I am currently taking a Writing in Comedy and Humor class to round up my senior year.  The assigned readings for this class are in no way the type of “homework” one avoids.  I feel like I’ve cheated some type of system by taking this class—getting a good grade for reading David Sedaris is just amazing.

Unsurprisingly, I have learned a lot about writing comedy in the first six weeks of class.  One reading assignment was too good to not share.  In the 1970s, Don Novello starting writing letters to famous people in politics and corporate executive positions under the pen name “Lazlo Toth.”  Novello was best known for his time spent as “Father Guido Sarducci” on Saturday Night Live.

The Lazlo letters are downright hilarious.  Novello purposely brought up mundane misconstrued facts and inside jokes within the text of his letters.  It was customary for corporations and politicians to respond back to every letter that they receive, so Novello had a follow-up to each letter.  The letters were later published in a book, The Lazlo Letters.

I haven’t read the whole book, but here’s a link to some of the letters read in class.  Humor like this is a rare find nowadays.

I’ve always had a deep rooted appreciated for film in every form, but dwelled mostly on the lengthy cinematic blockbusters spit out by Hollywood or foreign films that I had to pick apart and try to gleen the meaning from its ambiguous content. I saw it as: The more difficult to understand/longer the film, the more I could (was supposed to) get out of it.

Today, however, after a quick coffee date with a friend today and hearing his side of the artistic elements of film, I began reassessing the actual value of short vs. full length films.

He said that he enjoys short films so much more because the content is more condensed and you can pack just as much into these succinct(thank you Maia) motion pictures  as lengthy ones. Also, the film gains and then keeps (providing its entire purpose is executed properly) your entire attention-something long films begin to lose if they go over an hour and 50 minutes.

This has prompted me to revisit some of my favorite short films and seek out new ones…

Transient:

http://www.babelgum.com/browser.php#play/SEARCH,queryString:transient,order:MOST_RELEVANT/0,142700

I’m Here:

http://www.imheremovie.com/

A bit of a prelude to my next piece about football (soccer) in America, this one is a response to a mate of mine who had the audacity to insinuate that football was “just a game.” After I had suitably admonished him for uttering such blasphemy in my presence, I narrated to him my pilgrimage to Highbury, former home of my beloved Arsenal Football Club.

***

Fist clenched above his head in celebration, a lone Frenchman stands imperiously before a gallery of adoring fans. As one, a 30,000-strong wave surges forward to acclaim their hero.

A deafening roar sweeps the ground as scenes of wild celebration ensue in all but one of the four corners of this coliseum of football.  In this one corner sit about 6,000 Juventus fans, disbelief etched on their faces. For you see, things haven’t exactly gone as planned. This was supposed to be their night, they were the ones supposed to be lording it over their jubilant hosts. Fortunately for the majority gathered, fate  had other plans.

***

View of the Highbury Pitch

Such is the power of sport; while one set of people sits about looking and feeling utterly dejected and the other experiences wild euphoria. On this occasion I had the joy of being part of the victorious 30,000 packed into Highbury (home to Arsenal football club from 1913 to 2006) and bore witness to the compelling spectacle of Arsenal’s triumph over Juventus in the UEFA Champions League.

That morning I had awoken with a sense of excitement hitherto reserved for the mornings of my birthday. The day I had long awaited was finally here, for you see, today was a day like no other. My mate Garry had, after months and months of trawling questionable websites on the Internet, secured us two tickets to watch Arsenal play Juventus.

We took a flight down to London from Aberdeen in Scotland where upon our arrival we hoped on the tube and commenced our pilgrimage through London and on to the home of football.

As the train neared its destination, it slowly started to fill with other like-minded souls. My nervous excitement cranked up a couple of notches, like a foreign anthropologist in the heart of the Amazon, witnessing a sacred tribal ritual, I wondered whether they would notice a stranger in their midst or would my presence go unremarked upon.

Suddenly, from the back of the tube car, a lone voice broke out into a rendition of the terrace classic “Arsene Wenger’s Red and White Army.”

Others around me joined in and the noise slowly built to a nice dull roar. My ears picked up a familiar baritone voice. You can imagine my surprise as it dawned on me that I was singing along, with all the gusto of an Olympian at the podium as his nations flag is being raised. All feelings of nervousness now effectively banished, I proceeded to engage my compatriots in lively conversation about the upcoming game.

Soon, though, the train came to a stop at the aptly named Arsenal station, at which point me and my newly found comrades went our separate ways. For Garry and myself were on a mission; Highbury was an old style stadium, and as such did not have the hidden player entrances of its more modern counterparts. This meant that the buses carrying the players were obliged to empty their precious cargo onto the street adjacent to the majestic marble hall on the North side of the stadium.

It was here that we were slowly making our way and were soon enough engaged in a good-natured jockeying for position with other fans in a bid to get a good vantage point from which to glimpse our heroes. A few well-aimed elbows later we were front and centre, poised anxiously for the players’ arrival.

The first bus to arrive was that of the visiting Italian champions. Their arrival prompted the Juventus fans in our midst to break into song as their players made their way into the ground. Each player was greeted with applause from the Juventus fans and a muted silence from us Arsenal fans.

One player though, disembarked from the bus to great fan fare from both sets of fans. The footballer was Patrick Vieira, former club captain who after nine years of dedicated service at the heart of our midfield had been sold on to the Turin based club the previous summer. This was his first game back in London since his transfer and the fans made sure he knew he was still loved in this part of London.

A wave of excited whispers suddenly swept through the crowd. The Arsenal team bus had arrived! First off was our manager Arsene Wenger and erstwhile master of ceremonies, and whose name I had earlier been chanting on the train down. Calmly accepting the fans applause with his customary grace he continued on into the stadium followed by his team.

It is fair to say that by this point I was totally overawed by the whole event. Here were my heroes, gladiators on whose broad shoulders rested my hopes and dreams of European triumph. Lacking any other way to express my happiness, I burst into a fit of unmanly giggles more at home in a gaggle of prepubescent girls than in the midst of hardened football fans. A look of utter horror on Garry’s face sorted me out sharpish though!

Tickets in hand, we finally made our way through the turnstiles and into the belly of this magnificent old stadium. The steward directed us to a set of stairs that would lead us up to our seats.

I paused at the bottom of the stairs, the weight of what I was about to experience giving me reason to hesitate. Years and years of dreaming of this moment… Would it live up to my expectations? Could it? Or would I be doomed to disappointment?

Garry broke my rapidly debilitating train of thought with a simple bit of logic: “If you never climb these stairs you will never know what lies on the other side.”

So on I went. Now, from the bottom of the stairs, all I could see was a dark blue square slice of sky. As I stepped up each step, more of the stadium was revealed. First the tops of the stands on the other side of the ground and then the famous massive clock that hung down from the top of the east side of the stadium.

Suddenly and without any warning, Highbury was there spread out in all its magnificence for me to see. From my vantage point high in the stand, I suddenly had a breathtaking panoramic view of the entire ground.

Speechless, I looked down at the immaculately manicured emerald-green turf. I had arrived! With the trepidation of a pilgrim who had unwittingly stumbled into the inner sanctum of his chosen deity, I let my gaze wander across the stadium. I was there!

As we took our seat to await the coming battle, the seats around us in the north bank behind the goal started to fill. The players then came out to do their pre-match routine warm-ups.  Garry and I were fortunate enough to witness the great Denis Bergkamp limber up with his comrade in arms, the aptly named King of Highbury, Thierry Henry.

At this point the stadium was filled to about halfway, and each player was serenaded with applause from those gathered in the stands. In the far corner, the Juventus fans had also started to take their seats. We traded chants back and forth as the players finished their warm-ups and returned to the changing rooms for a final word from their respective managers.

By this point, the ground was packed to its 38,000 capacity and the atmosphere was fantastic. For here, on this hallowed ground, people from all walks of life had gathered and were sitting shoulder-to-shoulder eager to partake in the coming spectacle. Quickly making friends with those sitting around me, I proceeded to talk shop. The general consensus seemed to be that we were most definitely the underdogs here but at the same time there was an air of expectation that an upset was on the cards as well. An enthralling match in prospect all round then!

The next two hours passed with a pace that can be attributed to the fact that I was entirely overawed by the whole event. The roar to which the players’ arrival was greeted sent my heart racing. Pulse thudding insanely in my head I cheered the team on with the ardor of a zealot. A comprehensive summary of the game will have to be read if one searches for an informative guide on the tactical maneuverings, for I was so enraptured at this point that the mere glance in the direction of the ball by an Arsenal player was greeted with a standing ovation and manic clapping by yours truly.

Fabregas Celebrates

A few incidents, though, stand out in my memory and are I believe worthy of special mention. In the build up to the first goal, Robert Pires (our mercurial French maestro) dispossessed our former captain Vieira with a well timed tackle before laying off a pass to our new captain Thierry Henry who then laid off a sublime pass to Cesc Fabregas, the 17-year-old midfield prodigy upon whose young shoulders had fallen the task of replacing our former captain.

Shrugging of the attentions of a Juventus defender (none other than the majestic Lilian Thurman), Cesc Fabregas calmly slotted the ball in the bottom corner of the goal. One nil to the arsenal and pandemonium rained in the stands. Delirious with joy, we danced wildly in celebration.

In the second half, a break in play allowed Thierry Henry to come racing to the North Bank where Garry, about 16,000 other arsenal fans, and I were sitting. Beseeching us to turn up the noise by lifting his hands repeatedly in the air, his efforts were greeted with a crescendo of noise as we redoubled our efforts to blow the roof off the stadium.

Ten minutes later our efforts were rewarded when the self same player latched onto a pass from the magnificent Cesc Fabregas, pirouetted with the grace of a Russian ballet dancer, and rifled the ball past a diving Buffon. Two nil to the Arsenal and I was literally in dreamland.

The rest of the match passed all too quickly as we serenaded out all conquering hero’s to many a song filled with a litany of their exploits over the last few years. The final whistle came too soon and as the whole stadium rose as one, in an ovation that lasted a full five minutes as we applauded our conquering heroes, I reflected back on a passage from Nick Hornsby’s  Fever Pitch:

“I had discovered after the Swindon game that loyalty, at least in football terms, was not a moral choice like bravery or kindness; it was more like a wart or a hump, something you are stuck with. Marraiges are nowhere as rigid – you won’t catch any Arsenal fans slipping off to Tottenham for a bit of extra-marital slap and tickle, and though divorce is a possibility (you can just stop going if things get too bad), getting hitched again is out of the question. There have been many times over the last twenty-three years when I have poured over the small print of my contract looking for a way out, but there isn’t one. Each humiliating defeat (Swindon, Tranmere, York, Walsall, Rotherham, Wrexham) must be bourne with patience, fortitude and forbearance; there is simply nothing that can be done, and that is a realization that can make you simply squirm with frustration.”

Or for those who still have the temerity to believe that our religion is just a game, I leave you with the words of one of the most iconic managers in football:

“Some people think football is a matter of life and death. I assure you, it’s much more serious than that.”

-Bill Shankly

Zachary Ssebuliba Ssebatindira is a 22-year-old Ugandan. He is currently in his third year of five at Drexel University, majoring in Biomedical Engineering.

Along with tuition rates that seem to increase each year, there has been no relief from book expenditures for classes.  And the fast-paced quarterly system at Drexel makes it feel like you are buying new books every other month.  Often, you buy a book that a professor insists is necessary, yet it barely gets used (sometimes not at all).  Or you buy the 9th edition of a textbook for $130 only to learn that Amazon.com has the 8th edition for $10 and the two books are still identical.

In these tight economic times, a penny saved on books could be a penny used for other necessities.  That is why new guidelines requiring full disclosure are being implemented to help alleviate the issues I described above, among other problems students face when buying class textbooks.   According to an article posted by a website called The Nation, legislation has been passed which “requires publishers to disclose information like price, copyright dates of the previous three editions, revisions between a new edition and previous versions, and to differentiate between unbundled versions and versions that include unnecessary supplements like CD-roms and passcodes.” With information like this, students might be better equipped to know which books are necessary and alerted to options that save precious dollars.

It will be interesting to see if this process does in fact benefit students.  It could just create a situation that drives publishers to find new ways to get students to buy unnecessary books and supplemental materials in their quest for profits.  My prior military experience enables me to collect a stipend to cover the cost of books, so the less I spend on books the more money I can pocket.

The New York Times published an article last week covering recent releases of poetry collections from authors like Brian Turner who writes about the war in Iraq and Lightsey Darst and her first book, Find the Girl. Poetry, the article says, is a “necessary if underappreciated cultural work — that poetry, even when it’s snubbed by the broader culture, has no expiration date”. Surely it must be intimidating to approach a form of writing that is considered to be so timeless, let alone put together an entire book.

Poetry has been coming to me in all different forms lately, some of which I’ve been trying to write myself. I can tell you that while a little scary, writing poetry can be entertaining like putting together a puzzle or solving the hardest level Sudoku in the paper. Do you know how many rules there are? A lot. There are countless fun, challenging styles and I’ve recently decided to make it my personal mission to attempt as many of these different styles as possible. Many poems are like calculated equations and trying to make all of the variables come out even is proving to be quite difficult, but hopefully the practice will make me a stronger writer than I was pre-self-inflicted-poetry-madness.

As a result of tools like “spell check,” grammar and spelling mistakes have probably increased, which seems counterproductive. The major problem that “spell check” does not yet have the capability of correcting the wrong use of a word that sounds the same but is spelled differently. The difference between “then” and “than,” the popular culprit “there,” “their,” and “they’re,” “affect” and “effect,” and many, many others cannot be detected by such programs.

While most find this flaw a nuisance, there is still a small group of people who are grateful for it. Some people make careers out of proofreading manuscripts, letters, proposals, stories, and all sorts of writing. These people are called copyeditors. My co-op experience was copyediting for a pharmaceutical advertising agency and I did enjoy it. I also like copyediting for The Triangle. Copyediting is usually a lower-level job but it is a great starting point for people who are interested in the editing and publishing world. From copyeditor, one could work their way up into positions such as chief copyeditor, a section editor, or the editor-in-chief.

So, I will continue to happily proofread my work manually instead of relying on “spell check.” And maybe after graduation, I can make a job out of it!

For those of you that have (and even for those of you that have not yet) read Toni Morrison’s exquisite masterpiece Beloved, todays blog is about one of the more obscure themes that is touched on in the novel, that elusive understanding of self. Enjoy!

“I am that I am”. (Exodus 3:14) Short, concise and seemingly to
the point. Yet somehow it still remains frustratingly complex. This is
the response that the shepherd Moses received when he questioned
a burning bush as to its identity.

It seems that even the powers that be have a hard time defining the concept of self. Yet one can look at this brief phrase in one of two ways, the first being that the Lord is, simply because he is. In that his very existence is proof enough of a self. The second way that one can choose to view this statement is that God exist simply because He chose to do so.

These seemingly simple observations raise a couple of interesting questions. Do we need to choose in order to be? Or do we exist as a ‘self’ regardless of whether we choose or are given the chance to choose? And if our freedom to choose is taken away, can we still be considered a ‘self’? By implication then, is freedom necessary in order for us to be considered a ‘self’?

Now imagine being raised in a world where one was totally bereft of choice, unable to make decisions not because you are unable to but because another imposes their will on you. De-humanized through repeated humiliation and often-brutal beatings, slaves were more often that not devoid of the ‘self’. This inability to claim or develop a sense of self in the throes of slavery lends itself to the argument that freedom is essential to being a ‘self’.

“Anything bigger wouldn’t do. A woman, a child, a brother-a big
love like that would split you wide open in Alfred, Georgia. He
knew exactly what she meant: to get a place where you could love
anything you chose-not to need permission for desire-well now, that
was freedom.”(Beloved 191)

In this extract from Toni Morrison’s Beloved, Paul D empathizes with Sethe’s battle to reclaim a shred of ‘self’ after years of considering herself another’s property devoid of freedom of choice. Now, granted Paul D is talking about choosing who and what to love, reading between the lines though one understands that he believes that true freedom lies in being able to choose. Choice being unattainable without freedom while freedom is necessary in order for one to choose. Intertwined it seems both concepts are.

This ties in to the following excerpt;
“I did it. I got us all out. Without Halle too. Up till then it was the
only thing that I ever did on my own. Decided.” (Beloved 190) In
this excerpt, the message I believe that Toni Morrison seeks to
bring across is the importance of freedom to choose. In the sense
that Sethe is explaining or trying to explain the depth of pride that
she felt at being free but more importantly the role she played in
attaining that freedom.

What ties it to our argument is that what comes through from Sethe is that one of the most important things that freedom granted her was choice.
“And it came off right, like it was supposed to. We was here. Each
and every one of my babies and me too. I birthed them and I got
em out and it wasn’ no accident. I did that. I had help, of course,
lots of that, but it was me doing it; me saying Go On and Now.
Me having to look out. Me using my own head.” (Beloved 190)
“I did it, I got us all out”.

Short sentences like this are used throughout the excerpt and give one the basis or background with which to understand the fierce pride that Sethe took in her ability to have saved her children from the horrors of Sweet Home. The fact that Sethe, of her own accord, made the decision to get her and hers out from under the yoke of slavery to a place where they had freedom of choice speaks to the depth of personal strength that she had. Now, this raises a question, if Sethe could find these depths of personal strength in the face of serious adversity, surely she had a self despite having grown up a slave?

She follows on to add though that:
“But it was more than that. It was a kind of selfishness I never
knew nothing about before. It felt good. Good and right. I was big,
Paul D, and deep and wide and when I stretched out my arms all
my children could get in between. I was that wide. Look like I loved
them more after I got here. Or maybe I couldn’t love em proper
in Kentucky because they wasn’t mine to love. But when I got
here, when I jumped down off that wagon – there wasn’t nobody
in the world I couldn’t love if I wanted to. You know what I mean?”
(Beloved 191)

In this part Sethe tries to bring across, to Paul D, the strength and empowerment that freedom to choose who to love and who not to granted her.

It also gives an insight into the motivation behind making the decision to kill her children rather than let them be taken back into slavery. In that, having tasted freedom and been given choice, she couldn’t stand by and let her children return to a place where this freedom of choice would be take away from them and thus destroying any chance they would have to develop a ‘self’. Her battle to escape the bounds of slavery had won her ownership over her own fate and that of her offspring, a concept that she is trying
to explain to a former slave in Paul D who like her experienced life on Sweet Home.

What ties this all in with our debate about what is necessary for one to develop a sense of “self” is that from the accounts of both Paul D and Sethe we find that even without freedom, Sethe was able to decide that she needed to make a break for freedom. This decision points to the existence of a self. But one can argue though that given the horrible circumstances that Sethe found herself in, maybe opting for freedom wasn’t really a choice.

So where does this leave us with the questions raised at the start of this debate? Well, from the evidence presented one is drawn inexorably to the conclusion that self can exist independent of freedom of choice. But as Paul D and Sethe attest to, freedom to choose strengthens ones feeling of self worth. Much like a teenager suffers through puberty in an angst-ridden attempt to discover who they truly are, the released slaves too had to endure a harrowing journey of self-discovery. But free or not, able to choose or forced
to accept another’s choices, one exists as a ‘self’.

Faithful DPG readers, you may have noticed (or not) that it’s been a few weeks since my post “Vexing Vacations,” and still no promised feature on Maui has appeared. While stressing about the fact that I was dangerously pressing my deadline, a co-worker merely shrugged and said, “Writer’s Block.”

It’s a term that’s casually thrown about—especially on a college campus. We don’t procrastinate, we incubate, and we are perpetually plagued by said Block until our ideas have reached full form. (Say some).

Academic papers definitely fall under a different category of Block than creative writing, but the concept here is really the same: there is just some content that we don’t want to address, even if it’s exactly the sort of material we need.

So does Writer’s Block exist? Sure, there are times when we’re too busy, lack the motivation or the inspiration to write. Writer’s Block, then, in the former or the latter scenarios, would be a mental block, a self-construct and no better of an excuse for a late paper then say, lethargy for not going to class. (Here comes the self-loathing, actually pretty helpful as a catalyst for getting started).

The Internet offers a wide variety of solutions for those suffering from the Block; everything from tactics for recognizing true Writer’s Block (wouldn’t want to misdiagnose…) to “Advice from the Prolific” can be easily located on search engines.

What I take from experience, though, is that Writer’s Block isn’t the problem, it’s the solution. My best writing comes from a place of pressure; of being forced to examine events in an introspective way that usually makes me quite uncomfortable–solely because I have a due-date to adhere to. As such, I like to think of the Block in terms of its more positive, tertiary definition:

N. A child’s toy, permitting building activities

Don’t fight The Block, let it happen. Time to get back in touch with our inner toddlers.

A friend of mine just shared an article with me today about an online book club that draws an exclusive audience.  ”The Rumpus Book Club” was started by Stephen Elliot as a place where people who wanted to read “cool” books could talk to the authors, write reviews and pre order books.

With a monthly fee of $25, or yearly of $250, a member can receive a book before it comes out to the general public.  Not only does this help publishers get the word out about their books, but it also makes members feel special and privileged.  The books are all hang chosen by the two man team behind the book club web site, and usually from top publishers like McSweeney’s and Graywolf.  In addition, members can also ask the authors questions during an online pub discussion that gets turned into an interview and posted to the site.

Here is a perfect example of how the internet has changed our daily lives for the better and opened up possibilities that we never thought would be affected.   To be able to receive a book in advance (just like the media does) and then discuss it with the author and/ or other, is amazing.  To be able to do all of that without leaving the comfort of your home takes it to the next level.  A book club like this helps a mother who doesn’t have time to go to Sunday book club meetings to continue enjoying her literary filled life.  It also helps people are quiet to open up about how they felt about books in a setting that is comfortable to them.

For more information: click here

As a frequent traveler, I often have to opt for public modes of transportation to get me from point A to point B—my little cousins dance recital in upstate NY, home for my brother’s graduation, or to Atlantic City to the beach for a day with the girls. And each and every time without fail I get a seat next to the crazy, batty co-passenger who engages me in some way or another.

In the very moment I am writing this, I am on a bus to Manhattan for a co-op interview. I thought I had the train car style bus seat to myself until moments before we pulled away.

Margaret is extremely thin with a thick, leathery tanned face—her many years of sun worship indicated by the deep lines in her skin. She has silvery long blonde hair pulled back in a chignon and multiple gaudy turquoise rings on her bony fingers. She nervously clutches her worn out denim shirt around her as she shows me the world weather report (“HA-HA! OH MY! It’s going to be 98 degrees in Budapest tomorrow! Can you believe that?”) and digs out the prints she bought at the Philadelphia Art Museum from one of her many canvas totes. It is obvious to me early on that she has a youthful soul—despite being in her mid 60’s.

She tells me about her thoughts on living in NYC and that her favorite thing in the world is the Metropolitan Museum, but that the city can burn you out. When I tell her my name her response is one I have not yet received—“How beautifully elegant and earthy.” –complete with flagrant hand gestures that remind me of an orchestra conductor.

The time is passing along so quickly with Margaret and a small part of me wishes this bus were going somewhere further than Manhattan so I can enjoy her a bit more.

I find, unfortunately, over and over again, that my generation is not interested in this simple pleasure of mine. I’m not quite sure if its “uncool” to bond with strangers, or if I’m just weird. Maybe the fact that my four grandparents were my primary childhood playmates has something to do with it.

This little bus jaunt has me thinking—Would everyone be a bit nicer? Open minded? Cordial? –If they let their guard down in times like these?  (“Pretend you’re sleeping, she’ll leave you alone eventually. That’s what I do. It’s the only way to deal with the crazies.” Is the response I get when I text a friend back home about Margaret.) Or does all of this make me naïve?

Either way, for now I’m going to show her the wonders of my Blackberry while she lets me prop my feet on her seat and we’ll both bask in the silent naiveté of it all.