Archive for February, 2003

Filed Under (General) by Sarah on February-24-2003

10:13 just got me again. First time I’ve looked at the clock since I got home from class.

[And it appears my alarm clock is a couple minutes ahead of Blogger’s clock. I happened to blog at 10:13 according to Blogger. –Ed.]



Filed Under (General) by Sarah on February-24-2003

Meggan is cooking in the kitchen; listening to Twila Paris, baking cookies and dehydrating apples.

Sarah: Wait a second. Why aren’t you in school?
Meggan: Didn’t feel like it.
Sarah: Do mum and dad know?
Meggan: Yeah.
Meggan: My class is going on a fieldtrip to the science museum.
Sarah: You don’t want to go? I hear they’re got a new phenom exhibition on Vikings.
Meggan: I don’t like Vikings.
Sarah: You have it so easy. I had to feign being violently ill Bueller-style when I was your age. Of course, I wasn’t so bad at it. But even so, I couldn’t just walking out of my bedroom in the morning and say, “Mum and dad, I don’t ‘feel’ like going to school today. I’m going to stay home.”
Meggan: I’m the middle child. I get away with more. You paved the road for me.
Sarah: You had better be grateful. You should honor me as your patron saint.



Filed Under (General) by Nathanael on February-24-2003
Confessions of a Bad Blogger: A Serial Novel

I have no designs on popularity. I blog for the sake of blogging. to be continued…

This morning, Mahler’s Symphony No. 5 revolved at 33.33333333 times per minute until I let a friend pick out the house music. She put on Main Course, by the Bee Gees. When those falsettos finished, the Hepcats kept us entertained with Right on Time.

I consumed The Prisonner’s Dilemma while in Bacon Town this weekend. Other activities included late night baklava at Sinbad’s with brother and his friends, Face-to-Face concert, Gods and Generals, sermon by Jerram Barr on Jesus and the woman at the well, and a game of Double Twelve Mexican Cardinal Trains that lasted into the wee hours of the morning (I was within striking distance of first place until the last round in which I gathered over seventy points. It didn’t help that I couldn’t start my own train and had about eight twelves in my hand.).



Filed Under (General) by Sarah on February-23-2003

Six Seven Eight Nine Still Developing Meta-List of Things:

1.) Simon and Garfunkel were absolutely captivating. One of the best things I’ve seen all year. It was cooler-than-all-getout to see Dustin Hoffman call them the “music of his generation” after they performed.

2.) I will forever wonder what happened to the real Gwen Stefani of seven years ago and just who this bawdy, modern vaudevillian imposter is. The American People deserve to know.

3.) How in the world did Ravi Shankar end up with Norah Jones as a daughter? There is no justice in the world.

4.) Paul Shaffer looks awesome. I swear he’s crazy.

5.) I am totally pulling out my James Taylor albums when the Grammys are over.

6.) Admirable effort, Dixie Chicks, but Stevie Nicks wasn’t that long ago, girls; neither were The Smashing Pumpkins. You either ought to have waited ten years before doing a cover, or played something from your new album, specifically “Long Time Gone”. I honestly cannot figure out why you didn’t. Need a new manager? I’m game.

7.) At this rate I am going to be up so late writing this paper. Cannot concentrate.

8.) Is the bloke from Coldplay purposely trying to look and sound like Thom Yorke, or is it a blatant accident?

9.) I have yet to meet a skater boy that actually listens to Avril Lavigne. Actually, the only boy I’ve ever met that listens to Avril Lavigne is Tim Eaton. And she’s no genuine skater chick; that outfit’s totally mail-order from Delia’s, the the guys’ outfits are obviously of the Pacific Sunwear variety. Real skater chicks shop at thriftstores, in the same way that any self-respecting punk wouldn’t be caught dead in a Hot Topic. I protest! Posers. “Complicated” is a fine song, though.

10.) NO! Not Nelly! Not this song. Stop, stop, stop. Look children, look at the engulfing flames. He is singing from the depths of hell and damnation. Avert your eyes. Save your soul.

11.) Best part of Nelly’s appearance was the camera shot of Yoko Ono looking unamused.

12.) Did CBS really think they could stop artists from speaking out against the war?

13.) System of a Down should totally have beat The Foo Fighters for best hard rock performance.

14.) I have trouble taking seriously any artist that would collaborate with Kid Rock.

15.) I wish my mum still was Prince’s accountant. I recently asked her if she could pull some strings and get me a job at Paisley Park but she refuses, saying she would never send her daughter into such a situation. Some of my most interesting adventures ever were had in Paisley Park: reading Prince’s fanmail and separating the hefty charity contribution cheques from insane fans, looking in his fridge, seeing his wardrobe, watching his caged doves cry, and going to an exclusive party at Paisley Park at two a.m. senior year of high school.

16.) The Boss is my hero. I would give anything to be in the E Street Band. “The Rising” better get song of the year.

17.) Oh, oh, oh. The Academy is in trouble. They done gone and pulled another Steely Dan. The crowd was chanting Bruce, for goodness’ sake.

18.) The shots of the late Maurice Gibb’s family in the audience were really, really sad. It was great when one of the remaining Brothers Gibb signaled them out and called them “the measure of the man [Maurice]” and then gave the award to his son.

19.) Watching Eminem perform, I still cannot make up my mind about 8 Mile. I mean, sure Eminem was great at playing himself, I guess. But then what kind of accomplishment is that? It’s exactly why Courtney Love was so great at playing Larry Flynt’s wife, she was basically playing herself, after all. Same with Howard Stern in whatever his movie was called. Oh well. I guess the film wasn’t so bad, it kept my attention, anyway. And, I suppose, made the world understand him more.

20.) It just occurred to me: if Eminem wrote a smart anti-war song, he could totally direct the opinions of America’s youth regarding Iraq. That’s crazy. What power.

21.) Cyndi Lauper! “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” is the first song I remember hearing on the radio. I must’ve been about four or five. A neighbourhood girlfriend and I were in her older sister’s bedroom and she was getting all dolled-up and was singing along with the radio. I remember her being quite old, but doing some math as I sit here, she must have been about ten. We thought she was so cool, so old, so sophisticated, and resented ourselves for being so young and clueless; all we had were Barbie Dolls and bikes with training-wheels. Some days later I was at my cousin Evan’s house and his mother caught me singing the song in the kitchen and promptly rebuked me. “No, that’s not how it is, Sarah. Girls don’t only want to have fun. Stop singing that.” “Okay”, I said, unsure of what lesson she wanted to impart. I mean, I was five. I sure wanted to have fun. Some days later she also reprimanded me for singing The Monkees’ theme song. “That’s not true, Sarah, The Monkees do put people down.” I still find my aunt pretty confusing to this day. She thinks there is a vast, worldwide Masonic conspiracy. Some things never change.

22.) Five words, arrange them in any order you want: Costello London Springsteen tribute Calling. My eyes got so big. It’s amazing CBS didn’t make them play “Rock the Casbah”. Good call CBS.



Filed Under (General) by Sarah on February-23-2003

Simon and Garfunkel are going to perform at the Grammy Awards tonight. Mandatory viewing. I’m hoping that Mr. Soy Bomb will materialise during their set and somehow make some silent anti-war statements.

I’m still a floundering and doubtful agnostic regarding The War on Iraq. My aunt and uncle dropped off a “Support Our Troops” yardsign yesterday afternoon that my parents had ordered. Some months ago I sort of wanted to get a “Say No to War on Iraq, Call Your Congress People” sign; however, I never really entertained the idea seriously as I live in the home of my pro-Republican-everything parents. It would be pretty novel to have both signs in our yard, though; would definitely present a correct view of the war-situation to people of the anti-war persuasion: You may not support the war, but you ought to support our boys, eh.

Man, back in the day — I don’t remember what election year it was, it may’ve been ‘96 Clinton v. Dole. My dad was the chairman of our precinct. Anyway, he’s all about yardsigns, and supporting the Grand Ole Party. Myself, I’ve always resented the annoying and lawn-cluttering advertisements. At one point we had seven yardsigns in our front lawn. As horrendous as the sight was, it was so overboard and ridiculous that I thought it made for a perfect display of satire, and I urged him to procure more. We ended up with eight! Our lawn was so silly looking.

This fall, during the Wellstone v. Coleman senatorial campaign, my sister Meggan and I decided to volunteer to help the Coleman people put up lawnsigns. You know, I had nothing to do, and it was something to do, and I hadn’t been, shall we say, civically involved for years and, I think, was sort of drawn to the absurdity of putting up lawnsigns. We woke up early and went to the Coleman HQ in St. Paul. My unthinking sister, when I wasn’t looking, volunteered us to put up four five by seven feet yardsigns. She figured since we were driving our parents caravan and had the transporting capacity for such gargantuan signs, that we ought to volunteer. She seemed to have forgotten that we were just weakly girls, incapable of such herculean tasks. We dragged the Coleman signs into the back of the van and took off, first stopping at home to get hammers.

We found the first house — Portland Avenue in Richfield. We lugged the cursed sign out of the van and attempted to put it up. However, the lawn had exponentionally hardened in those late fall months. We couldn’t get the seven foot metal stakes in for anything. Our fingers and toes were freezing. I tried many different methods: I threw the stake like a javelin; I tried to catapolt with the stake, hoping that the momentum from my running would be sufficient enough to drive it into the ground; I tried to drill the stake into the ground by running around in circles; and lastly, I made my younger sister get down on her hands and knees and I would stand on her back and attempt to pound the stake into the ground with the hammer. (She was rather opposed to this idea, and insolently replied that if I really thought it was a good idea, then I ought to be the one to get down on my hands and knees. A-ha, I said. I am the eldest and you are my little sister. Volunteering for these Peter the Great-sized lawnsigns was not my idea, you must remember. Now, obey. She muttered something and got down on her hands and knees.) I stood on her back and attempted to pound, to no avail, the stake that was still about two feet above my head, into the ground. We were defeated. The most peculiar thing about this scene is that Portland Avenue is a very busy street and it was broad daylight. The cars that passed us must have had a good laugh, and rightly so.

A week later Paul Wellstone’s little plane crashed in some nondescript town. There were no survivors.

That morning my sister’s civics class (she goes to a Christian high school) went on a fieldtrip to put up Coleman signs. (Which raised the question, at least in my mind: a religious school cannot endorse candidates, can they? And just because a child is sent to a Christian school does not necessitate that their parents are Republicans.) Some of the unruly and zealous girls (the older girls whose captain I used to be in fastpitch, no less) and boys tromped around suburban neighbourhoods posting Coleman signs and stealing Wellstone signs. When they returned to school they took the Wellstone signs (war spoils) out of their cars and shredded them in the halls of the school. One boy, my sister said, took a Wellstone sign and wrote “Die Wellstone!” over it and hung it up in the hall.

Some minutes later the news arrived that Wellstone, his wife, his daughter, and four other campaign workers were dead.

My sister was so incensed that she approached the civics teacher, Mr. M— (my old fastpitch coach, civics/physical science/biology/Summit teacher (who, incidentally, because of his preachy Open Theism which he constantly impressed upon us, caused me to rebel and investigate the subject further — the investigation in which I read Boettner’s The Reformed Doctrine of Predestination and Van Til’s A Defense of the Christian Faith — and indirectly had a part in my converting, as it were, to reformed presbyterianism; Here’s to you, Mr. M—, I thank you)). The civics teacher just smirked.

I pray these boys and girls will never forget the shameful lesson they were taught by this tragedy. And you know, the civics teacher, incorrigible and proud though he may be, he really better have learned something too. I’m still pretty mad about the whole affair.