Today's post is especially for writers--but it may also be of use to those struggling with how to find exactly the right words for certain amorphous emotions. Sometimes, we all get struck. The idea well runs dry, or the idea well runs dry, or we just feel like the idea well runs dry. For times like that, this post is essential. Already, this post has been hailed by major newspapers and magazines and also by international movie festival circles as "Pure Awesomeness Sliced Into Delightfully Thin Slices and Then Packaged as Deli Meat But Given Free of Charge."
Bono has called this post, "Mesmerizing."
The rest of the U2 band called this post, "Deeply Mesmerizing."
Michiko Kakutani has written, "Now that I have explored Luke's post for the thirty-second time, I am convinced that I have simply found the most perfect piece of English prose ever crafted."
Ryan Gosling was overheard shouting, "Yes! It's the one. I found it!"
Without further ado, then, here are NOVEL IDEAS (Titles Included!). Grab any one of these ideas, and go write that book you always knew you had inside of you.
1.
Title: Moon's Holiday
Premise: The Moon (as protagonist) becomes angry at the Sun's constant need to be "the source of all energy" and decides once and for all that he [note: possible angle of added tension if the moon is female while the sun is a patriarchal male figure] will take a holiday. After this occurs (which happens to be forty thousand years in the future), humankind must endure the destructive consequences of this holiday: no more frozen yogurt, constant replaying of old Burt Reynolds movies on every television channel, and the mysterious disappearance of all suspenders everywhere.
2.
Title: You Got Me, Babe
Premise: Conny and Sher are two people madly in love, but then they each begin growing a strange antennae from their heads. At first, each thinks the other is the only one with this strange metallic device poking out from their hair. But then, in Chapter 40, they finally look in a mirror and realize IT'S GROWING ON BOTH OF THEM. (Ends with this huge reveal and then leads into Book Two of the trilogy, where more stuff happens.)
3.
Title: Whether 'Tis Nobler in the Mind to Suffer the Slings and Arrows
Premise: This novel can pretty much be about anything. Because its title is taken from Shakespeare. And titles taken from Shakespeare are awesome. They rock.
4.
Title: Beach, Magnifying Glass, Condensation
Premise: An avid beach-walker finds a strange coin one morning on her beach walk. She leaves it on the nightstand later that night when she goes to bed. In the middle of the night the coin wakes her up by doing historical (and mind-bendingly accurate) impersonations of famous figures--Winston Churchill, George Bush (both) and other famous people that you can insert at will. As the novel progresses (and tension rise), the woman (who is named Samantha) must decide whether she will maintain her loyalty to the Talking Coin and resist what society tells her (That she is psychotic) or whether she will undergo therapy and intensive hospitalization.
Also, at the end of every chapter of the book, Samantha makes various smoothies. Each time, she uses different varieties of fruits, milk, yogurt, and sometimes even raisins and / or dried cranberries.
5.
Title: Yes, You Know That I am Talking To You
Premise: This book is told int eh second person. The novel centers around an elite group of army intelligence personnel (retired) who are convinced of a conspiracy plot to overthrow the current government. After lots of intrigue, wrongful-accusations, and unnecessary violence, the crew of underdogs finally prove the conspiracy, but just as they do so, the President orders for them to be summarily executed. Can they prove their innocence and resist the Covert Executive Order and save America before it's too late?
*Note: throughout the novel, many people will say (during dialogue): "Yes, you know that I am talking to you," which readers will begin to think of as a refrain. Then, this will also (somehow) be the last line of the book. And there will be a secret page that is folded into the hardcover copy of the book, which, when readers find it and pull it out, will say, Yes, You Know That I am Talking To You (which will really freak out readers and probably help generate interest for a movie deal.)
Showing posts with label Ryan Gosling. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Ryan Gosling. Show all posts
Saturday, January 19, 2013
Friday, November 30, 2012
What Really Happened in President Obama's Private Meeting with Mitt
Yesterday, President Obama welcomed Mitt Romney into his private dining room at the White House at exactly 12:30 in the afternoon. One hour and eleven minutes later, Mr. Romney departed the premises, and the luncheon was supposedly one-on-one, with even elite members of the press corps not allowed inside. In the day and a half since the luncheon, speculation has run rampant about what actually went on, and official statements from both camps have been released.
All of it is wrong.
So today--after lingering long and thinking through my decision very carefully--I have decided to come clean. To confess. To spill the frijoles. To open the can of worms (even though many of you, like me, wonder why certain people derive joy out of canning worms; there's plenty else we could can: peas, carrots, perhaps thick marmalade, heck, even toe nail clippings--but worms, really?). To play the pied piper's tune (because I learned to play the pied pipe long ago (it's not much more difficult than learning to play a normal pipe)).
I was there.
I was there for the entire hour and eleven minutes, and after living with the knowledge of what those minutes held--caressed, nuanced, delicately balanced--I have decided to tell all.
First, the reason I was invited by both parties anyway. Many readers of this blog aren't aware of the fact that I am Ryan Gosling. Details of my life--like the fact that I "live" in York, England, am "married" and am a "father" to a four-year old son named "Tyler," am a "writer" and a "teacher" and I have a "real life history"--have all been invented in order to give me some level of secrecy. (As you can probably guess, I work harder than most other actors because of this need for a highly detailed fake life.)
But I am the Ry-master. And even though revealing that fact here (now) will undoubtedly make my life a heck of a lot more complicated, the Obama / Romney meeting yesterday has forced my hand (and I'm not even a card player).
Now, the meeting.
I could have tape recorded the entire thing on a tiny device that I happen to carry around with me everywhere. But I didn't. I don;t need that device, and I only carry it for purposes of establishing humility because I don't like to admit that I have a perfect photographic memory (which, in case you didn't know, also means I have a perfect phonographic memory (which, in case you didn't know, means that I can recall sounds and images at a moment's notice back to when I was three months old)).
Since one of the fake-details of my life is that I am a "writer," I decided to coat the big reveal with the cloak of my writerly self. Thus.
President Obama: Mitt, welcome.
Mr. Romney: Prez, thank you. Thank you very much. [Mr. Romney's hair is slicked back with copious gel, and I wonder if--perchance--he and I are consumers who zero in on the same gel brand at the store.]
President Obama: I hope you don't mind that I asked Ryan to join us? Members of your campaign staff assured me it wouldn't be a problem. [President Obama smiles wide enough to make me faint, and I don't faint easily.]
Mr. Romney: Members of my campaign staff assured me of a lot of things, too, Prez. [Mr. Romney pauses and when I gaze into his eyes, it looks as though he is lost in thought about why people ever decided to start canning worms, only to open up those cans at inappropriate moments. The more he thinks about this, the more he looks like he could cry, and it suddenly seems like his casting via media as a man without empathy might--perchance!--be wrong. Any man who can feel deeply enough about worms to practically tear up over their canning is an empathetic man in my book.]
President Obama: So, were members of your campaign staff correct? [President Obama shirts from foot to foot, and then finally throws his arm around me--a gesture of solidarity, for which I am thankful at this point. Because you can only think about the poor worms being canned for so long before you start to lose control.]
Mr. Romeny: About Ryan?
President Obama: About Ryan.
Mr. Romney: To be honest, I should have chosen Hilary Clinton. You and I both know that. We would have wiped the floor with you. No disrespect, of course, Prez. That Ryan guy--all he did for me was make me go to the extreme of Extreme Makeover.
President Obama: None taken. After all, this is still my private dining room, so you have permission to mourn your loss in any way you see fit. As long as it doesn't interrupt our agenda for the day. [President Obama winks at me. I wink back. Then I turn towards Mr. Romney and wink his way as well. I hate for anyone to feel left out. Mr. Romney winks back at me--the empathy this man has! And President Obama must interpret Romney's wink as directed at him, because he winks back at Mr. Romney and then Mr. Romney eventually winks at President Obama--only after a long, subdued, awkward silence.]
Me: My eyes are hurting.
Mr. Romney: [laughs]
President Obama: What's so funny, Mr. Romney. Haven't your eyes ever hurt before?
Mr. Romney: Never more than 47% of the time.
President Obama: Look, Mitt--I'm gonna call you Mitt from now on, okay?--I am really hungry and we're having an amazing Southwestern salad, so can you just tell me if it's alright if Ryan stays?
Mr. Romney: Yeah, yeah, the kid's alright. Bet he could eat fifty eggs and knock down a few parking meters if he wanted.
Me: I love that movie.
President Obama: Me too.
Mr. Romney: Well, let's get down to gold tacks and brass knuckles. The agenda. Does the kid know about it? [Mr. Romney wags his thumb at me and I feel slightly affronted. After all, I'm not that much younger than him, and we both use the same gel, and we both feel badly about the canned worms.]
President Obama: Mitt, Ryan is okay. In fact, he's solid. he's extremely solid in this area. That's why I asked him here in the first place.
[We all sit down at the table, on which glasses of water are already poured, seven pieces of silverware aligns the cloth in front of each of us, and chocolate Santa Clauses sit on each of our plates.]
Mr. Romney: Nice touch, Prez. [Holds up his personal chocolate Santa Clause.]
President Obama: You like that, do you Mitt?
Mr. Romney: I do, Prez.
[Awkward silence.]
[Continued awkward silence.]
[I decide to eat my chocolate Santa.]
[Awkward silence.]
[I decide to eat Mr. Romney's chocolate Santa.]
[Extremely awkward silence.]
[I decide to eat President Obama's chocolate Santa.]
President Obama: Ryan, please. I only had three of those, and they were especially made by a rare species of gnomes off the coast of Finland who work tirelessly day and night and produce a dozen chocolate Santa Clauses each decade.
Me: [Awkward.]
Mr. Romney: Aw, Prez, let the kid here off easy this time. He was famished after knocking all those parking meter heads off.
Me: I'm not Paul Newman.
Mr. Romney: Geesh, I know, I know. I'm, just saying.
President Obama: Salads please!
[A waiter rushes into the room carrying a tray on which sit three of the most perfect Southwestern salads I have ever seen in my entire human existence.]
Me: President Obama, were these made by those same gnomes off the coast of Finland? [laughing. Come on, it's funny.]
President Obama: Yes.
Mr. Romney: Checkmate.
Me: I don't play chess.
Mr. Romney: But did you ever think about the fact that maybe chess plays you? Bet you didn't. Maybe give that a think or two the next time you want to go our knocking parking meter heads off.
Me:
President Obama: Okay, gentlemen. It's about time we start with the real agenda for this meeting: Mitt's reading choices.
Mr. Romney: Look, when the guy from Time Magazine asked me, I didn't have time to prep--I couldn't think on the spot. You had time, Prez. You could expertly choose a few American classics, a few independent-spirit stuff, some Pulitzer winners. I didn't have the luxury of a whole team helped me narrow down my options.
President Obama: Look, Mitt, I didn't choose your campaign team for you--
Me: And I didn't choose to eat your chocolate Santas. It's a condition.
[Awkward silence.]
Me: But the thing about the reading choices--look, that's the real reason I'm here. And I'm here for BOTH of you.
Mr. Romney: [Aside] That and to knock off a few parking meter heads. [Laughs.]
Me: [Standing, flexing pectorals, biceps, and triceps] Cool it with the COOL HAND LUKE ALLUSIONS, MITT, OKAY!
Mr. Romney: [Sweats]
Me: [Suddenly this image comes to mind and I feel real bad about what I just did. The image is all these worms--nice, friendly, well-meaning worms--trapped in some can solely for the purpose of some rhetorical device in some silly blog post.]
President Obama: Ryan, take a breath. Good, Now, can you just give us the reading list already?
Me: [I devour my Southwestern salad, and if there were any more of those gnomish chocolate Santas, I'd be hard pressed to not...] Okay. You ready?
President Obama and Mr. Romney: Yes.
Me: Well, you've got to check out MOCKINGBIRD by Kathy Erskine. It'll seriously amaze you. And, yup, no way you want to miss THE SILVER LININGS PLAYBOOK by Matthew Quick. Awwwwwwsome. And, you need to get your hands on a copy of Francisco Stork's MARCELO IN THE REAL WORLD--it'll blow you away.
Mr. Romney: [Aside] The way you blow away those parking meters?
Me: [Deep breath, deep breath, deep--]
President Obama: Can we get the last secret chocolate Santa Clause out here for Ryan please?
Me: You've got to get Mike Jung's GEEKS, GIRLS, AND SECRET IDENTITIES--hilarious and deeply moving. And Lynda Mullaly Hunt's ONE FOR THE MURPHYS. Whew. Be ready to cry though, and to change your life. And, let's see...
[Waiter brings chocolate Santa and I devour it on the spot, while stealing a forkful of Mr. Romney's Southwestern, gnome-made salad.]
Me: Oh! A.J. Paquette's NOWHERE GIRL is freaking marvelous, as is Mitali Perkins' RICKSHAW GIRL and if you somehow missed Jonathan Kozol's SAVAGE INEQUALITIES and Ross Greene's LOST AT SCHOOL, man, you guys need to get yourself to your closest indie bookstore yesterday and pick them up, too.
Mr. Romney: [Aside] Bet there are a few parking meters en route to the local indie, ey Ryan?
Me: And can't miss Cynthia Lynch Williams's MILES FROM ORDINARY and Gary Schmidt's OKAY FOR NOW and--yes! yes! yes!--Emily Bronte's WUTHERING HEIGHTS.
Mr. Romney: You mean Charlotte Bronte?
Me: No.
President Obama: No.
Mr. Romney: Oh.
Me: And by all means, you have got to read Jackson Katz's THE MACHO PARADOX. Got to, gentlemen, got to.
[The room ebbs with the flow of my wisdom. It pulses the air in semi-equal reverberations of beauty and joy and truth.]
[Truth.]
Me: And Natalie Diaz Lorenzi's FLYING THE DRAGON is a can't miss--as well as Johan Harstad's BUZZ ALDRIN, WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU IN ALL THE CONFUSION? and definitely Olugbemisola Rhuday-Perkovich's EIGHTH GRADE SUPERZERO.
Mr. Romney: Who are you talking to right now?
Me: You.
President Obama: [Clears throat.] And me.
Me: Yes. And Diane Ravitch's THE DEATH AND LIFE OF THE GREAT AMERICAN SCHOOL.
Mr. Romney: Sounds a little dramatic.
President Obama: Is it about testing?
Me: Yes--specifically about standardized testing and the pressure it entails and the way it forces teachers, students, and schools to focus on memorization over skill, rote learning over creativity is kind of like, kind of like...throwing a dozen gnome-made chocolate Santas right onto the cold, hard floor.
President Obama: [Gasps.]
Mr. Romney: [Considers the canned worms. The man does have empathy, so I decide to forgive him on the spot for his parking meter references. we're all human, after all.]
Me: That's probably good for now. Until our next secret luncheon?
President Obama: [Winks at me.]
Mr. Romney: [Winks at President Obama, whom he thought was winking at him.]
President Obama: [Winks back to Mr. Romney.]
Me: [I wink as fast as I can at everyone, including the waiter who now comes to clear the dishes]
All of it is wrong.
So today--after lingering long and thinking through my decision very carefully--I have decided to come clean. To confess. To spill the frijoles. To open the can of worms (even though many of you, like me, wonder why certain people derive joy out of canning worms; there's plenty else we could can: peas, carrots, perhaps thick marmalade, heck, even toe nail clippings--but worms, really?). To play the pied piper's tune (because I learned to play the pied pipe long ago (it's not much more difficult than learning to play a normal pipe)).
I was there.
I was there for the entire hour and eleven minutes, and after living with the knowledge of what those minutes held--caressed, nuanced, delicately balanced--I have decided to tell all.
First, the reason I was invited by both parties anyway. Many readers of this blog aren't aware of the fact that I am Ryan Gosling. Details of my life--like the fact that I "live" in York, England, am "married" and am a "father" to a four-year old son named "Tyler," am a "writer" and a "teacher" and I have a "real life history"--have all been invented in order to give me some level of secrecy. (As you can probably guess, I work harder than most other actors because of this need for a highly detailed fake life.)
But I am the Ry-master. And even though revealing that fact here (now) will undoubtedly make my life a heck of a lot more complicated, the Obama / Romney meeting yesterday has forced my hand (and I'm not even a card player).
Now, the meeting.
I could have tape recorded the entire thing on a tiny device that I happen to carry around with me everywhere. But I didn't. I don;t need that device, and I only carry it for purposes of establishing humility because I don't like to admit that I have a perfect photographic memory (which, in case you didn't know, also means I have a perfect phonographic memory (which, in case you didn't know, means that I can recall sounds and images at a moment's notice back to when I was three months old)).
Since one of the fake-details of my life is that I am a "writer," I decided to coat the big reveal with the cloak of my writerly self. Thus.
President Obama: Mitt, welcome.
Mr. Romney: Prez, thank you. Thank you very much. [Mr. Romney's hair is slicked back with copious gel, and I wonder if--perchance--he and I are consumers who zero in on the same gel brand at the store.]
President Obama: I hope you don't mind that I asked Ryan to join us? Members of your campaign staff assured me it wouldn't be a problem. [President Obama smiles wide enough to make me faint, and I don't faint easily.]
Mr. Romney: Members of my campaign staff assured me of a lot of things, too, Prez. [Mr. Romney pauses and when I gaze into his eyes, it looks as though he is lost in thought about why people ever decided to start canning worms, only to open up those cans at inappropriate moments. The more he thinks about this, the more he looks like he could cry, and it suddenly seems like his casting via media as a man without empathy might--perchance!--be wrong. Any man who can feel deeply enough about worms to practically tear up over their canning is an empathetic man in my book.]
President Obama: So, were members of your campaign staff correct? [President Obama shirts from foot to foot, and then finally throws his arm around me--a gesture of solidarity, for which I am thankful at this point. Because you can only think about the poor worms being canned for so long before you start to lose control.]
Mr. Romeny: About Ryan?
President Obama: About Ryan.
Mr. Romney: To be honest, I should have chosen Hilary Clinton. You and I both know that. We would have wiped the floor with you. No disrespect, of course, Prez. That Ryan guy--all he did for me was make me go to the extreme of Extreme Makeover.
President Obama: None taken. After all, this is still my private dining room, so you have permission to mourn your loss in any way you see fit. As long as it doesn't interrupt our agenda for the day. [President Obama winks at me. I wink back. Then I turn towards Mr. Romney and wink his way as well. I hate for anyone to feel left out. Mr. Romney winks back at me--the empathy this man has! And President Obama must interpret Romney's wink as directed at him, because he winks back at Mr. Romney and then Mr. Romney eventually winks at President Obama--only after a long, subdued, awkward silence.]
Me: My eyes are hurting.
Mr. Romney: [laughs]
President Obama: What's so funny, Mr. Romney. Haven't your eyes ever hurt before?
Mr. Romney: Never more than 47% of the time.
President Obama: Look, Mitt--I'm gonna call you Mitt from now on, okay?--I am really hungry and we're having an amazing Southwestern salad, so can you just tell me if it's alright if Ryan stays?
Mr. Romney: Yeah, yeah, the kid's alright. Bet he could eat fifty eggs and knock down a few parking meters if he wanted.
Me: I love that movie.
President Obama: Me too.
Mr. Romney: Well, let's get down to gold tacks and brass knuckles. The agenda. Does the kid know about it? [Mr. Romney wags his thumb at me and I feel slightly affronted. After all, I'm not that much younger than him, and we both use the same gel, and we both feel badly about the canned worms.]
President Obama: Mitt, Ryan is okay. In fact, he's solid. he's extremely solid in this area. That's why I asked him here in the first place.
[We all sit down at the table, on which glasses of water are already poured, seven pieces of silverware aligns the cloth in front of each of us, and chocolate Santa Clauses sit on each of our plates.]
Mr. Romney: Nice touch, Prez. [Holds up his personal chocolate Santa Clause.]
President Obama: You like that, do you Mitt?
Mr. Romney: I do, Prez.
[Awkward silence.]
[Continued awkward silence.]
[I decide to eat my chocolate Santa.]
[Awkward silence.]
[I decide to eat Mr. Romney's chocolate Santa.]
[Extremely awkward silence.]
[I decide to eat President Obama's chocolate Santa.]
President Obama: Ryan, please. I only had three of those, and they were especially made by a rare species of gnomes off the coast of Finland who work tirelessly day and night and produce a dozen chocolate Santa Clauses each decade.
Me: [Awkward.]
Mr. Romney: Aw, Prez, let the kid here off easy this time. He was famished after knocking all those parking meter heads off.
Me: I'm not Paul Newman.
Mr. Romney: Geesh, I know, I know. I'm, just saying.
President Obama: Salads please!
[A waiter rushes into the room carrying a tray on which sit three of the most perfect Southwestern salads I have ever seen in my entire human existence.]
Me: President Obama, were these made by those same gnomes off the coast of Finland? [laughing. Come on, it's funny.]
President Obama: Yes.
Mr. Romney: Checkmate.
Me: I don't play chess.
Mr. Romney: But did you ever think about the fact that maybe chess plays you? Bet you didn't. Maybe give that a think or two the next time you want to go our knocking parking meter heads off.
Me:
President Obama: Okay, gentlemen. It's about time we start with the real agenda for this meeting: Mitt's reading choices.
Mr. Romney: Look, when the guy from Time Magazine asked me, I didn't have time to prep--I couldn't think on the spot. You had time, Prez. You could expertly choose a few American classics, a few independent-spirit stuff, some Pulitzer winners. I didn't have the luxury of a whole team helped me narrow down my options.
President Obama: Look, Mitt, I didn't choose your campaign team for you--
Me: And I didn't choose to eat your chocolate Santas. It's a condition.
[Awkward silence.]
Me: But the thing about the reading choices--look, that's the real reason I'm here. And I'm here for BOTH of you.
Mr. Romney: [Aside] That and to knock off a few parking meter heads. [Laughs.]
Me: [Standing, flexing pectorals, biceps, and triceps] Cool it with the COOL HAND LUKE ALLUSIONS, MITT, OKAY!
Mr. Romney: [Sweats]
Me: [Suddenly this image comes to mind and I feel real bad about what I just did. The image is all these worms--nice, friendly, well-meaning worms--trapped in some can solely for the purpose of some rhetorical device in some silly blog post.]
President Obama: Ryan, take a breath. Good, Now, can you just give us the reading list already?
Me: [I devour my Southwestern salad, and if there were any more of those gnomish chocolate Santas, I'd be hard pressed to not...] Okay. You ready?
President Obama and Mr. Romney: Yes.
Me: Well, you've got to check out MOCKINGBIRD by Kathy Erskine. It'll seriously amaze you. And, yup, no way you want to miss THE SILVER LININGS PLAYBOOK by Matthew Quick. Awwwwwwsome. And, you need to get your hands on a copy of Francisco Stork's MARCELO IN THE REAL WORLD--it'll blow you away.
Mr. Romney: [Aside] The way you blow away those parking meters?
Me: [Deep breath, deep breath, deep--]
President Obama: Can we get the last secret chocolate Santa Clause out here for Ryan please?
Me: You've got to get Mike Jung's GEEKS, GIRLS, AND SECRET IDENTITIES--hilarious and deeply moving. And Lynda Mullaly Hunt's ONE FOR THE MURPHYS. Whew. Be ready to cry though, and to change your life. And, let's see...
[Waiter brings chocolate Santa and I devour it on the spot, while stealing a forkful of Mr. Romney's Southwestern, gnome-made salad.]
Me: Oh! A.J. Paquette's NOWHERE GIRL is freaking marvelous, as is Mitali Perkins' RICKSHAW GIRL and if you somehow missed Jonathan Kozol's SAVAGE INEQUALITIES and Ross Greene's LOST AT SCHOOL, man, you guys need to get yourself to your closest indie bookstore yesterday and pick them up, too.
Mr. Romney: [Aside] Bet there are a few parking meters en route to the local indie, ey Ryan?
Me: And can't miss Cynthia Lynch Williams's MILES FROM ORDINARY and Gary Schmidt's OKAY FOR NOW and--yes! yes! yes!--Emily Bronte's WUTHERING HEIGHTS.
Mr. Romney: You mean Charlotte Bronte?
Me: No.
President Obama: No.
Mr. Romney: Oh.
Me: And by all means, you have got to read Jackson Katz's THE MACHO PARADOX. Got to, gentlemen, got to.
[The room ebbs with the flow of my wisdom. It pulses the air in semi-equal reverberations of beauty and joy and truth.]
[Truth.]
Me: And Natalie Diaz Lorenzi's FLYING THE DRAGON is a can't miss--as well as Johan Harstad's BUZZ ALDRIN, WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU IN ALL THE CONFUSION? and definitely Olugbemisola Rhuday-Perkovich's EIGHTH GRADE SUPERZERO.
Mr. Romney: Who are you talking to right now?
Me: You.
President Obama: [Clears throat.] And me.
Me: Yes. And Diane Ravitch's THE DEATH AND LIFE OF THE GREAT AMERICAN SCHOOL.
Mr. Romney: Sounds a little dramatic.
President Obama: Is it about testing?
Me: Yes--specifically about standardized testing and the pressure it entails and the way it forces teachers, students, and schools to focus on memorization over skill, rote learning over creativity is kind of like, kind of like...throwing a dozen gnome-made chocolate Santas right onto the cold, hard floor.
President Obama: [Gasps.]
Mr. Romney: [Considers the canned worms. The man does have empathy, so I decide to forgive him on the spot for his parking meter references. we're all human, after all.]
Me: That's probably good for now. Until our next secret luncheon?
President Obama: [Winks at me.]
Mr. Romney: [Winks at President Obama, whom he thought was winking at him.]
President Obama: [Winks back to Mr. Romney.]
Me: [I wink as fast as I can at everyone, including the waiter who now comes to clear the dishes]
Friday, May 4, 2012
On the Train to Scarborough
I wouldn't have believed it unless it were me telling the story (which it is) and yet the event is still hard to believe--almost as hard as believing in the microscopic process of mitosis on the wings of minuscule fairies.
And yet.
It happened.
It happened as fast and as furiously as the flapping of the wings of fairies on a very, very small planet not unlike Planet Earth (but a little unlike Planet Earth in that the Planet on Which the Fairies Reside is almost fully land, with very little water, and each fairy that lives There has a free lifetime supply of Doritos (Cool Ranch flavor)).
(The water that does exist on their planet is of a purple-ish hue and smells like teen spirit, and so it is often avoided. Yet, when brought into contact with toenails, it has the incredible capability to produce the oddly riveting sensation of being slowly tickled--as if one were eating a deliciously crunchy Dorito while being slowly tickled, that is.)
So there I was: on the train from York to Scarborough. I was heading to the seaside for a conference that was to take place there, entitled HOW WRITERS CAN LEARN TO CRAFT BETTER FICTION BY BUILDING SANDCASTLES. I was very interested in this conference, and Jennifer encouraged me to attend the day-long festivities, which were going to include lectures by William Faulkner, Langston Hughes, and Margaret Wise Brown. I say "were going to include" (in the line above) because I will never know. I never arrived in Scarborough.
(Nor did any of us on that train that fateful day (which was today).)
See, the events that transpired on the train that fateful day (today) prevented any of us from getting to Scarborough, and therefore prevented me from ever hearing the deliciously wise and probing words of the aforementioned authors. (Furthermore, it also prevented me from taking part in the Literary Sand Castle Building Contest, in which I totally would have taken Faulkner easily. I know it.)
Because on the train that fateful day (still today), I happened to overhear the conversation of a man talking aloud to himself. He looked vaguely familiar, yet I couldn't be sure so I asked Rush Limbaugh if he was, in point of fact, Rush Limbaugh. The events that transpired from this seemingly innocuous question have changed the course of my life forever---as well as of the other people on the train with me that day, including Lisbeth Salander, Ryan Gosling, and Aunt Jemima.
So as to prevent any further unnecessary intrusions of my narration, I will henceforth allow the ensuing conversations and events to speak for themselves (as much as this is possible, which, according to Jacques Derrida, is highly possible, though not probable, but exists in a state of eventual occurrence (perpetually)).
Rush Limbaugh: Yes, I am Rush Limbaugh. And who are you?
Me: I am Luke Reynolds. I am on this train to Scarborough in order to attend the HOW WRITERS CAN LEARN TO CRAFT BETTER FICTION BY BUILDING SANDCASTLES conference. And you?
Rush Limbaugh: I am here to bring my message into the burrows and the wurrows of England.
Me: Oh.
Rush Limbaugh: It is a message that desperately needs bringing. True 'dat.
[From the seat behind me, I hear a massive crunching noise--much like a bag of Doritos being smashed underfoot steel toe work boots, except multiplied by a thousand. Then, a mysterious young woman with jet black hair emerged from the smoke and crunching sound (there was also smoke).]
Mysterious Young Woman Who Emerged from Smoke and Crunching Sound: How dare you bring such a message here!
Rush Limbaugh: I dare!
Mysterious Young Woman Who Emerged from Smoke and Crunching Sound: I dare to you to dare!
Rush Limbaugh: I already dared! I am here, daring. You can't dare me to dare something I am already daring to do. See, this is the thing about women's libbers like yourself--
Mysterious Young Woman Who Emerged from Smoke and Crunching Sound: Enough! Silence!
Rush Limbaugh: How dare you to dare me to be silent! Nobody cuts me off! That's MY job to--
Mysterious Young Woman Who Emerged from Smoke and Crunching Sound: [And another Dorito bag crunching sound emerged as this woman ripped an empty seat off its attached space to the floor of the train. Much smoke ensued, and the sound was like a bag of Doritos being crunched underfoot the leg of a large dinosaur--only the sounds would have been like a thousand bags being crunched underfoot of said dinosaur (simultaneously, but of varying Dorito flavors).]
Rush Limbaugh: Who ARE you?
Mysterious Young Woman Who Emerged from Smoke and Crunching Sound: I am Lisbeth Salander. And I WILL BE HEARD.
[And suddenly, in that very instant, the temperature of the train rose almost the length of the full thermometer that I happened to be holding in my hand (it was a very cold train to begin with). I looked around, and there--dare I report it--stood Ryan Gosling.]
Ryan Gosling: And I am here to make SURE her voice is heard, Rush. You've been trying to stomp out women's voices for far too long. You've been using the mindless power of the microphone to synthetically magnify your message of misogyny for far too long; because that message doesn't transmogrify the souls of the men and women who hear it. No, Rush. No. It may provide ratings for a while, but the enduring qualtiy of such a message of patriarchal posing does nothing but offer a pose of poise, never the real thing, Rush. Never. People are too perspicacious for that. It's high time you get taken to task for the reckless message of misogyny you proffer--preying on the weaknesses of men and women. Not here, Rush. Not now.
Lisbeth Salander: YES!
[I stood up from my seat in that instant, in a show of solidarity with both Lisbeth and Ryan. If it was going to be the two of them versus Rush, I wanted them to know they could count on me. I was in. Fully. Committed. Even though we were outnumbered (Rush had brought various microphones with him, and could broadcast direct worldwide from the train, which meant that he had about 20 million people with him, while we had various crunching noises and an incredible articulate man, we didn't have the microphones.]
A Voice from Behind The Three of Us Standing in Solidarity: And you three are not alone. Mmmm-mmm, no.
[The three of us turned around at that EXACT moment, and we saw the reality of a mocked-up, stolen-by-advertisers woman. In reality, as she stood before us, Aunt Jemima's smile was less sweet and more strength. Less doormat and more I'll-slam-your-fingers-in-this-door-right-now-if-you-don't-respect-me.]
Rush Limbaugh: No, it can't be. I ate your pancakes as a kid, I--I--I--
Aunt Jemima: Enough.
Lisbeth Salander: That's what I said!
Ryan Gosling: Me too, just with a few more words.
Aunt Jemima: And you were both spot-on right. Rush, you've been stepping on women for far too long. Now it's time you got a real education.
[And right there, before my very eyes, Rush was speechless. He faced our quartet, and he was speechless. And what ensued, I can honestly report, was nothing short of magnificent. Miraculous. Rush listened as Ryan, Lisbeth, and Jemima told him about Other Experiences of Life, in which power was shared, growth occurred, and people treated one another with respect, dignity, and compassion. (I even managed to sneak in a sentence or two, but my input was like a single Dorito in the presence of a Dorito Factory from the triumvirate with whom I stood shoulder to shoulder.)]
Since all this occurred on that fateful day (today), much has changed. Rush Limbaugh now no longer verbally abuses the rights and dignity of women on his radio show. He has lost a view listeners due to this change. But he has gained three listeners for every one he's lost. (That's like going to the grocery store and walking down the SNACKS aisle and seeing a "Buy One Bag of Doritos, Get Three Free" sale--which is pretty awesome.)
So, am I disappointed that I missed the HOW WRITERS CAN LEARN TO CRAFT BETTER FICTION BY BUILDING SANDCASTLES conference?
No. Not by a long shot. In fact, I'd trade lifetime supply of Doritos (Cool Ranch flavor) just to be back on that train, in that very moment, again.
And yet.
It happened.
It happened as fast and as furiously as the flapping of the wings of fairies on a very, very small planet not unlike Planet Earth (but a little unlike Planet Earth in that the Planet on Which the Fairies Reside is almost fully land, with very little water, and each fairy that lives There has a free lifetime supply of Doritos (Cool Ranch flavor)).
(The water that does exist on their planet is of a purple-ish hue and smells like teen spirit, and so it is often avoided. Yet, when brought into contact with toenails, it has the incredible capability to produce the oddly riveting sensation of being slowly tickled--as if one were eating a deliciously crunchy Dorito while being slowly tickled, that is.)
So there I was: on the train from York to Scarborough. I was heading to the seaside for a conference that was to take place there, entitled HOW WRITERS CAN LEARN TO CRAFT BETTER FICTION BY BUILDING SANDCASTLES. I was very interested in this conference, and Jennifer encouraged me to attend the day-long festivities, which were going to include lectures by William Faulkner, Langston Hughes, and Margaret Wise Brown. I say "were going to include" (in the line above) because I will never know. I never arrived in Scarborough.
(Nor did any of us on that train that fateful day (which was today).)
See, the events that transpired on the train that fateful day (today) prevented any of us from getting to Scarborough, and therefore prevented me from ever hearing the deliciously wise and probing words of the aforementioned authors. (Furthermore, it also prevented me from taking part in the Literary Sand Castle Building Contest, in which I totally would have taken Faulkner easily. I know it.)
Because on the train that fateful day (still today), I happened to overhear the conversation of a man talking aloud to himself. He looked vaguely familiar, yet I couldn't be sure so I asked Rush Limbaugh if he was, in point of fact, Rush Limbaugh. The events that transpired from this seemingly innocuous question have changed the course of my life forever---as well as of the other people on the train with me that day, including Lisbeth Salander, Ryan Gosling, and Aunt Jemima.
So as to prevent any further unnecessary intrusions of my narration, I will henceforth allow the ensuing conversations and events to speak for themselves (as much as this is possible, which, according to Jacques Derrida, is highly possible, though not probable, but exists in a state of eventual occurrence (perpetually)).
Rush Limbaugh: Yes, I am Rush Limbaugh. And who are you?
Me: I am Luke Reynolds. I am on this train to Scarborough in order to attend the HOW WRITERS CAN LEARN TO CRAFT BETTER FICTION BY BUILDING SANDCASTLES conference. And you?
Rush Limbaugh: I am here to bring my message into the burrows and the wurrows of England.
Me: Oh.
Rush Limbaugh: It is a message that desperately needs bringing. True 'dat.
[From the seat behind me, I hear a massive crunching noise--much like a bag of Doritos being smashed underfoot steel toe work boots, except multiplied by a thousand. Then, a mysterious young woman with jet black hair emerged from the smoke and crunching sound (there was also smoke).]
Mysterious Young Woman Who Emerged from Smoke and Crunching Sound: How dare you bring such a message here!
Rush Limbaugh: I dare!
Mysterious Young Woman Who Emerged from Smoke and Crunching Sound: I dare to you to dare!
Rush Limbaugh: I already dared! I am here, daring. You can't dare me to dare something I am already daring to do. See, this is the thing about women's libbers like yourself--
Mysterious Young Woman Who Emerged from Smoke and Crunching Sound: Enough! Silence!
Rush Limbaugh: How dare you to dare me to be silent! Nobody cuts me off! That's MY job to--
Mysterious Young Woman Who Emerged from Smoke and Crunching Sound: [And another Dorito bag crunching sound emerged as this woman ripped an empty seat off its attached space to the floor of the train. Much smoke ensued, and the sound was like a bag of Doritos being crunched underfoot the leg of a large dinosaur--only the sounds would have been like a thousand bags being crunched underfoot of said dinosaur (simultaneously, but of varying Dorito flavors).]
Rush Limbaugh: Who ARE you?
Mysterious Young Woman Who Emerged from Smoke and Crunching Sound: I am Lisbeth Salander. And I WILL BE HEARD.
[And suddenly, in that very instant, the temperature of the train rose almost the length of the full thermometer that I happened to be holding in my hand (it was a very cold train to begin with). I looked around, and there--dare I report it--stood Ryan Gosling.]
Ryan Gosling: And I am here to make SURE her voice is heard, Rush. You've been trying to stomp out women's voices for far too long. You've been using the mindless power of the microphone to synthetically magnify your message of misogyny for far too long; because that message doesn't transmogrify the souls of the men and women who hear it. No, Rush. No. It may provide ratings for a while, but the enduring qualtiy of such a message of patriarchal posing does nothing but offer a pose of poise, never the real thing, Rush. Never. People are too perspicacious for that. It's high time you get taken to task for the reckless message of misogyny you proffer--preying on the weaknesses of men and women. Not here, Rush. Not now.
Lisbeth Salander: YES!
[I stood up from my seat in that instant, in a show of solidarity with both Lisbeth and Ryan. If it was going to be the two of them versus Rush, I wanted them to know they could count on me. I was in. Fully. Committed. Even though we were outnumbered (Rush had brought various microphones with him, and could broadcast direct worldwide from the train, which meant that he had about 20 million people with him, while we had various crunching noises and an incredible articulate man, we didn't have the microphones.]
A Voice from Behind The Three of Us Standing in Solidarity: And you three are not alone. Mmmm-mmm, no.
[The three of us turned around at that EXACT moment, and we saw the reality of a mocked-up, stolen-by-advertisers woman. In reality, as she stood before us, Aunt Jemima's smile was less sweet and more strength. Less doormat and more I'll-slam-your-fingers-in-this-door-right-now-if-you-don't-respect-me.]
Rush Limbaugh: No, it can't be. I ate your pancakes as a kid, I--I--I--
Aunt Jemima: Enough.
Lisbeth Salander: That's what I said!
Ryan Gosling: Me too, just with a few more words.
Aunt Jemima: And you were both spot-on right. Rush, you've been stepping on women for far too long. Now it's time you got a real education.
[And right there, before my very eyes, Rush was speechless. He faced our quartet, and he was speechless. And what ensued, I can honestly report, was nothing short of magnificent. Miraculous. Rush listened as Ryan, Lisbeth, and Jemima told him about Other Experiences of Life, in which power was shared, growth occurred, and people treated one another with respect, dignity, and compassion. (I even managed to sneak in a sentence or two, but my input was like a single Dorito in the presence of a Dorito Factory from the triumvirate with whom I stood shoulder to shoulder.)]
Since all this occurred on that fateful day (today), much has changed. Rush Limbaugh now no longer verbally abuses the rights and dignity of women on his radio show. He has lost a view listeners due to this change. But he has gained three listeners for every one he's lost. (That's like going to the grocery store and walking down the SNACKS aisle and seeing a "Buy One Bag of Doritos, Get Three Free" sale--which is pretty awesome.)
So, am I disappointed that I missed the HOW WRITERS CAN LEARN TO CRAFT BETTER FICTION BY BUILDING SANDCASTLES conference?
No. Not by a long shot. In fact, I'd trade lifetime supply of Doritos (Cool Ranch flavor) just to be back on that train, in that very moment, again.
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