A Fairy Tale for You.

Some of you might have seen this one before, but I love it, so there.  Also, I accidentally drowned my computer, so I’m a bit out of commission.  Also, I’m freezing.  I don’ t know.  Read this:

Once upon a time there was a little poison tree frog who wanted very badly to be good at something.
This little poison tree frog had this idea that success mattered. He wanted to be recognized for having something that other people valued.
He wanted to be handsome, funny, intelligent–talented. Especially talented.
He wanted people to smile when they saw him. He wanted people to smile when they heard his name.
In the early days, this desire was all-consuming. He slaved over any and all work he did–climbing trees, being colorful, poisoning shit. It drove him kind of crazy.
The little poison tree frog sought out advice, and the best advice he got, or so he thought, came from a leaf he knew but did not eat.
The leaf said: “what difference does it make if you’re great at something? You can poison some shit just enough to make it sick. You can have mildly vibrant colors. As for climbing, I’m only on this branch. Why would you need to go any higher?”

And the little poison tree frog, he liked this line of reasoning.
He hadn’t really been recognized for his extra efforts.
The sound of his name inspired smiles in some, but not all of the people he knew.
What was wrong with that?
So he relaxed.
He let the craziness flee from his head.
He settled in on the branch next to the leaf he knew but did not eat.

But.
Something within him made him want to keep producing poison.
Better poison.
Deadlier poison.
More killery poison.
And he did, in his spare time.
He studied the power of poisons, and became adept at it.
The other frogs, they knew what he was doing.
It wasn’t unusual.
He was working hard, the way another small segment of the frog population also did.
But the little poison tree frog, his poison got really, really good.

Only problem is this: deadly poison isn’t the most valued commodity in the tree frog population.
It’s surprising, I know.
Tree frogs love beauty, love color.
Poison is respected, but not celebrated.
Well, celebrated when it’s useful, when it’s really effing good.
But it’s not an everyday need, let’s say.

So our little poison tree frog, he decides he needs a more marketable skill.
Something to get him into position to better focus on his passion, which was poisoning shit.
So he decides to learn to fly.
Now, flying is very important to tree frogs.
I know, it’s surprising.
You didn’t even know they could fly.
Well, they can.
If you’re a tree frog and you’re bad at flying, you’re in a rough position.
No matter how good your poison is.

So our hero, he decides to learn to fly.
And guess what?
He hates it.
He hates the wind in his face.
He hates having to climb to the top of a tree just to jump off it.
He hates the philosophy of flying.
He’s fine with walking, with jumping, with taking his time.
He’s fine with staying home and working on his poison.
This flying stuff–he’s sure it will make him a better tree frog, but he just hates it.

And he’s not sure what the heck he’s going to do about that.
And on some level, he thinks that the real root of his problem goes way back to that one conversation he had with the leaf he knows but does not eat.

“What if I wasn’t so afraid of the crazy?”
That’s what he thinks.
“What if I was content to not understand this flying thing?”
“I’m old, and I’m great at poisoning shit, and that could be enough, it should be enough. It’s a whole lot of work, and it’s not guaranteed, and keeping all that deadly poison in my house could be a real problem.”
“But god damn, all I’ve really ever wanted to do was poison shit.”
“No–all I’ve really ever wanted to do was be really really really good at something.”
This is all what he thinks.
And it’s all that he thinks.
“And I’m really really really good at poisoning shit.”

But then he wonders about flight, and he wonders if he’s just settling for not knowing how to fly, if the fact of the matter is that flight is just too hard and what he’s rebelling against, the hard work, and maybe this is him following the words of the leaf, maybe here he’s settling for being average, maybe he needs to fly in order to, he doesn’t know, find new ways to drop poison on the unsuspecting heads of shit that needs poisoning.
Hmm. He kind of likes that thought.

And guess what he’s doing while he’s thinking all this?

Exactly.
He’s thinking about it.
And not doing anything about either thing.

So he resolves–or tries to resolve–to do both.
Until he goes crazy.
Or until it gets easier.
Or until he becomes famous for his poison.
Or his flight, he guesses.

And the one thing he wonders–wonders a lot–is if he would have been happier just being a leaf.

Okay, Wait. Really? Chihuahua?

I’m often faced with conflicted emotions when I stumble across something like this.  Part of me doesn’t want to link to it or even acknowledge its presence.  But the fact of the matter remains that this motherfucking thing exists, and I’m flabbergasted.  And I’ve got a blog, so I’m almost obligated to talk about it.  So here we go?

Really?

Beverly Hills Chihuahua?

George Lopez, Paul Rodriguez, Salma Hayek?  Really?  SALMA HAYEK?  Salma Hayek plays (I imagine) a chihuahua named Foxy.  In Mexico.  And she’s not the star–the star is Drew Barrymore.

Somehow, that almost pisses me off more than anything else  (and those of you who know me know my longtime affection for Drew–remind me to tell the story of serving her breakfast in bed if you haven’t heard it).  But really?  It’s a movie placing these dogs as some kind of Aztec Warriors (although, as that wiki link about claims, they’re actually showing a version of Peru in those clips, not Mexico), and it stars all the Mexicans in Hollywood (yes, even Cheech), and Drew Barrymore is the lead?

I mean, not even Cameron Diaz?  Jessica Alba?  Some other Latina/Chicana who is passing and would therefore make the whole thing at least some kind of meta-cinematic train wreck exercise?

But really.  It’s early to pass judgment.  I have little information on this thing that what you see above.

But what you see above might just be enough.

I Am Iron Man.

So my friend Calvin described Iron Man like this (and I’m paraphrasing, I think): “It manages to not suck.  I mean that as a compliment.”  And I knew exactly what he meant.  Now it’s Sunday, I’ve just watched the movie, and I really know what he meant.  And it’s a high compliment indeed.

Superhero movies, as Calvin and I discussed, tend to inspire a certain amount of fear in fans of the source material.  Your hope, as a fan, is that the stuff you love about the character won’t get lost in the crossover to the big screen.  Now, I’m not going to say I was ever a big fan of Iron Man, but I knew a little something about the mythology, and I know a little something about comic book universes in general, so I definitely had a bit of trepidation when the original announcement of the flick came out.  But I wasn’t disappointed, and as I heard secondhand about Hustle and Flow (another Terrance Howard flick…hmmm), Iron Man was definitely some beautiful bullshit.

The movie is all over the place.  It’s one of those flicks where dude wants to stop the senseless killing and blowing up of stuff, and can only do it through, yes, killing and blowing up of stuff.  But it’s Robert Downey Jr doing all that, and he’s playing a prick playboy, and I gotta admit–it made me kind of want to be a prick playboy.  That’s not something I generally want to be.  So I guess that’s saying something.

I’m not going to break down Iron Man.  It’s Iron Man.  I will say this: the last line of that movie is exactly what the last line of that movie should be.  And I think that sums up the movie itself.  It is what is, and it is what it should be.

Make The Bed by The Beatards

These are The Beatards: Deejay O, Chuck Wild, and UTK the INC.

Disgustingly talented, impossibly skinny.

For those of you who go way back, you might remember O and UTK from Welcome to Arroyo’s–UTK onstage, O behind the scenes.

These days, they’re making beds and complaining about it.

Can I Get a Thick Witness?

http://thickwitness.com/ — that’s my homegirl Chinaka.

She’s kind of a genius.

And fine, of course.

I recommend adding her to your RSS feed. After you add the Smichovsky Compensation Syndrome, of course.

Of course, of course.

I Can’t Be Expected To Keep Up This Pace.

So last night I go to this reading at The Women’s Project–oh right, I mentioned it in my last post. So I go, and I’ve got no idea what to expect…and I laughed my ass off. It’s a bizarre play, made more bizarre by the fact that it’s written by Virginia Woolf, who for some reason you just wouldn’t expect to have written something so light and silly and ultimately fun. I won’t review it, because (a) I don’t think I’m going to review stuff here and (b) it was a reading, and an early reading at that, and SITI is going to be doing an actual production of the play (called Freshwater) at The Women’s Project in January 2009. All I’ll say is I’m glad I went (not always the case with theater), and I’m actually pretty excited about seeing the full production next season.

Also of note…Zaytoon’s. I love it. It’s my favorite restaurant ever. There’s one near-ish my apartment. I go there a lot. I don’t have anything to say about it, really, other than I love it. Dearly. And I ate there last night. I don’t think I will mention every time I eat at Zaytoon’s in this blog, because that would get embarassing.

I am going to try to keep up on all the stuff I do this summer, and I’m hoping it’ll all be of some kind of interest to you New Yorkers, not because I’m doing it, but because you might want to do it too. It’s like peer pressure. Almost exactly.

Oh…and I’m halfway through Snuff, the new Chuck Palahniuk. It’s definitely a Chuck Palahniuk. Quick read, fun, dark, ridiculous. And this one’s about porn, which always means a fun read. He even name drops Violet Blue, which isn’t exactly surprising, but is fun to note. There was something else I wanted to say about Snuff, but I can’t remember it right now. I’ll do a fuller review when I’m finished.

Damn. Didn’t I just say no reviews?

More Ways You Know The Semester Is Over.

1.  I cleaned my room today.  Finally.

1a.  This isn’t a way you know the semester is over.  It’s more of a statement.  I love the Swiffer.  God damn that’s a great invention.  My room smells LOVELY (c) Savion Glover (there is no way anyone reading this will get that reference).

2.  I’m going to a play reading tonight instead of going to class.  It’s at The Women’s Project.  It’s a Virginia Woolf play being read by SITI Company.

2a.  That’s right.  I’m going to a reading of a Virginia Woolf play by the SITI Company, and it’s not for school.  You can see that I’m starved for outside endeavors.  (This, of course, is not a shot at Ms. Woolf or SITI–it’s just that I’m not exactly a huge fan of either entity.  I’m excited about this though–can only be  the post-school giddies.  That’s right, I said giddies.

The Sad Tale of Billy, Boy Barista.

once upon a time there was a boy named billy.
from the time he could speak, he expressed interest in only potential career path.
he wanted to serve the people.
he wanted to serve them coffee.

at age seven, billy was assigned a school project in which he would research any of the world’s countries and speak about its main exports.
billy selected brazil.
he spoke of coffee.
he brought in fine imported beans.
the smell was intoxicating.
billy did what one does when they smell something intoxicating.
he ate the bean.

instantly, billy’s mind flushed with horrible visions.
this bean tasted awful.
how could this bode well for coffee itself?
billy, you see, was not yet old enough to drink coffee.
his mother feared that it would stunt his growth.

and now, before drinking a sip, billy’s mouth was filled with grit and bean.
he did not like the feeling.
he did not like the taste.
his young life flashed before his eyes.
he had already dedicated his life to this cause.
he already knew how to skim the film off the top of heated milk.
although he wasn’t yet allowed to heat the milk himself, and couldn’t reach the stovetop if he was.
he knew how espresso worked, and looked down his nose at those who pronounced it expresso, even if his nose was rarely high enough to look down it at anything other that a poison tree frog.
or a coffee bean.
and right now, he was looking down his nose at that bean, that bean that was destroying his taste buds, destroying his dream.

he wasn’t sure how he would carry on.

You Know The Semester is Over When…

1.  You finish a test, go straight to a bookstore (SHAKESPEARE AND CO, WHAT!), and buy three brand new books that are in no way school related.  Junot Diaz and Chuck Palahniuk are the best celebrations of a completed school year that I can imagine.

2.  You start a brand new blog that you will undoubtedly struggle to update regularly throughout the summer, and almost certainly abandon by the time school starts again in the fall.

3.  The semester isn’t really over, but there’s only that one last take-home essay/final that you’re confident you can bang out in an hour but will probably take several hours and you’ll be cursing your overconfidence all the way through.

4.  You’ve already gotten an A for a class you don’t think you deserved an A in.

5.  You’re making plans, big plans, to explore the fuck out of New York City all summer long, and these plans include puppets this week, Lauren Ambrose in Central Park sometime soon, the Brooklyn Cyclones as often as possible, and of course, a new digital camera.

I won’t yet tell you what my plans are for this blog, but I have plans, which is unusual for me.

I’ll try to stick to them.