February 28, 2004

Merged Illusions!

Kermit and Minnie? I don't know if I like the combination. I mean, what about Miss Piggy (she needs her Kermie), and poor Mickey without his lady fair?

kermit_mickey.jpg Muppet Central

Or could this all be some sort of integration within the cartoon world. Expanding horizons. None of them are married. I think.

Could this partnering be the spawn of the Barbie and Ken breakup>? I really don't know.

Muppets and Disney...As terrible as Cinderella 2? I hope not.

Eisner has more important things to worry about, I suppose.

Posted by Amanda Cochran at 1:23 PM | Comments (8)

February 26, 2004

Fainting passion

I watched Gibson's The Passion of the Christ this afternoon, and I didn't expect to be so emotionally--and physically--affected. The physical effect is much more unique, however.

I fainted.

I was sitting in the theater, bearing the hours of Christ's torture and I got really hot and saw black spotches across my eyes, and I began to get incredibly dizzy.

I was sitting next to my guy pal, Matt. I said in the most theater-friendly voice that I could, "I think I am going to faint."

"What?" he said, looking over at me.

"I have to go."

So I got up in the middle of the nail-hammering scene and proceeded to the ladies room where I sat on the floor, my head between my knees, hoping to get the dizziness to subside.

After the dizziness left, I went back into my theater. Or so I thought. I couldn't find my seat, or Matt. I was in the wrong theater. There were three showings going on at the same time!! I looked everywhere in all of the theaters, but I didn't feel great about shouting, "Matt are you in here?" through the theater that was experiencing the Crucifixion. So I just sat down and watched the ending of one of the most moving, gruesome films I have ever seen.

As it turns out, Matt wondered where I was, so he left to look for me, and he missed the ending. I felt horrible.

We eventually found each other in the lobby.

I have never been physically sickened by a film, much less faint at one. I tend to think I can handle many things. I have even watched those surgeries on The Discovery Channel, but this was different.

I can't get over it. I still see the red. This isn't a bad thing, though. Not only expressing the horror and pain, the red makes me remember that I can be new again by its presence. What a wonderful thing.

And I loved it when the devil started screaming when Jesus died. What a contradiction between earthly and heavenly matters! That death was a victory.

And then the director. I think every director wants their film to be remembered; Gibson takes the savior's sacrifice past the dark theater, past the buttery lobby, and into our hearts for a long while. I admire his strength to keep this project going. His money has not been wasted.

I just wouldn't see it again.

Posted by Amanda Cochran at 7:04 PM | Comments (5)

February 24, 2004

Anonymous Coward

I have copied this title from my professor's blog. Some of you may be noticing the new claim at the top of my blog: "Comments without valid e-mail addresses will be deleted."

I know that the person creating a stir on my last controversial entry does not have the e-mail he/she listed. I do not know who this "Michael" is; however, when I wanted to thank him for his last statement in an e-mail, I discovered that the one provided is not real. In short, blunt terms: Anonymous Coward.

Of course I will not screen every e-mail that comes my way, but I want to promote true identity on my blog. So please, if you do not like me or what I have to say, say it with your own digital self; I will definitely hold what you are saying--good or pitilessly evil--in a more positive light.

Mr. Anderson is sometimes better than Neo.

Posted by Amanda Cochran at 10:56 PM | Comments (7)

February 23, 2004

Shrilling Red

With tingles, she heard the gravel crunching underfoot and nothing else. Time to ride away now, tuck in the heavy black accessory. His face was smeared with red. Good. She smiled, pulling out her lipstick and put on another smooth coat: lighter than the crimson that marred his temple.

Posted by Amanda Cochran at 2:03 AM | Comments (3)

February 20, 2004

Call me! A Cell Phone Rant

In response to Miss Julie Young's Setonian article I say speak it sista.

I have seen people that walk around the mall with a phone to their ear, talking to no one--anyone--in an obnoxiously loud voice so everyone will know that they are cool enough to have someone call them.

And I do have a cell. I hate it now. I never wanted it. And my mom and dad can keep an even tighter grip on my personal (almost non-existent) life. I mean, I am staying at home, right? What else do they need? A leash? Well, that is where I come to my point; a cell is the most expensive leash one can have.

I have one of those kyocera-lara-I-don't-know-how-to-spell Virgin Mobile jobbies that cost an arm and literally both of your legs and your personal time--working. And that is a major point of conversation among avid users: the nastiness of paying the huge $700 a month bill for their yapping. Mine is prepaid, but it is still expensive to call, and watching the amount deplete is kind of depressing.

However, there are some benefits. I like the games on my phone--a really slow version of the Atari game Breakout and Tetris.

I miss every call that I get (I put my phone on vibrate for class because I care about my classmates).

And what is going on with the phone sex in front of everyone? Do these people have no sense of propriety or taste? Not that I am so secretive or things to hide, but is it really their business what I am saying to my sister, my mom, or Karissa? (That's right. I am that pathetic. I have the shortest address list in the history of cells.) No. Absolutely not.

So what is my reaction to all this cell phone fluff? Hunker down. Hold on. My phone just rang. :-)

Posted by Amanda Cochran at 1:59 PM | Comments (5)

February 19, 2004

In-Class Debates

If anyone knows me, they know how much I love a good debate. But when do we draw the line?

"You have no idea what you are talking about! You didn't even read the case!"

"Don't @#$# with me," said the student, a finger pointed at his classmate, a vein sticking out of his neck.

Today in my corporate communications class I thought I would see fists 'a flyin. We were to be informally debating the communication strategy of Disney during a crisis and many of my classmates passionately raged at each other. And the raging was not even about the case or the subject, but focused on the oratory skills--or lack of--in their classmates.

Will we ever learn how to debate without anger? Can't we present opposing views without screaming our lungs out or interrupting the other person?

I have been guilty of this during many debates, but I promise HENCEFORTH to try to be a better debater--one that fights fair.

A good argument should be based upon good points, not the leatherness of one's lungs. Unfortunately, in my experience of class debates I have found this to be the case. I guess the excessively squeaky and obnoxious wheel does get the grease.

Posted by Amanda Cochran at 5:48 PM | Comments (0)

February 18, 2004

Squirrely campus

The squirrels have risen from their acorn shell infested lairs to search for more nuts. Fortunately there are many on the SHU campus. (pardon the pun/or if you would like--agree with it).

You know that they have come back when your tires come close to crunching one. My life is just like that Geico commercial.

I am happy to see the little scamps running across campus again, Leaping at passersby with incredible height; I bet at least a foot and a half. Fortunately they stay away from me personally--which is a definite relief.

Squirrels! Who knows? Maybe the other rodent will emerge.

Posted by Amanda Cochran at 3:23 PM | Comments (10)

February 17, 2004

Setonian challenges

I have been a writer for The Setonian since this past fall. I have never gotten an assignment in on-time for various unmentioned reasons. I have to be the worst journalism major in the history of SHU.

Anyway, I have been faced in the last three assignments with several obstacles. First it was the Black History Month article. I felt, as a white writer, I would not do justice to the story, and my reporting would be a biased representation. Thankfully that story has gone to print without any retractions.

The second challenge occurred with the J-Term article I was to do for the Mexico trip. As it turns out, the Mexico trip was not a J-Term and I did not have an article.

Now I am working on an article that discusses the student athlete study halls. Do you like them? What are the drawbacks? Etc.

Yesterday, I stayed on-campus to interview some of the baseball players for the article. I went to Sullivan and waited for their practice at 3:30. When 3:00 rolled around, I went up to the gym level (smelling of man, sweat, and wet terrycloth) and approached one of the players, assuming he would have ONE minute to spare.

He said that he would talk to me some other time. RIGHT!

So I calmly excused myself, softly calling him a jerk repeatedly down the spiral staircase.

Then I got the wounded ones in the trainer's office. You would be surprised what you can get out of aching, incapacitated men who are already irritable about being laid up and still have to attend study halls :-)

Yes, these assignments have been a challenge, some stinky, but I am learning so much from this practicum.

In the past I have asked myself many questions about my journalistic future. When I have to report on a murder victim that has been decomposing for a month in the hot summer sun how will I react, or when I talk to an irresponsive politician or CEO how will I get my quote? Now I have a better idea: with nose plugs and a good dose of confidence from SHU news writing.

Posted by Amanda Cochran at 7:36 PM | Comments (23)

I liked it

As You Like It was liked. At least by the last two rows of the audience (at first).

I thought something was wrong when I laughed at Touchstone's first appearance. Then I realized that much of the audience was comprised primarily by 10-12 year olds from Aquinas Academy that did not understand many of Shakespeare's wonderfully bawdy verbal double meanings. To be expected I suppose. I felt very worldly sitting there knowing what he meant.

I laughed anyway. Occasionally I heard a giggle to my left.

I have never been to an SHU theater production that I did not love/like. The cast did not disappoint.

As You Like It not only displayed the actor's ability to act, but also their mental capacities to memorize huge amounts of Shakespearian text. Rosalind, Orlando and Touchstone specifically, spoke with an authority over their lines that I have never seen.

And kudos to the former blogging sparring partner that played Jaques. I could feel the melancholy, serious, and reflective character coming through. Great job. Too bad he couldn't have a wench like Audrey for his own :)

Shakespeare, songs, dancing, a happy ending and cross-dressing: all the ingredients for an entertaining afternoon at SHU.

Posted by Amanda Cochran at 6:19 PM | Comments (7)

February 16, 2004

Into Hues

A turn at the rosey corner,
A swipe on the blue.

Not now;
Not in this place.

Brush--Slather the blotched red.
Heating the frame.

Not this minute.
Not this time.

Tint with yellow--light!
Please, wipe the gray.

No.
Not today.

"I lost my colors in the sandbox.
The pretty ones.
I have one left."

Never us.

Posted by Amanda Cochran at 7:07 PM | Comments (2)

February 13, 2004

Final Product: A Boxed Affair

The entire short story...ending and all.

The pairs of footsteps stopped clacking the granite floor as the elevator button, tarnished yellow from too many pushes, lit.
With long gray hair in disarrayed braids, Grace let her cane thump faintly against the polished surface, heading toward the shadowed gold opening. Two people stood closely together left of the door.
Grace noticed the young lady first. A lady, maybe, but she played the part to Grace’s eyes well: the pink tweed was tailored to the best advantage of her slim form and her shoes matched the pink perfectly. Then Grace angled her gaze to the tall middle-aged fellow at the young lady’s side. With a neatly clipped beard and a prodigious comb-over of Men’s Grecian Formula, he insisted on touching the glossy lit button like a child caressing his favorite Aggie. Grace waited in silence, listening to the pair converse in the brusque tones of business.
“You see Mr. Fromwell, I have many plans that I would like to incorporate here. Fromwell & Fromwell needs someone to promote the image of wholesomeness in family justice this firm embodies,” the young woman gushed with a pink hue tinting her cheek.
“I think I am just the person you need,” she said with excessive conviction, leaning toward him, raising her eyes to his. “Just give me a chance. I’m sure I won’t let you down,” she whispered with a grin.
“Yes, well, we could talk this over for lunch. Are you free, Miss Faith?” a light baritone responded.
He stepped a bit closer and looked into Faith’s eyes.
“I don’t believe I have anything planned. I would love to go, Mr. Fromwell.”
“Call me Henry, please,” Fromwell said with a hesitant smile. “We could go to Georgiania’s over on Fifth…Have you ever been there before?”
“No—”
A muffled ding called from the rectangle, and the slow door opened the dam of briefcases, suits, and pumps—a rapid flow that left as quickly as it had come.
Clutching a purse as large as her head, Grace turned toward the elevator.
The couple was already inside. Fromwell took Faith’s hand and quickly pressed it to his lips, then returned it to the small space between their bodies. A conqueror’s smile slashed Faith’s porcelain features.
Grace shuffled toward the entrance, glancing down between the cracks, then to the couple, as she walked onto the elevator’s carpet.
Turned away, Grace stood in front of them, looking at the grimy yellow buttons. Mr. Fromwell leaned close to Grace’s shoulder and pushed the button for the first floor, dingier than the rest.
“Do you need a floor?” he asked with indulgence looking down at her unkempt gray hair.
“No, I am going down too,” Grace said, fiddling with the strap on her purse as the door closed.
Sighing softly, the young woman looked to the tiled gold ceiling. “What’s good at Georgiania’s Mr. Fromwell—Henry?” she quickly added with an alluring smile.
“Well, I usually have the—”
Stopped in mid-sentence, Mr. Fromwell looked at the numbers above the door; the lights were between one and two. The elevator drifted to a complete stop sluggishly.
“Damn, one more floor and we would have been out.”
Now at Grace’s side, Fromwell opened the emergency call box and held the receiver to his ear, waiting for an answer.
“Nothing,” he muttered. “Damn people. It looks like we’ll miss Georgiana’s today,” he said, a frown puckering his shiny forehead. “I suggest we all sit. We may be in here a while.”
Grace knelt with a grunt, holding onto the gold handles that circled the interior and sat with an audible thud in the buttoned corner of the car, her cane resting at her hip. Following suit, Faith splayed her manicured nails over her Henry’s forearm for support, and then softly placed herself on the carpet in the center. Finally Fromwell sat with legs outstretched, crossed at the ankles, looking toward Grace with a newfound awareness.
“Well, we might introduce ourselves. I am Henry Fromwell, and this is Faith Aster,” he said turning himself toward Faith.
Grace lifted her head from her purse and nodded.
“I’m Grace Gibson.”
“Are you any relation to the late Hugh Gibson, CEO of the GI Oil Company, Ms. Gibson?” Fromwell asked.
“Mrs. Gibson, Mr. Fromwell. I am the ex Mrs. Hugh Gibson. I came today to hear my ex-husband’s will.”
“You see,” she said raising her head higher, her green eyes shrewdly scanning them, “my husband had an affair with his secretary about ten years into our marriage. It took me eight more years to divorce him, but I did it.”
“I am very sorry,” Fromwell said in an overly sympathetic tone. “He was one of our best clients; my brother handled his case specifically. I am so sorry for your loss.”
“Well, yes I am too,” an edge rising in her voice.
Readjusting her leather purse handles, she said quietly, “And then I left his little mansion over on Camille Avenue. I was alone. No man. No money. That’s what it was like back then. Couples didn’t get divorced,” she said as if reciting from a rule book.
Shifting her girth on the carpet, she fixed her eyes on the door.
“My family, everyone that I loved, was gone—including him. I did love him.”
“His secretary,” Faith interrupted, combing her long blond strands through her fingers, her eyes fixed on the split ends. “That must have really hurt. Such a cliché.”
“Well honey, the movies got that cliché from people like us. He lived with her for fourteen years after we divorced, quite the ‘modern’ couple,” she said with an ironic smile, tilting her head back. “I was quite surprised to hear from his lawyer when he died last Tuesday.”
“What happened?” Faith said, leaning her elbow on her crossed knee, looking closely at Grace.
“You mean today?” Grace asked.
“Yes,” Faith responded flipping her hair back from her face.
Grace opened her mouth to speak when squealing cables sounded overhead.
“Looks like we’re getting out of here,” Fromwell said.
“Yes, it would appear so,” said Grace, gathering her skirts. Fromwell grabbed her arm, helping her rise from her sitting position. Grace fixed her eyes on his left hand.
“What a beautiful band, Mr. Fromwell. How long have you been married?” Grace asked, slinging her purse over a shoulder.
“Um…s-seventeen years, I believe.” Fromwell responded.
Faith looked at him unflinchingly.
“And you, Faith—was it? How about you?” Grace said, causing Faith to blink.
“No, I am not married,” she said with a blush.
The elevator began to move, and the light flicked to one and slowly opened.
“Did you receive anything in the will, Mrs. Gibson?” Mr. Fromwell said, allowing her to step out before him.
“Why yes,” she said walking slowly to the revolving door in the lobby, her cane thumping once more. “He gave me everything: the company, the stocks, the houses. But it doesn’t mean anything now.”
A lone tear welled up in her wrinkled eye and settled on her gray hair.
“He taped it all, you know,” Grace said, another tear escaping her left eye’s corner, “on one of those VCR things. He made it about a year ago… He said he’d loved me all of those years, regretted every moment we had apart. He was too ashamed, too old to try again…We both were.”
She stepped inside the revolving door compartment and quickened her deliberate step with the swinging pace of the door.
Grace waited outside the building on a rusting metal bench when Faith left alone, a frown marring her comely visage. Mr. Fromwell stepped out of the building, a cell phone to his ear. Grace watched him pass—listening—a small smile smoothing her wrinkled face.
“No, honey,” Grace heard on the wind, “I won’t be having lunch at Georgiana’s today.”

Posted by Amanda Cochran at 4:48 PM | Comments (6)

Imaginative Power of Cleaning

While cleaning the sty I live in this evening, I was mesmerized by the loud whir of the vacuum cleaner (I call it a sweeper--is that a western PA thing?). Anyway, the sweeper makes me think.

Instead of looking at the dirt and wondering how I will get all of this done, I think about the people that made this mess, the places they will go, the things we have all been doing; I fantasize about riding the sweeper to the moon...I let my mind wander without its usual pink leash.

Scrubbing the tub and mopping the floor (with my pal: Mr. Clean) are also very contemplative tasks. Though I felt quite the anti-feminist this evening, I felt my mind travel to places I have not been in a long while. Traveling, discovering. I was in Mexico with my mother, riding horses in the mountains, playing croquet with John Mayer. Heck an evening with your own imagination, the whir of the deafening sweeper in your ears, is better than a novel any day.

My hands are a bit waterlogged and Mr. Clean has left his cologne on me. Ugh. Cleaning makes me ugly and smelly. Gotta go.

Posted by Amanda Cochran at 12:13 AM | Comments (6)

February 12, 2004

To You

A virtual Hello Kitty valentine to all my blogging pals, that is, to the ones I didn't give an actual salutation feline valentine. Though this one isn't as cute as "cutie pie's" or "best friend's" valentines, I hope this one will suffice. :-D

44.jpg
Hello Kitty pretty pics

Happy Valentine's Day from Girl Meets World
Posted by Amanda Cochran at 6:28 PM | Comments (1)

How many in house?

160 people in an Arizona house!!! Can you believe it?

How many people could I fit in my home? At least 40 could fit in my closet. Hmmm. I think if they were "sitting shoulder to shoulder, back to back," I think at least 200, that is if they could stand my nasty basement. :-)Stranger things have happened.

**My lit class has been freed of iambic pentameter days. Prose is god! Poetry is of the angels. Iambic pentameter is evil.**

Posted by Amanda Cochran at 6:05 PM | Comments (0)

February 11, 2004

A'Calling

To heaven I shall ring one day, yes ring;
In cries and sobs of misery will sound
On my end, depair--strife lives here at home.
At call's end, I will live a-knowing soon
The sky is ever blue in that place--Grace.

Posted by Amanda Cochran at 11:41 PM | Comments (1)

February 9, 2004

More of the story

Here's another chunk of the story. You may have to read through the intro again. Or if you haven't read it before ENJOY! *Understand this: this is a work in progress that does need critiques. Yell at me if you wish!

The pairs of steps stopped clacking the granite floor as the button, tarnished yellow from too many pushes, lit.
With long gray hair in disarrayed braids, Grace let her cane thump faintly against the polished surface.
Grace noticed the young lady first, for she knew she was a lady, with all that tailored pink tweed. Then she angled her gaze to the tall middle-aged fellow at the young lady’s side; with a neatly clipped beard and a prodigious comb-over of Men’s Grecian Formula, the man insisted on pressing the glossy lit button like a child caressing his favorite Aggie. Grace waited in silence, listening to the pair converse in the brusque tones of business.
“You see Mr. Fromwell, I have many plans that I would like to incorporate here at Fromwell & Fromwell,” the young woman gushed with a pink hue tinting her cheek, “I think I am just the person you need to promote this firm’s image of wholesomeness in family justice. Just give me a chance. I am sure I won’t let you down.”
“Yes, well, we could talk this over for lunch. Are you free, Miss Faith?” a light baritone responded.
He stepped a bit closer and looked into Faith’s eyes.
“I don’t believe I have anything planned. I would love to go, Mr. Fromwell.”
“Henry, please. We could go to Georgiania’s over on Fifth…Have you ever been there before?”
“No—”
A muffled ding called from the rectangle, and the slow door opened the dam of briefcases, suits, and pumps; a flow that left as quickly as it had come.
Clinging to a purse as large as her head, Grace slowly emerged from her concealed spot behind a great potted fern, pushing the boughs out of her eyes.
The couple was already inside the elevator. Standing side-by-side, Mr. Fromwell, held Faith’s hand to his chest for a moment and brought it to rest at his side, a smile slashing Faith’s porcelain features.
Grace shuffled toward the entrance, hesitating, looking down between the cracks, as she made the last pregnant steps onto the short, gray carpet.
Grace stood in front of them, looking at the grimy yellow buttons, as the Mr. Fromwell, leaned close to her shoulder and pushed the button for the first floor, dingier than the rest.
“Do you need a floor?” he asked with indulgence looking down at Grace’s long hair.
“No, I am going down too,” Grace said, fiddling with the strap on her purse as the door closed.
Sighing softly, the young woman looked to the tiled gold ceiling. “What’s good at Georgiania’s Mr. Fromwell—Henry?” she quickly added with an alluring smile.
“Well, I usually have the—”
Stopped in mid-sentence, Mr. Fromwell looked at the numbers above the door; the lights were between one and two. The elevator drifted to a complete stop sluggishly.
“Damn, one more floor and we would have been out.”
Now at Grace’s side, Fromwell opened the emergency call box and held the receiver to his ear, waiting for an answer.
“Nothing,” he muttered. “Damn people. It looks like we’ll miss Georgiana’s today,” a frown puckering his shiny forehead. “I suggest we all sit. We may be in here a while.”
Grace knelt with a grunt, holding onto the gold handles that circled the interior and sat with an audible thud in the buttoned corner of the car, her cane resting at her hip. Following suit, Faith splayed her manicured nails over her Henry’s forearm for support, and then softly placed herself on the carpet in the center. Finally Fromwell sat with legs outstretched, crossed at the ankles, looking toward Grace with a newfound awareness.
“Well, we might introduce ourselves. I am Henry Fromwell, and this is Faith Aster,” he said turning himself toward Faith.
Grace lifted her head from her purse and nodded.
“I’m Grace Gibson.”
“What brings you to Fromwell & Fromwell, Ms. Gibson?” Fromwell said, taking obvious interest at the mentioning of the newly-deceased billionaire’s name.
“Mrs. Gibson, Mr. Fromwell. I am the ex-Mrs. Gibson. I came today to hear my ex-husband’s will. You see,” she said raising her head higher, her green eyes shrewdly scanning them, “my husband found a woman in his office, his secretary. That was after ten years of marriage. It took me eight more years to divorce him, and all the while I knew it.”
“I am very sorry,” Fromwell said in an overly sympathetic tone.
“Well, yes I am too,” an edge rising in her voice.

Posted by Amanda Cochran at 8:40 PM | Comments (1)

Vote on a Quote

"There are as many forms of love as there are moments in time."--Edmund, Mansfield Park

"Poetry is a celebration of emotional excess."--Cathy Helterbran, writing mentor

"In later years they change face, place, and maybe races, tactics, intensities and goals, but beneath those penetrable masks they wear forever the the stocking-capped faces of childhood."--Maya Angelou, writer.

Can you guess mine?

Posted by Amanda Cochran at 8:28 PM | Comments (4)

Compressing and other things

While writing my short story for Intro to Lit, I found that my wordiness is not the only crutch; the complex plot, the characters, and overall tone, I want to convey is enough to fill 25 pages. Three or four pages is going to be tough.

Commenting on Tiffany's blog has made me mindful of my own writing style. How paranoid I have become!!

With such a short piece, I find myself hacking away at the descriptions I love. And I must say, this is great for journalistic lead writing. Just get the story out there, I suppose, and embellish only if necessary in directing the plot forward.

The show v. tell monster once more rearing its ugly head, though I do think I have gotten better. I try to read my story aloud to catch any typos or messy language, telling language, such as "she felt cold." I now write: "shivering with fierceness, she turned to the heater and felt its rays of light sear her skin with warmth."

My sentences are always long. When I was an intern at my local paper, I wrote articles with semi-colons. IN ARTICLES!! A great big no-no. Though I have developed journalistically since then, I do tend to write in lengthy sentences for other writings. I have been attempting to write in simple sentences more often, and punctuate without so much drama or passion. Imagine that: passionate punctuation.

With my story concocted, I find the greatest challenge in revising. When I go back, taking out the unnecessary words. Both Strunk & White and this short story group mention this as an essential. I have deleted some of my favorite sections in the name of this rule, but there is some consolation in knowing that you can use them in future pieces.

Though writing an original piece of fiction is a challenge, because I take from many influences, I think this story documents my changing writing style; I am not so inhibited by who is reading it; I focus on what message/theme I am portraying.

Posted by Amanda Cochran at 6:07 PM | Comments (0)

Four-Hundred Comments!

Thank you everyone for the amazing comments I have received over the past months. I appreciate all the things I have heard from the SHU blogosphere and from my pal, Paige.

The 400th comment, if you want to know was, ironically enough, by the "ultimate comment gal" Tiffany Brattina.

Posted by Amanda Cochran at 2:56 PM | Comments (6)

February 7, 2004

Yella Rose

Did anyone know that all of Emily Dickinson's poems can be sung to "The Yellow Rose of Texas"? (Thanks Dr. Jerz)

hehe

All together now!!!

Posted by Amanda Cochran at 5:07 PM | Comments (0)

February 6, 2004

Kazaa Mates!

"This is a knee-jerk reaction by the recording industry to discredit Sharman Networks and the Kazaa software, following a number of recent court decisions around the world that have ruled against the entertainment industry's agenda to stamp out peer-to-peer technology," the company said in a prepared statement.

The Kazaa kingdom may be faltering. Though I haven't used this software (and will not), I have heard from many classmates that this is supposedly lawful.

Hmmm. Maybe not. In Australia, official are raiding the offices of Kazaa employees. No happy corporate kangaroos down under today.

Posted by Amanda Cochran at 6:32 PM | Comments (5)

Show to remember

Karissa and I started the night in grand style: cell phone saber wars. Karissa has a green cell and I have a blue one, we had a wonderful time making Star Wars sounds with our lit cells in the van. Teehee.

Karissa and I saw Rent last night, and I must say that the people who commented on my first entry about the event were correct: it was an amazing show, but it was nothing compared to the after-show escapades.

Though I was confused at certain parts of the show, I got the general gist of the whole thing. I have never seen a modern musical before--I am used to long and melodious ballads, but even the long melodious ballads of Rent were rather twisted (in a good way) by the rock that permeated the entire performance.

Two performers specifically stand out in my mind, a young woman and man singing "Seasons of Love." I get goosebumps sitting here thinking about that high note she belted and the deep richness of the man's baritone that strangely, yet wonderfully, reached into bass land too.

Anyway, the show was great, and everyone had a good time UNTIL-DON DON DON. We tried to find the parking lot and the SHU van. We walked an incredibly long distance from Heinz Hall to the Benedum Center on ice to get to the parking garage--which wasn't even ours. While Karissa and I were freaking out, the entire group seemed unfazed.

"Oh, we are just in the middle of Pittsburgh, and everything is peachy. Look at that cute homeless man. I just love walking on ice." (Just a small indicator of their conversation.)

So we were lost. Where is the garage. Trudging out into the ice/rain mix, we headed back toward Heinz--me in my pretty black HEELS. Thank you, Karissa for saving me when I almost slid into that split in the middle of the street. :-)

People with long legs walk way too quickly, and skinny guys with accents can be cute even when they have lost the van, and especially so when they almost fall getting out to pump gas. hehe. Sorry just thought I would document that moment.

Well we finally found the van, and well, we made two wrong turns and ended up taking an entra half hour to get home. What a night. Special thanks goes out to Karissa and roomie, Mel, for their hospitality in letting me stay over. :-) I was in blogger heaven!!!

Posted by Amanda Cochran at 10:41 AM | Comments (1)

February 5, 2004

An Elevated Ride

A Little Diddy for all to enjoy:

Pairs of steps clacked the granite floor, as the button lit up in a tarnished yellow from too many pushes. With long gray hair in disarrayed braids, Grace let her cane thump faintly against the polished surface. Standing behind them, Grace noticed the young lady first, for she knew she was a lady, with all that tailored tweed. Then she angled her gaze to the tall middle-aged fellow at the young lady’s side; with a neatly clipped beard and a prodigious comb-over, the man insisted on pressing the glossy lit button like a child caressing his favorite Aggie. Grace waited in silence, listening to the pair converse in the brusque tones of business.
“You see Mr. Fromwell, I have many plans that I would like to incorporate here at Fromwell & Fromwell. I think I would be wonderful in the advertising campaign. Just give me chance. I’m sure I won’t let you down.”
“Yes, well, we could talk this over for lunch, are you free, Miss Grace?” a light baritone responded.
“Well, ah-ah No. I don’t believe I have anything planned.”
“We could go to Georgiana’s over on Fifth…Have you ever been there before?”
“No--”
A muffled ding called from the rectangle, and the slow door opened the dam of briefcases, suits, and pumps; a flow that left as quickly as it had come.
Clinging to a purse as large as her head, Grace slowly emerged from her concealed spot behind a great potted fern, pushing the branches out of her eyes. The couple was already inside the metal box. She shuffled toward the entrance, hesitating, looking down between the cracks as she made the last pregnant steps onto the short, gray carpet.

Posted by Amanda Cochran at 1:40 PM | Comments (4)

February 3, 2004

Missing text

I know how I whine about how much textbooks cost, but me, the responsible student, lost one.

If anyone has seen a thin, bright purple Corporate Communications text sitting around or has picked one up by accident; it is mine.

Even if it is a lost-and-found, I knew this blog would be good for SOMETHING :-D.

HELP! SOS!

Posted by Amanda Cochran at 11:43 PM | Comments (2)

Never a fan

So I have never been a sports fan or a Sports section fan. I have never taken an interest in the Super Bowl. I love entertainment spectaculars, and people that make a difference in it, but this Jackson Super Bowl thing is definitely not one of those moments or one of those people.

Miss Jackson is placing more scandal on her own, already over-covered, surname. If I have to hear about MJ talking about his stay in prison one more time, or his case, or his lawyers, I think I am going to scream. Oh look, I have the Jacksons in my terminology: SCREAM: a duet between the breast princess and the alleged child molester.

I understand the importance of publicity, but does this really mean we are lowering ourselves to this level--to their level?

Needless to say, I didn't watch the Super Bowl--even for the commercials.

Televison! BAH! However, I will be fair: the movies they have on AMC, TCM, occasionally the networks, provide me with enough fun for an evening. But they aren't real television, are they? But I do believe they provide more reality than the supposed reality television so many people are hooked on.

Posted by Amanda Cochran at 1:36 PM | Comments (3)

February 1, 2004

Another Load

A Clothesfall down the steps.
Ride those sleeves and socks.
The fast way.
Don't let the little ones get away.

A groan and a grunt,
And then the monster rises.
Your head is eaten.
Drop him down.
Cut apart--
The white intestines, blood, and colorful scales.

Clickkkkk.
Add white with a flick.
Wait on the wooshing
Smile at the buzzer.

Add a softy.
And then more clicks.
Long heated moments.

For best results,
Promptly remove.
And fold.

Posted by Amanda Cochran at 9:20 PM | Comments (11)

A Ten Weekend

10. Watched Chocolat. (a better movie than the critics led me to believe).
9. Watched Life or Something Like It (an incredibly predictable film).
8. Ate too many Twizzlers while indulging in movie fetish.
7. Sticky Sick Stomach (Should have eaten popcorn to counterbalance the sugary-waxishness)
6. Bought pretty brown (American Eagle) boots for $15!!
5. Bought a little Swingline RED stapler (mini of Milton's)
4. Read French and got a headache (decided to stop and procrastinate)
3. Tried to do math homework on line regression on Excel, but it turns out to be evil--just like everything else that Microsoft makes.
2. Got my tresses pulled by my mother, after pinching my sis's leg during church services (Don't ask)
1. Saw a lady in Wal-Mart with huge, exceedingly ugly, pastel artificial flowers sticking out of her head on clips. Dozens of them. I was waiting in line behind her for about fifteen minutes (thank you lady in front of her with about 40 items in the 20 item line) and I lost count. The faded pinks and crusty yellows were so distracting. Where does one buy such atrosities?

Not that I am saying I am perfect. But the woman really looked as if she stepped out of a faded and moldy copy of The Secret Garden.

I am pure evil. I really am, and I am not proud of it, but REALLY!

Posted by Amanda Cochran at 8:06 PM | Comments (3)