Shake it Off

I was a kid in the 80s and early 90s. One thing I will never forget from my childhood (along with our telephone, rented from the phone company, and my pink bicycle with its huge banana seat) is exercise videos, and watching my mom jump, kick, and punch along with them. I never thought she was silly for wanting to exercise, but I couldn’t help but find amusement in the videos: the silly outfits, the ridiculous music, and the exercisers themselves—some videos seemed to be made for no other reason than to employ out of work dancers. I often wondered how anyone could keep up with the videos; the exercises seemed to be more for people in perfect shape than normal folks hoping to lose a few pounds. How could anyone hope to follow along?

This video has been floating around the last couple of days, and though I can tell it’s sped up to keep up with the song (I’m not a huge Taylor Swift fan, but it’s a catchy tune), I think the most hilarious thing about it (aside from the memories it brings to my mind) is the fact that in 1988 there was an Aerobics Championship.

Okay, so in the time it took me to write this, TS’ label yanked the video from youtube, but it’s still amusing. Here’s Buzzfeed’s solution to the big bad label ruining all our fun. Haters gonna hate.

The Perfect Moment

The strains of Sir Mix-a-Lot’s hit flowed from his back pocket as he knelt, looking up into her eyes, which had been slowly filling with happy tears. “You can do side bends or sit ups, but please don’t lose that butt!”

He’d been planning this moment for ages. It was supposed to be perfect. And now it was ruined. Dismay crept across his face.

But to his surprise, she laughed and wiped a sleeve across her face. She reached out and took the ring, slipping it onto her finger.

“Of course I’ll marry you,” she said with a smirk. “As long as you promise to change your ringtone.”

apromptadaykeepsthecriticsaway.tumblr.com

Thursday in History: Terrified of the Future

It’s impossible for an inventor to know how future generations will use an invention: how it will be improved, if it will be overshadowed by something new, or whether it will be completely ignored. All one can do is hope that their invention improves the state of the world and makes life better or more convenient for those who come after.

On this day in history in 1888, one of the first audio recordings in the world was played at a press conference in London on Thomas Edison’s phonograph. Listeners were treated to a piece by one of the foremost English composers of the day: “The Lost Chord” by Arthur Sullivan.

At one of the parties held shortly after the debut, Sullivan himself was treated to a demonstration. He thought the invention and the accomplishment Edison had achieved was wonderful, but had he had some reservations. “I can only say that I am… terrified at the thought that so much hideous and bad music may be put on record forever…”

If Sullivan and Edison could listen to some Top 40 Hits today, I wonder what they would say.

A Sense of Poisoned Rationality

Yesterday I read a news article about how some members of Westboro Baptist Church had written a parody of Panic! At The Disco’s song I Write Sins Not Tragedies. I didn’t watch or listen to the cleverly titled (but reportedly extremely profane and hateful) You Love Sin What a Tragedy. (But while we’re on the subject, why does the official version of that song bleep out “God” but not “damn”? Is there some inside joke I’m missing?)

Apparently this article and the silliness behind it stuck in my subconscious all day, because last night I had a dream that I attempted to infiltrate the church and learn its secrets, but my dream-self must not have been terribly subtle, since the dream ended with a very exciting car chase in which I narrowly escaped thanks to a concerned accomplice’s tip-off. (Okay, maybe I’ve also been watching too many spy shows.)

Thinking about my dream again when I woke up, I reflected that it probably wouldn’t be terribly easy to become a member of Westboro Baptist Church. Other members would be able to tell if someone new was dedicated to their cause, and there’s no way I’d be able to fake hate like that.

The actions of the members of Westboro Baptist Church make me angry. What they do is completely incomprehensible to me: how can you claim to be a follower of Christ when all the world sees you do is hate, hate, hate? How can you have missed that huge, blinking sign hanging in the Bible that says: “GOD IS LOVE”?! There wasn’t a single second during the life that Jesus Christ lived on this earth that was dedicated to hate. He didn’t even punch the devil in the face when he came to tempt Him in the desert. And the only time He got really pissed off was when people were using space in the temple for money changing instead of what it was meant for; He went bezerk, flipped over tables, and screamed, “This is my Father’s house!” (The message there was, “Seriously, you guys, let’s show some respect for this place, and for the God we came to worship.”)

If Jesus came to earth today to just chill for a while (instead of the whole Second Coming/trumpets/angels thing), He’d probably go hang out at Westboro Baptist Church. It probably wouldn’t be to go nuts, flip pews over, tear down several “God Hates Fags” signs, and scream, “This is my Father’s house!” (Although that would be awesome.) When He was here before, He spent most of His time with prostitutes and tax collectors―the people who needed Him the most. Who needs Him more today than people who spread hate in His name?

Hate only begets more hate. If you are a follower of Christ, you should act like Him. Jesus loves you, Westboro Baptist Church.

Zither

Sometimes we say things we don’t mean. I’m not referring to words spoken in anger, but rather colloquialisms. Certain phrases that would mean one thing to a non-native speaker mean something completely different to someone who knows the story behind them. This is why, when I took Chinese a couple of years ago, our teacher would occasionally hand us all a story to learn about the meaning behind a Chinese phrase.

One day we read about a learned scholar and musician traveling alone along a country road. He was a rather conceited man, and jumped at every chance to display his superiority to others, whether it was by besting them in debate or by demonstrating his considerable musical skills. It had been some time since he had met anyone on his journey, and when you’re the sort of person who is better than everyone else, it’s hard to go a long time without showing off. There happened to be some cows in a nearby field, and since the scholar tended to consider other people on the same level as the beasts he was passing, he decided they would do. He’d show them. There was no way those cows could fail to be impressed by his skills. He unstrapped the zither he was carrying on his back, sat down in front of the lovely stringed instrument, and began to play beautifully. The cows, to his annoyance, continued chewing their cud and grazing on the occasional bit of grass. The scholar continued playing, getting more and more annoyed that his exquisite work was going unappreciated. What the scholar did not understand is that he was wasting his time; cows don’t understand music.

The Chinese phrase, 对牛弹琴 or “playing zither to a cow” is the equivalent of the English phrase “howling at the moon” or “don’t cast your pearls before swine.” Basically, you shouldn't put a huge effort into doing something that you know means nothing, since you’re just wasting your time and ability.

But perhaps what the scholar should have tried was some jazz. Cows apparently like that quite a bit.

Obligatory “When the saints come marching in” joke goes here

Happy

There aren’t very many popular rap songs that I like. I’ve made an exception for this one, though. Here are a few reasons:

• It’s catchy!
• There is no objectionable material in it - I can let my kids dance to it all day long!
• Although the lyrics encourage you to clap along, they don’t demand that you do. “Clap along if you feel like that’s what you wanna do.”
• It makes me happy!

Don't Hate the Heartthrob

Okay, so I’ve had One Direction’s Best Song Ever in my head for the last week. Despite the title, I don’t think it’s the best song ever, but despite its refusal to stop playing over and over on my inner entertainment center, I do still think it’s a good song. It’s definitely very catchy. It’s also got me to wondering… why is there so much hate for popular boy bands?

“One Direction totally sucks.” Do they? They can dance, they can sing, they don’t punch kittens, and they’re pretty. Is it the choreography? The lyrics? Does the hate come from jealousy? Do the haters wish they could dance and sing too? So go dance and sing. Isn’t that what American Idol is for?

That’s not it. It’s not that their music is bad or their dance moves are boring. It’s not even that your girlfriend would dump you for the blond one. It’s the hysteria.

I never really understood that feeling. New Kids on the Block showed up when I was in fifth grade, and I can remember my friend CJ going nuts over them. I couldn’t understand where she was coming from. When I was in seventh grade, I knew the name of every member of N’Sync and could sing most of their hits, but I was never dying to have their children.

There was a movement in the United States in the early 1960s that was determined to stop “the British Invasion.” Images of screaming fans in the UK and in Europe were distasteful to them, and they didn’t want American teenagers turning into piles of fangirl goo. Elvis’ popularity had apparently been bad enough.

But there was no holding back The Beatles. Or their fans.

At one concert in Japan in 1966, the crowd was screaming so loud that the band couldn’t hear one another. When it came time to harmonize, George waved his arm around so the crowd would make noise; that way no one would be able to hear when they screwed up. If you go back and listen to the recordings from that concert, you’ll think the band was getting lazy, but it wasn’t their fault that they could hardly hear themselves think.

Don’t hate the heartthrob. Hate the hysteria.

Review: The Desolation of Smaug

It makes the Lord of the Rings fan in me sad to say it, but I honestly was not that impressed with The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey. Sure, we got to go back to Bag End and they got Martin Freeman to play Bilbo, but there’s tons of dwarves everywhere that you can’t keep straight unless you memorize them beforehand and Gandalf is acting like a super creepy dude, “hey I knew your mom so it’s okay for me to be here and by the way you should come with us on this road trip and you won’t mind if I bring a few of my friends?” There was some cool action, and the endearing The Hobbit-esque tendency of getting captured and nearly killed every time they turned around. (“What, really? Again?”)

When my husband asked me if I wanted to go see The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug, I shrugged and said, “Okay… If you want, I guess.” This weekend, we headed off to East Park, the last theater in town still playing it.

I’m not sure what I was expecting. Maybe the mediocre feeling I had after leaving the theater last year when An Unexpected Journey ended? I knew The Desolation of Smaug had plenty of things going for it: it was made by Peter Jackson, was going to be the same interesting story I’d read when I was eleven or twelve. Plus, I knew from internet rumor that Bilbo’s conversation with the dragon was in there. Maybe I didn’t want to be the same kind of disappointed by going in with hopeful feelings.

I did expect more party elk.

Of course, I loved it. Anything that can make the group’s trip through Mirkwood more clear is bound to be an improvement on the book, and speaking of improvements, I enjoyed the addition of Tauriel. The three Lord of the Rings movies had so much material to cover, it was understandable that some things be left out. When you’re making three movies based on one book, moviegoers should see the need for a little more material to be added. And everyone enjoys a good love story.

The barrel scene was great (though the “Bombur knocking orcs all over the place and then fighting from inside the barrel” gag was a little bit much), the conversation Bilbo and Balin have before he goes after the arkenstone was hilarious, and the banter with the dragon was awesome. And the ending was perfect!

The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug was such a fun movie. The addition of Evangeline Lily, Peter Jackson with his carrot in Bree, Stephen Colbert the king of all Tolkien nerds, and Stephen Fry made the original story more enjoyable. It was wonderful, and the best way that it differed from An Unexpected Journey was that it made me wish it was July so I could go see the next one!

We stood up and stretched as the ending credits began to roll, and listened to Ed Sheeran’s I See Fire playing over them. We left before the song was over, but the second I got home, I looked it up on youtube and hunted out the lyrics.

I see fire

Inside the mountain

I see fire

Burnin’ the trees

I see fire

Hollowing souls

I see fire

Blood on the breeze

The idea of fire “hollowing souls” perfectly captures what the people of Laketown would feel every day. Gazing up at the Lonely Mountain, they would have given anything not to see fire. Fire meant the end of everything to them: their boats would be charred and unable to aid them, their homes would burn, and their lives would be lost. The fire would hollow their souls, leaving them hopeless.

Bilbo’s final line of the movie, “What have we done?” shows that he understands what fire will do to the people who awaited the dragon’s wrath.

Desolation.

Onomatopoeia

Onomatopoeia is an amusing thing. We have a need to translate the sounds we hear into written words, and everyone does it differently.

Dogs, for instance, make so many varying sounds that the word we settled on in English is bark. Really? A multitude of sounds and the word we settle on is the stuff on the outside of a tree. Have you ever heard a dog say "bark"? Even my one year old knows that different sized dogs say different things, but that is probably because her favorite book is “Moo, Baa, La La La” by Sandra Boynton, which tells her that “Rhinoceroses SNORT and SNUFF, and little dogs go RUFF RUFF RUFF! Some other dogs go BOW WOW WOW, and cats and kittens say MEOW!”

In Finnish, a dog says “vuff.” In Japanese, they say "wan." Greek dogs say “gav gav.” In French, dogs say “ouah ouah,” and the tone of voice changes depending on the size of the dog. We all have unique ways of translating the sound they make. Some are closer to the actual sound than others. (Nice going, English.)

When I was a kid, I loved the movie Dumbo, and paraded around the house making my own version of an elephant noise: “Trumpeeet!” (I was an adorable child.) And even though I don’t like Family Guy, one scene I do enjoy is the one where Stewie is playing with the European See & Say. He disagrees with every sound (“The Monkey goes: ‘Macaque!’” “Oh no, no, no! It does not!”) until he gets to the elephant: “The Elephant goes: “Voooamp!” at which he shrugs and says “Eh, kinda.”

I’ve never actually met a fox, but I’ve read lots of different ways to onomatopoeize the sound it makes. “Yip,” “bark,” “scream,” and “cry” are all sounds attributed to a fox. Maybe it makes a different noise depending on the situation it’s in, like when you can tell your dog’s mood by listening to its scared whining, happy barking, or angry growling. Maybe a fox just has a wider vocabulary than most animals.

But I’m moderately certain that no one has ever heard a fox say “Wa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pow!” or “Hatee-hatee-hatee-ho!” or seen it try to use Morse code.

(My favorite part, aside from the fact that this song is super-catchy and kind of a parody of all popular music, is the grandfather trying to read the crazy onomatopoeia to his grandkid. Hilarious.)

Haters Gonna Hate

I just discovered this song. Apparently it’s been out for several years, but it’s not a style that I normally listen to, so that’s probably why I missed it.

I’m sure it could be a completely serious criticism of a specific someone, but it's more likely that it’s just making fun of people who endlessly criticize free content that they are in no way required to pay attention to.

The weird thing about the internet is that there’s lots of wonderful stuff out there that is worth paying attention to. But instead of finding something else to look at, listen to, or read, people turn into poo flinging monkeys when they encounter something that’s not great. And the whole situation could be resolved if only the monkey could pause before flinging and remember the obvious: no one is being forced to watch this video, read this webcomic, or listen to this music.

Before you get into a flame war on facebook, step back and ask yourself if the argument you’re about to engage in is actually worth your time. It isn’t? What could you possibly do with that extra time? Here's an idea: go outside and look at the shapes of clouds in the sky. (As long as you promise not to tweet about how the clouds above you suck because they aren’t shaped like anything.)

If you absolutely insist on staying online, go read some hilarious comics at harkavagrant.com. Watch Nika Harper’s vlog Wordplay. Follow Maureen Johnson on twitter (even if you’re not a fan of her books, I promise, she’s delightful).

And if you honestly hate all of those things, then there’s a great big internet out there that you might possibly enjoy. No reason to spew all over something you don’t like when the smart thing to do would be to stop paying attention to it.

The Buzzards Are Not Chartreuse

I didn’t go to summer camp as a kid. My brothers weren’t Boy Scouts. We didn’t do this sort of thing not because we lived in a tiny town tucked away from civilization, but because our mom is awesome.

Our mom is an early childhood specialist, and because of this, she knows all the awesome camp songs that we would have learned at summer camp, plus has more interesting crafts and games to fill up the hours than we would have ever done at camp. There was never really any need to go.

But everyone has a need for cookies. Specifically, Girl Scout cookies. So one year, we started a local troop. We sold cookies. We ate cookies. Then, we decided that we would round up all the girls and head off to a Girl Scout day camp.

All of us had a really good time. I vaguely remember doing a craft of some kind, and piling into a small cabin and “claiming” beds that we would never sleep in, since we were going home that evening instead of spending the night.

The best thing that happened that day was that my mother and I learned a new camp song, one we had never heard before, about buzzards sitting on a dead tree. We thought it was hilarious, and sang it over and over forever. We still sing it, even though that day at day camp was pretty much the end of my career as a Girl Scout.

My husband was an ultra Boy Scout. He attended all the meetings, knows how to cook anything in a dutch oven over an open fire, and knows all the songs. One afternoon, we were all headed somewhere in the car, and my mom and I were singing silly songs in the back seat. We, of course, busted out our “Buzzards” song from Daisy Day Camp.

Non-chartreuse non-buzzards
from the Disney wiki

“Three. Chartreuse. Buzzards,” we sang, “Sitting!!! Onadeadtree.”

My husband interrupted immediately. “It’s ‘sharp toothed’!!” he insisted.

My mother and I looked at one another and admitted that “Sharp toothed buzzards” does make more sense than “Chartreuse buzzards” which allowed the segue in conversation to discuss why a buzzard would be chartreuse in the first place and exactly what color chartreuse is.

Chartreuse
Go look at how horrible the
color actually is on wikipedia

For years I was convinced that it was a dark green or navy color, based solely on the normal coloring of buzzards. Only, I had never encountered a buzzard before, and had assumed that they were similar to vultures, and my only exposure to vultures was Disney’s The Jungle Book.

My tiny mind would never have been able to process the fact that chartreuse was, in fact, halfway between green and yellow and had been named for a type of alcohol made in France. Crayola’s “green yellow” and “yellow green” were never on my top 10 list of favorite crayons, and even now, I want to look away when I see anything prominently chartreuse colored.

We love our song, and will still sing it the way we originally misheard it, no matter how many times my husband cringes and corrects us, even though the buzzards are not chartreuse.

Not Yet, Not Yet

My husband needs new socks. He is really hard on them, and goes through them like kleenexes. He’s only got about six pairs that are decent looking (that is, without too many holes). The rest of his socks are mismatched ones that I get out once per month or so to see if I can find the ones that go with them. Usually I can’t, but instead of throwing them away, I toss them back in the mismatched socks bag, hoping that I’ll be able to pair them up the next time I get them out.

The new plan I came up with just now is to not wash my husband’s socks until he’s completely out of clean ones so that I can see which ones are completely mismatched and which ones are just hiding alone in his sock drawer.

It won’t be so bad. He can wear the black ones over and over. Black socks never get dirty. This way I will be able to get rid of that voice inside me that says, “not yet, not yet” when I think about throwing the whole mismatched sock bag in the garbage.

Then maybe I’ll buy him some new ones.

Sunny With a High of 75

Why is it that I can’t wake up on rainy days? Is it because my body thinks that because it’s not as bright out as usual, that it’s still night and therefore still time for sleep? The light of the sun must somehow stimulate me to action, and since it can’t reach me because of the clouds, the actions that I would normally be taking get buried under the covers.

I love rainy weather, but it’s not the best for getting me out of bed and working. The most it inspires in me is to get outside and dance in the rain.

I wonder why I function better in the morning when it’s sunny with a high of 75.

Thursday in History: We Didn't Start the Fire

Every week, I sit down to research a new Thursday in History. I start by searching the date on Wikipedia. I know that sounds “unscientific” or whatever, because anyone can edit Wikipedia, but the truth is that most Wikipedia articles have tons and tons of sources attached, and these sources can take you to actual scholarly places that can show you how and why they know their stuff. Wikipedia, to me, is like a Cliff’s Notes version of whatever I want to research. I scan the article, and if it catches my interest, I dig deeper.

This stage of research is pretty fun. If you’ve ever searched a date on Wikipedia you’ll know that major events are shown first, and then who was born on that day, followed by who died on that day. Finally, at the bottom of the list, there are feast days and celebrations from various religions, along with national holidays from different countries.

There are weeks when I don’t get past the events section, because there are a zillion awesome things that just happened to fall on the same day. Some days are more boring. That’s just life on earth. Sometimes I get inspired to write a bunch of stuff just by looking at the title of an article, and other times I prop my chin up with my hand and scroll all the way to the bottom of the page, trying to keep awake.

This week, I found myself thinking, “who even cares about some of thes stuff?” Obviously, everything that appears on the list is important to someone, otherwise it wouldn’t be there. The birth/death of a Czech footballer might not be super important to my life (the only connection we’d have is that some of my ancestors are from that region), but there are people using wikipedia who showed up just to read articles about Czech footballers. (I have nothing against Czech footballers, by the way, I was just using that as an example; before you throw kolaches at me, know that I think Czech footballers are rad.) (Mmm, kolaches.)

Some cool things have happened on this day in history. There was an attempt made to steal the crown jewels from the Tower of London by a thief dressed as a man of the cloth in 1671. A horse drawn bus was used for the first time in Mumbai in 1874 (which gives more meaning to the term autobus). And in 1950, a man named Robert Schuman presented a paper on his idea for a cohesive and peaceful governmental body in Europe, which is why today is celebrated as Europe Day in what is now the European Union.

It was also the day that a pop star was born. A pop star who loves history as much as I do.

Happy Thursday in History Birthday, Billy Joel.

Crash and Bruise

These things suck.
(image courtesy of
wikimedia commons)

Crutches are super fun to play with. You can test your balance, use then as stilts, or pretend you’re a pirate (hook hand and parrot optional).

Crutches as a necessity? Not so fun. They’re bulky, your armpits start to hurt after a while, and you never know where to stash them when you sit down.

The last time I had to use crutches was about nine years ago when I sprained my ankle jumping around giggling and spitting raspberries torturously at my roommate. I was paid out for my folly.

Thankfully, when I sprained my ankle on Thursday, I could still walk on my foot (once the excruciating pain went away, anyway). The doctor took an x-ray and determined that there was no fracturing, and I was so happy that I could have danced. You know, if I hadn’t had a sprained ankle.

I’ve never broken a bone. I am the Accidental Bruise Queen, and have had bruises in a range of colors (including yellow, green, blue, and purple, and once even all of those at the same time), but I have never any broken bones.

My brothers broke their bones all the time when they were kids. Maybe they were just more daredevil-y than me, riding down the hill at our grandparents’ house endlessly on various homemade vehicles of questionable safety, ending up in the ditch occasionally, sometimes with broken wrists or blood gushing out of a knee or two. One of my brothers did this so often that my dad nicknamed him “Crash.”

In sixth grade, one of my classmates broke his leg so badly that he was hospitalized for several months. We sent him videos of us waving at the camera and saying “get well soon!” and gathered on the stage in the gym singing and dancing to “Hey Jude” and “Feelin’ Groovy” (it happened to be during my awesome teacher’s Beatles/Simon & Garfunkel phase). We even took a field trip to the hospital to see him once.

So, as a kid, I could definitely see the advantages to having a broken bone. You got a cool cast which people could sign, your mom and other family members went out of their way (more than usual) to get you anything you might want or need, and everyone paid attention to you.

I could also see the drawbacks. Having a cast on your arm apparently itches. A lot. You can have people sign your unbroken arms or legs anytime, really. You don't have to break them to get an autograph. Having people wait on you hand and foot gets frustrating after a while, especially if you physically can’t get up and do things for yourself. And I’d rather have people pay attention to me because I’m hilarious or because they actually like me than just because I’m injured.

This thing is a work of art. Purple, blue,
green, orange, yellow... It's like having
my very own sunset to walk around on.

Having a sprained ankle might suck, but at least it’s not broken. If it were broken, it’d take more time to heal and probably hurt a heck of a lot more. This way, I can hobble down the stairs and do the laundry or put the dishes in the dishwasher without my husband fussing at me too much to go put my foot up.

And at least I don’t have to deal with the annoying crutches.