My soul has felt very (very!) much in need of "restoring," as promised in Psalm 23, so I've been thinking about this verse. Clearly "restoring" is not a stressful thing to have done to you, coming as it does alongside "green pastures" and "still waters," which has to sound like some sort of paradise if you're a sheep.
So I thought about the idea of "restoring." And my wandering thoughts took me over to the idea of an old, tattered painting, beat-up and beat-down by years of mistreatment and negligence. Fading, a little ratty, no longer as beautiful as it once was, no longer conveying the images and messages intended by the original artist.
And I thought about how art restorers deal with such paintings so lovingly, so painstakingly. Making sure the humidity is right. Matching colors and paints. Doing tiny, tiny bits of work, even under a magnifying glass. All not to create something new, but to return the painting back to what it was meant to be.
And I think we can consider ourselves works of art, made by a Master Artist. Paul says we are God's "poems" (Eph. 2:10: the Greek word usually translated as "workmanship" is "poiema" -- the word from which we get the word "poem"). A different kind of work, perhaps, but a piece of art nonetheless.
Now, it's not usually the original artist who does the restoring of a piece of work. But if one could access the original artist -- if, for example, Michelangelo had been available when the idiot smashed the David -- how much better the restoration would be! Because the original artist, of course, knows the intent behind each brushstroke, each tiny dot, on the canvas.
"He restores my soul..." Sure sounds good to me right about now.
Wednesday, March 30, 2005
Monday, March 28, 2005
THE JOY OF INCONVENIENCES
A lovely piece of writing by G.K. Chesterton recently came across my desk, an essay which he wrote for The Illustrated London News in 1906 after serious flooding in London. Facing my own, um, inconveniences in the near future, and being a lover of good writing, this touched my soul, comical as it is. Here is an excerpt. I hope you enjoy it.
I feel an almost bitter envy on hearing that London has been flooded in my absence, while I am in the mere country. My own Battersea has been, I understand, particularly favoured as a meeting of the waters. Battersea was already, as I need hardly say, themost beautiful of human localities. Now that it has the additional splendour o fgreat sheets of water there must be something quite incomparable in the landscape (or waterscape) of my own romantic town. Battersea must be a vision of Venice. The boat that brought the meat from the butcher's must have shot along those lanes of rippling silver with the strange smoothness of the gondola. The greengrocer who brought cabbages to the corner of the Latchmere Road must have leant upon the oar with the unearthly grace of the gondolier. There is nothing so perfectly poetical as an island; and when a district is flooded it becomes an archipelago.
Some consider such romantic views of flood or fire slightly lacking in reality. But really this romantic view of such inconveniences is quite as practical as the other. The true optimist who sees in such things an opportunity for enjoyment is quite as logical and much mroe sensible than the ordinary "Indignant Ratepayer" who sees in them an opportunity for grumbling. Real pain, as in the case of being burnt at Smithfield [site of a martyrdom] or having a toothache, is a positive thing; it can be supported, but scarcely enjoyed. But, after all, our toothaches are the exception, and as for being burnt at Smithfield, it only happens to us at the very longest intervals. And most of the inconveniences that make men swear or women cry are really sentimental or imaginative inconveniences -- things altogether of the mind.....
[Chesteston then goes on to describe in delightful detail the annoyance -- or joy -- of waiting for a train or chasing one's hat blown away by the wind...]
The same principle can be applied to every other typical domestic worry. A gentleman trying to get a fly out of the milk or a piece of cork out of his glass of wine often imagines himself to be irritated. Let him think for a moment of the patience of anglers sitting by dark pools, and let his soul be immediately irradiated with gratification and repose. Again, I have known some people of very modern views driven by their distress to the use of theological terms to which they attached no doctrinal significance, merely because a drawer was jammed tight and they could not pull it out. A friend of mine was particularly afflicted in this way. Every day his drawer was jammed, and every day in consdquence it was something else that rhymes to it. But I pointed out to him that this sense of wrong was really subjective and relative; it rested entirely upon the assumption that the drawer could, should, and would come out easily. "But if," I said, "you picture to yourself that youare pulling against some powerful and oppressive enemy, the struggle will become merely exciting and not exasperating. Imagine that you are tugging up a life-boat out of the sea. Imagine that you are roping up a fellow-creature out of an Alpine crevass. Imagine even that you are a boy again and engaged in a tug-of-war between French and English." Shortly after saying this I left him; but I have no doubt at all that my words bore the best possible fruit. I have no doubt that every day of his life he hangs on to the handle of that drawer with a flushed face and eyes bright with battle, uttering encouraging shouts to himself, and seeming to hear all round him the roar of an applauding ring.
So I do not think that it is altogether fanciful or incredible to suppose that even the floods in London may be accepted and enjoyed poetically. Nothing beyond inconvenince seems really to have been caused by them; and inconvenience, as I have said, is only one aspect, and that the most unimaginative and accidental aspect of a really romantic situation. An adventure is only an inconvenience right considered. An inconvenience is only an adventure wrongly considered.....
....It is enough for me that this was in all probability the most poetical event that has happened for a long time in the London that I love; since it is out of the area of great earthquakes. And it is enough for me, it is far too much for me (it has broken my heart), that I was not there to see it.
...As I read this, I have to ask myself: Is there any way for me to consider the loss of my home a mere inconvenience? (A rather large one, I must say.) Even an adventure... I'm not sure. Maybe...
I feel an almost bitter envy on hearing that London has been flooded in my absence, while I am in the mere country. My own Battersea has been, I understand, particularly favoured as a meeting of the waters. Battersea was already, as I need hardly say, themost beautiful of human localities. Now that it has the additional splendour o fgreat sheets of water there must be something quite incomparable in the landscape (or waterscape) of my own romantic town. Battersea must be a vision of Venice. The boat that brought the meat from the butcher's must have shot along those lanes of rippling silver with the strange smoothness of the gondola. The greengrocer who brought cabbages to the corner of the Latchmere Road must have leant upon the oar with the unearthly grace of the gondolier. There is nothing so perfectly poetical as an island; and when a district is flooded it becomes an archipelago.
Some consider such romantic views of flood or fire slightly lacking in reality. But really this romantic view of such inconveniences is quite as practical as the other. The true optimist who sees in such things an opportunity for enjoyment is quite as logical and much mroe sensible than the ordinary "Indignant Ratepayer" who sees in them an opportunity for grumbling. Real pain, as in the case of being burnt at Smithfield [site of a martyrdom] or having a toothache, is a positive thing; it can be supported, but scarcely enjoyed. But, after all, our toothaches are the exception, and as for being burnt at Smithfield, it only happens to us at the very longest intervals. And most of the inconveniences that make men swear or women cry are really sentimental or imaginative inconveniences -- things altogether of the mind.....
[Chesteston then goes on to describe in delightful detail the annoyance -- or joy -- of waiting for a train or chasing one's hat blown away by the wind...]
The same principle can be applied to every other typical domestic worry. A gentleman trying to get a fly out of the milk or a piece of cork out of his glass of wine often imagines himself to be irritated. Let him think for a moment of the patience of anglers sitting by dark pools, and let his soul be immediately irradiated with gratification and repose. Again, I have known some people of very modern views driven by their distress to the use of theological terms to which they attached no doctrinal significance, merely because a drawer was jammed tight and they could not pull it out. A friend of mine was particularly afflicted in this way. Every day his drawer was jammed, and every day in consdquence it was something else that rhymes to it. But I pointed out to him that this sense of wrong was really subjective and relative; it rested entirely upon the assumption that the drawer could, should, and would come out easily. "But if," I said, "you picture to yourself that youare pulling against some powerful and oppressive enemy, the struggle will become merely exciting and not exasperating. Imagine that you are tugging up a life-boat out of the sea. Imagine that you are roping up a fellow-creature out of an Alpine crevass. Imagine even that you are a boy again and engaged in a tug-of-war between French and English." Shortly after saying this I left him; but I have no doubt at all that my words bore the best possible fruit. I have no doubt that every day of his life he hangs on to the handle of that drawer with a flushed face and eyes bright with battle, uttering encouraging shouts to himself, and seeming to hear all round him the roar of an applauding ring.
So I do not think that it is altogether fanciful or incredible to suppose that even the floods in London may be accepted and enjoyed poetically. Nothing beyond inconvenince seems really to have been caused by them; and inconvenience, as I have said, is only one aspect, and that the most unimaginative and accidental aspect of a really romantic situation. An adventure is only an inconvenience right considered. An inconvenience is only an adventure wrongly considered.....
....It is enough for me that this was in all probability the most poetical event that has happened for a long time in the London that I love; since it is out of the area of great earthquakes. And it is enough for me, it is far too much for me (it has broken my heart), that I was not there to see it.
...As I read this, I have to ask myself: Is there any way for me to consider the loss of my home a mere inconvenience? (A rather large one, I must say.) Even an adventure... I'm not sure. Maybe...
Friday, March 25, 2005
"THE WELLS FARGO WAGON IS A-COMIN'" -- RUN!
My first job, at the age of 17, was at a bank. I was strictly trained to be absolutely truthful and polite to the customers at all times, and to remember that because they had entrusted us with their money, we owed them respect in every way.
...So here it is some years later, and I get a letter from Wells Fargo Bank telling my son's savings account has gone inactive, and will be closed and the money confiscated if there's no activity on it by March 31st.
So I figure, why not just close the account, maybe move it to another bank. So I go into the branch to do just that.
The new accounts person I talk to is polite, but gives me the expected push to keep the account where it is. Why do I want to move it, she asks.
Well, I explain quite politely, we've actually had some problems with Wells Fargo. About a year and a half ago, someone with a Capital One credit card start making automatic withdrawals from our personal account at Wells Fargo to pay their bills. When I informed Wells Fargo of this, they said there was nothing they could do to stop the withdrawals, and we would have to deal w/ the credit card company. So we did -- but Capital One was shocked that our bank refused to block any further withdrawals. It took several months for Capital One to clear it up and stop the fraudulent withdrawals -- but in the meantime we were out thousands of dollars (eventually reimbursed by Cap One). And Wells Fargo hadn't lifted a finger to help stop fraud on one of their customers.
Therefore, I explain, I felt a little better moving my son's account.
Ms. New Accounts, whose voice drops a little lower at this point, agrees, and starts to close out the account. There's $85.49 remaining in the account, she explains.
Wait a minute. My son opened the account with $135, and, as Wells Fargo had made me aware themselves, there had been no activity on the account. What happened to the other $50?
Oh, Ms. New Accounts insists, we would have to order statements to figure that out. Can't she access them from her computer, I ask. Oh no, she explains. But she'd be happy to order them for me.
Well, that's all well and good, but if they're going to close the account for inactivity on March 31, that doesn't give me enough time for statements to arrive, now does it?
Ms. New Accounts looks at me for a long time -- then calls up the statements on her computer. The entire history of the account. The ones she said she couldn't access ten seconds before.
Wait a minute, I say, my voice getting a tad louder (but still polite). Why did you say you couldn't access the statements when you could? Well, Ms. New Accounts says, her voice dropping even lower, she's really doing me a favor to help me at all. After all, she has appointments waiting for her.
I look around the bank. Every customer is being helped. Lucky me, I comment, that all her appointments are late today.
She digs through the account statements and finds the missing $50. It was deducted from my son's account in December to pay for a safe deposit box.
This is a 10-year-old, I point out. He doesn't have a safe deposit box.
Well, she asks, do I have a safe deposit box?
I did, I reply. But I closed it last summer. Turned in the key and everything. And come to think of it, I don't think I ever got the deposit paid back on that key.
So why, I wonder, would they be deducting for a safe deposit box that's closed, from an account not connected to that safe deposit box in any way? (My voice is now loud enough for quite a few customers to hear. Ms. New Accounts is talking in a whisper.)
She has to look into it. Off she goes to the bank manager. She's there for all of 5 seconds when the manager says, "Reverse the charges."
Is it this common for the bank to mischarge for safe deposit boxes, I ask, that the manager reverses the charges that automatically? Does it happen that often?
Ms. New Accounts just whispers that she will get the money for me. She comes back with cash. $135.49.
I point out that, yes, I know interest rates are at all-time lows. But 49 cents in interest over a three year period? Makes it kind of hard to extol the joys of saving to your kid. He can find that much in the couch cushions.
Well, Ms. New Accounts whispers, they stopped paying interest when the account went inactive.
But I was never notified that the account was inactive until it was about to be closed, I point out. How long has it been inactive?
I can barely hear her reply: Two years.
So what you're telling me, I point out, is that it's not safe for a child to open a small savings account at Wells Fargo.
She didn't have an answer for that.
At least I got my parking validated.
...So here it is some years later, and I get a letter from Wells Fargo Bank telling my son's savings account has gone inactive, and will be closed and the money confiscated if there's no activity on it by March 31st.
So I figure, why not just close the account, maybe move it to another bank. So I go into the branch to do just that.
The new accounts person I talk to is polite, but gives me the expected push to keep the account where it is. Why do I want to move it, she asks.
Well, I explain quite politely, we've actually had some problems with Wells Fargo. About a year and a half ago, someone with a Capital One credit card start making automatic withdrawals from our personal account at Wells Fargo to pay their bills. When I informed Wells Fargo of this, they said there was nothing they could do to stop the withdrawals, and we would have to deal w/ the credit card company. So we did -- but Capital One was shocked that our bank refused to block any further withdrawals. It took several months for Capital One to clear it up and stop the fraudulent withdrawals -- but in the meantime we were out thousands of dollars (eventually reimbursed by Cap One). And Wells Fargo hadn't lifted a finger to help stop fraud on one of their customers.
Therefore, I explain, I felt a little better moving my son's account.
Ms. New Accounts, whose voice drops a little lower at this point, agrees, and starts to close out the account. There's $85.49 remaining in the account, she explains.
Wait a minute. My son opened the account with $135, and, as Wells Fargo had made me aware themselves, there had been no activity on the account. What happened to the other $50?
Oh, Ms. New Accounts insists, we would have to order statements to figure that out. Can't she access them from her computer, I ask. Oh no, she explains. But she'd be happy to order them for me.
Well, that's all well and good, but if they're going to close the account for inactivity on March 31, that doesn't give me enough time for statements to arrive, now does it?
Ms. New Accounts looks at me for a long time -- then calls up the statements on her computer. The entire history of the account. The ones she said she couldn't access ten seconds before.
Wait a minute, I say, my voice getting a tad louder (but still polite). Why did you say you couldn't access the statements when you could? Well, Ms. New Accounts says, her voice dropping even lower, she's really doing me a favor to help me at all. After all, she has appointments waiting for her.
I look around the bank. Every customer is being helped. Lucky me, I comment, that all her appointments are late today.
She digs through the account statements and finds the missing $50. It was deducted from my son's account in December to pay for a safe deposit box.
This is a 10-year-old, I point out. He doesn't have a safe deposit box.
Well, she asks, do I have a safe deposit box?
I did, I reply. But I closed it last summer. Turned in the key and everything. And come to think of it, I don't think I ever got the deposit paid back on that key.
So why, I wonder, would they be deducting for a safe deposit box that's closed, from an account not connected to that safe deposit box in any way? (My voice is now loud enough for quite a few customers to hear. Ms. New Accounts is talking in a whisper.)
She has to look into it. Off she goes to the bank manager. She's there for all of 5 seconds when the manager says, "Reverse the charges."
Is it this common for the bank to mischarge for safe deposit boxes, I ask, that the manager reverses the charges that automatically? Does it happen that often?
Ms. New Accounts just whispers that she will get the money for me. She comes back with cash. $135.49.
I point out that, yes, I know interest rates are at all-time lows. But 49 cents in interest over a three year period? Makes it kind of hard to extol the joys of saving to your kid. He can find that much in the couch cushions.
Well, Ms. New Accounts whispers, they stopped paying interest when the account went inactive.
But I was never notified that the account was inactive until it was about to be closed, I point out. How long has it been inactive?
I can barely hear her reply: Two years.
So what you're telling me, I point out, is that it's not safe for a child to open a small savings account at Wells Fargo.
She didn't have an answer for that.
At least I got my parking validated.
Sunday, March 20, 2005
A LITTLE PARADIGM SHIFT...
Sabrina picked up my copy of Entertainment Weekly yesterday, with Desperate Housewives featured on the cover, and asked what it was about.
"It's a TV show," I said, "and it's a grown-ups only TV show."
Studying the magazine cover carefully, she said, "I'm guessing that it's about housewives who are desperate."
"That's a pretty good guess," I said.
"Like, if their husbands are lazy, or if their kids are always screaming," she said. "But you don't have a husband who's lazy, and we don't scream all the time, so I guess you're not desperate."
"And I'm not a housewife!" I almost snapped. Almost -- but then I stopped myself.
Because I realized that Sabrina doesn't have a clue what a housewife is.
Back when I was her age, it was expected that as soon as a "girl" got married, she'd stop working. Her husband would take care of her and she'd take care of the house. The few girls who went to college were assumed to be doing so in search of their "Mrs." degree. My family were freaks in our neighborhood because (a) my mom had indeed gone to college and (b) she worked. And this was not all that long ago.
Now we don't have housewives any more. We have "stay-at-home moms." The name alone tells you how the paradigm has shifted: Women who get married expect to work until the kids come along. The very reason to stay at home is not to take care of the house or the hubby -- it's all about the kids now.
It's a little change. Just the loss of a word from everyday conversation. But our words govern how we think, what we choose. How different will my daughter's choices, her expectations be, because of this tiny paradigm shift?
"It's a TV show," I said, "and it's a grown-ups only TV show."
Studying the magazine cover carefully, she said, "I'm guessing that it's about housewives who are desperate."
"That's a pretty good guess," I said.
"Like, if their husbands are lazy, or if their kids are always screaming," she said. "But you don't have a husband who's lazy, and we don't scream all the time, so I guess you're not desperate."
"And I'm not a housewife!" I almost snapped. Almost -- but then I stopped myself.
Because I realized that Sabrina doesn't have a clue what a housewife is.
Back when I was her age, it was expected that as soon as a "girl" got married, she'd stop working. Her husband would take care of her and she'd take care of the house. The few girls who went to college were assumed to be doing so in search of their "Mrs." degree. My family were freaks in our neighborhood because (a) my mom had indeed gone to college and (b) she worked. And this was not all that long ago.
Now we don't have housewives any more. We have "stay-at-home moms." The name alone tells you how the paradigm has shifted: Women who get married expect to work until the kids come along. The very reason to stay at home is not to take care of the house or the hubby -- it's all about the kids now.
It's a little change. Just the loss of a word from everyday conversation. But our words govern how we think, what we choose. How different will my daughter's choices, her expectations be, because of this tiny paradigm shift?
Saturday, March 19, 2005
ACT ONE ON THE NIGHTLY NEWS
Don't miss the NBC Nightly News Monday night (March 21st). Act One will be featured in a segment on Faith in Hollywood. See Act One faculty and alumni in action! (And cross your fingers that it's a positive story -- we think so, but one never knows.)
Yours truly will not be in the piece. I didn't go to the evening they came to tape because I was teaching that night, and besides, I don't like the way I look on video. (Oops. Shoulda thought of that before applying to The Amazing Race. Oh well.)
Anyway, make a point of watching. 6:30 Eastern and Pacific, presumably 5:30 Central and Mountain. (Unless we're bumped for real news, I suppose.)
Yours truly will not be in the piece. I didn't go to the evening they came to tape because I was teaching that night, and besides, I don't like the way I look on video. (Oops. Shoulda thought of that before applying to The Amazing Race. Oh well.)
Anyway, make a point of watching. 6:30 Eastern and Pacific, presumably 5:30 Central and Mountain. (Unless we're bumped for real news, I suppose.)
Tuesday, March 15, 2005
THEY ALSO SERVE...
When I consider how my light is spent,
Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide,
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning chide.
"Doth God exact day-labor, light denied,"
I fondly ask; But patience to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts. Who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
is kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed
And post o'er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait.
In John Milton's sonnet, On His Blindness, he laments how his blindness prevents him from using his talents (incredible and unique as they were) to serve God. He clearly is referring to the parable of the talents, worried that God will judge him for not using what has been given him -- and yet unable to do so.
And the response: God doesn't need him or his talents. God has thousands doing His bidding, and one man, no matter talented, simply is, in some ways insignificant. If all Milton can do, despite his talents, is to stand and wait for God, well, that's good enough.
I can't imagine the pain Milton went through to get to that place of surrender. If I were to write this sonnet, I would have to call it On Her Unemployment. Because we know we are good writers. (Not great, not John Miltons -- but good. Once in a while, very good.) We are better than we have ever been. Yet here we sit, painfully unemployed. Because of our age (i.e., not under 35)? Because of our Christianity? Because our agent has let us down? Who knows?
They also serve who only stand and wait. I am not at that place of surrender yet. Like Milton in the beginning of the sonnet, I want to do something with the talents that God has given me. Yet I am prevented from doing it.
"Life isn't fair," we tell our kids when they start bitching and moaning about something being unfair. "Get used to it." It's a lesson they have to learn to survive. But boy, it's not a fun lesson. As a kid or as an adult. Because, our God-given sense of justice burning deep within our souls, we know things should be just. Or at the very least, fair.
But all I can do is (try to) stand and wait.
Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide,
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning chide.
"Doth God exact day-labor, light denied,"
I fondly ask; But patience to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts. Who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
is kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed
And post o'er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait.
In John Milton's sonnet, On His Blindness, he laments how his blindness prevents him from using his talents (incredible and unique as they were) to serve God. He clearly is referring to the parable of the talents, worried that God will judge him for not using what has been given him -- and yet unable to do so.
And the response: God doesn't need him or his talents. God has thousands doing His bidding, and one man, no matter talented, simply is, in some ways insignificant. If all Milton can do, despite his talents, is to stand and wait for God, well, that's good enough.
I can't imagine the pain Milton went through to get to that place of surrender. If I were to write this sonnet, I would have to call it On Her Unemployment. Because we know we are good writers. (Not great, not John Miltons -- but good. Once in a while, very good.) We are better than we have ever been. Yet here we sit, painfully unemployed. Because of our age (i.e., not under 35)? Because of our Christianity? Because our agent has let us down? Who knows?
They also serve who only stand and wait. I am not at that place of surrender yet. Like Milton in the beginning of the sonnet, I want to do something with the talents that God has given me. Yet I am prevented from doing it.
"Life isn't fair," we tell our kids when they start bitching and moaning about something being unfair. "Get used to it." It's a lesson they have to learn to survive. But boy, it's not a fun lesson. As a kid or as an adult. Because, our God-given sense of justice burning deep within our souls, we know things should be just. Or at the very least, fair.
But all I can do is (try to) stand and wait.
Friday, March 11, 2005
CALLING ALL SURVIVOR FANS
Okay, okay, I know as a writer I "shouldn't" be a fan of any reality TV -- but there are a few shows I just find compelling, Survivor being one of them. And for a few years, I've had forwarded to me a really humorous wrap-up of each week's episode written by Christine Seghers, a friend of a friend.
Christine now has her weekly screeds on her own blog, which you can find here. If you're a Survivor fan, you'll definitely want to check it out. Enjoy!
Christine now has her weekly screeds on her own blog, which you can find here. If you're a Survivor fan, you'll definitely want to check it out. Enjoy!
Monday, March 07, 2005
TAKING THE AMAZING PLUNGE
As The Amazing Race starts its 7th season (though who knows from seasons in reality TV!), we have noticed that they're calling for applicants for the 8th season. And this time, they want families of four.
Hmmm. We have a family of four. But you know, our kids are pretty young. Certainly too young for a show like that.
So after seeing that... Somehow I wandered over to their website. And I just happened to download the eligibility rules. And it turns out that the youngest age they will accept is 8 years old.
Hmmm. Our youngest child is 8 years old.
So.... even as the rest of our world hovers overhead nervously, as if waiting to crash down upon us in a horrendous catastrophe...
We are heading out to the Santa Monica Pier (starting place of The Amazing Race 5, don't you know) tomorrow after to shoot an audition video.
I don't know what they're looking for. But if they're looking for cute, precocious, smart (and smart-mouthed) kids, they need look no further.
Tapes are due this Friday. Semi-finalists will be informed in April. We'll keep you posted! (And keep your fingers crossed. Around the world, here we come!)
Hmmm. We have a family of four. But you know, our kids are pretty young. Certainly too young for a show like that.
So after seeing that... Somehow I wandered over to their website. And I just happened to download the eligibility rules. And it turns out that the youngest age they will accept is 8 years old.
Hmmm. Our youngest child is 8 years old.
So.... even as the rest of our world hovers overhead nervously, as if waiting to crash down upon us in a horrendous catastrophe...
We are heading out to the Santa Monica Pier (starting place of The Amazing Race 5, don't you know) tomorrow after to shoot an audition video.
I don't know what they're looking for. But if they're looking for cute, precocious, smart (and smart-mouthed) kids, they need look no further.
Tapes are due this Friday. Semi-finalists will be informed in April. We'll keep you posted! (And keep your fingers crossed. Around the world, here we come!)
HALFWAY THROUGH LENT
So we're halfway through Lent, and I'm trying to stick to my effort to not talk about myself during Lent (unless in answer to a question)...
And it is SO hard!
Biting my tongue when I have the perfect story to tell (about myself, of course). Weighing whether or not talking about my kids constitutes talking about myself (usually yes). Shutting up and not contributing to conversations.
I have been far from perfect, I have to say. I never realized how many triggers I respond to to make me tell the same stories over and over again.
And I have to say, this whole Lenten season has somehow made me bored with those stories. Maybe it's just the split second of having to think about whether to jump in to a conversation that's made me realize just how tiresome I can be.
Three weeks till Easter. Just gotta hold my tongue for 20 more days.
Next year, I think I'll give up something easy. Like chocolate. Or breathing.
And it is SO hard!
Biting my tongue when I have the perfect story to tell (about myself, of course). Weighing whether or not talking about my kids constitutes talking about myself (usually yes). Shutting up and not contributing to conversations.
I have been far from perfect, I have to say. I never realized how many triggers I respond to to make me tell the same stories over and over again.
And I have to say, this whole Lenten season has somehow made me bored with those stories. Maybe it's just the split second of having to think about whether to jump in to a conversation that's made me realize just how tiresome I can be.
Three weeks till Easter. Just gotta hold my tongue for 20 more days.
Next year, I think I'll give up something easy. Like chocolate. Or breathing.
Friday, March 04, 2005
BOOK THOUGHTS: BLINK
I am a huge Malcolm Gladwell fan. His book The Tipping Point changed the way I look at the propagation of ideas. It made me look at the world in a different way. I have urged dozens and dozens of people to read it. And I love jumping over to Gladwell's website to read his New Yorker articles, and have quoted his "ketchup vs. mustard" ideas to many people.
So I had great anticipation for his new book Blink: The Power of Thinking Without Thinking. But I have to say that Blink, while a fascinating read and definitely worth the time, is not as seminal or important a work as The Tipping Point.
Blink is an exploration of instinct, of snap decisions. Gladwell looks at fascinating cases where snap decisions work -- most notably, the purchase by the Getty Museum of an ancient statue for $10 million, only to discover later that it was a fraud... A fact that was picked up instantaneously by various experts. One looked at it and felt the fingernails were wrong. Another said that the first word that came to his mind upon looking at the statue was "fresh" -- not a word one should be using about a 2000+ year old statue. Another felt he was looking at the statue through a wall of glass. Another took one look, and instantly urged the Getty not to pay for the statue, and to get their money back if they had, without any rational explanation.
Gladwell has other fascinating examples: The psychologist who spent years analyzing the tiniest muscle movements of the face and how they correlate to emotion, and can predict whether a couple will stay together based on a few minutes of video (no audio) of their interaction. The tennis coach who can predict a double fault before the ball hits the racket, but doesn't know how he knows. Speed daters who know whether someone will "click" with them in a matter of minutes.
He also has many examples of the failure of instinct, of reliance on first impressions with disastrous results. He points to the election of Warren G. Harding (a man who "looked" like a president but was utterly unfit for the job). The notorious murder of Amadou Diallo in New York. The failure of New Coke (a particularly fascinating story). And he talks a lot about racism, and how deeply ingrained it is in all Americans, so much so that black students asked to identify their race before taking the GRE got half as many questions correct as black students who weren't asked that question.
The stories are fascinating (and there are many more than the ones I'm mentioning). The book is beautifully written and a fast read. But Gladwell never quite gets around to telling us how to harness the "power of thinking without thinking."
So I thought about it myself. And I realized that everyone he mentions who has successfully learned to make their instincts work for them has in fact done so based on YEARS of experience. The art experts. The psychologists. Even the speed daters, with their years of ineffectual "regular" dating before resorting to speed dating.
It made me think of looking at real estate. I've been told that you should look at 100 houses before you buy one. And the reason, of course, is to hone your instincts. It's so that, on house 101, you walk in, look around, and say "This is the one" instantly (before anyone else can bid and jack up the price), and you trust your instincts.
I guess the lesson is to trust our instincts in areas where we have lots of experience. And to ignore them in areas where we don't (a lesson in humility, if nothing else). But I do wish Gladwell had spent a little time working that out for us.
Nevertheless, while Blink won't rock your world (admittedly, my expectations were probably too high after The Tipping Point), you will find it one of the most fascinating reads of the year, and it will give you plenty of interesting tidbits to talk to other people about. So go read it. And don't think twice.
So I had great anticipation for his new book Blink: The Power of Thinking Without Thinking. But I have to say that Blink, while a fascinating read and definitely worth the time, is not as seminal or important a work as The Tipping Point.
Blink is an exploration of instinct, of snap decisions. Gladwell looks at fascinating cases where snap decisions work -- most notably, the purchase by the Getty Museum of an ancient statue for $10 million, only to discover later that it was a fraud... A fact that was picked up instantaneously by various experts. One looked at it and felt the fingernails were wrong. Another said that the first word that came to his mind upon looking at the statue was "fresh" -- not a word one should be using about a 2000+ year old statue. Another felt he was looking at the statue through a wall of glass. Another took one look, and instantly urged the Getty not to pay for the statue, and to get their money back if they had, without any rational explanation.
Gladwell has other fascinating examples: The psychologist who spent years analyzing the tiniest muscle movements of the face and how they correlate to emotion, and can predict whether a couple will stay together based on a few minutes of video (no audio) of their interaction. The tennis coach who can predict a double fault before the ball hits the racket, but doesn't know how he knows. Speed daters who know whether someone will "click" with them in a matter of minutes.
He also has many examples of the failure of instinct, of reliance on first impressions with disastrous results. He points to the election of Warren G. Harding (a man who "looked" like a president but was utterly unfit for the job). The notorious murder of Amadou Diallo in New York. The failure of New Coke (a particularly fascinating story). And he talks a lot about racism, and how deeply ingrained it is in all Americans, so much so that black students asked to identify their race before taking the GRE got half as many questions correct as black students who weren't asked that question.
The stories are fascinating (and there are many more than the ones I'm mentioning). The book is beautifully written and a fast read. But Gladwell never quite gets around to telling us how to harness the "power of thinking without thinking."
So I thought about it myself. And I realized that everyone he mentions who has successfully learned to make their instincts work for them has in fact done so based on YEARS of experience. The art experts. The psychologists. Even the speed daters, with their years of ineffectual "regular" dating before resorting to speed dating.
It made me think of looking at real estate. I've been told that you should look at 100 houses before you buy one. And the reason, of course, is to hone your instincts. It's so that, on house 101, you walk in, look around, and say "This is the one" instantly (before anyone else can bid and jack up the price), and you trust your instincts.
I guess the lesson is to trust our instincts in areas where we have lots of experience. And to ignore them in areas where we don't (a lesson in humility, if nothing else). But I do wish Gladwell had spent a little time working that out for us.
Nevertheless, while Blink won't rock your world (admittedly, my expectations were probably too high after The Tipping Point), you will find it one of the most fascinating reads of the year, and it will give you plenty of interesting tidbits to talk to other people about. So go read it. And don't think twice.
Thursday, March 03, 2005
REALLY GOOD REALLY BAD WRITING
I've been deluged lately with people sending me lists of purported winners from the Bulwer-Lytton Contest.
Bulwer-Lytton was the originator of the phrase "It was a dark and stormy night" (no, it wasn't Snoopy), and a notoriously lugubrious writer back in the 19th century. In his honor (as it were), a prof at San Jose State University started a competition some 20+ years ago, asking people to write the best worst first lines of a novel or story they could come up with.
I happen to be reading at the moment a self-published book that's so overwritten, any sentence of it could probably stand a good chance to win the contest. So getting the list of winners (over and over -- you've probably gotten it too) was almost a relief. But I knew the list couldn't be timely, as I remember reading some of the same sentences several years ago. Thanks to Google, I learned the currently circulating list is from 2001.
So, if anyone would like to see the most recent (2004) winners of the Bulwer-Lytton Contest (and enjoy the brief respite of being able to say, "Well, at least I write better than that!"), here they are:
Adventure Category:
"The legend about Padre Castillo's gold being buried deep in the Blackwolf Hills had lain untold for centuries and will continue to do so for this story is not about hidden treasure, nor is it set in any mountainous terrain whatsoever." (Siew-Fong Yiap, Hong Kong)
Children's Lit Category:
"Jack planted the magic beans and in one night a giant beanstalk grew all the way from the earth up to the clouds -- which sounds like a lie, but it can be done with genetic engineering, and although a few people are against eating gene-engineered foods like those beans it's a high-paying career to think about for when you grow up." (Frances Grimble, San Francisco)
"When Cinderella saw that the Prince had sent the Duke to find the woman of his dreams, like some rich schoolboy who pays the smartest kid in the class to do his homework, or worse, like someone who has been on welfare so long that he has trouble doing any kind of work, she suddenly realized the spoiled nature of the King's son and stealthily slid the slipper back into her pocket." (Milton Combs, Kingston, WA)
Dark and Stormy Night Category:
"It was a stark and dormy night -- the kind of Friday night in the dorm where wistful women/girls without dates ovulated pointlessly and dreamed of steamy sex with bad boy/men in the backseat of a Corvette -- like the one on Route 66, only a different color, though the color was hard to determine because the TV show was in black and white -- if only Corvettes had back seats." (David Kay, Lake Charles, LA)
"It was a dark and stormy night -- actually not all that dark, but more disky or maybe cloudy, and to say 'stormy' may be overstating things a bit, although the sidewalks were still wettish and smelled of ozone, and, truth be told, characterizing the time as night is a stretch as it was more in the late, late afternoon because I think Oprah was still on." (Gregory Snider, Lexington, KY)
Detective Category
"Detective Micky Blarke arrived on the scene at 2:14 a.m., and gave his cigarette such a severe pull that rookie Paul Simmons swore the insides of the detective's cheeks touched, but the judge indicated that that amount of detail was not necessary in his testimony, and instructed the jury to disregard that statement." (Joe Polvino, Webster, NY)
"The knife handle jutted from her chest like one of the plastic pop-up timers in a frozen turkey, but from the blood pooling around the wound, it was apparent that this bird wasn't done." (Alaine Sepulveda, Las Cruces)
Fantasy Fiction Category:
"Gringan Roojner had only gone to see the Great Warlock of Loowith to get his horoscope and he couldn't believe he'd been sent on a quest for the legendary Scromer of Nothleen to ask him for the answer to the Riddle of Shimmererer so that he could give it to the Guardians of Vooroniank, thereby gaining access to the Cave of Zothlianath where he would find the seldom seen Cowering of Groojanc, whose spittle was an absolute necessity in the making of the Warlock's famous pound cake, the kind with raisins." (Sandra Millar, Scotland)
Historical Fiction Category:
"Galileo Galilei gazed expectantly through his newly invented telescope and then recoiled in sudden horror -- his prized thoroughbred's severed neck, threateningly discarded in a murky mass of interstellar dust (known to future generations as the Horsehead Nebula), left little doubt about where the Godfather and his Vatican musclemen stood on the recent geocentric/heliocentric debate." (Don Mowbray, San Antonio)
Fiction for the Erudite Category:
"Clementine sat in the shade of a beecdh tree, of the family Fagaceae, the leaves of which were more or less ovate, being perhaps not quite as pointed as those of the North American grandifolia species of the Fagus genus that are the color of a swimming pool that had been left too long without chlorine, but neither were they like those of Fagus sylvatica var. purpurea that are the color of dried burgundy stains on cream linen." (Geoff Beech, Bolivia)
Purple Prose Category:
"The terrible news had whisked around teh becolumned courthouse like a malevolent, stinking zephyr straight from the sewage works, and on the gum-besmirched footpath, the hunch of lawyers cackled and cawed like a group of very large, gowned, wigged, briefcase-clutching crows, or perhaps ravens since they are of course the larger bird and some of these lawyers were fairly sizeable." (Georgia Gowing, Australia)
"She was a tough one, all right, as tough as a marshmallow -- not one of those soft sticky ones used in s'mores, cooked to a turn over a good campfire, or even like the stale chewy type covered in yellow sugar and found at the bottom of a three-week-old Easter basket -- no, she was tough like a freeze-dried marshmallow in kid's cereal that despite being shaped like a little balloon and colored a friendly pink are so rock solid that they are responsible for the loss of more baby teeth than most older siblings." (Bridget Lyle, Walworth, NY)
Romance Category:
"Looking up from his plate of escargots, Sean gazed across the table at Sharon and sadly realized that her bubbly personality now reminded him of the bubbles you get when you put salt on a slug and it squirms around and foams all over the place, and her moist lips were also like the slime on a slug but before you salted it, though after all these years Sharon still smelled better than slugs, but that could have been the garlic butter on her escargots." (David K. Lynch, Topanga, CA)
Science Fiction Category:
"The scorched pasture, with its charred and smoking remains of dead cattle, was the least of Jessica's worries, and as she pondered her shredded gown, newly shaved head, and the quickly disappearing spaceship in the Nevada twilight, she realized if she were going to hitchhike back to Carson City, she'd have to show a damn sight far more leg than she had ever intended." (Michelle Hefner, Australia)
"Criminy, thought Francine as she left the birthing center, if the baby's an unknown life-form, it probably means Ricky wasn't really from West Hartford, either." (David Wyman, Goffstown, NH)
Vile Puns Category:
"Sleepless in Seattle, sleepless in Schenectady, and now -- damn her back luck -- sleepless in this god-forsaken pit Brad assured her was a perfectly lovely out-of-the-way and darling older, but totally updated and refurbished accommodation flushed with sunlight and surrounded by swirling blue waters in Seward named the Tide Ebola Inn." (Pat Merrill, San Anselmo, CA)
"As Reynaldo lit the votive candle at the grotto for San Jose de los Platanos and prayed for the healthy delivery o fhis first child, he heard a disembodied voice say, 'Your daughter will be 17 inches long,' to which Reynoldo replied, 'Do you know the weight, too, San Jose?'" (Tom O'Leary, Covina, CA)
Western Category:
"'This town's not big enough for the two of us,' growled Slim Jenkins, 'but I think that if we can get the townspeople to agree to issue a bond to annex the Carter Ranch, we can then incorporate and there should be plenty of room for everyone.'" (Patrick McNamara, El Dorado Hills, CA)
The official Winner and Runner-up of the 2004 contest:
Runner-Up: "The notion that they would no longer be a couple dashed Helen's hopes and scrambled her thoughts not unlike the time her sleeve caught the edge of the open egg carton and the contents hit the floor like fragile things hitting cold tiles, more pitiable because they were the expensive organic brown eggs from free-range chickens, and one of them clearly had double yolks entwined in one sac just the way Helen and Richard used to be." (Pamela Hamilton, Quebec)
Winner: "She resolved to end the love affair with Ramon tonight... summarily, like Martha Stewart ripping the sand vein out of a shrimp's tail... though the ter "love affair" now struck her as a ridiculous euphemism... not unlike 'sand vein,' which is after all an intestine, not a vein... and that tarry substance inside certain isn't sand... and that brought her back to Ramon." (Dave Zobel, Manhattan Beach, CA)
And a couple of my favorites from the 'Dishonorable Mentions':
"The day dawned much like any other day, except that the date was different." (Geoff Blackwell, Australia)
"The thing that goes back and forth inside the old grandfather clock swung like a pendulum." (John Brugliera, West Lebanon, NH)
Bulwer-Lytton was the originator of the phrase "It was a dark and stormy night" (no, it wasn't Snoopy), and a notoriously lugubrious writer back in the 19th century. In his honor (as it were), a prof at San Jose State University started a competition some 20+ years ago, asking people to write the best worst first lines of a novel or story they could come up with.
I happen to be reading at the moment a self-published book that's so overwritten, any sentence of it could probably stand a good chance to win the contest. So getting the list of winners (over and over -- you've probably gotten it too) was almost a relief. But I knew the list couldn't be timely, as I remember reading some of the same sentences several years ago. Thanks to Google, I learned the currently circulating list is from 2001.
So, if anyone would like to see the most recent (2004) winners of the Bulwer-Lytton Contest (and enjoy the brief respite of being able to say, "Well, at least I write better than that!"), here they are:
Adventure Category:
"The legend about Padre Castillo's gold being buried deep in the Blackwolf Hills had lain untold for centuries and will continue to do so for this story is not about hidden treasure, nor is it set in any mountainous terrain whatsoever." (Siew-Fong Yiap, Hong Kong)
Children's Lit Category:
"Jack planted the magic beans and in one night a giant beanstalk grew all the way from the earth up to the clouds -- which sounds like a lie, but it can be done with genetic engineering, and although a few people are against eating gene-engineered foods like those beans it's a high-paying career to think about for when you grow up." (Frances Grimble, San Francisco)
"When Cinderella saw that the Prince had sent the Duke to find the woman of his dreams, like some rich schoolboy who pays the smartest kid in the class to do his homework, or worse, like someone who has been on welfare so long that he has trouble doing any kind of work, she suddenly realized the spoiled nature of the King's son and stealthily slid the slipper back into her pocket." (Milton Combs, Kingston, WA)
Dark and Stormy Night Category:
"It was a stark and dormy night -- the kind of Friday night in the dorm where wistful women/girls without dates ovulated pointlessly and dreamed of steamy sex with bad boy/men in the backseat of a Corvette -- like the one on Route 66, only a different color, though the color was hard to determine because the TV show was in black and white -- if only Corvettes had back seats." (David Kay, Lake Charles, LA)
"It was a dark and stormy night -- actually not all that dark, but more disky or maybe cloudy, and to say 'stormy' may be overstating things a bit, although the sidewalks were still wettish and smelled of ozone, and, truth be told, characterizing the time as night is a stretch as it was more in the late, late afternoon because I think Oprah was still on." (Gregory Snider, Lexington, KY)
Detective Category
"Detective Micky Blarke arrived on the scene at 2:14 a.m., and gave his cigarette such a severe pull that rookie Paul Simmons swore the insides of the detective's cheeks touched, but the judge indicated that that amount of detail was not necessary in his testimony, and instructed the jury to disregard that statement." (Joe Polvino, Webster, NY)
"The knife handle jutted from her chest like one of the plastic pop-up timers in a frozen turkey, but from the blood pooling around the wound, it was apparent that this bird wasn't done." (Alaine Sepulveda, Las Cruces)
Fantasy Fiction Category:
"Gringan Roojner had only gone to see the Great Warlock of Loowith to get his horoscope and he couldn't believe he'd been sent on a quest for the legendary Scromer of Nothleen to ask him for the answer to the Riddle of Shimmererer so that he could give it to the Guardians of Vooroniank, thereby gaining access to the Cave of Zothlianath where he would find the seldom seen Cowering of Groojanc, whose spittle was an absolute necessity in the making of the Warlock's famous pound cake, the kind with raisins." (Sandra Millar, Scotland)
Historical Fiction Category:
"Galileo Galilei gazed expectantly through his newly invented telescope and then recoiled in sudden horror -- his prized thoroughbred's severed neck, threateningly discarded in a murky mass of interstellar dust (known to future generations as the Horsehead Nebula), left little doubt about where the Godfather and his Vatican musclemen stood on the recent geocentric/heliocentric debate." (Don Mowbray, San Antonio)
Fiction for the Erudite Category:
"Clementine sat in the shade of a beecdh tree, of the family Fagaceae, the leaves of which were more or less ovate, being perhaps not quite as pointed as those of the North American grandifolia species of the Fagus genus that are the color of a swimming pool that had been left too long without chlorine, but neither were they like those of Fagus sylvatica var. purpurea that are the color of dried burgundy stains on cream linen." (Geoff Beech, Bolivia)
Purple Prose Category:
"The terrible news had whisked around teh becolumned courthouse like a malevolent, stinking zephyr straight from the sewage works, and on the gum-besmirched footpath, the hunch of lawyers cackled and cawed like a group of very large, gowned, wigged, briefcase-clutching crows, or perhaps ravens since they are of course the larger bird and some of these lawyers were fairly sizeable." (Georgia Gowing, Australia)
"She was a tough one, all right, as tough as a marshmallow -- not one of those soft sticky ones used in s'mores, cooked to a turn over a good campfire, or even like the stale chewy type covered in yellow sugar and found at the bottom of a three-week-old Easter basket -- no, she was tough like a freeze-dried marshmallow in kid's cereal that despite being shaped like a little balloon and colored a friendly pink are so rock solid that they are responsible for the loss of more baby teeth than most older siblings." (Bridget Lyle, Walworth, NY)
Romance Category:
"Looking up from his plate of escargots, Sean gazed across the table at Sharon and sadly realized that her bubbly personality now reminded him of the bubbles you get when you put salt on a slug and it squirms around and foams all over the place, and her moist lips were also like the slime on a slug but before you salted it, though after all these years Sharon still smelled better than slugs, but that could have been the garlic butter on her escargots." (David K. Lynch, Topanga, CA)
Science Fiction Category:
"The scorched pasture, with its charred and smoking remains of dead cattle, was the least of Jessica's worries, and as she pondered her shredded gown, newly shaved head, and the quickly disappearing spaceship in the Nevada twilight, she realized if she were going to hitchhike back to Carson City, she'd have to show a damn sight far more leg than she had ever intended." (Michelle Hefner, Australia)
"Criminy, thought Francine as she left the birthing center, if the baby's an unknown life-form, it probably means Ricky wasn't really from West Hartford, either." (David Wyman, Goffstown, NH)
Vile Puns Category:
"Sleepless in Seattle, sleepless in Schenectady, and now -- damn her back luck -- sleepless in this god-forsaken pit Brad assured her was a perfectly lovely out-of-the-way and darling older, but totally updated and refurbished accommodation flushed with sunlight and surrounded by swirling blue waters in Seward named the Tide Ebola Inn." (Pat Merrill, San Anselmo, CA)
"As Reynaldo lit the votive candle at the grotto for San Jose de los Platanos and prayed for the healthy delivery o fhis first child, he heard a disembodied voice say, 'Your daughter will be 17 inches long,' to which Reynoldo replied, 'Do you know the weight, too, San Jose?'" (Tom O'Leary, Covina, CA)
Western Category:
"'This town's not big enough for the two of us,' growled Slim Jenkins, 'but I think that if we can get the townspeople to agree to issue a bond to annex the Carter Ranch, we can then incorporate and there should be plenty of room for everyone.'" (Patrick McNamara, El Dorado Hills, CA)
The official Winner and Runner-up of the 2004 contest:
Runner-Up: "The notion that they would no longer be a couple dashed Helen's hopes and scrambled her thoughts not unlike the time her sleeve caught the edge of the open egg carton and the contents hit the floor like fragile things hitting cold tiles, more pitiable because they were the expensive organic brown eggs from free-range chickens, and one of them clearly had double yolks entwined in one sac just the way Helen and Richard used to be." (Pamela Hamilton, Quebec)
Winner: "She resolved to end the love affair with Ramon tonight... summarily, like Martha Stewart ripping the sand vein out of a shrimp's tail... though the ter "love affair" now struck her as a ridiculous euphemism... not unlike 'sand vein,' which is after all an intestine, not a vein... and that tarry substance inside certain isn't sand... and that brought her back to Ramon." (Dave Zobel, Manhattan Beach, CA)
And a couple of my favorites from the 'Dishonorable Mentions':
"The day dawned much like any other day, except that the date was different." (Geoff Blackwell, Australia)
"The thing that goes back and forth inside the old grandfather clock swung like a pendulum." (John Brugliera, West Lebanon, NH)
Wednesday, March 02, 2005
A LAST THOUGHT ON THE OSCARS
Yes, I know the Oscars are an incestuous festival of self-congratulations -- at least according to some of the comments I read here and there. Rich Hollywood types telling each other how wonderful they all are.
But there's more to it than that. For me, I think the highlight of this year's Oscars came from the sound editor who commented that people think of awards like Sound Editing as "technical" awards. They're not, he declared. They're artistic awards giving for making artistic decisions.
And he's absolutely right.
Not everyone in Hollywood is a rich movie star. What people outside the biz often fail to appreciate is that movies are made by blue collar guys (and, increasingly, girls) -- the best tradesmen in the world, working at the height of their crafts. You look around a movie set, and you'll see 10 blue collar guys to every actor.
And the work that these "technical" and design types do is often painstakingly difficult. No one really gets what they do, often, except their peers. That's why an Oscar nomination matters so much: It's the approprobation of your peers, the people who absolutely "get" what you've accomplished. (The awards themselves are voted on by everyone, so in some ways, they matter less: It's the nomination, which comes solely from your peers, that's the real vote of approval.)
This was driven home a week or so ago when I read the newspaper account of the Costume Designer Guild awards. Winning for the best commercial was the woman who designed the costumes for the Apple iPod commercials.
But wait a minute! The iPod commercials are all in silhouette. You don't even see the actors, much less the clothes. How could that possibly be worth an award?!
The winner commented on this: Nobody but another costume designer, she said, could possibly understand how difficult that job was.
She's right. I don't understand. But I'm glad that there are people who do, and who saw fit to recognize how very difficult -- and worthy of attention -- her achievement was.
So anyone who's sick of the hype and the attention heaped on the actors whom you may feel are, for whatever reason, undeserving -- I urge you to spend the next Oscars paying attention to the "technical" awards. The people who spend their lives working behind the scenes, most not knowing where their next job is coming from, and maybe -- just maybe -- getting a nomination that amounts to their peers saying, hey, you done good.
It's an honor to be nominated, indeed.
But there's more to it than that. For me, I think the highlight of this year's Oscars came from the sound editor who commented that people think of awards like Sound Editing as "technical" awards. They're not, he declared. They're artistic awards giving for making artistic decisions.
And he's absolutely right.
Not everyone in Hollywood is a rich movie star. What people outside the biz often fail to appreciate is that movies are made by blue collar guys (and, increasingly, girls) -- the best tradesmen in the world, working at the height of their crafts. You look around a movie set, and you'll see 10 blue collar guys to every actor.
And the work that these "technical" and design types do is often painstakingly difficult. No one really gets what they do, often, except their peers. That's why an Oscar nomination matters so much: It's the approprobation of your peers, the people who absolutely "get" what you've accomplished. (The awards themselves are voted on by everyone, so in some ways, they matter less: It's the nomination, which comes solely from your peers, that's the real vote of approval.)
This was driven home a week or so ago when I read the newspaper account of the Costume Designer Guild awards. Winning for the best commercial was the woman who designed the costumes for the Apple iPod commercials.
But wait a minute! The iPod commercials are all in silhouette. You don't even see the actors, much less the clothes. How could that possibly be worth an award?!
The winner commented on this: Nobody but another costume designer, she said, could possibly understand how difficult that job was.
She's right. I don't understand. But I'm glad that there are people who do, and who saw fit to recognize how very difficult -- and worthy of attention -- her achievement was.
So anyone who's sick of the hype and the attention heaped on the actors whom you may feel are, for whatever reason, undeserving -- I urge you to spend the next Oscars paying attention to the "technical" awards. The people who spend their lives working behind the scenes, most not knowing where their next job is coming from, and maybe -- just maybe -- getting a nomination that amounts to their peers saying, hey, you done good.
It's an honor to be nominated, indeed.
Tuesday, March 01, 2005
MOVIE THOUGHTS: BECAUSE OF WINN-DIXIE
So there's not really much to object to in this movie. A lonely girl in a new town finds a dog, and the dog helps her meet new friends. That's basically it.
We went to Winn-Dixie because Sabrina has been reading the book at school, and made a point of finishing it just so she could see the movie. She loved the book, and she giggled and cooed with delight all through the movie.
My son Cory, only two years older (he's 10), fell asleep.
I don't think their reactions are due to a boy-girl split. After all, this is a boy who will sneak into the living room and actually pay attention when Sabrina is watching the surprisingly well-done Barbie in 'The Princess and the Pauper' (but don't ever let Cory know I told you that!). I think it's an age difference. 8-year-olds love Winn-Dixie. 10-year-olds are bored stiff.
What I object to is not the movie, but various Christian commentary floating around the web and elsewhere about the movie, treating it as a huge event: At last, a movie that's "safe" to see! Well, any movie aimed at 8-year-olds had better be "safe," Christian credentials or no!
I also hate the sense in some of these messages that because the movie has vaguely Christian credentials (after all, the dad is a preacher!), I'm required to like it and support it.
Don't get me wrong. I want Christians to get out there and go to the movies -- If we don't, no one will make movies that we want to see. But the implication that the only movies Christians want to see (or "should" see) are Because of Winn-Dixie and The Passion of the Christ is a chilling thought to me. Because I sure have broader tastes than that, and I trust the rest of my fellow believers do as well.
So the bottom line is: If you have an 8-year-old or younger, go to the movie. If you don't, skip it (I fell asleep, too). Either way, you can be assured there's nothing "dangerous" in this movie.
Just don't think that Winn-Dixie is the be-all and end-all of Christian filmmaking, the kind of movies we Christians in Hollywood "should" be making. Now there's a thought that's dangerous.
We went to Winn-Dixie because Sabrina has been reading the book at school, and made a point of finishing it just so she could see the movie. She loved the book, and she giggled and cooed with delight all through the movie.
My son Cory, only two years older (he's 10), fell asleep.
I don't think their reactions are due to a boy-girl split. After all, this is a boy who will sneak into the living room and actually pay attention when Sabrina is watching the surprisingly well-done Barbie in 'The Princess and the Pauper' (but don't ever let Cory know I told you that!). I think it's an age difference. 8-year-olds love Winn-Dixie. 10-year-olds are bored stiff.
What I object to is not the movie, but various Christian commentary floating around the web and elsewhere about the movie, treating it as a huge event: At last, a movie that's "safe" to see! Well, any movie aimed at 8-year-olds had better be "safe," Christian credentials or no!
I also hate the sense in some of these messages that because the movie has vaguely Christian credentials (after all, the dad is a preacher!), I'm required to like it and support it.
Don't get me wrong. I want Christians to get out there and go to the movies -- If we don't, no one will make movies that we want to see. But the implication that the only movies Christians want to see (or "should" see) are Because of Winn-Dixie and The Passion of the Christ is a chilling thought to me. Because I sure have broader tastes than that, and I trust the rest of my fellow believers do as well.
So the bottom line is: If you have an 8-year-old or younger, go to the movie. If you don't, skip it (I fell asleep, too). Either way, you can be assured there's nothing "dangerous" in this movie.
Just don't think that Winn-Dixie is the be-all and end-all of Christian filmmaking, the kind of movies we Christians in Hollywood "should" be making. Now there's a thought that's dangerous.
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