Blog Post #20

A) How do I feel about this course as a learning experience?

I'm going to answer that in paragraph form. I'm not sure my writing has changed all that much in the last few years of my life. In fact I just found a paper I wrote about the existence of God, and how it a higher power must exist necessarily if anything exists. It was a two pager skimming my beliefs that if anything exists everything must exist. It didn't cite anyone, or refer to anyone, or use too many four syllable words. But on the whole I wouldn't have changed much.

I wrote this paper in seventh grade.

Before you ask, it was in a philosophy class, and I went to Montessori school. It was probably the best class I've ever taken. Though, in retrospect teaching a thirteen year old kid about Nietzsche was probably not the single best thing you can do if you want them to grow up loving and happy. But I digress.

The point is, I wrote pretty well, I'd like to think in seventh grade. I didn't really have too much need to improve throughout high school, and even in college I'd say that I wrote "a better paper" than some of the people in my classes (not all, and it's not like they weren't intelligent, but probably not as artful of wordsmiths). This class did make me take a look at myself and realize how much I've settled for what I am.

There are far more specific forms of writing than I had thought. Basically, I judged writing as overall form, and then by intent. Novel-romance, poem-concrete, article-science journal etc, etc. Added to that I’ve always more or less wrote how I talked, even so far as creating specific spellings for slang terms I'd use (such as "aight" or "whatch'yupta") In fact, except on very few chosen occasions, I use correct grammar, that is to say spelling, phrasing, and punctuation, (or at least intentionally and methodically incorrect grammar) in something as minute and inconsequentional as a text message.

Needing to describe something physically, with context but without reflection or narrative isn't easy for me, because when someone (I) speaks they speak from a first person perspective always. Their words almost always cannot be separated from the bodies saying (both physically and metaphorically). And saying something that's actively without author is hard. So too with writing a descriptive blog post.

I'm not sure if it's the last throws of a head cold or my mental state right now, but Thom Yorke's voice is shredding the innards of my head write now.

I think I've improved as a writer in that Joshua Ware has been by spirit guide (roll with me, it's a metaphor) and, in the wilderness of my literarily productive mind, led me to the top of a mountain. From the top of this mountain I now see all the places I haven't yet been.

O-O post #3

On the door to my room is a hanger, on that hanger is a couple of coats, some scarves, and a shirt that I wear when it's just a little bit nipply. One of those coats that has been my constant companion since midway through my senior year of highschool is black leather. it's fitted for a girl just bigger than my size, so the shoulders line up with mine, but it's just slimming enough to conform to my hourglass-esque male figure. It's missing a button, the the first of three going down the front. It's got little tears at the cuff and string coming out around the neck line, the signs of constant use. Also around the neck and down the front are little buttons, which for the longest time I had assumed were just extras in case the front buttons fell off. Sometime last spring I wore it into the coffee shop which I call home (if you've been keeping up with my blog, you'll know what I'm talking about). I ran into my friend Kate 'Isabel' Sliker. It was from her that I received the coat a year before on a coach bus traveling from nursing home to church to obscure suburban highschool on a choir tour in the Chicago Area. She had opted to ware a sweatshirt when lifting things to and from the bus at this particular stop and left her coat on the seat. Not wanting to dig out my own overly large winter garb on this bright spring morning, I did what any good upstanding Catholic school choir boy would do. Steal and wear some girls leather jacket (she later agreed to let me keep it as long as she could use my hat). She informed me in the coffee shop that the coat, which was far less sheen and feminine than when it had adorned her shoulders, had another piece to it. I had been walking around for the better part of a year with that coat, going to parties, being avoided in alleys, walking down the dark college town streets with cut off gloves (that are never far from the pockets) marking it with my soul, my scent, my city-boy pedestrian smokey coffeeshop essence beleiving it to be a mans coat she had picked up at a thrift store.

The coat, however was from hot topic, and had huge faux fur ruffles that went around the neck and armholes of bright, acidic red. it'll cost me another hat, she says, before I can sport that. Don't tell.

O-O post #2

There's a bicycle sitting in the sun room of my father's house. It's blue and white paint is slowly chipping off the poorly assembled body. I can say poorly assembled because I assembled it. My homeroom teacher, a portly man who lived in the suburbs far away from civillization, asked offhand if anyone wanted a bike. His wife, a similiarly shaped woman, had won it in a raffle the previous month, and it had been sitting in a box in their hallway ever since. Not expecting him to be serious, I said I was in desperate need of a bike.

Getting it out of the box wasn't the easiest task, it was haphazardly returned to it's packaging without much thought to order or correctness. it's bolts were shiny and new then. Everything about it screamed "just off the factory floor." It must have been cheap, the bolt in the seat, when tightened to the point of security snapped the metal supports. Now it's adorned with a "Diva Feather" gel seat, which my friends sister had lying around. The wheels loose thier air all too quickly, and the chain jumps if you don't shift just perfect. however the bike has always let itself be fixed, gotten to the gas station when it's tires are low, and carted it's rider to and from Pius XI High School.

The handlebars are bent slightly after a failed attempt to cross a creek when the shortcut I usually took home was full of busy machinery replacing the bridge. Everything seemed alright until I hit a rock and rolled down the hill. the bike was scratched and slightly off center after that, but took me home as it continued to do for the duration of highschool.

o-o post #1

I don't prize much in the way of material objects. I'd like to say it's because of my free spiritual nature, my detachment from the physical, my independence from the all mighty drive of capitalism: Getting Things. The truth is, however, that I break and lose things, especially important or expensive things. However there is one object which effects me and the course of my life in a very real and daily way. This object is my Rochambo coffee mug. It stands out in the cupboard or the dishwasher, blue and white with the pictures of what seem to be hip trendy kopeli men discussing something vital over a cup of java. Almost constant use has caused the picture to wear away revealing the solid white plastic that makes up the body of the cup. The word ROCHAMBO is illegible now, though anyone who knows what it means would recognize it instantly. It's the name of a coffee shop where all the hip kids hang out with the grizeled hippies. It's right around the corner from my house back in Milwaukee, and frequent gathering place of my friends, the caffiene addicted youth. However artsy and pretentious the coffee shop is, the Mug isn't much to look at. It's hard pastic, holding just over four and a half cups of liquid, with scratches and stains on the detachable lid. what it lacks in luster, it makes up for in dependability. it's been dropped off tops of buildings, thrown across fields, filled with boiling liquid, survived more than one time through dishwasher on the "EXTRA HEAT" setting, and kept me awake, at any and every hour of the day, through the worst of crisies and stresses, and through the sunniest of mornings.

I love my coffee cup. And I think, deep down, it loves me back.

Writting Project #2

This painting, like most of Doug Argue’s works, is untitled. There’s a reason for that. His works are a variation on a theme, different aspects of the same picture, and as such aren’t differentiated by a name. If one were to look at dougargue.com, find the gallery marked 1994-95 there would be dozens of pictures of chickens, sometimes alone, or like this painting, in groups. most of these paintings too have no title. Argue's chicken painting lack of title makes the observer focus on the appeals of the content, and draw your own conclusions as to the statement.
The first thing, that can't be accurately displayed here., that one notices about this painting is it’s sheer size. It’s twelve feet tall by eighteen feet high. As you walk into the Weisman Museum of Art in Minneapolis, Minnesota, the painting is positioned on a wall in such a way that it may be a doorway leading through a hall full of chickens. The chickens close to the edge of the painting are life sized, if not a bit bigger. Each individual feather is painted on in a different brush stroke, clearly visible. The attention to detail creates chickens that, while not having picture perfect realism, have a very real sense of life. This gives a logical appeal to the audience. It sets up that this is no mere splattering of paint, no cartoon sketch, but actual portrayls of living things. Doug Argue's chickens too, aren't your avereage paintings of chickens. They're not perfect and semetrical, but have growths bumbs, and uneven eyes. They are flawed, and because of thier flaws, they are unique. And as you look towards the center of the painting. The detail diminishes only slightly. Going towards the chickens in the far distance you see a myriad of tiny lines that make up tiny chickens. This could almost be compared to a pictorial statistic. Each chicken is a seperate entity, and as you look at the painting, you can count each individual entity. Compare that to the space in which all these entities are held and you have a logical idea of what these chickens lives are like.


The chickens go on forever, each one as real as the next. taking a step back, it hits you how many chickens are there in such a small place. Each living breathing being, given it’s own life and independent appearance by Argue is cramped together with so many other living breathing beings . The appeal to pathos is strong. It makes you pity that they are all crammed into such tiny cages. Disgusted at the hallway filled with filth being burnt by the heat that the endless ceiling fans suggest in no uncertain terms. You feel the heat, smell the excerment, taste the air, hear the tortured clucks and crows. Does this really happen? you think. Most people know of huge commerical poultry farms that exist, but rarely think about what it's like for the animals. Is this so far off from life you're McNugget had? But is this so different from your life, you think. The chickens are in tiny cages lined simetrically, with a street running between sets of cages. How different is your apartment builidng? How different is your dorm? On the street there is filth every where. take a walk down a busy avenue sometime, look at the side of the highway in a populated area. isn't there trash haphazardly thrown everywhere? you think of the sweltering heat these chickens are artificially foreced to live in. isn't the whole world getting a little hotter every day because of Global Warming? Take it a step further in a marxist vein, and aren't all of us working class people here to live complacently in our cages forced to produce until we're no longer able, then simply expected to die?

So, what is this painting about. Is it just a fun piece of art that plays with perspective? Is it an angry outcry for animal rights. Is it a not so subtle reminder of the former living conditions of your last trip to the drive thru window? Is it disgusted look at modern american life? Any title given to this painting would seem to suggest one of these over the other. It would try and contain the essence, direct the audience, summarize the action. This painting, however, remains untitled. And because it's untitled, we are left in a never ending analysis, searching for meaning though knowing we'll never know for sure.

Writting Project #2

How scary is that. I don't know about you, but I don't like war. I don't think it helps anybody. I'd almost forgotten that we're in a war right now. Did you know that? We, as a country, the Good ol' U. S. of A. are currently in a war in Iraq, a country that a sizable United States military force is currently occupying. They don't like to talk about it in the news, they don't even talk about it all that much on the campaign trail. But we're in a war. Right now.

I was in my sociology class the other day, we were talking about, I believe, the resocialization of people who join the marines. This topic meandered onto the need for certain social norms when you're in the military (i.e. the ability for a soldier to kill if in a combat situation, something that most people wouldn't be automatically ok with without military training, lets hope). the point was brought up by someone I know to be a very nice good individual that these skills are in fact needed in a just war since Iraq attacked us first.

"When did Iraq attack us?" I asked her, and she said without the least doubt in her voice
"September 11th".

This scared me a little. I hope everyone who reads this is aware that the nation of Iraq did not attack the United States on September 11th. Nor have they attacked United States soil. Iraq, and it's governing figures (primarily Sadam Hussein) did not actively fund or aide in the planning or execution of the terrorist attacks of Sept. 11th, 2001. Osama Bin Laden has publically, along with other members of the Al Queada organization, taken credit for the afore mentioned terrorist attacks. Osama Bin Laden, by the way, has not been apprehended nor brought to any justice for that attack, or any other of the terrorist activities to which he openly takes credit for.

It's scares me that the people could be led so astray as to forget what were very well known facts. Whether your republican or democrat, Support the military actions taken in the past eight years or not, please stay informed as to what you're doing. I say that because everyone of you pays taxes (or has taxes paid for you), everyone of you lives and breathes and participates in U.S. life. And as such every one of you (and me) is involved in a war right now.

And people are dying.

The Ethos of Biden

Sen. Biden tries to establish his Ethos as most of his campaign has gone, be examining the ethos of Sen. McCain. Both candidates fail to answer the question for more than a few seconds. The question asked was about their own campaign promises, specifically ones they can't keep. Biden addresses this in 0:16-0:24 only (being 8 seconds longer than Gov. Palin's initial response spent on the question). The rest of his response talks about what his opponents are going to do, as if to establish that he, by not doing any of this, has the nations best interest in mind.

Presidential Debate--TO YOUR FACE

WP#1 Hey Mr. Driver Man, Don't Be Slow

It was a sunny Saturday afternoon at the bus stop. The kind of afternoon that made you regrets getting on a bus. The green grass and blue sky had all the vivid color of a six year old's rendition of a landscape using a Crayola eight pack. As I sat there listening to all the cars roll by on the surprisingly busy street I noticed a common theme. Everyone was in Red. It was game day in Lincoln, Nebraska. Most people just had red accents to their clothes, some had full blown costumes as they sat at a stoplight with their red clown wigs and face paint, others strolled down the street with their red beads shinning and their Cornhusker t-shirts identical to the one tightly stuffed onto their dog. When the bus finally arrived it was not the packed crowd I thought it would be. There were a couple of young looking guys wearing husker apparel sitting close to the driver, a woman who looked like she was well into her sixties wearing a red blouse sitting opposite of the guys, and an older Hispanic woman with her daughter who was no more than eight.

These people seem to be the only ones aware of the terrible traffic and complete lack of parking spaces that would befall any who chose to drive downtown to watch the football game whether at a bar, restaurant, or the Stadium itself. “Don’t go downtown on Saturdays. Just don’t do it” had been uttered to me hundreds of times it seemed since my arrival in Lincoln a little more than a year ago. Not only that, but I’d been told by teachers in classes, not to drive down to the game, “take a bus, it’ll save you money, it’ll save you time finding a parking spot, and it’ll save the environment!” This seemed like sound advice to me. And as such I expected there to be a crowd huddling together in the aisles waiting until they got as close as they could to their final football watching destination.

But the bus was all but empty. The plastic seats covered in upholstery that seemed to be taken from the carpeting from a great many elevators were largely unoccupied. I looked from the back of the bus where I was sitting at the graffiti the decorated the bus windows. Little more than scratches hardly visible unless you were sitting at the window seats initials were carved into the plastic covering of the windows. Some symbols which only a college-oriented eye would immediately recognize as Greek letters for what was probably a frat (though, it could have been a sorority, it is the twenty first century). A couple of the etchings were grammatically incorrect declarations of how much “ass” the cornhuskers “stomp”. They reminded me of the universality of public transit vandalism. Back home in Milwaukee I never had a car, and if I couldn’t bike or bum a ride, the Milwaukee County Transit System was a frequent hangout of mine. They were littered with marks from keys, razor blades, and permanent markers proclaiming things largely unintelligible, making the back windows all but opaque. When I moved to Chicago this summer The Elevated Trains (More concisely referred to as Ls) were covered in graffiti, stickers, posters illegally taped, and all manner of other lasting impressions left by those who had commuted. The bus I was riding on today, while it did have some of the aforementioned familiarities, seemed like it would be in the “Gently Used” sections in the metaphorical Bus System Bazaar.

The people on the bus seemed familiar as well. The guys, talking quietly about college football and people they knew having varying relations with each other, seemed well practiced at taking the bus to the game. The slight slur in their speech patterns told me they had already engaged in a pregame ritual of downing large amounts of cheap alcohol before having to buy beer at the stadium or bar where they’d watch the seemingly all consuming game. The old woman on the other hand hadn’t the faintest hint of the Husker fanaticism that permeated the streets save the crimson blouse covered by a white knit shawl. She sat hardly moving straight ahead out the front window. There was a cold focus on the slightly inebriated boys sitting next to her was vaguely apparent to me sitting as far back as I was. She made no more than two glances at them which were short and out of the corner of her eye, barely moving her head. The Hispanic woman was sitting similarly to the old lady, but instead of watching the boys, when not looking out the front, she directed her attention at her daughter. Young, wild haired, and wearing a pink Dora the Explorer shirt with a little brown stain on the sleeve, the girl stared out the window to her side watching intently as the world flew by her. Speaking in Spanish, a language in which I claim no fluency, the girl seemed to ask her mother all sorts of questions. Her mother responded with short answers that only briefly satisfied the girl until she could think of something else to say. All the while the mother affectionately stroked the girls back, who was frequently standing on the seat with her face pressed to the largely unscratched plastic windows. They too seemed utterly unaware of the husker game that was the majority of the culture on Saturday afternoons.

I watched as the people, one by one got off as we approached downtown, all with that look of direction. Some more stressed with the crowd they were stepping into, others reveling in it. Living on campus means that I don’t have to leave often. If I want food, there’s the rot, if I want coffee, there’s a coffee shop right across the street, all my friends in town live close enough that a ten-minute walk will bring me to their door. It was nice to see a different world, a different culture that reminded me so much of the way my life was pre-college, and, hopefully, would be where ever I go.

Have you seen Children of Eden?

In the beginning (of the bible) there is a book called Genesis.

Some people think it's litterel truth, this is called Young Earth Creationism. This philosophy says that the world is only thousands of years old and created in seven days exactly as the book of Genesis.

Some people believe, however, that it's an allegory. It's a story to convey a bigger point. That it isn't historical but delves deeper into what it means to be human. In this sense it isn't too far from Plato's writings about Socrates' dialogues. Stephen Schwartz is apparently one of those people.

Children of Eden is the story of the first book of Moses, commonly referred to as Genesis. It musically portrays the story of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden, their exile, and the story of thier family in the wasteland. It then jumps to Noah near the completeion of the Arc and ends in The Family seeing land.

It isn't a word for word recount of the biblical story, but a reinvigouration of a story that helps us look back and examine ourselves. It depicts, oddly enough, God as the main antagonist. God wants to keep his children safe and happy. However safe and happy means no choice. It subtly asks what the definition of Good is if there is no bad? The garden, to Schwartz, is a world where Lao Tzu wouldn't have made any sense. But a post apple Adam and Eve are exiled to a wasteland but able to recognize the beauty of what little they have. Cain, the first son of humankind, grapples with a question that haunts us even today: Should I live for myself or for God. Adam is steadfast that his family needs redemption from God. Abel believes he should follow his father, and Cain beleives that a God that doesn't tell you what to do shouldn't be obeyed and decides to strive for truth and fight anything in his way.

As Adam, Eve, Cain, and Abel fight with the basic and universal questions about thier relationship with God, the second act dealing with Noah and his family deal with issues of a life without God. God has condemend the world, and a group of people (the decandants of Cain) who have done nothing wrong, and all the animals who can't find a mate (namely the unicorn). Noah wants to be a good son and follow his father as Abel and Adam before him. He also is confronted by his own responsibility as a father. That as God is responsible for him, Noah is responsible for his sons. Noah realizes that the hardest part of loving is letting go. This is a universal theme not realized by ANY of the characters especially the all knowing Father (God) until his frail and mortal son decides to live for himself and his own. This is a universality of the Musical that makes it as important if not more important to a non-religiocentric audience. If you're looking for a feel good sunday school pagent, look elsewhere. But if you're looking for an emotional, universal story of family, from the beginning of families, this is your cup of tea.

Content and Form, Music and Video

The form of the video, in my mind, begins as an admittance of it's being. That is a wordy way of saying it knows it's a music video, nothing more spectacular than that. As it begins it's about the music (as most good music videos should be [unless it's a radiohead video, because those are almost always great and don't make any sense at all, much less as a vehicle for the music])

This is the trailer for Dr. Horrible Sing-Along Blog. It's a movie in three parts made by Joss Whedon. Joss Whedon, if you don't know who that is (lord have mercy on your soul), he's the visionary behind Buffy the Vampire Slayer, it's spinoff series Angel, and Firefly. Look him up. This movie is about a man named Billy (Neil Patrick Harris, TV's Barney Stinson, formarlly TV's Doogie Howser, MD) who's alter ego, Dr. Horrible, is a small time super villain trying to make his way into the Evil League of Evil. Mean while the girl of his dreams,Penny, (Felicia Day) an activist with a heart of gold, begins to date cheesey, shallow Captian Hammer (Nathon Fillion), a super strong defender of the city who also happens to be Dr. Horrible's nemisis. Oh, and did I mention it's a musical?

The unique thing about this movie is that it was made without the help or support of any big name studio. In fact, it's made mostly by friends and family of Whedon himself. And, as a kicker was shown free, on the internet for a long time (now it's just four dollars for the whole movie on itunes). it was conceiverd as a means to break free from the dictation of the Big Time movie studios and deep pocket producers and let go into the creative genre of "why not". In fact this was one of the only things in production during the long entertainment drought known as the Writer's Strike. The point was to view this medium as art, not product. And even when there's probably not going to be any money in it, doing art is rewarding. To quote Mr. Whedon on his own Master Plan:
"The idea was to make it on the fly, on the cheap – but to make it. To turn out a really thrilling, professionalish piece of entertainment specifically for the internet. To show how much could be done with very little. To show the world there is another way. To give the public (and in particular you guys) something for all your support and patience. And to make a lot of silly jokes. Actually, that sentence probably should have come first. "

If you have four dollars, I strongly suggest you buy this movie. It's a good cause. and it's a Damn good movie.

Ladies and Gentlemen of the Class of '99...

This is Chris Rock's No Sex (in the Champagne Room). This is parody. It is a genre of comedy that means something to me. Straight forward comedy (knock knock jokes and the like) are meant to entertain, purely and simply. The illicit a gut reaction. Hopefully. Satire is trying to sell you something. Satire takes some ideal, some establishment, some cultural norm, or some icon and casts a distinctly different light on it in order to reduce the awe it's given. It's usually political.* There's a place for satire, but it isn't pure comedy.

Parody, by it's very existence, is a joke. This video, is a joke. One big joke, with lots of other little jokes inside, like those South American fish whose babies hide in thier mouths. ** You know what I'm talking about? A failed metaphor is immaterial to the point of the post, which is, parody is good. It seems liek the laziest form of funny there is. I mean, the intent is to copy someone elses form. Watch Everybody's Free (to wear sunscreen)*** and you'll understand what I mean. Watch any Mel Brooks movie, and you'll get a better idea.

parody is that special kind of humor whose worth is based on it's attention to detail, it's mimicing of the orinal work, and it's ability to make every last bit funny. That's a lot of work. Thank you, all ye parody artists, thank you for taking the time to make those well read cultured people understand jokes that the FOX watching simpletons can't comprehend.

And Finally, Cornbread: Ain' nothin wrong with that.

*This isn't satire, I was looking for good Jon Stewart or Stephan Colbert clips...but this is important, and if I get any of you to watch this I feel like life, as a whole, is better.

**This isn't the actual fish, it's a clip from When Harry Met Sally because I couldn't remember what the real fish was called.

***This video's right below this writing. Watch that, and you'll get the above. Also, you might learn something...about life

Blog Post #3

Everybody's Free (To wear Sunscreen)

This is one of my favorite videos, the kind of thing I listen to when I'm feeling down or what have you. It's a video made for the song "Everybody's Free (To Wear Sunscreen)" by Baz Luhrmann. Luhrmann (and his associates) mixed it from Rozalla's song "Everybody's Free (To Feel Good)" , featured on the sound track for William Shakespeare's Romeo + Juliet (directed by Luhrmann), and a track of Austraillian voice actor Lee Perry. Perry is reading aloud the entirety of an essay written as a column in the June 1st 1997 edition of the Chicago Tribune. The essay was written by Mary Schmich (though it was falsely rumored to be Kurt Vonnegut's commencement speech to the MIT class of '97). The essay is entitled "Advice, like Youth, Probably Just Wasted on the Young".
That whole long first introductiona paragraph should give you a feel for just how hard it is to accurately define. It's a video of a song of an essay. As such, it needs to be judged (or perhaps more accurately interperated) on three different levels. First, it's worth as a video. The visual images don't convey any plot in themselves, but they aren't purely there to diagram the song either. Pretty scenes, happy faces, and snippets of daily life which are enhanced by the words and music as much as the the words and music are enhanced by the video. After that layer comes the audio, that is, the spoken words and the music. The music, not orginally inteded to support a spoken word essay has, much like the images, it's own life. That life however has (as Luhrman saw) the same emotional goals as the words, they work in concert. The spoken words are low and easy going this is not a command, this is not a warning, this is merely a collection of advice. After that we have the heart of the piece. The written word, written as a mock commencement speach, was originally meant only as part of your morning newspaper reading reutine. A collection of words written by some one moved enough to write.

I like this piece, and think it's important and powerful, because or it's creative synergy. It's at least three seperate voices working together for the same goal, adding without compromising. It hits three distinctive parts of our soul, and more literally, we simultaneusly intake and interperet it with three different parts of our brain.

If that's not cool, I don't know what is.

Blog Post #2

Blog Post #1

"As Near as I can figure an essay can be...a query, a reminiscence, a persuasive tract, an exploration; it can look inward or outward; it can crack a lot of jokes. What it need not be is objective. An essay can certainly present facts and advocate a position, but that seems quite different from objectivity, whereby a writer just delivers information, adding nothing in the process. Instead, essays take their tone and momentum from the explicit presence of the writer in them and the distinctiveness of each writer's perspective. That makes essays definitely subjective-- not in the skewed, unfair sense of subjectivity, but in the sense that essays are voncersations, and they should have all the nuances and attitude that any conversation has. I'm Sure that's why newspapers so rarely generate great essays: even in the essay-allowed zone of a newspaper, the heavy breath of Objective Newspaper Reporting is always blowing down the writer's neck. And certainly there is no prescribed tone that is "correct" for essays. Sometimes it seems that they have a sameness of manner, a kind of earnest, hand writing solemnity. Is this neccesary? I don't think so. Many of the essays that intrigued me this year were funny, or unusually structured, or tonally adventurous -- in otherwords, not typical in sound or shape. wht mattered was they conveyed the writere's journy, and did it intelligently, gracefully, honestly, and with whatever voice or shape fit best."

--Susan Orlean

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