Clinton, before Obama clinched the democratic nomination, kept on claiming that she had won the popular vote in a last ditch attempt to attract super delegates. The fact of the matter is, however, that her number are extremely flawed. If you don't factor in the caucuses and factor in Michigan, yes, she won. But Obama wasn't even on the ballot in Michigan and if you add up the "uncommited" votes in that state and estimate for the caucuses, Obama ends up ahead.
http://blog.newsweek.com/blogs/stumper/archive/2008/06/02/clinton-s-popular-vote-claim-close-but-no-cigar.aspx
http://www.cnn.com/2008/POLITICS/06/01/puerto.rico/
http://www.politicususa.com/en/Clinton-pop-vote-math
Friday, June 6, 2008
Monday, June 2, 2008
March. The kind of month you want to sucker punch in the balls. The snow begins to melt…not enough for it to really be spring, but enough to form black ice and reveal the dog poop that had been fossilized since November. Too late to sled, but too early to do anything else that might be fun.
Janice walked, buried under several sweaters, hats, and scarves. She had recently realized the futility of scarves; they were loosely knitted and protected an already collared neck. She now wore them, as everyone else who’d come to the same conclusion had done, because she thought they were stylish.
And now it began to freezingly rain, or perhaps rain freezingly; Janice never quite understood how to properly turn the noun into a verb. She had the same problem with putting sleep walking into the past tense. Slept-walked? Either way, the freezing rain that was either freezingly raining or raining freezingly kept on smacking into her face, seemly navigating between both the multitude of scarves and her burgundy bifocals.
Janice was on a downtown avenue, lined with tall grand buildings and tattered American flags, which, had they been endowed with memory, would not have been able to recall the last time they were taken down, no matter what the weather. But no matter how grand the buildings were, the sidewalks were piteously empty. Janice could see all the way to the library at the end of the street, where East Main died suddenly at a three-way intersection.
But suddenly the imposing structure was swallowed up, it's granite lions and gargoyles obscured by roiling hail and freezingly raining freezing rain, all being pushed around by great gusts of wind. Waves of precitipiation, both freezing rain and otherwise, crashed over Janice, and she hunched further into her useless scarves, suddenly wondering why the fashion world was so impractical.
Janice had heard about grapefruit-sized hail a few months back, as she and Fluffers sat on her couch in pajamas watching T.V. Oh, how Janice longed for the weekend and her welcoming apartment, the pillows and the pink and white pajamas. And as she squinted out into the steadily worsening weather, she began to notice the widening diameters of the hail. Janice headed towards the nearest building.
So a question for my one or two readers: what happens next?
Janice walked, buried under several sweaters, hats, and scarves. She had recently realized the futility of scarves; they were loosely knitted and protected an already collared neck. She now wore them, as everyone else who’d come to the same conclusion had done, because she thought they were stylish.
And now it began to freezingly rain, or perhaps rain freezingly; Janice never quite understood how to properly turn the noun into a verb. She had the same problem with putting sleep walking into the past tense. Slept-walked? Either way, the freezing rain that was either freezingly raining or raining freezingly kept on smacking into her face, seemly navigating between both the multitude of scarves and her burgundy bifocals.
Janice was on a downtown avenue, lined with tall grand buildings and tattered American flags, which, had they been endowed with memory, would not have been able to recall the last time they were taken down, no matter what the weather. But no matter how grand the buildings were, the sidewalks were piteously empty. Janice could see all the way to the library at the end of the street, where East Main died suddenly at a three-way intersection.
But suddenly the imposing structure was swallowed up, it's granite lions and gargoyles obscured by roiling hail and freezingly raining freezing rain, all being pushed around by great gusts of wind. Waves of precitipiation, both freezing rain and otherwise, crashed over Janice, and she hunched further into her useless scarves, suddenly wondering why the fashion world was so impractical.
Janice had heard about grapefruit-sized hail a few months back, as she and Fluffers sat on her couch in pajamas watching T.V. Oh, how Janice longed for the weekend and her welcoming apartment, the pillows and the pink and white pajamas. And as she squinted out into the steadily worsening weather, she began to notice the widening diameters of the hail. Janice headed towards the nearest building.
So a question for my one or two readers: what happens next?
Little Bobby
Little Bobby strutted. It’s the only way to describe it. I’m sure he didn’t mean to strut—in fact, if you spelled out the word and put it out in front of him, he probably wouldn’t know its’ meaning. But, undeniably, he was strutting.
It may have been totally accidental; Bobby had yet to realize that picking his nose in public was considered impolite in most cultures, so it wasn’t a stretch to believe the strut wasn’t even a conscious movement. But it was definitely there: his shoulder see-sawed up and down, his Spiderman book bag was slung jauntily over one shoulder, leaving the other red and blue strap bouncing off his lower back, and his step, too, was a little to long for his height, putting him ever so slightly off balance.
Little Bobby was strutting for several reasons. In school today, Little Gloria had fluttered her eye lashes at him. There had been a food-fight in the cafegymatorium, and he had gotten an A on his spelling test. Things were looking up.
And then, as he strutted down the quiet suburban avenue, he saw it. It wasn’t particularly large or conspicuous, but somehow, as it sat in the shade of the Jones’ big oak, it caught Bobby’s eye.
He stopped in mid-strut. He wanted to move closer, but something in the back of his mind told him that Mommy wouldn’t approve. But Bobby shook it off. He looked back down the street, past the manicured lawns, but no one was in sight. He looked in the other direction. No one appeared.
So Bobby approached it, slowly at first, circling it in ever tightening loops, until the brand-new Levis his mom had bought him the week before were brushing its’ red paint. It was such a strange object.
His first thought was that it was a jack-in-the-box, but instead of a puppet emerging from the top, there was a T-shaped metal handle. But he threw that theory aside. Little Bobby considered himself to be an expert when it came to jack-in-the-boxes, and he had never seen anything like this before.
It was a simple, red box, with the T-handle and two wires leading away from its’ base into thick, overgrown grass. Something was stamped onto the side—Nitro-something or other. Bobby tried to read it, but after a moment of squinting and sounding things out, he gave it up as a bad job.
And then Bobby remembered something. A similar object playing across his T.V screen…Wile E. Coyote standing over it, pushing down on the handle with a maniacal grin. What had happened next? Bobby racked his brains, but all he could remember was the cartoon character’s crazed, bloodshot eyes.
So Bobby, being of the curious nature, did what any 6-year old would do—he pushed down on the handle.
There was a pause. Somewhere, a chickadee was warbling. Little Bobby stepped back to admire his work.
And then, as suddenly as the first spoonful of Brussels sprouts had flown earlier that morning, an explosion rent the air. Bobby was thrown backwards by the sheer force of it, slamming into the trunk of the big oak, his fragile spine saved only by the backpack. There was fire everywhere, broken glass whizzing past him, screams, and in the distance, the frantic wail of a siren. Smoke billowed around him. Car alarms joined the cacophony of confusion as heat blistered the youngster. Were the leaves around him naturally red, or had flame consumed them? The expensive houses and even more expensive lawns were ablaze. The streets of Fairport were buried in rubble. In his final moment of irony, Bobby realized the whole fiasco had proved the old adage:
It takes a child to raze a village.
It may have been totally accidental; Bobby had yet to realize that picking his nose in public was considered impolite in most cultures, so it wasn’t a stretch to believe the strut wasn’t even a conscious movement. But it was definitely there: his shoulder see-sawed up and down, his Spiderman book bag was slung jauntily over one shoulder, leaving the other red and blue strap bouncing off his lower back, and his step, too, was a little to long for his height, putting him ever so slightly off balance.
Little Bobby was strutting for several reasons. In school today, Little Gloria had fluttered her eye lashes at him. There had been a food-fight in the cafegymatorium, and he had gotten an A on his spelling test. Things were looking up.
And then, as he strutted down the quiet suburban avenue, he saw it. It wasn’t particularly large or conspicuous, but somehow, as it sat in the shade of the Jones’ big oak, it caught Bobby’s eye.
He stopped in mid-strut. He wanted to move closer, but something in the back of his mind told him that Mommy wouldn’t approve. But Bobby shook it off. He looked back down the street, past the manicured lawns, but no one was in sight. He looked in the other direction. No one appeared.
So Bobby approached it, slowly at first, circling it in ever tightening loops, until the brand-new Levis his mom had bought him the week before were brushing its’ red paint. It was such a strange object.
His first thought was that it was a jack-in-the-box, but instead of a puppet emerging from the top, there was a T-shaped metal handle. But he threw that theory aside. Little Bobby considered himself to be an expert when it came to jack-in-the-boxes, and he had never seen anything like this before.
It was a simple, red box, with the T-handle and two wires leading away from its’ base into thick, overgrown grass. Something was stamped onto the side—Nitro-something or other. Bobby tried to read it, but after a moment of squinting and sounding things out, he gave it up as a bad job.
And then Bobby remembered something. A similar object playing across his T.V screen…Wile E. Coyote standing over it, pushing down on the handle with a maniacal grin. What had happened next? Bobby racked his brains, but all he could remember was the cartoon character’s crazed, bloodshot eyes.
So Bobby, being of the curious nature, did what any 6-year old would do—he pushed down on the handle.
There was a pause. Somewhere, a chickadee was warbling. Little Bobby stepped back to admire his work.
And then, as suddenly as the first spoonful of Brussels sprouts had flown earlier that morning, an explosion rent the air. Bobby was thrown backwards by the sheer force of it, slamming into the trunk of the big oak, his fragile spine saved only by the backpack. There was fire everywhere, broken glass whizzing past him, screams, and in the distance, the frantic wail of a siren. Smoke billowed around him. Car alarms joined the cacophony of confusion as heat blistered the youngster. Were the leaves around him naturally red, or had flame consumed them? The expensive houses and even more expensive lawns were ablaze. The streets of Fairport were buried in rubble. In his final moment of irony, Bobby realized the whole fiasco had proved the old adage:
It takes a child to raze a village.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Textbooks
Of course students should have to pay for textbooks they’ve lost. As soon as they check it out, that book becomes their responsibility, just like any library book. The district is lending it out and shouldn’t have to foot the bill when the student loses it.
The amount of money the Rochester City School District has lost to missing textbooks is evidence enough. Something in the neighborhood of half a million dollars has been spent buying new books, and that money could certainly be put to other uses. If students don’t care enough about their textbooks to keep track of them, they shouldn’t be too bothered when they have to part with 40 bucks.
And what message does it send when the district lets students get away with losing school property? If students aren’t penalized for losing textbooks, or just never returning them, there will be no incentive to give them back. When you look at some of the things that get sold on eBay, it would be hard to deny that a relatively new textbook could make a few bucks. With the policy as it is, what’s keeping a student from going out and selling their books?
I’ve also heard, though I can’t verify it, that people are supposed to learn things at school. And is there a more important lesson to be taught then responsibility? Students need to know there are consequences for their actions, and they need to be able to keep track of their belongings or belongings loaned to them. If you get a job and then lose your employer’s property, you’ll both have to pay for the property and be fired. The City School District wouldn’t be doing their job if they didn’t prepare their pupils for the real world.
Progress Report
I think I've made decent progress on my project. It's difficult to always find inspiration, but there is usually something bugging me I can write about. This post is number 19, so I'm pretty pleased.
I have actually worked consisitantly on this. Whenever I come upon a moron in the D and C letters to the editor, I'm able to write about him on this blog. In the next few classes I just want to keep doing what I'm doing, but perhaps shy away from lampooning English class as much as I have been.
I haven't really edited my blog all that much. However, I repeatedly force classmates into reading my posts and commenting so there are fewer "0 comments" things.
I've discovered that my "writers voice" enjoys stating it's opinion, often brashly, and sometimes fixates on things like English.
I have actually worked consisitantly on this. Whenever I come upon a moron in the D and C letters to the editor, I'm able to write about him on this blog. In the next few classes I just want to keep doing what I'm doing, but perhaps shy away from lampooning English class as much as I have been.
I haven't really edited my blog all that much. However, I repeatedly force classmates into reading my posts and commenting so there are fewer "0 comments" things.
I've discovered that my "writers voice" enjoys stating it's opinion, often brashly, and sometimes fixates on things like English.
Monday, May 19, 2008
More English
I stand by my views: English is crap. And you know what? I'm using the first freaking person.
I'll first focus on the terrifying, systematic destruction of good literature that takes place in classrooms across the country. It's my sound belief that the true beauty in books is their ploy, the ability to entertain. I don't give a rats ass what Simon symbolizes in the Lord of the Flies. I couldn't care less about which of the 25 different literary terms Sophocles used in Antigone. And I'm adamant in the belief that Will Shakespeare wrote Julius Caesar for a quick buck just as much as the need to comment on society and totalitarianism.
And while we're at it, an English teacher just recently said that using "I" was childish and "you" was arrogant. I disagree. Stating your opinion, rather than being childish, is the hieght of sophistication. Our forefathers fought for the freedom of the press, the freedom to say whatever the hell you want to. The ability to say what you beleive, to ignore the mold and put your opinions out there, is far more important to me then correctly analyzing the subplots of the Pearl.
I'll first focus on the terrifying, systematic destruction of good literature that takes place in classrooms across the country. It's my sound belief that the true beauty in books is their ploy, the ability to entertain. I don't give a rats ass what Simon symbolizes in the Lord of the Flies. I couldn't care less about which of the 25 different literary terms Sophocles used in Antigone. And I'm adamant in the belief that Will Shakespeare wrote Julius Caesar for a quick buck just as much as the need to comment on society and totalitarianism.
And while we're at it, an English teacher just recently said that using "I" was childish and "you" was arrogant. I disagree. Stating your opinion, rather than being childish, is the hieght of sophistication. Our forefathers fought for the freedom of the press, the freedom to say whatever the hell you want to. The ability to say what you beleive, to ignore the mold and put your opinions out there, is far more important to me then correctly analyzing the subplots of the Pearl.
Friday, May 16, 2008
Wiretapping
I saw a letter to the editor in the paper yesterday. The author was saying that a Democratic president would be weak on national security. He cited what a heck of a job Bush had done by strengthening the FBI and CIA and wiretapping domestically.
So this is where the author and I differ. Yes, it should always be a top priority to protect the people of this nation, but I also value privacy. I doubt we’ll be jumping straight from wiretapping to the Big Brother situation of 1984, but it’s still a dangerous path. There’s a reason the government used to be required to get warrants to wiretap, and that’s because we need our personal lives to be, well, personal.
Of course, I doubt that the government’s listening in on the average Joe’s conversation. They probably do stick to people they think are terrorists. But I have to wonder, if they have enough reason to believe they’re terrorists, shouldn’t they have enough proof to get a legal warrant to spy?
Though not near as drastic a situation as Japanese internment, I can still draws parallels between the two. The government wanted to keep the country safe, but in doing so they did some very wrong things. It corresponds to imprisonment of terror suspects in Guantanamo. If we have enough reason them to through them in a cell for the rest of their lives, shouldn’t we have enough evidence to charge them? The government shouldn’t have the right be judge and jury, and I genuinely believe that there are other ways to protect this nation.
So this is where the author and I differ. Yes, it should always be a top priority to protect the people of this nation, but I also value privacy. I doubt we’ll be jumping straight from wiretapping to the Big Brother situation of 1984, but it’s still a dangerous path. There’s a reason the government used to be required to get warrants to wiretap, and that’s because we need our personal lives to be, well, personal.
Of course, I doubt that the government’s listening in on the average Joe’s conversation. They probably do stick to people they think are terrorists. But I have to wonder, if they have enough reason to believe they’re terrorists, shouldn’t they have enough proof to get a legal warrant to spy?
Though not near as drastic a situation as Japanese internment, I can still draws parallels between the two. The government wanted to keep the country safe, but in doing so they did some very wrong things. It corresponds to imprisonment of terror suspects in Guantanamo. If we have enough reason them to through them in a cell for the rest of their lives, shouldn’t we have enough evidence to charge them? The government shouldn’t have the right be judge and jury, and I genuinely believe that there are other ways to protect this nation.
...
Whenever I hear about baseball players from the 1800s, I feel sad. Take Ross Barnes. He has the third highest single-season batting average of all time in the MLB, but I’ve never even heard of the guy. He would have been a giant in his day, an icon, a baseball hero. There must have been parades in his honor; his name would have been plastered across the newspapers. But you know what? I’d never even heard of him before last week.
So it really makes me wonder how long it takes your legacy to die, how long it takes for your name to mean nothing, how many generations pass before the people just don’t care about your accomplishments. I had NO idea that John Tyler was our 10th president. Or Franklin Pierce (Number 14), James Buchanan, Rutherford B. Hayes or William Harding. And they were our PRESIDENTS. Commander in Chief, Leader of the Free World, all that good stuff. And as for the vice presidents? I know Gore and Cheney, but that’s it.
So is my life meaningless? I can make an impact on as many people as I please, but eventually I’ll die and they die, and even if they their kids about me, those kids will die too. At some point, everything I might ever accomplish in the rest of my life will mean nothing. And that kind of sucks.
And death, hoo boy. I’ve never been able to just take things on faith, and while it’s great to believe there’s an after life, and that would sure makes things a lot easier, I just can’t make that leap. And I know that scientifically speaking, when my brain shuts down, when the last synapses dies away, there will be nothing. Nothing. Not even darkness to see, silence to hear. Nothing. And that kind of sucks too.
So it really makes me wonder how long it takes your legacy to die, how long it takes for your name to mean nothing, how many generations pass before the people just don’t care about your accomplishments. I had NO idea that John Tyler was our 10th president. Or Franklin Pierce (Number 14), James Buchanan, Rutherford B. Hayes or William Harding. And they were our PRESIDENTS. Commander in Chief, Leader of the Free World, all that good stuff. And as for the vice presidents? I know Gore and Cheney, but that’s it.
So is my life meaningless? I can make an impact on as many people as I please, but eventually I’ll die and they die, and even if they their kids about me, those kids will die too. At some point, everything I might ever accomplish in the rest of my life will mean nothing. And that kind of sucks.
And death, hoo boy. I’ve never been able to just take things on faith, and while it’s great to believe there’s an after life, and that would sure makes things a lot easier, I just can’t make that leap. And I know that scientifically speaking, when my brain shuts down, when the last synapses dies away, there will be nothing. Nothing. Not even darkness to see, silence to hear. Nothing. And that kind of sucks too.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Mary's story.
Kudos to Mary Rice, author of a fantasy story based around the food-world of Fantasty. Here's an excerpt:
The land of Fantasty is a wonder, a birthday cake-shaped planet whirling deliciously in the middle of space. This cake, baked golden by time long, long ago, is divided into three layer-realms, each distinct and separated by a layer of frosting. Fantasty itself thrives on the topmost layer, a confection of a realm, with mountains of ice cream, rivers of milk and maple syrup, jungles of twisted spaghetti, and wide open deserts of soft white flour, light as a dream. Far below it, on the bottommost layer, lies the wretched realm of Fanasty, cursed with artificial flavoring, food coloring, and high-fructose corn syrup. Between these two layers, as different as night and day, lie the Doldrums, the Blandlands, a wasteland of stale water crackers, surrounded by frosting swamps on its edges.
Three birthday candles stand tall and proud on this marvel of a planet, thrusting up over Fantasty and giving sailors on the Fruit Punch Sea a beacon to guide them in their travels. The Fasntastians, be they Veggitopians, Sugarlandians, or Karbs, pride themselves on their exceptional culinary skills, and the highest honor a young Fantastian can hope for is to become a high chef, master of food and its preparation. And thus our story begins.
* * * *
"Filth," said Elias, knocking the bowl of mushroom pate aside. He had been working on it for hours now, and still he could not find the correct flavor he desired. He was about to dump the grey-brown paste into the bin under the sink when a voice stilled his hand.
"Why so agitated, Elias? You have an excellent start there."
Elias turned to meet the gaze of Highchef Fiorenzo, who was standing there, short and squat in his bright white chef's hat.
"Uncle Fio, I cannot create the flavor I seek. It is flat and ordinary." Elias ran his hands through his thick head of chestnut hair in frustration.
"Ahhh," said the chef wisely, "Look to your herbs and spices, my boy! There must be something here to give your dish the pizzazz you so desire. Go on, experiment! You are more talented than you realize."
Fiorenzo watched his foster child walk hopefully to the spice rack, where he perused the rows of tiny glass bottles, sniffing the fragrances. Sixteen years had passed since Fio had found the boy as an abandoned infant, deep in the Enchanted Broccoli Forest in Fiberland. He had been on an expedition for wild mushrooms at the time, and had heard the baby's cries echo through the forest. He had assumed the child had come from the nearby village of Leef, on the banks of the Water River. Fio looked musingly at the pile of mushroom beside Elias' cooking station, remembering. Though the chef had looked far and wide for the boys' parents, no one had ever come forward to claim the lost child.
Fio had brought the boy back to Veggitopia, where he ran the most renowned culinary institute in Fantasty: the School of the Chefs. The school sat on one of the farthest corners of Fiberland, looking out over Nutshell Bay. There, Fio had begun the boys' training when he reached the age of six. He had shown remarkable skill from the start, and Fiorenzo knew he would be great: he could feel it. He could see it in the way Elias handled the food, how he gave loving attention to every element, how he looked for ways to make things better than they already were. Elias had completed his tenth year of training only last month, an important milestone, for this was the age that the budding chef received his or her Magic Utensil, a cooking utensil suited to serve that chef's needs and create the most glorious food when it was used. Elias had received the Golden Whisk, and he treasured it greatly. He used it wisely and carefully, for though a chef has a Magic Utensil, true skill will prevail over the stove. And Elias had this true skill. He was the top of his class by far, and knew as much or more than some of those in the highest form. Yet Fiorenzo felt it was prudent to let the Elias remain in his own age class, where he would hopefully make friends with people his own age.
Chef Fiorenzo sometimes worried that Elias was not becoming socialized as he ought to be. He was a sullen boy, who could usually be found taking long walks alone. Fio had once asked Elias if he felt lonely, and he had replied with a shrug, "I dunno, Uncle Fio, I never really thought about it." Then he had switched the discussion abruptly to the souffle he was making. He was caught up in his craft, and often became angry with himself when he made an error. Fio knew the boy had talent, but Elias seemed under-confident and modest to the extreme. For a lad who had grown up in the kitchen, he was awfully unsure of his skills.
The cooking classes offered at the school were various and consumed nearly all of Elias's time. He was currently studying with the Chef of Sauces, the Chef of the Knives, the Chef of Herbs, the Chef of Baking, and many others besides. In the evenings Elias and Fiorenzo would retreat to the school's highest tower where they lived, and Fio would tell Elias of his travels through distant lands. He told him of the steep, jagged peaks of the Tortilla Chip Moutains that divided Fiberland, and the Flour Desert beyond that. He told him of the sweet, flat expanses of the Pancake Plains, where the ground is soft and golden and steams under one's feet. He told him of the sheer, icy blocks that made up the Popsicle Glaciers in Sugarland, and the Hot Fudge Springs that bubbled up from under the surface. One day, Fio promised, he would take Elias on an expedition through the rich lands of Fiberland, Dairyland, the Carbohydrate Kingdom, and Sugarland, across the red Fruit Punch Sea. Elias was most eager to go. "When you are finished with your training and are a true High Chef, you will see all of this delicious land," Fio said time and time again, when Elias pressed him. "I promise, one way or another, you will."
The land of Fantasty is a wonder, a birthday cake-shaped planet whirling deliciously in the middle of space. This cake, baked golden by time long, long ago, is divided into three layer-realms, each distinct and separated by a layer of frosting. Fantasty itself thrives on the topmost layer, a confection of a realm, with mountains of ice cream, rivers of milk and maple syrup, jungles of twisted spaghetti, and wide open deserts of soft white flour, light as a dream. Far below it, on the bottommost layer, lies the wretched realm of Fanasty, cursed with artificial flavoring, food coloring, and high-fructose corn syrup. Between these two layers, as different as night and day, lie the Doldrums, the Blandlands, a wasteland of stale water crackers, surrounded by frosting swamps on its edges.
Three birthday candles stand tall and proud on this marvel of a planet, thrusting up over Fantasty and giving sailors on the Fruit Punch Sea a beacon to guide them in their travels. The Fasntastians, be they Veggitopians, Sugarlandians, or Karbs, pride themselves on their exceptional culinary skills, and the highest honor a young Fantastian can hope for is to become a high chef, master of food and its preparation. And thus our story begins.
* * * *
"Filth," said Elias, knocking the bowl of mushroom pate aside. He had been working on it for hours now, and still he could not find the correct flavor he desired. He was about to dump the grey-brown paste into the bin under the sink when a voice stilled his hand.
"Why so agitated, Elias? You have an excellent start there."
Elias turned to meet the gaze of Highchef Fiorenzo, who was standing there, short and squat in his bright white chef's hat.
"Uncle Fio, I cannot create the flavor I seek. It is flat and ordinary." Elias ran his hands through his thick head of chestnut hair in frustration.
"Ahhh," said the chef wisely, "Look to your herbs and spices, my boy! There must be something here to give your dish the pizzazz you so desire. Go on, experiment! You are more talented than you realize."
Fiorenzo watched his foster child walk hopefully to the spice rack, where he perused the rows of tiny glass bottles, sniffing the fragrances. Sixteen years had passed since Fio had found the boy as an abandoned infant, deep in the Enchanted Broccoli Forest in Fiberland. He had been on an expedition for wild mushrooms at the time, and had heard the baby's cries echo through the forest. He had assumed the child had come from the nearby village of Leef, on the banks of the Water River. Fio looked musingly at the pile of mushroom beside Elias' cooking station, remembering. Though the chef had looked far and wide for the boys' parents, no one had ever come forward to claim the lost child.
Fio had brought the boy back to Veggitopia, where he ran the most renowned culinary institute in Fantasty: the School of the Chefs. The school sat on one of the farthest corners of Fiberland, looking out over Nutshell Bay. There, Fio had begun the boys' training when he reached the age of six. He had shown remarkable skill from the start, and Fiorenzo knew he would be great: he could feel it. He could see it in the way Elias handled the food, how he gave loving attention to every element, how he looked for ways to make things better than they already were. Elias had completed his tenth year of training only last month, an important milestone, for this was the age that the budding chef received his or her Magic Utensil, a cooking utensil suited to serve that chef's needs and create the most glorious food when it was used. Elias had received the Golden Whisk, and he treasured it greatly. He used it wisely and carefully, for though a chef has a Magic Utensil, true skill will prevail over the stove. And Elias had this true skill. He was the top of his class by far, and knew as much or more than some of those in the highest form. Yet Fiorenzo felt it was prudent to let the Elias remain in his own age class, where he would hopefully make friends with people his own age.
Chef Fiorenzo sometimes worried that Elias was not becoming socialized as he ought to be. He was a sullen boy, who could usually be found taking long walks alone. Fio had once asked Elias if he felt lonely, and he had replied with a shrug, "I dunno, Uncle Fio, I never really thought about it." Then he had switched the discussion abruptly to the souffle he was making. He was caught up in his craft, and often became angry with himself when he made an error. Fio knew the boy had talent, but Elias seemed under-confident and modest to the extreme. For a lad who had grown up in the kitchen, he was awfully unsure of his skills.
The cooking classes offered at the school were various and consumed nearly all of Elias's time. He was currently studying with the Chef of Sauces, the Chef of the Knives, the Chef of Herbs, the Chef of Baking, and many others besides. In the evenings Elias and Fiorenzo would retreat to the school's highest tower where they lived, and Fio would tell Elias of his travels through distant lands. He told him of the steep, jagged peaks of the Tortilla Chip Moutains that divided Fiberland, and the Flour Desert beyond that. He told him of the sweet, flat expanses of the Pancake Plains, where the ground is soft and golden and steams under one's feet. He told him of the sheer, icy blocks that made up the Popsicle Glaciers in Sugarland, and the Hot Fudge Springs that bubbled up from under the surface. One day, Fio promised, he would take Elias on an expedition through the rich lands of Fiberland, Dairyland, the Carbohydrate Kingdom, and Sugarland, across the red Fruit Punch Sea. Elias was most eager to go. "When you are finished with your training and are a true High Chef, you will see all of this delicious land," Fio said time and time again, when Elias pressed him. "I promise, one way or another, you will."
Monday, May 12, 2008
More English nonsense
I think I've been over this before, but I'll go over the English final again. We do the task I essay and the task III essay during midterms and take II and IV over finals. As our class prepares to take this pivotal test, we go over both tasks, and now we're working through IV. It goes something like this: you're given a quote, you agree or disagree with it, and then you prove your agreement or lack there of. Here's the two catches, which both make English one of the most infuriating subjects I've ever dealt with: One, you can't use the first person. That's pretty standard for essays, but seeing as you have to state your OPINION, it's kind of an obstacle.
The second: you can't use real life events to prove your quote. You have to use literary references.
And this bothers me, because what the board of Regents considers to be literature is fiction. How can you use fiction, imagination, to prove a quote that has relevance to real life? Just because something happens in literature doesn't mean it can happen in real life. Dragons don't pop up out of hill sides, slaughtering goblins and hobbits. You can't prove something using fiction, using, well, artistic lies, stories. And it would just be so much easier if I just used modern day events or history in general. But I can't. The graders will actually take off points if I mention events that actually shape the world far more then A Wrinkle in Time ever can.
It's bull...how really can my knowledge of events in the Odyssey help the world, do anything more then fill up space in my brain alongside Latin conjugations and the number of protons in Strontium (38). My time could be far better spent, and it rather upsets me.
The second: you can't use real life events to prove your quote. You have to use literary references.
And this bothers me, because what the board of Regents considers to be literature is fiction. How can you use fiction, imagination, to prove a quote that has relevance to real life? Just because something happens in literature doesn't mean it can happen in real life. Dragons don't pop up out of hill sides, slaughtering goblins and hobbits. You can't prove something using fiction, using, well, artistic lies, stories. And it would just be so much easier if I just used modern day events or history in general. But I can't. The graders will actually take off points if I mention events that actually shape the world far more then A Wrinkle in Time ever can.
It's bull...how really can my knowledge of events in the Odyssey help the world, do anything more then fill up space in my brain alongside Latin conjugations and the number of protons in Strontium (38). My time could be far better spent, and it rather upsets me.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Rev. Wright
Rev. Wright is a moron and a jerk. This country is great and the people who died in 9/11 did not deserve to. But I think we're focusing on the situation a little too much. There are so many nuts jobs in the world (i.e Mahmoud Ahmadinejad or that cult dude from Texas), we should just get over it. I don't beleive Obama shares those same views. I have a close relative who I love with all my heart who's a socialist. I don't share the veiws; in fact, we just don't talk politics at all.
So my wish? I really hope we could just focus on the issues. Is it really plausible to pull troops out of Iraq within 60 days? If Canada has a functioning universal healthcare system and has yet to fall behind an iron curtain, why can't we? And did the two candidates only start talking about NAFTA because they were in a state that had been hard hit by the plan?
I just thank the dude upstairs that I'm not voting this November.
So my wish? I really hope we could just focus on the issues. Is it really plausible to pull troops out of Iraq within 60 days? If Canada has a functioning universal healthcare system and has yet to fall behind an iron curtain, why can't we? And did the two candidates only start talking about NAFTA because they were in a state that had been hard hit by the plan?
I just thank the dude upstairs that I'm not voting this November.
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Canal
I don't know if you've heard of the plan to reroute the Erie Canal downtown, but let me tell you, it's as stupid as it sounds. A few individuals, probably the same ones who masterminded the Ferry, think the city would be better off if we dug up Broadstreet and funneled the canal through it. They believe that people would flock to a waterfront as they have in Pittsford and other canal towns.
So to these advocates of the canal, I say this: Take out a map of Rochester. Find downtown. Then look for the big BLUE SQUIGGLY THING that runs downtown. Some call it a RIVER.
Let me make myself clearer. The Genesee River is beautiful, and there are a few nice locations right alongside it, Cornhill for instance. You can practically fall into the river from there. So why do people assume that spending millions of dollars creating another waterway will revive the downtown economy? That money would be better spent developing a preexisting waterway.
So to these advocates of the canal, I say this: Take out a map of Rochester. Find downtown. Then look for the big BLUE SQUIGGLY THING that runs downtown. Some call it a RIVER.
Let me make myself clearer. The Genesee River is beautiful, and there are a few nice locations right alongside it, Cornhill for instance. You can practically fall into the river from there. So why do people assume that spending millions of dollars creating another waterway will revive the downtown economy? That money would be better spent developing a preexisting waterway.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Iraq?
My first attempt to work up a debate:
How soon should we pull our troops out of Iraq and why?
Please, please comment.
How soon should we pull our troops out of Iraq and why?
Please, please comment.
Monday, April 28, 2008
Poetry has died
Poetry has died.
The doctors shrugged and said, “we tried.”
It died, alone, in a white-washed room
And was taken quietly to a cobwebbed tomb.
It died when people stopped rhyming
And lost all sense of meter and timing.
It died alongside dirty limericks and haiku.
All the clichés had been too much for them, too.
It died with Romeo and Juliet IX,
The destruction of classics, line by line,
When suicide poems became par for the course,
When the world was sucked dry of all its remorse.
The surgeons could do nothing—they watched in despair
As dear old poetry breathed his last breath of air.
They took him away on a cold metal cart.
There goes, my friends, a once-beautiful art.
The doctors shrugged and said, “we tried.”
It died, alone, in a white-washed room
And was taken quietly to a cobwebbed tomb.
It died when people stopped rhyming
And lost all sense of meter and timing.
It died alongside dirty limericks and haiku.
All the clichés had been too much for them, too.
It died with Romeo and Juliet IX,
The destruction of classics, line by line,
When suicide poems became par for the course,
When the world was sucked dry of all its remorse.
The surgeons could do nothing—they watched in despair
As dear old poetry breathed his last breath of air.
They took him away on a cold metal cart.
There goes, my friends, a once-beautiful art.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Agree/Disagree Part II
Agree or Disagree: Political leaders usually act in the best interest of their country.
I disagree. Following the Democratic primaries, I've realized that the candidates are more interested in votes than anything else. It makes sense, but it would nice if they could utter just one word not directed at one demographic or another. Take the buildup to Pennsylvania. I hadn't heard a single mention about NAFTA until the candidates realized just how much the everyday Pennsylvanian hated it.
And Congress, well. The bullshit they've pulled in recent years is astounding. The scandals, the pork barrel clauses, Jack Abramoff. I just can't imagine them putting this country over their own personal interests. Even when they do start investigating stuff, pushing for important bills, it seems to coincide with elections.
Your thoughts?
I disagree. Following the Democratic primaries, I've realized that the candidates are more interested in votes than anything else. It makes sense, but it would nice if they could utter just one word not directed at one demographic or another. Take the buildup to Pennsylvania. I hadn't heard a single mention about NAFTA until the candidates realized just how much the everyday Pennsylvanian hated it.
And Congress, well. The bullshit they've pulled in recent years is astounding. The scandals, the pork barrel clauses, Jack Abramoff. I just can't imagine them putting this country over their own personal interests. Even when they do start investigating stuff, pushing for important bills, it seems to coincide with elections.
Your thoughts?
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Agree/Disagree
Had a little debate in English class today. A questionnaire was passed out with a great deal of deep questions. We had a long conversation about the first and weren't able to get past two. But these are my opinions on the statements with which we had to agree/disagree with.
Agree or disagree: It is never right to kill another person.
Several heartfelt, well thought-out arguments were made in favor of "agree", but I mantain that there are certain exceptions to the rule. Yes, no one should have the right to be judge, jury and executioner, but the term 'never' is a definite and there are certain situations that warrant killing. Situation A: A man just opened fire on a crowd of civilians. Does a policeman have the right to take out the shooter to save innocent lives? Absolutely. That should be a no brainer.
Situation B: Hitler. If somebody could have killed him before he enacted the Final Solution, would they have been in the right? I know that I would have killed him if I had the chance. There are certain things that can never be forgiven, and the deaths of 11 (or was it 12?) million innocents is one of those things. If he hadn't commited suicide, I gladly would have put a hole through his head.
This actually got a lot of people involved, so please, comment. We're debating more tomorrow, so I'll write about the other 9 statements when that's done.
Agree or disagree: It is never right to kill another person.
Several heartfelt, well thought-out arguments were made in favor of "agree", but I mantain that there are certain exceptions to the rule. Yes, no one should have the right to be judge, jury and executioner, but the term 'never' is a definite and there are certain situations that warrant killing. Situation A: A man just opened fire on a crowd of civilians. Does a policeman have the right to take out the shooter to save innocent lives? Absolutely. That should be a no brainer.
Situation B: Hitler. If somebody could have killed him before he enacted the Final Solution, would they have been in the right? I know that I would have killed him if I had the chance. There are certain things that can never be forgiven, and the deaths of 11 (or was it 12?) million innocents is one of those things. If he hadn't commited suicide, I gladly would have put a hole through his head.
This actually got a lot of people involved, so please, comment. We're debating more tomorrow, so I'll write about the other 9 statements when that's done.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Cochlear implants?
Cochlear implants (I don't know if I spelled that right) is kind of a hot topic right now, with that tv-movie "Sweet Nothings in My Ear" airing tonight. I just want to put in my two cents.
It's my beleif that refusing your child the implants is practically a crime. I don't think that a deaf person has quite the same oppurtunities as those who can hear. It's as simple as people just not being able to speak or understand sign language. But our culture, just as it's a visual culture, is also based a great deal around hearing, a statement proven simply by the gigantic wave one singer, no matter how bad, can create. I don't mean to insult the deaf, but I do beleive deafness is a disability.
I'm not a parent, and I doubt I will be any time soon. But from what I've heard, as a parent you want to give your child every oppurtunity they can get. You want to put them in the right school, with the right teacher, with the right children. You want them to be sucessful, partly out of love and partly because they're going to be paying the nursing home bills when you hit 85. Aren't cochlear implants a way to further their oppurtunities, further their lives? Again, this is probably is insulting to the deaf, but there is so much sound out there, it would be a crime to refuse your child the ability to hear it. Sometimes, it seems to be a matter of pride, and I think a parent should be able to overcome that pride for the sake of their children.
It's my beleif that refusing your child the implants is practically a crime. I don't think that a deaf person has quite the same oppurtunities as those who can hear. It's as simple as people just not being able to speak or understand sign language. But our culture, just as it's a visual culture, is also based a great deal around hearing, a statement proven simply by the gigantic wave one singer, no matter how bad, can create. I don't mean to insult the deaf, but I do beleive deafness is a disability.
I'm not a parent, and I doubt I will be any time soon. But from what I've heard, as a parent you want to give your child every oppurtunity they can get. You want to put them in the right school, with the right teacher, with the right children. You want them to be sucessful, partly out of love and partly because they're going to be paying the nursing home bills when you hit 85. Aren't cochlear implants a way to further their oppurtunities, further their lives? Again, this is probably is insulting to the deaf, but there is so much sound out there, it would be a crime to refuse your child the ability to hear it. Sometimes, it seems to be a matter of pride, and I think a parent should be able to overcome that pride for the sake of their children.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Volunteering
We have to do four essays for English class, two written during the midterm exam, and two during the finals. For some odd reason, we write essays 1 and 3 during the midterm and 2 and 4 during the final. Which makes no sense, because suddenly all the accompanying multiple choice questions and such are numbered oddly two. But that's not the point.
To prepare for essay 2, we're doing a practice version in class. What it includes is an article from the Oreganian and a graph, both dealing with volunteering. We have to write an essay as if we were writing for the school paper, trying to convince students to volunteer. What bugs me is that the article does not focus on helping other people. It doesn't talk about saving lives, feeding the hungry, educating the uneducated, and doing good in the world. Instead, it talks fervently about the national trend of more people volunteering. Which in itself isn't bad. The news that the number of 12-17 year old volunteers has grown to 59 percent is fantastic. What I find bad is that the news is used to persuade others to volunteer. It's an attempt to make people volunteer with the philosophy "everyone else is doing it". And no, I'm not paranoid. The article goes as far to say that "6 out of 10 teens said that volunteering was 'in'". That's right, 'in'. Like spring fashion or the newest electronics. It takes the do-gooding out of volunteering and replaces it with a popularity contest.
And the graph. Oh, the graph. It is entitled "benefits gained from teen volunteering." And no, it's not about feeding the homeless. Said benefits inlude "developing new career goals" and "doing better in school". The regents folks are focusing more on the personal gains from volunteering. I always thought it was supposed to be a selfless act. Which is why I'm insulted.
To prepare for essay 2, we're doing a practice version in class. What it includes is an article from the Oreganian and a graph, both dealing with volunteering. We have to write an essay as if we were writing for the school paper, trying to convince students to volunteer. What bugs me is that the article does not focus on helping other people. It doesn't talk about saving lives, feeding the hungry, educating the uneducated, and doing good in the world. Instead, it talks fervently about the national trend of more people volunteering. Which in itself isn't bad. The news that the number of 12-17 year old volunteers has grown to 59 percent is fantastic. What I find bad is that the news is used to persuade others to volunteer. It's an attempt to make people volunteer with the philosophy "everyone else is doing it". And no, I'm not paranoid. The article goes as far to say that "6 out of 10 teens said that volunteering was 'in'". That's right, 'in'. Like spring fashion or the newest electronics. It takes the do-gooding out of volunteering and replaces it with a popularity contest.
And the graph. Oh, the graph. It is entitled "benefits gained from teen volunteering." And no, it's not about feeding the homeless. Said benefits inlude "developing new career goals" and "doing better in school". The regents folks are focusing more on the personal gains from volunteering. I always thought it was supposed to be a selfless act. Which is why I'm insulted.
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
Electoral Politics.
A) Do you really think the system is fair? All I have to say is: ELECTORAL COLLEGE. Yes, in the past, the college has always voted how the people they represent voted. However, they actually have no obligation to vote with the majority. The Electoral College could vote any way they like, any time. And just because they haven't yet doesn't mean they won't.
B) Should people younger than 18 vote? Absolutely not. The bottom line is that when you turn 18, when you become an adult, many people leave home and become independent. Right now, simply because I don't manage my own healthcare and taxes and have never taken out a loan, I don't have a full grasp of the issues that 18 year-olds and olders would. I don't know what plan I'm on, how much it covers, and how much it costs. Healthcare is a vastly important issue, but I just don't know anything about it.
C) If Obama is president, is there no longer racism in our country? If Hillary is president, will sexism be gone as well? No. That would only be true if they were unanimously voted into office. Just because Bush is president doesn't mean we're all Republican. If Obama becomes president, you know what? The KKK won't just change their minds and start holding hands with people of all colors, singing "we shall overcome".
B) Should people younger than 18 vote? Absolutely not. The bottom line is that when you turn 18, when you become an adult, many people leave home and become independent. Right now, simply because I don't manage my own healthcare and taxes and have never taken out a loan, I don't have a full grasp of the issues that 18 year-olds and olders would. I don't know what plan I'm on, how much it covers, and how much it costs. Healthcare is a vastly important issue, but I just don't know anything about it.
C) If Obama is president, is there no longer racism in our country? If Hillary is president, will sexism be gone as well? No. That would only be true if they were unanimously voted into office. Just because Bush is president doesn't mean we're all Republican. If Obama becomes president, you know what? The KKK won't just change their minds and start holding hands with people of all colors, singing "we shall overcome".
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Beijing Olympics
The Beijing Olympics are approaching, with all the fireworks and medals you would expect. But it's safe to say that China doesn't have the best human rights record. It's actively supporting the Sudanese government, which is in turn supporting Janjaweed militants in Darfur. At the same time, Tibetan protests marking the 49th anniversary of the uprising against China's invasion in the region turned violent, with anywhere from 22 to 100 dead.
And what are people saying? Boycott!
Boycotting the Olympics, though it might send a strong message to the Chinese government, is the wrong approach. It's my belief that the Olympics should transcend politics. Our athletes are not a representation of our government. The Olympics are about competition, proving that you are in fact the best of the best. Many people train their whole lives to compete at the Olympics, and a boycott might ruin their small window of opportunity.
It seems callous to put their success over human lives in Tibet and Darfur, but you have to realize that an American boycott would be more symbolic then anything else.
Yes, Beijing and the surrounding area has received a huge economic boost from the construction and maintenance of various Olympic venues. I'm not sure whether the Chinese government would really care if all those workers lost their jobs.
Besides, it's naïve to assume that Americans not going to the Olympics would stop the whole thing cold. There were 11,100 athletes at the 2004 Sydney games representing 202 countries. A boycott, even if other countries joined in, would put a dent in the games but wouldn't bring them to a close. It would just crush a lot of dreams.
What boycotts end up being is a waste of time. If the U.S. government really wanted to do something, which I don't think it does, it would impose sanctions. They have enough reason. We've blockaded Cuba because they're a Communist nation, and they're not funding genocide. And half the products coming from China are contaminated in one way or another.
I'm not suggesting that we impose sanctions — Wal-Mart would be run out of business. I'm just saying, before you go around feeling all righteous and shouting "Boycott!", think it through.
And what are people saying? Boycott!
Boycotting the Olympics, though it might send a strong message to the Chinese government, is the wrong approach. It's my belief that the Olympics should transcend politics. Our athletes are not a representation of our government. The Olympics are about competition, proving that you are in fact the best of the best. Many people train their whole lives to compete at the Olympics, and a boycott might ruin their small window of opportunity.
It seems callous to put their success over human lives in Tibet and Darfur, but you have to realize that an American boycott would be more symbolic then anything else.
Yes, Beijing and the surrounding area has received a huge economic boost from the construction and maintenance of various Olympic venues. I'm not sure whether the Chinese government would really care if all those workers lost their jobs.
Besides, it's naïve to assume that Americans not going to the Olympics would stop the whole thing cold. There were 11,100 athletes at the 2004 Sydney games representing 202 countries. A boycott, even if other countries joined in, would put a dent in the games but wouldn't bring them to a close. It would just crush a lot of dreams.
What boycotts end up being is a waste of time. If the U.S. government really wanted to do something, which I don't think it does, it would impose sanctions. They have enough reason. We've blockaded Cuba because they're a Communist nation, and they're not funding genocide. And half the products coming from China are contaminated in one way or another.
I'm not suggesting that we impose sanctions — Wal-Mart would be run out of business. I'm just saying, before you go around feeling all righteous and shouting "Boycott!", think it through.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
When no one could listen
I once woke up with a rough throat. I had no idea why. I was in 5th grade, so I hadn't exactly been partying the previous night. I went through my morning routine, oblivious to my impending fate, complaining unconditionally to my mother and trying to get out of school. But as I stepped out the door, something happened. I turned to Ari, a 3rd grader I walked to school with, to comment on the weather and such--it was a cold, March morning--and suddenly found that I could not talk. I was mute.
It was odd. My throat didn't even hurt. I would just try to form words and nothing would come out. It was actually a quite interesting experience. I looked around and saw the world in a new light. The budding trees seemed more intricate, each twig magnified by my new perspective. I could hear the wind at several different levels, like a symphony that twisted through the air, an unstoppable force. Even the sun, harsh and unforgiving moments before, was suddenly a bright orb that drew my curiosity, a beacon of hope in the grey sky.
And then I tried to speak, silently repeating several curse words I had recently learned. The taboo broke and my voice cut through the air once more. "Holy F*ck!"
Ari turned to me.
It was odd. My throat didn't even hurt. I would just try to form words and nothing would come out. It was actually a quite interesting experience. I looked around and saw the world in a new light. The budding trees seemed more intricate, each twig magnified by my new perspective. I could hear the wind at several different levels, like a symphony that twisted through the air, an unstoppable force. Even the sun, harsh and unforgiving moments before, was suddenly a bright orb that drew my curiosity, a beacon of hope in the grey sky.
And then I tried to speak, silently repeating several curse words I had recently learned. The taboo broke and my voice cut through the air once more. "Holy F*ck!"
Ari turned to me.
Monday, March 17, 2008
First post
Hello, dedicated student teacher! This is my first blog and I'm really reveling in the freedom of it all...Bold writing...Italic writing...even different fonts. The question now is what I should write about. Politics is always nice, but you have to keep in mind I get more news from Jon Stewart than CNN. And teen agnst is out of the question. I may be a creative writing major, but my life doesn't suck all that much.
So let me start with the basics. My name is Daniel Hopkins. I'm a freshman, I play piano, and I have a bit of experience with this kind of thing because I'm part of the Democrat and Chronicle's Teen Council and we're asked to surf their website, commenting on different stories and blogs.
I feel that I'm opinionated on some topics. In fact, I rather enjoy a good argument, especially when I'm winning.
So let me start with the basics. My name is Daniel Hopkins. I'm a freshman, I play piano, and I have a bit of experience with this kind of thing because I'm part of the Democrat and Chronicle's Teen Council and we're asked to surf their website, commenting on different stories and blogs.
I feel that I'm opinionated on some topics. In fact, I rather enjoy a good argument, especially when I'm winning.
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