Weekly Blog #4

 “Strength is the capacity to break a chocolate bar into four pieces with your bare hands - and then eat just one of the pieces.” ~ Judith Viorst

Boy, do I struggle with this!  To those who know me, and not necessarily know me well, are aware of the fact that chocolate has its own special food group in my heart.  Normally, I am not what people call a “foodie.”  I eat food as a necessity and sometimes to waste time.  However, chocolate is the exception.  Milk chocolate is the king of this castle; while dark chocolate, chocolate with caramel, chocolate with raspberry, chocolate with peanut butter, chocolate with almonds, and yes, even white chocolate are merely knights of square chocolate bar table.  Nothing could possibly be more satisfying to my taste buds.  My mouth as well as my brain feel a sigh of relief and I am instantly calmed.  A sinking feeling in my shoulders.  A smile even viewable in my eyes.  The perfect fix after a long day, a bad day, a rainy day, what have you.  As my mother has always told me, “chocolate is never wrong.”  Out of every single piece of advice that I have ever been given, this one is foolproof.  Hence, my default present to give someone on a holiday: chocolate.  But, for obvious health and nutritional reasons, I try to cut back on my chocolate intake.  And, being one of those people who is not easily swayed by other’s opinions, I could care less what people think of my chocolate consumption.  Yet, I have become ever so embarrassed and “guilty” about my love for chocolate after reading an article that claimed that the majority of people who “crave” and eat a lot of chocolate are trying to replace or emulate feelings of being in love and to its extreme, desire sex.  Uh oh.  So now I can’t just eat chocolate without the rest of society thinking I’m a horny weirdo?  Why can’t I just love chocolate like other people love water and not be ridiculed? Just out of spite, I’ll go eat a piece of Dove chocolate.  Mmm…like Bali Ha’i, anyone else hear it calling?

Weekly Blog #3

Pawn Stars Episode Summary

Images flash across the screen.  The arid desert, flashing neon signs, monstrous cement overpasses, conventional green highway signs, endless Chevy logos, knives being sorted, jewelry being cleaned, crisp, green cash being counted.  These are the typical daily sights of a Las Vegas pawnshop. 

An older man emerges with a rusty, cream gas pump from the 1930’s.  Seeming to have been “beat to hell” would be an understatement.  The tall, lean structure resembles more of a telephone booth then a gas pump and even looks better suited for a space expedition than an earthly duty.  Its faded “Wayne Gas Company” logo, red lettering, and dials seem to speak with a tired sigh as the pump listens to itself being ridiculed for appearing to have come from the “bottom of the ocean.”  Reeds of grass and hay protrude through the pump’s door; apparently this pump has a live-in resident.  “Yep, the 1930’s were the good old days” the gas pump says, “when gas was $0.32/gallon.” The pump’s sorry condition is sold to Rick’s shop for $100.

The famous “Strip,” retired football jerseys, and gold records flash across the screen.

A 1930’s slot machine is placed on the glass display case counter.  Is this episode secretly themed?  While being shorter than expected to the famous cash register style of this era, its sound condition is readily seen.  Jokes are even made that if the item is bought, Rick should also receive the old nickels that are still inside the slot machine.  Its dingy, dirty, bronze exterior is the sign of a well-loved item.  Or, the cleanliness and habits of bar-goers from back in the day.  Smells of beer, hard liquor, and vomit permeate through the computer screen.  Surprisingly, the slot machine indicates that if you spin the jackpot, mints will be dispensed.  Rick and the Old Man explain that this was a way to overcome gambling restrictions because the bartender would then slip the winnings under the counter, along with the mints.  Where is the man in the penguin suite to hand over the winnings? The dials are in pristine condition.  The glossiness of the oranges, bananas, and cherries, along with their bright colors, resemble to menus from Mary Poppins.  Its owner wants $2000.  Too high for the stingy Rick. An offer for $800 is made.  After an awkward, tense silence, the decision is made to pawn the slot machine for $500. 

Corey, “Big Hoss,” shouts across the store holding a small, lime green cup.  He doesn’t know what the item is.  Uh oh.  How unprofessional.  Red-faced Rick fires back.  It’s Faberge crystal, lead based, but still safe.  Yikes. Corey instructs the potential buyer not to drink out of it.  Ouch, not good for a sale!  Rick, as cliché as ever, lays down the law; he will quiz the arrogant Corey on random items in the store.  If he fails, he works the graveyard shift.  If he wins, he gets $2500.  Um, wow.  Who wouldn’t like to be talking about $2500 like its $10?!  The Old Man is the official judge and the shop’s “village idiot,” Chumlee, looks on.  A box of glasses sits on the table.  Their bright, vivid colors and bubble designs are something right out of a cartoon.  A small Russian sword with black and gold scroll etching.  A French Boxing fighting belt with red and gold lettering and etching that resemble the smoke trails of onlookers from the 1940’s.  What appears to be one of the first bobble-head dolls from Japan; but its blue eyes reveal an entirely different past and probably the ever-apparent inner workings of discrimination.  Corey fails the quiz.  And, as monotonic as ever, the Old Man instructs Corey that Rick will have to accompany him at the graveyard shift since the idea of the quiz and their “bitching and moaning” is ridiculous. I wonder how much the producers coyly script part of this show.

Three bayonets from World War II are brought in by a returning customer.  Their archaic stamping and worn blades as well as the “tree-saw” teeth on one of the knives an another’s upward-pointing blade, make your organs want to run for cover.  Supposedly these weapons were used in the famous Battle of the Bulge.  Oh the blood that these knives must have seen.  $1500 is the price the gentleman wants.  Rick, as usual is skeptical.  One of his many “experts” is brought in.  After careful examining, the blades are all authentic and not made my some random dude in a garage.  However, they are not uncommon souvenirs from Germany.  $300 is offered because the looming “profitability” Gods decide all.  The seller decides to keep the knives for his grandchildren.  “Huh?” comes to mind. 

Oh well, as they say, “all’s well that ends well.”

Weekly Blog #2

I open my laptop, press the “on” button and am greeted but the signature sound that Apple computers make when awoken and ready to begin their duties.  It’s a cheery sound, I’m guessing it sounds this way to make me excited about using my computer, but this time I am less than thrilled about doing work.  Writing a blog is supposed to be therapeutic and pleasurable, right?  Isn’t that why millions of people have blogs?  However, I’m just not one of those people who are fascinated by the act of writing a blog.  Call my “old fashioned”, but I feel it is vital for the world of communication, as well as humanity, to be able to relay one’s feelings verbally.  Oh well, no matter how I slice and dice it, the blog must be completed.

I open a Word Document.  The cursor blinks over a very white and very blank page.  The blinking is faster than my thoughts are being created and even faster than my rhythmic breathing.  Annoyance has already ensued.  Pressure is mounting.  Tension is building in every muscle in my body.  Desperation.  I stare at the screen, almost begging it to help me painlessly finish the assignment.  If I were Samantha from Bewitched, I would simply wrinkle my nose and be done lickity split!  But instead, I only see a glossy screen and my agitated reflection. 

I look away, out the window.  Bright, golden sunlight is streaming in my window through an abundance of trees and plants.  I dwell upon the fact that I am lucky to have a view out of my dorm room window that is more akin to a jungle than a concrete wall or parking lot.  My gaze wanders back into my room.  I try to refocus and finally begin to fill the Word Document with the beginnings of my blog.  A few sentences down, many to go.  I need to regroup my thoughts.  I glance at the pile of dirty clothes on the floor.  I am then met by my stack of dirty dishes that need to be washed, and then to my bookshelf with all of the books I don’t have time to read. Feeling the stress and tension reenter by body, I look up at the ceiling and close my eyes.

I can feel that my mind know where my blog needs to go next, it’s just a matter of finding the right words.  Trying to quiet and clear my mind, a song enters my head and God knows I would rather listen to my music than do anything else in the world.  I shake my head, hoping the song lyrics will fall out of my ears.  Someone is loudly walking up with stairs.  A few people are opening and closing their doors.  Another is listening to music in their room.  Do these people not have work to do?  It is only me who has a daunting task to complete?  I turn my head away from the door to shut them out.  Birds are chirping in the jungle and I can hear the cars driving on the other side of the jungle.  I decide that I will reward myself my listening to the song previously stuck in my head if I finish the blog. 

Time passes and words fill the page, but to me time seems to have stood still.  I guess I got more wrapped up into writing my blog than I thought.  Though smiling and feeling accomplished, I try to tell myself that this satisfaction comes from completing a task rather than actually enjoying writing my blog.  Because after all, how could I ever conform and end up liking writing a blog when just a half and hour ago it seemed like the Devil?

Weekly Blog #1

“Writing is the hardest work in the world. I have been a bricklayer and a truck driver, and I tell you – as if you haven't been told a million times already – that writing is harder.  Lonelier. And nobler and more enriching.” ~ Harlan Ellison

 

A show of cyber-hands, anyone agree? For me, writing is often a very precarious and grueling activity.  Yet, nothing feels better and is more rewarding (except for maybe a Firecracker Popsicle on a hot, humid summer’s day or winning the World Series) than finishing a piece of writing and being genuinely proud of your work.  It’s as if your brain is congratulating its other regions and saying, “Kudos, Creativity, a job well done!” But, to feel ample contentment, as Ellison states, writing must come from a lonely place.  Complete silence.  Dead silence.  To the point that if you just strain your hearing, conversations from the underworld and alternate universes can be heard.  With that being said, minimal distractions are also a key ingredient; no feelings of “shiny object alert” accepted!  Sadly, I must be forced to write in order to write.  Somewhere in my schooling, writing became a chore and not a creative outlet.  Also, as is a common excuse, life got in the way and writing never made its way onto my “high priority” list.  So, it got pushed to the depths and crevices of my mental tool belt.  Therefore, my writing spurts come when teachers make me (and in the U.P. that’s not very often because apparently Yoopers value hunting and fishing over their communication skills).  So, I often resort to the same procedure each and every time I write.  To quote the lovely Maria from The Sound of Music, “Let’s start at the very beginning./ A very good place to start.” I always start a paper with my introduction.  However, depending on the topic, I sometimes have to start with my thesis and work my way backwards to the beginning to the introduction, instead of just starting from the beginning of the introduction and working my way to the thesis.  The same goes for my conclusion.  I occasionally need to start with the last sentence and work up the paragraph.   And, like a good cup of coffee, I let my writing percolate before I revise.  I often find that as the words age, they become more in sync with one another and feel more “enriching.”  So, that leaves us with this: a parting thought (and a word from our sponsors) that has come to me while writing this as I self-reflect on this journey called writing:

“99% of the game is half mental.” ~ Yogi Berra