Scott: Show and Tell: The Stand-Up of Jared Parker

Here’s some stand-up material from one of my favorite comedians.

-I was watching a movie the other day and some guy wound up raising an orphan that someone left on his doorstep and it got me wondering: what is the rule about that? Are you automatically obligated to raise the baby? Can you just pass it off onto someone else’s doorstep? Can you just leave food out for it until it is big enough to crawl away? (I don’t know how I would end that one).
-I honestly don’t get what the big deal is about organic food. If you ask an organic chicken farmer what makes their chicken organic they would say “well, we don’t give it medicine or
anything that would prevent it from getting diseases.” That doesn’t impress me.
-When people ask me about sports teams I like to pretend like I think they are asking me about the animal. “What do you think about the grizzlies this season.” “I think that their numbers will continue to decrease unless something is done about human encroachment on their habitats.
-I was reading the bible the other day and was reading about that time that King Solomon solved the problem with the two ladies fighting over a baby by saying they would cut the baby in half and give each of them half and then the real mom said that she would rather have the other lady raise it and I realized something: that one lady would have been content to have half a baby.
-I want to train a hawk to catch footballs and ruin NFL games.
-Do you know who is really good at charades? People who speak sign language. Do you know the best way to cheat at charades? Pepper spray.

My Coco Confession

It’s like peanut butter; I may take a break from it every once-in-a-while, but I always go back. And when I do, it’s as amazing as the first time. It’s not like a Twix bar, with which I had a love affair about a year back and, after over-dosing one day, would forever associate with nausea and the smell of smoke. No, even after a serious over-dose, its appeal remains.

 

I refer to the pulsating force that caused my body to explode into dance last night without asking my brain or lungs for permission; a five minute, five second delicacy-of-a-rock-song called “My Coco” by the very 80sish band Stellastarr.

 

I was first introduced to it over three years ago by my friend Dave who hates everything that has to do with the 80s except for this ballad to a prostitute named Coco.

 

I never really paid attention to the plot or the words of the song. The very first time I heard it in the back of Dave’s blue Toyota, something about the combination of the singer’s nerdy voice, which fluctuates ever-so-delectably, the angelic backup singer, and the echoing guitar riffs freed something within me on a very visceral level. Their combination incited a chemical rebellion in my brain, with epileptic results.

 

Luckily, Dave and my relationship was one to foster such seizure/dances as that which occurred in the car that fall morning. Dave’s dance of choice: banging things – in this instance, the steering wheel. My dance of choice: a combination of head-banging and limb-lashing. When it was over we lay exhausted breathing heavily. The opaque breath that escaped us caught the sunlight and stained my memory.

 

Since that first encounter, “My Coco” and I have enjoyed many such flings. Last night’s episode was no less intense. Better, actually, because I’ve acquired some new dance moves.

Brooke: Avatiach, take 2

So, I am currently in the middle of re-working this. My biggest problem right now is tense. I sort of switch in and out of different tenses pretty randomly and I am trying to find a way to standardize it all, or at least make it flow. I haven’t finished re-working it, but I will post what I have done so far.
One of my professors biggest comments was that I needed to focus the story a little better. He was like: “Who’s story is this???”
So I decided to make it Ami’s. Tell me what you think…it’s significantly longer.

—

Israelis eat watermelon.
During July and August—the height of the season—the streets of Israel fill up with large wooden melon carts. The carts amble slowly, unhurried, as the vendors call through crackly old megaphones in Hebrew “Avatiach! Avatiach!” — “Watermelon, Watermelon!” People exit their houses and flow into the streets, scrambling to purchase their favorite summertime fruit. Later they will serve it in a bowl, carefully cut and cubed, with nuts and tea for their guests—the perfect summertime treat. Sweet and refreshing.
Ami Tamir left Israel.
It was an impulsive decision, sudden and startling. His parents were not very happy. He found love, love lived in Los Angeles, he moved and they married—all within a crazy whirlwind of a year. In LA the summer streets are filled with ice-cream trucks. Smooth and white, neat menus printed on their sides and loud tinny music springing from their speakers. At the sound, children run into the streets with pocket change to buy fudgesicles, ice cream sandwiches, strawberry milkshakes—whatever they can scrape up the money for. If they are lucky they might even buy one of those colorful Popsicles shaped like The Hulk or Spiderman. But even after relocating to the sleek LA suburbs—summer, for Ami, meant watermelon.
In LA there are no wooden melon carts ambling through the streets, or colorful open-air markets with piles of fresh produce. The people here spend little time deliberating over their fruit—they simply grab and go. But Ami still chooses his fruit like he did in Israel; knocking his knuckles thoughtfully on the green-striped rind, listening carefully for the sweetest and the juiciest. He always finds them, and brings them home proudly to his wife and daughter.

—

Okay, so obviously I have to finish the last part. but that’s all I’ve got so far. However! I also wanted to share some fascinating watermelon trivia I have learned over the course of my writing/research.  There is this cool and rare type of watermelon nicknamed “moon and star” watermelon for its unusually colored rind:

Scott: So Be It!

SO BE IT!

Cello

This is a poem I wrote about a cello. I don’t really like poetry. I don’t think I’m good at it:

Leaning in
To the slick red wood
Swaying like cherry trees
Feverishly pulling
Drawing out
Moving as music
In motion

also I will post pictures of the valentines I made because those were definite works of art and creative genius!

Scott: Show and Tell: Tom Waits

I recently stumbled on one of the most interesting artists I have ever encountered.  Tom Waits is a writer, actor, and first and foremost, a singer/songwriter.  Fans of the film “Mystery Men” will recognize him as Dr. A Heller who provides the super heroes with nonlethal weapons.

He is almost sixty years old and has been releasing albums since the early 70s.  A lot of his early stuff might fall under the category of Blues but his latest album “Real Gone” which came out in 2006 can only be described as experimental.  I think it’s very interesting that he has been able to stay so fresh for so long.

His voice is perhaps the strangest I have ever heard, capable of going earthquake-inducingly low and sometimes achieving a blues-meets-heavy-metal quality.  When he performs he uses expressionistic movements (I don’t think you can call it “dance”) in which he throws glitter into the air.  In the song “Chocolate Jesus” he pulls out a loudspeaker and “sings” through it into the microphone.  His precussion often involves nails and various other clanking instruments.

He won an Academy Award for making the soundtrack for Fight Club (whatever that entails), and he has won several Grammys.

Scott: Special Ed

I sat in my comfortable chair, pivoting back and forth, waiting for the site in Murray to call and set up the video-conferencing I was to facilitate.  It was my first time shooting a class conference-style; with students looking on via the internet from several other sites.  But I wasn’t nervous.  The cameras were already set up and everything else functioned automatically.  My desk faced the students.  My task was to observe.

Unlike the Chemical Engineering class I shot the day before, this course looked to be quite interesting.  At least its perspective.  On my work-order it read simply SPE ED which I was told stood for Special Ed.

The first student arrived ten minutes early.  He was at least one hundred pounds overweight and wore a green-striped shirt that looked good with his brown cap.  I wondered if there are any “special” college students who dress like gangsters or goths.

“Excuse me.  Is there an outlet around here I can plug my laptop into?”

I jumped out of my seat, scanned all the walls and in my most polite voice informed him that there were, but they probably wouldn’t reach his laptop.  I took special care not to talk to him like a child.  He frowned in frustration and sat down.  I wondered if his mom dropped him off.  Nah…  He could probably have a drivers licence… right?

As the class got closer to beginning the other students trickled in.  I was immediately impressed by the relative attractiveness of the bunch, as well as their sense of fashion. 

The professor showed up thirty seconds before the class was to start.  When the two students in Murray indicated they were ready the class began:

“Okay first, are there any questions on the brail for complex fractions?  I know the Benville System is tricky but when you work with these students you will have to be consistent.” 

Brooke: Fragment

Sorry for posting fragments. I am working on collecting now. Having a hard time creating. Hopefully this will suffice:

Audrey pulled up her hood and ducked her head. The sunlight was silvery and thin. It cast long shadows. It was late afternoon.
Audrey was a stunning conversationalist in her head. She always had the best conversations on these long walks home, which she then projected onto imagined friends. She would imagine her deepest reflections to The Baker, The Boy in Chemistry Class, The Girl Who Talked Too Quietly.
She was always bold and honest. In her mind she had confronted her mother a thousand times. Set her straight. Yelled it all out.
She took careful measured steps. Gasped little breaths, as if an exciting conversation really had been knocking the wind out of her.

Scott: HEADPHONES REQUIRED

Phil felt nauseous just seeing the aquatic blue bus come from around the corner.  He actually didn’t mind most of the potentially nauseating elements of the Capital Area Transit (CAT), which serviced the city of Raleigh, North Carolina.  He could handle the over-weight drivers who seemed to be either too friendly or not friendly enough.  He could take the griminess, the occasional disruptive character, the pervasively ethnic music selections and the faint detergent smell was actually starting to grow on him.  Phil’s discomfort came from a simple case of motion-sickness.  The narrow winding streets combined with careless driving made his daily trips between school and home a practice in mental gag-control.  His only relief was a pair of huge headphones.

Upon boarding, Phil eagerly scanned the eighteen inch strip of add space that framed the ceiling, looking for new additions.  Today it was mostly the same old adds for insurance agencies with a new SAT Prep course posted. 

There were three signs that could be found in all CAT buses.  “SHIRT AND SHOES REQUIRED; SERVICE ANIMALS WELCOME” and “HEADPHONES REQUIRED.”  For two-and-a-half years Phil didn’t bother expending the brainpower to figure out how that third sign made sense.  He didn’t even understand that he didn’t understand it, it was just there.  Until one day a young punker was referred to the sign and asked to turn off his loud stereo music. 

“Oh I’m sorry,” he said with a politeness in beautiful dissonance with his rebellious appearance.  A pair of large headphones were promptly positioned over his matted hair.  Phil would never forget what the guy said to the bus-driver before getting off:  “You know, everyone here’s wearing shirts and shoes but I don’t see too many headphones, which are required.  I think you should give ‘em the boot.” 

The next day Phil bought a pair of identical headphones.  He wore them every day since.  He didn’t own a cassette player or a radio, but that’s what made the practice pleasing to him.  He felt in on a joke that tied him to a world in which, however foreign, he had a hunch he could thrive in.  The world of polite rebellion.

Every once-in-a-while they’d get an add for community theater and once he saw an add for a local punk show.  That day he let the bus take him farther downtown than he’d ever been, entertaining a blind hope that somehow it would drop him off right at the ticket line.  He had to walk several blocks back to campus and was late for class.

Brooke: Avatiach! Avatiach!

Israelis eat watermelon.
During July and August—the height of the season—the streets of Israel fill up with large wooden melon carts. The carts amble slowly, unhurried and the vendors calling through crackly old megaphones yell in Hebrew “Avatiach! Avatiach!” — “Watermelon, Watermelon!” as people scramble to purchase their favorite summertime fruit. Later they will serve it in a bowl, carefully cut and cubed, with nuts and tea for their guests—the perfect summertime treat. Sweet and refreshing.

In America, the summer streets are filled with ice-cream trucks. Sleek and white, neat menus printed on their sides and loud tinny music springing from their speakers. Children run to the streets with pocket change to buy fudgesicles, ice cream sandwiches, strawberry milkshakes—whatever they can scrape up the money for. If they are lucky they might even buy one of those colorful Popsicles shaped like The Hulk or Spiderman.
But not Aileen Tamir. She never ate Popsicles shaped like the Hulk or like Spiderman or like any of the other cheesy Marvel superheroes. Summer in the Tamir household meant watermelon, and never mind that Los Angeles was about as far away from Israel as a person could get. It was a tradition.

The day before Ami Tamir returned to his native Israel he ate watermelon with his family one last time. It was a hot day in Los Angeles, a peaceful day. They sat together in the backyard. Nothing about the scene suggested that in just a few hours the already small family of three would be reduced to two. Fuse, the family dog, sat panting under the shade of the trampoline, chewing on watermelon rinds. Ami sat with his wife on the garden swing. He was a large man, strongly built and well over 6 feet tall. Silent, stoic, he threw the rinds to Fuse, and a small wistful smile played on his lips as the dog caught them in her hungry jaws and gnawed them down to the green.

The next morning the family woke up, Ami packed his bags, they drove the 20 minutes to the Los Angeles airport and said goodbye, forever.
“You both can come with me if you want,” Ami said one last time, his voice was thick and clumsy in English. He had never managed to hide his accent.
Aileen shook her head. She had loved all of their summer trips to Israel, but could not envision spending the rest of her life there.
“All right,” he said in a moment. “Well, then goodbye.”
A quick hug a wave of his hand, and he left. There were no tears, no sighs—just a silent, seamless acceptance. He had never belonged in Los Angeles anyways. Not in the land of shiny white ice cream trucks and metallic, manufactured tunes. He belonged in Israel, with the watermelon.