Many of the stories I had from AP English 11 have now faded due to
time and apathy, but my moment of fame still lives on in my head, the
incident in which the Seniors took me against my will and embarked upon
countless adventures with me as a hostage. Unfortunately, as funny as
some of these stories seemed, I never actually heard them first-hand, as
I missed class that day (due to illness or abduction, you choose). This
instance often comes up when my friends and I discuss the waning days
of our junior years. No matter the focus, it all leads back to "Remember
when the Seniors kidnapped Connor?" and then everyone laughs.
Everyone but me.
I jest, surely. The humorous, fictionalized anecdotes I can still remember do bring a smile to my face, but it all seems like a Truman Show type
game where everyone knows about something I do not. As far as I know,
everyone in my AP 11 class never invented humorous stories involving my
abduction by the elder class. You probably all gathered around in some
secret room, probably somewhere hidden in Ms. Serensky's closet, and
schemed to make me believe this alternate reality when people talk about
me in comical situations. Every one of my classmates decided it would
make a good practical joke to pull a fast one on Ol' Connor and make up
fake stories about fake stories about him.
I guess I'm
just a bit too paranoid about what happens when I'm not in class. I
cannot image the mental stresses Anna goes through, I would have gone
mad by now in her situation.
Also, if one of you thinks
up a clever comment like "Alright guys, who told Connor about the
secret?" I wholeheartedly despise your very existence.
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
It's Better to Help People than Garden Gnomes
At Least Artichokes Have Hearts
I awake with a yarn beard plastered to my face
Making my way to eat, I am confronted with my nemesis-
Lobster Pasta, the most delicious of the crustacean-encompassing Italian foods
We quickly do battle, my beard fighting off the delightful dish's dastardly claws
After some time we both seem bested, the yarn yanked and the dinner devoured
But the food has one last trick. "Two-and-a-half children" it whispers into my ear
I scream as my future frays, my life encircled by white picket fences.
Falling into the abyss I dawn my moniker- "The Darkness that Bears No Children"
I awake at the rustic gates of Valhalla, confused, I ask an old friend why I am here
"It's all in the beard", Wormy replies.
I'd first like to address the very nature of Kelli Wanamakeyoudosomethingcrazy. The nature I speak of? Whimsy. The utter ridiculousness just for the sake of ridiculousness of the poem, and the philosophies Kelli abides by on a day-to-day basis emanates a very jubilant nature. I utilized many allusions to Kelli's personality, such as her pseudonym in, her childhood friend, Wormy, and her complete and utter fear of middle-class suburbia. The food came from her blog from two weeks ago about her brief stint as a Ghostbuster at Abigail's Grill & Wine Bar. Finally, I chose to write my poems with oddly long lines to parody Kelli's multiple uses of "withdrawn" comments during class discussion. The title of both the poem and the blog itself allude to the French film Amelie, in which the titular character acts much in the same way I picture Kelli would act if she lived in France and took on the name of Amelie Poulain.
I awake with a yarn beard plastered to my face
Making my way to eat, I am confronted with my nemesis-
Lobster Pasta, the most delicious of the crustacean-encompassing Italian foods
We quickly do battle, my beard fighting off the delightful dish's dastardly claws
After some time we both seem bested, the yarn yanked and the dinner devoured
But the food has one last trick. "Two-and-a-half children" it whispers into my ear
I scream as my future frays, my life encircled by white picket fences.
Falling into the abyss I dawn my moniker- "The Darkness that Bears No Children"
I awake at the rustic gates of Valhalla, confused, I ask an old friend why I am here
"It's all in the beard", Wormy replies.
I'd first like to address the very nature of Kelli Wanamakeyoudosomethingcrazy. The nature I speak of? Whimsy. The utter ridiculousness just for the sake of ridiculousness of the poem, and the philosophies Kelli abides by on a day-to-day basis emanates a very jubilant nature. I utilized many allusions to Kelli's personality, such as her pseudonym in, her childhood friend, Wormy, and her complete and utter fear of middle-class suburbia. The food came from her blog from two weeks ago about her brief stint as a Ghostbuster at Abigail's Grill & Wine Bar. Finally, I chose to write my poems with oddly long lines to parody Kelli's multiple uses of "withdrawn" comments during class discussion. The title of both the poem and the blog itself allude to the French film Amelie, in which the titular character acts much in the same way I picture Kelli would act if she lived in France and took on the name of Amelie Poulain.
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
From the Adventures of Conchobar Greyjoy
What if I just got up and left.
Deserted everything I know.
Completely gone.
I guess everyone has dreamed of leaving everything behind at one point or another. When one's responsibilities crush down upon their world and they look for some sort of escape. It probably ends there for most people, when they realize the complete absurdity of abandoning modern society for a romanticized view of a nomadic lifestyle. However, I am not most people.
I imagine myself leaving in the middle of the night, bags discreetly packed into my car already. I hastily write a note to my parents including all the formalities and 'I love you's, and then just like that I'm gone. At this point I see my fate spiraling into two different paths. The first route leads me to the airport. I walk up to the tired employees, receive an international flight ticket to France and the fly away into the sunset. From there I will join the French Foreign Legion under a pseudonym, Conchobar Greyjoy (because clearly that supersedes any other name that exists) and travel the world in a band of international adventure seekers, misfits, and men looking for a second chance. We'd travel the world, fighting France's battles for them. Clearly I'd make some very close friends that would set me up with job opportunities once I turned civilian after 5 years of fighting. I would proceed to live my life as a successful something-or-another surrounded with grizzled war veterans in France; the perfect life of luxury.
The other possible outcome starts with me making my way to my car when I hear a familiar noise, and turn to find that all my wildest dreams have come true. A dark blue Police Box from 1960s England sits oddly in my lawn. A 900 year old alien steps out of the box, and proceeds to lure me towards him with promises of "fish-fingers and custard" as well as various "cool" clothing accessories. He calls himself "the Doctor" and tells me that I am going to travel with him throughout time and space until I end up either dead, happily married, or in another dimension. Obviously I accept the offer, entering the TARDIS that I can now call home. That's the plan. I'd end up quite happy with my life of adventure, and then, like I never left, I would return to my home. Return the very night I left, only a few months gone by, having thousands of adventures under my belt. I'd unpack my bags and live out the rest of my life in peace, having gotten my fill of excitement.
I really, really just want to travel through all of space and time, with an eccentric ensemble of characters, battling against all the universes horrible creations, in an episodic format, inside a dark blue police box that's bigger on the inside.
Deserted everything I know.
Completely gone.
I guess everyone has dreamed of leaving everything behind at one point or another. When one's responsibilities crush down upon their world and they look for some sort of escape. It probably ends there for most people, when they realize the complete absurdity of abandoning modern society for a romanticized view of a nomadic lifestyle. However, I am not most people.
I imagine myself leaving in the middle of the night, bags discreetly packed into my car already. I hastily write a note to my parents including all the formalities and 'I love you's, and then just like that I'm gone. At this point I see my fate spiraling into two different paths. The first route leads me to the airport. I walk up to the tired employees, receive an international flight ticket to France and the fly away into the sunset. From there I will join the French Foreign Legion under a pseudonym, Conchobar Greyjoy (because clearly that supersedes any other name that exists) and travel the world in a band of international adventure seekers, misfits, and men looking for a second chance. We'd travel the world, fighting France's battles for them. Clearly I'd make some very close friends that would set me up with job opportunities once I turned civilian after 5 years of fighting. I would proceed to live my life as a successful something-or-another surrounded with grizzled war veterans in France; the perfect life of luxury.
The other possible outcome starts with me making my way to my car when I hear a familiar noise, and turn to find that all my wildest dreams have come true. A dark blue Police Box from 1960s England sits oddly in my lawn. A 900 year old alien steps out of the box, and proceeds to lure me towards him with promises of "fish-fingers and custard" as well as various "cool" clothing accessories. He calls himself "the Doctor" and tells me that I am going to travel with him throughout time and space until I end up either dead, happily married, or in another dimension. Obviously I accept the offer, entering the TARDIS that I can now call home. That's the plan. I'd end up quite happy with my life of adventure, and then, like I never left, I would return to my home. Return the very night I left, only a few months gone by, having thousands of adventures under my belt. I'd unpack my bags and live out the rest of my life in peace, having gotten my fill of excitement.
I really, really just want to travel through all of space and time, with an eccentric ensemble of characters, battling against all the universes horrible creations, in an episodic format, inside a dark blue police box that's bigger on the inside.
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
A Nice Slice of Murder
I often receive stares when I tell them of a certain film that, to no fault, makes me hungry every time I watch it. I am somewhat breaking tradition, as I have already dedicated an entire blog about this film in the past. I could have taken to discussing spaghetti westerns like The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly and making horrible, horrible puns, instead I chose this.
Every time I watch American Psycho I get very hungry.
I tend to get three reactions from this statement: disgust, confusion, and, very rarely, understanding. Those who have not seen the film tend to jump to the first reaction, basing their reaction of the inferences made from the title- clearly I am revealing that bloodthirsty murder, the subject of the film, gets my appetite going. They have some validity, the film does largely involve bloodthirsty murder (I'll avoid the fact that the movie works to satirize the corporate culture and ultra-conservatism of the 80s), but that aspect does not get my tummy rumbling. Even those who've seen the film tend to drift toward the former two reactions, basing their reactions on the same reasoning of what I just mentioned. The few who understand have noticed a part of the story that never receives much attention from the audience.
The reason I get hungry when I watch American Psycho stems from the fact that about every other scene in the movie takes place in a restaurant or bar. I can count nine scenes off the top of my head, and I'm sure more exist. Heck, one of the three primary motivations for the pivotal and central murder of the entire film stems around a restaurant reservation (the other two motives: a nicer business card and a more successful investor account). The serial killer protagonist, Patrick Bateman, cannot get a reservation at the high class restaurant Dorsia. His rival co-worker, Paul Allen, can so he. He meets Allen at a restaurant, he discusses his disappearence at two other restaurants after that. The title scene even looks like this! (Ignore the spanish, por favor).
I really hope I shed some light on my seemingly sociopathic revelation. I'm sure if you noticed a film or book or T.V. show that's settings primarily consisted of dining establishments you would have a similar reaction, even if the media in question does involve grizzly axe murders.
Every time I watch American Psycho I get very hungry.
I tend to get three reactions from this statement: disgust, confusion, and, very rarely, understanding. Those who have not seen the film tend to jump to the first reaction, basing their reaction of the inferences made from the title- clearly I am revealing that bloodthirsty murder, the subject of the film, gets my appetite going. They have some validity, the film does largely involve bloodthirsty murder (I'll avoid the fact that the movie works to satirize the corporate culture and ultra-conservatism of the 80s), but that aspect does not get my tummy rumbling. Even those who've seen the film tend to drift toward the former two reactions, basing their reactions on the same reasoning of what I just mentioned. The few who understand have noticed a part of the story that never receives much attention from the audience.
The reason I get hungry when I watch American Psycho stems from the fact that about every other scene in the movie takes place in a restaurant or bar. I can count nine scenes off the top of my head, and I'm sure more exist. Heck, one of the three primary motivations for the pivotal and central murder of the entire film stems around a restaurant reservation (the other two motives: a nicer business card and a more successful investor account). The serial killer protagonist, Patrick Bateman, cannot get a reservation at the high class restaurant Dorsia. His rival co-worker, Paul Allen, can so he. He meets Allen at a restaurant, he discusses his disappearence at two other restaurants after that. The title scene even looks like this! (Ignore the spanish, por favor).
I really hope I shed some light on my seemingly sociopathic revelation. I'm sure if you noticed a film or book or T.V. show that's settings primarily consisted of dining establishments you would have a similar reaction, even if the media in question does involve grizzly axe murders.
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