ENG 001: Language & Writing

Miscellany in a Bio-Bag: The Soundtrack of My Life!!!

2007-12-08T19:46:00.000-06:00

Hank Williams Jr., “Country Boy Can Survive”: Showing this video to others feels like breaking the baby pictures out. It brings to mind thoughts of nostalgia and minor embarrassment, as most of the scenes in the video remind me of the small town of my childhood. The small town café, the mechanic’s shop, the grain elevators; this was my life. One scene in particular (about 1:07) brings images flowing back. The scene shows hunters moving through a wood. One of the hobbies my father and I enjoyed was anything to do with firearms.
He had a decent collection of antiquated rifles, they were the only thing he would accept as a good firearm; he laughed at people who used new low recoil rifles with scopes and butt-pads. One of my favorite rifles in his collection was a 30-06 that was older than he was. His father had bought it from army surplus when they were selling after World War II. It was a long, rustic, and strangely beautiful weapon. It was a bolt action, capable of holding only six or eight bullets, I can’t remember for sure which. The wood showed its age, as it was pock marked with dents and scrapes from stock to forend. The rear site was a small hole about the width of a sharpie head, and the front was a raised bead about the diameter of the tip of a pen. There were two dials on the rear site block for adjusting for wind and distance, neither of which did I have the patience to master.
One experience as a child that the scene in the video reminded me of was the first time I attempted to fire that rifle. I had reached the admirable age of about eight, and the mighty weight of a little under 70 lbs. I had done reasonably well with .22s up to this point, but a 30-06 is no small gun. My father had a cruel sense of humor, and the first time I tried to fire that rifle, I was standing straight up, and he decided not to warn me. The kick knocked me straight on my back, and my dad about fell on his laughing. Despite the bruised shoulder and ego, it is still one of my favorite pieces.

Let Go, by Frou Frou: Weird song, weird movie, weird people. Perfect. This video is a slew of scenes from the movie “Garden State” (Yeah that’s right, kind of a chick flick but nevertheless a kick ass movie). While one of the best songs from the movie plays in the background, it visually tells the story of a man who has come back to his hometown after several years of absence. The part of the video that struck me the most was the scene where he is at a party (roughly 1:00 and off an on for the rest of the video). While under the influence of God’s most curiously toxic yet delightful creation, ecstasy, he is shown having the time of his life yet feeling harrowingly awkward.
The scenes bring me back to the first ‘social’ (sounds better than ‘party’) house that I can remember. I imagine that being filthy rich and growing up dirt poor in a small town have one thing in common; the extreme need to entertain oneself. Ergo I was introduced to the Knudsen household, which was, much like the household above, ridiculously enjoyable yet awkward(There was no ecstasy…). It was an old house on a hill, possessing an ironically comfortable feel due to years of mismanagement and maltreatment. It had a basement and two stories, with porches on both floors. The carpets were old shag rugs with a peculiar animalistic smell to them, and none of the walls or ceilings were ever really finished, giving the rooms a nasty pseudo hardwood feel to them. Despite the rundown aura of the entire property, there was an uncannily exquisite stove and a horribly misplaced brass and oak door that must have been wondering what ungodly sin that tree had done to damn its existence to this household. I’m sire the house has been condemned for demolition by now, but no wrecking ball will be able to purge me of the experiences I had there when I began to understand the beauty of human interaction.

Rise Against, Survive: This isn’t an official video for the song, but its cooler so that makes it ok. The video begins with a biker beautifully demonstrating a classic ’crash and burn’ off the side of a hill. It then fast forwards to three months later and shows the adrenaline junky nailing the jump, in accordance with the overlying lyrical theme of the video, survival. The song is urging getting up every time after a fall, as said in the chorus: “Life for you has been less than kind. So take a number, and stand in line. We’ve all been sorry, we’ve all been hurt... But how we survive, is what makes us who we are.”
Most kids have some sort of experience with bikes throughout their childhood, and mine was no different. My cousins and I were infamous among our town for turning public sites into jump ranges. My first bike was pretty sweet. It was tiny, which I guess fit my five or six years. It was a one speed, off brand chrome beast with neon green stickers plastered all over the frame. There must have been something weak about the tires because they could never seem to hold air for longer than a week or two, no matter how many thorns and nails I put into them.
By the end of a few years, that bike had had the crap beaten out of it. Those sweet stickers were peeling off, the wheels were bent slightly, causing the bike to bob up and down when I coasted, and the rubber grip from the right handle was almost completely torn off from countless wrecks. Common sense would say that we would have stopped jumping off of anything we could pile up, but would have been way too easy.

Blink 182, I Won’t Be Home For Christmas: ‘It’s Christmas time again,’ and what would a video biography be without a section on Christmas (since the season now encompasses 1/6 of our lives…)? This song is very fitting for me because of my attitude on Christmas, but the part of the video that caught my attention was his girlfriend putting up Christmas lights while the singer was contemplating suicide by latrinal asphyxiation.
No matter what the weather is the Friday after Thanksgiving, there is a tradition spanning back thousands of years in my immediate family that says the Christmas lights on our house must go up. The exterior festive décor of our home has been evolving every year, but the basics remain the same. There’s a ridiculous amount of lights, always the colored kind, since we save the clear for inside. Every aspect of the house that can hold a straight line or spiral or more or less spirited up somehow. The only thing that’s missing is something my father’s been looking for for years; a big, shining white star to put on top of the house.
The crown jewel of the Christmas display was the manger scene. A while back my brother took it into his hands to fashion life size wooden replicas of the Holy Family and their motley posse. We somehow always manage to muster up some hay bails to place around the wooden frame of the barn/cave thing. Even though I’m not a fan of massive Christmas celebration, I can’t help feel a little noel cheer when I see the lights.

Chad Kroger, Josey Scott, Hero: Let me first say one thing that will summarize this entire piece; Spiderman is amazing. I believe this song was the theme song for the first Spiderman movie that came out a few years past. Way before the movies came out, and even today, Spiderman was the coolest guy on the planet. When I was in grade school, his cartoon would be on from 3:30 to 4:00, and my principle reason for not wanting to be kept after school was so that I could make it home before the show started.
I could identify with Spiderman at the time; he was a loveable nerd who some people couldn’t get enough of while a whole lot more wished that a giant newspaper would smash him and send him down the sink to the spider cemetery. I couldn’t identify with his heroics, but they were something to dream about. He was the classic underdog story, always outmanned and usually fighting someone three times his size, but he managed to outwit them to come out in the end with a victory and sometimes the girl.
My parents weren’t very fond of the fact that I spent my afternoons with Spidey; my mom thought he was too violent and my dad thought I should be doing homework. The latter was most likely true, as I had a horrible time with doing homework as a child. When a ten year old gets to choose between swinging through the skies of New York with someone cool like Spiderman or doing long division, there’s really not much doubt on which he will choose.

Melee, Built to Last: This video would probably seem crazy to anyone who hasn’t seen a movie in the last fifteen years. However, for the rest of us who grew up watching a flick every now and then, at least a few of the scenes seem very familiar in a parodic way. The scenes that he encounters in the video are all from movies that my generation and I grew up watching, including but not limited to Pretty Woman, 16 Candles, Ghost, Titanic, Say Anything, Napoleon Dynamite, American Pie, Broke Back Mountain, My Girl, Hope Floats, Happy Gilmore, Jerry McGuire, Forest Gump, and A Walk to Remember.
Collectively, these scenes developed a good deal of the clichéd stereotypical images that come to my mind when I think of relationships. There are the lovable images of a girl with roses jumping into some guys arms, porch front serenades, piggy back rides, and making out on the beach. Then there are also more down to earth yet more comical scenes of people doing things like playing tether ball, a mime kissing the invisible person in front of him, or Jim from American Pie violating an apple pie (I‘m sure it was consensual).
If we would compare these to love scenes from the 50’s, I’m sure we’d see quite a difference. I guess love has taken a bit of a turn since then. There’s also a scene with two cowboys cuddling on a picnic cloth. My mother would say society’s going to the crapper. I don’t mind it that much.

Tracy Chapman, Give Me One Reason: So, how in the hell does this video relate to me? Well, other than the remarkable resemblance between Ms. Chapman and I, it is one of the songs that a couple of friends and I that could hardly be called a one gig band played. We picked the song because it had a slow swinging beat, was something most people knew, and was easy to play. These were the characteristics of the band. We weren’t too flashy, we weren’t very deep, and we weren’t very good. A plan for stardom is doomed to fail if you throw together a lead guitarist that like hard rock, a rhythm guitarist that like Ben Harper, a drummer that’s usually too hung over to show up, and an insane blues harmonica player.
As you can imagine, the music we made was a strange mix. When we actually came up with a few originals, what came out of the oven was something that kind of reminded me of a Caribbean mix, like Santana only not nearly as cool (and usually acoustic due to our drummer’s chronic brown bottle flu). The experience was unforgettable though, and for a summer, the four of us (maybe I should say 3 ½) were kings of our own little pathetic world.

RED, Lost: This video’s link to my life will be pretty easy to figure out: the halo trilogy, and the time that my friends have spent playing this thing. While other groups of kids would choose to do whatever kids these days do on Saturday nights, guys in my class would often end up in someone’s basement, with four or five X-boxes linked up together, having massive computerized battles to the death.
God knows how this game will stand up to games twenty years from now, but for the time that they were released, all three games had outstanding graphics and movement. The game isn’t insanely gory like some are (see Manhunt 2) and in campaign mode enemies have adorable original conversations before you crush the back of their skullJ. The games take you to crazy new worlds in a time that we wouldn’t recognize today. It’s a semi-original story that takes place about 500 years from now; there’s a big war and everyone’s getting there butts kicked until the hero comes.
The best part of the game, however, has been proven to be in multiplayer. No matter how good AI is, human players usually make a game a lot more interesting. There’s always a good deal of pent up energy and tension in a group of friends, and I can’t imagine any healthier way to absolve our differences than to hit someone in the back of the head with a sticky grenade (except for hitting them in the front of the head).

Check Yes Or No

2007-11-18T23:40:00.001-06:00

( I deleted the video because it kept auto starting and it was angering me.)

Well well well, we’re back here at our usual Sunday and Wednesday night hang out. I know some of you (namely one) were turned off last week by the fact that I decided to use a country video in my post, so I took that into consideration. This week’s post is on the first video I can remember watching, which happens to be a George Strait western video titled “Check Yes or No.” Several factors make it seem reasonable that this would be my devirginizing video. One is that in the house of my early youth, any genre that sounded like rock and roll was the work of the devil, and we didn’t even know what rap was. I honestly think it would have been regarded lower on the list of unholies than Hitler himself. So yes, deionization of pop culture is one reason why the video is country.
The second is that we lived very far out in the country, close to Tibet but not quite to Lancashire. This meant that the only TV station we got was PBS when it was cloudy out; or maybe it was when it wasn’t cloudy… anywho. We had a VCR from the 70’s, so whenever my sisters went to see my Grandmother up north (bless her soul) they made liberal use of her cable TV, and captured well over a hundred hours of CMT videos and brought them back home with them. Therefore, I watched a lot of country videos.
This one happens to be the first I can remember, and it fits me well. Corny, twangy, ridiculous in general. The part I love the most is how it gives ugly kids the hope that they can hook up with pretty girls. Gives hope to all those crazy little horn dogs.

"Oops, I made the worst video ever..."

2007-11-14T23:09:00.001-06:00

Writer’s note: First, I would just like to mention that I am currently a fugitive of the law. The sheriff is ga ga about finding me and I haven’t yet let him. Life has never been better. And now for something completely different.

Every hundred years or so, a masterpiece is created; something comes into existence that stirs the heart, delights the eyes, and blows the mind, entangling all the instruments of the imagination into a euphoric psychological orgy. Van Gogh’s “Starry Night” is a perfect example of this. It exhibits the potential greatness of human productivity while showing the beauty and slight insignificance of our existence.

Britney Spears' “Oops, I Did It Again” video, however, is the absolute antithesis of this greatness. First off, why the hell is the man landing on Mars at the beginning of the video? I spent a good 8 minutes pondering on this (six more than I believe anything to do with Spears is worth) and came to the conclusion that maybe it had something to do with the ‘Men from Mars, Women from Venus’ thing. But in that case, shouldn’t she be on Venus if the man is discovering her world? It would work on Mars if she was a transvestite and he was exploring his sexual preferences for the first time, but I think we left Spears in the dust about 224 words ago with the thought train, so I’m putting that idea in the ’about as likely as Hilary Clinton having a heart’ tray. In either situation, I have one word for that young man; turnthefrickaround.

Granted, this video was made years before the baby dangling, 18 marriages in six hours, car crashes, and public indecency happened, but the omens for what to come were clear. There is a path that one can take to make this a decently good music video… press mute.

World on Fire

2007-11-11T23:07:00.000-06:00

As a student of history, peering into the lives and culture of people who have long since passed from our presence, I have always found it amusing to imagine how my own life and culture will be looked upon by the generations of those to come. It's disheartening, however, to realize that scholars of the past focus primarily on the flaws that men foster rather that the virtues that they uphold. Wars, scandals, the barbarianism of ancients; these are the things we study. How then, will we be remembered by those who study us?

LYRICS
If one from the future or present were to look at pop culture (a music video, per se) it could be assumed that we are very materialistic people. This isn’t news to most people, but the problem that it causes is quite often misunderstood. There is no misdeed in taking pleasure in some thing; the self-transgression occurs when we allow gadgets to suppress our personal relationships. If you look at a music video, chances are you will usually see someone obsessed with the bling dangling around their neck, their clothes that cost as much as some houses, or their cars with a hot tub in the back. In her video of the song “World on Fire,” Sarah McLachlan tries to show the flaw in this standard of producing videos, and does so very effectively.
In the beginning of the video, McLachlan uses the simplistic setting to establish an ethos persona that eliminates any possibility of hypocrisy in her message. It begins very simply, with a somber McLachlan sitting in a modest room, amber guitar over her lap. The room looks like an average apartment, or possibly a hotel room. There are white walls, a tan carpet, and brown furniture; everything is very lackluster. McLachlan is wearing a tank top, jeans, and no shoes. Her hair is done very casually. It’s almost as if the cameraman entered the room a few minutes ago and surprised her. The lack of impression is rather shocking, ironically.
The video is shot in very poor quality, probably by a machine that one could get their hands on at Wal-Mart. There is no camera movement, only straight forward shots. The first text that appears is very simple, yet blunt. “This video cost $150,000.” The dollar amount is in bold red font, augmenting the first thought that comes into the mind of the viewer; “That’s a lot of money for a video.” It’s rather surprising in an illogical way. The delay that comes next has perfect timing. It shows nothing but a straight shot of McLachlan, sitting strumming and singing. Twenty seconds later, as most people would be almost ready to change the video, text appears once again, but this time in pure white. “What’s wrong with this video? Well it only cost $15 to make.”
Up to this point, the set up for the argument has been completely logical, but with the next image, it begins to turn to a more argument which utilizes pathos. Almost instantly, an image of a world map appears with many of the globe’s poorest areas highlighted. This shifts the readers attention in a very rapid, and nearly uncomfortable fashion, from the artist’s face to the realization that there is a massive world outside of the white walls of that apartment. Overshadowing that image is a text that reads “$150,000 could make a difference to over 1,000,000 people.”
The rhetorical appeal of pathos aforementioned is amplified by the music being played. It is a somber, slightly sad, and almost tired song, but has a spark of hope somehow wrapped within the music; a hopeful lift after the minor 'fall', if you’re looking intimately at the music theory. (If you are into the theory aspect of music, the writer stratigically placed progressions as follows; C Major, D Minor, C Major, and later, F Major, A minor, G major. Somber lyrics and pictures are placed specifically at the minor 'falls' {where the music gets 'more sad'} and more hopeful lyrics and images are placed where the Major resumes.) Even though that by now the music has taken a back seat to the images due to the speed that they are coming at, it is grabbing the emotions of the viewer and telling them that there are major problems being addressed here, but somewhere down the road, the specifics unknown to the viewer, there is hope.
The text mentioned previously forces the viewer to ask themselves how $150,000 could affect one million people. This time, the audience isn’t kept waiting long, as a laundry list of ‘this is how’ soon follows. Text appears and makes a comparative statement that claims that $200 (in bold red font) could either be used in LA to pay a production manager for one day, or in Ethiopia to pay for 100 children’s school fees for a term.
It is a logical appeal that also employs pathos, as this seems very drastic and logical at the same time. The observer is forced to feel pity for the children that are shown because they have heard of the hardships that they have grown up with in their childhoods. It is also only logical that if one had to choose where the money would be better spent, most minds would put a higher precedence on tuition for 100 than advice on how to make a video from one. People watching understand that if a person in a third world county doesn’t go to school, they will most likely end up making sneakers for Nike. The great thing about people realizing this is that they are not thinking about themselves at this moment in time.
Several more texts appear, mentioning the $5000 for hair and make-up that was used to pay for 150 Afghani girls to go to school and the $500 for a studio playback that was used to buy enough nuts and bolts to hold together 50 houses in tsunami hit areas. The video always seems to be a few seconds ahead of the person watching it, because it was at this time that I was watching and wondering how much they wanted me to donate, and slightly after, a pure white text appeared and stated that they wanted no money. This plays onto the character of the artist, reassuring everyone that they aren’t running a con.
Possibly the best use of pathos in this video was the instance that a single African mother is introduced. At the moment they introduce her, the words “don’t want to be left alone” are sung in the background in a dual-media comination. The video mentions that the mother works two jobs, 16 hours a day, seven days a week to raise the $200 she needs to send her son to school for a year. When watching her, one notices that she cracks a smile, even in her pitiable situation. Immediately after, one can see that the words “Psalm 118 5-12” are painted in bold on her tin front door. At first glance, the verse shows that she is Christian and therefore relates her to many of the viewers that would be watching this video. But if one gives in to their curiosity and looks up the verse, they can find out why she is smiling. The gist of the verse states that despite the impoverished region to which she was born and the mistreatment that political entities have given her, she understands that they can do nothing to her soul, and that her happiness stems from the core of herself and her family that remains.
At this point in the video, the slides start to roll almost too fast to read. Two hours of film stock costs enough to build six wells. The money for a production supervisor could give independence to 100 Afghani widows. The catering to the studio for a day could buy 10,950 meals for street kids in Calcutta. The high rate of change gives the viewer a sense of just how many problems there are in the world.
The best logical argument came late in the song, when they mention that the $15,000 that would be used for styling costs could be used to help many of the 12 million people who are blind because of cataracts. It is an ironic statement that the money could be used to make something more aesthetic, or be used to allow people to see anything, aesthetic or not.
At the apogee of the song, the artist once again engages in a argument of pathos, by changing the pictures to more uplifting scenes; dancing, bright lights, people clasping hands, and clean running water. This gives people a slight hope that although there is bad, there is also good.
In her video, McLachlan urges viewers to understand the frailty of their existence; that rather than LA or NYC, they could have been born in Calcutta. She does not say that we are morally obligated to donate to any cause across the world, but just asks her audience to accept the realization that our problems would be considered luxuries to others in the world. The argument is the siren for a counter-culture. Look at the most famous cultural art set in LA right now; Nip Tuck, The Hills, Dr. 90210. It’s a very self absorbed culture. She’s not saying that you need to save the world, but don’t act like it revolves around you. And oh, does she argue it well.

Thunder Rolls, Sims Style.

2007-11-11T22:29:00.000-06:00

This isn't the original video for this song, but the original is my favorite and the remake is hilarious, so I decided to take some writer’s liberty. So, why is this video the most amazing thing on the planet since sliced salami and Bacardi Malts(not in the same sitting)? It all begins with our man of the hour, Garth Brooks. I’m not a huge fan of country, especially all that twangy Gretchen Wilson crap, but this man is my favorite artist and hero. We could have done without George Washington, but where would this nation be without Garth??? Then there’s the actual song, which is scary as hell, unhealthily energetic, and sends a stronger message than monks in red togas lighting themselves on fire: “Guys, watch the fire truck out, if you get caught cheating, Hell hath no wrath like a woman with a shotgun.” There’s also a very touching sentimental message about domestic abuse, but that’s uncomfortable for everyone to talk about so we’ll do the right thing and sweep it back under the rug. Then there’s the fact that this very emotionally charged situation is being played out by the Sims. Maybe it’s some ridiculously deep philosophical thesis on the quasi-psychological laws that govern our inconsequential ahegenometic cybernetic existences. Maybe it’s just funny as hell to see soft core computer animated porn. I don’t know, but the fact is that it is a great contrast to hear really serious music chastising the wrongs in our society and seeing our animated creations attempting to do the same, possibly even trying to procreate. (PS, I added a word to the English language in this last paragraph. 1 EC point if anyone figures out which it was.)

Police Brutality

2007-10-21T23:30:00.000-05:00

In a recent Omaha newscast, a family was being interviewed about an incident that happened the night before involving local police. The police had responded to call to the house for the second night in a row. The calls were in concern for a young man in the house that had been making threats on himself and other family members, as well as ensuing violence that occurred. The family had gone to the news and claimed that the police had attacked the entire family and a neighbor that happened to stop by. They claimed that they had beaten several of the adults and pepper sprayed the kids. Pretty intense scene, and the authority hating media was eating it up like Fat Bastard nailin’ a bucket of chicken.
This is a story that is getting bigger and bigger in this state and country, and to tell the truth, it’s starting to annoy the hell out of me. Logic is constantly overthrown to tell a story. I have personally known a handful of cops in my tenure, and to tell the truth, I have never known one to get his jollies by going around and using his badge to kick the crap out of people. I have, however, known my fair share of cooks (including a good amount of white trash, I’m an equal opportunity barrater) that love to make their own stories of civil misconduct sound like a victim whose human rights have been taken out back and slaughtered. One side of the story gets shown. Rather than the part where someone tries to slash a cop with a knife, it’s usually the part where the cop disarms and subdues them. If one would think logically, this would be the case in the Omaha news story. One story says that the police broke into the family’s house and started beating the family like Ike on Tina. The other says the cops try to arrest Arney McInsane, who resists and throws a few punches. The cops subdue him, mommy gets pissed of and throws a pan at the cops, the reverend comes over from the next house and says everyone needs Jesus and you have yourself a headline story!!!

There is no place like Nebraska...

2007-10-14T23:34:00.000-05:00

It would not be too much of an exaggeration to say that Husker football is comparable to religion in Nebraska; what are the chances that there are 85,800 people in church in Lincoln on Sundays, as there are in the stadium on Saturdays? Even better, what are the chances that anyone would pay $200 to hear Father Bob’s Sermon on ‘If it feels good, don’t do it.’
And therein lies the reasoning for the recent depression in Nebraska. The Huskers suck!!! They are continuing to smash all sorts of amazing records that haven’t been touched since the 60’s, like losses in a season, yards allowed in one game, convicts on the team, not to mention a worse defense than Cincinnati, and 94 other teams in the country.
In an article of the Omaha World Herald on Friday titled “Gaining a grip amid the losses,” Robert Nelson mentions that he feels like much of the rest of the state: All that we know is going to Hell in a hand basket. A sad example of this is the impact to retailers. The Scarlet and Crème letter club is going out of business. I was drug around malls this weekend, and I noticed that Husker memorabilia is going on sale like someone found a severed finger sewed into one of the hems. Despite this, I saw no one with anything particularly red in their carts.
An old man that was in the same waiting room as I in Famous Dave’s took the opportunity of our 10 minute wait to tell me all about the stupid decisions of the UNL football program. “Them boys is more worried about chasing them girls and bein’ on TV than about hittin’ the guy in front of ‘em in the chops. And that Callahan, that boy’s a damn fool. A winnin’ record for 50 years and he goes and brings his Hollywood offense in…” Old guys rock my socks.
In his article, Nelson said that he talked with a psychologist or something who said that this might be good for the health of the state, that now people would have something to take their anger out on. Wise man once said, “Better to hate sucky football team than to beat child.” Thank you Mr. Callahan. Thank you for being so considerate to the state that you would sacrifice yourself for our mental health. Tea, anyone?

Battle Royale

2007-10-10T23:38:00.001-05:00

Free-write: I was going to write a post about Hillary Clinton and the possible apocalypse that would follow her election, but I'm really starting to get tired of defending the remnants of the free world. So rather, I decided to write a post about the newest craze sweeping Centennial Hall: Battle Royale!

The last decade or so, so called ‘Psychologists’ have been pumping out books to encourage self-help for anger control, social cooperation, and the peaceful resolution of potentially hostile situations. My floor’s response to this was resilient and unwavering: F that.

We came up with a better way to resolve our differences the civilized old fashion way; a duel. Following the example of the founding fathers Alexander Hamilton and Aaron Burr, we decided that the only way to sufficiently satisfy a hostile situation was to fight publicly.

Due to recent modifications to civil standards and murder laws, we use swords made out of duct tape instead of pistols. There are a decently clear set of rules, which can be found on Fourth Floor's Website, but they are lengthy, so here’s the quick version. If someone gets pissed off at someone else, they have to yell Battle Royale at the top of their lungs. It’s kind of embarrassing to decline a Battle Royale, so the challenged usually yells back Battle Royale, accepting the challenge.

The swords are then brought out. The swords have to be approved by the OBRC (Official Battle Royale Committee) and are constructed using newspapers encased in a outer shell of duct tape. They are sometimes reinforced in the center by broken clothes hangers or some other plastic rod.

The battle is simple, primal if you will. There are three rounds, three minutes long each. The only ’don’ts’ are that for males, there are no crotch shots, and for females, there are no boob shots. Those in disagreement wail on each other for a total of nine minutes, with the possibility of a three minute overtime. The crowd in attendance votes on who won, and the disagreement is settled once and for all.

I've included a video for demonstration, but just a warning: Due to the intensity and real-time filming of the event, there is an extreme amount of vulgar languange. If you are offended by such, please turn the volume off before viewing.

This development will one day win the committee a Nobel Prize, and we have a meeting with the UN next week to explore the possibility of using Battle Royale to replace the act of warfare, which has been losing popularity over the last few hundred years.

Observational/Reflectional Essay

2007-10-07T22:06:00.000-05:00

In some states, you can get pulled over and ticketed for driving while talking on your cell phone. They say you’re not even supposed to eat, change the CD, or shave while in the driver’s seat. I’ve always considered myself a daredevil and pushed those negative standards a little farther by skillfully maneuvering through rush hour traffic while creating the most elaborate text messages to my BFF Rose.

Today, however, due to the eccentricity of the task I wish to tackle, I will put those undertakings to shame. I will actively take notes of the events and observations of my expedition to my hometown, and start the foundation of my essay while driving down the interstate for four hours. I will also videotape myself during my observations. Throughout the course of the assignment, I will try to discuss, evaluate, and eventually hope to understand some of the ponderables of life that I encounter on the way home. I know and accept the fact that writing a paper while driving is extremely dangerous to me, my passenger, (for her protection and anonymity, we shall refer to her as Ajax 314), and anyone else that may happen to be on or within an 8 mile radius of the road at the time of my travels. I will disregard all of this danger in the pursuit of knowledge, fame, and a possible cure for world hunger. An additional factor is the fact that my professor said I needed to take active real-time notes of the event that I am observing, and I can’t really take real-time notes of me driving home if I am not, in fact, driving home while taking notes. So there, my children, is the paradox of my assignment and the reason why we are all here, in a physical and metaphysical sense. Take that to your neighborhood rabbi.

THE DRIVE BY
Ajax 314 and I began our trip, as all great adventurers throughout time have (including Marco Polo, Columbus, Gandhi, and like Harold and Kumar should have), by driving through to get something to eat at McDonald’s. The impersonal voice that seemed to come out of a picture of a McGreasy on the menu board asked me what I wanted. I was in a very agreeable mood due to the fact that I was hanging with Ajax 314, so I related my order to the McGreasy in my nicest, home grown, tone. I pulled around to the second window, and what do ya know, the fries weren’t ready. Some kind of terrible grease accident in back. We were moving nowhere fast, so I began a friendly conversation with the newly discovered true identity of the McGreasy. (Rather than a luscious, fattening, grease smothered one of a million burger, I saw what at first sight was an peculiar, plump, and slightly sweaty middle aged woman.)

In our five minutes of verbal contact, the McGreasy, who I learned also went by the alias of ‘Janice,’ began shooting the shit with me about everything from the terrible manager she was working under, to the road construction on I-80, to the ‘D’ that her daughter brought home from school the day before. Janice’s humanity blindsided me like that bullet did Tupac. I found myself holding sympathy for this single mother trying to make her way through the world, trying to slice out her piece of the American Dream. The sympathy soon turned to admiration as I realized through our conversation that my sympathy was not welcome at her window. This woman had strength; she felt that she needed no special treatment, and she was going to get where she was going on her own two feet. Her work was humble, but her resolve to do it the best way she knew was not. She wore a smile for the entire five minutes of our collision in space and time, and then, as abruptly as our interaction began, my fries were done, and it ended.

THE NOSTOLGIC
With our bellies full and a smile upon our face, we set of into the Great Known of western Nebraska. If you‘ve ever traveled I-80, you know that the scenery isn‘t that amazing; Rolling hills, windmills, corn, cows, run down towns, corn, the occasional bird splattered across the window. This isn’t the kind of place you shoot a movie. This is the kind of place people go to die when they can’t afford to retire in Florida. In the defense of the tedious landscape, it is an impeccable opportunity to dose off into thought, another driving activity that brings safety to the masses.

Somewhere about 80 miles outside of Lincoln’s insanity, I stumbled on to a paradox that I share with what is probably every college student at one time or another. While in high school, I couldn’t wait to get the hell out of that town, and the further away I could get, the better. Yet now, on the verge of returning to everything that I had once known familiar, I had butterflies of excitement and anxiety in my gut. I was looking forward to seeing the people I had once been sick of, the streets I was once bored with, and sitting on the back porch with my father, which I had rarely made time to do while in high school.

I’ve hypothesized for a time that I am a paramour of change. Yet; I was bitter for years when my parents forced me to move from my hometown when I was 11, I felt like my world may have been over on the day of my graduation, and in the present, the last thing on my list of desires right after the death of a family member, is the negative change in my status of relationship with Ajax 314.
I, along with the youth of middle America, fear change, yet love it. For you mathematicians, I <3 change="Fear.">
THE MENTAL EMANCIPATION
The byproduct highlight of our venture home, in my opinion, was the football game that we were going to stop by. The event pitted my old high school team that I had once played with in greatness, and later lead to mediocrity, against one of the five teams that had spoiled my hopes of an undefeated season last year. The prognosis was gloomy, but my hopes of seeing a spark, or at least a glint in their play were high.
For the first half of the game, the fulfillment of my hopes was hollow. The process of sucking had begun the year before. For seven years before that year, we had been nearly untouchable. We had run up seven consecutive district titles, one state championship, and averaged just a little more than one loss per year. Until last year, my personal record in games that I had played was 20-3. In my junior year, we had out scored our opponents by a total of around 340 to 45. Then, my senior year, bad things started to happen. We tripped once, then again. Eventually, we had a regular season record of 4-4, the worst in memory. Then we graduated, and the world went on.

This year, however, things were worse, and the game that I watched that Friday night showed no mercy in proving that. The kids I had tried to encourage for those years had lost all hope and passion. There used to be an intensity in our games that you could only find in movies like Braveheart and Troy; now it looked less robust than a scene of Bingo at the local nursing home. The seniors out there paid no attention to form, couldn’t remember their plays, and didn’t even want to be out there. Time after time I watched their opponents use the simplest dive plays to cut through our lines like an Elizabeth Taylor through husbands. After 12 minutes of play, it was 20-0, and not in our favor.

It seemed odd that the cheerleaders were so peppy. They actually seemed excited to be there, unlike the football, players. According to the look in their eyes, they took especial pride in the fact that they could spell the word POWER, even when the other team was mopping up the field with our metaphorical corpses. There was also a plethora of grade school kids around having the time of their lives. When the local newsman came around with his camera, they would hold up their index finger and yell senseless things at the top of their lungs. The reality of the fact was not that we were number one, but had only won one game that season. They didn’t care, or really know what was going on. Ignorance is bliss… Why do we put so much work in to disposing of it?

I could have never imagined what happened next to save me from the torture of watching my alma mater get spanked. A young man walked up to where I was sitting, sat down, and gave me the long missed greeting I hadn’t heard since I left high school: “‘Sup Whitey?” I didn’t recognize him at first, but after a bit I realized that this was a now 8th grade kid that I had hated a year earlier. There’s something about 7th graders that just annoys the hell out of me. The squeaky voices, the constant deer-in-the-headlights look in their eyes, the lack of hygiene, I don’t know. All I know is that I can half-jokingly say that the only good 7th grader is a dead 7th grader.

Something had changed this year though. Physically, he looked like he had grown 3 or 4 years, but mentally, I could have sworn the kid was 10 years older. He talked to me like he realized that there was a world outside of his head, and like he knew that someday, he was going to have to carry some responsibility in something. He really drew a smile on my face when he told me he was the quarterback of the Junior High football team, and that that week, he had put up 200 passing yards and 180 rushing yards against a school that was a class above us.

This kept my mind off of the game long enough for the coaches to put in the Sophomores and Freshmen. My spirits were lifted even higher when I saw our Freshmen start manhandling theirs. In the past, we had been great. In the future, we would be great. Taking a few years off isn’t so bad I guess.

The game ended 41-7. But after my conversation with that young man, I was able to walk away with a serene grin on my face, imagining things in the future; change in the future. That night, my worrying mind let go of its paternal attachment of that team. Now I’ll sit back and watch it grow. It feels great.

THE FINALE
After the game, we picked up some passengers and continued on with the last leg of the journey home. The passengers in danger now included Ajax 314, her sister, and my second cousin. This was a common group of friends this summer, so it was kind of just like old times, except not. I don’t really miss my former life, but am somewhat content with what it has grown into. I believe the boy I once was and the old man I will one day be would and will be ok with this day. Who knew that a drive home could stimulate so much thought? We should really avoid that from now on…

2007-09-23T23:01:00.000-05:00

Disclaimer: I don’t hate Nebraska, the first song that I will mention just really sucked. I also wanted to use the ‘Free Hugs’ video but I think like eighty million people did that, so my anti-conformist mind won’t let me do the same.
That being said, here’s the situation, the problem, if you will. First, a twangy country singer named GINGER ten Bensel (never trust a ginger) was allowed to record a song and video and deliver it to the public. You may want to listen to the song before you continue reading. Don’t get me wrong, country is cool in the right time and place, unless it sounds like it’s being sang by someone with strep throat, a clothespin on their nose, and one of crazy horse’s arrows in their arse. Second, the song was written, without my consent, as a spokes-song for people every where in Nebraska. This is not the image I want people in Virginia to develop about us! Our image is bad enough already: A friend of mine went to Washington DC last summer, and in a passing conversation with a decently educated teen from New York, was asked, in all seriousness, if he had ever been attacked by Indians, and if he had ever driven a car. This woman isn’t helping our interpreted persona! The answer? Death sentence to Ginger… but that might be taken as a little to harsh, so this video was released by the honorable Thomas Irvin. It just takes a little more realistic and modern look on the wonderful aspects of our lovely state. Maybe if people see this parody, they will realize that the state isn’t stuck in the 19th century and that we have, in fact, come to peace and even become one with our pleasant native population. Until next time, hoorah for Nebraska and go big red…. Nice job in not losing to Ball State last Saturday.

2007-09-16T20:09:00.000-05:00

Memorial Stadium is a pretty big deal in Nebraska. It's kind of like the temple was to the Jews in ancient Israel. However, I figured that that topic has had the hell beaten out of it, so I'm going to write on something a little smaller and lesser known, but definitely just as cool; Mo Java, our neighborhood coffee shop.
My photography is pathetic, but my lowly 320 x 240 pixel camera phone and I tried our best to show you the simple elegance and hominess of this laid back, old school style establishment. Hopefully I will have no problem painting a clear visual picture of the environment for you, as I am currently working from inside the doors of our institution of the hour.
I have no idea when and why this building was originally built, and neither you or I care. It has an stimulating combination of rough furnishing and stylish décor. There is an array of invigorating colors masking the walls and enough brilliant smells to make even the most disconcerted nose smile a bit. The floor made me laugh a bit when I saw it; it was the same cracked up, slightly painted cement that was in my dad’s mechanic shop when I was a kid. Talk about a taste of home. The walls, however, are filled, yet not cluttered, with charming art prints. My server, Nikki I think, was delightfully kooky; she asked me what it would be, I said surprise me. She gave me a quirky look and chirp, and a couple of minutes later I got a lovely mixture of coffee, cocoa, cream, sugar, and even a splash of mint, all for the nice price of $3.25.
This place is pretty much perfect for studying, hanging out, and they even have live bands on friday nights, such as Little Brown Jug next week. The entire dining area reminds me of Christmas for some odd reason. It seems like the kind of place you would hang out with relatives around a fire. There are crazy comfy chairs, couches, and those nice coffee tables that only old people like your grandparents have in their living rooms. Nevertheless, I believe this is the time that I have to leave you, for my cup is empty, my writing quota is filled, and Nikki just called out that Mo Java is closing in five minutes. So until next time, bon voyage.

The Ill fate of Professor Belot

2007-09-12T21:16:00.000-05:00

Ok, if you’re reading this essay, which you obviously are, we first have to set up some ground rules. I’ll agree not to get mad when I’m writing this if you agree not to consider this piece an angry rant. It’s not a rant, it’s just a ‘hey, come on now.’ Now that that’s clear, on to the fun stuff. For this entry, I read a story from the Omaha World Herald about a UNL professor who ‘agreed to resign’ because of an incident that occurred involving some explosives that got passed around class one day. At first thought, you may be thinking, “Uh, duh? He could have like blown up UNL with those things. He better have gotten canned.” But I dare to take the opposite position. I believe this story falls into the rapidly expanding category of “little things that got blown out of proportion and extreme action was taken to save the big man’s buttocks.” This is the kind of category where a third grader gets expelled for carrying a finger nail clipper in their back pack or parents press sexual assault charges against a kindergartener who kissed his classmate. Back to the story about the professor… Let’s think of this logically.
Professor John Belot Jr. was a Professor of Chemistry at a major university. That means he had a pretty good amount of Education under his belt. A lot of teachers pass around visuals in class; it keeps the interest of the students. If professor Belot was sober when he made his judgment that the explosives were not volatile enough to be dangerous to decently cautious students. The story never actually said what the explosives were, and many are not actually dangerous unless put under extreme conditions. One example of this is nitrogen, a substance that can usually be put through a tractor to fertilize crops without exploding, yet if put under extremely high temperatures and pressure can result in explosions such as the one that produce the Oklahoma City bombing. Professor Belot should have been able to tell the difference between a volatile and nonvolatile explosive.

A Visit to the National Museum of Roller Skating

2007-09-09T19:45:00.000-05:00

I've always had a passionate hatred for roller skating. Maybe it's because my ankles always hurt after a bout of skating, or maybe it's because I just really suck at it, I don’t know. Regardless, for reasons out of my control, I was sitting at the international museum of roller skating this last Thursday. I was staring at 190 years of the most boring history imaginable, that is, other than the history of spoons as a musical instrument. But I’ll suck up the bitterness and try to tell you about my monotonously educational roller skating experience.
Our lovely local skating museum (also some kind of competitive skating office or something of that sort…) is full of surprises. The first exhibit one sees when he walks in is a shelf filled with the most eccentric rolling contraptions I’ve ever seen. I’ve found some online examples that you can find here. In my opinion, most look like spoons tied to wooden balls by leather straps. But I guess, according to the exhibitions at the museum, they were quite the fashion item in their day. Social skating was up there in the glamorous categories of operas and ball room dancing. Personally, I have no idea why, but old people will be old people.
The museum also had a large collection of skating history. The walls were covered in posters of skating legends, and I do use that word loosely… Trophy cases were overfilled with golden mementos of tournaments won. The trophies and posters are from local, state, regional, national, and even international events. I never knew that this activity had such a following.
The competitive events that are based on roller skating are similar to several winter sports such as ice skating and skiing. There are competitions in figure skating, speed skating, off road skating, and several more which I don‘t care to mention here. However, if you would wish to find out more, you can visit the National Museum of Roller Skating. Not feeling ambitious but still yearn for more skating knowledge? Check out this link to Encarta for more skating information.

Post I: Discourse Surrounding the Essay

2007-09-03T22:03:00.000-05:00

“That doesn’t mean that there isn’t art and artifice involved in the writing of an essay. But it does mean that the art is in revealing the voice of the writer, as opposed to trying to suit the requirements of a fictional character or narrator. Essay writing is about transforming the often convoluted process of thought, leaving your own brand of bread crumbs in the forest so that those who want to can find their way to your door.”
-Lauren Slater in “Why essays confuse people”

Slater’s vision of the relationship of art and essays is a very respectable one in my eyes. The word ‘essay’ is often thrown around when the speaker actually means ‘article.’ Slater, coming to the rescue of the essayist, points out that there are fundamental differences between the two.
Articles are projects written principally for the short cut information that comprises them. The author of an article will not ‘bother’ his audience with ‘burdensome’ style and artistic expression in his writing. In this particular style, there is no time for frivolities. Rather, he will choose to trim the fat and flavor off of his writing and give all the clean-cut information that the reader will want if they are reading the paper at seven o’clock in the morning for their news or checking 40 high school papers at 11 o’clock at night. The article is a project that delivers information; it is all about what is said.
Essays, however, are projects that intertwine relevant information with a stylized technique. In the passage before the one that I quoted above, the author mentions that she is trying to bring order to the pieces of thought floating around in her mind. This is where an essay is similar to an article, in that one objective is to organize significant information from its original randomized state into a form that is comprehensible to the reader. However, there is more, personality is instilled into an essay. Personally, the best way I could describe an essay is as the result of a collision of an article and poetry. It has the hard information backing it up that is carried in an article, but says it with the feeling that is conveyed in a poem. As is said by Slater in not so many words, when writing an essay, one has to express information that is relevant to the established topic while using their own style and methods to keep it fluid and interesting. Its not only what is said, but how it is said.

Test Post

2007-08-31T14:31:00.001-05:00

First post for Eng001, Sec 07.