I'm Demotic

Apparently I'm some sort of crazy offshoot of hieroglyphics--and one letter away from being demonic! Yow.

Your Score: Demotic

You scored

You are Demotic, the degenerate wild child of Hieroglyphics. At least, that's what Hieroglyphics used to say. Quicker, nimbler but a definite trouble-maker in the family.

Link: The Which Ancient Language Are You Test written by on OkCupid, home of the The Dating Persona Test

Portrait of an Artist as a Seven-Year-Old

Lindsay gave me permission ( I think she did..didn't you Lindsay? oh well, I'm going to anyway) to post some of her earliest artwork. I think she was around seven when she wrote this book of poems for my grandmother. It shows how already she had a way with imagery and poetics. Especially the one about the squirrel. ;)

The Jam that Went
Once ‘twas a girl named Ann
Who loved to fry chicken in a pan
She was tempted to get in the jam
While frying a leg of lamb
Ann was naughty and ate
All the jam that was on the plate
Ann’s mother came home and found
Where all the jam was bound
Ann got quite a spank
And lost all the money in her bank
For paying for all that jam
And the very, very burnt lamb
Ann got very sick
For all the jam she did lick
And now she’s got a pain
Of never eating jam again

>

Look at the size of that jam jar! I happen to think that this is autobiographical.


Feet
Feet,
Walking stalking, running
Tired, energetic
feet

People
People
Tall, small
Talking, sleeping, eating
Unhappy, glad
People

Early attempts at anatomy and portraiture. Love the guy in the bottom left corner.

Good or Bad?
Am I good?
Or am I bad?
I’ll have to stop and think
I’m sometimes good, I’m sometimes bad
Oh bother! Let’s have a drink

Upside Down
I’m standing upside down
It’s fun, fun, fun!
I’m acting like a clown
It’s fun, fun, fun!

"Good or Bad?" was my grandmother's favorite. I think it was the part about having a drink that she liked.

Squirrel
Squirrel, Squirrel, squirrel
Why do you twirl and twirl?
You twirl all day
And never play
Oh why do you twirl and twirl?

Knocking
Knock, knock, knock,knock
Who is knocking at my door?
Pitter patter, pitter patter
I walk across the floor
Creak, creak, creak, creak
I slowly open my door
Who’s there? Who’s there?
Only my uncle Ned
Pitter patter, pitter patter
Slowly back to bed

Uncle Ned sounds kind of creepy to me.

The Fight
A fight
I think it was last night
One boy hit the other
The other insulted his brother
Finally they were pulled apart very scratched and mad at heart
But soon they made friends again
And they forgot about all their pain

I'm glad this one has a happy ending. They look a little like they're dancing, not fighting.

Good-by
So long! Farewell! Good-by!
Ireally must be going!
Oh really time does fly
But our friendship is still glowing!
Good-by!

Sorry if this is embarrassing Lindsay, but you know its a younger brother's job to embarrass his sisters.

Premature

A bit more self-degradation before I turn to humor again. Because the world of blogging is so compelling and thought-provoking, I have found myself hastily typing comments on blogs ranging from accordion aficionados to learned dons. I have one fault which is about to drive me to distraction unless I am able to fix it. I am premature (not in that way, well…that’s a subject for another post) but I mean I jump-the-gun-half-cocked to mix metaphors and euphemisms simultaneously. Today I posted a comment on the always insightful loosebaggymonster thanking her for recommending Bulgakov’s The Master and Margarita. Only I didn’t write The Master and Margarita, I wrote The Master and the Margarita. Small mistake maybe, but to me it seems that a simple three letter word changes the meaning from a central character in the novel, to a refreshing umbrella-drink containing tequila and salt. Did I expect the novel to be about how the oppressed Russians were saved by a pitcher of Margaritas? Maybe that’s what I was hoping, deep down. Hey, it’s helped me before.

I’m starting to remind myself of the character Horshack from the 70’s sitcom Welcome Back Kotter. The clueless inner-city high school student would raise his hand at the most inappropriate moment and gesture frantically while making a sound akin to a gorilla luring a mate—“ooh, ooh, ohh”—or something like that. The ever patient Mister Kotter (the teacher) would call on Horshack eventually and Horshack would blurt out some inanity. Mister Kotter was usually able to turn it into a gentle joke or use it to strengthen the point he was making. This would satiate Horshack and class would resume.

When I read a post I often start formulating my comment while only halfway through. The problem is that many post give me so much to think about, and so much to relate to, that I don’t stick around for the main point of the post. This is something I’ve learned to check myself on when I’m doing something for school, but when I’m rushing to read blogs before having to get started on daily tasks sometimes I become careless. If I could only take a moment and consider the whole post, I might not have to spend half-an-hour writing long disclaimers such as this.

Last night the Democratic candidates held the first televised debate regarding gay rights in American history. The debate was held on the Logo channel, a gay and lesbian cable network. Most of the candidates bonded well with the two-hundred plus audience members. The only gaff came from Governor Bill Richardson of New Mexico, who didn’t seem to grasp the offensiveness of the idea of homosexuality being a “choice” for gay and lesbians and therefore one that can be “corrected.” He wore his confusion markedly on his sleeve, and today his campaign headquarters issued a statement explaining his position more clearly.

I identify with Richardson, not for his views on gays and lesbians—whatever they might be—but for not being informed enough to make a stand one way or the other. This lack of preparedness is what I intend to work on, to correct, as well as general carelessness that has plagued me since kindergarten.

I had every intention of finding out a bit more about Bulgakov this morning, but instead I went to loosebaggymonster to tell her the news that I had started her recommendation. My haste led me to make Bulgakov’s book about a cocktail instead of a woman. It was only afterwards, when wikipedia of all things set me straight, that I realized that the novel was not about a frosty tequila, triple sec, and lime drink. Oh well, it's still a very good book.

Catchup

So I'm going to take a few moments to look at the laundry list I made at the beginning of the summer and see if I got anything accomplished. We still have another month-and-a-half of summer (a fact made very apparent by the sweltering heat-wave the south is experiencing) so there is still time, but a couple of things just have to be put on the back-burner, as I didn't know how involved this studying for the GRE business would be. I can live with the fact that some things don't always come to fruition, and these are things that I may have time to do later in life.

The Shakespeare Challenge: Just can't get it off the ground. I gave myself a break and decided, because someone suggested that Shakespeare is best experienced by watching a good production, that I could watch film versions of his plays. I got halfway through The Royal Shakespeare Company's 70's version of Macbeth for the BBC, but I haven't come back to it--which is too telling. I didn't like it as much as I tried to tell myself I did. Shakespeare will ( hark,is that a pun, me thinks 'tis) have to wait.

The Patio: I haven't stopped this project, I've just put it on hold. The area is dug out and ready to be leveled and paved, I even have the method of paving picked out. But lately I have been experiencing lower-back pain which is either a result of, or aggravated by, the war of the roots. I desperately want to return to this project for many reasons. One is that Booker is transferring much of the dug-up dirt onto the living room carpet. Another is that my across-the-street neighbors just moved out, and as a parting gift they left a gigantic pile of accumulated junk in their yard to view when I sit on my front-porch. Having a secluded space to enjoy the outdoors in the back-yard is what I'm dreaming of. This one is still simmering on the back corner of the stove.

Reading something by Jane Austen. I'm going to paraphrase a rejection notice I got from The New Yorker once: "despite its evident merit, this just isn't for us." I found the prose of North Anger Abbey compelling, sophisticated, and transcendent, too bad there wasn't anything in it to which I could relate. Hard to admit about my mother's favorite author.

The woman writer's challenge. Another one that is on hold, but this is a little distressing because I have only one more book to go before completing it. For some reason, for the last three years, I have picked up a great big involved history related tome when the dog-days of summer hit. Because this year I have allowed myself to follow any reading whim that came around, I was led to Dmitri Volkogorov's biography of Stalin. It is dominating my realm in such a dictatorial way that reading another book at the same time doesn't seem possible. But if I stay on the history kick I might return to the old stand-by, Barbara Tuchman, and re-read The Proud Tower to complete the challenge.

Writing decent songs. Summer just isn't a good time to write songs. Neither is winter. Muses arrive on a crisp fall day or a sparkling day in spring. I'm going through a break-up right now, and I was presumptuous enough one Sunday morning to think I could write a song about it. I couldn't, but I went through with it anyway. The song is the worst song I've ever written. This is not self-flagellation folks, it is really bad (think emo meets Styx, but not even that good). I've done some lousy stuff before, but this is the pinnacle. Although it might just be something I had to go through.

So, whew, I needed to give myself those passes on a couple of things. I've made obligations to certain people recently that won't be so easy to go back on, but I'm okay with breaking some promises to myself, as long as the major goals, or the goal making, is still around. Still, that Shakespeare thing is needling me...never read Hamlet....never read Hamlet.

A Funny Post From Forsyth

Ever wonder where Emily (my sister) and I got our sense of humor? It may have started here, with our oldest sister Forsyth.Check out this post that will make you double over.

Vive la Ratatouille (did I mangle that?)

Ratatouille
Director: Brad Bird
Patton Oswald as the voice of Remy
Peter O'Toole as the voice of Anton Ego
Disney/Pixar 2007


I went to see Ratatouille yesterday. I was putting off this post because I knew it would be hard for me to spell Ratatouille correctly for an entire post. But here we go (it’s r a t a t o u i, double l, e.)

Anthony Bourdain claims that this is the best movie about food ever made. I don’t agree, (that honor goes to Tampopo, Babette’s Feast finishing a close second, oh, and then there’s Big Night) but it is still very, very good. I suspect that Bourdain’s claim stems from the fact that he consulted on the film in its development stage. Boudain is a master of self-promotion and anything with his name on it has to be the best, that’s why the Travel Channel sends him all over the world to partake in the local moonshine and calf-testicles of places like Hinjut and Sjorndaggherland.

Ratatouille is a triumph on many levels. To bring the world of a restaurant kitchen to life with computer animation in a way that impresses real chefs (a persistently critical and easily distracted bunch) is equal to creating a menu that Gordon Ramsay would fawn over. The Pixar animators construct a kitchen atmosphere with scarily accurate details. The light and space of the often confining and crowded environment is oddly believable given the medium, and anyone who is curious about the workings of a classical French kitchen could do worse than going to see this film. We have to remember that it is a cartoon, a cartoon where a rat controls the motions a hapless chef by pulling on his hair as if he is controlling a marionette, but beyond the fantasy, and exaggerations, this film gets so much about a working kitchen right.

Actually, the fairy tale aspect also works remarkably well. This is Disney’s primary domain, and they fashion a story that distils the most basic Cinderella concepts into an intricate and convincing plot line. Rats, the absolute pariah of the restaurant business (forget about cockroaches, they don’t even come close) are the heroes of the film, and a scene where hundreds of rats are working a busy dinner service is perversely fascinating. The idea that Disney and Pixar can make a hero out of the antithesis of kitchen sanitation proves that the modern fairy tale has either been fully resuscitated or was never very far from our rushing, literal world.

Pixar doesn’t just score points for the kitchen scenes; the filmmakers produce an environment that is an apparent tribute to France and the French. Some Francophiles may locate stereotypes in Disney’s portrayal of Parisians, but it has been a while since I’ve seen a film about another country that made me want sell my house and move there immediately. The animators show a sparkling, beautiful Moulin Rouge inspired Paris; the coloring is transcendent, and lush atmospheres, such as a country house or the underground lairs of the rats, confirm that computer animation has come a long way since the days of Pong and Space-Invaders.

The plot, unfortunately, bogs down as the screenwriters try to tie up all of the misunderstandings and falling-outs experienced by the variety of characters. More than a simple boy-meets-girl, boy-loses-girl story, Ratatouille is more rat-meets-boy, boy-meets- hot chef de commis, rat-meets-imaginary-diceased-chef, rat-loses-boy, or is it boy-loses-rat…well, you see what I mean. Disney, it seems, never waivers in their instruction as to how we should conduct our relationships, but the frenetic make-up speeches at least drive the film and prevent any long periods of stagnation.

There is one point of accuracy that Anthony Bourdain must have missed. Linguini, the talent-less young chef, claims that sweetbreads are veal stomach when in fact they are either the thymus gland or pancreas of any less-than-one-year-old lamb or calf. Never-the-less, Remi, the rat hero, creates an amazing special order using the product, one that looks as if it involves a small poached egg, (possibly a partridge egg?) and a carmelized orange sauce. The people at Pixar had me salivating over a computer produced image of food. They are very good.

There are many reasons to see this film, but the main one is that it is fun. It is ride through a fantasy Paris, and a humorous send-up of chefs and their culture. It is also an example of how the animated feature film, a genre that constantly wants to stay fresh but often falls short, has a shelf-life that, with new treatment (dare I say additives? I dare not.), is far from turning stale.

Thanks to Archie

I'm stealing shamelessly from Archie again. This was too funny to pass up.