15 April 2009

In defense of scribblers

I was looking after the girl with the dead fish again the other day. This time she was cranky. She stayed up too late and woke up too early, which, for a four-year-old, equals a lot of crocodile tears into couch cushions. We were painting. I started a portrait of her, thinking maybe it would cheer her up. Instead, I accidentally gave her an inferiority complex because my painting was such a masterpiece (no it wasn't).

Her plastic paintbrush clattered to the table as she wailed, "This is the worst day I ever had! I'm so bad at this and I can only scribble and none of my friends scribble and all my paintings looks so bad..." She went on.

I scrawled a loopy face onto the portrait in a feeble attempt to convince her that I still scribble too—only my scribbles weren't half as untamed as hers, which just upset her more.

"Listen," I said. "There are some very famous grown-up artists who only scribble. Do you want me to prove it to you?"

I was afraid she might prefer a noisy tantrum to art history. But she nodded, wiping away the fake tears she so desperately wished were pouring down her cheeks, and sat on my lap at the computer while I looked up Jackson Pollock. We scrolled through galleries of his paintings and she pointed out her favorites.

"Wow, this is just so beautiful," she'd say, laughing delighted, four-year-old giggles as pure as her scribbles. She was enraptured by grainy videos of Pollock and other painters at work.





I think sometimes we all feel like she did. Like whatever we're working on is just pointless scrawling, and maybe the canvas was better off blank before we came along and messed it all up. But maybe we just need to see it in a pretty new frame. Maybe our life-scribbling is worth a million bucks to certain art aficionados or to our mothers or to four-year-olds or to God.

We didn't go back to the watercolors again that day, but I'm pretty sure it wasn't because she was still feeling ashamed or inadequate. She was just an action painter.

07 April 2009

You Are Beautiful

After Nathan's post about great old buildings, I came upon this one in Fountain Square, an artsy district in downtown Indianapolis.
Nothing boosts my confidence like affirmative architecture.

"Aw, shucks, downtown Indy. So are you," I whisper, blushing a little. This town makes me feel so good about myself.

And this project makes me feel good about the world. I did some quick research to find the story behind this building, and I ended up spending a good hour on this Web site (www.you-are-beautiful.com). Why haven't I heard about this before?

You Are Beautiful is an effort to brighten days worldwide, making a difference by "catching us in the midst of daily life and creating moments of positive self realization." It's affiliated with art shows (like the one I wish I'd known was in Fountain Square two years ago), collaborative projects, stickers I'm sending in for, and more.

There's lots of cool pictures and neat freebies on the site. Make sure you look at these cool books designed by beautiful folks all around the globe.

03 April 2009

Nostalgia vs. Novelty

I usually feel a fair amount of shame when I get all nostalgic. I'm not sure what it is, but whenever I get to day-dreaming about times gone by, I often get this shooting pang of conscious that seems to scream "get on with it!" After all, I am only 23: what do I have to be nostalgic about?

However, when it comes to novelty, it seems that any cheap new trick can catch my attention. I feel that I should be embarrassed about this, but of course, I am not. Why is it that I can so easily latch onto something new, turning a blind eye to the deceptive trickery of plastique and gloss and new, yet when I ponder upon an old friend, that one summer, that awesome experience, or a could-of-should-of-would-of, I shrug it off with such an ease that only self-inflicted shame can provide? This is a question that has been running laps in my mind for the past few days. Until now.


Nostalgia in Picture Form ©2005 The Real Ideal

Nostalgia in Picture Form ©2005 The Real Ideal


Nostalgia in Picture Form ©2005 The Real Ideal

Shame be doggoned; I love nostalgia. I've recently been feeling quite nostalgic, and have been regularly drinking of its springs of joy and sadness. Talking to old friends that I do not regularly keep in contact with, thinking on past experiences and circumstances, and time-traveling back to those good and not-so-good old days (whichever ones they may be at the moment): I am steeped in it, and it is great.

I have really come to appreciate nostalgia, because it has in turn brought appreciation for my past and where I come from and how I got here etc., etc., etc. Being nostalgic reminds me of people that I loved, and still love, and that I am sure still love me, because though we rarely even talk anymore, and because we have all gone our separate ways, one to another we are still who we were and who we always will be: bits of fruit suspended in the jiggling gelatin mold of life and time (please forgive me ). And I love that.

But what's interesting about nostalgia is that it really relies on novelty. Without the novelty of experiences had, secrets shared, places been, and new friends found, what would there be to be nostalgic about? Of course, through the lens of nostalgia, all that is plastic and all that is gloss and all that is false or fake is filtered away, and only the good things--the nice things--last.

31 March 2009

Fish Heaven

Yesterday I was babysitting a four-year-old neighbor who was really excited to show me the pet fish on her nightstand. She held my hand and led me to the tank, where I saw a beautiful purple beta, floating upside down at the top. Faith was looking right at it too, but she was just chatting away about having her own pet in her room and how often she has to feed it.
"How's it doing," I asked cautiously.
"Really good!" she said.
I didn't have the heart to tell her how wrong she was.

Then today I saw this video, which sort of makes me wish I could have been there when she learned the truth, just in case something this adorable had happened next.

Remember: This girl is not my neighbor. Different dead fish.

09 March 2009

Dart This!

Everyone has had a first car. That is, of course, unless you've never owned a car. For the sake of this post, let's assume that you have.

Some first cars are completely boring. If your first car was a new car, most likely it did not fulfill the requirements of the fabled 'first car.' What are the requirements of a first car, you ask? Well, I've made a list of what I think are a few guidelines in determining the quality of a first car.

1. First cars are completely dependable, though in cold weather they may have to be parked on a hill to start them.

2. First cars are perfect in any way. How the design of the dents seem to follow some Pythagorean algorithm, how the rust spots tend to look like deceased relatives, and how the rips in the seats are perfect for holding a wallet and/or cell phone: all perfect.

3. First cars, like most nice things and works of art, vary in color and texture, as numerous professional quality touch-ups run the length of the vehicle.

4. First cars are not only for transportation. They are havens and retreats for the afflicted, the oppressed, and the 17-year-old loser and his loser friends.

5. First cars are closely connected with first bands.


Though not possible, in some ways, I feel like I had two first cars. My first first car was a 1965 Dodge Dart that my dad and brother surprised me with when I was 14 (or 15?). It had some problems, but I still remember the night before my 16th birthday. My dad and I lay in pools of very-viscous fluid as we dropped the transmission, replaced the clutch, and fixed the brakes. We worked until at least 2 a.m. getting it ready to drive the next morning, and we even took it out that night just so I could get a feel for the three-on-the-tree shifting again. The trunk became the closet of my teenage life. It held guitar amps, french horns, and lots of other things so I would always be prepared. Eventually, though, we had to put it down. Brake problems. It was the perfect first car, and I am very thankful for it. Here are some pictures of cars that look exactly like my first car; regretfully, I don't have any of my own. It's name was Johnny 5.












My second first car, though not as classic or whimsical, was just as epic as my first, if not more so. It was a 1988 Lincoln Town Car. It truly was a luxury vehicle. It had air conditioning and a radio: both upgrades from my previous vehicle. It also had an automatic trunk, with a little electronic retractable latch that pulled it down tight, so I didn't have to put too much effort into closing it. It had leather seats, a glow-in-the-dark thermometer, and automatic headlights that switched between bright and dim based on ambient light. This car took over for my senior year in high school, and lasted all the way to the very end of my junior year of university (and I mean VERY end).

The night before our senior registration, four friends and I almost got arrested in this car. I've been pulled over in this car more times than most people have been pulled over in their life. Why? Stereotypes and vehicle profiling. I got this car at about 60,ooo, and got to take it past the 100,000 mile mark. This car was epic, I tell you. Oh, and that huge bump by the post office? 'Nuff said. Even its death was epic. On my way home for the summer after my junior year of college, with all of my belongings packed in and hanging off of the car, it broke down. But not just broke down. I mean, I was driving down the highway, about 30 minutes out of Fayetteville, and stuff started falling out from under it. Apparently, it had something to do with the transmission. Anyways, some very strange man and wife wrecker team came and picked me up in Alma, after I spent 4 hours laying hands on my car, anointing my car with holy oil, and eating Geno's Pizza-By-The-Slice, and took me home. Epic. It's name was Esmerelda.

Me & Esmerelda, breaking 100,000


Rollin' them zeros

What was your first car, and what was it like?

24 February 2009

From the Desk of El Mister

The following is a post from the blog I have set up for my classes, where I post announcements, dates of tests, and the occasional surprise extra credit assignment. We are studying expansion to the West in my U.S. History classes, and I could think of nothing more fitting than this. Maybe you'll get some joy out of it too, though I can't promise any extra credit in this economy.

Oregon Trail--8th & 11th Grades

So, when I was in 7th grade, I couldn't wait for Thursdays, because that was the day we went to the computer lab. Of course, the computer lab was not anything like it would be today: we didn't even have internet. But, we did get to do things like type our names, make banners with our names on them, or turn the computer on and off and on again.

Not only did we get to type seven letters at a time and get to push "the" button, we also got to play awesome games. No, not games like GTA 4, Tiger Woods 2009, or Shadow of the Colossus. These were good games. Classic games. Games with horrible graphics, and an educational theme. Games like MathBlaster, WordBlaster, DinoPark Tycoon, and I believe a universal favorite: Oregon Trail.

Oregon Trail is awesome, simple, and very educational. Believe it or not, everyone my age used to love playing Oregon Trail. For this reason, I'm going to make you play Oregon Trail. For extra points.

Here are the rules: follow the link at the bottom of this post to play the game. You can't use a mouse, because we didn't have those back then, so you control everything by typing stuff in. Play the game, see how far you can get without everyone dying, then leave a comment on this post with your Name, Grade, Section, and your high score and final position in the game.

Here's a hint: hunt a lot, fjord the rivers, and start out with more than 50 pounds of food.

CLICK HERE TO PLAY THE BEST COMPUTER GAME EVER!!!!!!!!!

18 February 2009

The Dancing Gene

I had some heartfelt conversations with my California Grandpa at Christmastime. Michael Jackson was on repeat in my car that month. Once, when it was just me and Grandpa on the road, we discussed our shared love of the King of Pop, and our shared love of dance. Grandpa was surprised (and proud) to hear that in certain parts of the world, I have something of a reputation when it comes to dancing. He told me a story about back in the day when his students were having a dance party at school and he joined in. He said the Compton high schoolers were impressed with his moves.

"I don't think there's anything to it," he said. "You just get out there and start moving to the music."

It's all in the family.

The way he moves, Ely Kim could be part of my family. (Seriously, Ely Kim. Let's get married.) He danced to 100 different songs for 100 days, and you can watch him shake it down here. Day 49 is one of my faves; bonus points if you know why.

BOOMBOX from Ely Kim on Vimeo.

Everybody dance now.