Bless me readers, for I have sinned. It's been over a month since my last post...
I will not have the time or the space here to write what I am thinking and feeling right now, but I have to get something down. This one is really for myself, though I thank anyone who feels compelled to read it.
On Monday, October 26, I participated in Challenge Day, a day-long event we're wrapping up here today after cycling through over 300 students and many teachers. To find out what Challenge Day is, go to www.challengeday.org.
It would be cliche, I guess, to say that I was transformed. And maybe, it would be a stretch. But after spending the day with 100 high school students and truly learning what is in their hearts and on their minds in an environment free of prejudice and judgment, I CAN say that I was, myself, challenged to recommit to my profession. In these days following my experience, I have felt an energy and a lightness. And I have also felt a burden of sorts.
How can we make an experience like Challenge Day a key fabric in our lives' quilts? It would be a waste of money, for one thing, to see the event as the opportunity to have had "one great day," though even for that, I think many in attendance would be grateful.
But how does Challenge Day work in the "real world"?
I have to take a moment to name drop Sean Flikke and Khayree Shaheed, our Challenge Day leaders. You probably won't know who they are, but I want you to know how inspired I am by them. How thankful I am to God for blessing me with placing these two unearthly (and yet, SO EARTHLY) men in my path. The very thought of them makes me feel like a groupie/stalker. If life was filled with people like this, we'd be more exhausted, but also better. These men are true heroes, and if our paths should never cross again, I will still not soon forget what they did for our school community.
In the coming days and weeks, I plan to reflect on Challenge Day more, both in my writing and thinking. I'm trying to figure out how, as a teacher, I can translate the safety, security, and openness of what happened here into a reasonable, realistic and professional environment. Sean told us that research shows that we need to receive at least a half-dozen hugs every day. That's probably not going to happen on the job. But what can happen here? I hope we figure something out. Life is a challenge. Every day is another kind of "challenge day." I only wish it could be more like the one I attended on Monday.
Right now, I have one hope...one prayer. I pray that the students and faculty members who attended any of the three days of Challenge Day at our school would know that I was there, too. That I am someone they can talk to and confide in. That I carry that spirit. At this point, that's probably the best thing I could hope for: to connect with others and spread that compassion as far as it can go.
Don't panic...I am still the same me. I don't expect to live a life free of sarcasm and complaints. I love sarcasm!
But I've been challenged this week. And I plan to rise up to meet that challenge.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Monday, September 14, 2009
It's time for Kanye to get what he deserves, not what he wants!
If you're driving down my relatively quiet Naperville street in the coming days and happen to witness a silver disc glistening in the sunlight as it slices the Indian summer air after having been ejected from my second floor office window, you'll know that I came across another Kanye West cd in my collection and am showing it the same respect that Kanye West shows others.
After last night, I am DONE with Kanye West.
For those of you that are unaware, open a new tab in your browser while you're reading this, go to YouTube, and type in Kanye's name along with "Taylor Swift" and "VMAs" and you'll have your needed point of reference. I did not see it live as it happened. I was in Soldier Field at the U2 concert. A funny coincidence that I was consuming the music of an act that truly cares about people and attempts (whether you like them or not) to edify the soul in some small way.
Meanwhile, Taylor Swift, a country singer, wins a VMA that we might have expected to go to Beyonce, and Kanye jumps up to steal the microphone.
Steals it right out of her hands...a teenage girl with the biggest-selling album of 2009. Her first VMA. And then he says, "Hey Taylor. I'm really happy for you..." and then proceeds to spout off about how Beyonce made "one of the best music videos of all-time" (for "Single Ladies") and deserved the award instead. He then returns the mic and walks away, leaving a stunned Swift in front of a huge audience (with millions more at home), as she attempts to hold herself together. A camera shot of the crowd shows an equally-blindsided Beyonce, who cannot believe what she's hearing. Taylor maintains her composure but cannot muster a thank-you speech after that. Beyonce, showing much class, gives Taylor her moment back later in the evening by giving her acceptance speech time to Swift.
That Kanye would insert himself into a moment that had nothing to do with him is not much of a suprise. And while it's hard to know for sure exactly what his motives were -- genuine outrage at a perceived injustice? racial motivation? self-publicity? -- one thing IS clear. Kanye West, for whatever reason, feels entitled to the spotlight. He believes to his soul that he not only deserves to be the most highly-decorated recording artist in music today, but that all others should pause whenever he has a thought, idea or opinion. Funny enough, his ego eclipses even that of Bono's...one of the biggest egos of our time. But at least Bono uses his for good and is self-depreciating about it.
The sad thing in all of this is that Kanye needed the spotlight to shine on him last night. By pulling this stunt, he has all of us talking about him, and that's exactly what he wants. Here I am, guilty as hell and giving him MORE publicity by dwelling on the incident. And sure, there is genuine backlash. Donald Trump is one of many celebrities calling for a boycott of Kanye's music. Pink went on "The Today Show" this morning and called him a "toolbox" (among other things).
Kanye West is arrogant, self-serving, self-righteous, vainglorious, abrasive and delusional. He's also incredibly, incredibly talented. And herein lies the problem that I was wrestling with...until now.
I have always believed that I could separate the artist from the art. I have liked in the past -- and continued to like -- the work of actors, singers, musicians and artists who, in their personal lives, exhibit questionable (if not deplorable) moral behavior. I am not self-righteous. The "those who live in glass houses" line is never buried too far back in my brain. I am there for the art, not the artist. So even as Kanye's infamous jerk-ness expanded, I pushed it to the back because the first three cds were crazy-good. (Not so much the latest auto-tune adventure, but that's a story for another day.)
But as I get older, I'm finding it harder to separate the art from the artist. And Kanye continues to win my hard-earned money as well as too much of my time. I feel sorry that this is at the expense of Taylor Swift, an artist that I have NO interest in...I should disclose. But I'm glad this happened. I just woke up.
Is it ridiculous to boycott Kanye West? No, I don't think so. The great thing about his line of work is that WE are the ones who give him his power, and we can take it away. And since it's hard to drop someone from your list of favorites or just your radar because of stunts like this, here's my opinion. If you're going to listen to Kanye after today, don't pay him. I've never advocated illegal downloading of music, but from now on, if I like a Kanye song, that's how I'll be getting it. I won't attend one of his shows or a multi-artist show with him on the bill. I'll hit "mute" when I see him on TV and scroll past his comments when they pop up on a computer screen.
We need to stop giving the power to people who misuse it! There are PLENTY of other talents out there doing work that is just as good and far more positive. It's time for us to give Kaney what he deserves, because I'm tired of him always getting what he wants.
This is not a race issue. This is not a religion issue. This is about human dignity, decency and respect. Nobody deserves to be treated the way Kanye treats just about everyone in his path. When you support him, you give him permission. And I can't believe I'm saying that out loud because I never used to feel that way. But when we do nothing, we give permission. And he'll keep making great music and my kids will fall in love with him and he'll be their example, their role model. And that though makes me SICK.
I still like Kanye's music. I'm keeping the good songs that I've already paid for on my iTunes. But right now, I'm using "The College Dropout" as a coaster for my can of Diet Pepsi Lime. If it wouldn't hurt so bad, I'd even wipe my butt with it. But I'll get off of my soapbox now and crank up the U2 in my office, and you can tease me about how commercial they've become, or how grandiose, or how silly all of the AIDS and Africa and political grandstanding stuff is. But my conscience is clean, and I'm getting to the age where few things are more important. Hell, I might even check out that Taylor Swift...
After last night, I am DONE with Kanye West.
For those of you that are unaware, open a new tab in your browser while you're reading this, go to YouTube, and type in Kanye's name along with "Taylor Swift" and "VMAs" and you'll have your needed point of reference. I did not see it live as it happened. I was in Soldier Field at the U2 concert. A funny coincidence that I was consuming the music of an act that truly cares about people and attempts (whether you like them or not) to edify the soul in some small way.
Meanwhile, Taylor Swift, a country singer, wins a VMA that we might have expected to go to Beyonce, and Kanye jumps up to steal the microphone.
Steals it right out of her hands...a teenage girl with the biggest-selling album of 2009. Her first VMA. And then he says, "Hey Taylor. I'm really happy for you..." and then proceeds to spout off about how Beyonce made "one of the best music videos of all-time" (for "Single Ladies") and deserved the award instead. He then returns the mic and walks away, leaving a stunned Swift in front of a huge audience (with millions more at home), as she attempts to hold herself together. A camera shot of the crowd shows an equally-blindsided Beyonce, who cannot believe what she's hearing. Taylor maintains her composure but cannot muster a thank-you speech after that. Beyonce, showing much class, gives Taylor her moment back later in the evening by giving her acceptance speech time to Swift.
That Kanye would insert himself into a moment that had nothing to do with him is not much of a suprise. And while it's hard to know for sure exactly what his motives were -- genuine outrage at a perceived injustice? racial motivation? self-publicity? -- one thing IS clear. Kanye West, for whatever reason, feels entitled to the spotlight. He believes to his soul that he not only deserves to be the most highly-decorated recording artist in music today, but that all others should pause whenever he has a thought, idea or opinion. Funny enough, his ego eclipses even that of Bono's...one of the biggest egos of our time. But at least Bono uses his for good and is self-depreciating about it.
The sad thing in all of this is that Kanye needed the spotlight to shine on him last night. By pulling this stunt, he has all of us talking about him, and that's exactly what he wants. Here I am, guilty as hell and giving him MORE publicity by dwelling on the incident. And sure, there is genuine backlash. Donald Trump is one of many celebrities calling for a boycott of Kanye's music. Pink went on "The Today Show" this morning and called him a "toolbox" (among other things).
Kanye West is arrogant, self-serving, self-righteous, vainglorious, abrasive and delusional. He's also incredibly, incredibly talented. And herein lies the problem that I was wrestling with...until now.
I have always believed that I could separate the artist from the art. I have liked in the past -- and continued to like -- the work of actors, singers, musicians and artists who, in their personal lives, exhibit questionable (if not deplorable) moral behavior. I am not self-righteous. The "those who live in glass houses" line is never buried too far back in my brain. I am there for the art, not the artist. So even as Kanye's infamous jerk-ness expanded, I pushed it to the back because the first three cds were crazy-good. (Not so much the latest auto-tune adventure, but that's a story for another day.)
But as I get older, I'm finding it harder to separate the art from the artist. And Kanye continues to win my hard-earned money as well as too much of my time. I feel sorry that this is at the expense of Taylor Swift, an artist that I have NO interest in...I should disclose. But I'm glad this happened. I just woke up.
Is it ridiculous to boycott Kanye West? No, I don't think so. The great thing about his line of work is that WE are the ones who give him his power, and we can take it away. And since it's hard to drop someone from your list of favorites or just your radar because of stunts like this, here's my opinion. If you're going to listen to Kanye after today, don't pay him. I've never advocated illegal downloading of music, but from now on, if I like a Kanye song, that's how I'll be getting it. I won't attend one of his shows or a multi-artist show with him on the bill. I'll hit "mute" when I see him on TV and scroll past his comments when they pop up on a computer screen.
We need to stop giving the power to people who misuse it! There are PLENTY of other talents out there doing work that is just as good and far more positive. It's time for us to give Kaney what he deserves, because I'm tired of him always getting what he wants.
This is not a race issue. This is not a religion issue. This is about human dignity, decency and respect. Nobody deserves to be treated the way Kanye treats just about everyone in his path. When you support him, you give him permission. And I can't believe I'm saying that out loud because I never used to feel that way. But when we do nothing, we give permission. And he'll keep making great music and my kids will fall in love with him and he'll be their example, their role model. And that though makes me SICK.
I still like Kanye's music. I'm keeping the good songs that I've already paid for on my iTunes. But right now, I'm using "The College Dropout" as a coaster for my can of Diet Pepsi Lime. If it wouldn't hurt so bad, I'd even wipe my butt with it. But I'll get off of my soapbox now and crank up the U2 in my office, and you can tease me about how commercial they've become, or how grandiose, or how silly all of the AIDS and Africa and political grandstanding stuff is. But my conscience is clean, and I'm getting to the age where few things are more important. Hell, I might even check out that Taylor Swift...
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
If you're talking about my Michael, you can't see him in just black or white.
An editorial in today’s Chicago Tribune astutely observes the notion that Michael Jackson’s death and yesterday’s memorial service has divided most people into two distinct groups. To paraphrase, the article said that you either don’t understand what all of the hoopla is about, or you don’t understand how someone couldn’t understand the hoopla. One might further interpret this to say that one camp says “why are we focusing so much praise an attention on this child molesting freak?” while the other is saying “why can you not show your respect to a genius entertainer and great humanitarian?”
I would like to think I’m an intelligent guy. Consequently, I’m well aware of the mess, the conundrum. When Al Sharpton said to Jackson’s three children at the yesterday’s service: “Wasn’t nothing strange about your daddy,” I threw up in my mouth a little bit. What a great thing to say to those kids in an attempt to comfort them. And what a lie!
In my last note, I wrote about how the eccentricities and strange behaviors and mysteries of Michael Jackson were part of what made him so endlessly fascinating and watchable. If you read that and interpreted it as my condoning Jackson’s mistakes and inappropriate behaviors, you did not interpret my words as I had intended them. Tribune columnist John Kass said this morning that people like me are not really mourning the loss of MJ so much as the loss of our childhood. I think he meant this as an insult in the context in which he wrote it, but I am also quite certain that I was up front about the fact that this was such a large part of my personal sadness about Jackson’s death.
I watched the whole memorial service yesterday and cried my eyes out. I’m neither proud nor embarrassed by it. A funeral should render one human, remind us that we are all on this Earth for a short while but for the grace of God. The things that moved me yesterday—I would argue—should move anyone who is in touch with his or her own humanity! There are probably few funerals occurring in this world in which 100% of the attendees hold no anger or shame, disgust or disappointment about the person who has passed on. The dead was a human being, one who by definition falls short of glory. It reminds me of the old adage that if you want to make an omelet, you have to break a few eggs. Such is life.
Remembering the joy given to me as a kid by listening to Michael Jackson and watching his videos and performances does not render me morally unaware or spiritually bereft. Honoring his gifts to the world of entertainment does not mean that I forgive or ignore the man’s inappropriate actions and wayward decisions. Loving and missing Michael Jackson does not make me a member of any particular political party, nor does it make me a sympathizer to any particular race or social class or religion. To put it another way, I am not perfect and nor is my family. But guys like Michael sure make me "more normal"!
The growing hostility over our judgments about MJ as a good or evil force sent me back to the Bible, looking for wisdom on the idea of judgment. “Judge not others, lest you be judged” was sticking in my head, and I was ready to throw that out at all of my friends who were on the MJ attack. But I was smart to dig in a little further, because the Bible also talks about the need to make righteous judgments between what is good and what is evil (John 7:24) and even goes so far as to say that we should remove ourselves from those who “walk disorderly,” which requires us to, essentially, sit in judgment of them (2 Thes 3:6). But then there’s the whole danger of hypocritical judging, and that threat probably scares me more than anything else. And it got me to thinking about Michael Jackson. Should I be concerned that my praise of Michael Jackson’s contributions to entertainment means that I forgive the bad things? So I did a little digging. And here’s what I found. And I’m not even going to go there with the whole “glass houses” saying, because you know it already. They always say that genius and madness walk hand in hand, so dig this:
Some of Michelangelo’s great works as an older gentleman were inspired by his love of boys. Is an appreciation of his art an endorsement of homosexual pedophelia?
Thomas Jefferson, as we all know, was one of the first in a long line of politicians to harbor a mistress. Do you look at the Declaration of Independence differently because of it?
Thomas Edison was a de facto atheist, believing not in God, but “nature.” To boycott all of the stuff he invented in protest would literally leave us, well, in the dark.
Walt Disney was a high school drop out. Not a very good example for kids.
President Obama struggles to refrain from smoking cigarettes. Does supporting him demonstrate the support of cancer-inducing tobacco products?
You get the point. I don’t want to be smug or get ridiculous, so I’ll stop there. Clearly, there are thousands of examples of people who have made great contributions to society, politics and culture who made questionable, even reprehensible choices as human beings.
I’ll end this note with something I know for sure. I believe that my appreciation for Michael Jackson, even though I’m a Christian, fairly conservative, middle class suburban white guy, is neither hypocritical nor invalidating nor misled. It’s the same thing, I think, as anyone who watches “The Batchelor,” a show that I think makes a mockery of the institution of marriage and turns it into a game show. Or anyone who watches “Jon and Kate Plus 8,” a repulsive exploitation of a fragile family. Or any of three dozen other reality shows on television that lavish misguided attention on the unimpressive and unworthy.
And yet, I can see why some of us watch that stuff. I can see what draws you in. This stuff is life’s gapers’ delay. It’s none of your business but you can't not watch. Why? “Tell ‘em that it’s human nature.”
I would like to think I’m an intelligent guy. Consequently, I’m well aware of the mess, the conundrum. When Al Sharpton said to Jackson’s three children at the yesterday’s service: “Wasn’t nothing strange about your daddy,” I threw up in my mouth a little bit. What a great thing to say to those kids in an attempt to comfort them. And what a lie!
In my last note, I wrote about how the eccentricities and strange behaviors and mysteries of Michael Jackson were part of what made him so endlessly fascinating and watchable. If you read that and interpreted it as my condoning Jackson’s mistakes and inappropriate behaviors, you did not interpret my words as I had intended them. Tribune columnist John Kass said this morning that people like me are not really mourning the loss of MJ so much as the loss of our childhood. I think he meant this as an insult in the context in which he wrote it, but I am also quite certain that I was up front about the fact that this was such a large part of my personal sadness about Jackson’s death.
I watched the whole memorial service yesterday and cried my eyes out. I’m neither proud nor embarrassed by it. A funeral should render one human, remind us that we are all on this Earth for a short while but for the grace of God. The things that moved me yesterday—I would argue—should move anyone who is in touch with his or her own humanity! There are probably few funerals occurring in this world in which 100% of the attendees hold no anger or shame, disgust or disappointment about the person who has passed on. The dead was a human being, one who by definition falls short of glory. It reminds me of the old adage that if you want to make an omelet, you have to break a few eggs. Such is life.
Remembering the joy given to me as a kid by listening to Michael Jackson and watching his videos and performances does not render me morally unaware or spiritually bereft. Honoring his gifts to the world of entertainment does not mean that I forgive or ignore the man’s inappropriate actions and wayward decisions. Loving and missing Michael Jackson does not make me a member of any particular political party, nor does it make me a sympathizer to any particular race or social class or religion. To put it another way, I am not perfect and nor is my family. But guys like Michael sure make me "more normal"!
The growing hostility over our judgments about MJ as a good or evil force sent me back to the Bible, looking for wisdom on the idea of judgment. “Judge not others, lest you be judged” was sticking in my head, and I was ready to throw that out at all of my friends who were on the MJ attack. But I was smart to dig in a little further, because the Bible also talks about the need to make righteous judgments between what is good and what is evil (John 7:24) and even goes so far as to say that we should remove ourselves from those who “walk disorderly,” which requires us to, essentially, sit in judgment of them (2 Thes 3:6). But then there’s the whole danger of hypocritical judging, and that threat probably scares me more than anything else. And it got me to thinking about Michael Jackson. Should I be concerned that my praise of Michael Jackson’s contributions to entertainment means that I forgive the bad things? So I did a little digging. And here’s what I found. And I’m not even going to go there with the whole “glass houses” saying, because you know it already. They always say that genius and madness walk hand in hand, so dig this:
Some of Michelangelo’s great works as an older gentleman were inspired by his love of boys. Is an appreciation of his art an endorsement of homosexual pedophelia?
Thomas Jefferson, as we all know, was one of the first in a long line of politicians to harbor a mistress. Do you look at the Declaration of Independence differently because of it?
Thomas Edison was a de facto atheist, believing not in God, but “nature.” To boycott all of the stuff he invented in protest would literally leave us, well, in the dark.
Walt Disney was a high school drop out. Not a very good example for kids.
President Obama struggles to refrain from smoking cigarettes. Does supporting him demonstrate the support of cancer-inducing tobacco products?
You get the point. I don’t want to be smug or get ridiculous, so I’ll stop there. Clearly, there are thousands of examples of people who have made great contributions to society, politics and culture who made questionable, even reprehensible choices as human beings.
I’ll end this note with something I know for sure. I believe that my appreciation for Michael Jackson, even though I’m a Christian, fairly conservative, middle class suburban white guy, is neither hypocritical nor invalidating nor misled. It’s the same thing, I think, as anyone who watches “The Batchelor,” a show that I think makes a mockery of the institution of marriage and turns it into a game show. Or anyone who watches “Jon and Kate Plus 8,” a repulsive exploitation of a fragile family. Or any of three dozen other reality shows on television that lavish misguided attention on the unimpressive and unworthy.
And yet, I can see why some of us watch that stuff. I can see what draws you in. This stuff is life’s gapers’ delay. It’s none of your business but you can't not watch. Why? “Tell ‘em that it’s human nature.”
Monday, July 6, 2009
He's asked if I'd seen his childhood and then took mine with him
They always tell you that turning 18 or 21 doesn't make you an adult, but marriage does. And then if that doesn't work, you REALLY become an adult when you have a child of your own. Yet for me, though I'm many years past both of those road markers of life, I have always felt a slight sense of youthful inability and unknowing. The positive spin on this feeling is to say that I have maintained a youthful spirit into my mid-30s, instead of saying that I "haven't grown up," which sounds awfully negative.
But now, I'm an adult. Probably for good. It happened on June 25, 2009. I was with my wife and kids on vacation. We were riding a streetcar in New Orleans when we got the call from my mother-in-law. "How's Keith doing?" she asked my wife over the phone. Of course we hadn't heard yet...Michael Jackson died.
Know this: Michael Jackson is not my favorite performer or recording artist of all-time. He's not even my favorite Jackson. Anyone who knows me knows that I'd take Prince over Michael any day of the week and that I had a major Janet addiction that lasted from high school into early adulthood. But this was never at the expense of loving, appreciating and respecting Michael. And when I found out he was dead, it hit me harder than I expected. Though he hadn't done anything culturally or musically significant for years, he was still...there. And now he's not. And it almost feels like God telling me that I can keep my youthful spirit but I have to be an adult now. And I'm having a hard time with it.
How big of a Michael fan am I? We were talking about it this past weekend at my grandmother's 90th birthday party. I bought "Thriller" with my own allowance money and ran back to Value Village for the "State of Shock" 45 when it came out. I walked to school every day wearing the sequined glove my mom made for me. They were complimented by my own pair of Michael's large, mirrored sunglasses. "You must have been teased on the playground," a relative said. "Hell, no," I replied. "I've been teased for many things, but never that. I was the coolest kid on the playground with that glove. " In the years that followed, I remember watching "Friday Night Videos" on NBC because we didn't have cable yet. I remember the uproar over the "Black or White" video premiere on FOX. New Michael videos were cultural events that transcened even cable ownership or the lack thereof. And whether people are willing to admit it or not, everyone loved Michael Jackson at one time or another. I'm half tempted to believe that a person my age who claims to never have liked him is a flat-out liar.
Now that I'm an adult -- whether that happened years ago or just last week -- I'm supposed to say that his passing is for the best, that he was washed up and didn't have a classic like "Thriller" since the early 90s, and that he was a freak with no sense of reality and no moral compass. Indeed, the saturation of media coverage (which I agree is over the top) is equally split between his accomplishments and his dubious behaviors. Michael was a genius, they say. He was a genius...and a drug addict...and a child molester. But I say -- he was a star. The kind of star we'll never have again.
When I was a kid, a true "star" was a person living life on another plane. Prince decorated everything in purple and changed his name to an unpronouceable symbol. Madonna reinvented herself with every new album. We had Mr. T and Pee Wee Herman and Cyndi Lauper and so many more. And most of them were eccentric to the point of barely being in touch with the average joe. And that's why we loved them. They were in another universe. They were true stars. Michael Jackson was the best of all of them. Did he sleep in an oxygen chamber? Not sure, but we know he had a chimp. Hell, he had his own zoo! He pulled equally from Orson Welles' "Citizen Kane" and Elvis Presley. We couldn't really relate to him. We could only watch. And just as his humanity was hard to grasp, so was his talent other-worldly. Cosmically, it seemed to make sense that this freaky plastic surgery addict could do these stupifying dance moves and assemble music videos that made everyone else's look like home movies. Looking back, if Michael had been too normal, we would have all been disappointed!
Today, a star is a hen-pecked husband seeking a divorce from his bitchy wife who exploits her eight toddlers for money. A star is the air-headed daughter of a hotel billionaire whose one talent is showing up in the right place at the right time. A star is any singer who was ever on the music charts who is willing to allow VH1 to follow them to the grocery store with a camera.
If these are stars, Michael was a supernova. And the universe has to be a little dimmer now that his light has burned out.
I've been taking some crap lately from friends who tease me about the fact that I've basically only listed to Michael for the past two weeks. I will do nothing on the day of his funeral but sit in reverence and watch it. I'm sure I'll need a few hours afterwards to process. Yeah...I know that he made some horrible choices. Did he molest kids? It wasn't proven. But I believe he had to be guilty of doing something inapporpriate that would lead someone to believe worse. But I also believe that, as the greatest star of my lifetime, he was also a constant victim of extortion. Days after his death, a woman from England with the last name of Jackson even claimed to be his secret wife and sent a letter to his estate demanding his body and control of his assets. Who's to say that some of what Michael did wrong wasn't similarly false?
The truth is, we'll never know. And that's how it is with real stars. They always kept some mystery in there. You never knew as much as you wanted to. There aren't many celebrities today that you can say the same about.
Michael Jackson is our Elvis. He might end up bigger than Elvis. And he was weird like Elvis, talented like him, mysterious like him. And I hope that they can return the furniture to Neverland and get a permit to move his grave there. Because Michael deserves his own Graceland. What better way to remember the eccentric King of Pop than to visit his Xanadu? Count me in.
I continue to be flooded with Michael memories. The "Smooth Criminal" video. The confusion over his lightening skin. The difficulty in holding onto my fan-dom when he became too odd for others (a situation I've coincidentally faced with Janet as well). The performance pastiche of b-movie shlock, top-shelf pop, R&B, Broadway balladry and sentiment and universal appeal.
Michael Jackson stood at the crossroads of American culture. He was black and white. In the 80s, it was safe, expected to be a fan. He transcended race and class because he was in a class of his own and, sadly, kind of in a race of his own after a while, too. I am heartbroken by the media reports in recent days that have made Michael into a "black artist" ("He's OURS," said Jamie Foxx," and we just loaned him to everyone."). Bullshit. Michael Jackson was mine just as much as he was yours. And unlike others, I'm not turning my back on him now. I'm not forgetting about him. I'm not forgiving him anything he did wrong, and I want to make that clear. But I'm also not sacrificing what he did right.
I grew up on "Thriller." I graduated junior high school with "Bad." I graduated high school with "Dangerous." I graduated college with "HIStory." I became a father with "Invincible."
And I became an adult for good when Michael Jackson died.
But now, I'm an adult. Probably for good. It happened on June 25, 2009. I was with my wife and kids on vacation. We were riding a streetcar in New Orleans when we got the call from my mother-in-law. "How's Keith doing?" she asked my wife over the phone. Of course we hadn't heard yet...Michael Jackson died.
Know this: Michael Jackson is not my favorite performer or recording artist of all-time. He's not even my favorite Jackson. Anyone who knows me knows that I'd take Prince over Michael any day of the week and that I had a major Janet addiction that lasted from high school into early adulthood. But this was never at the expense of loving, appreciating and respecting Michael. And when I found out he was dead, it hit me harder than I expected. Though he hadn't done anything culturally or musically significant for years, he was still...there. And now he's not. And it almost feels like God telling me that I can keep my youthful spirit but I have to be an adult now. And I'm having a hard time with it.
How big of a Michael fan am I? We were talking about it this past weekend at my grandmother's 90th birthday party. I bought "Thriller" with my own allowance money and ran back to Value Village for the "State of Shock" 45 when it came out. I walked to school every day wearing the sequined glove my mom made for me. They were complimented by my own pair of Michael's large, mirrored sunglasses. "You must have been teased on the playground," a relative said. "Hell, no," I replied. "I've been teased for many things, but never that. I was the coolest kid on the playground with that glove. " In the years that followed, I remember watching "Friday Night Videos" on NBC because we didn't have cable yet. I remember the uproar over the "Black or White" video premiere on FOX. New Michael videos were cultural events that transcened even cable ownership or the lack thereof. And whether people are willing to admit it or not, everyone loved Michael Jackson at one time or another. I'm half tempted to believe that a person my age who claims to never have liked him is a flat-out liar.
Now that I'm an adult -- whether that happened years ago or just last week -- I'm supposed to say that his passing is for the best, that he was washed up and didn't have a classic like "Thriller" since the early 90s, and that he was a freak with no sense of reality and no moral compass. Indeed, the saturation of media coverage (which I agree is over the top) is equally split between his accomplishments and his dubious behaviors. Michael was a genius, they say. He was a genius...and a drug addict...and a child molester. But I say -- he was a star. The kind of star we'll never have again.
When I was a kid, a true "star" was a person living life on another plane. Prince decorated everything in purple and changed his name to an unpronouceable symbol. Madonna reinvented herself with every new album. We had Mr. T and Pee Wee Herman and Cyndi Lauper and so many more. And most of them were eccentric to the point of barely being in touch with the average joe. And that's why we loved them. They were in another universe. They were true stars. Michael Jackson was the best of all of them. Did he sleep in an oxygen chamber? Not sure, but we know he had a chimp. Hell, he had his own zoo! He pulled equally from Orson Welles' "Citizen Kane" and Elvis Presley. We couldn't really relate to him. We could only watch. And just as his humanity was hard to grasp, so was his talent other-worldly. Cosmically, it seemed to make sense that this freaky plastic surgery addict could do these stupifying dance moves and assemble music videos that made everyone else's look like home movies. Looking back, if Michael had been too normal, we would have all been disappointed!
Today, a star is a hen-pecked husband seeking a divorce from his bitchy wife who exploits her eight toddlers for money. A star is the air-headed daughter of a hotel billionaire whose one talent is showing up in the right place at the right time. A star is any singer who was ever on the music charts who is willing to allow VH1 to follow them to the grocery store with a camera.
If these are stars, Michael was a supernova. And the universe has to be a little dimmer now that his light has burned out.
I've been taking some crap lately from friends who tease me about the fact that I've basically only listed to Michael for the past two weeks. I will do nothing on the day of his funeral but sit in reverence and watch it. I'm sure I'll need a few hours afterwards to process. Yeah...I know that he made some horrible choices. Did he molest kids? It wasn't proven. But I believe he had to be guilty of doing something inapporpriate that would lead someone to believe worse. But I also believe that, as the greatest star of my lifetime, he was also a constant victim of extortion. Days after his death, a woman from England with the last name of Jackson even claimed to be his secret wife and sent a letter to his estate demanding his body and control of his assets. Who's to say that some of what Michael did wrong wasn't similarly false?
The truth is, we'll never know. And that's how it is with real stars. They always kept some mystery in there. You never knew as much as you wanted to. There aren't many celebrities today that you can say the same about.
Michael Jackson is our Elvis. He might end up bigger than Elvis. And he was weird like Elvis, talented like him, mysterious like him. And I hope that they can return the furniture to Neverland and get a permit to move his grave there. Because Michael deserves his own Graceland. What better way to remember the eccentric King of Pop than to visit his Xanadu? Count me in.
I continue to be flooded with Michael memories. The "Smooth Criminal" video. The confusion over his lightening skin. The difficulty in holding onto my fan-dom when he became too odd for others (a situation I've coincidentally faced with Janet as well). The performance pastiche of b-movie shlock, top-shelf pop, R&B, Broadway balladry and sentiment and universal appeal.
Michael Jackson stood at the crossroads of American culture. He was black and white. In the 80s, it was safe, expected to be a fan. He transcended race and class because he was in a class of his own and, sadly, kind of in a race of his own after a while, too. I am heartbroken by the media reports in recent days that have made Michael into a "black artist" ("He's OURS," said Jamie Foxx," and we just loaned him to everyone."). Bullshit. Michael Jackson was mine just as much as he was yours. And unlike others, I'm not turning my back on him now. I'm not forgetting about him. I'm not forgiving him anything he did wrong, and I want to make that clear. But I'm also not sacrificing what he did right.
I grew up on "Thriller." I graduated junior high school with "Bad." I graduated high school with "Dangerous." I graduated college with "HIStory." I became a father with "Invincible."
And I became an adult for good when Michael Jackson died.
Monday, May 11, 2009
The classroom: a distraction from true learning?
Yesterday, I watched an episode of Oprah I had recorded from the past week on my DVR. It was about the harassment of kids and how recent headlines have reported that more kids are starting to respond to severe bullying at school by taking their own lives. More specifically, the episode focused on middle school-aged boys who are victimized with gay name-calling. It's almost always about being called "gay."
Two standards of dealing with bullys were publicly dismissed on the show, and I think we need to do more to get the word out to those who don't watch Oprah (a group that, most likely, includes the bullies themselves). The first standard is that we have always been trained to ignore the bullying, perhaps as a method for trying to send a message to those who taunt us that we're not letting it get to us. Think, too, about the whole social network that is in place that can further victimize a "squealer" for "tattling" on a bully. Best to keep it to yourself to avoid further retaliation, right? Wrong.
The other standard dismissed was the classic "sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can never hurt me" addage. Am I the only one who's ever found this to be one of the most hollow, false things ever spoken? In my mind, when you say that phrase, you are admitting that you are actively trying to ignore the hurt that words are causing you. And underneath the surface, it's not working. This phrase is shallow, hollow, empty. It's a lie. And finally, people are catching on. Words can and do hurt a great deal.
I am currently entrenched in the end of another school year. I'm so busy, in fact, that I don't really have time to be writing this, much less any other blog postings, thus accounting for the fact that three weeks have passed since my last post. But as I sit here, feverishly grading, making parent phone calls, arguing with unmotivated students over missing work and bad attitudes and wishing for summer, it occurs to me that the real shame in all of this is how distracted we are from what is really important.
More than I care about how well a student performs in my class academically, I care about what kind of people my students have become. I wonder if I have given myself enough time to be a positive influence in that area. Do my students think that when I don't allow the phrase "that's so gay" to be spoken in my classroom that I am just "old" or "following policy"? I sure hope not. I hope they figure out that kids are dying because of hate talk and disrespect.
I am not doing enough. I am not working hard enough. Grading papers is not getting the real work done. The real work is the problem that there are kids here who don't feel respected. Don't even feel safe. Shame on us.
So it's back to my grading, because I have to. I'm obligated; it's a part of the job I get paid to do. And I'm back to teaching kids content...that's what they're here to learn. But I pray that I am always receptive to the ones who are being harmed and the ones who are causing harm. And I hope that I have the strength and the words to step in whenever I'm blessed with the opportunity to teach a far greater lesson than the ones we usually learn in class.
Two standards of dealing with bullys were publicly dismissed on the show, and I think we need to do more to get the word out to those who don't watch Oprah (a group that, most likely, includes the bullies themselves). The first standard is that we have always been trained to ignore the bullying, perhaps as a method for trying to send a message to those who taunt us that we're not letting it get to us. Think, too, about the whole social network that is in place that can further victimize a "squealer" for "tattling" on a bully. Best to keep it to yourself to avoid further retaliation, right? Wrong.
The other standard dismissed was the classic "sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can never hurt me" addage. Am I the only one who's ever found this to be one of the most hollow, false things ever spoken? In my mind, when you say that phrase, you are admitting that you are actively trying to ignore the hurt that words are causing you. And underneath the surface, it's not working. This phrase is shallow, hollow, empty. It's a lie. And finally, people are catching on. Words can and do hurt a great deal.
I am currently entrenched in the end of another school year. I'm so busy, in fact, that I don't really have time to be writing this, much less any other blog postings, thus accounting for the fact that three weeks have passed since my last post. But as I sit here, feverishly grading, making parent phone calls, arguing with unmotivated students over missing work and bad attitudes and wishing for summer, it occurs to me that the real shame in all of this is how distracted we are from what is really important.
More than I care about how well a student performs in my class academically, I care about what kind of people my students have become. I wonder if I have given myself enough time to be a positive influence in that area. Do my students think that when I don't allow the phrase "that's so gay" to be spoken in my classroom that I am just "old" or "following policy"? I sure hope not. I hope they figure out that kids are dying because of hate talk and disrespect.
I am not doing enough. I am not working hard enough. Grading papers is not getting the real work done. The real work is the problem that there are kids here who don't feel respected. Don't even feel safe. Shame on us.
So it's back to my grading, because I have to. I'm obligated; it's a part of the job I get paid to do. And I'm back to teaching kids content...that's what they're here to learn. But I pray that I am always receptive to the ones who are being harmed and the ones who are causing harm. And I hope that I have the strength and the words to step in whenever I'm blessed with the opportunity to teach a far greater lesson than the ones we usually learn in class.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Not a great anniversary present...R.I.P., Frank
Today, my wife and I are celebrating 12 years of marriage. It's great that we've been doing so well, but quite frankly, that's not really the focus of what I'm writing about today.
When we picked April 19 as the day we'd get married, we did so with the knowledge that it was the anniversary of the day that the Murrow building was bombed in Oklahoma City. My best friend's birthday is April 20, and he always lamented sharing his special day with...Hitler. Not to mention the whole 4-20 thing...the drug reference. And then, the day after our second wedding anniversary, came Columbine. Being a teacher, I have never been so accutely aware as I am now of this stretch of couple of days and the doomed history that it brings. It feels sometimes like death thickens the air every year at this time. As my friend with the April 20 birthday said on the phone today, "you kind of lay low and keep your eyes open, looking around to make sure everyone is still there." It really feels this way.
And, inevitably, everyone is NOT still there when the dust of mid-April settles. And this year, the loss has an ironic anniversary-related twist, as my wife discovered for us.
I was in the bathroom downstairs helping my 7 year-old daughter pull a tooth in a highly-dramatic and bloody moment of parental chaos. My wife had made it clear that she wanted nothing to do with pulling teeth and blood, and I hate to say it, but I think it's kind of fun. But just as we yanked the little sucker, she entered in with the obituary section of the Chicago Tribune. Apparently, she had thought it fitting to celebrate our wedding anniversary by perusing the death notices. She will do this from time to time, betraying our mid-30s existence by behaving like an 80 year-old looking for friends. But this time, I'm glad she did. Had she not, I would never have known.
As strange as the coincidence is, the death notice was for a guy named Frank Lauro. He had passed away "suddenly, at his residence" on the 16th. And when that's all you get, your mind goes crazy. The odd connection? Frank was a groomsman at my wedding 12 years ago today.
I met Frank when I took an "I can't get a job with this freaking degree" job with Borders. Only a few years older than me, Frank was a manager. We hit it off right away, though, and his "managing" of me was a store-space facade. He was my first close friend that I met outside of a school setting, my first "work buddy." He loved movies as much as I did, and music, too -- though our tastes didn't line up perfectly, we respected the passion in each other's loves. Frank loved The Police, and it was Prince for me.
It wasn't long before Frank and I developed a weekly routine. We worked the closing shift on Sundays and had Mondays off, so we would close the store Sunday night and then head to his apartment, where we would ceremoniously drink an entire bottle of Jim Beam. Every single Sunday night. I'm not proud of it, but that's what we did. I can say right here that I have never had more alcohol to drink before or after my Sunday nights with Frank. Shit-faced is an understatement. Rarely did I make it back to my own apartment (and thank God!). We'd pour the Beam in huge, plastic tumblers filled with ice and top it off with Coke. And then we'd sit and watch bad movies from the 70s and have our own Mystery Science Theatre.
Here's where I feel inclined to yell: "MITCHELL!!!" Frank would get it...
Frank's roommate, Gregg, looked like a drummer in a metal band but was insanely soft-spoken and kind. He was often gone...out with his girlfriend. The guy had a pet boa constrictor (or python...hell, it was a big snake) named Cliff, and there was always incentive to maintain sobriety because if I didn't, Cliff would often be lurking around in the room somewhere, often appearing over my shoulder. Frank knew that Cliff made me nervous. Only now, stone cold sober, do I think to myself that I would have been terrified had I known what I was doing.
We also had these deep conversations that only two guys have when they are both crazy drunk. And when moments appeared to border on the homoerotic, we'd rely on the word "cake," as in: "you are being so CAKE right now, dude." Hearing "that's so gay" as much as I do working in a high school, I miss the cake, let me tell you.
I fear that I'm too long-winded for blog writing and am not sure how far I should test the length limits and still expect people to read, so I'll tell you one more story about Frank. One of my strongest memories of Frank will always be a conversation born out of one of those Sunday night drunken stupors. The subject turned to God and religion. Frank was an atheist, and I have been a believer my whole life. We had one of those classic debates: faith vs. science, evidence vs. the unseen, the whole nine. It was a civil converation (thanks to the mellowing effects of burbon), and it was, academically and logically, one of the single most mind-blowing conversations I think I've ever had. And after Frank had beaten me down with the most polished logic possible in his argument that God does not exist, he stared me dead in the eyes, glassy-eyed himself, grabbed my shoulders, and told me that the thing he admired most about me was my unwavering faith in the existence of God. It drove him nuts, he said, that I could so firmly believe despite the evidence that he felt was to the contrary. "You are much stronger than I am," he told me.
What I learned from Frank is too big for this posting, and I sadly lost touch with him withing six months of us leaving our Borders jobs. I had also, by this time, gotten married, and any guy reading this post knows damn well how well an every-Sunday-night-getting-ridiculously-drunk-with-my-bud appointment goes over with the Mrs. But I will always remember him, even if he had me too drunk to remember everything we talked about. Only now, as I'm remembering back, am I starting to realize just how very quality he was -- just how much I did learn from him. And I've got a stack of Harlan Ellison books he forced me to buy that I've never read. I'm looking right at them. Maybe there's something to learn from those as well.
How sad I am today, Frank. Fat bastard. Cake boy. Mitchell. I know I have to work tomorrow, but I'm hoisting a Jim for you tonight. I'll miss you, man.
When we picked April 19 as the day we'd get married, we did so with the knowledge that it was the anniversary of the day that the Murrow building was bombed in Oklahoma City. My best friend's birthday is April 20, and he always lamented sharing his special day with...Hitler. Not to mention the whole 4-20 thing...the drug reference. And then, the day after our second wedding anniversary, came Columbine. Being a teacher, I have never been so accutely aware as I am now of this stretch of couple of days and the doomed history that it brings. It feels sometimes like death thickens the air every year at this time. As my friend with the April 20 birthday said on the phone today, "you kind of lay low and keep your eyes open, looking around to make sure everyone is still there." It really feels this way.
And, inevitably, everyone is NOT still there when the dust of mid-April settles. And this year, the loss has an ironic anniversary-related twist, as my wife discovered for us.
I was in the bathroom downstairs helping my 7 year-old daughter pull a tooth in a highly-dramatic and bloody moment of parental chaos. My wife had made it clear that she wanted nothing to do with pulling teeth and blood, and I hate to say it, but I think it's kind of fun. But just as we yanked the little sucker, she entered in with the obituary section of the Chicago Tribune. Apparently, she had thought it fitting to celebrate our wedding anniversary by perusing the death notices. She will do this from time to time, betraying our mid-30s existence by behaving like an 80 year-old looking for friends. But this time, I'm glad she did. Had she not, I would never have known.
As strange as the coincidence is, the death notice was for a guy named Frank Lauro. He had passed away "suddenly, at his residence" on the 16th. And when that's all you get, your mind goes crazy. The odd connection? Frank was a groomsman at my wedding 12 years ago today.
I met Frank when I took an "I can't get a job with this freaking degree" job with Borders. Only a few years older than me, Frank was a manager. We hit it off right away, though, and his "managing" of me was a store-space facade. He was my first close friend that I met outside of a school setting, my first "work buddy." He loved movies as much as I did, and music, too -- though our tastes didn't line up perfectly, we respected the passion in each other's loves. Frank loved The Police, and it was Prince for me.
It wasn't long before Frank and I developed a weekly routine. We worked the closing shift on Sundays and had Mondays off, so we would close the store Sunday night and then head to his apartment, where we would ceremoniously drink an entire bottle of Jim Beam. Every single Sunday night. I'm not proud of it, but that's what we did. I can say right here that I have never had more alcohol to drink before or after my Sunday nights with Frank. Shit-faced is an understatement. Rarely did I make it back to my own apartment (and thank God!). We'd pour the Beam in huge, plastic tumblers filled with ice and top it off with Coke. And then we'd sit and watch bad movies from the 70s and have our own Mystery Science Theatre.
Here's where I feel inclined to yell: "MITCHELL!!!" Frank would get it...
Frank's roommate, Gregg, looked like a drummer in a metal band but was insanely soft-spoken and kind. He was often gone...out with his girlfriend. The guy had a pet boa constrictor (or python...hell, it was a big snake) named Cliff, and there was always incentive to maintain sobriety because if I didn't, Cliff would often be lurking around in the room somewhere, often appearing over my shoulder. Frank knew that Cliff made me nervous. Only now, stone cold sober, do I think to myself that I would have been terrified had I known what I was doing.
We also had these deep conversations that only two guys have when they are both crazy drunk. And when moments appeared to border on the homoerotic, we'd rely on the word "cake," as in: "you are being so CAKE right now, dude." Hearing "that's so gay" as much as I do working in a high school, I miss the cake, let me tell you.
I fear that I'm too long-winded for blog writing and am not sure how far I should test the length limits and still expect people to read, so I'll tell you one more story about Frank. One of my strongest memories of Frank will always be a conversation born out of one of those Sunday night drunken stupors. The subject turned to God and religion. Frank was an atheist, and I have been a believer my whole life. We had one of those classic debates: faith vs. science, evidence vs. the unseen, the whole nine. It was a civil converation (thanks to the mellowing effects of burbon), and it was, academically and logically, one of the single most mind-blowing conversations I think I've ever had. And after Frank had beaten me down with the most polished logic possible in his argument that God does not exist, he stared me dead in the eyes, glassy-eyed himself, grabbed my shoulders, and told me that the thing he admired most about me was my unwavering faith in the existence of God. It drove him nuts, he said, that I could so firmly believe despite the evidence that he felt was to the contrary. "You are much stronger than I am," he told me.
What I learned from Frank is too big for this posting, and I sadly lost touch with him withing six months of us leaving our Borders jobs. I had also, by this time, gotten married, and any guy reading this post knows damn well how well an every-Sunday-night-getting-ridiculously-drunk-with-my-bud appointment goes over with the Mrs. But I will always remember him, even if he had me too drunk to remember everything we talked about. Only now, as I'm remembering back, am I starting to realize just how very quality he was -- just how much I did learn from him. And I've got a stack of Harlan Ellison books he forced me to buy that I've never read. I'm looking right at them. Maybe there's something to learn from those as well.
How sad I am today, Frank. Fat bastard. Cake boy. Mitchell. I know I have to work tomorrow, but I'm hoisting a Jim for you tonight. I'll miss you, man.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Blogger: (noun) white male between 16-45 who has no life
So I decided that THIS blog is my blog as a writer. I've got to get working on that book, and there will be some amazing post made here one day and I will say: "YES! There's the book idea."
In the meantime, it dawned on me that the one thing I had NOT planned to do here is post film reviews. Which is rather stupid in the sense that this is something I do compulsively: write film reviews. Since I've joined Facebook, I have reviewed every film I've seen. I decided that the smart thing to do, then, is start a film review blog. After all, my original career goal when I graduated college was to be a film critic.
I spent over an hour this morning trying out different clever names for my film review blog and every damn thing I tried was taken. I hopped on Google to see if this was really possible or if the blogspot people were just rejecting my lame puns. "Cinemaniac"? Taken. "The Moviegoer"? Taken. "Caught on Film"? Taken. Just before I desperately attempted "I like to Movie, Movie," I threw "On the Movie" out there. Taken. But at this point, I was spent. I threw my initials in front of it and now you can go to kconthemovie.blogspot.com and you'll find "...On the Movie." Sort of a bad pun, but I had had enough. If I spent any more time coming up with stupid blog names, I'd never get started.
Even worse, I am now disgusted by what appears to be far too many 16-45 year old white guys out there who have no lives and see themselves to be movie experts. Being "one of them," let me tell you, is no sought after thrill.
You can't blame me for wanting something clever. I imagined myself on Oprah one day, somehow cutting through the thick soup of online movie critics and rising to the top where when, one day, Oprah would need an expert opinion on some film and think of nobody better to call upon than...the "cinemaniac." (Cough!) The name had to be in some way catchy, just in case.
I'm not sure anyone's going to find "...On the Movie." Maybe I should have called it "Elements of Composition." Had I done that, I can vouch for the fact that at least 860 former students of mine would have had at least a vague idea of what to type in to find me. But for now, I'm "on the move...eee." Ugh. It's starting to sound lame.
If you want to read my movie reviews, you know where to look now. For everything else, I'll continue to be the Suburban Acrobat right here. "Suburban Acrobat." Suddenly, "...On the Movie" sounds okay.
In the meantime, it dawned on me that the one thing I had NOT planned to do here is post film reviews. Which is rather stupid in the sense that this is something I do compulsively: write film reviews. Since I've joined Facebook, I have reviewed every film I've seen. I decided that the smart thing to do, then, is start a film review blog. After all, my original career goal when I graduated college was to be a film critic.
I spent over an hour this morning trying out different clever names for my film review blog and every damn thing I tried was taken. I hopped on Google to see if this was really possible or if the blogspot people were just rejecting my lame puns. "Cinemaniac"? Taken. "The Moviegoer"? Taken. "Caught on Film"? Taken. Just before I desperately attempted "I like to Movie, Movie," I threw "On the Movie" out there. Taken. But at this point, I was spent. I threw my initials in front of it and now you can go to kconthemovie.blogspot.com and you'll find "...On the Movie." Sort of a bad pun, but I had had enough. If I spent any more time coming up with stupid blog names, I'd never get started.
Even worse, I am now disgusted by what appears to be far too many 16-45 year old white guys out there who have no lives and see themselves to be movie experts. Being "one of them," let me tell you, is no sought after thrill.
You can't blame me for wanting something clever. I imagined myself on Oprah one day, somehow cutting through the thick soup of online movie critics and rising to the top where when, one day, Oprah would need an expert opinion on some film and think of nobody better to call upon than...the "cinemaniac." (Cough!) The name had to be in some way catchy, just in case.
I'm not sure anyone's going to find "...On the Movie." Maybe I should have called it "Elements of Composition." Had I done that, I can vouch for the fact that at least 860 former students of mine would have had at least a vague idea of what to type in to find me. But for now, I'm "on the move...eee." Ugh. It's starting to sound lame.
If you want to read my movie reviews, you know where to look now. For everything else, I'll continue to be the Suburban Acrobat right here. "Suburban Acrobat." Suddenly, "...On the Movie" sounds okay.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
A suburban acrobat steps onto the high wire
How do you summarize what your blog will be about in one catchy title?
How do you project yourself far enough into the future to know what you'll be writing about in blog form?
Why are you writing a blog in the first place? Don't you have enough digital distractions?
These are great questions. And the quick answers are: "I'm complicated and I don't know a quick and catchy way to summarize myself," "I have no idea what I'll be writing about and even less of an idea about who would possible read it," and "I don't know. Yes!"
Regardless, here I am, "stepping onto the high wire" of a new chapter in my life as "one who blogs," for whatever that's worth. And so, not knowing exactly what my purpose here will become and where to start, I'll begin Suburban Acrobat with an explanation of how I did-under the pressure of coming up with a title-settle on this and what it means.
My gut reaction when thinking of a title took me immediately to two things: the film Citizen Kane and the U2 song, "Acrobat."
Citizen Kane is a movie that I believe is rich in philosophy and gets at the core of human needs and relationships. It's about how people view each other in addition to being about the American Dream. And it's about newspapers and the media. In short, it encapsulates most of what interests me in life: film, stories, relationships and the media. I almost called this blog "Citizen Keith," and I wouldn't be surprised if I someday change it to this title from the far more esoteric, and, let's face it, clunky title I settled on.
But I kept going back to the U2 song, "Acrobat." Music is my other passion, and U2 is one of my top five favorite musical acts of all time (you'll hear more on music later, don't worry). And in addition to being a music lover and a U2 lover, I am a Christian. I love the song "Acrobat" (from Achtung Baby) because I think it poetically hints at the nature of the difficulty of maintaining a Christian identity and perspective in the world. As Bono writes and sings:
"And I must be an acrobat
To talk like this and act like that
And you can dream so dream out loud
And you can find your own way out...
And dreams begin responsibilities"
An analysis of the song on Wikipedia states that the song is very personal and addresses "personal weakness, contradiction and inadequacy." And I thought, well hey -- that's me. And thanks to the grace of God, I get a life better than what I deserve.
When you take the idea of an acrobat as a tight rope walker and ball it up with the U2 song, the idea of my life being a circus (read: chaotic, crazy) and even a film reference (to the fantastic documentary Man on Wire), you have a cryptic explanation of who I am. And you have "Suburban Acrobat: The View from a High Wire." I don't know why you are reading, but I thank you. And I know that I need to be writing. For someone. For myself.
How do you project yourself far enough into the future to know what you'll be writing about in blog form?
Why are you writing a blog in the first place? Don't you have enough digital distractions?
These are great questions. And the quick answers are: "I'm complicated and I don't know a quick and catchy way to summarize myself," "I have no idea what I'll be writing about and even less of an idea about who would possible read it," and "I don't know. Yes!"
Regardless, here I am, "stepping onto the high wire" of a new chapter in my life as "one who blogs," for whatever that's worth. And so, not knowing exactly what my purpose here will become and where to start, I'll begin Suburban Acrobat with an explanation of how I did-under the pressure of coming up with a title-settle on this and what it means.
My gut reaction when thinking of a title took me immediately to two things: the film Citizen Kane and the U2 song, "Acrobat."
Citizen Kane is a movie that I believe is rich in philosophy and gets at the core of human needs and relationships. It's about how people view each other in addition to being about the American Dream. And it's about newspapers and the media. In short, it encapsulates most of what interests me in life: film, stories, relationships and the media. I almost called this blog "Citizen Keith," and I wouldn't be surprised if I someday change it to this title from the far more esoteric, and, let's face it, clunky title I settled on.
But I kept going back to the U2 song, "Acrobat." Music is my other passion, and U2 is one of my top five favorite musical acts of all time (you'll hear more on music later, don't worry). And in addition to being a music lover and a U2 lover, I am a Christian. I love the song "Acrobat" (from Achtung Baby) because I think it poetically hints at the nature of the difficulty of maintaining a Christian identity and perspective in the world. As Bono writes and sings:
"And I must be an acrobat
To talk like this and act like that
And you can dream so dream out loud
And you can find your own way out...
And dreams begin responsibilities"
An analysis of the song on Wikipedia states that the song is very personal and addresses "personal weakness, contradiction and inadequacy." And I thought, well hey -- that's me. And thanks to the grace of God, I get a life better than what I deserve.
When you take the idea of an acrobat as a tight rope walker and ball it up with the U2 song, the idea of my life being a circus (read: chaotic, crazy) and even a film reference (to the fantastic documentary Man on Wire), you have a cryptic explanation of who I am. And you have "Suburban Acrobat: The View from a High Wire." I don't know why you are reading, but I thank you. And I know that I need to be writing. For someone. For myself.
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