Don't feel too bad Haras. At least people know who your famous-leader-alternate-personality is.
By the way have I told you about this revolutionary new fabric? It's totally going to save the planet.
Friday, November 30, 2007
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
When Bed Head Attacks
There are several exciting things about having short hair: it never blows in your face and gets stuck in your freshly applied lip gloss; messy is considered a style; you can get it in a Mohawk like Ferris; and best of all, you never know what amazing feat of acrobatics your hair is going to do each morning. I know some of you have been waiting awhile for this so let me present you with my favorites from several weeks of research. And yes, I cropped my face out of all the pictures. I'm willing to show off my morning hair to the virtual world but that's about it.
I think the Alfalfa like tweak in the back gives me an air of sophistication, while the Dairy Queen curl on the left leaves one feeling frosty and delicious.
It's common for birds to have their wings clipped in captivity. But behold the rare beauty of the Blond Bed Head Bird. Here in it's natural habitat it stretches it's wings in a bizarre mating call.
I like to call this my rhino look. Note the way the light shine through the upper most chunk of hair illuminating it like a halo of glory.
Most people believe that Utah has some of the best skiing in the world. That's only because they're too chicken to attempt the treachery of the Bed Head Slope of Terror. And is that a loop-da-
loop I see in the back?
I'm sorry there's not more. The other thing about short hair is that it grows out quickly leaving you with nothing more interesting in the morning than a head of generic bed head hair.
I think the Alfalfa like tweak in the back gives me an air of sophistication, while the Dairy Queen curl on the left leaves one feeling frosty and delicious.
It's common for birds to have their wings clipped in captivity. But behold the rare beauty of the Blond Bed Head Bird. Here in it's natural habitat it stretches it's wings in a bizarre mating call.
I like to call this my rhino look. Note the way the light shine through the upper most chunk of hair illuminating it like a halo of glory.
Most people believe that Utah has some of the best skiing in the world. That's only because they're too chicken to attempt the treachery of the Bed Head Slope of Terror. And is that a loop-da-loop I see in the back?
I'm sorry there's not more. The other thing about short hair is that it grows out quickly leaving you with nothing more interesting in the morning than a head of generic bed head hair.
Friday, November 09, 2007
I just saw the most awesome thing that blew my mind on my way to work this morning. A tow truck (right? you with me so far?) towing a TOW TRUCK. I don't know what that's a sign for exactly but I'm sure it has something to do with the fifth dimension and parallel universes. And probably also the space time continuum.
Thursday, November 08, 2007
The Seagull
Caution: the laugh factor (laughactor) of this post is virtually zero and it will most likely be interesting to no one but myself. This is instead an opportunity for me to have an English geek-out moment in a forum where I can't be interrupted. Consider yourselves warned. Also, it's long.
Tonight, being Thursday, Ylime and I had our traditional Thursday Therapy. Although admittedly we haven't honored the tradition in several years, it was apparent by our catalogue of homework we should be doing that some therapy was long overdo. In an effort to embark on a journey of artistic discovery, and also to entertain us for a couple of hours, we went to a BYU production of The Seagull by Anton Chekhov.
When I tell you that I have a deep partiality to Russian literature those readers who don't know me very well shouldn't feel left out. Most of the people who DO know me don't realize that either. But as Joni Mitchell is to Emma Thompson in Love Actually, so is Dostoevsky to my cold, English, heart. (or American. Whatever.)
First off, the play was amazing. Emily asked me what I liked about it so much and the only qualified response I can give is that hours later, I'm still stewing over it. Aside from the production being all-around awesome, there was one point the director brought up that still has me thinking.
After the final scene the director asked a question of the audience: is the play was a comedy or tragedy? After immediately rejecting the notion that it had to be labeled as one or the other I began thinking on what it would mean to be both a comedy and a tragedy, and whether the two are really so different after all.
Throughout the play there are moments of heart wrenching sadness, as well as giddy humor. (It has to be noted that a large portion of the humor depends on the enactment of the play, as one audience member recalled seeing an earlier showing completely devoid of laughs.) When I began to contrast these two virtues it occurred to me that each element was completely dependent on the other. In other words I decided that it was impossible to have a true tragedy without comedy and vise verse.
I'm not talking about tragedies like Oedipus Rex or Braveheart where you begin to wonder if the only aim of the film is to rip you heart out and leave it still beating on the living room carpet. What I'm talking about is something much more subtle. When the humor and normality of the events allow the audience to become a part of story (something drastically enhanced by this production in an arena theater) there's a lightheartedness that persuades you that nothing terrible is going to happen. So when you see a main character show up haggard and only half coherent you do not mourn because it's as if her misfortunes have happened to you. You mourn because you remember the funny way that she used to bounce around and the light in her eyes when she mused about art and theater. The pain is much more acute. It's directly related to an experience we may never have, but the dramatic effect it has on the characters is something we come to understand very well.
The Seagull will break your heart. But the impact will be much more lasting when it's contrasted with the small comedic moments of pure delight.
P.S. If I know you, and you're on the production crew, and I didn't loudly say your name and wave hello during intermission don't feel bad. I'm just awkward like that.
Tonight, being Thursday, Ylime and I had our traditional Thursday Therapy. Although admittedly we haven't honored the tradition in several years, it was apparent by our catalogue of homework we should be doing that some therapy was long overdo. In an effort to embark on a journey of artistic discovery, and also to entertain us for a couple of hours, we went to a BYU production of The Seagull by Anton Chekhov.
When I tell you that I have a deep partiality to Russian literature those readers who don't know me very well shouldn't feel left out. Most of the people who DO know me don't realize that either. But as Joni Mitchell is to Emma Thompson in Love Actually, so is Dostoevsky to my cold, English, heart. (or American. Whatever.)
First off, the play was amazing. Emily asked me what I liked about it so much and the only qualified response I can give is that hours later, I'm still stewing over it. Aside from the production being all-around awesome, there was one point the director brought up that still has me thinking.
After the final scene the director asked a question of the audience: is the play was a comedy or tragedy? After immediately rejecting the notion that it had to be labeled as one or the other I began thinking on what it would mean to be both a comedy and a tragedy, and whether the two are really so different after all.
Throughout the play there are moments of heart wrenching sadness, as well as giddy humor. (It has to be noted that a large portion of the humor depends on the enactment of the play, as one audience member recalled seeing an earlier showing completely devoid of laughs.) When I began to contrast these two virtues it occurred to me that each element was completely dependent on the other. In other words I decided that it was impossible to have a true tragedy without comedy and vise verse.
I'm not talking about tragedies like Oedipus Rex or Braveheart where you begin to wonder if the only aim of the film is to rip you heart out and leave it still beating on the living room carpet. What I'm talking about is something much more subtle. When the humor and normality of the events allow the audience to become a part of story (something drastically enhanced by this production in an arena theater) there's a lightheartedness that persuades you that nothing terrible is going to happen. So when you see a main character show up haggard and only half coherent you do not mourn because it's as if her misfortunes have happened to you. You mourn because you remember the funny way that she used to bounce around and the light in her eyes when she mused about art and theater. The pain is much more acute. It's directly related to an experience we may never have, but the dramatic effect it has on the characters is something we come to understand very well.
The Seagull will break your heart. But the impact will be much more lasting when it's contrasted with the small comedic moments of pure delight.
P.S. If I know you, and you're on the production crew, and I didn't loudly say your name and wave hello during intermission don't feel bad. I'm just awkward like that.
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