S'good

I've been wanting to see this movie for a while. I've always liked Banksy's artwork, but I had no idea he was that involved with Thierry Guetta (Mr. Brainwash), or that Guetta was even in the movie. The whole story is pretty interesting, and the movie's got a lot of great shots in it. I highly recommend it.

Trophy Case

So, I was talking to my dad the other day over the phone, and we were talking about his contributions to the home decor. All the kids have portraits on the walls, works of art on the fridge, etc, but my dad doesn't have anything up on the walls except his 'Operation Iraqi Freedom' flag, which he got from his second tour.

We got to talking and came to the conclusion that we should get him a Rehab Trophy Case. It would hold everything he's earned from his three stints in rehab- punctuality awards, finger-paints from art therapy, pictures of him and his Scrabble buddies, etc.

I'm writing this down for two reasons- one, because I never knew when my dad going to rehab was going to become funny, or if it was every going to become funny. The fact that we can joke about it is a load off my mind.

The second reason if I'm thinking of writing a story about it. I don't know why, but I think it's an interesting idea.

Anyways, there it is. Take this as a memo to myself.

There was something else I wanted to write down so I'd remember it, but I can't remember what it is...

"You're one shirt away from Carlton, mofo."

To write.

This past October marks the one year anniversary of my becoming an english major. It's been the best decision of my entire college career, switching from political science to english. I love political science. I love learning about political theory and international diplomacy, but I could never ever be one of those people who sold their first-born to work on a political campaign, or have crushes on Newt Gengrich. Now, I don't have to.

A couple weeks ago, I finished reading The Writing Life by Annie Dillard. I liked the book as a whole, but I was a bit disappointed. I was expecting to walk away from it wanting to change the world with my writing, but I didn't. Instead, her book made me look at why I want to write.

I don't consider myself a writer, per se. I feel like calling myself a writer would be like someone taking an acting class and calling themselves a thespian. I like to write, and I know I'm not terrible at it, but I don't feel worthy of calling myself a writer. At best, I'm an amateur, aspiring writer.

I like to write for the same reasons everyone else like to write. I like forming images and concepts for other people to enjoy. I like using language and techniques that I've never used before. I like pushing my mind's envelope, etc.

Anyways, and I'm only just now realizing this, I like writing because I can't talk.

For a long time now, I've had this verbal dyslexia type of a thing going on. I trip over words all the time. It's the most frustrating thing in the world sometimes. I know exactly what I want to say in my head, but getting it out of my mouth never works out the way I want it to. I don't have to worry about any of that when I'm writing, though. I can manipulate words to my heart's desire, and people know exactly what I mean. It's a huge release, actually, not worrying about how my mouth will contort something.

Anywho, there it is. I figured it out.

Scott Farkus

A memory that never fails to make me laugh...

I was asked the other day what my favorite memory of all time is. I don't have a favorite memory that I can recall, but there is one that never, ever, ever fails to make me laugh out loud when I think about it.

It involves my little sister, Mary Alice. Mary Alice is one of my favorite people in the world, which makes the memory inherently perfect. Anyways, Mary Alice and I decided to bake cookies to deliver to our old Bishop's house. He's an old family friend, and one of the biggest influences on my young adult life. Not important. So we baked the cookies and went to deliver them to his family's house. We'd done this a million times before so we'd got this thing down to a science. We drive down his driveway, which he shares with three other houses so it's rather long, she gets out of the car, runs to the door, drops the cookies on the porch, knocks on the door, runs back to the car, and I drive in reverse out of the driveway.

On this particular day, though, everything was covered in ice, the way Virginia always is in early January. The roads were alright, but the sidewalks were covered in a half-inch of ice. Mary Alice got out of our car and walked up to the door with the cookies. On her way back, she went from walking to a slight jog. She was 10 feet away from the car when she slipped and fell on her back. From where I was sitting in the driver's seat, all I saw was her running...and then nothing. I let out the loudest, most unabashed laugh I've ever heard leave my mouth, and didn't stop laughing until probably an hour later. The image of her slipping and falling is one of the greatest things taking up residence in my head. It's the perfect marriage of heart-warming, slap-stick, irreverent, and nostalgic.

A close second is this one time a girl in the Hart locker room tried to jump sideways from the left side of a bench to the right. Her right foot went up, almost over the bench, when it got caught and she fell on her face. On. her face. My reaction was something like, "HA HaaaaOh my gosh are you okay?!"

There's something about people falling over in general. It's so rudimentary. It's man against gravity, and man loses. There's nothing that man will ever be able to do or invent to conquer the inevitability of falling once or twice. It's gonna happen. The have no control over their facial expression of what their limbs do. It's all reflex. It's beautiful.

Holy Crap

It's been forever since I've updated this thing, so I'll just give highlights.

I'm 21. Legal as legal can be. I still feel like I'm 19, though.

This is the weirdest semester ever. For some reason it's just felt incredibly off and I don't know why.

Caitie finally got back from Iceland.

I got three jobs- a tutor with the Reading Center, a Teacher's Assistant, and an Intern with the Gersh Agency (sort of).

I've made up my mind. Summer 2011 will be spent in either New York City or Los Angeles doing some sort of internship.

Dad' s been in Alabama sine October and he's finally back home!

Isaac puts his mission papers in in a month.

I learned how to torrent. Duuuuuuuude.

I sprained my toe back in September. I was biking back home and I went down a steep hill toward a bridge. I couldn't see very well and I was going pretty fast. Anyways, I thought I was going to run into the bridge's railing and I over corrected in the opposite direction, actually hitting the railing. I flipped off my bike and landed on my entire left side. I thought my arm was broken at first, and my leg had already started to bruise all up and down my calves. I went to the E.R feeling like a pansy since nothing was actually broken. Anyways, they fit me for a boot and I had to walk around with it for the first week of school or so.

Went to L.A to visit Leanne. I forgot how much I love that city. We went to Venice, tons of good restaurants and shopping. Pretty perfect.

I discovered Dan Auerbach. His voice is the sexiest, raspiest, trashiest, most perfect thing out there.

Writing Retreat 2010- Three days of sitting in a cabin at the base of the Tetons, writing, with a couple of breaks for ghost stories, night-hikes, other hikes, eating, teachers playing guitar and doing magic tricks.

Reading Center vs. Writing Center kickball games.

I love grading.

Also, I hate grading.

My hair is 19 inches long from head to tip.

I MET DAVID SEDARIS. I went to his book signing in Salt Lake and got to speak to the man.

Went to Park City with the Metts clan for Thanksgiving.

I don't really feel like writing anymore.