I watched the movie Stardust for the first time today. I love the novel by Neil Gaiman, and I strongly encourage you to read it. The movie is amazing, out of context. It has a plot captivating and exciting, a love story, a battle scene... several, actually. It's witty, it's cute, it's amazing. It only grazes the surface of the novel. So many characters and events were left out. The reasons or events that lead up to major points in the story are warped or dropped entirely. If one were to compare the movie to the book point for point- they'd hate it. The movie covers the main points of the plot. Gaiman had a hand in the writing, directing, and producing, so of course, it doesn't stray too far from the original plot. I think that if all the details that make it magical were put in the movie... we'd have a movie longer than Titanic, and we all knew walking in that one that the boat sinks at the end. Simply, it's an amazing movie, if you're able to watch it without comparing it to the book. The movie strays so far from the book I couldn't recognize it if I walked in halfway through, but it's still a good movie. I do recommend reading the book, though. It's far more enticing than the movie.
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
Monday, December 10, 2007
An Ode to Stupidity
I'm disappointed with people. Not all people have disappointed me, this time at least; tonight it's a specific few traits in people that have my mind.
Responsible Who? The people who never take responsibility for their actions. I don't care if you're stressed, tired, sick, dehydrated, busy, or just plain lazy. If you screw up then step up and accept it. Does the phrase "Suck it up, cupcake," mean anything? You can't go through life blaming your screw-ups on things out of your control. The fact that it was raining last Tuesday has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that you ditched half your classes and are now failing. You made a decision, and now you should be adult enough to live up to it. Making excuses is what kids do when they forget to take out the garbage or try to hide their vegetables in their glass of milk. If you're adult enough to make your own decisions, you're adult enough to take responsibility for them. When you talk to me and whine about how much your life sucks but refuse to admit that you screwed it up you end up just looking stupid. I, for one, am not going to call you out on your behavior because I know you'll just make another excuse. I don't want to hear excuses. I don't want to hear it at all, which is probably why we haven't been talking much.
Respect, anybody? I am a person who gives every living person some significant amount of respect just for getting out of bed and trying to do something with their lives. In return, I hope to get the same courtesy from most others, especially my friends. I try to respect my friends by listening when they speak, having an interest in their lives, and not being belligerently influenced when in their presence, unless of course, they welcome the influence. When a person enters my home, I expect that they can stand on their own two feet and that they have something to contribute to the social situation, may it be conversation, company, or perhaps just a friendly smile. I do not, however, expect to have to take care of you, clean up after you, and cater to you pretending that you're in need of some sort of medical attention. Of course, you wouldn't want us to call 911 for you, because then we could prove you're just being a dumbass. If you're going to be around me, respect me enough to at least be somewhat coherent when you greet me. You can get polluted later, if my company is really that poor. It's insulting when a "friend" shows up sozzled and expects me or my friends to take care of him. It would be a different story entirely if we were all sitting together and somebody felt ill.
Here's a hint: When you know you're hindered, and you know people don't like it- don't talk to them. Let your ridiculous habits ebb, then go to your friends'. Nobody wants to take care of you when you're slobbering and insufferable, no matter how charming you think you can be.
Road Rage? To the ladies and gentleman who decided to force me out of a parking lot in reverse on a one-way, nearly sideswiping the car beside me: You should have your licenses revoked. If you're going the wrong way in a one-way, and a car is coming toward you, do not approach them. Do not drive toward them, inching closer until you are 3 inches away, then turn on your brights, crank your radio, and blare your horn, expecting me to move. You're in the wrong. You're going the wrong way in a one-way. You saw me pull into the lot from at least 150 feet away, and yet you felt the need to continue going the wrong way, though the opportunity for you to turn around and exit safely was present. Not only was that stupid, it was dangerous as hell. Then, when I decide not to be a huge pain in the ass by backing my car back into the street, allowing you, and your incredibly bad taste in music to pass, decide you need to swerve around me, giving a full inch of clearance between our cars, and make decidedly evil looks at me through your windows, yelling incomprehensible whatnot through the windows you never rolled down. So now I'm stuck half in a parking lot, half in a street, locked in because you decided to act like idiots. One would think you'd finally wore out your stupidity. No such luck. Now a truck pulls out of a neighboring lot, into the street where my car is regrettably unable to move. Do you, the patrons of the Idiotmobile decide to back up and at least give me the room to finish getting into the street? No. Do you wait for the truck to pass so as not to endanger the lives of more people? Of course not! You decide to floor it, sending your car pulsing through with a hairbreadth of space on either side of your car, nearly taking out the truck in the street, my car, and the dumpster on the corner. You seriously all should go back to kindergarten. You are irresponsible, selfish, and obviously never learned that when an arrow points left, it means you go left. And when there's a circle with a slash through it, it means "no," as in "Do Not Enter." Seriously, this campus may kill me.
Responsible Who? The people who never take responsibility for their actions. I don't care if you're stressed, tired, sick, dehydrated, busy, or just plain lazy. If you screw up then step up and accept it. Does the phrase "Suck it up, cupcake," mean anything? You can't go through life blaming your screw-ups on things out of your control. The fact that it was raining last Tuesday has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that you ditched half your classes and are now failing. You made a decision, and now you should be adult enough to live up to it. Making excuses is what kids do when they forget to take out the garbage or try to hide their vegetables in their glass of milk. If you're adult enough to make your own decisions, you're adult enough to take responsibility for them. When you talk to me and whine about how much your life sucks but refuse to admit that you screwed it up you end up just looking stupid. I, for one, am not going to call you out on your behavior because I know you'll just make another excuse. I don't want to hear excuses. I don't want to hear it at all, which is probably why we haven't been talking much.
Respect, anybody? I am a person who gives every living person some significant amount of respect just for getting out of bed and trying to do something with their lives. In return, I hope to get the same courtesy from most others, especially my friends. I try to respect my friends by listening when they speak, having an interest in their lives, and not being belligerently influenced when in their presence, unless of course, they welcome the influence. When a person enters my home, I expect that they can stand on their own two feet and that they have something to contribute to the social situation, may it be conversation, company, or perhaps just a friendly smile. I do not, however, expect to have to take care of you, clean up after you, and cater to you pretending that you're in need of some sort of medical attention. Of course, you wouldn't want us to call 911 for you, because then we could prove you're just being a dumbass. If you're going to be around me, respect me enough to at least be somewhat coherent when you greet me. You can get polluted later, if my company is really that poor. It's insulting when a "friend" shows up sozzled and expects me or my friends to take care of him. It would be a different story entirely if we were all sitting together and somebody felt ill.
Here's a hint: When you know you're hindered, and you know people don't like it- don't talk to them. Let your ridiculous habits ebb, then go to your friends'. Nobody wants to take care of you when you're slobbering and insufferable, no matter how charming you think you can be.
Road Rage? To the ladies and gentleman who decided to force me out of a parking lot in reverse on a one-way, nearly sideswiping the car beside me: You should have your licenses revoked. If you're going the wrong way in a one-way, and a car is coming toward you, do not approach them. Do not drive toward them, inching closer until you are 3 inches away, then turn on your brights, crank your radio, and blare your horn, expecting me to move. You're in the wrong. You're going the wrong way in a one-way. You saw me pull into the lot from at least 150 feet away, and yet you felt the need to continue going the wrong way, though the opportunity for you to turn around and exit safely was present. Not only was that stupid, it was dangerous as hell. Then, when I decide not to be a huge pain in the ass by backing my car back into the street, allowing you, and your incredibly bad taste in music to pass, decide you need to swerve around me, giving a full inch of clearance between our cars, and make decidedly evil looks at me through your windows, yelling incomprehensible whatnot through the windows you never rolled down. So now I'm stuck half in a parking lot, half in a street, locked in because you decided to act like idiots. One would think you'd finally wore out your stupidity. No such luck. Now a truck pulls out of a neighboring lot, into the street where my car is regrettably unable to move. Do you, the patrons of the Idiotmobile decide to back up and at least give me the room to finish getting into the street? No. Do you wait for the truck to pass so as not to endanger the lives of more people? Of course not! You decide to floor it, sending your car pulsing through with a hairbreadth of space on either side of your car, nearly taking out the truck in the street, my car, and the dumpster on the corner. You seriously all should go back to kindergarten. You are irresponsible, selfish, and obviously never learned that when an arrow points left, it means you go left. And when there's a circle with a slash through it, it means "no," as in "Do Not Enter." Seriously, this campus may kill me.
Monday, December 3, 2007
Dreamer's Disease
A friend was over yesterday, a common occurrence. It was rare, however, to have him peruse the titles on my bookcase. It made me strangely pleased and yet wildly uncomfortable at the same time.
To most people books are just that, books. Inked paper pages bound between cardstock and cardboard covers, occasionally with sketches or pictures strewn about. I'm not one of those people. The books I cherish become something more; the lessons and emotions from the books get carried with me. I get protective of my books, the way I'm protective of myself.
Then somebody decided to take an interest in my books. An outsider turned the covers, leafed through the pages, saw into my books. I feel like somebody caught me singing in the shower.
The way my books were judged and weighed, I felt that it was me. The collection of books I tote from dormitories to summer camp, my apartment, and back home again, they range from Seuss to Stonehouse, Homer to Gaiman, from maritime history to faerie tales, classic novels to children's stories to psychological studies on music's effect on the human brain... even the occasional Bible. These books boldly represent aspects of who I am, aspects I myself do not so boldly wave. A scholar? A child at heart? A musician? A theorist? A dreamer. My interests, furtive obsessions, the places I escape to when I slip behind my dreams, all these secrets on display for somebody else to see.
What if he saw what I see? That is an astonishingly alarming thought. For somebody, anybody, to be able to see into what makes me laugh, what makes me tick, and what makes me dream at night; it’s quite the exposé. I never thought a bookcase could be so revealing. I walk past it fifty times a day at least, and before this I never thought much of it. I saw my bookcase as some see my books, a compilation of materials with a seemingly insignificant purpose. Now I look at it, and I see something more. All those fragments of who I am, housed on display for anybody who sets foot in my room like a Smithsonian, but all about me. It’s unsettling.
As stated before, when he showed an interest in my books I was also pleased. I live my life half hidden. I keep a lot of who I am to myself, and let people discover me the way great explorers of the past discovered New Worlds, by setting out knowing nothing, and crashing into various fractions of my psyche completely by accident. For an individual to actively seek out those corners where I keep who I am… is an usual delight. Perhaps if somebody saw those books the way I do, if somebody understood how all the intricate parts of each tale intertwined with another, then it’s possible that I don’t feel so inside myself. I wouldn’t have to hide those corners for fear of being ostracized for having them. I could overtly just be, and be all right with that.
To most people books are just that, books. Inked paper pages bound between cardstock and cardboard covers, occasionally with sketches or pictures strewn about. I'm not one of those people. The books I cherish become something more; the lessons and emotions from the books get carried with me. I get protective of my books, the way I'm protective of myself.
Then somebody decided to take an interest in my books. An outsider turned the covers, leafed through the pages, saw into my books. I feel like somebody caught me singing in the shower.
The way my books were judged and weighed, I felt that it was me. The collection of books I tote from dormitories to summer camp, my apartment, and back home again, they range from Seuss to Stonehouse, Homer to Gaiman, from maritime history to faerie tales, classic novels to children's stories to psychological studies on music's effect on the human brain... even the occasional Bible. These books boldly represent aspects of who I am, aspects I myself do not so boldly wave. A scholar? A child at heart? A musician? A theorist? A dreamer. My interests, furtive obsessions, the places I escape to when I slip behind my dreams, all these secrets on display for somebody else to see.
What if he saw what I see? That is an astonishingly alarming thought. For somebody, anybody, to be able to see into what makes me laugh, what makes me tick, and what makes me dream at night; it’s quite the exposé. I never thought a bookcase could be so revealing. I walk past it fifty times a day at least, and before this I never thought much of it. I saw my bookcase as some see my books, a compilation of materials with a seemingly insignificant purpose. Now I look at it, and I see something more. All those fragments of who I am, housed on display for anybody who sets foot in my room like a Smithsonian, but all about me. It’s unsettling.
As stated before, when he showed an interest in my books I was also pleased. I live my life half hidden. I keep a lot of who I am to myself, and let people discover me the way great explorers of the past discovered New Worlds, by setting out knowing nothing, and crashing into various fractions of my psyche completely by accident. For an individual to actively seek out those corners where I keep who I am… is an usual delight. Perhaps if somebody saw those books the way I do, if somebody understood how all the intricate parts of each tale intertwined with another, then it’s possible that I don’t feel so inside myself. I wouldn’t have to hide those corners for fear of being ostracized for having them. I could overtly just be, and be all right with that.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
