I’m not exceptionally good at poetry but like to try my hand at it now and then. This poem I crafted over the holiday break after a long and thoughtful shower (I do my best thinking half-blind with Head and Shoulders trickling in my eyes). It’s not great but not exactly horrible either. Tell me what you think.
Charley yelled at me Monday night. Apparently, my sibling readers have missed my posts lately (Work and school have proven a leech on my time and energy — even sleep has been forestalled until June). I’ve been sitting on this post for the last month-and-a-half, not wanting to post until I’ve added a few pictures, a few humoroous vignettes, a few notable insights in the human condition . . . but as this pile of labs-to-be-graded accumulates like a malignant tumor on the desk before me (“Friendly neighborhood Spiderman-mug save me!”), I figure “Screw it! Move on! Post the blog! Scribble an A on the labs! Take the day off! Move to Orlando! Marry a Disney princess . . . preferably Belle or that Tangled-chick! Use more exclamation points!!!” Carpe diem guys! Whoo ah!
Like many pilgrims before me, New Jersey welcomed me with open arms and a cocktail of …. grotesque aromas: sewer vents, tire-mushed polecat, and bilge. We had passed most of the evening on I-95, driving to upstate New York from Baltimore via Jersey, much like Dante’s trip to Paradiso via Inferno. Not being a native New Yorker, you might think this an unkind comparison, but few trips through New Jersey have taken me off the turnpike; thus, the landscape of tangled grey pipes, desiccated fields, and smoking chemical factories encompasses much of my sense memory. Still, despite the momentary assault on my lungs, the party on Saturday proved well-worth the visit.
After years of pining, dating, failing, blubbering, and ultimately dismissing the whole female race as ‘shallow sluts,’ my friend and brother, Frank ‘The Chainsaw’ had finally discovered — how had O Henry coined it? — “the one missing face from his heart’s gallery of intimate portraits.” That was two or three years ago; this weekend Frank had invited his whole ‘adopted’ family to a country club to celebrate his wedding.
It’s nearly quarter to 1AM and the boys are arguing in the other room about what late night game to play: Call of Duty or the Zombie game within Call of Duty. A four-player limit finds me the fifth wheel, and I bow out to play some Starcraft. Kevin is sleeping behind me, having passed out hours earlier. Every half-hour he mumbles incoherent curses in his sleep, a sign my roommate’s sleeping peaceful (the boy is never happy unless he’s not), rousing himself as Ryan begins his recital in the other room. I do not know what prompts it, perhaps the excitement for digital battle, the click of electronic triggers, the tinkling of bullets on 3-D landscapes. His voice begins low, gradually crescendo-ing into a rebel shout, a call to arms for humans against the inhuman, a love-letter to the battle-borne and bullet-ridden:
“Good evening,” he begins. ” In less than an hour, aircraft from here will join others from around the world. And you will be launching the largest aerial battle in the history of mankind. “Mankind.” That word should have new meaning for all of us today. We can’t be consumed by our petty differences anymore. We will be united in our common interests. Perhaps it’s fate that today is the Fourth of July, and you will once again be fighting for our freedom… Not from tyranny, oppression, or persecution… but from annihilation.”
“. . . its not really instruction. That’s what most people forget. They imagine I hurl lectures and books at kids brains and somehow the words get stuck inside. For some — the bright ones maybe — the facts’ll attach themselves somehow, but mostly the kids will end up bruised and angry.”
I paused to take a sip of coffee, allowing the caffeine to infect my words, driving my passion forward like Ben Hur in a chariot.
“Good teachers are more akin to magicians or used car salesmen, only I’m sellin’ history and science, Napoleon and Einstein. The trick is in the sleight of hand. The kids know its work; how could they forget it? But they have to want to be fooled: read Poe’s ‘Raven’ like Christopher Walken on LSD and they’ll remember the effects even if they forget who wrote it.”
To infinity and beyond!
The final frontier. As a kid, I’ve never acquired the obsession with space travel that so fascinated the prototypical ‘geeks’ of my generation. Before high school, my friends and I began to specialize: the road to anime, the way of the superhero, the path of fantasy, the . . . starport to sci-fi. Most of us would explore other genres as well, adopting one another’s obsessions in time. I introduced Dasad to Tolkien; he led me to comic shops, where I began collecting Batman; our friend, Lloyd, reveled in mecha anime, magical girls, Dragonball and Pokemon. We all loved video games so finding common ground proved easy.
Still amid all the late movie marathons and gaming sessions, their interest in space and future tech never really stuck. The nature of space and its prerequisite vacuum always seemed overwhelming and claustrophobic at the same time, like the paradox of a man trapped within infinity — or Marty always running out of time in Back to the Future.
Space is big. You just won’t believe how vastly, hugely, mind-bogglingly big it is. I mean, you may think it’s a long way down the road to the drug store, but that’s just peanuts to space. — Douglas Adams Continue reading
None of this architecture is ‘necessary,’ per se, serving no other purpose than to tantalize the eye and imagination, and just so, I love every detail. Who wouldn’t want a windmill spinning atop their house, or a clam-powered faucet?
Details are important. Any fan of H.G. Wells’ science-fiction will inform you that ignoring the little things in life can prove fatal . . . you know, because all the aliens died in Wells’ novel War of the Worlds . . . because they never considered Earth’s micro-organisms . . . and because of this ‘tiny’ oversight of these microbes the space invaders ended up a ‘little’ dead . . . which is to say ‘very.’
Which brings me to my second point: subtlety. Subtlety is also a very important quality, especially in writing. However, in theme parks, the subtle touch is best left outside the gates, along with moderation and unapproved coolers. In a well-designed theme park, the act of walking or waiting should prove as entertaining as the rides themselves, engaging the imagination as well as the senses. At the risk of sounding like a dork, I enjoy the lure of another world, of the fantasy. To quote John Hammond: “I’m not talking about rides. Everyone has rides.” Continue reading
Like a femme fatale, the curves here proved deadly.
The 3rd Annual Ice Cream Invitational. Every summer in Disney, Rodney and Ryan compete with Shannon and ‘yours truly’ in a sacred triathlon that tests the very limits of our body, our heart, and — dare I say — our sanity, a contest fit for gladiators (American or otherwise). The contest consisted of three rounds. The first grueling challenge sets brother against brother on the miniature golf course, and then the fiery hell of the tennis court . . .
Wait, why are you rolling your eyes? Seriously, whatever you THINK you know about miniature golf, forget it. Disney’s Fantasia Fairways is a theme park asylum covered in undulating green felt, reminding you why men have loved and cursed the bloody game for centuries. No cartoon castles litter the course. The pathway to the hole rises and falls like waves on a storm-tossed sea so there’s no ‘trick’ or ‘perfect putt’ to secure your hole in one . . . just luck and the pity of God. This was to be our battlefield — our Ragnarok, some may say days from now — and waiting for us at the end, a rich waffle cone, filled with soft-serve and seasoned with the blood and tears of our enemies. Continue reading