Spectacle!

Back in the day, when I was bleeding Hoya blue, I took a playwrighting class taught by the legendary Donn B. Murphy*.

Anyhoo, he taught me many things about writing, and three of them really resonated:

1) Anything -- a play, a novel, a short story, a screenplay, a comic book -- should be able to be summarized in one sentence. That's not to say that plots can't be complicated, but if you can't express the gist of it in one sentence, then the plot is probably too complicated (or the way you are thinking about it is too complicated).

2) An audience automatically feels warmly toward a character who gives a gift. Well, okay, if the gift is a head in a box or something like that, the character might not get a lotta love. But you get the idea.

3) SPECTACLE. Donn B. seem to be all kinds of tired of talkity-talk-talk with no spectacle in the theater. He said that you don't need a July 4th's worth of fireworks or anything like that, but you do need a moment that's bigger than the normal humdrum of life. His emphasis of this point could have been a result of his having taught college students for decades, whom I have to imagine wrote incessantly about "unique" experiences, like being dumped or being away from home for the first time. Ugh. These wunderkinds probably set all of their plays in waiting rooms or dorms, too.

But anyway, that last one is all kinds of true, and BOY HOWDY did Teller (of Penn & Teller fame) deliver on the spectacle in the Folger's (now closed) run of "MacBeth**." Floating knives, streaks of blood manifesting on Lady MacBeth, people disappearing and reappearing in (seemingly) plain view, blood gushing from neck wounds, well, YOWZA. Call me a rube for not appreciating the lyrical stylings of Shakespeare by itself, but all of these sleights-of-hand and redirections really amped up the performance. The actors were stellar, and not overshadowed by the trickery. So now, I want to see a bunch of other plays in the Shakespeare catalog get Tellerfied...The Tempest, A Midsummer Night's Dream, Hamlet...all are ripe for the glamours, I think.

*If you do not know Donn B., trust, he is legendary. In his late seventies, he would careen around the streets of Georgetown on a Hog. His partner is always -- and only -- referred to as "The Colonel." Another is that he threatened to castrate Super Ninja if Super Ninja did not return the gong (that's right -- gong) that he was borrowing for his theater troupe's production of Camino Real.

**Since I didn't refer to it as the Scottish play, I need spin around in a counter-clockwise circle or something, right?

It's Not Really Such a Small World

Apparently there's an online magazine called Mental Floss. It's tagline is, "Feel Smarter." Well, nice try, Mental Floss, but I feel dumber after having taken your geography quiz. Now, I know geography isn't my strong suit. It ranked second to Sports & Leisure in my ranking of categories to avoid in the Genus edition of Trivial Pursuit.

But back to how dumb I am: the only one I got right was Spain. SPAIN? That's it? I got close a couple of times. When presented with the randomly selected countries, I always went to the correct continent or ocean. But I picked the Bahamas when I was looking for Dominica. And I have apparently decided that Niger will do for every country in Africa. Missing Tunisia was especially embarrassing since that's where Star Wars was filmed. I'm not such a super-fan of the series, but Super Ninja is, so you would think that I would have learned it by osmosis.

But back to the shame. Oh, the shame. And the osmosis that should have happened. It goes beyond Star Wars. Super Ninja actually had to take a whole class like this in college called Map of the Modern World. He spent the entire semester studying the global map and characteristics about each country. The final exam was a blank map and a pen and the instruction to "Go nuts."

Time to invest in some of those map placemats for "the Boy," and actually sit them at my own seat.

Rational Emotive Behavior Therapy (or: Why Did I Arrive So Late to This Party?)

On Monday, I jaunted over to Starbucks for some curry chicken salad and parked myself at one of their diminutive tables to hork it. I hadn't really planned on eating there, or I would've brought some reading material. But I'm spontaneous and crazy, as well as easily bored. So I rifled through the castoff newspapers by the door, and found a section of the NY Times, which is where I found the summation of Albert Ellis' life's work in the area of Rational Emotive Behavior Therapy.

Man alive (or recently deceased, I guess), it was like someone had taken some of my long simmering thoughts and beliefs and turned them into a tasty and presentable meal. I'm not ego maniacal enough to claim that I coulda been a towering figure in the world of therapy or anything like that. But it's nice to see that my take on neuroses and such isn't a fringe perspective.

Small gripe to my alma mater: WHY wasn't Albert Ellis mentioned in Psychology 001 for goodness sakes? We spent most of the semester on William James, and then crammed in every other psych-ologist/iatrist since the dawn of the DSM in the final few weeks. Go ahead and argue that Ellis was a behaviorist and shouldn't be lumped into psychology. The behaviorism designation didn't stop my prof from including B.F. Skinner.

Ahem. Anyway, it was crazy to me that it was only upon his demise that I became aware of Albert Ellis. Here I am, thinking I'm all sorts of edumacated about incredibly influential people, and then I find out about him. Shows to go that Socrates was right about knowing that we know nothing, eh?

Sallie Mae Is Almost Off My Back

This weekend, Hubby and I will celebrate the 10th anniversary of having been graduated by Georgetown University (syntax is all for you, Matter-Eater Lad). Truth be told, we're not doing anything fantabulous to commemorate all the pomp and circumstance of our respective Bachelor's degrees. Just a brunch in the District with former classmates with whom we speak regularly, without the aid of university-sponsored alumni events. There will be nary a blue and gray balloon in sight.

Ultimately, I'm left wondering why I'm not taking this opportunity to pause and reflect on what's transpired in the past 10 years: marriage, children, death, debt, new jobs, lay-offs, taxes, education, bombs, houses, and discerning the best fix-it folks in town. I guess it's 'cause I'm not unique in going through these things. What am I going to say about them that hasn't been said? And who's got the time? I've got meatloaf to mix, a conversation to have with a friend who's stressing about some personal issues, and a couple of kids to shove in the tub before bed time. You would be AMAZED at how sweaty an almost-three-year-old gets when he's just kicking a ball around the house. The Boy may, in fact, have a glandular problem. Add having that checked out to the list of things to do in the next millenia.

But I don't feel like I'm living an unexamined life. Not at all. This blog probably helps. And having a spouse who helps me unpack emotional baggage is pretty handy too. Of course, it helps that I am a tower of good sense and emotional health. And ego.

Pfah. I guess I'm feeling like Debi from Grosse Pointe Blank:

"Everybody's coming back to take stock of their lives. You know what I say? Leave your livestock alone."

Just Call Me a "Hoya," Please

Each week, my alma mater's (mater, Latin for "mother") alternative weekly sends me an e-version of their paper. Nerd that I am, I try to keep up with Hilltop happenings. Anyway, this headline caught my eye. Maybe I'm looking for inequality where it doesn't exist, but I really, really dislike applying gender distinctions to team monikers.

It all started in high school. Know what my field hockey team was called in homeroom announcements, fundraisers, flyers, programs, newspapers, and soaped-up school bus windows? The Lady Knights. How dumb is that? Lady Knights. Sheesh. Field hockey is a women's sport. There are no men on the field. So if we were just the "Parkville Knights Field Hockey team," I'm pretty sure everyone would've understood that we were girls*.

But there were other sports to consider, ones that had both male and female teams, like basketball, soccer, lacrosse, etc. So, couldn't the school come up with something that was simply gender-neutral, like maybe the Warriors? For the girls' teams, we couldn't just use the female equivalent to Knight, which is Lady, as that would call to mind high-falutin' things like courtesy and grooming. Not appropriate for athletes. Besides, I didn't want a completely different name for the girls, even if it was a powerful one like, say, Amazons, because then we'd have a whole separate-but-equal situation on our hands. Nope -- one school, one team name.

Which is why when I entered those balloon-bedecked front gates during Orientation weekend, I thought, "Aha! Hoyas! Hoyas** are neither male nor female. Sweet." But here we are, calling them Lady Hoyas.

Don't get me wrong. I understand that this distinction is made because success in men's sports brings in more national publicity, more alumni donations, and more student applications. All of this equals more moolah for a staid institution. So, anytime a school crows about its women's athletic prowess, they try to avoid inadvertently stirring up excitement about men's sports. Doing so would pull a mental bait-and-switch in their minds. Because, clearly, it would be dreadful if a dude saw the headline "Hoyas Hold Off Hopkins," got all grinny about his beloved men's lacrosse team, and then realized the article was about women. What disappointment!

Ultimately, my complaint is a stylistic one: don't employ superfluous words. Alright, alright, you've got me: there's a soupçon of feminism tossed in there too. It makes for a tasty dish.

*I think it's OK to say "girls" instead of women because I am referencing a team comprising 14-18-year-olds.
**A Hoya is not some exotic word for a bulldog. Georgetown legend states that a canny student combined some Greek and Latin to nickname the school's formidable baseball team, the Stonewalls, "Hoia Saxa," or "What Rocks." So, G.U.'s teams' names are steeped in linguistic nerdliness. And we call ourselves the "Whats." Great. That's...specific. I'd love to start a movement where we call ourselves Saxas instead, because at least rocks are things, but I don't think it would get very far. Hmm...other Hoyas are going to think I'm not a loyal alum. So to that I say...I bleed Hoya blue! That's right! I just quoted a gift shop bumper sticker!