tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-56125244592343148072023-11-16T05:08:56.294-08:00geekerieI'm a big geek. Let's blog about it!Larissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02537143201423322465noreply@blogger.comBlogger122125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5612524459234314807.post-23784931780293738502010-08-26T22:41:00.000-07:002010-08-26T22:42:14.634-07:00silly bands I wish were real<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9BGRP5Wbpu1xNA8IsQTgAnjYs39hI6Rv77KRgvRxzQr1EwMN3001ZknIjo_zSrQmA8Eds8iTnACIoti-GhyphenhyphenCr0HnBz5jdCeWgPwQ_5V53mvMtZk1WUJGQBU8mCbAwr4-KJBq7T899hAxk/s1600/sillybandsiwishwerereallz.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 251px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9BGRP5Wbpu1xNA8IsQTgAnjYs39hI6Rv77KRgvRxzQr1EwMN3001ZknIjo_zSrQmA8Eds8iTnACIoti-GhyphenhyphenCr0HnBz5jdCeWgPwQ_5V53mvMtZk1WUJGQBU8mCbAwr4-KJBq7T899hAxk/s320/sillybandsiwishwerereallz.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509960773264186498" /></a>Larissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02537143201423322465noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5612524459234314807.post-9398948122146694822010-07-16T10:18:00.001-07:002010-07-16T10:18:54.025-07:00when I hate Facebook, this is why.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrbMV-agk6gMr5LCzPHeW9lhzqCaCPHytYgMwHKE5t1GGV8oMtnj3DxH3_NE-p1VwGYi9sBhh4xb5pSQDbmOZC7w00x2MFgi5WB9atjY0QHurVN1ukzDF9AC4BERIdU5hIwltazLVpj_y7/s1600/eating.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 249px; height: 71px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrbMV-agk6gMr5LCzPHeW9lhzqCaCPHytYgMwHKE5t1GGV8oMtnj3DxH3_NE-p1VwGYi9sBhh4xb5pSQDbmOZC7w00x2MFgi5WB9atjY0QHurVN1ukzDF9AC4BERIdU5hIwltazLVpj_y7/s320/eating.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5494554770126902818" /></a>Larissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02537143201423322465noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5612524459234314807.post-51633509943581890392010-06-09T22:32:00.000-07:002010-06-09T22:45:09.642-07:00smart.My friend DC once wisely said (er, wrote in an insightful blog post) that being smart is sometimes like having a piece of plexiglass between yourself and everyone else around you who is having fun.<br /><br />I definitely feel that way, way more than I would like to. I've met many others who glory in that invisible barrier protecting their ideals and intellect from an increasingly distant Them. And I've met others still who seem so desperate to do anything to break it down; who will go out of their way to even try to swallow it. <br /><br />Dude...can't nobody swallow walls.<br /><br />But you can put windows in them. Maybe step around them from time to time long enough to take a few deep breaths of the smooth Fun Air everyone's always going on about. At the very least, you can decorate your see-through wall with conversation-starting stickers. <br /><br />I think everyone's got their own wall. Call it intelligence, call it beauty, even Great Personality. We all have a strength we hide behind. We blame. We cling to.<br /><br />Human behavior, yo. It's a tricky bitch.<br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/d5PoIrcyd34&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/d5PoIrcyd34&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object>Larissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02537143201423322465noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5612524459234314807.post-86698345102281688362010-06-08T22:19:00.000-07:002010-06-08T22:22:15.594-07:00to sir, with love<object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/qH4mI7Nao-M&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/qH4mI7Nao-M&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br />Thank you Glee, for reminding me this song exists and is more exciting than a smack in the face.<br /><br />Also, for that Journey medley. No show can go wrong with a Journey medley. No day can go too wrong with a Journey medley.Larissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02537143201423322465noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5612524459234314807.post-10054168631732194002010-05-27T10:07:00.000-07:002010-05-27T10:17:53.662-07:00teacher tip: be Mary Poppins. or Marty Poppins, if you're a dude.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTMLlCS2jHAmgLlnIs6qudWJl4Xt30r8ujh3v3qFUDmsOq45hrZUjCiHIC4Ny0WdbL6gHU_Uh9iHN0aBJj1oVMsILoam3_BhQiKaNgM3sU-Pi-StNcT3vHOuQh7Y0ZdExeaHKp7-Qvzpq1/s1600/CIMG4613.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTMLlCS2jHAmgLlnIs6qudWJl4Xt30r8ujh3v3qFUDmsOq45hrZUjCiHIC4Ny0WdbL6gHU_Uh9iHN0aBJj1oVMsILoam3_BhQiKaNgM3sU-Pi-StNcT3vHOuQh7Y0ZdExeaHKp7-Qvzpq1/s320/CIMG4613.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5475999892205391874" /></a><br /><br />Purses and man-satchels are magic. We’re lucky we’re humans and get to use them! Can bears and chipmunks carry around cool stuff in decorative pouches? If you’re not couting giant paws or cheeks, heck no!<br /><br />Take full advantage of whatever bag you tote and stock it with things that would make a singing British nanny sigh with wonder. With a gleam of cockeyed optimism in your eye and a bit of roominess in your bag, you may just become education’s answer to McGyver.<br /><br />Helpful items to keep on hand/in yr fanny packs:<br /><br />-A digital camera. <em>Duh.</em><br /><br />-Pens and/or pencils. <em>Double duh.</em><br /><br />-Paper. <em>Always. OMG, get to the good stuff right? Hold on to your satchel. I’m getting there.</em><br /><br />-Novelty keychains/the odd finger puppet. <em>There are a million things you can do with a finger puppet. Storytelling exercises, having kids put on mini plays, heck, even therapy sessions can be aided by a little bit o’ adorable. If Mac mania isn’t proof enough, everybody, no matter their age, loves toys. Keep one on you and see if it doesn’t get put to some creative (NOT GROSS) use soon enough.</em><br /><br />-MP3 player + Headphones. <em>You probably have this on you anyway, and it’s a great go-to if you want to have an impromptu soundtrack to your class or a song show + tell. I enjoy lording my headphones over kids who are required to turn theirs over before class starts, and lend them out as a privilege. Cruel to be kind, yo.</em><br /><br />-A colored Sharpie Marker. <em>They make middle schoolers think you’re cool, and are good for randomly inspired poster-making sessions. Yes, the latter happens.</em><br /><br />-A slim, age-appropriate book. <em>Sometimes having a solid book on hand is enough to calm a restless student, engage a brooding or bored one, or use to punish a wild one into the joy of reading. You can’t go too wrong with The House on Mango Street by Sandra Cisneros or any of the Runaways comics by Bryan K. Vaughan.</em><br /><br />K. Best of luck diffusing boredom bombs and spoonful of sugaring knowledge.<br /><br /><em>If you'd like to read more musings on the teaching lyfe, please visit the blog I cheat on this blog with, <a href="http://girldetectiverie.tumblr.com/">http://girldetectiverie.tumblr.com/</a>.</em>Larissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02537143201423322465noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5612524459234314807.post-90949401386217625052010-05-22T21:14:00.000-07:002010-05-22T21:18:03.151-07:00Beauty + the Feast<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHF-kAw4vV27AeblyOqTJBZ98jPPDShM0sYu5OLaE5oVHopHAZcmPdj62IfOdWM6svC6xRqcLqpdSpDAs6Gw4oxnQo7xgeBucB3JPIj01ohjBzwdb-8afqEMThnNY8EIUPeH9tCCI3YgDT/s1600/bfweb.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 327px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHF-kAw4vV27AeblyOqTJBZ98jPPDShM0sYu5OLaE5oVHopHAZcmPdj62IfOdWM6svC6xRqcLqpdSpDAs6Gw4oxnQo7xgeBucB3JPIj01ohjBzwdb-8afqEMThnNY8EIUPeH9tCCI3YgDT/s400/bfweb.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5474314515789253538" /></a><br /> <em> He lumbered through Devilmass Manor like a wounded hound of Hades. It would be an evening for remembering if he left anyone to remember it. His experiments had gone wrong this day. No longer was he Lord Blackthorn, man of letters, distinction, and bodily sciences. This night he was no man. He was beast. He was heathen. He was-<br /><br /> “Master Blackthorn?” a timid voice sweet as orange marmalade sounded in the doom-tempered darkness. “Has something happened to Cook?”<br /><br /> The monster in him laughed a snarling, sinister response. If the organ and its most ardent player, Cousin Alonso, had not recently been set to burning in a fit of serum-soaked hellwrath a foreboding tune would surely play. For just paces from Lord Blackthorn, Cook lounged on a newly-crimson chaise holding a bowl of blackberry jam. Part of Cook, anyway. <br /><br /> A clatter of pans on the distant kitchen’s flagstone floor snapped him from his sinner’s survey. “Oi!” the candied cry of the distant maid called to him and his insatiable hunger. “Master, I am all thumbs and apologies!”<br /><br /> “Child, you will be sorrier still.” He murmured to the drawing roomful of destruction and dead before giving a bit of a howl and bounding for the scullery maid’s scent. His immense shadow soon fell over the girl and a king’s bounty of baked goods flung upon the kitchen floor. She was a bit tall for a scullery maid, and her back held a slight hump, but when she turned to see him he saw her tear-streaked face was vaguely pretty and familiar.<br /><br /> “Master Blackthorn!” she cried while scooping some mashed muffins into her apron. “Your eyes! They’re quite dilated!” He emitted a growl and lunged for her throat, missing her by moments as she turned to pull a tray of tarts from the oven. “All sorrows for the lateness of the meal, Master Blackthorn. Cook was to help me learn the ropes of it but has been away ever so long with business I know not-AH!” She let out a little scream as Lord Blackthorn pinned her against the stone wall and bared his bloody maw. “I understand you’re hungry, sir. I’m sorry. It’s just, it’s my first day with all the responsibilities heaped on only me, sir. I’m used to the scullery bits moreso than the cooking. Not that I can’t do it, sir. Me mum was a cook, a bloody fine cook if you excuse my vulgarity. My nerves, sir. You being a genius, perhaps you understand. It’s just a lot to take on, sir. Sir!”<br /><br /> He kicked the waffle press from her hand with his bloodstained boot. “Forgive my presumption, Master Blackthorn, but to look at the state of you! Clothes in tatters and what ghastly stains! Indeed you are known for your eccentricities and brilliance but what will the little-seen but oft-alluded to Lady Blackthorn say?”<br /><br /> “Nothing. I have eaten her.” Lord Blackthorn foamed at the mouth and furrowed his hairy brow. “I’ve eaten them all, you see. In a fit of rage brought about from my meddling with the makings of man. My potions and bottles and experiments have gifted and cursed me with the strength of a billion brutes. Watch, girl, the orange flames dance in the woodstove round your mincemeat pies-“<br /><br /> “They’ll be done at half past, Master. I swear it.”<br /><br /> “Splendid…er…The flames…they dance like my own madness. My rage. My genius. And they claim the pies as I claim my victims, wholly. Indiscriminately. Now you I shall claim the same. I cannot stop myself. I am the devil, maid!”<br /><br /> “Yes, sir. But are you hungry?”<br /><br /> “For bones and blood and-“<br /><br /> “Scones, I do hope. And hot buttered ham. Brunch will be served within the hour.”<br /><br /> “Erm…” the beastly form of Lord Blackthorn paused in pursuit of his quarry and quite near a tray of steaming pear popovers.<br /><br /> “The scent captivates you, don’t it, sir? Cook’s recipe. Cook was to show me how to do them properly of course, but as you’ve eaten him, I’ve had to go from memory of watching. I do hope they’re not awful. Listen to me. My nerves! Of course they’ll at least be a little of alright. Sir?” She delicately lifted his death-caked hand from her throat. “Do help me set the table? I wouldn’t ask it’s just, with the rest of them all eaten up it’s too much work for me alone, it is. And a strawberry rhubarb pudding for your trouble.” She stuck a serving tray in the crook of his outstretched arm and a spoonful of sweetness in his mouth before sweeping past him regally for the dining room. The pudding tasted even better than the flesh of his enemies, and he softened upon her near-instant return. <br /><br /> “Let us take our meal in the courtyard, as the dining room has burnt quite away.”He followed her out to the honeysuckle-scented courtyard and watched her spread a red-checkered blanket on an only partially-charred lawn. She enlisted his aid in carrying out another several baskets of sweetmeats and silverware before they both finally settled down to eat.<br /><br /> “It seems you may plan on eating me, sir. But it would, pardon me, be a bloody shame for my work to go to waste. Let us see if you are still hungry after all this.” They both cast a look at the sumptuous spread before them, and she turned her gaze to the quietly burning estate. <br /><br /> “Perhaps the next stroke of genius you have can be less mad and more…philanthropic?”<br /> <br />He looked at her in awe. Perhaps he nodded. His unearthly anger, unlike the flames engulfing Devilmass Manor, was extinguished. He snatched at a blueberry muffin with the hunger of an animal and the wonder of a child. The maid laughed a tinkling, goodhearted laugh. <br /><br /> “Well go on then, sir. Tuck in!”</em>Larissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02537143201423322465noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5612524459234314807.post-52969154136399364242010-05-22T21:09:00.001-07:002010-05-22T21:18:56.000-07:00some saturday nights you smell like baby puke...and then you blog about it.<br /><br />A baby puking is one of the saddest, scariest things to witness. I imagine new parents experience it on the regular, but as an old-hand babysitter tonight marked my first ever Baby Puke moment. The baby is now okay, wiped down, soothed, no longer spewing bits of pasta and tears. <br /><br />There are times when you can say "poor baby" and mean it without an ounce of sarcasm.<br /><br />Baby puke moments are those times.Larissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02537143201423322465noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5612524459234314807.post-74981970335071053112010-05-21T17:21:00.000-07:002010-05-21T17:22:46.712-07:00too tired to be funnyso I'll just be biblical.<br /><br /><br /><blockquote>And let us not grow weary in well-doing; for in due season we shall reap, if we do not lose heart.<br /><br />Galations 6:9</blockquote><br /><br />Heh...6:9...Larissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02537143201423322465noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5612524459234314807.post-48389257949425850442010-05-07T09:36:00.001-07:002010-05-07T09:44:20.051-07:00dose of folk wisdom for the dayI've been thinking, and seems like everything a person could want to do either takes longer than anyone could have ever predicted to come to fruition, or it happens so fast you don't have time to think or feel anything about it until you're left spinning in its dust.<br /><br />I don't know which is better, or if it's even about one kind of fruition-ing being better. Both seem to happen all of the time to me and the people around me.<br /><br />I call this folk wisdom cause I'm a folk, just like you. Eh. Here's a picture of Woody Guthrie for good measure.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1OK8VaRI-13t2hajS8wj0wFteTspWLI94vrcbfyWoukN4wWvrZmtR2FhClVWsB15N1jNQKu7WOxLqLXhq9Uz8LGZYata3iVemcH1IZU9xEF9vA3Tw06NNQ-49lJm-mTczAeesPRoGQ6OK/s1600/woody_guthrie.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 298px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1OK8VaRI-13t2hajS8wj0wFteTspWLI94vrcbfyWoukN4wWvrZmtR2FhClVWsB15N1jNQKu7WOxLqLXhq9Uz8LGZYata3iVemcH1IZU9xEF9vA3Tw06NNQ-49lJm-mTczAeesPRoGQ6OK/s400/woody_guthrie.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5468569158615535346" /></a>Larissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02537143201423322465noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5612524459234314807.post-10196453960371136962010-05-04T09:14:00.000-07:002010-05-04T09:16:08.181-07:00the biznitch is back.Dear blogspot:<br /><br />I've been cheating on you with Tumblr for awhile. I've gone back and forth for months about how to tell you, who was better in blog, but finally the truth has hit me like an arrow to the heart. Tumblr was flashy and fresh and fast, but it was always you, blogspot.<br /><br />It was always you.Larissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02537143201423322465noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5612524459234314807.post-65891089154492564312009-12-21T20:20:00.000-08:002009-12-21T20:22:50.681-08:00blood, guts, and goodbye<em>And look just there, how the goat guts drip down your scythe. Liquid rubies slipping down the obsidian blade, like your fingertips once slid down the length of my arm, both coming to rest in a warm, messy tangle of life and death. Oh, Dark Lord of the Barrrowlands, we were once something great.<br /><br />Now we have spent fortnights unnumbered with each other and yet apart. We have always been about our own tasks, yes, but between the cruel ruling of our own lands won with dark magicks and deceit and our respective insatiable appetites for obscene power and raiment, we once found time for one another as pleasurable and simple to make as a virgin sacrifice to the wicked forest warrior priests of the ancients. <br /><br />We once loved each other as madly and fully as our own ambitions. We oft made the blood and bed and breakfast pledges to each other, to our love, to join our great powers as one High King and High Queen of Endsong. Violent and vicious and wild-eyed, we made love and promises. Grown men shook before us united. Fair kingdoms were ruined. Children were eaten. Now we would sooner share an awkward moment of forced pleasantry than a bed, or even a set of runes. How could there now be so little to say to each other, when once there were tomes? How could we both inwardly cringe at the thought of taking on another joint campaign of dark wizard hellfire?<br /><br />Though our bed has always wailed with the voices of innocents meeting their doom, another sound has joined their enchanted chorus. And oh, my love, what a dirge it is! A tune much like but far superior to the funeral of a dwarf monarchy I once witnessed briefly before igniting with flames thrown from my Staff of Nether. Sad and slow and sung by the ghost of this, us, what we were and could be but are no longer.<br /><br />Many moons could be wasted lamenting this loss, our fates. But know this my once-love, my Darkness. If I had a heart I would hold you in it forever, a prisoner being slowly starved for food and hope. I would let your memory fester and die there, in that space inside me that should be. <br /><br />But since we are heartless folk, I say this. A bit of the old black magic flared when you struck the guts of the goat that would be your final sacrifice to me. Remember what we once had always as I will, riding for strongholds unknown, this intestine pendant round my neck.</em>Larissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02537143201423322465noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5612524459234314807.post-13383139158901540422009-12-11T18:34:00.000-08:002009-12-11T19:02:30.951-08:00"I feel like I'm always learning my opponent."My friend Philip has been a teacher and writer for longer than I have, and is an undeniable hotshot in both fields. He's all the things good teachers and writers should be: kind, creative, honest, funny, and tough. Plus he's won awards, written under the advisement of the dude who wrote Hotshots, does Kung Fu, and has a downright oldtimey mustache.<br /><br />Philip: he's pretty great.<br /><br />So it was great to get to vent and moan and be all the things good teachers and writers are in their off hours with him. To let all the cuckoo-clock-wound muscles unfurl and show their strain. To talk solutions, small losses and wins. To know other teachers have hit walls too, beg signs of life from a sea of blank stares and don't get so much as blinks. To hear of other Larissas and Philips giving up or doubling down, finally walking out or finally getting through.<br /><br />Philip said something earlier about a cage fight he recently attended. He said, "the guy we were rooting for didn't win but he fought a good fight. He really dominated in the third round, was stronger in the second, but the first...I dunno, it took him too long to learn his opponent."<br /><br />Earlier, in class, the kids and I were talking about conflict and conflict resolution. It was a great conversation, blooming like the rose at the end of some serious scrub-brush season. It got heavy, with kids opening up about a lot of the hardships they face and wondering about the effect small losses have on the psyche of themselves and others. <br /><br />One kid said, "well even if we never win, we've still got to try."<br /><br />I said, "Yes! Why??"<br /><br />I looked around the room at twenty faces screwed up in thought. Finally, another kid piped up.<br /><br />"We just have to. Right?"<br /><br />"Right." I said. Then looked out at the class again. "Right?"<br /><br />Twenty kids shrugged and nodded. The sound of a small win symphony.Larissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02537143201423322465noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5612524459234314807.post-4819718706070375272009-12-08T21:11:00.000-08:002009-12-08T21:20:25.038-08:00silver bullet with butterfly wings<em>“Quit rustling.”<br /><br />“I’m not rustling.”<br /><br />“Shut up!”<br /><br />“You shut up!”<br /><br />“You…you're lazy, come on.”<br /><br />“Okay, Dad.”<br /><br />“Shut up.”<br /><br />“You’re the one who said I was bad at his.”<br /><br />“No. I said you’re too loud. You’re slouching. Stand UP, Kyle.”<br /><br />“I AM!”<br /><br />“Shh. Puff your shoulders up. Pretend there’s a hanger in them.”<br /><br />“In my skin? In my body?”<br /><br />“Like you’re wearing a dinner jacket and there’s a hanger still in it. Like you’re nervous. But also like you’re angry. Like you’re ready to pick up a table and throw it.”<br /><br />“Do you see this stuff on TV?”<br /><br />“Kyle!”<br /><br />“Derek!”<br /><br />“Jesus!"<br /><br />“Great. Maybe I should start praying to the patron saint of bad-“<br /><br />“SHUT UP Kyle. Jesus. I’m trying to help you.”<br /><br />“You want me to stand like…I am angry…at a dinner party.”<br /><br />“ Ugh. Yes.”<br /><br />“Okay.”<br /><br />…<br /><br />“I’ve never been at a dinner party though.”<br /><br />“It doesn’t matter. Imagine.”<br /><br />“Oh. Kay.”<br /><br />“That’s…at least you’re not slouching.”<br /><br />…<br /><br />“I am bad at this.”<br /><br />“You won’t always be.”<br /><br />“Yeah, right.”<br /><br />…<br /><br />“Did you…were you bad at it?”<br /><br />“No.A little, I guess. At first. But then…”<br /><br />“That girl-“<br /><br />“Yeah.”<br /><br />“That’s the part I am going to be really bad at. The standing part, I can figure out. The actual…attacking part. I’m not cut out for it.”<br /><br />“It's not like how- And you haven’t changed yet. Fully. You have to see how you're...The moon-“<br /><br />“What is the moon gonna change? It’s not gonna change me. Who I am.”<br /><br />“So you think it changed who I am?”<br /><br />“Ow!”<br /><br />“Do you?”<br /><br />“No! Ow. I don’t know.”<br /><br />…<br /><br />“It…I didn’t do. What dad thinks. What dad says we should do when the moon is…”<br /><br />“Like that?”<br /><br />“Yeah.”<br /><br />“But you said- the cheerleader-the harvest festival-“<br /><br />“I made it up.”<br /><br />…<br /><br />“All of it?”<br /><br />“There <em>was </em>a harvest festival. There <em>was </em>a cheerleader. I just didn’t- We just kinda…talked. And we…kissed, you know. I didn’t make her or anything. It just happened.”<br /><br />“Because of the moon? Or the talking?”<br /><br />“I don’t know. Lower your voice.”<br /><br />…<br /><br />“Both, I think.”<br /><br />…<br /><br />“…Oh.”<br /><br />“…Yeah.”<br /><br />“But the change? Did it-”<br /><br />“It didn’t really do anything. It made me a little braver, I guess. It made me feel a little wild. Not killing wild, or anything.”<br /><br />“Hungry? Like Dad-“<br /><br />“Kind of hungry. But not to eat, you know?”<br /><br />“Not …yeah. I guess. Yeah.”<br /><br />…<br /><br />“I think it’s different from when Dad and Granddad felt it. I think the moon is different now. Or we’re different, I don’t know.”<br /><br />...<br /><br />“This girl from class. Is she pretty?”<br /><br />“I think she is. You probably won’t think so.”<br /><br />“Shut up.”<br /><br />“You probably won’t though.”<br /><br />“Do you think she’s pretty, Kyle?”<br /><br />“Yes.”<br /><br />“Then she is pretty. Jesus. What is wrong with you?”<br /><br />…<br /><br />“Why are we even out here? It’s cold. And we’re not gonna turn into monsters, apparently.”<br /><br />“I know.”<br /><br />“Why then?”<br /><br />“Because…the moon is gonna come out. And something will happen. And I’m gonna help you figure it out.”<br /><br />…<br /><br />“Okay.”</em>Larissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02537143201423322465noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5612524459234314807.post-22203460994552565412009-12-07T19:53:00.000-08:002009-12-07T19:58:31.102-08:00pearls before swine<em>Science is almost always the biggest waste of time. We never get to go to the lab because Deongelo and Edwin are idiots. Even when Mr. Wick tries to do easy stuff so we can earn going in the lab, Deongelo and Edwin ruin it because they curse and are playfighting. I mean, it’s hilarious, but it’s also stupid because then we never get to go in the lab and we just do stupid worksheets and that just makes them act up more, so also it’s stupid of Mr. Wick to do that. It’s like our afterschool teacher says, nothing works with seventh graders because we are hellbent on ruining everything. Hellbent is a curse, but she says she’s allowed to say it because it’s in literature and we curse more than her anyway. And we do.<br /><br />But science has been NOT a waste of time this week, it has been pretty cool but also gross. We are dissecting pigs. They are baby pigs or something, and they look really nasty and kind of see-through but it is cool that we are doing something in Science that is not worksheets. We are working in groups to dissect the pig and learn about its body parts and anatomy. Deongelo and Edwin are actually good at it, go figure. It is disturbing that the only time they don’t talk is when they are cutting a dead pig, but whatever.<br /><br />I wanted to try to cut it but when it was my turn I got sick. Like, at first I thought I was going to only be a little bit sick in my throat, but I don’t know. It was something about how it felt cutting it, it felt like cutting an orange. Like a really nasty orange. And I just started remembering this pig that used to run around my cousin’s house in Puerto Rico and even though that pig was bigger, I don’t know, I guess I just started confusing the pigs or something because all of a sudden I just missed Puerto Rico a lot and I felt really bad for that pig and I…I puked, man. It was gross.<br /><br />All of the kids are always mean to me anyways, calling me stupid and ugly and say I look like Shrek, but when I puked they were even more mean. For a second I didn’t think it was as bad as it felt but when I opened my eyes I looked and it was really bad. Some of my puke even got on the pig. They said I puked because I felt bad for cutting up my own kind. Mr. Wick yelled at them to shut up, but even he looked mad that I puked on the pig. I hated my life.<br /><br />For the rest of the week Mr Wick told me to take it easy and to read articles about Science he had on his computer. One of the articles was about this woman who brought a heart back to life. The heart was a a dead rat heart, and she cleaned it off really good with this chemical from shampoo. And once it was really, really clean she put all these new rat heart cells in it to see what would happen. And the new rat cells brought the dead heart to life. The rat heart started to beat again. It was like a zombie or something, but not evil or anything. Everyone who the woman knew was really happy for her. I guess they think one day we will be able to bring back friends and cousins and people you really miss. People who it just breaks your life to lose, you can bring back one day.<br /><br />When I asked Mr Wick why she started on a rat heart and not a people heart, he said in Science you have to think big but start small.<br /><br />I have been thinking. I am going to bring in shampoo tomorrow because tomorrow they get to the heart part of dissecting. I know we need more than a heart to live. But this kind of science is like magic. If you can bring a heart back from the dead, it should just start pumping blood into all the dead things and wake them up. And the legs and the brains and the guts will think they are alive and then soon enough they will actually be alive. And then the pig will wake up and it will be exactly the same except it will not think it is ugly anymore, or gross, even if it still smells like formaldehyde which it probably still will unless I bring in some perfume but even perfume mixed with that smell would be gross. But the pig won’t think it smells gross. It will think it smells like magic. Because no matter what, it broke every rule. It is a magic pig.<br /><br />I got Mr Wick to print out the article for me. He is glad I am reading more advanced this year.<br /><br />I am going to go home and study and come here and bring the heart back. Then I will keep the pig as a pet and teach it all new things about life. I am going to be really good to that pig.</em>Larissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02537143201423322465noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5612524459234314807.post-16624298461900047732009-12-02T20:11:00.000-08:002009-12-02T20:14:12.800-08:00the shadow hero<em>Ale, mead, and honeywine flow freely in the hero hall. It is always a celebration here: a town has been saved, a demon has been slain, a witch outwitted. There are always stories to tell and they are almost always the same. <br /><br />We heroes come to the hero hall to show off bloody heads, severed from beasts of infamy, from hell, from the deeps. We take time to mention the manner of severing: axe blade, sword, our own teeth. We eat. We drink. We make merry with maids.<br /><br />From time to time something odd happens in the hero hall. A shadow will darken the hall’s threshold, turn a maid’s fair locks grey, her face white, her hands to shaking birds. Steins will clatter to the ground and grown men will groan or tremble as they face the shadow dead on. <br /><br />The shadow becomes a man, or a woman. The shadow heaves and sighs. The shadow collapses at the bar, and only picks at the pretzels and popcorn offered there. The shadow man or woman may order a drink, but if they do or don’t they always just stare at the space where the drink is or would be. They sigh ever so. And breathe ever so. And think hard.<br /><br />After a time of generally killing the rest of the heroes’ buzz, the shadow hero will cry. And wonder why it didn’t work. And blame themselves but try not to. And wish they could just let it go, this very unheroic way they have about them, of worrying and wondering and ruminating. And they will ponder for a moment another life, one where simple mead and empty kisses could heal their wounds. Or true love could strengthen their weak spots. Or belief could rush steady and strong at the base of their spine and out through their limbs and provide that flexibility so needed on the battlefield, in the woods, alone.<br /><br />The rest of the heroes will watch this awkward hot mess transpire. Most will edge away or look at their shoes; wonder out loud about the time. But one or two or maybe three will sit nearer the shadow hero, and listen to the quiet tears. They will put hands on the shadow’s back, push the popcorn closer and say:<br /><br />Eat something.<br /><br />Breathe.<br /><br />You’re still here.</em>Larissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02537143201423322465noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5612524459234314807.post-14164675118918233322009-12-01T20:30:00.000-08:002009-12-01T20:43:32.454-08:00remember eXistenZ?The Cronenberg joint from the late 90s about thrills, chills, and escapades in the seedy underbelly (and bioported gamepods) of a not-so-distant future, starring international sensation Jennifer Jason Leigh and a relatively unknown British chap named Jude Law?<br /><br />I was a pretty big fan of that movie. And that part where Jude Law/Ted Pikul licked ol' JJL's infected bioport in game.<br /><br />If that sentence sounds like code to you while simultaneously turning you on, do yourself a favor and give this flicker a watch. Even though it's ridiculous, if you equate gamepods to iPhones it will chill you with its on-pointitude about the fetishistic addiciton people have to their personal technology. And if the chills don't impress you, Willem Defoe as (shock!) a madman will at least make you laugh.<br /><br />DP: And that light is just...right. Thanks for standing in, John!<br />JUDE: It's Jude.<br />DP: Thanks Jude! Just think, one of these days this could be you starring and you'll have your own stand-in.<br />JUDE: I'm actually the actor. I'm not a stand in.<br />DP: That's the spirit, Jim!Larissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02537143201423322465noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5612524459234314807.post-59808180389093678692009-11-23T22:42:00.001-08:002009-11-23T22:43:02.223-08:00joe tracz is a really great writerIf you ever get a chance to see one of his plays, do it. This is a little snip from one he wrote set at various dance parties in outer space:<br /><br /><em>Unable to go home, Error began carefully measuring out his remaining jumps, traveling to points of historic interest in the past and future, absorbing art and culture wherever he could, and taking advantage of the unique educational opportunities his situation afforded. <br /><br />At least he started to do that.<br /><br />And then he became a teenager.<br /><br />And then he met a girl.<br /><br />At a masked ball, at the bottom of the ocean.<br /><br />A ball we happened to be throwing.<br /><br />And then he lost her.<br /><br />He did something stupid and he lost her.<br /><br />And ever since then… <br /><br /><br />I feel bad for the guy.<br /><br />I know how it feels to keep looking for something.</em>Larissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02537143201423322465noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5612524459234314807.post-30605594359395240132009-11-19T22:33:00.000-08:002009-11-19T22:50:26.595-08:00to die, it's easy<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0GZX5CNPacaNf9WRxjxCdfICnM9CNyvBZrNXCfbnBMNBCC6a3RL2fgWwN9yHpe7OSREfe5f_ZGKoXpnCM4EI7Mj8xwrjUZ5m_HeVpp2PVDQ600VQk2_ZGUwgsoDzEMpAPZkzi3tfat5nE/s1600/maus.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 188px; height: 144px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0GZX5CNPacaNf9WRxjxCdfICnM9CNyvBZrNXCfbnBMNBCC6a3RL2fgWwN9yHpe7OSREfe5f_ZGKoXpnCM4EI7Mj8xwrjUZ5m_HeVpp2PVDQ600VQk2_ZGUwgsoDzEMpAPZkzi3tfat5nE/s400/maus.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5406072508327737666" /></a><br /><strong>"<em>'No, Darling!<br /><br />To die, it's easy...but you have to struggle for life!<br /><br />Until the last moment we must struggle together! I need you! And you'll see that together we'll survive.'</em><br /><br />This always I told her."</strong><br /><br />-Vladek Spiegelman, in Art Spiegelman's MAUS. Which is really Vladek and Art Spiegelman's MAUS, if you think about it.Larissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02537143201423322465noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5612524459234314807.post-63364757268573004242009-11-18T22:33:00.000-08:002009-11-18T22:34:30.877-08:00I have an actual goddamned time machine, I am not kidding<em>If I said to you, "I want to return to 1940 and have a big coupe with big running boards and drive it drunkenly and carefully along dirt roads never causing harm except for frightening chickens out of the road, and I want you standing out there on the running board saying Slow down, or Let me in, and laughing, but I don't stop, because of course you don't mean it, you think as I do that big 1940s coupe and careful drunken driving and one party outside the car and one inside and both laughing and chickens spraying unhurt into ditches is what life was then, is what life was about before it became ruined by us and all our crap," and if I said to you, "I have an actual goddamned time machine, I am not kidding, we can get in the coupe inside thirty seconds if we take off our clothes and push the red button underneath that computer over there, come on, strip, get ready""--would you get ready to go with me, and go? Would you ask a lot of questions? Or would you just say, "Shut up and push the button"?</em><br /><br />--Padgett Powell via Ben Platt's facebook pageLarissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02537143201423322465noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5612524459234314807.post-42458830124329784242009-11-17T23:55:00.001-08:002009-11-18T00:23:23.479-08:00since prince was on appolloniaI've been working on a dream project pretty much nonstop for the past few months. It's an idea I've nursed in some fashion for the past five or so years. We're finally shooting the first episode and then some this weekend. <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_N7c_HeOzFyVIIUH8i84ExVmNM7Qks3TNeVYDgr5cxrnwYOOYIbfaqjLruCjWNGo3es11ZIUUl5eCJk8yDB-a8f8zGyG-bXd1LKrvFl4BXEiF-RXCzYQ8PXJ7OEPGCgjeWw2tRDN-YF4J/s1600/snapsnapsnap.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 117px; height: 287px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_N7c_HeOzFyVIIUH8i84ExVmNM7Qks3TNeVYDgr5cxrnwYOOYIbfaqjLruCjWNGo3es11ZIUUl5eCJk8yDB-a8f8zGyG-bXd1LKrvFl4BXEiF-RXCzYQ8PXJ7OEPGCgjeWw2tRDN-YF4J/s400/snapsnapsnap.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5405349378300663186" /></a><br /><br />Of course, all this dedication has meant I've abandoned a bunch of littler projects for awhile. That and had a lot of late nights listening to Bruce Springsteen and Passion Pit at my kitchen table. So *snaps* to some cool stuff that I didn't write that has been keeping my creative brain full in between bites of Snap and Akon and Emon and Springsteen and dance jams and teaching the children and watching The Office and The Guild and all that.<br /><br />first snaps to Jonathan Goldstein's <strong>Ladies & Gentlemen, The Bible!, </strong>. It is a book my pal <a href="http://www.lalalindsey.com/">Lindsey </a>is reading, and from this story alone it sounds absolutely wonderful. This is one part:<br /><br /><em>In the Beginning, when Adam was first created, he spent whole days rubbing his face in the grass. He picked his ear until it bled, tried to fit his fist in his mouth, and yanked out tufts of his own hair. At one point he tried to pinch his own eyes out, in order to examine them, and God had to step in.<br /><br />Looking down at Adam, God must have felt a bit weird about the whole thing. It must have been something like eating at a cafeteria table all by yourself when a stranger suddenly sits down opposite you. But it's a stranger who you have created. And he is eating a macaroni salad that you have also created. And you have been sitting at the table all by yourself for over a hundred billion years. And yet still, you have nothing to talk about. It was pitiful the way Adam looked up into the sky and squinted. Before He created Adam, God must have been lonely. Now he was still lonely, and so was Adam.<br /><br />Then came Eve. Since the Garden of Eden was the very first village and since every village needs a mayor as well as a village idiot, it broke down in this way. Eve: mayor. Adam: village idiot. And that is the way it was from the very beginning. Sometimes when Adam would start to speak, Eve would get all hopeful that he was about to impart something important and smart, but he would only say stuff like, "Little things are really great, because you can put them in your hand as well as in your mouth."<br /><br />Eve would ponder how one minute she was not there, or anywhere, and now she was. Adam would ponder nothing. In her dreams, Eve danced in the tops of trees. Her beautiful thoughts flew out of her ears and lit up the sky like fireflies, and there were all kinds of people to talk to and hug. And then she would hear snoring. She would wake up, and there would be Adam, his yokel face pressed right against hers, his dog-food breath blowing right up her nostrils. Eve stared up at the sky. Adam draped his arm across her chest and brought his knee up onto her stomach. God, watching in Heaven, feared for Adam's broken heart as though the whole universe depended on it.<br /><br />Adam was close to the animals and spent all day talking to them. Except for God, Eve had no one. She would complain to the Lord any chance she got. "Adam is a nimrod," she would say and the Lord would remain silent. God was the best and all that, and she loved the hell out of Him, but when it came to trash-talk, He was of no use.<br /><br />Adam was constantly trying to impress her. "Look what I have made," he said one bright morning, his hands cupped together. Eve looked into his hands. She pulled away and shrieked. Adam was holding giraffe feces. "I've sculpted it!" said Adam. "It is for the Lord." He opened his hands wide to reveal to her a tiny little giraffe with a crooked neck.<br /><br />On some days, Adam galloped about, exploring. His hair was wiry and when it got sweaty, it hung down in his eyes. Adam was cute this way. On one such day, he saw a snake. Adam made the snake's acquaintance by accidentally stepping on his back.<br /><br />"Wow, that smarts!" said the snake through gritted teeth. Their eyes locked and in that very moment, the snake concluded that, indeed, Adam was a lummox and as King of the Earth, his reign would very soon end. There was a new sheriff in town, and it was he. It was no longer the story of Adam, but the story of the snake. He could tell all of this just by simply looking into his idiot eyes.<br /><br />"I've seen you around with another one like you," he said to Adam. "But instead of the dead legless snake between the legs, she has chaos there."<br /><br />"That's Eve!" said Adam, all animated. "I named her that myself. God made her from out of my rib." He showed the snake the scar on his side. The snake looked at Adam in silence. The idea of Adam, Adam the schlemiel, Adam the fool, being God's favorite was enough to give the snake a migraine.<br /><br />"You aren't at all like I imagined," the snake said. "I thought you'd be closer to the ground. More pliant. Greener. I tried to explain to God that to make you balanced up on your hind legs was architecturally unsound. I don't know why I bother."<br /><br />Adam sat and listened, wide-eyed. Eve hadn't the patience to sit and chat like this. So when the snake suggested that they get into the habit of meeting every once in a while to talk, Adam was very excited to do so. As they lazed on their backs, staring up at the sky, the snake would brag about how he was older than the whole world and how he used to pal around with God in the dark, back before Creation. He said that in the darkness, it was a truer freer time, that in the darkness was the good ol' days. He told Adam that back in the very beginning, he had all kinds of thoughts on how to make the Garden of Eden a better place -- but God was just too stubborn to listen to reason. "Make the earth out of sugar, I told Him. Instead of stingers, give bees lips they can kiss you with."<br /><br />Adam didn't always agree with the snake. In fact, a lot of what the snake said went straight over his head. But there was still something about him that made him get into a very particular mood. He made the world feel bigger. Sometimes when Adam was with Eve, sitting there in icy silence, he would think to himself: "I sure could go for a good dose of snake."<br /><br />You would think after all the time they spent together, the snake would finally find it within himself to like Adam, just a little bit. But instead, he only grew to hate him more. He took to comforting himself with thoughts of Adam's wife, Eve. From what he heard from Adam, she was hot and smart. Often he would imagine running into her, and the instant synergy they would have. "Adam neglected to tell me how leggy you are," he would say, wrapping himself around her calf.<br /><br />The snake had no idea what he looked like. He was hairless, bucktoothed, four inches tall, and he spoke with a lisp. Adam had the IQ of a coconut husk. But he was still human. The snake, in his arrogance, was unable to grasp this, and so he daydreamed. "Sometimes, I'd think you were watching me," the snake imagined saying to Eve. "Because I felt like there were ribbons wrapped around me. Ribbons made of raw pork intestines. I would turn around to catch you sneaking a peek at me from behind a tree, but all I would see were the hedgehogs who mocked me. Come, my dear. Let us eat from the Tree of Knowledge."<br /><br />On Eve's very first day, Adam had explained to her the rules of the Garden, just the way God had explained them to him. He had lifted his head up and had made his back stiff. He had spoken the way a radio broadcaster from the 1940's would. Another kind of woman, someone softer than Eve, might have found this charming. He explained that except for the Tree of Knowledge, every tree in the Garden was theirs to eat from.<br /><br />"I am a fan of the pear," Adam said. "It is not unlike an apple, whose head craves God."<br /><br />"Tell me more about this Tree of Knowledge," said Eve. She enjoyed the sound of it. The Tree of Knowledge. It sounded very poetic.<br /><br />"There's not much to tell," said Adam. "If we eat from it, we will die."<br /><br />From then on, Eve talked about the Tree of Knowledge all the time. It was Tree of Knowledge this and Tree of Knowledge that. It was like it wasn't a tree at all, but a moviestar. Sometimes she would just stand by the Tree and stare at it. It was on such an occasion that she met the snake.<br />When Eve first caught sight of him, she brought her hand to her mouth and gasped. She had seen some repulsive animals in her day. A boobie that percolated her vomit just below her tonsils. A dingo that instilled in her a sublime sense of nature's cruelty. And a deathwatch beetle that filled her with existential dread. But still, there was something about the snake that made her realize in a flash that the world was anywhere from 60 to 80 percent oilier than she would have ever imagined.<br /><br />"Hi!" said the snake. "In the mood for some Fruit of Knowledge? It's fruity!"<br /><br />"We were told not to eat from that tree, or else we would die," said Eve.<br /><br />"Die? What an ignorant thing to say," said the snake, all chewing on a blade of grass in the side of his mouth. "If there's an escape hatch from Paradise, then it isn't really paradise, is it?"<br /><br />The snake made interesting points. That appealed to Eve. He could see that he was making an impression.<br /><br />"All I'm saying is to give it a try. Many things will be made immediately clear to you once you partake. I could talk about it all day and you still won't get it. You have a right to at least try it, right? I'm not saying go out and eat an entire fruit. Have a nibble. A nibble isn't really eating, is it?"<br /><br />Eve found arguing semantics exhilarating. She looked at the Tree. The way the sun shined through its leaves was beautiful. Everything seemed to point to: nibble the fruit. Then the snake said, "Think about it. Does God want companions who can think for themselves or does he want a bunch of lackeys and yes-men? Wouldn't God want a few surprises? It would seem to me that God telling you not to eat from the fruit was just a test to see if you could think for yourselves, to see if you could exist as equals to God. The day you taste the fruit is the day God will no longer be lonely. At least give it a lick."<br /><br />Eve looked at the fruit and then she looked at the snake. Then, slowly, she parted her lips and pushed out her tongue, all wet and warm and uncertain. She ran its tip along the smooth flesh of the fruit. The snake smiled. "Has anyone died?" he asked. "Now take a tiny little nibble. Just a speck, just to see."<br /><br />The fruit was squishy and tart. She smooshed it around in her mouth. She squinted her eyes. It was a bit like trying on new glasses. It was a bit like an amal nitrate popper. It was a bit like a big wet kiss on the lips right at first when you weren't sure whether you wanted to be kissed or not. She felt a thousand little feet kicking at her uterus.<br /><br />The idea of her own nudity, as well as Adam's, had always felt like a Nordic co-ed health spa thing. Now with the Fruit of Knowledge, it felt more like a Rio de Janeiro carnival thing. Her breasts felt like water balloons filled with blueberry jam and birds. Her nipples were like lit matchsticks. Her thighs, the way they swished against each other, were like scissors cutting through velour. With her lips still glistening in Tree of Knowledge fruit juice, she ran off to find Adam. The snake watched her as he chewed on his slimy blade of grass. And as she receded into the distance, he thought something along the lines of "Now that's what I'm talking about."<br /><br />"Kiss me, Adam," said Eve. "Taste my lips."<br /><br />Adam, like any lummox truly worth his salt, could smell the minutest trace of knowledge coming his way, and thus he knew how to avoid it like the plague. But yet, there was also this. Eve had never sought him out in the middle of the day before just to kiss him. It felt like a very lucky thing. When he took her in his arms, he told her that he loved her with his whole entire heart. He closed his eyes tightly and brought his lips to hers. Then he squinted. Then it started to rain and Eve began to cry.<br /><br />During the darkest days ahead, with the fratricides and whatnot, Adam would often think back to his brief time in Eden. As he became an old man, he would talk about the Garden more and more. A couple of times, he had even tried to find his way back there, but he very soon became lost. He didn't try too hard anyway. He didn't want to bother God any more than he already had.<br /><br />When Adam met someone that he really liked, he would say, "I so wish you could have been there." It didn't seem fair to him that he was the one who got to be in Eden. "This sunset isn't bad," he'd say, "but the sunsets in Eden, they burned your nosehairs. They made your ears bleed." He couldn't even explain it right. "When you ate the fruit in Eden, it was like eating God," he would say. "And God was delicious! When you wanted Him, you just grabbed Him." Now when he ate fruit, he could only taste what was not there. But it wasn't all bad. After Eden, Eve became much gentler with Adam. After getting them both cast out, she decided to try as hard as she could to give Adam her love. She knew it was the very least she could do. She sometimes even wondered if that was why God had sent the snake to her in the first place.<br /><br />Adam would tell his grandkids, his great-grandkids, and his great-great-grandkids about how he and Nana Eve had spent their earliest days in a beautiful garden, naked and frolicking, and the kids would say, "Ew!" The children would swarm into the house like a carpet of ants. The youngest ones would head straight for Adam, lifting his shirt to examine his belly for the umpteenth time. They smoothed their hands across his flesh and marveled. "Where's Grandpa's bellybutton?" they all asked. He stared at the children. They were all his children. And as they slid their little hands across his blank stomach, he wondered what it was like to be a kid. </em><br /><br />Second snaps to <strong>The Legend Of Neil</strong>. It is an absolutely hilarious and ridiculous webshow about a dopey guy who falls into a live-action Legend of Zelda after pleasuring/auto-asphyxiating himself while playing the game. It's written by Zaboo from The Guild, yo!<br /><br /><embed src='http://media.mtvnservices.com/mgid:hcx:content:atom.com:2b1ada72-36e3-4289-a2cd-38f215e1a3a8' type='application/x-shockwave-flash' wmode='window' width='425' height='354' allowFullscreen='true' flashvars='autoPlay=false'></embed><br /><br />Snippy snaps to DC Pierson, writer of books, solver of mysteries, maker of Sword Clubs. Order this joint now. Or go see his movie, Mystery Team, in theaters (it's in Pheonix now, at somplace called Valley Art). And don't be one of those f*cks who envies someone for "making it". Get of your ass and get on yr grind like this kid. Or rub salt in the wound when I tell you he even DREW THE PICTURES on the cover of his book!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDadnvZGU1s8kA3ao8SelZRd8eVls2AsduF6Fx5fCPHXb6cxGI9G-JN-fZ55-D80wgUK0nE7HOTdT8ShHNtq4KFHWdSDwz8DOid0Zke0_h52P9yRuUU6GqyRFIvefrpLZhnxcVvxPkXrgx/s1600/couldntsleep.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDadnvZGU1s8kA3ao8SelZRd8eVls2AsduF6Fx5fCPHXb6cxGI9G-JN-fZ55-D80wgUK0nE7HOTdT8ShHNtq4KFHWdSDwz8DOid0Zke0_h52P9yRuUU6GqyRFIvefrpLZhnxcVvxPkXrgx/s400/couldntsleep.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5405353253745615906" /></a><br /><br />Snaps to Joe Avella, one of my fave people/comedians/fellow Ian McShane enthusiasts. He's one of the Snap writers, and his short Wheelchair Werewolf just took a fancypants prize at a film fest in Wales. Things that win in Wales win with me.<br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/83yv26Qr_NA&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/83yv26Qr_NA&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br />Second round of snaps to Lacy Campbell, badass at large, and her own short stories. I mean for real? What can't this chick do?!?!?! One of my favorites from a perhaps-defunct site: <a href="http://thecollectivelens.blogspot.com/">http://thecollectivelens.blogspot.com/</a><br /><br /><em>Fernando </em>by Lacy Campbell<br /><br /><em>We lived so close to the border that THE thing to do, if you were a total badass, was to sneak out in the middle of the night and go to this tiny little town in Mexico, Sangre de Cristo. And once you made it there, you had to get your picture taken in the cantina with Fernando.<br /><br />Everyone knew who Fernando was – they had all seen his picture and heard stories about him. He had dark eyes that had sunken back into his skull, a wide lipless smile, and a skinny face like a horse. He was a legend. Everyone who came back from Sangre de Cristo had a Fernando story and a photo to go with it.<br /><br />And, of course, everyone had a story about who he really was. He was a CIA operative. He was a former revolutionary. He was a rapist and a murderer, he was a drug lord, he was the guy who originally wrote La Bamba.<br /><br />No one talked about the other possibility: that Fernando was some guy who drank at the local bar every night, hoping for one of those nights when a gaggle of giddy, elated American teenagers would swagger in, breathless with their own stupidity and daring, their pockets bulging with beer money and disposable cameras.</em><br /><br />Snaps to my new favorite video on the planet. No joke. Love it. I love it so much I don't even have anything witty to say about it.<br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/d1QjYgq244c&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/d1QjYgq244c&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br />And snaps to Juliana, and her mom, and all the people I know and don't know pulling for someone amazing. Pull for her too:<br /><a href="http://www.forjuliana.com/">http://www.forjuliana.com/</a>Larissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02537143201423322465noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5612524459234314807.post-69245730452974592392009-11-11T21:31:00.000-08:002009-11-11T21:56:10.582-08:00Vikings! Holy Shit!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRPo2_s0HdWl3Z3Wkg_IA89dkMxdsGAdMr1jwZ-mqwA6EFqWPvSH0d4tj6QiqHkvy87GwAlgZR8Rtui9PibTYzvq1jsMd4-7gwjNlRaubUbRli4_TaKOtv-TDIRk-ww7KnND5VjyHsb1Ja/s1600-h/CIMG2450.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRPo2_s0HdWl3Z3Wkg_IA89dkMxdsGAdMr1jwZ-mqwA6EFqWPvSH0d4tj6QiqHkvy87GwAlgZR8Rtui9PibTYzvq1jsMd4-7gwjNlRaubUbRli4_TaKOtv-TDIRk-ww7KnND5VjyHsb1Ja/s400/CIMG2450.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5403086487320308770" /></a><br />Lacy Katherine Campbell is your hero. <br />You may not know this yet, but it's true.<br /><br />She's an actress/writer/wonder-person, and I first got to know her when she played a twentysomething public-radio-personality frankenstein in a tv pilot I made with some other insanely talented friends. One time I felt famous because she quoted my blog on her blog. And I just got back from her latest + greatest artistic contribution to the world: Beowulf v Grendel (with Barbies.) <br /><br />Don't mistake this for your auntie's performance art, Beowulf v. Grendel is the REAL DEAL when it comes to awesome things you've got to see. (Sorry, performance art aunties.) For one, that IS a garland of dead strung across the front of the Barbie/Beowulf stage. For two, it's like a play within a play within a fever dream of someone's supersmart, brazenly goofy mind. For three: vikings, dude. VIKINGS.<br /><br />One of the less-fortunate viking's heads landed near my sis and I during the show:<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilYJsyXXxgx6VkOHof0R4VihieH2plWX6lTKRAKThDrxDUrUatNy9kA8aB7n7tDW1JqzHHb6agf0BAbwhW-3Dv6GD7LpX5euQ2OAuYzI-Osr7fHb_prSBFcjFF6e-FlGoTyDT5DQmorfQ0/s1600-h/CIMG2452.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilYJsyXXxgx6VkOHof0R4VihieH2plWX6lTKRAKThDrxDUrUatNy9kA8aB7n7tDW1JqzHHb6agf0BAbwhW-3Dv6GD7LpX5euQ2OAuYzI-Osr7fHb_prSBFcjFF6e-FlGoTyDT5DQmorfQ0/s400/CIMG2452.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5403088588895017746" /></a><br /><br />Seeing B v G was a blast, and reminded me that some of the best, coolest things in life would never happen if the people behind them didn't ride full-throttle into the unknown and the silly. There's really no hard and fast reason to try anything above-and-beyond in this day and age. There are enough workaday things to worry about and achieve, and its devastatingly easy to lose faith in yourself and the phantom viking barbie plays in your mind while you're caught up in the routine. But you don't need hard and fast reasons. You need hot glue and gumption and mad energy to make something that makes people think, and laugh, and generally be happy to be alive.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5u6AFY-QgvQKXA4wgG_oU6s8wpvVzgNtt6Y6Zotrt6XxhalOI9JKW6aZcVVnm8u3ZIDb4IMcpHuU0oB-XHS_aCDy4hHD3lPDK_uo1mTWmu-O21iM_9nDNDXtBNVvo_EckVXyd8h9BGEB-/s1600-h/CIMG2454.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5u6AFY-QgvQKXA4wgG_oU6s8wpvVzgNtt6Y6Zotrt6XxhalOI9JKW6aZcVVnm8u3ZIDb4IMcpHuU0oB-XHS_aCDy4hHD3lPDK_uo1mTWmu-O21iM_9nDNDXtBNVvo_EckVXyd8h9BGEB-/s400/CIMG2454.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5403091385453969186" /></a><br /><br /><em>psst! read Lacy's heroic blog here: <a href="http://alifetimeofdubioussuccess.blogspot.com/">http://alifetimeofdubioussuccess.blogspot.com/</a></em>Larissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02537143201423322465noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5612524459234314807.post-26132049663343559462009-11-10T18:12:00.000-08:002009-11-10T18:17:03.489-08:00"The Day I Lost my iPod Forever""the day my DS was robbed out of my sister's hands"<br /><br />"the time I was embarrassed because I fell in the toilet at my birthday sleepover"<br /><br />All entries in one of my fave 7th grader's composition books.<br /><br />I guess even when my job sucks, it is awesome.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLQnWpyBs4DNCjF7k8wkQtcey6joafATQ1zptGfWCuLKvN4sKlj6K-uwhoatpCabi7KzrkjB6ZZMZPOfs97xhRXC2tu2kBUiG4G39laiic6pTXPiD9RLzB6kBb5csKYMrTEv_J0vPeQgDl/s1600-h/B0022-COMPOSITION%2520BOOK.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLQnWpyBs4DNCjF7k8wkQtcey6joafATQ1zptGfWCuLKvN4sKlj6K-uwhoatpCabi7KzrkjB6ZZMZPOfs97xhRXC2tu2kBUiG4G39laiic6pTXPiD9RLzB6kBb5csKYMrTEv_J0vPeQgDl/s400/B0022-COMPOSITION%2520BOOK.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5402664217920698274" /></a>Larissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02537143201423322465noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5612524459234314807.post-57549873311579301382009-11-09T21:40:00.001-08:002009-11-09T21:42:38.524-08:00ewanyou still do it for me.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT3Awz7QRDNtXykgTg6ZkcOj3sf5FIKzyX_FjrP1yq2qaUhu79mRi_gWR6oQqZfkE1s6IqbDuSX1qL_ldp1Z6a0I4SMk9SaOC9IhnSkxLhjMfULP087192PHY6uSWpEQwnZIvCkhT6KML6/s1600-h/500x_2967_2246108025.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 252px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT3Awz7QRDNtXykgTg6ZkcOj3sf5FIKzyX_FjrP1yq2qaUhu79mRi_gWR6oQqZfkE1s6IqbDuSX1qL_ldp1Z6a0I4SMk9SaOC9IhnSkxLhjMfULP087192PHY6uSWpEQwnZIvCkhT6KML6/s400/500x_2967_2246108025.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5402345864907796578" /></a><br />I really liked <em>The Men Who Stare at Goats</em>, which is based on one of my favorite non-fiction books of all time. I have lots to say about both. <br /><br />But you know, bros before prose.Larissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02537143201423322465noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5612524459234314807.post-84545717876391699072009-11-09T19:32:00.000-08:002009-11-09T19:40:56.598-08:00conversation with 5th graders about The FutureWe've been working on Future Self portraits in Art.<br /><br /><strong>Me:</strong> So who can tell me some of the things that might happen in the future?<br /><br /><strong>Class:</strong> Flying cars! Robots! Living Underwater!<br /><br /><strong>Me:</strong> Okay...and what about something more personal? Who can tell me about a personal future thing?<br /><br /><em>Lavell, a genius ten-year old, shyly raises his hand. I call on him.</em><br /><br /><strong>Lavell:</strong> Exploding chickens.<br /><br /><strong>Me:</strong> Okay, Lavell. Please explain how exploding chickens are personal.<br /><br /><strong>Lavell:</strong> ...It's their business.<br /><br /><em><strong>AWESOME.</strong></em><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiFfaEDe4JHi9khWQzK4UngD2GBUTPWeCbVnoJCm4Lst2FndrKGJUen3KPvhnywicuoRr8Py5CzOf_K4vsQN7_H3lVLFuk99-nKRbT_1YAKhFW4t5o59sqXPwqT80YYQISxoipSmG7tAP5/s1600-h/CIMG2418.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiFfaEDe4JHi9khWQzK4UngD2GBUTPWeCbVnoJCm4Lst2FndrKGJUen3KPvhnywicuoRr8Py5CzOf_K4vsQN7_H3lVLFuk99-nKRbT_1YAKhFW4t5o59sqXPwqT80YYQISxoipSmG7tAP5/s400/CIMG2418.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5402314163120523522" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUk2uLNsSo6U17sEd88cT0VSPjCWd9Je5VwKjL91IwaE9vQRQWGumfxrQhRFVKM8up9aHskqCvIOi9eIOl38rXlS9KZgnIIalbMyfJLNL-UO8k17UXYyGQT3ZWTw0ouRtL7-7j2L9-99F2/s1600-h/CIMG2419.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUk2uLNsSo6U17sEd88cT0VSPjCWd9Je5VwKjL91IwaE9vQRQWGumfxrQhRFVKM8up9aHskqCvIOi9eIOl38rXlS9KZgnIIalbMyfJLNL-UO8k17UXYyGQT3ZWTw0ouRtL7-7j2L9-99F2/s400/CIMG2419.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5402314468067168050" /></a>Larissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02537143201423322465noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5612524459234314807.post-90593301131299973782009-11-03T16:33:00.000-08:002009-11-03T16:44:59.144-08:00even 7th graders thought this was cool.<object width="480" height="300"><param name="movie" value="http://www.whitehouse.gov/sites/all/modules/swftools/shared/flash_media_player/player.swf"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="bgcolor" value="282828"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><param name="flashvars" value="path_to_player=http://www.whitehouse.gov/sites/all/modules/swftools/shared/flash_media_player&path_to_plugins=http://www.whitehouse.gov//sites/default/modules/wh_multimedia/wh_jwplayer&path_to_captions=http://www.whitehouse.gov/sites/default/files/av_closedcaption/11022009_LINMANUEL_MIRANDA_PERFORMS_AT_WH.srt&file=http://www.whitehouse.gov/videos/2009/May/051209_Poetry_LinManuelMiranda.m4v&image=http://www.whitehouse.gov/sites/default/files/audio-video/video_thumbnail/9-Miranda.jpg&controlbar=bottom&frontcolor=AAAAAA&plugins=http://www.whitehouse.gov//sites/default/modules/wh_multimedia/wh_jwplayer/captions,http://www.whitehouse.gov//sites/default/modules/wh_multimedia/wh_jwplayer/hat&captions.file=http://www.whitehouse.gov/sites/default/files/av_closedcaption/11022009_LINMANUEL_MIRANDA_PERFORMS_AT_WH.srt&stretching=fill&menu=false"></param><embed src="http://www.whitehouse.gov/sites/all/modules/swftools/shared/flash_media_player/player.swf" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="300" flashvars="path_to_player=http://www.whitehouse.gov/sites/all/modules/swftools/shared/flash_media_player&path_to_plugins=http://www.whitehouse.gov//sites/default/modules/wh_multimedia/wh_jwplayer&path_to_captions=http://www.whitehouse.gov/sites/default/files/av_closedcaption/11022009_LINMANUEL_MIRANDA_PERFORMS_AT_WH.srt&file=http://www.whitehouse.gov/videos/2009/May/051209_Poetry_LinManuelMiranda.m4v&image=http://www.whitehouse.gov/sites/default/files/audio-video/video_thumbnail/9-Miranda.jpg&controlbar=bottom&frontcolor=AAAAAA&plugins=http://www.whitehouse.gov//sites/default/modules/wh_multimedia/wh_jwplayer/captions,http://www.whitehouse.gov//sites/default/modules/wh_multimedia/wh_jwplayer/hat&captions.file=http://www.whitehouse.gov/sites/default/files/av_closedcaption/11022009_LINMANUEL_MIRANDA_PERFORMS_AT_WH.srt&stretching=fill&menu=false"></embed></object><br /><br />Meet Lin-Manuel Miranda, creator of In the Heights, a musical I have never seen but damn I want to. I was first exposed to his talents at a songwriter showcase at Northwestern my already-in-the-Miranda-know pal Dyan invited me to. In the words of the seventh graders I showed this clip to today, Lin-Manuel Miranda is pretty raw.<br /><br />(In case you're lame, Raw means cool now. Liken it to "baller" or "the most!")<br /><br />Almost all of my students are Puerto Rican, like Miranda. Almost all of them seem to hate reading and learning, unlike Miranda. Seeing an entertainer and obviously smart-cookie from their portion of the melting pot in Lin-Manuel Miranda plus rapping plus the tale of original gangsta Alexander Hamilton? Suddenly a little tiny fraction of a bit more interested in learning! YESSSSSSS!<br /><br />I have instituted a candy challenge: all of the students in my class who compose and perform their own rap or song about a historical figure of their choice by this time next week will win an entire bag of candy of their choice. Response seems positive. Kids kept singing the "Alexander Hamilton....Alexander Hamilton...." part of the song.<br /><br />We'll translate "for the love of candy" to "for the love of the game" later.Larissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02537143201423322465noreply@blogger.com2