the safety of everyone aboard. Thank you.
Rachel: (Hand over the receiver again) What happens if your phone is still on while the plane takes off?
Kyle: Potentially, tower communications get mixed up and the plane crashes.
Rachel: (Expression bulges briefly at this news. Continues phone conversation hurriedly) Look Dad, I’ve gotta go.
Matt: We’d be close to the ground when we started to plummet. We wouldn’t fall that far.
Rachel: (More hurried) Tell Mom I love her. And don’t call me, I’ll call you. Yeah… Love you, too. Bye. (Slinks back into her seat with a long sigh)
Kyle: You really shouldn’t worry that much, Rachel. There are lots of reasons to be positive. Like the fact our plane has a smiley face sun on the tale. That means we’ll be fine.
Matt: Or that it will be especially ironic if we do crash.
Kyle: There are just some phrases you don’t ever want to be associated with should your name pop up on the evening news.
Matt: (In serious newscaster voices) Like “ironic.”
Kyle: “Tragic”
Matt: “On a somber note…”
Rachel: Dismembered.
Matt: Good one.
Rachel: No. That’s what I’m just about ready to do to the two of you. I figure that’s the only way I’ll be able to cram you two into the overhead compartment.
Kyle: Calm down, calm down. Two things: One, while I know you can take me, I’m pretty sure you can’t take Matt. Two, I know we’ve been tweaking you a bit, but you seem to have more than just first flight jitters. Is there something else troubling you?
Rachel: (Slow to respond) When I first was growing up, I wanted to be a pilot.
Matt: So no being a nurse or mommy?
Rachel: No, I went through those phases too. I even briefly recall wanting to be a “fairy dancer princess,” but I moved onto other aspirations.
Kyle: So what happened?
Rachel: PBS.
(Kyle and Matt look confused)
Rachel: One night my oldest brother was foolishly left in charge, as if his slight head start in years made up for his deficit in intelligence and maturity. To lord over us, he had us all sit on the couch and watch what he wanted to watch. There was some special called, “Why Planes Burn.” As you can imagine, all those slow-motion crashes had quite an effect on a young, would-be pilot. You didn’t have to be very old to see the fireballs and subsequent wreckage to realize the captains didn’t walk away from crashes very often – or at least that was my impression.
Matt: Another person scarred by educational television.
Kyle: It almost makes the dancer-fairy-princess job look more practical.
Rachel: So anyway, even as I moved on to lawyer, banker, and eventually music teacher, some of those old images stayed burned in my head. I hadn’t thought about them for a long while, but this trip stirred some of them back up.
Matt: Rachel, look. (Reaches out to put his arm around her) We’re hard on you sometimes, but it’s all in good fun. We don’t mean any harm.
Kyle: (Also stretches out to touch her hand) And if you think about it, we’ve systematically prepared you for every possible contingency that could go wrong. Should things start to look sticky, you’ll be able to laugh it off by saying, “Hey! We already joked about that.”
Rachel: So you’re trying to tell me all this all this jesting was on purpose.
(Matt and Kyle reply quickly and on top of each other)
Kyle: Sure.
Matt: Maybe.
Rachel: (Smiles) I’m not buying it, but I’m not going to punish you two either.
(There is a pause while all three reposition themselves)
Matt: I’ve got an idea on how to make it up to you.
Rachel: (Makes a “I can’t wait to hear this” look)
Matt: When the team loses, maybe you can join us on our trip to Vegas. It’ll be perfect! Kyle can count cards, I’ll be the muscle, and you can play the sweat chick who hangs around and looks good.
Rachel: (Makes a slightly exaggerated game of pondering the offer) One condition.
Matt: Anything.
Rachel: (Smiles) I get to drive the getaway vehicle.
(All three laugh)
Kyle: Wait. We’re still missing something. (Leans over to call down the aisle) Stewardess!
Rachel: No one says “stewardess” anymore. It’s “flight attendant.”
Matt: Or “Lady on the plane.”
Kyle: Apparently “stewardess” still works ‘cause she’s coming our way.
(Flight attendant comes out)
Flight attendant: We’ll be taking off in about five minutes. Is there anything I can get you before then?
Kyle: (Gestures at Rachel) She’s never flown before.
Matt: (Catches on) Yeah. Get this girl some wings!
Flight attendant: Traditionally, we don’t give them out until the after flight has concluded.
Rachel: Lady, I can assure you, I’ve already earned my wings.
(Kyle and Matt make pouty, pleading faces)
Flight attendant: Whatever you say. I’ll be back shortly.
Kyle: This is going to be great. You’re going to have a good time. Taking off is the best part.
Matt: (In a sardonic voice) Landing is nice too.
Rachel: Shut up. (And then she grins)
(Rachel starts whistling, “Off we go, into the wild blue yonder” as Kyle and Matt join in the best they can as the lights start to fade and the curtain – or whatever - drops)
Synopsis: The Clifton University women’s basketball team is going to the NCAA tournament for the first time in the school’s history. And riding on the team’s coattails – all the way to Arizona – is the pep band. Not everyone is excited about the pending take off, however. Rachel has never flown before and is facing a long-postponed confrontation. Fortunately, or unfortunately for her depending on her point of view, she’s joined by who two friends: Kyle and Matt who are there to provide support in their own unique way. Before they get off the ground, the trio will discuss post-9/11 security, feasting on the crumbs of the athletic department, airline safety manuals, and other laughable subjects.
(Curtain – or whatever – opens to reveal three seats at center of stage. They should be rigged together closely or otherwise bolted down so that they remain in place despite the motions of the actors )
Rachel: (Enters stage from left. She curves to start coming up from behind the chairs, as if going up a row. She carries with her a purse in one hand and a ticket that she frequently consults. Stopping along side the chairs, she pointedly rechecks the seat against unseen numbers on the unseen chairs. She hobbles in sideways, as if squeezing past a row of chairs invisible to the audience, to sit in the far right seat, as viewed from the audience. She stores her purse beneath her seat and situates herself. She stretches out her arms and pats her knees to reassure herself. She turns to her right and looks back ahead, tapping her knees again. She shakes her head and turns to look out an imaginary window. She puts her hand on the glass and cranes to see back and forth around the wing. Shaking her head more prominently, she gets up and moves over one seat. She is pulling out her purse to put it under her new seat when Kyle and Matt arrive, tracing the same path Rachel took up the aisle)
(Matt is a tall, hulking guy whose larger frames holds a witty mind. Kyle is a bit smaller – especially in comparison to Matt – though no less playful and just as sharp)
Matt: I can still barely believe it. The women’s basketball team made it to the NCAA tournament, and the pep band gets to ride along.
Kyle: You’re on the plane, what more is there to believe?
Matt: I’ll believe it when we’re on the ground in Phoenix.
Kyle: Where we get to stay a whole week whether the team wins or not.
Matt: It’s like we’ve sold our soul to the Devil.
Kyle: Or at least rented it temporarily, like a Faustian time-share.
Matt: With a hefty per diem.
Kyle: All thanks to those beautiful basketball playing ladies. (Pauses) I guess technically that makes me a kept man.
Rachel:Scratch one more item off your long-term “to do” list, Kyle.
Kyle: Thanks for reminding me, Rachel. (Pulls out imaginary notepad and crosses off an item with a flurry) Let’s see… What to do next… Climb Everest or compete in an Iron Man competition.
Rachel: Wouldn’t a Tin Man competition be more appropriate?
Matt: Hey, lay off “Dorothy.” (makes the classic quotation fingers phrasing)
Kyle: Thanks, Matt.
Matt: We all know Kyle would make a killing at the Aluminum Foil trials.
Kyle: (Swings a pointing finger back between his two friends) You both suck, though I’m going to say Rachel sucks more because she made the initial joke.
(Kyle and Matt plop down on the open seats to Rachel’s sides. Matt is in the far right seat that Rachel originally vacated and Kyle is in the “aisle” seat)
Rachel: At least it doesn’t take me an eternity to get on the plane. I was beginning to wonder where everyone else was. What to you all so long?
Kyle: It seems some of the members of the band were detained by the crack security guards.
Rachel: You mean those two disgruntled women who looked like former P.E. teachers?
Matt: Yep. America’s first line of defense in the war on terrorism. Don’t you just feel safer knowing they’re there, (puts his hands on his hips while making a stern grimace) glaring at passengers and making potential hijackers run laps.
Kyle: (Points at imaginary terrorist) He’s got a bomb! (Points at ground and growls) Drop and give me 60 one-armed push-ups.
Rachel: Alright, alright… So what really happened? Did someone forget they had a pocketknife or a pair of clippers with them?
Kyle: No, but Billy did forget he was wearing steel-toed boots.
Rachel: (Sigh and shakes her head) What else can you expect from a drummer?
Matt: Spoken with a disdain worthy of a trumpet player.
Rachel: (Shakes off the compliment) How many times did he set off the metal detector?
Kyle: About a dozen times. It’s a good thing he remembered when he did, because they were about to run of out of things to strip.
Matt: (As he pulls on an imaginary rubber glove) And I think one of the ladies was itching to perform a cavity search.
Rachel: (Scrunches at mental image) So… was it smooth sailing after that?
Kyle: Not quite. After Mr. Security Risk came Katy with her bum leg.
Rachel: I thought she had an air cast.
Matt: She did, but apparently there’s metal supports or something mixed up in there.
Kyle: They had to take out the magic wand for her (starts pantomiming the waving motion of the security matron, throwing in some chirps and buzzes like a Jedi lightsaber). Though even that wasn’t working.
Matt: The lady’s saying “You need to lift your leg. It’s beeping.” And Katy’s going, ‘That’s not gonna’ happen.’”
Kyle: How’d she hurt her leg again?
Rachel: Oh, I was there at when it happened. It was a simple combination gone wrong: dry bar, not so dry Katy. She took a tumble the broke up both her leg and the party.
Matt: Of course, the security matrons weren’t too broken up by her condition. They put who through the ringer to maker sure she wasn’t hiding drugs or anything in her cast – as if some dealer would hire a one-legged mule.
Rachel: I understand why they err on too much security rather than too little, but you sometimes if it’s worth all the trouble when put into practice. I know it’s selfish, but
we want everybody else to go through the serious stuff but us. You can tell people are thinking: Hey! I’m cool. I swear. I’d say something if I wasn’t.
Kyle: If only all the terrorists in the world were as honest as you, Rachel. It’d be a kinder, gentler place.
Matt: Only you wouldn’t be there to enjoy it, because you’d be dead for telling the truth.
Rachel: Thanks, Matt. No utopia for me. Finish your story.
Matt: So anyway, after all that, Kyle and I breezed through security like we had nothing to hide.
Kyle: We didn’t. After waiting so long we’d already taken all the drugs and booze we’d previously planned on smuggling.
Matt: We had a head start on Billy, since he had to go and re-dress himself…
Kyle: Without his mother’s help this time.
Matt: And it was pretty easy to pass the cripple hobbling across the tarmac, and here we are (holds up ticket) in seats… Hey wait a minute!
Kyle: What?
Matt: We’re not in the right seats.
Kyle: Huh?
Rachel: (Nervous at their discovery) Um, yeah… I kinda changed seats because I wasn’t so thrilled about sitting next to the window.
(There’s a brief pause as Kyle and Matt take this information in. Upon comprehension, they exchange knowing glances)
Kyle: First flight?
Rachel: Pretty obvious, huh?
Matt: Don’t worry about it. I’m probably better off sitting near the window and the emergency exit.
Rachel: Why do you say that?
Matt: The airlines usually prefer a big strong, muscular guy to have this spot to man the emergency escape hatch, just in case.
Rachel: Just in case what?
Matt: It’s just a safety precaution that never really comes into play. They do it in all the airlines.
Rachel: So you’ve flown before?
Matt: Lots of times.
Matt: Me too. Statistically, it’s been proven that planes are safer than driving compared to miles traveled.
Rachel: What’s your source for that?
Kyle: “Scientific American” magazine… and my insurance rates.
Matt: That’s what you get for treating traffic signs as mere suggestions.
Kyle: Okay. I’ve had two noteworthy accidents and the last one wasn’t even my fault. (Grumbling) There was a design flaw…
Matt: I’m sure that excuse went over well with the traffic cop.
Rachel: (Playfully) Isn’t that just like an engineering student, blaming the machine and not the person behind the wheel.
Matt: (Directed at Kyle) All I know is I’m not letting you drive the car to Vegas.
Rachel: What?
Matt: It’s our tentative plan for our per diem money.
Rachel: (Makes an “explain more” expression with arched eyebrows)
Kyle: (Pulls an laminated airline booklet from a pocket beneath his seat). If you look at the United States, you see Las Vegas is close to Phoenix.
Rachel: No it isn’t.
Kyle: It’s one state over.
Matt: It’s like two, two and half inches on the map, tops.
Kyle: And if the team loses early in the tournament….
Matt: Like in the first round as all the sports journals predict.
Kyle: Then we’ll have plenty of time and university provided capital to try our luck.
Rachel: How are you supposed to make it across the desert?
(Kyle and Matt hesitate and look at each other)
Matt: We really haven’t thought it out that much.
Kyle: We only came up with the idea while waiting to go through security.
Matt: My plan was to spend it all on food. (Beckons imaginary waiter) Garcon? Steak please! Clap, clap. (Claps twice)
Rachel: You’ll blow though all your money in two days living like that.
Matt: (Dreamily) But what a fine two days it will be. (Contentedly sighs) And after that, I’ll just live off my good looks and the kindness of strangers.
Rachel: And when both fall through you’ll mooch off of us.
Matt: Probably. But it’s a plan.
Rachel: Between the two of you, can’t you think of something better to spend your money on?
Kyle: (In a correcting tone) The athletic department’s money.
Rachel: Whatever.
(Kyle returns the plane packet back beneath his seat. There is a pause while the two think, suddenly the two are simultaneous struck with the same thought)
Matt: Tattoos.
Kyle: Per diem tattoos.” (The two slap each other high fives over Rachel)
Rachel: You guys are pathetic (She starts out in a lecturing tone, but soon starts laughing).
Matt: (Gestures at window) Hey. It looks like the flight crew is getting on the plane.
(All three lean over, squeezing around each other, angling to get a better view. Suddenly all three react to something outside the line of sight. Rachel grows slightly serious as Matt and Kyle become bemused)
Kyle: Our pilot just tripped going up the stairs to the plane.
Matt: That’s a good sign.
Kyle: (Talking in a slurred, drunken tone) Oh man! That was a crazy night in the pilot’s lounge. Walking it off, walking it off.
Matt: Does anybody remember where I parked the plane?
Rachel: You guys are ridiculous.
Kyle: Are we? Didn’t you read about the pilots who were convicted for drunk flying?
Rachel: (Incredulously) What? An F.W.I., Flying while intoxicated?
Kyle: Well, someone intervened before the plane took off, but as a matter of intent, yeah.
Matt: (Waves his arms acting belligerent) I know my limits. I know how much I can drink. I know when to stop to make sure I don’t have a hangover impairing my performance.
Kyle: So are you hung over?
Matt: (Thinks it over) Well, since I’m technically still intoxicated, I guess not. Cheers! (He and Kyle clink imaginary glasses)
Rachel: Are you two about done?
Kyle: I bet the stewardesses keep the black coffee flowing all through the flight.
Rachel: Finished?
Kyle: I’ve got one more joke about drinking “literal kamikaze shooters” but I can let it go.
Rachel: And you?
Matt: On this subject, yes.
Rachel: Good.
Matt: I do have a question though… (Sees her temper starting to flare up again and waves her down) No, no. Not a funny “gotcha” question. A real one.
Rachel: (skeptically) Shoot.
Matt: I’m curious how someone your age got this far in life without taking off into the wild blue yonder, on family a vacation or class trip or something.
Rachel: (Hesitates before replying) It’s a long story.
Matt: (Gestures around) We’re not going anywhere.
Kyle: And the team hasn’t even gone through security yet, and you know they’ve all got switchblades.
Rachel: Alright… I never really traveled much before college. My family had rough experience driving to Disney World once. My brothers and I were all old enough to be territorial about our personal space and yet young enough to not to be mature about it. Imagine the whole clan crammed into an already overstuffed minivan with a history of breaking down. Throw in the fact we were driving on Memorial Day weekend and you’ve got a combination that will produce a “Lord of the Flies” scenario in any backseat, guaranteed. (Briefly lets that sink in before proceeding on, even more direly) And if the drive down sounds bad, imagine how much worse it would be on the way back when you didn’t have Mickey Mouse, roller coasters, or swimming pools to look forward to. We never really took any family trips after that. I don’t think my Mom ever quite forgave Dad. Even now, if you say the words “Road trip,” she develops a facial tic. (Cheers up slightly) It’s funny except for the fact it sometimes isn’t.
Matt: So being high-strung is genetic in your family? That explains a lot.
Rachel: (She threatens playfully) Watch it. (Drops the mock severity) Okay. Since you two are flight veterans, you should be able to answer a flight question for me. (The boys shrug to show they’re game, mumbling affirmatives) Is airline food as bad as they say?
Kyle: Well, I once heard of a flight of rugby players that ended up eating each other.
Matt: That was after their plane crashed into the Andes Mountains.
Rachel: (She sinks slightly into her chair at this news)
Kyle: True... Maybe we shouldn’t treat them as a representative case.
Matt: More serious, there are usually two schools of food preparation. It usually boils down to a question between quantity or quality.
Rachel: Let me guess: airline cooks flunked out of both schools.
Matt: (Thumbs at her) The girl is catching on.
Kyle: I think the plane guide had a sample menu. Let’s check it out. (All three pull at their passenger guides).
Matt: And while we’re looking, check to see if this bird has an in-flight movie.
Kyle: Like “Passenger 57?”
Matt: “Con Air”
Kyle: “Executive Decision”
Matt: “Air Force One”
Kyle: “Die Hard II”
Rachel: “Casablanca?”
Matt: What?
Rachel: There’s a plane at the end... (Kyle and Matt gawk for a second) And Nazis...? This game is stupid.
Kyle: Only because you don’t fully appreciate the cinematic quality of such big action, big budget action movie productions.
Matt: Jean Claude van Damme is a true actor’s actor. (Reconsiders) Or is that Steven Segal?
Kyle: Same thing.
(Kyle and Matt start pumping their arms in slow motion saying “Nooooo!” “Ruuuun!” until Rachel elbows both of them simultaneously)
Rachel: You two are full of it. Besides, the guide says there’s no movie on this flight.
Matt: Well, since we have them out, we shouldn’t miss an opportunity to go over the safety procedures digest.
Kyle: Do I get to make the hand motions (starts pointing to all the exits) while you read, or do I get to do the safety monologue?
Matt: I think we could do it more like a quiz.
Rachel: That doesn’t sound like a bad idea.
(All three start to flip through the booklet)
Kyle: I like how happy the crashing people are in the illustrations. So calm, collected, not freaking out… It’s totally counter-intuitive.
Matt: Okay, here we go… (Speaking in authoritative voice) If you see the wings shaking… scream.
Rachel: (Sarcastically) Ha, ha. (Moves on) In case of a water landing, between here and Arizona…”
Kyle: Hey, I’ve got some ocean front property in Arizona!
Matt: Skip it. If you see a monster on the wing tearing out the plane’s electronics…
Rachel: It doesn’t say that.
Matt: Does to!
Rachel: Where?
Matt: On page 23B, (reaches over Rachel starts to flip pages for Kyle and Rachel and points) under “Nightmare at 20,000 feet” scenarios. See, Kyle has it.
Kyle: Well so it does. Wow, contingencies for both “Shatner” and “Lithogow” creatures. Not many people know the subtle differences between the two.
(Rachel shakes them off and the trio flips through more pages)
Rachel: I love it how they have both written and pictorial directions on how to work a safety belt.
Matt: It’s for cases like rocky turbulence.
Rachel: Turbulence never gets that bad, does it?
Matt: Well… To let you in on a secret, the little paper bags aren’t to hold all the candy from the piñata that the flight attendants bring out partway through the flight.
Kyle: If you ask me, the whole concept of seatbelts on an airplane as a safety feature is bunk.
Matt: What do you mean?
Kyle: Seatbelts in airplanes. They’re a bit like having sky divers wear helmets. It will protect you from the little things, but if something bigger comes along. (Shakes his head) Think basic physics. Newton: An object in motion stays in motion…
Rachel: . Until acted upon by an equal or greater force.
Kyle: (Makes smacking noise with his fist) The laws of physics can get pretty nasty when you corner them - you learn that in engineering.
Matt: I tried to warn him that ignorance was bliss, but no, no, Mr. Know-it-all wanted to keep learning, reading, eventually earn a higher paying job. (Dismissively) Loser.
Rachel: Right… (Flips some more pages then stops) Does “explosive depressurization” mean what I think it means?
Matt: If you mean something like the cargo doors opening and stuff being sucked out of the plane. Yeah.
(There is a pause as Rachel grows grim. Kyle pokes her in the ribs to get her attention)
Kyle: Can you imagine tubas flying out from 35,000 feet? (Makes a falling whistle sound)
Rachel: (Starts to smile weekly)
Matt: (Nudges Rachel) Technically, it’d be deeper. (Makes an octave lower, “ooohhh” sound)
(Now tickled, Rachel smiles more genuinely until interrupted by the sound of cell phone ringing. All three shift to hear better and Rachel pulls out her purse to retrieve her phone)
Matt: You have the school fight song as your ring tone?
Rachel: Yeah. I programmed it in myself.
Matt: How school-spirited of you.
Rachel: If I recall correctly, your ring tone is Funky Town.
Matt: Hey! Lips, Inc. are going to make a comeback.
Kyle: (Deadpans) Talk about it.
Matt: I don’t want to even hear from you Mr. Crazy in Love ringer.
Kyle: (Silently holds up his hands in mock defeat)
Rachel: (Finally pulls her phone from her bag) Hello? (Starts pausing for every unheard reply) Oh hi Dad. No, we haven’ taken off yet. I’m doing okay, considering.
Matt: I guess those all those pretty purple pills must be kicking in.
Kyle: We may be on the ground, but she’s already flying high in the sky.
Rachel: Oh, it’s nothing, Dad. Some guys behind me are talking about… their mother. Yes, drug abuse is very, very sad. Of course, I say “No” to drugs.
Kyle: Oh tell the truth about how you pop Valium like a Pez addict pops… Pez. (He pauses even as Rachel twists to better tune them out) That wasn’t so smooth, was it?
Matt: No. You should have thought that through another second or two. Follow through is important.
Rachel: (Shifts position to better tune the boys out) Changing the subject, I got through security okay.
Matt: Tell him about all those pocketknives you’ve got secreted on your person.
Rachel: Shh!
Kyle: Don’t make me get the Air Marshal.
Rachel: No. It’s nothing Dad. (Looks pointedly at Kyle and Matt as she describes them) It’s just two immature twelve-year-olds who are making pests of themselves.
Kyle: Did you hear what she called us?
Rachel: (Waves to silence him) No, I don’t need a lecture, Dad. (Rolls her eyes) Yes, I remember puberty is a troublesome period to go through.
Kyle: Ain’t that the truth.
Matt: Acne, body odor…
Kyle: No longer being able to throw rocks at girls you had a crush on.
Matt: Having to fill out those stupid “Do you like me – yes or no” notes instead.
Kyle: Throwing rocks was much more satisfying.
Rachel: So how’s Mom doing?
Matt: Hey Kyle?
Kyle: What?
Matt: Do you see any brown liquid pouring of out your side of the plane?
Kyle: (Strains his neck to see across the aisle) Nope. Just blackish oil.
Matt: As long as it’s not fuel. We need that.
(Rachel looks about ready to start slugging her friends before she is interrupted by the intercom)
Offstage announcer: (In a cool, seemingly sedated voice) This is your chief flight attendant speaking. The crew has finished their preliminaries and we’ll be taking off shortly. We’d like to remind you to have all cell phones, music players, and other wireless devices turned off prior to takeoff, to ensure the safety of everyone aboard. Thank you.
Rachel: (Hand over the receiver again) What happens if your phone is still on while the plane takes off?
Kyle: Potentially, tower communications get mixed up and the plane crashes.
Rachel: (Expression bulges briefly at this news. Continues phone conversation hurriedly) Look Dad, I’ve gotta go.
Matt: We’d be close to the ground when we started to plummet. We wouldn’t fall that far.
Rachel: (More hurried) Tell Mom I love her. And don’t call me, I’ll call you. Yeah… Love you, too. Bye. (Slinks back into her seat with a long sigh)
Kyle: You really shouldn’t worry that much, Rachel. There are lots of reasons to be positive. Like the fact our plane has a smiley face sun on the tale. That means we’ll be fine.
Matt: Or that it will be especially ironic if we do crash.
Kyle: There are just some phrases you don’t ever want to be associated with should your name pop up on the evening news.
Matt: (In serious newscaster voices) Like “ironic.”
Kyle: “Tragic”
Matt: “On a somber note…”
Rachel: Dismembered.
Matt: Good one.
Rachel: No. That’s what I’m just about ready to do to the two of you. I figure that’s the only way I’ll be able to cram you two into the overhead compartment.
Kyle: Calm down, calm down. Two things: One, while I know you can take me, I’m pretty sure you can’t take Matt. Two, I know we’ve been tweaking you a bit, but you seem to have more than just first flight jitters. Is there something else troubling you?
Rachel: (Slow to respond) When I first was growing up, I wanted to be a pilot.
Matt: So no being a nurse or mommy?
Rachel: No, I went through those phases too. I even briefly recall wanting to be a “fairy dancer princess,” but I moved onto other aspirations.
Kyle: So what happened?
Rachel: PBS.
(Kyle and Matt look confused)
Rachel: One night my oldest brother was foolishly left in charge, as if his slight head start in years made up for his deficit in intelligence and maturity. To lord over us, he had us all sit on the couch and watch what he wanted to watch. There was some special called, “Why Planes Burn.” As you can imagine, all those slow-motion crashes had quite an effect on a young, would-be pilot. You didn’t have to be very old to see the fireballs and subsequent wreckage to realize the captains didn’t walk away from crashes very often – or at least that was my impression.
Matt: Another person scarred by educational television.
Kyle: It almost makes the dancer-fairy-princess job look more practical.
Rachel: So anyway, even as I moved on to lawyer, banker, and eventually music teacher, some of those old images stayed burned in my head. I hadn’t thought about them for a long while, but this trip stirred some of them back up.
Matt: Rachel, look. (Reaches out to put his arm around her) We’re hard on you sometimes, but it’s all in good fun. We don’t mean any harm.
Kyle: (Also stretches out to touch her hand) And if you think about it, we’ve systematically prepared you for every possible contingency that could go wrong. Should things start to look sticky, you’ll be able to laugh it off by saying, “Hey! We already joked about that.”
Rachel: So you’re trying to tell me all this all this jesting was on purpose.
(Matt and Kyle reply quickly and on top of each other)
Kyle: Sure.
Matt: Maybe.
Rachel: (Smiles) I’m not buying it, but I’m not going to punish you two either.
(There is a pause while all three reposition themselves)
Matt: I’ve got an idea on how to make it up to you.
Rachel: (Makes a “I can’t wait to hear this” look)
Matt: When the team loses, maybe you can join us on our trip to Vegas. It’ll be perfect! Kyle can count cards, I’ll be the muscle, and you can play the sweat chick who hangs around and looks good.
Rachel: (Makes a slightly exaggerated game of pondering the offer) One condition.
Matt: Anything.
Rachel: (Smiles) I get to drive the getaway vehicle.
(All three laugh)
Kyle: Wait. We’re still missing something. (Leans over to call down the aisle) Stewardess!
Rachel: No one says “stewardess” anymore. It’s “flight attendant.”
Matt: Or “Lady on the plane.”
Kyle: Apparently “stewardess” still works ‘cause she’s coming our way.
(Flight attendant comes out)
Flight attendant: We’ll be taking off in about five minutes. Is there anything I can get you before then?
Kyle: (Gestures at Rachel) She’s never flown before.
Matt: (Catches on) Yeah. Get this girl some wings!
Flight attendant: Traditionally, we don’t give them out until the after flight has concluded.
Rachel: Lady, I can assure you, I’ve already earned my wings.
(Kyle and Matt make pouty, pleading faces)
Flight attendant: Whatever you say. I’ll be back shortly.
Kyle: This is going to be great. You’re going to have a good time. Taking off is the best part.
Matt: (In a sardonic voice) Landing is nice too.
Rachel: Shut up. (And then she grins)
(Rachel starts whistling, “Off we go, into the wild blue yonder” as Kyle and Matt join in the best they can as the lights start to fade and the curtain – or whatever - drops)
Wednesday, September 28, 2005
4:56 PM - Trouble swallowing my own advice
I remember one time when a young friend in my old youth group was having a neurotic attack in the church parking lot. Her primary complaint was along the lines that – I feel like I don’t know anything.
I was standing by with a friend and both of us were initially unsure of how to respond.
The reflect reaction, I believe, would be to say her original argument was incorrect; countering that she did, in fact, know something.
To add some analysis that wasn’t originally considering in the seconds following her statement, let’s break down what such an approach entails.
With this method you have to argue two things: one, that her outlook is wrong and two, you have a better way of looking at the situation. Here if you can’t convince the person of the first fact, you’ll have no chance to argue the second half, and success on one doesn’t automatically mean you’ll win it all. Even with simple arguments, where you pit “something vs. nothing,” the framework is inherently complex.
As I said, I did not ponder the inborn challenges of this tact when faced with this question. I had already chosen a simpler coarse that avoided the battle between viewpoints.
For the sake of her argument, I decided to buck the conventional approach and act as if the first statement was true.
I pulled an ink pen out of my pocket, held it out perpendicular for a few seconds, and then dropped it. The eyes of the girl, and my friend, watched as the pen clattered onto the ground, and then looked up at me incredulously.
“There,” I replied. “You now know which way is down.”
And I wasn’t done being a wiseacre.
“And if you work backward you know which way is up, so there are two things you now know.
You can imagine the briefly bug-eyed stares I got in response.
This technique has an advantage over the first approach submitted in that it the arguer doesn’t have to be convinced that they are wrong in order to proceed to the next step, which is convincing them that there is something new to consider.
Let’s consider the two methods in terms of optimists and pessimists arguing over a water glass.
Using approach one, an optimist combatively tries to convince the pessimist that the glass is half full without changing the water level.
In approach two, the person starts out by saying, I agree with you about the volume of the water, and when you add my contribution, you have more than how you started.
The first is all about arguing while the second is about sharing. The second offers something were the first gave nothing.
In acting in agreement with the stated views of the person, the argument was settled by the time I put the pen back in my pocket. I have no doubt I could have won the debate arguing the “logical” response to the illogical, but it would have taken longer, and not have been half as fun.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
Now that the approach has been exhaustively examined, let’s get back to the lesson. Sometimes we can get so caught up moralizing that we forget which problem we were originally addressing. So now that my soap box is put back where it belongs – in the bathroom, holding my soap – I want to go back to the initial complaint.
I feel like I don’t know anything.
Since that night, I have more than once echoed the lament made in the parking lot. And in every instance in which I make the same foolish statement, in my mind’s eye I can see the image of a dropping pen.
I blame this on God; and his sometimes twisted divine sense of humor. The accompanying message is clear:
You want to play by those rules? Really? Okay... Have it your way; but I’m going to hold you to them. You thought you knew nothing? Fine. You didn’t know Bo Diddly – but now you do know something more. Now stop moping and get on with it.
I think God finds it funny to have our own “wise” words of counsel echo in our ears when faced with situations similar to those who we advised. Those words, originally considered “‘clever’ if I didn’t say so myself,” don’t always come off the same way when one is on the receiving end.
The challenge is twofold. First, it is to consider how you treat people in times of personal crisis. Second, you must consider, in re-weighing your words, if you are willing to take the same medicine you prescribed. If they have substance, one should stop complaining and act on their own advice.
When it comes to feelings, it is a different matter to be told what to do, rather than tell someone what to do. It makes no consequence whether you are predominately a shepherd or a sheep; it simply feels different on the inside.
And when those commands are old words you once voiced and forgot, it’s a third category separate (and stranger) than the previous two.
I know what I need to do. I’ve heard myself give the same suggestions to others facing the situation. I’ve reconsidered their worth and still found it to be substantial, bankable.
They do taste a bit bitter in the mouth the second time around. Of course, vitamins never seem to taste good. I kinda miss the old orange-flavored Flintstones chewables. You know the kind that tasted so good parents had to remind us we weren’t supposed to eat them like candy since they could burn a hole in your stomach if you ate too many? Good stuff.
But they’re only so strong, you know. I think it has something to do with the fact you’re allowed to chew children’s vitamins. Adult ones you’re supposed to swallow whole, as if they lose their potency if they all ride down separate rather than as a group. I’ve never really figured out why. Either the “children’s” dosage is too soft or there is simply more packaged into the “adult” dosage (I guess they saved room when they didn’t have to put in the orange flavoring).
But for whatever reason, children’s vitamins eventually get to the point where they don’t do the job anymore. The same is true for the advice we parroted back in elementary school. The little platitudes that “fixed” everything when I was younger – don’t eat paste, don’t burp my name, don’t throw rocks at girls, when in doubt – tell an adult – don’t fly anymore.
Shoot! I’m the adult now. I have to take more responsibility for myself. I have to make the important decisions even when I don’t have a single clue on what to do next…
What’s that God…?
If I drop a pen, the rest will come back to me?
. . .
Funny.
If there weren’t so many people here, I’d smack myself in the head. Of course, that would probably kill a number of brain cells I’m going to need to hold on to so I can better face the next challenge.
So between you and me, and the blog audience that I’ve shared this mini-existential debate with, can we save the head smacking and move on from the lesson to the decision?
Thanks.
Clatter. Swallow. Change.
I was standing by with a friend and both of us were initially unsure of how to respond.
The reflect reaction, I believe, would be to say her original argument was incorrect; countering that she did, in fact, know something.
To add some analysis that wasn’t originally considering in the seconds following her statement, let’s break down what such an approach entails.
With this method you have to argue two things: one, that her outlook is wrong and two, you have a better way of looking at the situation. Here if you can’t convince the person of the first fact, you’ll have no chance to argue the second half, and success on one doesn’t automatically mean you’ll win it all. Even with simple arguments, where you pit “something vs. nothing,” the framework is inherently complex.
As I said, I did not ponder the inborn challenges of this tact when faced with this question. I had already chosen a simpler coarse that avoided the battle between viewpoints.
For the sake of her argument, I decided to buck the conventional approach and act as if the first statement was true.
I pulled an ink pen out of my pocket, held it out perpendicular for a few seconds, and then dropped it. The eyes of the girl, and my friend, watched as the pen clattered onto the ground, and then looked up at me incredulously.
“There,” I replied. “You now know which way is down.”
And I wasn’t done being a wiseacre.
“And if you work backward you know which way is up, so there are two things you now know.
You can imagine the briefly bug-eyed stares I got in response.
This technique has an advantage over the first approach submitted in that it the arguer doesn’t have to be convinced that they are wrong in order to proceed to the next step, which is convincing them that there is something new to consider.
Let’s consider the two methods in terms of optimists and pessimists arguing over a water glass.
Using approach one, an optimist combatively tries to convince the pessimist that the glass is half full without changing the water level.
In approach two, the person starts out by saying, I agree with you about the volume of the water, and when you add my contribution, you have more than how you started.
The first is all about arguing while the second is about sharing. The second offers something were the first gave nothing.
In acting in agreement with the stated views of the person, the argument was settled by the time I put the pen back in my pocket. I have no doubt I could have won the debate arguing the “logical” response to the illogical, but it would have taken longer, and not have been half as fun.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
Now that the approach has been exhaustively examined, let’s get back to the lesson. Sometimes we can get so caught up moralizing that we forget which problem we were originally addressing. So now that my soap box is put back where it belongs – in the bathroom, holding my soap – I want to go back to the initial complaint.
I feel like I don’t know anything.
Since that night, I have more than once echoed the lament made in the parking lot. And in every instance in which I make the same foolish statement, in my mind’s eye I can see the image of a dropping pen.
I blame this on God; and his sometimes twisted divine sense of humor. The accompanying message is clear:
You want to play by those rules? Really? Okay... Have it your way; but I’m going to hold you to them. You thought you knew nothing? Fine. You didn’t know Bo Diddly – but now you do know something more. Now stop moping and get on with it.
I think God finds it funny to have our own “wise” words of counsel echo in our ears when faced with situations similar to those who we advised. Those words, originally considered “‘clever’ if I didn’t say so myself,” don’t always come off the same way when one is on the receiving end.
The challenge is twofold. First, it is to consider how you treat people in times of personal crisis. Second, you must consider, in re-weighing your words, if you are willing to take the same medicine you prescribed. If they have substance, one should stop complaining and act on their own advice.
When it comes to feelings, it is a different matter to be told what to do, rather than tell someone what to do. It makes no consequence whether you are predominately a shepherd or a sheep; it simply feels different on the inside.
And when those commands are old words you once voiced and forgot, it’s a third category separate (and stranger) than the previous two.
I know what I need to do. I’ve heard myself give the same suggestions to others facing the situation. I’ve reconsidered their worth and still found it to be substantial, bankable.
They do taste a bit bitter in the mouth the second time around. Of course, vitamins never seem to taste good. I kinda miss the old orange-flavored Flintstones chewables. You know the kind that tasted so good parents had to remind us we weren’t supposed to eat them like candy since they could burn a hole in your stomach if you ate too many? Good stuff.
But they’re only so strong, you know. I think it has something to do with the fact you’re allowed to chew children’s vitamins. Adult ones you’re supposed to swallow whole, as if they lose their potency if they all ride down separate rather than as a group. I’ve never really figured out why. Either the “children’s” dosage is too soft or there is simply more packaged into the “adult” dosage (I guess they saved room when they didn’t have to put in the orange flavoring).
But for whatever reason, children’s vitamins eventually get to the point where they don’t do the job anymore. The same is true for the advice we parroted back in elementary school. The little platitudes that “fixed” everything when I was younger – don’t eat paste, don’t burp my name, don’t throw rocks at girls, when in doubt – tell an adult – don’t fly anymore.
Shoot! I’m the adult now. I have to take more responsibility for myself. I have to make the important decisions even when I don’t have a single clue on what to do next…
What’s that God…?
If I drop a pen, the rest will come back to me?
. . .
Funny.
If there weren’t so many people here, I’d smack myself in the head. Of course, that would probably kill a number of brain cells I’m going to need to hold on to so I can better face the next challenge.
So between you and me, and the blog audience that I’ve shared this mini-existential debate with, can we save the head smacking and move on from the lesson to the decision?
Thanks.
Clatter. Swallow. Change.
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
5:32 PM - Reaching for lofty and low titles among the bookshelves
I’ve been turning to libraries to help elevate my level of culture lately.
As you might guess, it’s only going so well.
Let me explain…
Ever read a book or watch a movie because you’re simply supposed to? You may mention your lack of experience concerning a certain tome or recording and people around you are “shocked” at your ignorance.
“You mean you haven’t read/watched/ sampled/heard/etc __FILL_IN_BLANK?!!__ ” they may shriek. “Why that’s simply amazing! You’ve got to read/watch/sample/hear/etc __FILL_IN_BLANK__ as soon as possible.”
They say this in tone that suggests people with think less of him or her at their funeral should word come out concerning this oversight.
I can imagine two guys whispering to each other during the memorial service:
“Psst! Barney! Did you hear he never saw…” The man looks both ways before proceeding to whisper the name in his neighbor’s ear.
The recipient of the secret first looks surprised and then shakes his head with a begrudging air. “What a waste…” is all he can say.
As they finish speaking, a woman clad all in black glides up to the coffin. She leaves behind a white rose and a copy of the book/movie/music recording/etc that was missed in the previous life. No one can tell who she is, but judging by the tears that trickle down from behind her shielding sun glasses, she obviously cared.
At least that’s my perceived feeling when I mention the fact I’ve still never watched all of “Citizen Kane” or that I’ve been trying to read “Catcher in the Rye” for two years and can’t quite finish it (or start it, more likely).
These personal shortcomings that threaten my ability to function in society, to truly be considered a man, or be able to rent a car north of the Mason-Dixon line (from what I understand, there’s a written test one must pass before receiving the keys). Realizing this, I have long taken steps to correct this. I have been encouraged by my parents – who bought me a slew of “modern classics” back when Wal-Mart sold them two-for-a-dollar back in the mid-nineties. I read a lot of them and/or skimmed the corresponding Great Illustrated Classic (purchased earlier) enough to know the basic plotline.
Let me summarize some of those texts for you based only on my memory of the pictures:
Around the World in 80 Days: Man makes crazy wager, has wild adventures around the globe, wins bet.
The Count of Monte Cristo: Guy gets gypped, breaks out of prison, finds fortunes, turns tables on betrayers, gets girl.
Hunchback of Notre Dame: Hulking figure falls in love with girl, explores the world beyond the cathedral, sanctuary, sanctuary, dies next to girl.
Moby Dick: Call him Ishmael, Queequeg is a cool name and guy, lots of whales are speared, captain has bone to pick, namesake picks some bones too.
Robinson Crusoe: Man is shipwrecked, goes all “Castaway” – without the volleyball, meets Friday on a Friday, makes escape.
The Time Machine: The traveler goes through time, meets girl, meets Morlocks, finds Morlocks eat girls, gets lost in time, leaves behind flowers.”
War of the Worlds: Aliens attack Earth, bad guys almost win until germs intervene. Next time aliens invade, sneeze on them.
So I have enough to pass a general examination thanks to those pretty pictures and a handful of Disney adaptations (though I don’t believe Victor Hugo had three singing gargoyles. I’ve been meaning to look that up…).
I had one summer when I pointedly went through my parents’ video collection (this was back when laserdiscs were still considered high-tech – and my family certainly wasn’t at the cutting edge). I had a mission that I wouldn’t watch anything bubble-gummy without watching a classic first.
So I would watch “Bridge over River Kwai” before “Kindergarten Cop.” After “Weekend at Bernie’s,” I would watch “Death Takes a Holiday” (Note: And it is because I have seen the original, one of the best movies ever made, that I hate “Meet Joe Black” with a rage some reserve for bear wrestling).
Some entries age less gracefully than others and may have dried out years before you arrived on the scene. There are some “classics” that I’d get to the end and you’d wonder, “Is it me, or was 19__ just a slow year?”
So systematically watching your intake works for a while, but when you’re burned like that (in movies or literature), it becomes easier for the sugary fluff to eventually outnumber the “com’on, open up; it’s good for you’s.”
Of course, plain laziness is also a factor.
Since I’ve gotten out of college, my reading has covered subjects ranging from astronomy, Egyptology, the autobiography of Johnny Cash, literary murder mysteries (where famous authors like Edgar Allen Poe or Henry Wadsworth Longfellow solve gruesome crimes), Christian legal thrillers, military “what if” scenarios (like what if we had airmen on patrol the day of the Pearl Harbor attack), lots of sci-fiction, but mostly, graphic novels.
Yep. I’m reading comics because I never had a library that collected Batman and Superman and X-Men titles, but now I do, and it’s easy to knock one out in about an half hour. I could blame this on my uncle, who kindly let me pour through an endless number of milk crates filled with the comics he had collected. He was the one who planted this interest that was later cultivated by collecting titles and reading whatever spare comics I came across. There was one winter where all the money I earned shoveling driveways was poured into buying comic cards. The amount seems wasteful now, though in defense of my middle school self, it was the only year I completed a whole set – a claim none of my friend ever made.
Anyway, I’m still reading about more than superheroes (I could make a defense for my post-college aged self about archetypes, and characterizations that are commonly found in the myths of many cultures, but I wouldn’t want to bore you which such musings). I’ve been reading more on the theory of global warming, psychology (especially the kook kind that was once the rage but has long been discredited) and evolution.
I would like to think I am adding facets to my character that weren’t there before. I’m also reading about Tarzan taking on the Predators in the center of the Earth (this is around the same time I was reading Edgar Rice Burroughs’s classic novel about the same land characters in the land Pellucida located “At the Earth’s Core,” excluding the aliens of course).
You can argue that old, turn of the century schlock can be considered stylish when viewed from a modern eye, but when you factor in ape-men, the pterodactyl-like creatures, and the whole hollow globe thing, you have that admit that, even aged, it’s pulp in any century.
It may not enrich my cultured standing in society, but my dream life is crazier than ever. And maybe that is something better to aspire for, for now.
All I know is if the Joker, zombies, or eco-terrorists pop up in my job questionnaires anytime soon, I’ll totally be prepared. And that isn’t bad either… I hope.
As you might guess, it’s only going so well.
Let me explain…
Ever read a book or watch a movie because you’re simply supposed to? You may mention your lack of experience concerning a certain tome or recording and people around you are “shocked” at your ignorance.
“You mean you haven’t read/watched/ sampled/heard/etc __FILL_IN_BLANK?!!__ ” they may shriek. “Why that’s simply amazing! You’ve got to read/watch/sample/hear/etc __FILL_IN_BLANK__ as soon as possible.”
They say this in tone that suggests people with think less of him or her at their funeral should word come out concerning this oversight.
I can imagine two guys whispering to each other during the memorial service:
“Psst! Barney! Did you hear he never saw…” The man looks both ways before proceeding to whisper the name in his neighbor’s ear.
The recipient of the secret first looks surprised and then shakes his head with a begrudging air. “What a waste…” is all he can say.
As they finish speaking, a woman clad all in black glides up to the coffin. She leaves behind a white rose and a copy of the book/movie/music recording/etc that was missed in the previous life. No one can tell who she is, but judging by the tears that trickle down from behind her shielding sun glasses, she obviously cared.
At least that’s my perceived feeling when I mention the fact I’ve still never watched all of “Citizen Kane” or that I’ve been trying to read “Catcher in the Rye” for two years and can’t quite finish it (or start it, more likely).
These personal shortcomings that threaten my ability to function in society, to truly be considered a man, or be able to rent a car north of the Mason-Dixon line (from what I understand, there’s a written test one must pass before receiving the keys). Realizing this, I have long taken steps to correct this. I have been encouraged by my parents – who bought me a slew of “modern classics” back when Wal-Mart sold them two-for-a-dollar back in the mid-nineties. I read a lot of them and/or skimmed the corresponding Great Illustrated Classic (purchased earlier) enough to know the basic plotline.
Let me summarize some of those texts for you based only on my memory of the pictures:
Around the World in 80 Days: Man makes crazy wager, has wild adventures around the globe, wins bet.
The Count of Monte Cristo: Guy gets gypped, breaks out of prison, finds fortunes, turns tables on betrayers, gets girl.
Hunchback of Notre Dame: Hulking figure falls in love with girl, explores the world beyond the cathedral, sanctuary, sanctuary, dies next to girl.
Moby Dick: Call him Ishmael, Queequeg is a cool name and guy, lots of whales are speared, captain has bone to pick, namesake picks some bones too.
Robinson Crusoe: Man is shipwrecked, goes all “Castaway” – without the volleyball, meets Friday on a Friday, makes escape.
The Time Machine: The traveler goes through time, meets girl, meets Morlocks, finds Morlocks eat girls, gets lost in time, leaves behind flowers.”
War of the Worlds: Aliens attack Earth, bad guys almost win until germs intervene. Next time aliens invade, sneeze on them.
So I have enough to pass a general examination thanks to those pretty pictures and a handful of Disney adaptations (though I don’t believe Victor Hugo had three singing gargoyles. I’ve been meaning to look that up…).
I had one summer when I pointedly went through my parents’ video collection (this was back when laserdiscs were still considered high-tech – and my family certainly wasn’t at the cutting edge). I had a mission that I wouldn’t watch anything bubble-gummy without watching a classic first.
So I would watch “Bridge over River Kwai” before “Kindergarten Cop.” After “Weekend at Bernie’s,” I would watch “Death Takes a Holiday” (Note: And it is because I have seen the original, one of the best movies ever made, that I hate “Meet Joe Black” with a rage some reserve for bear wrestling).
Some entries age less gracefully than others and may have dried out years before you arrived on the scene. There are some “classics” that I’d get to the end and you’d wonder, “Is it me, or was 19__ just a slow year?”
So systematically watching your intake works for a while, but when you’re burned like that (in movies or literature), it becomes easier for the sugary fluff to eventually outnumber the “com’on, open up; it’s good for you’s.”
Of course, plain laziness is also a factor.
Since I’ve gotten out of college, my reading has covered subjects ranging from astronomy, Egyptology, the autobiography of Johnny Cash, literary murder mysteries (where famous authors like Edgar Allen Poe or Henry Wadsworth Longfellow solve gruesome crimes), Christian legal thrillers, military “what if” scenarios (like what if we had airmen on patrol the day of the Pearl Harbor attack), lots of sci-fiction, but mostly, graphic novels.
Yep. I’m reading comics because I never had a library that collected Batman and Superman and X-Men titles, but now I do, and it’s easy to knock one out in about an half hour. I could blame this on my uncle, who kindly let me pour through an endless number of milk crates filled with the comics he had collected. He was the one who planted this interest that was later cultivated by collecting titles and reading whatever spare comics I came across. There was one winter where all the money I earned shoveling driveways was poured into buying comic cards. The amount seems wasteful now, though in defense of my middle school self, it was the only year I completed a whole set – a claim none of my friend ever made.
Anyway, I’m still reading about more than superheroes (I could make a defense for my post-college aged self about archetypes, and characterizations that are commonly found in the myths of many cultures, but I wouldn’t want to bore you which such musings). I’ve been reading more on the theory of global warming, psychology (especially the kook kind that was once the rage but has long been discredited) and evolution.
I would like to think I am adding facets to my character that weren’t there before. I’m also reading about Tarzan taking on the Predators in the center of the Earth (this is around the same time I was reading Edgar Rice Burroughs’s classic novel about the same land characters in the land Pellucida located “At the Earth’s Core,” excluding the aliens of course).
You can argue that old, turn of the century schlock can be considered stylish when viewed from a modern eye, but when you factor in ape-men, the pterodactyl-like creatures, and the whole hollow globe thing, you have that admit that, even aged, it’s pulp in any century.
It may not enrich my cultured standing in society, but my dream life is crazier than ever. And maybe that is something better to aspire for, for now.
All I know is if the Joker, zombies, or eco-terrorists pop up in my job questionnaires anytime soon, I’ll totally be prepared. And that isn’t bad either… I hope.
Friday, September 23, 2005
3:48 PM - Hello
Okay. Quick confession.
I've been withdrawing the last week or so. I've seen the pattern enough in the past to recognize when I'm pulling certain stunts. I've been pulling away from certain connections and internalizing a lot of things. This is not necessarily bad, but one needs to remember to reach out from time to time as well.
I have a lot of posts half written and will be kicking them out starting next week. I recently concluded a personal project that was taking up a bit of time and will be getting back to other vocations with more energy.
Of course, first I have to help close out the Sullivan house; the third "last" weekend I've spent there in a row. This could be it, though only time will tell.
I hope to be writting more I can show next week (though there may be an interesting extended entry on the horizon depending on how some other factors work out. We'll see.)
Take care.
Who else,
Caleb
I've been withdrawing the last week or so. I've seen the pattern enough in the past to recognize when I'm pulling certain stunts. I've been pulling away from certain connections and internalizing a lot of things. This is not necessarily bad, but one needs to remember to reach out from time to time as well.
I have a lot of posts half written and will be kicking them out starting next week. I recently concluded a personal project that was taking up a bit of time and will be getting back to other vocations with more energy.
Of course, first I have to help close out the Sullivan house; the third "last" weekend I've spent there in a row. This could be it, though only time will tell.
I hope to be writting more I can show next week (though there may be an interesting extended entry on the horizon depending on how some other factors work out. We'll see.)
Take care.
Who else,
Caleb
Monday, September 19, 2005
7:13 PM -
Note: This post was largely transcribed longhand and later transferred to computer. No attempt was made to change the narrative’s present tense feel for I believe the initial blow-by-blow note taking is more interesting than recasting it all in the past.
I’m currently huddled in the staff lounge of the Missouri River Regional Library in Jefferson City. There’s about 25 to 30 people crammed in here with me – though that’s only an estimate since people keep coming in and out and my attention span prevents me from trying to keep a detailed count.
A very short while back, a calm voice came over the library intercom and informed the library patrons that a tornado watch was in effect and that every should, please, go down to the basement of the library and take shelter against the far wall, thank you.
I was already in the subterranean level of the basement, working in the computer lab, though I frantically raced to save all the open document files I had open – and if you can imagine I had quite a few going.
Of the three disks I am now cradling in my lab – beneath Michael Crichton’s latest novel (“State of Fear”) and this notebook, I filled up two. I popped the last disk out of the drive before the light stopped flashing and the electronic chirping stopped, so I don’t know if I got everything.
I wish I could say this caught me unawares, but I did have warning. About 15 minutes ago, a man addressed two Boy Scouts sitting next to me at the computers. He said a bad storm was coming and informed two very disappointed boys that they were going home. Pleas for a debate were introduced and immediately denied and the three marched upstairs towards the parking lot. I noted the incident myself, but immediately went back to my own work before being guided back beyond the computer banks.
The chairs and couches down here have already all filled up. The plushiest chairs have gone to a circle of kids who have all been drawn back into their picture books. Some of the firmer arm chairs have gone to some older adults. Personally, I’ve opted for the tile floor with a backstop comprised of boxed printing stock (gotta love that “Bond #1” paper). Most of the library staff members are standing around, some occasionally ducking back upstairs to see if the clouds are still fearsome. They are.
Fortunately, in the age of cell phones, no one has to worry about being out of the loop (or being caught by an electrical charge should any of the heavy lightning choose to take a land-line course to the ground. People are networking, both sending out and receiving word of where everybody’s taking cover from the potential storm. I am tempted to “borrow” a call from somebody, but my parents use a land-line phone to stay connected, I don’t want to put them at risk. Also, at this point, I’m not worried enough about the storm to put myself through the trouble of asking a cellular someone.
Entertainment is readily available for some. In being herded into the back corner of the library, I heard people asking “Do I have time to check this out?” While they were not granted an opening at the counter, they were able to bring their selections with them. Others are rifling through old magazines left on one of the short end tables. Some students are finally starting their homework.
Gossip is entertaining, and illuminating too. From staff member’s experience, this is only the second time in the last four years people were asked to go into the library’s lounge – an area which is normally off limits to the public. One patron, upon hearing this, highlights his questionable luck by revealing the fact he was present at that occasion as well. The rarity of the tornado alert is blamed on Jefferson City’s geography. Being built along the river bluffs, the rolling hill effect often cancels out twisters – for they can’t go very far without the bottom sliding off from beneath them.
The most popular attraction, however, is the puppy. It’s a common sight to see a dog tied up, taking shaded shelter beneath a bench, by the entrance of the library. Animals, as a rule, aren’t allowed in. Though there is an exception in cases of potential tornados. “Look at the dog” is a commonly repeated comment, followed by wild gesturing at the brown, cavorting bundle of fur. He or she is actually behaving well for being surrounded by strangers in a familiar place. The elderly owner isn’t having to correct the pooch very often, which is good considering the worst case scenario.
Speaking of which, I wonder how the car is doing. It’s parked at a corner, removed from trees, but also catty-corner from a church that is currently undergoing renovation. It’s never a good situation when you have to ask yourself, “Did that church steeple look sturdy enough?”
It reminds me a similar question I had to ask myself while driving a work truck for the Department of Conservation. Some really honky-tonk back roads cross over waterways. Some are streams, some are shallow rivers. The risky dips are lined by caution signs saying, “Caution – Impassable During High Water.” You can always backtrack, but doing so may cause you to go 20 miles out of your way and lose up to an hour. It’s a strange sensation looking at a coursing river asking yourself, “How much did it rain today?”
I guess I state all this to say, I’m not that worried about the storm. Some of it is naivete, but having gone through these warnings so many times, I don’t get too anxious. Missouri is on the far end of “Tornado Valley” the windy corridor that cuts across the Midwest. We are not visited by twisters at the same frequency of say Oklahoma or Dorothy’s Kansas, but they’re still a familiar site. I’ve taken many unscheduled pit stops in basements of homes, offices, and other buildings. I’ve been outside during a microburst or two – holding onto the corner of a canvas tent that was bucking like a baby bronco.
Some kids are worried, asking their parents and each other if they think it’s going to be okay. I’m to the point where I no longer need the reassurance. It may be a false calm, but it’s the one I’m holding onto for the duration of this storm.
-------------------------------
Someone, I wager the head librarian announced that the storm had been downgraded to a severe thunderstorm. People could remain in the lounge if they wished, but otherwise people were free to leave. I slowly pulled myself up and ended up heading back to the computer station I’d left in a flurry.
As we walked out, the same lady gave people a smile and tried to point at the silver lining of the storm: “You got to see part of the library you never got to see before.”
I guess I got to see that and a little more.
And to think: those Boy Scouts missed it
Should’ve listened to the Boy Scouts…
I’m currently huddled in the staff lounge of the Missouri River Regional Library in Jefferson City. There’s about 25 to 30 people crammed in here with me – though that’s only an estimate since people keep coming in and out and my attention span prevents me from trying to keep a detailed count.
A very short while back, a calm voice came over the library intercom and informed the library patrons that a tornado watch was in effect and that every should, please, go down to the basement of the library and take shelter against the far wall, thank you.
I was already in the subterranean level of the basement, working in the computer lab, though I frantically raced to save all the open document files I had open – and if you can imagine I had quite a few going.
Of the three disks I am now cradling in my lab – beneath Michael Crichton’s latest novel (“State of Fear”) and this notebook, I filled up two. I popped the last disk out of the drive before the light stopped flashing and the electronic chirping stopped, so I don’t know if I got everything.
I wish I could say this caught me unawares, but I did have warning. About 15 minutes ago, a man addressed two Boy Scouts sitting next to me at the computers. He said a bad storm was coming and informed two very disappointed boys that they were going home. Pleas for a debate were introduced and immediately denied and the three marched upstairs towards the parking lot. I noted the incident myself, but immediately went back to my own work before being guided back beyond the computer banks.
The chairs and couches down here have already all filled up. The plushiest chairs have gone to a circle of kids who have all been drawn back into their picture books. Some of the firmer arm chairs have gone to some older adults. Personally, I’ve opted for the tile floor with a backstop comprised of boxed printing stock (gotta love that “Bond #1” paper). Most of the library staff members are standing around, some occasionally ducking back upstairs to see if the clouds are still fearsome. They are.
Fortunately, in the age of cell phones, no one has to worry about being out of the loop (or being caught by an electrical charge should any of the heavy lightning choose to take a land-line course to the ground. People are networking, both sending out and receiving word of where everybody’s taking cover from the potential storm. I am tempted to “borrow” a call from somebody, but my parents use a land-line phone to stay connected, I don’t want to put them at risk. Also, at this point, I’m not worried enough about the storm to put myself through the trouble of asking a cellular someone.
Entertainment is readily available for some. In being herded into the back corner of the library, I heard people asking “Do I have time to check this out?” While they were not granted an opening at the counter, they were able to bring their selections with them. Others are rifling through old magazines left on one of the short end tables. Some students are finally starting their homework.
Gossip is entertaining, and illuminating too. From staff member’s experience, this is only the second time in the last four years people were asked to go into the library’s lounge – an area which is normally off limits to the public. One patron, upon hearing this, highlights his questionable luck by revealing the fact he was present at that occasion as well. The rarity of the tornado alert is blamed on Jefferson City’s geography. Being built along the river bluffs, the rolling hill effect often cancels out twisters – for they can’t go very far without the bottom sliding off from beneath them.
The most popular attraction, however, is the puppy. It’s a common sight to see a dog tied up, taking shaded shelter beneath a bench, by the entrance of the library. Animals, as a rule, aren’t allowed in. Though there is an exception in cases of potential tornados. “Look at the dog” is a commonly repeated comment, followed by wild gesturing at the brown, cavorting bundle of fur. He or she is actually behaving well for being surrounded by strangers in a familiar place. The elderly owner isn’t having to correct the pooch very often, which is good considering the worst case scenario.
Speaking of which, I wonder how the car is doing. It’s parked at a corner, removed from trees, but also catty-corner from a church that is currently undergoing renovation. It’s never a good situation when you have to ask yourself, “Did that church steeple look sturdy enough?”
It reminds me a similar question I had to ask myself while driving a work truck for the Department of Conservation. Some really honky-tonk back roads cross over waterways. Some are streams, some are shallow rivers. The risky dips are lined by caution signs saying, “Caution – Impassable During High Water.” You can always backtrack, but doing so may cause you to go 20 miles out of your way and lose up to an hour. It’s a strange sensation looking at a coursing river asking yourself, “How much did it rain today?”
I guess I state all this to say, I’m not that worried about the storm. Some of it is naivete, but having gone through these warnings so many times, I don’t get too anxious. Missouri is on the far end of “Tornado Valley” the windy corridor that cuts across the Midwest. We are not visited by twisters at the same frequency of say Oklahoma or Dorothy’s Kansas, but they’re still a familiar site. I’ve taken many unscheduled pit stops in basements of homes, offices, and other buildings. I’ve been outside during a microburst or two – holding onto the corner of a canvas tent that was bucking like a baby bronco.
Some kids are worried, asking their parents and each other if they think it’s going to be okay. I’m to the point where I no longer need the reassurance. It may be a false calm, but it’s the one I’m holding onto for the duration of this storm.
-------------------------------
Someone, I wager the head librarian announced that the storm had been downgraded to a severe thunderstorm. People could remain in the lounge if they wished, but otherwise people were free to leave. I slowly pulled myself up and ended up heading back to the computer station I’d left in a flurry.
As we walked out, the same lady gave people a smile and tried to point at the silver lining of the storm: “You got to see part of the library you never got to see before.”
I guess I got to see that and a little more.
And to think: those Boy Scouts missed it
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
1:41 PM - It's your frequency, Kenneth
A new batch of TV network programming is already starting to his the airwaves. Over the next few weeks, viewers will be delivered from the drudgery of reruns and under-nourishing off-season replacements (where light-weight contenders are thrown to the summer sharks and executives watch to see what earns a nibble).
This fresh collection of shows, however, is going to have a very limited impact on the current Smith residence. We’re already stuck watching CBS.
With the current TV hookup we have in the apartment, only so many channels come in: CBS-13, broadcast out of Jefferson City, is the most vibrant. KOMU-NBC usually comes in with color. ABC-17 can be seen in alternating washes of colors and grays (as if Dorothy from the movie Wizard of Oz keeps jumping back and forth between Munchkinland and the tornado-transplanted farmhouse). The independently broadcast Christian station is permanently black and white and static. PBS, for some reason, only comes on in the tiny TV in the back of the apartment. You can see vague, ghostly outlines of people on Fox sometimes, but the audio is so messed up you can’t even pretend your TV set is a radio. As for other channels, the dial is set at pre-1995, for the UPN and WB aren’t found anywhere.
So, regardless of the fact that the fifth season of Gilmore Girls starts tonight, without remembering what is on CBS on Tuesday nights (all those years in college got me memorizing the cable line-up instead of the classic network options), I’d wager a decent percentage of our tube time will be dedicated to CBS.
Unfortunately, the upswing in eye viewings is not correlated to an increase in quality programming. While I like the CSIs and Monday night comedies, I’ve watched way too much Big Brother, after successfully avoiding the previous incarnations (and I’ve much respect for Julie Chen for playing “serious” journalist by day and reality TV show host by night. It’s not that I had a lot of respect prior to this, it’s just I found I could value her even less than originally estimated). Don’t ask me how many episodes of Rock Star: INXS I’ve watched; the number, however paltry, is still embarrassing.
It’s a good thing for we’re not a Nielsen family. I’m afraid to see what shows would get an extension simply because it was the best of the two or three channels that were coming in that night.
More DVDs have been popped in lately, though I don’t know how long TV-on-DVD will hold out against the original. I’ve also been reading more, but the brain sometimes cries out for mindless entertainment. That’s how professional wrestling and ice skaters still manage to draw viewers (Granted, I’m talking about different ends of the audience spectrum, but you have the realize that watching sets of people cavort back and forth [often dressed in fantastic outfits that would never be worn outside the arena] to heavily rehearsed and choreographed shows doesn’t do much to stimulate. I think watching a guy pile drive an opponent charges the brain’s electrons the same way a triple Lutz-triple toeloop-double loop does [Note: A “triple Lutz-triple toeloop-double loop” is a real ice skating term. Google it. I dare you].
Anyway, in lieu of back flips and chair tosses, I guess I’m going to be dedicating more viewing hours to CBS. I’d wish they’d hold up their end of the bargain.
If they don’t, I guess I’m going to need to purchase some more tinfoil.
This fresh collection of shows, however, is going to have a very limited impact on the current Smith residence. We’re already stuck watching CBS.
With the current TV hookup we have in the apartment, only so many channels come in: CBS-13, broadcast out of Jefferson City, is the most vibrant. KOMU-NBC usually comes in with color. ABC-17 can be seen in alternating washes of colors and grays (as if Dorothy from the movie Wizard of Oz keeps jumping back and forth between Munchkinland and the tornado-transplanted farmhouse). The independently broadcast Christian station is permanently black and white and static. PBS, for some reason, only comes on in the tiny TV in the back of the apartment. You can see vague, ghostly outlines of people on Fox sometimes, but the audio is so messed up you can’t even pretend your TV set is a radio. As for other channels, the dial is set at pre-1995, for the UPN and WB aren’t found anywhere.
So, regardless of the fact that the fifth season of Gilmore Girls starts tonight, without remembering what is on CBS on Tuesday nights (all those years in college got me memorizing the cable line-up instead of the classic network options), I’d wager a decent percentage of our tube time will be dedicated to CBS.
Unfortunately, the upswing in eye viewings is not correlated to an increase in quality programming. While I like the CSIs and Monday night comedies, I’ve watched way too much Big Brother, after successfully avoiding the previous incarnations (and I’ve much respect for Julie Chen for playing “serious” journalist by day and reality TV show host by night. It’s not that I had a lot of respect prior to this, it’s just I found I could value her even less than originally estimated). Don’t ask me how many episodes of Rock Star: INXS I’ve watched; the number, however paltry, is still embarrassing.
It’s a good thing for we’re not a Nielsen family. I’m afraid to see what shows would get an extension simply because it was the best of the two or three channels that were coming in that night.
More DVDs have been popped in lately, though I don’t know how long TV-on-DVD will hold out against the original. I’ve also been reading more, but the brain sometimes cries out for mindless entertainment. That’s how professional wrestling and ice skaters still manage to draw viewers (Granted, I’m talking about different ends of the audience spectrum, but you have the realize that watching sets of people cavort back and forth [often dressed in fantastic outfits that would never be worn outside the arena] to heavily rehearsed and choreographed shows doesn’t do much to stimulate. I think watching a guy pile drive an opponent charges the brain’s electrons the same way a triple Lutz-triple toeloop-double loop does [Note: A “triple Lutz-triple toeloop-double loop” is a real ice skating term. Google it. I dare you].
Anyway, in lieu of back flips and chair tosses, I guess I’m going to be dedicating more viewing hours to CBS. I’d wish they’d hold up their end of the bargain.
If they don’t, I guess I’m going to need to purchase some more tinfoil.
12:48 PM - Trying to make a workin' for a living
My brain feels like cookie dough ice cream, or at least the part that has dribbled out on the desk beside me does. Fortunately, one of the lumpy bits seems to have temporarily clogged the hole to keep other important facts (like "In 1492, Columbus sailed the ocean blue" and the lyrics to the Muppet Babies theme song) from leaking out.
I've been crawling my way through a series of job applications across North America (well, only two from out of the U.S., but it's kinda neat to be branching out globally, even if you don't go south of
There are a lot of cool things out there that I am completely unqualified for. Some places require "x years" of work experience, and while time spent at the certain was of a practical nature, I am hesitant to claim time spent in classes working at a real paper as applied experience. I have spent some long hours there, but with all my regular distractions (other classes, homework, rampant Halo addiction, etc.) I can't say I've been a steadily working journalist since 2003. I feel confident dividing the 5 semesters spent in half and counting that as applied work, though it will be some time before I can seriously apply for work at Kuwait Times or The Atlantic Monthly.
Even when going through the Disney job search site, it can be depressing to realize I lack what it takes to work at the "happiest place on Earth." There's a cool conservation education internship that would be neat, other than the fact I am not SCUBA certified. Also, and this seems a bit petty, it seems every job at Hong Kong Disneyland requires you to speak Cantonese. You can guess what the requirements are like at EuroDisney.
Anyway, my mind is swimming with possibilities. Could I cybercommute from a California beach, hike between shifts in the Rockies, join a polar bear club around the great lakes (though an Alaskan job prompted laments for the previously mentioned lack of work experience requirement), or stake a claim in the American Southwest or America's bread basket? Do I want a big city with a "small town feel" a little town "with a big heart"? Do I want to live in the midst of a metro area or aim for one of the outliner, slightly calmer suburbs, or even aim for a county hamlet?
Most of these places, my resume' is going to get discarded without a second look, but you never know how things may work out.
There are lots of possibilities, and lots of stuff brewing. I don't know if any of this will pan out, or whether something unexpected may clear the board. There are some weird offers out there, and I'd hope to snag one soon.
Here's to the mass producing of shredder fodder.
Cheers!
I've been crawling my way through a series of job applications across North America (well, only two from out of the U.S., but it's kinda neat to be branching out globally, even if you don't go south of
There are a lot of cool things out there that I am completely unqualified for. Some places require "x years" of work experience, and while time spent at the certain was of a practical nature, I am hesitant to claim time spent in classes working at a real paper as applied experience. I have spent some long hours there, but with all my regular distractions (other classes, homework, rampant Halo addiction, etc.) I can't say I've been a steadily working journalist since 2003. I feel confident dividing the 5 semesters spent in half and counting that as applied work, though it will be some time before I can seriously apply for work at Kuwait Times or The Atlantic Monthly.
Even when going through the Disney job search site, it can be depressing to realize I lack what it takes to work at the "happiest place on Earth." There's a cool conservation education internship that would be neat, other than the fact I am not SCUBA certified. Also, and this seems a bit petty, it seems every job at Hong Kong Disneyland requires you to speak Cantonese. You can guess what the requirements are like at EuroDisney.
Anyway, my mind is swimming with possibilities. Could I cybercommute from a California beach, hike between shifts in the Rockies, join a polar bear club around the great lakes (though an Alaskan job prompted laments for the previously mentioned lack of work experience requirement), or stake a claim in the American Southwest or America's bread basket? Do I want a big city with a "small town feel" a little town "with a big heart"? Do I want to live in the midst of a metro area or aim for one of the outliner, slightly calmer suburbs, or even aim for a county hamlet?
Most of these places, my resume' is going to get discarded without a second look, but you never know how things may work out.
There are lots of possibilities, and lots of stuff brewing. I don't know if any of this will pan out, or whether something unexpected may clear the board. There are some weird offers out there, and I'd hope to snag one soon.
Here's to the mass producing of shredder fodder.
Cheers!
Monday, September 12, 2005
1:47 PM - We interupt this interuption (of posting)
A quick update interspaced with promises and little chocolate sprinkles:
Okay, there's been a lag between major updates and it looks like that may last another 24 hours. My two hour slot on the computer has largely been taken up by job hunting, though I've made simultaneous progress on three or four posts on my own.
However, those posts have been on paper and none of them have been completed yet. So, don't look for much to come popping out today, but expect a glut of flashback posting (where I mess with the date so that entries appear the day I wish they had been posted rather than when they were truly composed). In theory, by mid-week, this post should be preceeded by a series of posts labeled "Flashback post: __FILL__IN__BLANK" instead of a pledged Part One.
For those of you irked by the lag, I'll spring for chocolate cupcakes. You provide the cupcake and I'll provide the yummy toppings, promise.
So just sit back and relax and wait for me to mess with the time-space continuium (well, at least as far as posting dates are concerned). It'll be painless.
Okay, there's been a lag between major updates and it looks like that may last another 24 hours. My two hour slot on the computer has largely been taken up by job hunting, though I've made simultaneous progress on three or four posts on my own.
However, those posts have been on paper and none of them have been completed yet. So, don't look for much to come popping out today, but expect a glut of flashback posting (where I mess with the date so that entries appear the day I wish they had been posted rather than when they were truly composed). In theory, by mid-week, this post should be preceeded by a series of posts labeled "Flashback post: __FILL__IN__BLANK" instead of a pledged Part One.
For those of you irked by the lag, I'll spring for chocolate cupcakes. You provide the cupcake and I'll provide the yummy toppings, promise.
So just sit back and relax and wait for me to mess with the time-space continuium (well, at least as far as posting dates are concerned). It'll be painless.
Wednesday, September 07, 2005
3:57 PM - Future forecast: cloudy
In recent e-mails, I've been possed the question: "How's your grad school application going?"
My current answer is", Beats the crap out of me," which is, truth be told, an accurate reply that is deceptive through omission.
Let me try to fill in some gaps...
------------------------------------------
My completed application to the University of Missouri School of Journalism master’s program was delivered, in person, on September 1, 2005. Those of you who had been monitoring my lack of progress on this website know this is one day later than originally planned.
This delay was alluded to, but never spelled out in direct terms until now.
The threefold reasons why I had to burn another day in Columbia were:
One) I’m an idiot.
Two) The Columbia Missourian got a new printer.
and Three) There was an additional form and fee required in addition
to what I as previously aware.
While the first point is fairly straightforward, and too often proved true, once again it looks like the following two points could use some further explanation.
I don’t have access to a printer in the Jefferson City apartment. In fact, due to space and other limiting factors, I’ve only worked on a computer once before dissembling it and returning the components to their respective protective containers. I had to look elsewhere for printing options.
Since I am no longer enrolled as a student at the University of Missouri – Columbia, my print quota has been terminated, so while I can log on to regular computer terminals as MU, any printing requests I send are automatically cancelled.
This was not a problem in my book, because I was still entered in the computer system as the Columbia Missourian. There was a massive hardware and software upgrade at the end of the supper semester. So much time was spent putting mine, and other’s names, into the system, I figure my login will continue to work there until the next major upgrade comes, by my estimate, in 2012. And until such a time comes, I will always get free printouts at the Missourian.
For all my time and service granted to the publication over the years, at the least I figured the paper owed me a free ream of paper. I have previously worked hard not to abuse printing, copying, or long-distance calling privileges for personal gain. If I, belatedly, pressed this advantage for the sake of potentially returning to the newsroom and extending my indentured servitude, I figured it all balanced out, quid pro quo.
When I first dropped by the Missourian that original afternoon, to collect a letter of recommendation, I quickly printed off two of my three required essays. I wasn’t fully final with the final, most complex one. I wanted to tweak it some more before finalizing it – especially the end, beginning, and parts in between. I had some other appointments to make, but I figured I still had time to catch a pinch more revision time in the campus computer labs before swinging back by the newsroom printer and racing across the street to turn in the whole kit ‘n caboodle.
Clever, I thought. An easy roll, really.
Right…
Sometime between my afternoon meetings and a late, rushed spin in the Pershing computer lab, a brand new, state-of-the-art printer appeared in the Missourian newsroom.
And, as is tradition with all new technological arrivals, no one could get it working in the first day.
Snake eyes. Ghost essay stuck in the machine. Drat!
Denied, I crossed the street to make sure I could still turn in my forms the next day. The difference between “applications must be received by” or applications must be received on” September 1, can be quite nerve-wracking when all you’ve got is your strained memory, and you’re already second-guessing your intellectual skill.
Anyway, I did confirm I could turn in the form on Thursday (SLOWLY RELEASE LUNGFUL OF AIR AND RELIEF). However, (SHARPLY DRAW BACK IN AIR ALONG WITH ADDITIONAL ANGST), a form I was not required to complete the previous time I applied to graduate school was now required. Based on the gap between my completion of undergraduate classes at MU (Aug. 2005) and my projected new entry date (Jan. 2006), a previously waived form and fee were now necessary.
This $45 processing fee – an amount that would trump my underbalanced checking account that had already taken a hit from the fees required to get copies of my transcript (apparently, the watermarked printing stock and the perforated stamp they use are 100 times more expensive than what the typical dime-and-a-quarter per page printing joints typically use) – was simply more than I had.
It was also around this time I discovered that I had an incorrect copy of the Jefferson City’s apartment phone number. When I attempted to call home to relate my lateness and unexpected troubles, I got the answering machine of some computer repair place. No solace was to be found there; only another brick in the wall.
So, $45 bucks and an essay short, I gave up and headed back south for the day, dejected and quite a bit irked off.
It is a testament to my personal strength that I did not roll the car out of frustration, as was my original urge, when the Phil Collin’s version of the song ”You Can’t Hurry Love” began to play on the radio, which such mocking lyrics as,
“No, you’ll just have to wait
It don’t come easy
But it’s a game of give and take.
So I made it home alive…
[And here the story will now pause. My time on the computer is about up and will have to wait until another day to finish – potentially after the weekend where the Smith family, hopefully, concludes their whirlwind pickup/packup tour of the Sullivan homestead. Stay tuned, please.}
My current answer is", Beats the crap out of me," which is, truth be told, an accurate reply that is deceptive through omission.
Let me try to fill in some gaps...
------------------------------------------
My completed application to the University of Missouri School of Journalism master’s program was delivered, in person, on September 1, 2005. Those of you who had been monitoring my lack of progress on this website know this is one day later than originally planned.
This delay was alluded to, but never spelled out in direct terms until now.
The threefold reasons why I had to burn another day in Columbia were:
One) I’m an idiot.
Two) The Columbia Missourian got a new printer.
and Three) There was an additional form and fee required in addition
to what I as previously aware.
While the first point is fairly straightforward, and too often proved true, once again it looks like the following two points could use some further explanation.
I don’t have access to a printer in the Jefferson City apartment. In fact, due to space and other limiting factors, I’ve only worked on a computer once before dissembling it and returning the components to their respective protective containers. I had to look elsewhere for printing options.
Since I am no longer enrolled as a student at the University of Missouri – Columbia, my print quota has been terminated, so while I can log on to regular computer terminals as MU, any printing requests I send are automatically cancelled.
This was not a problem in my book, because I was still entered in the computer system as the Columbia Missourian. There was a massive hardware and software upgrade at the end of the supper semester. So much time was spent putting mine, and other’s names, into the system, I figure my login will continue to work there until the next major upgrade comes, by my estimate, in 2012. And until such a time comes, I will always get free printouts at the Missourian.
For all my time and service granted to the publication over the years, at the least I figured the paper owed me a free ream of paper. I have previously worked hard not to abuse printing, copying, or long-distance calling privileges for personal gain. If I, belatedly, pressed this advantage for the sake of potentially returning to the newsroom and extending my indentured servitude, I figured it all balanced out, quid pro quo.
When I first dropped by the Missourian that original afternoon, to collect a letter of recommendation, I quickly printed off two of my three required essays. I wasn’t fully final with the final, most complex one. I wanted to tweak it some more before finalizing it – especially the end, beginning, and parts in between. I had some other appointments to make, but I figured I still had time to catch a pinch more revision time in the campus computer labs before swinging back by the newsroom printer and racing across the street to turn in the whole kit ‘n caboodle.
Clever, I thought. An easy roll, really.
Right…
Sometime between my afternoon meetings and a late, rushed spin in the Pershing computer lab, a brand new, state-of-the-art printer appeared in the Missourian newsroom.
And, as is tradition with all new technological arrivals, no one could get it working in the first day.
Snake eyes. Ghost essay stuck in the machine. Drat!
Denied, I crossed the street to make sure I could still turn in my forms the next day. The difference between “applications must be received by” or applications must be received on” September 1, can be quite nerve-wracking when all you’ve got is your strained memory, and you’re already second-guessing your intellectual skill.
Anyway, I did confirm I could turn in the form on Thursday (SLOWLY RELEASE LUNGFUL OF AIR AND RELIEF). However, (SHARPLY DRAW BACK IN AIR ALONG WITH ADDITIONAL ANGST), a form I was not required to complete the previous time I applied to graduate school was now required. Based on the gap between my completion of undergraduate classes at MU (Aug. 2005) and my projected new entry date (Jan. 2006), a previously waived form and fee were now necessary.
This $45 processing fee – an amount that would trump my underbalanced checking account that had already taken a hit from the fees required to get copies of my transcript (apparently, the watermarked printing stock and the perforated stamp they use are 100 times more expensive than what the typical dime-and-a-quarter per page printing joints typically use) – was simply more than I had.
It was also around this time I discovered that I had an incorrect copy of the Jefferson City’s apartment phone number. When I attempted to call home to relate my lateness and unexpected troubles, I got the answering machine of some computer repair place. No solace was to be found there; only another brick in the wall.
So, $45 bucks and an essay short, I gave up and headed back south for the day, dejected and quite a bit irked off.
It is a testament to my personal strength that I did not roll the car out of frustration, as was my original urge, when the Phil Collin’s version of the song ”You Can’t Hurry Love” began to play on the radio, which such mocking lyrics as,
“No, you’ll just have to wait
It don’t come easy
But it’s a game of give and take.
So I made it home alive…
[And here the story will now pause. My time on the computer is about up and will have to wait until another day to finish – potentially after the weekend where the Smith family, hopefully, concludes their whirlwind pickup/packup tour of the Sullivan homestead. Stay tuned, please.}
3:09 PM - Listening to the variation
Sometimes I have an urge to take a common cliché and tweak it so that it causes people to reexamine the original expectation and find humor in the disparity of the reality.
Or, for those of you who want the same explanation with a smaller number of syllables so you don't need to re-read the sentence three times to get where I'm going, I like doing the unexpected.
And here, we take a brief break for context before returning to the topic at hand:
--------------------------------------
I'm a finicky radio listener. I typically don't listen to the radio unless I'm in the car. Too many years of being able to craft my music to my preferred tastes, be it through CDs or on the computer, has made it so that I churn through radio settings constantly.
One minute I'm listening to an upbeat country song, then I'm trying to take in a distant Christian station, then I'm catching up on an golden oldie from the late 80's, and partway through the song I'm now sampling a news update on NPR.
Note: I am only this picky while I am by myself, so as to cut down on others being perturbed by my twisting the dial.
For some lengthy stretches I have one hand on the wheel and the other one steadily cranking the knob.
Other than the two summers spent working 9-hour days in a Missouri Department of Conservation work truck, I never learned the area stations enough to know what's being broadcast, so I never know where I roam what I will catch.
--------------------------------------
That being said, I typically hate hearing what other people blast in their radios. Sure, you're entitled to make musical selections on your own, but why inflict them on the general public, I often wonder - especially that annoying buzzing bass that rattles the ground as people go by. And I don't know why, and I lack official statistical data to back me up, by it is my opinion that most of these songs have a heightened percentage of cuss words that a habit of cutting through the air. You may not know the general lyric, but you sure know there are people in the background stating their affiliation with the singer's statements by proclaiming "fornication, yes" at regular intervals (or other phrases of that ilk).
Granted, this is not always true, but most people, as they hear a growing bass line beginning to grow in the distance, to believe some punk to be approaching, blaring the music written by guys who are "mad at their dads."
Today, as I went through downtown Jefferson City, I decided to arrange some counter-programing.
And that is how I was round making a slow lap around the state capitol rotunda, surrounded by fancy cars and lobbyists in suits, cranking my radio to the local classical music station, sharing some string quartet with all those located within a 100 yard radius.
I think I did some good in achieving my goals. I, one, broadened peoples' expectations, and I, two, shared a mean string solo with the public.
How many people can say they did that today?
Don't roll over yet, Beethoven, the party is just getting started... and tell the legislature the news.
Or, for those of you who want the same explanation with a smaller number of syllables so you don't need to re-read the sentence three times to get where I'm going, I like doing the unexpected.
And here, we take a brief break for context before returning to the topic at hand:
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I'm a finicky radio listener. I typically don't listen to the radio unless I'm in the car. Too many years of being able to craft my music to my preferred tastes, be it through CDs or on the computer, has made it so that I churn through radio settings constantly.
One minute I'm listening to an upbeat country song, then I'm trying to take in a distant Christian station, then I'm catching up on an golden oldie from the late 80's, and partway through the song I'm now sampling a news update on NPR.
Note: I am only this picky while I am by myself, so as to cut down on others being perturbed by my twisting the dial.
For some lengthy stretches I have one hand on the wheel and the other one steadily cranking the knob.
Other than the two summers spent working 9-hour days in a Missouri Department of Conservation work truck, I never learned the area stations enough to know what's being broadcast, so I never know where I roam what I will catch.
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That being said, I typically hate hearing what other people blast in their radios. Sure, you're entitled to make musical selections on your own, but why inflict them on the general public, I often wonder - especially that annoying buzzing bass that rattles the ground as people go by. And I don't know why, and I lack official statistical data to back me up, by it is my opinion that most of these songs have a heightened percentage of cuss words that a habit of cutting through the air. You may not know the general lyric, but you sure know there are people in the background stating their affiliation with the singer's statements by proclaiming "fornication, yes" at regular intervals (or other phrases of that ilk).
Granted, this is not always true, but most people, as they hear a growing bass line beginning to grow in the distance, to believe some punk to be approaching, blaring the music written by guys who are "mad at their dads."
Today, as I went through downtown Jefferson City, I decided to arrange some counter-programing.
And that is how I was round making a slow lap around the state capitol rotunda, surrounded by fancy cars and lobbyists in suits, cranking my radio to the local classical music station, sharing some string quartet with all those located within a 100 yard radius.
I think I did some good in achieving my goals. I, one, broadened peoples' expectations, and I, two, shared a mean string solo with the public.
How many people can say they did that today?
Don't roll over yet, Beethoven, the party is just getting started... and tell the legislature the news.
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
2:35 PM - A long weekend
Note: The term "weekend," as used in the title of this post, does not quite fit the typically expected two-day, or three-day time expanses the general public employs. Rather, the "weekend" to which this post refers stretches from Thursday night to Monday night. I apologize for this hijacking of the English language.
So... I've been out for a while due to other projects that have vied for my time. After finally completing my application for the J-grad school (it only took me two tries to get the stupid package dropped off), I traveled south to try to finish packing up the Sullivan homestead.
Let me tell you where things stand right now, before backtracking over the preceeding events:
Physically, I'm still largely drained by the engergy spent on carting out prized family heirlooms into storage (and a number of less liked family keepsakes to a dumpster) as well as subsiding largely on $1 fast food items. When the only major appliance you have access to is a microwave, because the refridgerator and and oven have already been dragged out of the house, and your cutware primarily comes from plastic mills in Taiwan, culinary options are limited.
"Want to hit Hardees, again? We haven't had them since Thursday, and I'm really sick of McDonalds" "Is there anyway you could pick up some Jack in the Box tacos too?" - conversation I wish were fictionalized, but I regret to say, wasn't
Thanks to all the painting, sanding, rebuilding, and general polish, our house looks nicer than it did when we moved in. This fact is both uplifting, due to the sense of seeing a job well done, and depressing, since some other family is going to take advantage of us fixing all the little quibbles that bothered us for years.
The rickety porch? Torn down and replaced? The long-standing siding project? Completed after two years of work? The weed infested "wildflower garden" that had gone too feral? Torn up, replanted, and now filed with more docile marigolds. (I have more examples I can list, but it's already starting to work on my nerves? I can take some perverse pleasure in the fact that the natural wood trimming [as in unsanded] is still in place and will likely continue to give others as many splinters and scrapes as I enjoyed over the years.).
The house is almost empty. We still have a number of items waiting for their final sorting in the basement, but the upstairs is finally cleared - at least the floors are now that they're awaiting carpeters arriving later this week.
It's all meant a lot of sweat, a bit of blood shed (stupid fish gigs being positioned prong out in the trailer), and some crazy paint-fume influnced dreams. In retrospect, I almost wish I had slept outside rather than have my consciousness messed with. To file away in the pyschotic dream file, being on a crowded wagon train, circa 1880s, when a violent shoot out begins. Did I mention every person in the passenger cabins were relatives of mine? Freud would have a heyday with me, especially concerning the fact I didn't survive. No I'm not saying who killed me. No, my dream didn't end; in fact I had a serious verbal arguement all the way up to heaven. Yes, I was more relaxed when my next set of dreams involved dealing with flesh-eating zombies. - Once again, I wish I was pulling your leg, but I'm not. It's sad when other people talk of being sleep deprived and you slightly envy them. My subconscious has a twisted side that should not be messed with)
Anyway, once the painting stopped, sleeping got better. It certainly became easier each evening.
There is some comfort in finishing a good, hard day's labor. I'm proud of the number of items moved, of the fact I know a few more stories about Smith family history (now I know why we hung on to that old sewing maching in the basement; apparently it had a cross-prarie wagon ride of it's own in the past), and the fact that my personal contribution has sped up the moving process. Everyone's stress level will be improved when the house sells and the final box is unpacked in a new home base (hopefully without natural wood trim lining the place).
So, even as I reconsider the new skin growing on my formerly raw hands and the hues of my bruises (some becoming more colorful, others loosing their intensisty), I'm glad to have had a good long weekend.
Now, I'm looking forward to a vacation. I think I'll start now.
So... I've been out for a while due to other projects that have vied for my time. After finally completing my application for the J-grad school (it only took me two tries to get the stupid package dropped off), I traveled south to try to finish packing up the Sullivan homestead.
Let me tell you where things stand right now, before backtracking over the preceeding events:
Physically, I'm still largely drained by the engergy spent on carting out prized family heirlooms into storage (and a number of less liked family keepsakes to a dumpster) as well as subsiding largely on $1 fast food items. When the only major appliance you have access to is a microwave, because the refridgerator and and oven have already been dragged out of the house, and your cutware primarily comes from plastic mills in Taiwan, culinary options are limited.
"Want to hit Hardees, again? We haven't had them since Thursday, and I'm really sick of McDonalds" "Is there anyway you could pick up some Jack in the Box tacos too?" - conversation I wish were fictionalized, but I regret to say, wasn't
Thanks to all the painting, sanding, rebuilding, and general polish, our house looks nicer than it did when we moved in. This fact is both uplifting, due to the sense of seeing a job well done, and depressing, since some other family is going to take advantage of us fixing all the little quibbles that bothered us for years.
The rickety porch? Torn down and replaced? The long-standing siding project? Completed after two years of work? The weed infested "wildflower garden" that had gone too feral? Torn up, replanted, and now filed with more docile marigolds. (I have more examples I can list, but it's already starting to work on my nerves? I can take some perverse pleasure in the fact that the natural wood trimming [as in unsanded] is still in place and will likely continue to give others as many splinters and scrapes as I enjoyed over the years.).
The house is almost empty. We still have a number of items waiting for their final sorting in the basement, but the upstairs is finally cleared - at least the floors are now that they're awaiting carpeters arriving later this week.
It's all meant a lot of sweat, a bit of blood shed (stupid fish gigs being positioned prong out in the trailer), and some crazy paint-fume influnced dreams. In retrospect, I almost wish I had slept outside rather than have my consciousness messed with. To file away in the pyschotic dream file, being on a crowded wagon train, circa 1880s, when a violent shoot out begins. Did I mention every person in the passenger cabins were relatives of mine? Freud would have a heyday with me, especially concerning the fact I didn't survive. No I'm not saying who killed me. No, my dream didn't end; in fact I had a serious verbal arguement all the way up to heaven. Yes, I was more relaxed when my next set of dreams involved dealing with flesh-eating zombies. - Once again, I wish I was pulling your leg, but I'm not. It's sad when other people talk of being sleep deprived and you slightly envy them. My subconscious has a twisted side that should not be messed with)
Anyway, once the painting stopped, sleeping got better. It certainly became easier each evening.
There is some comfort in finishing a good, hard day's labor. I'm proud of the number of items moved, of the fact I know a few more stories about Smith family history (now I know why we hung on to that old sewing maching in the basement; apparently it had a cross-prarie wagon ride of it's own in the past), and the fact that my personal contribution has sped up the moving process. Everyone's stress level will be improved when the house sells and the final box is unpacked in a new home base (hopefully without natural wood trim lining the place).
So, even as I reconsider the new skin growing on my formerly raw hands and the hues of my bruises (some becoming more colorful, others loosing their intensisty), I'm glad to have had a good long weekend.
Now, I'm looking forward to a vacation. I think I'll start now.
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