The Way I See It

23. 34. 42. 61. What could these numbers be? Dollar amounts? Stock numbers? Ages? Etc.? All wrong.
These numbers are representative of my best bowling games. Yes. I'm that bad. No matter how hard I try, I fail. Through at least 19 other people analyzing my shots and telling me what to fix, I fail. Despite my own attempts at analysis of each hand maneuver and each leg position I still fail.

Why do I suck at bowling?????





It's not a consolation, exactly, but my high Wii bowling score is 269. I average 200 a game. Perfectly respectable.

I begin by telling you that Strictly Ballroom isn't my kind of film. I'll admit I have an ever-deepening curiosity about the way Baz Luhrmann sees the world, but still, this isn't quite me. So I wasn't quite prepared to discover that Baz Luhrmann actually sees my world, at least the world I grew up in.
I've never found anything to say about my childhood world that wasn't massively cliched. I'm sure you know what I mean. Greenhouses, bubbles, fences (or hedges) of protection, arbitrary rules, vain traditions, legalism - these are all words commonly used to describe that environment. The people in control have been accused of stifling individuality and creativity, stunting mental and emotional growth, and of being egocentric monsters. I don't like cliches, and I don't like sounding rebellious (which I consider a cliched sound) so I try not to use those expressions or tell my story, but I've never forgotten how wearying it was to grow up in that world.
So imagine my shock when Baz Luhrmann started telling my story.
Scott Hastings is a ballroom dancer. He's talented, he's sure to win the Australian Pan-Pacific Grand Prix, and he is being groomed to become the future of Australian ballroom dancing. Until one day, unthinkably, he improvises. Just for a moment, but he becomes intoxicated with the thrill of freshness. He loses the competition (not the Grand Prix, that's later). Weeping and wailing overflow from his mother (the dance teacher and former competitor), his mother's dance partner (nicer old man), and the Head Honcho of Australian Ballroom Dancing, Barry Fife (not so nice old man). Scott is legitimately confused about their anger. He still loves dancing, more than ever, and certainly the rules of dancing are not moral absolutes. But for Barry and his mother those rules are everything. Barry endeavors to set Scott straight by telling him the truth about his past (revealing that Barry had lied to him all his life).
Sound familiar?
Scott still does not understand what all the fuss is about, but the story Barry tells convinces him to toe the line. Until he finds out that Barry still wasn't telling the truth. Barry never tells the truth. And he cheats.
If you still need more evidence, the dancing world is small and insignificant to everyone outside it, and the fashion is at least 20 years out of date.
See?
The movie is a comedy, so it ends happily (that is, with much dancing). But the whole first half of the film shook me up, and I barely noticed the shiny satins and Spanish rhythms. I just remembered the lies and the seemingly harmless, yet so serious requirements that wrought carnage in the lives of the people around me. What about their happy ending?



Of course this a movie about dancing and romance and I'm reading into it. Of course it is its own version of cliched. But, my friends, it was true.

You have all suffered through inane or narcissistic or childish or petty or choose-your-own-adjective-here Facebook statuses. My personal favorites are the train wreck statuses. You know, the ones that let you know just how terrible this person-you-vaguely-remember-from-kindergarten's life is. The ladeled-out emotion poured into everyone else's life goes beyond cliche into a mystifying study about a complete lack of self-awareness.

So here's one for you, one that can be seen on my Home page at this very moment

Sarah Jane Gounoud* is confused.. Why am I not enough? Why am I never enough for you?

Note the 2/3-of-the-way-there and incorrectly-spaced ellipsis. One could argue this is not an accidental error, but a purposeful plea for the audience to notice the misery of the situation.

I could not argue more than a Freudian slip, however, because I scrolled down another two inches on my Home page and this met my eye . . .

Sarah Jane Gounoud is confused.. Why am I not enough? Why am I never ebough



I love it.


*Of course names were changed to protect the innocent.










Agh! I posted prematurely. This just up, same girl, not twenty minutes later after the first two. Again, I point out the ellipsis because once you read the status you might not have enough brain left to notice.

Sarah Jane Gounoud has been in thought.. Things started out so good. So happy all the time. I could do no wrong by you and you were happy. I have sensed myself making decisions out of character to make another human being happy.. All while compromising my own contentment and happiness. At what point do you choose to close the book and walk away? Do you stay even though you know you're not enough.. You're not completing that person...


Is this a pop song? Seriously.

My English teacher, wonderful man that he is, is plagued with a sadistic sense of humor, and without warning forced us to write a sonnet (or ode) for a final exam. I have never written a poem before, and I'll admit that I was almost terrified when I got the paper. But I persevered. And here is the result. I tried to make it somewhat idiotically funny to disguise how clunky it was; to what level the stupidity was purposeful or not, I leave to you to decide. Also, it may require some creative reading to decipher the iambic pentameter, but I would like to point out that most of the poets I have read this semester also require that same creative reading. So there.

Oh Mr. Darcy you have claimed my heart
Possibly because you're rich and tall
Or maybe because you're good, or smart -
But no! I know this doesn't count at all

Your manners I had earlier withstood
Your character was slandered months before
It seemed that you were never up to good
You simply made me angry more and more

Now the point for which I've set my stage
Here it is: There's just one thing I love
About yourself - your willingness to change
(Also called: Desire to improve)

(I need a reason to make Romantics happy
So I'll admit, your landscape makes me sappy)

In honor of the day, I was prepared to create and share a list of my top 5 romantic movies. I thought about all my favorite love stories and couples and moments and gestures and came up with an impressive list. I have my favorite romances based on favorite works of literature (any of the Pride and Prejudices, Jane Eyre, Persuasion, Romeo and Juliet), clever romances (Annie Hall), screwball romances (His Girl Friday, What's Up, Doc?), epic romances (Gone With The Wind, Atonement), musical romances (The Sound of Music, West Side Story), teen romances (Clueless), spy romances (Notorious, Casablanca), romantic comedies (You've Got Mail, When Harry Met Sally), neurotic romances (Benny and Joon), and the list goes on. But their was something wrong with all of them. They were all compound word movies. I was looking for a singular word movie, namely, a romance.

I could only think of one.


"Why can't we go on doing this forever?" Terry McKae's question is echoed by the audience. Terry and Nicky met on the cruise ship and fell into flirtation. The shallow flirtation vanishes during the "This-is-my-life-story" discussions, when they realize they instinctively know much about each other. For the sake of their significant others, they attempt to avoid each other, but after a day visiting his grandmother, they have a problem. By the time the ship reaches the port, they are desperate. All bets are off, the games are done. He knows he has to become a better person, and she knows that she has to settle her own affairs and wait, without him. They arrange to meet in six months, when they have proved that they are worthy to be together.

Of course, they are worthy. And then the unthinkable happens, and he waits, for hours, for her to come, which she doesn't.

And then the world is sad, until the most touching last scene ever.

The plot might be considered cliched, but An Affair to Remember has so many scenes that that are its own. The moment when the telegrams come - "From him? From her?", Deborah Kerr awkwardly toying with the couch, Cary Grant "taking his ego for a walk," the memorable title song, the grandmother's shawl, Deborah Kerr's beautiful voice, Cary Grant's perfect comedy, the last night on the ship. Then the rain and the sirens while he waits next to the elevator.

But, it is a romance, and all these qualities fall short when considering:

It makes me cry.
Enough said? Enough said.

The best on-screen kiss. EVER.
It all became real the night after they've come back from his grandmother's. He's helping her down the stairs, she pauses, he steps back up.

They step back down.

The most tear-provoking last scene. EVER.
He doesn't know. Will he find out? He keeps babbling. (No one can babble like Cary Grant). She won't tell him. He gives her the shawl. He's leaving, and then . . .


Watch it.


"Don't cry, darling."

Counterpoint. Wait, Gene Edward Veith. Songs of Innocence. Glenn Close. Steelers. Rondo Alla Turca. Forms of Literature. Alazon. Sheets. Tate Donovan. Joanna Baillie. Plays of Passion. Why are tragedies important? Don't write a parallel fifth. Duh. Don't write a direct fifth. What? Blake had visitations from angels. Mary Wollstonecraft tried committing suicide. Huckleberry Finn slit the pig's throat. So did the kids from Lord of the Flies. The robber barons actually donated a lot of money. Big-time philanthropists. Rockefeller? Something like $550 million. Kids need to stop reading sub-literature. Not really, they just need to lessen their sub-literature dependence. Newberys. The great alternative. The Exodus was in 1446. John Gurstang. Robert Shaw likes sing-counting. Or is it counting-sing? The mouse is the prisoner of Joseph Priestley and his evil laboratory experiences. Washing Day has elements of a mock epic. Mark Twain called it the Gilded Age. The space between icti is called the Line of Connection. Toni Morrison has an uncomfortable relationship with The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. "There are more things in heaven and hell, Than are dreamt of in your philosophy, Horatio." Norman Frye is big on archetypes. The Amarna Tablets help solidfy. . . I don't remember.

My brain won't let up.

Yes, Christmas is the time for friends and family, the time of goodwill and peace on earth, but most of us don't feel that way. Crazy shopping, endless Christmas programs, and sickening a amount of cookies and candies often preface unhappy or awkward family reunions. Even without familial skeletons-in-the-closets, the busy holiday events decrease the enjoyment that comes with a moment of peace. So if you're feeling more like Scrooge and less like Tiny Tim, or you would rather not watch Miracle at 34th Street, I have a little murder and mayhem for you.

Um, Hugh Jackman is hosting.

This is totally better than Ellen.

"Sold to the nice young hoodlum in the back."

"Basket. Basket maker. Guy who didn't bring enough money."

"Sorry, I'd do a silly walk, but I'm not feeling very John Cleese right now."

"No underwater dining. Got it."

"So you're taking his side?" "I'm not taking sides. I'm Swiss here, babe."