Here's a little gem I found in a comment thread to an article on Yahoo about reducing the national deficit:
Raise taxes to pre-Reagan era rates. Billionaires like Bill Gates and Warren Buffet giving away big chunks of their fortunes to charity (even if it's your own charity) is certainly laudable. However, why was the tax system so lax that people got *this* rich? Even after giving a ridiculous amount of money to charity, Bill Gates still has as much money as the GDP of Equador. Does he work as hard as the entire country of Equador?
I know I probably shouldn't be wasting time arguing in the direction of somebody who can't even spell 'Ecuador' correctly, but the semester's over and I don't have to go to work for another three hours, so here goes.
First off, yes, Bill Gates works just as hard as the country of Ecuador, if not harder. I know it's difficult for you redistributionist, friend-of-the-working-man hags to believe, but being the CEO of a huge corporation is not all kicking back on the beach with a pina colada and letting your underlings handle everything. Yes, some CEOs of huge corporations think it is, but in the business, that sort of thing is widely referred to as "doing it wrong", and their companies ultimately do poorly because of bad leadership. Managing an organization is still work, and it's the kind of work that doesn't leave you alone, that has you keeping your Blackberry (or prototype Windows Phone in this case, I guess; hell, Bill Gates might actually have a cyberbrain already.) glued to your ear or spending holidays working out some upper-management kinks that most people wouldn't even understand the significance of. Just because he's not out there with a hammer and a sweaty brow doesn't mean it's not work.
Second, when did the country of Ecuador ever produce a software system that billions of people around the world use and buy products for? Bill Gates' obscene amounts of money didn't just fall from the sky; he took a risk, spearheaded a company to make things people wanted, and it paid off. He continues to profit from that initial risk. Even if the profit amounts to more than the GDP of a South American country, so what? Whose place is it to say that anyone has too much money, and that some of it needs to be taken away?
Lemme clue you in on a little secret, commenter; the world is not fair. Some people have more money than others. And you know how this usually happens? They provide things that other people need and are willing to pay for. Becoming that rich is not easy, by any means. For every Bill Gates, there are a dozen people who thought they were going to develop the next big operating system but never got it off the ground. And yet, why do you think people take risks in creating products? Because they want to be as rich as people like Bill Gates. Without possible wealth as a motivator, how many ground-breaking technologies do you think would have gotten off the ground? If companies didn't want to sell their products and make money, do you think they'd put as much effort as they do into making them useful and user-friendly? If we start penalizing the rich simply for being rich, who's going to want to take that kind of risk anymore?
It's easy to look at rich people and say they have too much money. And you know why it's easy? Because it doesn't require the least modicum of rational thought. People like you are the reason we have Commander-in-Chief Penismouth on watch. It all sounds pretty and harmonious until our society starts stagnating because nobody ever has to work for a goddamn thing.
12/21/10
12/17/10
The Curse of St. Christopher
When I acquired my first car, the lady from whom my parents purchased it on my behalf gifted me with a pendant bearing the image of St. Christopher. She told me that, although she herself was not Catholic, she had been given the pendant when she got her first car and had kept it hanging from the rear-view mirror of each car she had owned, and that it felt right to her to pass it on to me, with what would be my first car. While I thought that a more useful gift would have been to remove all traces of the horrid vanilla air freshener that had been clipped to the glove box, I appreciated the sentiment and thanked her warmly, and St. Christopher stayed in his place of honor, dangling just behind the windshield. I felt, as I rocketed through the Ohio countryside in this vehicle of which I was still getting the feel but with which I had already fallen in love, somehow safer, as if this pendant, given with such honest intentions, would actually protect me from harm.
The trouble started about a month later, after I'd settled into the car, which I'd christened Akio (after Akio Ohtsuka, the voice of Batou in the various animated incarnations of Ghost in the Shell.) It was a windy day, over which hung a mass of roiling gray thunderheads, coyly waiting for just the right moment to let loose and start raining in earnest. I was on my way home after a trip to the nearest Pat Catan's for art supplies, and as I was nervous about taking the highway with the threat of heavy rain looming, I had decided to take the long way back into town. Unfortunately I'd forgotten what those heathens in Indian-name-nobody-can-spell-unless-they-live-here Falls called the state route I needed to get onto, and as the intersection was not marked with any sort of number-bearing sign, I'd ended up driving quite a ways out of the way looking for it. I was at an intersection, preparing to turn right into a parking lot where I could check my map, or at least turn around and find an alternate route through the streets I recognized from my commute to work, when it happened.
WHAM.
The first thing I registered was that the open bottle of Coke in my cupholder had exploded onto my seat, the shifter, and my pants; the realization that someone had just rear-ended me came a few seconds later. The car seemed okay - it was rumbling away as usual, and Megumi Hayashibara was still belting out Omokage through the stereo. I checked my mirror; the driver of the car behind me was signaling that he'd turn into the nearby parking lot as well, and as soon as the light changed, I, still shaking madly, trundled cautiously around the corner and pulled into the nearest empty space I could find, terrified that the back end of the car was going to fall off.
As it turned out, Akio was fine. There was barely even a scratch, and my novelty bumper stickers survived unscathed. The man who ran into me was very nice about the whole thing, and he seemed relieved that I wasn't going to call the police or anything (I didn't see the use, as there was no damage to either myself or the vehicle, and I was positive they had better things to do than come look at a little nick in my car. After he'd make sure I was all right, he left, and I turned around and went home by the first street I recognized. By the time I got home, the incident had changed from terrifying to interestingly funny in my mind, and when I told my parents the story, I think I even joked about how St. Christopher should have been protecting me from something like that. He can't be everywhere at once, said my mom, and we went on with our lives.
A few weeks later, I was stopped at a red light on my way to school when the motorist behind me tapped on my window and informed me that I had a flat tire. I hadn't noticed any of the tires being low when I'd gotten into the car, so I assumed it had been punctured by something and pulled into the parking lot of a nearby community center. I called my parents to let them know what had happened, and my dad came out to help me change the tire. Neither of us could see any sign of puncture in the flat tire, and he suggested that I try just filling it up with air, putting it back on the car, and then keeping an eye on it. The next morning, I braved a chilly rain to do just that, and the tire behaved perfectly from that point on. How odd.
Finally, things got serious. It was November 2nd, and I was having a wonderful day. I'd gotten up early to go help vote in a more conservative congress, had just participated in an extremely enjoyable art class, and was on my way home to change clothes before heading out to the job that I didn't exactly enjoy, but which I liked well enough for the awesome people I did it with. I was about a block away from my house, crawling through the midafternoon traffic jam, one hand tapping the steering wheel in time to Bad Apple!!, wondering if I could make it to work on the same playlist I'd been going through since I'd left the house that morning.
WHAM.
It was a more intense WHAM than the first time, and shortly after it came a second WHAM. Envisioning a pileup, I decided to curl up in a ball and wait for everything to stop, wishing that someone would turn that bloody music down (in my panic I'd forgotten how to work the stereo.) I raised my head from the fetal position when I heard the driver of the car behind me tapping on my window to see if I was all right. I nodded, and shakily piloted my car around a corner onto a nearby side street. I remembered that, although my first collision had felt terrifying as well, there hadn't been any damage to the car whatsoever, and I expected to see maybe a scratch or a dent, something more along the lines of a battle scar that could become an interesting story once everything stopped being so scary. However, as I got out of the car and looked toward the rear end, a sick feeling began churning deep down inside my stomach as I noticed the driver's side taillight hanging very visibly out of its socket.
Basically, Akio's back end was a complete mess. Half of the bumper was in shards, and a large chunk of it had actually fallen off. The lid of the trunk was crumpled upward, to the point that I had to force it open and was unable to get it to close again. My stickers were ruined: "What Would Gordon Freeman Do?" was in admittedly still readable ribbons; "Kayabuki - Aramaki 2012" was fragmented beyond legibility, and all that remained of "D0G is my copilot" was a tiny shred of a corner. Wanting very much for someone to hug me, I called my mom, and she walked over almost at once. After taking some pictures of the damage, collecting the necessary insurance information, and filling out the police paperwork, Akio and I limped sadly home. I wondered aloud why St. Christopher had allowed this to happen, and my mom reminded me that his area of expertise was travelers, not vehicles.
Incidentally, I had to call off of work for an entire week due to an injury I sustained to my shoulder during the crash.
To make matters worse, the repair estimate for the car --my first car, my Akio-kun, the one I was supposed to drive into the ground and have all sorts of awesome stories about-- came back as 'chuck it and get a new one'. I was understandably heartbroken; I'd had the thing for all of three months, and everything about it, from the look to the space to the way it handled, fit me like a well-sized glove. However, insurance companies don't factor sentimental value into settlements, although ironically I ended up receiving an amount very near what it would have cost to fix the old car with which to pay for a new one. The last time I saw Akio was when I went to pick up the plates and leave my keys with the shop that would be handling the salvage. I took a piece of the bumper to remember him by, and I still have the personalized charm I made for him hanging in front of one of the windows in my room.
The proceeds from the settlement went entirely toward my new car, another 2002 ZX2, which I named Atsuko, after Atsuko Tanaka, the Japanese voice of Major Motoko Kusanagi. My reasons for doing this were many; first of all, I name all of my name-worthy possessions after voice actresses or singers; second, we have something of a Ghost in the Shell theme going with car names in my family (my mother's Prius is actually named Motoko because it's more computer than car, and I jokingly refer to my dad's Subaru Forester as Ishikawa because it's old and ugly and smells like cigarettes); third, it sounded reasonably similar to 'Akio', which seemed appropriate as it was the same car only in a different color (dark blue as opposed to red); and fourth, because I am not at all a fan of Ms. Tanaka's portrayal of the aforementioned Major Kusanagi, and I was determined not to love this car in the same way I'd loved the other. Also, one of my computers was already named 'Mary Elizabeth', and this car was undeniably female and didn't feel much like a Barbara or Yoshiko, so my options were limited. Still, in an attempt to make the best of things, I made a new charm for Atsuko, fitted her out with the rest of my car bling, including St. Christopher, and tried to move on. I still hadn't made the connection.
Atsuko had brake problems starting about half an hour off the lot, but about $600 at the repair shop cleared that up, and we settled into a grudging respect for each other. Then winter came, and with it, my first experience driving in snow. Not just any snow, mind you, but the snow that's been barreling across the Midwest, that caved in that one footballing arena, and that's left streets everywhere barren, inhospitable icy messes. I did all right on the drive down to school; I got into the flow of steering into the skids, and I was practically crawling anyway. On the way home, however, the roads were much clearer, and as I felt that the car was gripping better than it had on the trip there, I decided to speed up a little (though still not to the extent I would have had there been no snow at all.) Everything felt fine. The car started to skid slightly to the left, and I corrected it. Then, suddenly, the car spun in the opposite direction, and the next thing I remember is finding myself stuck in a snowbank. I'd also destroyed someone's mailbox. Oops.
After returning home, deeply ashamed of my mishap, I marched straight out to the car and removed the St. Christopher pendant from the rear-view mirror. Enough was enough - he was obviously happy where he was and hadn't taken to me at all. Although I hadn't come to any serious, lasting harm through my various vehicular misadventures, my cars, through what I can only assume is some sort of loophole in the Saint Code, hadn't been so lucky. Akio was sitting in a scrapyard being slowly picked apart, and now here was Atsuko with an enormous dent in her driver's side rear quarter panel, a dent that I interpreted as a warning shot. I'd have to be an idiot not to get the message at this point; I've been a licensed driver for all of five months, and I have owned multiple vehicles. That isn't right.
So we'll see how things go from here. Either it was the curse of St. Christopher all along, or I just have really bad luck when it comes to cars; if I get in another accident, I'll know. I'm happy to report, though, that on Monday I drove in weather just as bad, if not worse, than that of the previous Monday, when the mailbox incident occurred, and although at one point my car skidded so badly that I was perpendicular to the road, with oncoming traffic in both directions, Atsuko and I both made it home safe and sound.
The trouble started about a month later, after I'd settled into the car, which I'd christened Akio (after Akio Ohtsuka, the voice of Batou in the various animated incarnations of Ghost in the Shell.) It was a windy day, over which hung a mass of roiling gray thunderheads, coyly waiting for just the right moment to let loose and start raining in earnest. I was on my way home after a trip to the nearest Pat Catan's for art supplies, and as I was nervous about taking the highway with the threat of heavy rain looming, I had decided to take the long way back into town. Unfortunately I'd forgotten what those heathens in Indian-name-nobody-can-spell-unless-they-live-here Falls called the state route I needed to get onto, and as the intersection was not marked with any sort of number-bearing sign, I'd ended up driving quite a ways out of the way looking for it. I was at an intersection, preparing to turn right into a parking lot where I could check my map, or at least turn around and find an alternate route through the streets I recognized from my commute to work, when it happened.
WHAM.
The first thing I registered was that the open bottle of Coke in my cupholder had exploded onto my seat, the shifter, and my pants; the realization that someone had just rear-ended me came a few seconds later. The car seemed okay - it was rumbling away as usual, and Megumi Hayashibara was still belting out Omokage through the stereo. I checked my mirror; the driver of the car behind me was signaling that he'd turn into the nearby parking lot as well, and as soon as the light changed, I, still shaking madly, trundled cautiously around the corner and pulled into the nearest empty space I could find, terrified that the back end of the car was going to fall off.
As it turned out, Akio was fine. There was barely even a scratch, and my novelty bumper stickers survived unscathed. The man who ran into me was very nice about the whole thing, and he seemed relieved that I wasn't going to call the police or anything (I didn't see the use, as there was no damage to either myself or the vehicle, and I was positive they had better things to do than come look at a little nick in my car. After he'd make sure I was all right, he left, and I turned around and went home by the first street I recognized. By the time I got home, the incident had changed from terrifying to interestingly funny in my mind, and when I told my parents the story, I think I even joked about how St. Christopher should have been protecting me from something like that. He can't be everywhere at once, said my mom, and we went on with our lives.
A few weeks later, I was stopped at a red light on my way to school when the motorist behind me tapped on my window and informed me that I had a flat tire. I hadn't noticed any of the tires being low when I'd gotten into the car, so I assumed it had been punctured by something and pulled into the parking lot of a nearby community center. I called my parents to let them know what had happened, and my dad came out to help me change the tire. Neither of us could see any sign of puncture in the flat tire, and he suggested that I try just filling it up with air, putting it back on the car, and then keeping an eye on it. The next morning, I braved a chilly rain to do just that, and the tire behaved perfectly from that point on. How odd.
Finally, things got serious. It was November 2nd, and I was having a wonderful day. I'd gotten up early to go help vote in a more conservative congress, had just participated in an extremely enjoyable art class, and was on my way home to change clothes before heading out to the job that I didn't exactly enjoy, but which I liked well enough for the awesome people I did it with. I was about a block away from my house, crawling through the midafternoon traffic jam, one hand tapping the steering wheel in time to Bad Apple!!, wondering if I could make it to work on the same playlist I'd been going through since I'd left the house that morning.
WHAM.
It was a more intense WHAM than the first time, and shortly after it came a second WHAM. Envisioning a pileup, I decided to curl up in a ball and wait for everything to stop, wishing that someone would turn that bloody music down (in my panic I'd forgotten how to work the stereo.) I raised my head from the fetal position when I heard the driver of the car behind me tapping on my window to see if I was all right. I nodded, and shakily piloted my car around a corner onto a nearby side street. I remembered that, although my first collision had felt terrifying as well, there hadn't been any damage to the car whatsoever, and I expected to see maybe a scratch or a dent, something more along the lines of a battle scar that could become an interesting story once everything stopped being so scary. However, as I got out of the car and looked toward the rear end, a sick feeling began churning deep down inside my stomach as I noticed the driver's side taillight hanging very visibly out of its socket.
Basically, Akio's back end was a complete mess. Half of the bumper was in shards, and a large chunk of it had actually fallen off. The lid of the trunk was crumpled upward, to the point that I had to force it open and was unable to get it to close again. My stickers were ruined: "What Would Gordon Freeman Do?" was in admittedly still readable ribbons; "Kayabuki - Aramaki 2012" was fragmented beyond legibility, and all that remained of "D0G is my copilot" was a tiny shred of a corner. Wanting very much for someone to hug me, I called my mom, and she walked over almost at once. After taking some pictures of the damage, collecting the necessary insurance information, and filling out the police paperwork, Akio and I limped sadly home. I wondered aloud why St. Christopher had allowed this to happen, and my mom reminded me that his area of expertise was travelers, not vehicles.
Incidentally, I had to call off of work for an entire week due to an injury I sustained to my shoulder during the crash.
To make matters worse, the repair estimate for the car --my first car, my Akio-kun, the one I was supposed to drive into the ground and have all sorts of awesome stories about-- came back as 'chuck it and get a new one'. I was understandably heartbroken; I'd had the thing for all of three months, and everything about it, from the look to the space to the way it handled, fit me like a well-sized glove. However, insurance companies don't factor sentimental value into settlements, although ironically I ended up receiving an amount very near what it would have cost to fix the old car with which to pay for a new one. The last time I saw Akio was when I went to pick up the plates and leave my keys with the shop that would be handling the salvage. I took a piece of the bumper to remember him by, and I still have the personalized charm I made for him hanging in front of one of the windows in my room.
The proceeds from the settlement went entirely toward my new car, another 2002 ZX2, which I named Atsuko, after Atsuko Tanaka, the Japanese voice of Major Motoko Kusanagi. My reasons for doing this were many; first of all, I name all of my name-worthy possessions after voice actresses or singers; second, we have something of a Ghost in the Shell theme going with car names in my family (my mother's Prius is actually named Motoko because it's more computer than car, and I jokingly refer to my dad's Subaru Forester as Ishikawa because it's old and ugly and smells like cigarettes); third, it sounded reasonably similar to 'Akio', which seemed appropriate as it was the same car only in a different color (dark blue as opposed to red); and fourth, because I am not at all a fan of Ms. Tanaka's portrayal of the aforementioned Major Kusanagi, and I was determined not to love this car in the same way I'd loved the other. Also, one of my computers was already named 'Mary Elizabeth', and this car was undeniably female and didn't feel much like a Barbara or Yoshiko, so my options were limited. Still, in an attempt to make the best of things, I made a new charm for Atsuko, fitted her out with the rest of my car bling, including St. Christopher, and tried to move on. I still hadn't made the connection.
Atsuko had brake problems starting about half an hour off the lot, but about $600 at the repair shop cleared that up, and we settled into a grudging respect for each other. Then winter came, and with it, my first experience driving in snow. Not just any snow, mind you, but the snow that's been barreling across the Midwest, that caved in that one footballing arena, and that's left streets everywhere barren, inhospitable icy messes. I did all right on the drive down to school; I got into the flow of steering into the skids, and I was practically crawling anyway. On the way home, however, the roads were much clearer, and as I felt that the car was gripping better than it had on the trip there, I decided to speed up a little (though still not to the extent I would have had there been no snow at all.) Everything felt fine. The car started to skid slightly to the left, and I corrected it. Then, suddenly, the car spun in the opposite direction, and the next thing I remember is finding myself stuck in a snowbank. I'd also destroyed someone's mailbox. Oops.
After returning home, deeply ashamed of my mishap, I marched straight out to the car and removed the St. Christopher pendant from the rear-view mirror. Enough was enough - he was obviously happy where he was and hadn't taken to me at all. Although I hadn't come to any serious, lasting harm through my various vehicular misadventures, my cars, through what I can only assume is some sort of loophole in the Saint Code, hadn't been so lucky. Akio was sitting in a scrapyard being slowly picked apart, and now here was Atsuko with an enormous dent in her driver's side rear quarter panel, a dent that I interpreted as a warning shot. I'd have to be an idiot not to get the message at this point; I've been a licensed driver for all of five months, and I have owned multiple vehicles. That isn't right.
So we'll see how things go from here. Either it was the curse of St. Christopher all along, or I just have really bad luck when it comes to cars; if I get in another accident, I'll know. I'm happy to report, though, that on Monday I drove in weather just as bad, if not worse, than that of the previous Monday, when the mailbox incident occurred, and although at one point my car skidded so badly that I was perpendicular to the road, with oncoming traffic in both directions, Atsuko and I both made it home safe and sound.
12/9/10
COMING SOON TO A THEATER NEAR YOU
[[NOTE: For this post to reach maximum effectiveness, imagine it as a chick flick trailer with the instrumental music for the establishing part and then the sappy ballad when the drama kicks in.]]
FADE IN:
INT: ART ROOM - MIDAFTERNOON - ESTABLISHING
Dusky gold sunlight filters in through the worn curtains, illuminating the motes of dust hovering in the air. A dozen students are working at easels scattered in a rough circle around the room, drawing a still life consisting of several glass bottles of varying sizes, lit by a standing lamp. THE SPITFIRE EVERYGIRL PROTAGONIST is sketching furiously on a pad of newsprint with a piece of vine charcoal. Her hands are ground in with black dust, which is also visible in smudges on her face. She is approached by THE SNOOTY ART TEACHER LADY, who studies her drawing, looking between it and the still life.
The Snooty Art Teacher Lady gives her the sort of look where, had she been wearing a monacle, it would have fallen into her cup of tea. The Spitfire Everygirl Protagonist smiles and returns to her drawing. A school bell rings, because in movies, institutions of higher learning still have "change class" bells for some reason, and they go off without warning.
CUT TO:
INT: UNIVERSITY HALLWAY - AFTERNOON
The Spitfire Everygirl Protagonist is walking with HER GENERIC ETHNICALLY DIVERSE MALE FRIEND at her side, other students passing by them in both directions.
CUT TO:
A series of shots wherein The Spitfire Everygirl Protagonist sits in front of her computer in her dark bedroom, enthusiastically working at her tablet, then shows a near-photorealistic piece to an instructor, who shakes her head disapprovingly.
CUT TO:
UNIVERSITY HALLWAY
CUT TO:
A montage of scenes, wherein The Spitfire Everygirl Protagonist teaches The Obligatory Attractive Female Classmate the ins and outs of painting in Photoshop. There are many shots of The Spitfire Everygirl Protagonist standing close behind her, looking over her shoulder, and a lingering shot of The Spitfire Everygirl Protagonist's hand closing around that of The Obligatory Attractive Female Classmate as she holds the pen tablet.
ONSCREEN TEXT (WHITE VERDANA AGAINST A BLACK BACKGROUND): IN A WORLD WHERE THE LINE HAD ALWAYS BEEN CLEARLY DEFINED
The montage continues; The Spitfire Everygirl Protagonist is shown sitting alone in her dark bedroom, the only light coming from her computer screen, with tears sliding down her cheeks. Her knees are pulled up in front of her, and her tablet rests on them; slowly, she rests her forehead against her knees and hugs the tablet against her chest.
ONSCREEN TEXT: SHE SELECTED THE BLUR TOOL
The montage continues further, with various tasteful shots of The Obligatory Attractive Female Classmate posing nude as The Spitfire Everygirl Protagonist sketches her with the tablet. There is an extended shot of The Spitfire Everygirl Protagonist making out with The Obligatory Attractive Female Classmate in the rain, because these movies always seem to have a part where somebody enthusiastically kisses somebody else during a violent downpour.
The montage continues on with intermixed shots of The Spitfire Everygirl Protagonist working at her laptop, holding hands with The Obligatory Attractive Female Classmate, and laughing about various things with The Obligatory Attractive Female Classmate and Her Generic Ethnically Diverse Male Friend, finally ending with a shot of her putting up her three final project pieces for display. The screen fades to black before they can be seen clearly.
TITLE TEXT: FREE TRANSFORM
The title is shown skewed out of proportion in a bounding box, until a cursor comes onscreen and drags a corner of the bounding box down until it is legible. This fades after it has been onscreen long enough to be read.
TAGLINE TEXT: DEFINE YOUR OWN BRUSH. DISTORT YOUR PERSPECTIVE.
-------------
Well? I think I might actually have something here...
FREE TRANSFORM - TRAILER
by hako
INT: ART ROOM - MIDAFTERNOON - ESTABLISHING
Dusky gold sunlight filters in through the worn curtains, illuminating the motes of dust hovering in the air. A dozen students are working at easels scattered in a rough circle around the room, drawing a still life consisting of several glass bottles of varying sizes, lit by a standing lamp. THE SPITFIRE EVERYGIRL PROTAGONIST is sketching furiously on a pad of newsprint with a piece of vine charcoal. Her hands are ground in with black dust, which is also visible in smudges on her face. She is approached by THE SNOOTY ART TEACHER LADY, who studies her drawing, looking between it and the still life.
THE SNOOTY ART TEACHER LADY
(nodding slowly)
Very nice. What do you think?
THE SPITFIRE EVERYGIRL PROTAGONIST
(without looking up)
Well, honestly, I'm still getting used to the feeling of actually drawing on paper, not to mention the conspicuous lack of 'undo' command. If I was doing this on the computer, I'd probably be personally ashamed of it.
The Snooty Art Teacher Lady gives her the sort of look where, had she been wearing a monacle, it would have fallen into her cup of tea. The Spitfire Everygirl Protagonist smiles and returns to her drawing. A school bell rings, because in movies, institutions of higher learning still have "change class" bells for some reason, and they go off without warning.
CUT TO:
INT: UNIVERSITY HALLWAY - AFTERNOON
The Spitfire Everygirl Protagonist is walking with HER GENERIC ETHNICALLY DIVERSE MALE FRIEND at her side, other students passing by them in both directions.
THE SPITFIRE EVERYGIRL PROTAGONIST
(gesturing animatedly)
I don't get it! Drawing with a tablet is just the same as drawing with a pencil and paper! It's not like you just press a button and pictures pop onto the screen!
CUT TO:
A series of shots wherein The Spitfire Everygirl Protagonist sits in front of her computer in her dark bedroom, enthusiastically working at her tablet, then shows a near-photorealistic piece to an instructor, who shakes her head disapprovingly.
THE SPITFIRE EVERYGIRL PROTAGONIST (CON'T, V.O.)
They tell me to paint, I paint, and then they get all mad because it's not on a canvas that takes forever to dry and would have been a pain in the ass to lug back and forth from my car every day? I thought I was here to study art, not FACISM!
CUT TO:
UNIVERSITY HALLWAY
HER GENERIC ETHNICALLY DIVERSE MALE FRIEND
Hey, it's just the way things are. It's the way it's always been. Drawing and painting are for charcoal and oils, and Photoshop is for graphic design. Live with it.
THE SPITFIRE EVERYGIRL PROTAGONIST
Yeah, well, maybe it wouldn't be that way if people stopped saying that!
CUT TO:
ART ROOM - MIDDAY
The Snooty Art Teacher Lady stands in the middle of the circle of easels, addressing the class.
THE SNOOTY ART TEACHER LADY
Your final project will be a series of at least THREE drawings, sized 18 by 24 inches, illustrating, in some form, motion. I don't care about the subject matter - I want you to choose something that has some personal meaning to you.
The Spitfire Everygirl Protagonist is shown in closeup.
THE SNOOTY ART TEACHER LADY (V.O.)
Use whatever medium you'd like.
The Spitfire Everygirl Protagonist's eyes widen.
FADE IN WITH WOOSH NOISE:
INT: CAFE - AFTERNOON
The room is small and crowded with other young adults. Dim light comes from mismatched lamps and sconces with frilled shades. The Spitfire Everygirl Protagonist sits at a wooden table with Her Generic Ethnically Diverse Male Friend. Her laptop is in front of her, and the reflection of a Photoshop file in progress can be seen in the lenses of her nerdy-but-not-too-nerdy glasses.
HER GENERIC ETHNICALLY DIVERSE MALE FRIEND
I dunno if this is such a good idea, girl.
THE SPITFIRE EVERYGIRL PROTAGONIST
She said to use whatever medium I'd like, and quite frankly, at this point in the semester, I am sick of charcoal, pastel, and conte crayon. The project is three drawings, 18 by 24, showing movement, and that's what I'm doing.
HER GENERIC ETHNICALLY DIVERSE MALE FRIEND
Okay, it's your funeral. And hey, I thought you liked pastel!
The Spitfire Everygirl Protagonist glares at him, then leans in toward her laptop.
THE SPITFIRE EVERYGIRL PROTAGONIST
(whispering)
All lies, sweetheart - you're my one and only, I promise.
Her Generic Ethnically Diverse Male Friend rolls his eyes.
CUT TO:
INT: ART ROOM
Everyone is working on their projects, with easels and bristol board in front of them, except for The Spitfire Everygirl Protagonist, who has her laptop on a table in front of her and her tablet on a book in her lap. The Snooty Art Teacher Lady walks up behind her.
THE SNOOTY ART TEACHER LADY
And just what, exactly, are you doing?
THE SPITFIRE EVERYGIRL PROTAGONIST
(smiling)
My final project.
The Snooty Art Teacher Lady narrows her eyes.
THE SNOOTY ART TEACHER LADY
I'm sorry, but this is an art class, not a collage-wherein-the-president's-head-has-been-switched-with-that-of-a-dog class, and I expect you to take it seriously.
THE SPITFIRE EVERYGIRL PROTAGONIST
(loudly)
I'm taking it just as seriously as anyone else!
THE SNOOTY ART TEACHER LADY
(more loudly)
Then put your toys away and get to work!
The Spitfire Everygirl Protagonist gives The Snooty Art Teacher Lady a bitter look, then slams the lid of her laptop shut.
CUT TO:
INT: ART ROOM - EVENING
The room is empty except for The Spitfire Everygirl Protagonist, who is seated at an easel, sketching forlornly on a sheet of bristol board, drawing and erasing repeatedly. She hears a soft creaking noise and turns around; THE OBLIGATORY ATTRACTIVE FEMALE CLASSMATE, who looks sort of like a cross between Juna Ariyoshi and Yoko Kayabuki and has the approximate voice of Merle Dandridge, has been watching her from the doorway.
THE SPITFIRE EVERYGIRL PROTAGONIST
(sullenly)
Yeah?
THE OBLIGATORY ATTRACTIVE FEMALE CLASSMATE
I...heard what she said to you earlier.
THE SPITFIRE EVERYGIRL PROTAGONIST
You and everyone else in the room. What do you want?
THE OBLIGATORY ATTRACTIVE FEMALE CLASSMATE
(smiling)
I want to learn how to paint the way you do.
CUT TO:
A montage of scenes, wherein The Spitfire Everygirl Protagonist teaches The Obligatory Attractive Female Classmate the ins and outs of painting in Photoshop. There are many shots of The Spitfire Everygirl Protagonist standing close behind her, looking over her shoulder, and a lingering shot of The Spitfire Everygirl Protagonist's hand closing around that of The Obligatory Attractive Female Classmate as she holds the pen tablet.
THE SPITFIRE EVERYGIRL PROTAGONIST (V.O.)
Most people think it's just tracing whatever you can find, recoloring it, and calling it your own, but it's not. It's just as much self expression as painting with a brush, or drawing with charcoal.
ONSCREEN TEXT (WHITE VERDANA AGAINST A BLACK BACKGROUND): IN A WORLD WHERE THE LINE HAD ALWAYS BEEN CLEARLY DEFINED
The montage continues; The Spitfire Everygirl Protagonist is shown sitting alone in her dark bedroom, the only light coming from her computer screen, with tears sliding down her cheeks. Her knees are pulled up in front of her, and her tablet rests on them; slowly, she rests her forehead against her knees and hugs the tablet against her chest.
THE SPITFIRE EVERYGIRL PROTAGONIST (V.O.)
They think that just because it doesn't make a mess, or because you can't mix your mom's ashes or your own bodily fluids into your media, it's not art.
ONSCREEN TEXT: SHE SELECTED THE BLUR TOOL
The montage continues further, with various tasteful shots of The Obligatory Attractive Female Classmate posing nude as The Spitfire Everygirl Protagonist sketches her with the tablet. There is an extended shot of The Spitfire Everygirl Protagonist making out with The Obligatory Attractive Female Classmate in the rain, because these movies always seem to have a part where somebody enthusiastically kisses somebody else during a violent downpour.
THE SPITFIRE EVERYGIRL PROTAGONIST (V.O.)
But it is art, and I'm not gonna let anyone tell me different.
ONSCREEN TEXT: AND SET THE PRESSURE TO 100%
The montage continues on with intermixed shots of The Spitfire Everygirl Protagonist working at her laptop, holding hands with The Obligatory Attractive Female Classmate, and laughing about various things with The Obligatory Attractive Female Classmate and Her Generic Ethnically Diverse Male Friend, finally ending with a shot of her putting up her three final project pieces for display. The screen fades to black before they can be seen clearly.
TITLE TEXT: FREE TRANSFORM
The title is shown skewed out of proportion in a bounding box, until a cursor comes onscreen and drags a corner of the bounding box down until it is legible. This fades after it has been onscreen long enough to be read.
TAGLINE TEXT: DEFINE YOUR OWN BRUSH. DISTORT YOUR PERSPECTIVE.
-------------
Well? I think I might actually have something here...
11/13/10
My story, a work in progress.
When I was seven, the administrators of my school approached my parents with the suggestion that I be skipped up a grade due to my amazingly above-average test scores. To this day I don't understand why I was the one singled out for this privilege; I started kindergarten knowing how to read, but that was pretty much the only advantage I had over my peers, for whatever it was worth. My parents agreed, thinking that I'd find the third grade more challenging than the second, and I spent the summer bitching about having to learn cursive writing so I'd be all caught up to the rest of the third graders. School was school, and I went into my first day of third grade just as unenthusiastic as I'd be about any other grade. It was then that all of my problems started.
As a side note, my natural handwriting remained in perfect stasis during those elementary school years when I was forced to write in cursive, and in middle school, when I was allowed to dust it off and bring it back into regular use once more, I found it just as I'd left it, the handwriting of a six-year-old. My penmanship has aged a few years since; now it looks like something an eight-year-old might have written.
Anyway, third grade. Having just been moved up from a lower grade and not being involved in any school or community programs whatsoever, I didn't know anyone, and I had to try to fit my way into the little groups that had already sprung up during the three years that these other children had been associating with each other. I bounced from group to group depending on who would accept me; sometimes I was trading jokes with the boys, sometimes I was playing jumprope with the girls, and a lot of the time I'd just go sit by myself under my favorite crabapple tree on the playground and dream up stories. I was at that age where I still saw magic in everything, plus I'd recently read The Chronicles of Narnia and A Wrinkle In Time and its sequels (which I still hold up as the most beautiful pieces of writing I've ever experienced), so I had plenty going on in my head. During those times when I couldn't find any kids who'd tolerate me, I'd go galloping around the playground on one of my many invisible horses, having all sorts of arcane, spiritually-motivated adventures.
Apparently this was a bad thing.
I don't remember exactly what started it, but eventually I became "that weird girl." The one who didn't play sports or go to church, who had no grasp of popular culture, who wore dresses when most of the other girls were always wearing jeans, and who talked to her imaginary friends and said, quite seriously, that they were gods. My teacher, a Mrs. Armbruster, didn't help matters either, convinced as she was that her classroom was some sort of police state over which she reigned as a kind of benevolent dictator. Quite aside from teaching us useful or interesting factual things, or at least the rudiments of logical thought, whereby we might explore the world and draw our own conclusions from it, she seemed to think that her job was to mold us into a cohesive collective where everyone got along and had a part to play. I, that kid who never did the homework but tested well, wrote better than any of the rest of the class, and constantly corrected my teacher's spelling and pronunciation (I actually had to convince her that 'recreation' was a word when I added it to my spelling list for the week - she was sure that I was trying to write 're-creation'), did not fit neatly into her collective, and this bothered her, to the point that she began to confront me about it on a regular basis. There were apparently many phone calls to my parents that I only found out about years later, and I also became one of those kids that the guidance counselor calls into their office at the beginning of each school year just to see how they're doing.
Things escalated through the rest of elementary school, and I resigned myself to it and stopped trying. Okay, my peers didn't much care for me, but as long as I had a book and some room to sit and think, I didn't mind it much. There were some kids in my class that I'd casually interact with, and through my masochistic relationship with the Girl Scouts, I even came across a couple of friends. In fourth grade I got an in-school suspension for joking about knifing a kid, but ultimately my parents were only mad at me for my poor judgment in joking about such a thing in a school setting, and the whole issue blew over after that. In fifth grade some of the girls thought it would be funny to put a series of love notes in my locker, by which I wasn't taken in for a single moment (What fifth-grade boy actually leaves romantic notes? Typed notes, to boot?) They were remarkably stupid; each would have some little request to change something about my personal habits, like stop wearing that scarf you found in the art room as a bandanna, or start carrying around a book that isn't Frances Hodgson Burnett's A Little Princess (another book that I shamelessly admit to still loving). It culminated in a request for me to come to a parking lot near my house to meet the mysterious boy who was writing these notes, and at that point I turned them all in to my teacher out of annoyed spite for whomever was writing them. The girls came forward, and each was instructed to apologize to me both verbally and in writing, which I found hilarious. My teachers were surprised that I hadn't been seriously traumatized by this or anything, but from where I stood, it was a dumb prank that didn't work; I didn't even like boys yet. What was there to get upset about?
From there I moved into middle school, and everything went to hell. I still had my best friends from fifth grade, but the whole student body was hitting puberty and was just waiting to lash out at anyone for any reason they could think of because of it. It didn't help that in sixth grade I met Greta, a singularly odd child who was feverishly obsessed with sexuality and the Harry Potter series. I declared her my best friend when I found out that she had read the His Dark Materials trilogy, a series of which I was extremely enamored at the time, and I was so glad to have made a new friend that I eagerly went along with whatever she wanted to do. I turned a blind eye to her defacing of public property with her bodily wastes, accepted all of the wild stories she told me about herself, and even let her destroy a few of my personal possessions. When it got to the point where she began showing me pornography when I went over to her house, I broke down and told my mom about it, and from there our friendship became much more strained. I still spent time with her, even though my other friends and I agreed that she was no good, because even though I'd given up on being well-liked by my fellow students, I still couldn't bring myself to outright refuse someone's acceptance. Eventually she got me, herself, and our school's one black girl suspended as part of a conspiracy to further spread the rumor that our shop teacher was a child molester, and soon after that, she moved. I never spoke to her again.
Associating myself with Greta had two major side effects; the first was that people started to pay much more attention to me because of her. While I had kind of formed my own little pocket of oddness to curl up in, Greta flaunted hers, and delighted in the attention she got when she'd go to the guidance counselor (usually with me in tow) and complain about the teasing. After lying down with this particular dog there was no getting rid of the fleas, and I became the target of the same vitriolic hatred regularly directed at her; I did odd things and didn't fit the suburban mold. In the chiding words of my guidance counselor, the nail that sticks up must be pounded down.
The second side effect was the lesbian thing. I don't know if Greta herself started that, although I wouldn't put it past her; I refused to sleep over at her house, even before the pornography incident, because of her repeated suggestive advances. At any rate, it became 'common knowledge' throughout the school that I kissed girls in the bathroom, because I never showed any interest in boys (asking me to dances became a spectator sport among them) and homosexuality was just coming onto everyone's radar as something new to use as an insult. I'd been complaining about the abuse I'd been getting since way back in third grade, and nothing was ever done, so I didn't pursue the issue much this time. However, when certain people started throwing rocks at myself and my 'lover' (my best friend, whom I would later affectionately refer to as 'S-chan'), I went to the principal with renewed vigor, thinking I might actually have a case this time. He assured me he'd take care of it, and told me to come to him if it happened again. Well, I did, and after the third time he started pretending he wasn't in his office. I just gave up at that point; middle schoolers were going to be hateful middle schoolers. Whatever.
Things looked up in high school, where everyone was mostly content to ignore me. I went about my business, and even formed a group of friends through my interest in anime. However, I'd gotten in the habit of not doing any homework whatsoever, and it showed in my abysmal grades. My parents, who had already taken my brother out of third grade (by an odd coincidence, he too had been subjected to Mrs. Armbruster, and dealing with her again was more than my mom and dad could bear), removed me from school after my sophomore year, thinking that I'd do high school over again. I was devestated; I'd finally found my nook in the school community, and I enjoyed going because I always seemed to see and hear interesting things when I was there.
It was around that time that things got really bad. After I left school, none of my friends bothered to keep in contact except for S-chan, with whom I could only communicate seriously though the fictional characters we took on as personas in our online roleplay. When she too started to ignore me and then act like she'd been all worried during the periods when she hadn't spoken to me, I finally said enough is enough and wrote her a note telling her never to speak to me again. I felt like I didn't have any purpose in the world anymore; I didn't know what I wanted to do, I hated everything school related, I was still very upset with my parents for taking me out of high school when I'd finally found a place there, and now I was all alone for the first time since third grade, except for my dog. I wanted very badly to die, but I was too afraid to do anything about it. Pretty much the only things that kept me going were my internet acquaintances and Paku Romi's "Tooi Kioku" album, from which I drew my current 'net handle.
When I was almost 18, my parents told me that I was only allowed to live with them as long as I was working or in school. I tried and failed to find a job locally (I'd never even considered learning to drive, as I had nowhere to go), and nearly ended up killing myself on my 18th birthday, out of an intense feeling of sheer pointlessness in the broad scheme of things. I was still too scared to actually do it, though, and just ended up listening to what I'd planned to be my last song ("Aqua" by Gabriela Robin, from the Earth Girl Arjuna soundtrack) over and over again until I'd cried everything out.
And hey, I'm glad I stuck around. I got my GED and started college, and now I'm taking a bunch of art and design classes to build up a portfolio for actual art school someday when I can afford it. I have a job where I like pretty much everyone I work with, and where I make just enough to keep my car fueled and inching toward being paid off. I get along fine at school, and as a whole, things are pretty awesome right now.
So, to all of you bleeding-heart idiots who martyr every kid who kills himself because he was called a fag one too many times: I don't even want to hear it.
As a side note, my natural handwriting remained in perfect stasis during those elementary school years when I was forced to write in cursive, and in middle school, when I was allowed to dust it off and bring it back into regular use once more, I found it just as I'd left it, the handwriting of a six-year-old. My penmanship has aged a few years since; now it looks like something an eight-year-old might have written.
Anyway, third grade. Having just been moved up from a lower grade and not being involved in any school or community programs whatsoever, I didn't know anyone, and I had to try to fit my way into the little groups that had already sprung up during the three years that these other children had been associating with each other. I bounced from group to group depending on who would accept me; sometimes I was trading jokes with the boys, sometimes I was playing jumprope with the girls, and a lot of the time I'd just go sit by myself under my favorite crabapple tree on the playground and dream up stories. I was at that age where I still saw magic in everything, plus I'd recently read The Chronicles of Narnia and A Wrinkle In Time and its sequels (which I still hold up as the most beautiful pieces of writing I've ever experienced), so I had plenty going on in my head. During those times when I couldn't find any kids who'd tolerate me, I'd go galloping around the playground on one of my many invisible horses, having all sorts of arcane, spiritually-motivated adventures.
Apparently this was a bad thing.
I don't remember exactly what started it, but eventually I became "that weird girl." The one who didn't play sports or go to church, who had no grasp of popular culture, who wore dresses when most of the other girls were always wearing jeans, and who talked to her imaginary friends and said, quite seriously, that they were gods. My teacher, a Mrs. Armbruster, didn't help matters either, convinced as she was that her classroom was some sort of police state over which she reigned as a kind of benevolent dictator. Quite aside from teaching us useful or interesting factual things, or at least the rudiments of logical thought, whereby we might explore the world and draw our own conclusions from it, she seemed to think that her job was to mold us into a cohesive collective where everyone got along and had a part to play. I, that kid who never did the homework but tested well, wrote better than any of the rest of the class, and constantly corrected my teacher's spelling and pronunciation (I actually had to convince her that 'recreation' was a word when I added it to my spelling list for the week - she was sure that I was trying to write 're-creation'), did not fit neatly into her collective, and this bothered her, to the point that she began to confront me about it on a regular basis. There were apparently many phone calls to my parents that I only found out about years later, and I also became one of those kids that the guidance counselor calls into their office at the beginning of each school year just to see how they're doing.
Things escalated through the rest of elementary school, and I resigned myself to it and stopped trying. Okay, my peers didn't much care for me, but as long as I had a book and some room to sit and think, I didn't mind it much. There were some kids in my class that I'd casually interact with, and through my masochistic relationship with the Girl Scouts, I even came across a couple of friends. In fourth grade I got an in-school suspension for joking about knifing a kid, but ultimately my parents were only mad at me for my poor judgment in joking about such a thing in a school setting, and the whole issue blew over after that. In fifth grade some of the girls thought it would be funny to put a series of love notes in my locker, by which I wasn't taken in for a single moment (What fifth-grade boy actually leaves romantic notes? Typed notes, to boot?) They were remarkably stupid; each would have some little request to change something about my personal habits, like stop wearing that scarf you found in the art room as a bandanna, or start carrying around a book that isn't Frances Hodgson Burnett's A Little Princess (another book that I shamelessly admit to still loving). It culminated in a request for me to come to a parking lot near my house to meet the mysterious boy who was writing these notes, and at that point I turned them all in to my teacher out of annoyed spite for whomever was writing them. The girls came forward, and each was instructed to apologize to me both verbally and in writing, which I found hilarious. My teachers were surprised that I hadn't been seriously traumatized by this or anything, but from where I stood, it was a dumb prank that didn't work; I didn't even like boys yet. What was there to get upset about?
From there I moved into middle school, and everything went to hell. I still had my best friends from fifth grade, but the whole student body was hitting puberty and was just waiting to lash out at anyone for any reason they could think of because of it. It didn't help that in sixth grade I met Greta, a singularly odd child who was feverishly obsessed with sexuality and the Harry Potter series. I declared her my best friend when I found out that she had read the His Dark Materials trilogy, a series of which I was extremely enamored at the time, and I was so glad to have made a new friend that I eagerly went along with whatever she wanted to do. I turned a blind eye to her defacing of public property with her bodily wastes, accepted all of the wild stories she told me about herself, and even let her destroy a few of my personal possessions. When it got to the point where she began showing me pornography when I went over to her house, I broke down and told my mom about it, and from there our friendship became much more strained. I still spent time with her, even though my other friends and I agreed that she was no good, because even though I'd given up on being well-liked by my fellow students, I still couldn't bring myself to outright refuse someone's acceptance. Eventually she got me, herself, and our school's one black girl suspended as part of a conspiracy to further spread the rumor that our shop teacher was a child molester, and soon after that, she moved. I never spoke to her again.
Associating myself with Greta had two major side effects; the first was that people started to pay much more attention to me because of her. While I had kind of formed my own little pocket of oddness to curl up in, Greta flaunted hers, and delighted in the attention she got when she'd go to the guidance counselor (usually with me in tow) and complain about the teasing. After lying down with this particular dog there was no getting rid of the fleas, and I became the target of the same vitriolic hatred regularly directed at her; I did odd things and didn't fit the suburban mold. In the chiding words of my guidance counselor, the nail that sticks up must be pounded down.
The second side effect was the lesbian thing. I don't know if Greta herself started that, although I wouldn't put it past her; I refused to sleep over at her house, even before the pornography incident, because of her repeated suggestive advances. At any rate, it became 'common knowledge' throughout the school that I kissed girls in the bathroom, because I never showed any interest in boys (asking me to dances became a spectator sport among them) and homosexuality was just coming onto everyone's radar as something new to use as an insult. I'd been complaining about the abuse I'd been getting since way back in third grade, and nothing was ever done, so I didn't pursue the issue much this time. However, when certain people started throwing rocks at myself and my 'lover' (my best friend, whom I would later affectionately refer to as 'S-chan'), I went to the principal with renewed vigor, thinking I might actually have a case this time. He assured me he'd take care of it, and told me to come to him if it happened again. Well, I did, and after the third time he started pretending he wasn't in his office. I just gave up at that point; middle schoolers were going to be hateful middle schoolers. Whatever.
Things looked up in high school, where everyone was mostly content to ignore me. I went about my business, and even formed a group of friends through my interest in anime. However, I'd gotten in the habit of not doing any homework whatsoever, and it showed in my abysmal grades. My parents, who had already taken my brother out of third grade (by an odd coincidence, he too had been subjected to Mrs. Armbruster, and dealing with her again was more than my mom and dad could bear), removed me from school after my sophomore year, thinking that I'd do high school over again. I was devestated; I'd finally found my nook in the school community, and I enjoyed going because I always seemed to see and hear interesting things when I was there.
It was around that time that things got really bad. After I left school, none of my friends bothered to keep in contact except for S-chan, with whom I could only communicate seriously though the fictional characters we took on as personas in our online roleplay. When she too started to ignore me and then act like she'd been all worried during the periods when she hadn't spoken to me, I finally said enough is enough and wrote her a note telling her never to speak to me again. I felt like I didn't have any purpose in the world anymore; I didn't know what I wanted to do, I hated everything school related, I was still very upset with my parents for taking me out of high school when I'd finally found a place there, and now I was all alone for the first time since third grade, except for my dog. I wanted very badly to die, but I was too afraid to do anything about it. Pretty much the only things that kept me going were my internet acquaintances and Paku Romi's "Tooi Kioku" album, from which I drew my current 'net handle.
When I was almost 18, my parents told me that I was only allowed to live with them as long as I was working or in school. I tried and failed to find a job locally (I'd never even considered learning to drive, as I had nowhere to go), and nearly ended up killing myself on my 18th birthday, out of an intense feeling of sheer pointlessness in the broad scheme of things. I was still too scared to actually do it, though, and just ended up listening to what I'd planned to be my last song ("Aqua" by Gabriela Robin, from the Earth Girl Arjuna soundtrack) over and over again until I'd cried everything out.
And hey, I'm glad I stuck around. I got my GED and started college, and now I'm taking a bunch of art and design classes to build up a portfolio for actual art school someday when I can afford it. I have a job where I like pretty much everyone I work with, and where I make just enough to keep my car fueled and inching toward being paid off. I get along fine at school, and as a whole, things are pretty awesome right now.
So, to all of you bleeding-heart idiots who martyr every kid who kills himself because he was called a fag one too many times: I don't even want to hear it.
11/11/10
You're not an anarchist, you twerp!
DISCLAIMER: Born Contrarian Amalgamated Enterprises, LLC, fully endorses the right of all human beings to act in whatever way feels morally right to them, provided that no laws are being broken and that no other human beings are hurt without their prior consent. Born Contrarian Amalgamated Enterprises, LLC, requests, however, that all human beings have a clear, factual understanding of whatever opinions they express to others, if only to save them the trouble of publicly embarrassing themselves.
Believe it or not, there's actually something of a conservative cadre in my Drawing II class, and every now and then, before class starts, one of us will crack wise about some news item or other, leading the others to join in with a few good-naturedly snarky comments about the current administration. It was just after one of these situations when I found myself engaged in the following conversation:
Girl Across the Room: Why do you guys hate Obama so much? He's not doing that bad a job.
Me: I don't hate him, I just want him to not be president anymore.
GAtR: Oh, like McCain would have been so much better?
Me: No. In fact, Obama getting elected was probably the best thing to happen to this country, because now everyone's rallying back and saying no to socialism, and it's kind of awesome.
GAtR: ...You're CONSERVATIVE, aren't you?
Me: ...Why, yes, I am.
Nearby Hipster Chick: See, I'm totally all socialist-liberal. I'm so liberal I'm an anarchist.
Me: ....-spittake-
Hopefully the rest of you caught what was wrong with that statement as well, and are now struggling to hold in your laughter as the Hipster Chick glares at you from behind her long, unkempt bangs and thick mascara, oblivious as to what exactly is so funny.
The problem is that, while the linear political spectrum actually looks something like this:
For some reason, most people think it looks like this:
NOTE: I personally don't like to use the linear spectrum, as I feel it oversimplifies, and instead prefer the grid version with an axis each for social and fiscal liberalism vs. conservatism (as I myself am fiscally conservative but socially liberal.) Still, this is what we'll be using for the purpose of this discussion.
This completely floors me. The Left regularly attacks the Right for not regulating enough, and yet...they want to lay claim to anarchy? Um, what? Sorry, but liberal politics and anarchy are like, this far apart.
...-holds hands really far apart-
Yeah, like that. Now, as I've said, the linear spectrum oversimplifies, so I can see being so socially liberal that you're a social anarchist, because that's kind of where I fall as well. But Hipster Chick called herself a socialist, then immediately made the leap to anarchist. And unless that's like saying you're so uncool you're cool, or that the fabric you found at the thrift store is so ugly it's fashionably retro (or it will be once you get the cat pee and sour milk smells out of it), um, no. I can only assume this misconception came about because Socialism decided, at one point, that its buddy Facism, with whom it told everyone it only ever became friends out of pity, was not cool enough (especially after that whole Nazi thing) and that it wanted to be cool with those hip young kids and their rebelliousness, so it started going around saying "Oh yeah, me and Anarchy? Totally BFFs. We are so chilling right next to each other on the linear political spectrum all the time."
Anarchy, having no use for the organizational nature of any sort of spectrum, ignored all of this and went on defacing bathrooms and stealing preserved frogs from the biology lab.
Anyway, when I confronted Hipster Chick with this fact, she sort of stared at me for a minute and then went "Whatever, I'm an anarchist." Which is fine with me. Call yourself whatever the hell you want, vote however the hell you want, and feel free to argue with me about it, 'cause I'll be happy to argue back. But for the love of God, at least educate yourself on what you're arguing. Part of having conviction in your beliefs is knowing what the hell you're talking about.
Also, later in the class I overheard Hipster Chick and the girl who started all this ruckus blaming their parents for everything that was wrong in their lives. I'm not even going to say anything.
Believe it or not, there's actually something of a conservative cadre in my Drawing II class, and every now and then, before class starts, one of us will crack wise about some news item or other, leading the others to join in with a few good-naturedly snarky comments about the current administration. It was just after one of these situations when I found myself engaged in the following conversation:
Girl Across the Room: Why do you guys hate Obama so much? He's not doing that bad a job.
Me: I don't hate him, I just want him to not be president anymore.
GAtR: Oh, like McCain would have been so much better?
Me: No. In fact, Obama getting elected was probably the best thing to happen to this country, because now everyone's rallying back and saying no to socialism, and it's kind of awesome.
GAtR: ...You're CONSERVATIVE, aren't you?
Me: ...Why, yes, I am.
Nearby Hipster Chick: See, I'm totally all socialist-liberal. I'm so liberal I'm an anarchist.
Me: ....-spittake-
Hopefully the rest of you caught what was wrong with that statement as well, and are now struggling to hold in your laughter as the Hipster Chick glares at you from behind her long, unkempt bangs and thick mascara, oblivious as to what exactly is so funny.
The problem is that, while the linear political spectrum actually looks something like this:
For some reason, most people think it looks like this:
NOTE: I personally don't like to use the linear spectrum, as I feel it oversimplifies, and instead prefer the grid version with an axis each for social and fiscal liberalism vs. conservatism (as I myself am fiscally conservative but socially liberal.) Still, this is what we'll be using for the purpose of this discussion.
This completely floors me. The Left regularly attacks the Right for not regulating enough, and yet...they want to lay claim to anarchy? Um, what? Sorry, but liberal politics and anarchy are like, this far apart.
...-holds hands really far apart-
Yeah, like that. Now, as I've said, the linear spectrum oversimplifies, so I can see being so socially liberal that you're a social anarchist, because that's kind of where I fall as well. But Hipster Chick called herself a socialist, then immediately made the leap to anarchist. And unless that's like saying you're so uncool you're cool, or that the fabric you found at the thrift store is so ugly it's fashionably retro (or it will be once you get the cat pee and sour milk smells out of it), um, no. I can only assume this misconception came about because Socialism decided, at one point, that its buddy Facism, with whom it told everyone it only ever became friends out of pity, was not cool enough (especially after that whole Nazi thing) and that it wanted to be cool with those hip young kids and their rebelliousness, so it started going around saying "Oh yeah, me and Anarchy? Totally BFFs. We are so chilling right next to each other on the linear political spectrum all the time."
Anarchy, having no use for the organizational nature of any sort of spectrum, ignored all of this and went on defacing bathrooms and stealing preserved frogs from the biology lab.
Anyway, when I confronted Hipster Chick with this fact, she sort of stared at me for a minute and then went "Whatever, I'm an anarchist." Which is fine with me. Call yourself whatever the hell you want, vote however the hell you want, and feel free to argue with me about it, 'cause I'll be happy to argue back. But for the love of God, at least educate yourself on what you're arguing. Part of having conviction in your beliefs is knowing what the hell you're talking about.
Also, later in the class I overheard Hipster Chick and the girl who started all this ruckus blaming their parents for everything that was wrong in their lives. I'm not even going to say anything.
10/30/10
I'm a PC. I'm also an artist, dagnabbit!
I'm currently studying broad-spectrum visual arts at a local community college, because I can't afford real art school just yet, and one of the classes I have to take is Macintosh Basics, in keeping with the filthy lie that Macs are somehow just better for art and design.
Uh, what?
I've got some time on my hands before I have to go to work, so let's dissect this statement to find out just how furiously idiotic it is.
First off, what makes a computer 'good' for visual work? Processor speed and RAM, so it can keep up with the demands of whatever Adobe product you're using (I may not be a Mac snob, but I'm a proud Photoshop snob), and display quality, so you can see what you're doing. These things are not unique to Macs, nor does the Apple company produce any sort of superior hardware for these purposes. If you crack open your Mac, you're going to find pretty much the same bits and pieces that are in your Dell, only packed in there more tightly and with less ventilation. The only difference is that Dell hasn't charged you nearly as much for the Apple logo on the case, and your user interface isn't jam packed with flashy animations.
Which leads me to my second point, that Apple computers are an enormous scam. I went on their website to check the price of their lowest-end desktop. It's $1,200, for a 3 GB i3 processor, 4 GB of RAM, a 500 GB hard drive, a 256 MB graphics card, and a 21.5" display. I then went to the Dell website and priced a computer with equivalent specs; it came out to be just shy of $800, and that's with a monitor included and a bigger hard drive (the smallest option was 750 GB.) Congratulations, you just paid $400 for a brand name. Now, if you actually prefer your OS-whatever and your Apple logo, that's fine, as long as you recognize that you're spending extra money on gimmicks.
Finally, to put all of this in perspective, let's take a look at Gabriela, my desktop computer, with whom I make all of my digital art. I built her in 2007, and she cost about $800, with no operating system, monitor, mouse, or keyboard. She has a 3 GB dual core processor, a 500 GB hard drive, up to 8 GB of RAM (I only have 2 GB installed, because that's all I really need), and a 256 MB graphics card. Basically, her specs are just a bit shy of that Mac, despite the fact that she's three years old. Even if I include her OS and monitor, that's still about $1,000. For the same computer, three years ago. Who runs the latest version of Photoshop perfectly, in addition to being able to handle most PC games with the graphics set all the way up.
Don't kid yourself; your Mac is not any better for art, or anything, really, than my 3-year-old homebrew PC is. You just paid more so you can feel smugly superior in your Apple lifestyle. Ultimately, if you can live with yourself for that, it's none of my business, but don't force your beliefs on the rest of us.
Uh, what?
I've got some time on my hands before I have to go to work, so let's dissect this statement to find out just how furiously idiotic it is.
First off, what makes a computer 'good' for visual work? Processor speed and RAM, so it can keep up with the demands of whatever Adobe product you're using (I may not be a Mac snob, but I'm a proud Photoshop snob), and display quality, so you can see what you're doing. These things are not unique to Macs, nor does the Apple company produce any sort of superior hardware for these purposes. If you crack open your Mac, you're going to find pretty much the same bits and pieces that are in your Dell, only packed in there more tightly and with less ventilation. The only difference is that Dell hasn't charged you nearly as much for the Apple logo on the case, and your user interface isn't jam packed with flashy animations.
Which leads me to my second point, that Apple computers are an enormous scam. I went on their website to check the price of their lowest-end desktop. It's $1,200, for a 3 GB i3 processor, 4 GB of RAM, a 500 GB hard drive, a 256 MB graphics card, and a 21.5" display. I then went to the Dell website and priced a computer with equivalent specs; it came out to be just shy of $800, and that's with a monitor included and a bigger hard drive (the smallest option was 750 GB.) Congratulations, you just paid $400 for a brand name. Now, if you actually prefer your OS-whatever and your Apple logo, that's fine, as long as you recognize that you're spending extra money on gimmicks.
Finally, to put all of this in perspective, let's take a look at Gabriela, my desktop computer, with whom I make all of my digital art. I built her in 2007, and she cost about $800, with no operating system, monitor, mouse, or keyboard. She has a 3 GB dual core processor, a 500 GB hard drive, up to 8 GB of RAM (I only have 2 GB installed, because that's all I really need), and a 256 MB graphics card. Basically, her specs are just a bit shy of that Mac, despite the fact that she's three years old. Even if I include her OS and monitor, that's still about $1,000. For the same computer, three years ago. Who runs the latest version of Photoshop perfectly, in addition to being able to handle most PC games with the graphics set all the way up.
Don't kid yourself; your Mac is not any better for art, or anything, really, than my 3-year-old homebrew PC is. You just paid more so you can feel smugly superior in your Apple lifestyle. Ultimately, if you can live with yourself for that, it's none of my business, but don't force your beliefs on the rest of us.
10/11/10
It's only bad to begin with if you let it be.
So there's this thing on YouTube right now called "It Gets Better", where gay adults share their stories about being gay adults in the hope that gay teenagers will stop killing themselves in massive numbers. I considered making my own video for this cause, which would itself cover the same material to be discussed in this essay, but I decided not to expend the effort as I'm not quite an adult yet and don't really count, and also because what I have to say on the subject probably isn't what a lot of people want to hear. So here's the essay equivalent.
The issue of gay people ranting about how gays are perceived in society is a massive source of frustration for me. I myself faced abuse regarding my sexual orientation long before I actually came to terms with it, from the standard middle school idiots who thought that calling a girl who dressed plainly and who wasn't ready for boys yet a lesbian was some kind of insult. Quite frankly, it was just the latest thing in a string of "YOU ARE NOT LIKE US, THEREFORE WE MUST SAY MEAN THINGS TO YOU", which only really came about because homosexuality was just appearing on the collective radar of my age group at the time. Being made fun of for supposedly having sex with the best friend who was very dear to me was no different from being made fun of for not going to church, not saying the pledge of allegiance, not having a boyfriend, not listening to popular music or wearing popular clothes, or any of the other things I was regularly berated about by my peers. It was just another stupid thing that people said, and I spent many happy hours with my mom and dad eagerly brainstorming witty retorts I could use (my favorite in response to the lesbian question ended up being "Why, you got a sister?")
And actually I'm bisexual, so nyah.
Anyway, given that peer abuse was kind of a standard thing with me from third grade on, I was one of those kids the guidance counselors would always 'check in' on from time to time, and I never really got why. Kids said nasty things to me on the playground. So what? When I happened to mention that I was being called a lesbian with some regularity (in conjunction with having rocks thrown at me, which I found the more serious offense), the school staff got all gaspy and told me that I should have reported it immediately as 'sexual harrassment'. Yeah. Still people saying stupid things to me on the playground trying to be mean but ultimately coming off as idiots. It's annoying, but again, why do I care?
Why do ANY of you care? All of you teenagers who face harrassment because you're gay, WHY DO YOU LET THIS SHIT BOTHER YOU? Who cares who you want to go to bed with? Why do you need society's approval to be who you are? "It gets better", my ass -- 'it' can be as awesome as you want it to be the minute you stop giving a shit about what anyone else thinks of you. If you're happy with who you are and who you love, great. You don't need anyone else to be happy about it for you. Go about your life, live it to the fullest, and if anyone tries to bring you down, stand your ground and laugh at them. But no more of this bullshit that harassment over sexual orientation is just something that needs to be toughed out. It only hurts if you let it hurt you -- don't let these assholes run your lives.
The issue of gay people ranting about how gays are perceived in society is a massive source of frustration for me. I myself faced abuse regarding my sexual orientation long before I actually came to terms with it, from the standard middle school idiots who thought that calling a girl who dressed plainly and who wasn't ready for boys yet a lesbian was some kind of insult. Quite frankly, it was just the latest thing in a string of "YOU ARE NOT LIKE US, THEREFORE WE MUST SAY MEAN THINGS TO YOU", which only really came about because homosexuality was just appearing on the collective radar of my age group at the time. Being made fun of for supposedly having sex with the best friend who was very dear to me was no different from being made fun of for not going to church, not saying the pledge of allegiance, not having a boyfriend, not listening to popular music or wearing popular clothes, or any of the other things I was regularly berated about by my peers. It was just another stupid thing that people said, and I spent many happy hours with my mom and dad eagerly brainstorming witty retorts I could use (my favorite in response to the lesbian question ended up being "Why, you got a sister?")
And actually I'm bisexual, so nyah.
Anyway, given that peer abuse was kind of a standard thing with me from third grade on, I was one of those kids the guidance counselors would always 'check in' on from time to time, and I never really got why. Kids said nasty things to me on the playground. So what? When I happened to mention that I was being called a lesbian with some regularity (in conjunction with having rocks thrown at me, which I found the more serious offense), the school staff got all gaspy and told me that I should have reported it immediately as 'sexual harrassment'. Yeah. Still people saying stupid things to me on the playground trying to be mean but ultimately coming off as idiots. It's annoying, but again, why do I care?
Why do ANY of you care? All of you teenagers who face harrassment because you're gay, WHY DO YOU LET THIS SHIT BOTHER YOU? Who cares who you want to go to bed with? Why do you need society's approval to be who you are? "It gets better", my ass -- 'it' can be as awesome as you want it to be the minute you stop giving a shit about what anyone else thinks of you. If you're happy with who you are and who you love, great. You don't need anyone else to be happy about it for you. Go about your life, live it to the fullest, and if anyone tries to bring you down, stand your ground and laugh at them. But no more of this bullshit that harassment over sexual orientation is just something that needs to be toughed out. It only hurts if you let it hurt you -- don't let these assholes run your lives.
9/15/10
America is owning one's own vehicle.
Slightly more than a month ago, although it seems longer to me now, I came to possess that symbol of rebellious teenage freedom, my own car. I don't know if it the freedom it symbolizes for me personally is of the rebellious teenager variety any longer, as I'm nearly 20 years old, but it was still a big deal. I'd put off learning to drive simply because I had absolutely nowhere I needed to be able to take myself, and also because both of my parents' cars were manual transmission, which is even trickier to learn when you're still getting used to moving a whole car around in addition to having to shift. Unfortunately, when I started school and found a new job, I really, really needed to be able to drive like, immediately, and after a good eight hours of driving lessons and nearly six months of tooling around the Ohio countryside in my mother's brand new Prius, I finally acquired my license. Around the same time my mom happened to locate a used car for me, and given the convenient timing and the fact that it was inexpensive and in wonderful condition, we decided that it had to be the one. No complaints so far.
Later that day, as I stood in the driveway admiring my new car (it was hard to do much else that weekend, and I still find myself gazing out into the car park through my bedroom window from time to time), my father said to me, in essence, "You know, there's something quintessentially American about having a car and being able to take yourself places without relying on anyone else. It really captures our spirit of independence. Just think, if you wanted to, you could go out for a drive just for the sake of it!"
Of course, my response, being the pragmatic pessimist that I am, was "What, and waste perfectly good gas? That stuff's expensive!"
But today, as I threaded my way into a parking space in front of the shop where I purchase my hair color, closed the sunroof, and turned off my iPod, I thought, wow. A month ago I would have had to ask my mom to drive me out here, or waited until she was going out to run errands anyway. But here I am, with my own car, fueled by gas that I paid for with money from my crappy part-time job, with the wind in my hair and Nomico twittering Bad Apple!! at a potentially lethal volume through the stereo, about to buy a new coating of purple for my hair. How amazingly awesome is that? How uniquely American!
I think that the reason that car lust is such an innately American thing is because, between centuries of group-mentality societal practices and the fact that things are just closer together, independent transportation isn't as big a deal for most of the rest of the world. A car is just another thing that needs to be purchased and maintained, and when you're living in an urban area with trains and buses a-plenty, it's unnecessary. Here, or at least in the Midwest, where I live, not only do we have an ancestral mentality whereby doing things yourself is the preferred course of action, but also plenty of wide open spaces to be traversed that make setting up trains incredibly costly and inefficient. Hence the necessity of the car to be able to go anywhere at all, and hence the amazing romanticization of it.
My car isn't even anything particularly fancy. It's a red 2002 Ford ZX2 with over 100,000 miles on it and an idle that's so rumbly it's like sitting in a massage chair at red lights. Still, it's my own little bubble where everything is the way I want it. I control how far down the windows are or how high the A/C is, and if I want to drive around blasting selections from the Twilight* soundtrack, that's my business. Eating and drinking are permitted, although trash goes in the grocery bag on the floor, thank you very much. My car tells people everything they need to know about me, from the Aperture Science parking pass on the windshield to the Gadsden Flag on the rear window, to the "What Would Gordon Freeman Do?" and "Kayabuki/Aramaki 2012" stickers on the back bumper. While public transportation may be more economical in some respects, no amount of frugality can ever replace the sense of independence that comes from owning a car. God bless America.
*Note: Born Contrarian Amalgamated Enterprises LLC does not endorse the Twilight franchise, except as snark bait - the first movie had a bitchin' soundtrack is all.
Later that day, as I stood in the driveway admiring my new car (it was hard to do much else that weekend, and I still find myself gazing out into the car park through my bedroom window from time to time), my father said to me, in essence, "You know, there's something quintessentially American about having a car and being able to take yourself places without relying on anyone else. It really captures our spirit of independence. Just think, if you wanted to, you could go out for a drive just for the sake of it!"
Of course, my response, being the pragmatic pessimist that I am, was "What, and waste perfectly good gas? That stuff's expensive!"
But today, as I threaded my way into a parking space in front of the shop where I purchase my hair color, closed the sunroof, and turned off my iPod, I thought, wow. A month ago I would have had to ask my mom to drive me out here, or waited until she was going out to run errands anyway. But here I am, with my own car, fueled by gas that I paid for with money from my crappy part-time job, with the wind in my hair and Nomico twittering Bad Apple!! at a potentially lethal volume through the stereo, about to buy a new coating of purple for my hair. How amazingly awesome is that? How uniquely American!
I think that the reason that car lust is such an innately American thing is because, between centuries of group-mentality societal practices and the fact that things are just closer together, independent transportation isn't as big a deal for most of the rest of the world. A car is just another thing that needs to be purchased and maintained, and when you're living in an urban area with trains and buses a-plenty, it's unnecessary. Here, or at least in the Midwest, where I live, not only do we have an ancestral mentality whereby doing things yourself is the preferred course of action, but also plenty of wide open spaces to be traversed that make setting up trains incredibly costly and inefficient. Hence the necessity of the car to be able to go anywhere at all, and hence the amazing romanticization of it.
My car isn't even anything particularly fancy. It's a red 2002 Ford ZX2 with over 100,000 miles on it and an idle that's so rumbly it's like sitting in a massage chair at red lights. Still, it's my own little bubble where everything is the way I want it. I control how far down the windows are or how high the A/C is, and if I want to drive around blasting selections from the Twilight* soundtrack, that's my business. Eating and drinking are permitted, although trash goes in the grocery bag on the floor, thank you very much. My car tells people everything they need to know about me, from the Aperture Science parking pass on the windshield to the Gadsden Flag on the rear window, to the "What Would Gordon Freeman Do?" and "Kayabuki/Aramaki 2012" stickers on the back bumper. While public transportation may be more economical in some respects, no amount of frugality can ever replace the sense of independence that comes from owning a car. God bless America.
*Note: Born Contrarian Amalgamated Enterprises LLC does not endorse the Twilight franchise, except as snark bait - the first movie had a bitchin' soundtrack is all.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)