This blog is rapidly becoming a repository for the amazing work of the incredibly talented people that I know. You know what? I don't give a shit. I love my friends, I love their creativity, I love their work and I love sharing it with you. Behold, the first episode of "Teachers," a web series.
For more "Teachers," head to their website: http://www.teacherswebseries.com/
Thursday, November 8, 2012
Thursday, November 1, 2012
Abigail, Episode 2
Here's the next installment of Abigail: the web series
The last line is my favorite...
The last line is my favorite...
Scary Short Film
Watch this with the lights off and your headphones on. Creepy as all get-out!
The Visit from DarkLine Productions on Vimeo.
The Visit from DarkLine Productions on Vimeo.
Thursday, October 11, 2012
Thursday, October 4, 2012
Watch my friends kick ass!
If you like comedy, you will like "Bethany," created, performed and filmed by some of my favorite people on earth:
If you like Sci-Fi (come on, you KNOW you're a nerd), you will like "Abigail," created, performed and filmed by some of my OTHER favorite people on earth:
Watch them. Enjoy them. So you can say you knew them before they sold out and crashed their Bentley into Lindsey Lohan's koi pond.
If you like Sci-Fi (come on, you KNOW you're a nerd), you will like "Abigail," created, performed and filmed by some of my OTHER favorite people on earth:
Watch them. Enjoy them. So you can say you knew them before they sold out and crashed their Bentley into Lindsey Lohan's koi pond.
Thursday, September 6, 2012
America
As a preface, I will say that I am a Democrat. Scratch that... I identify with the Democratic Party that I grew up with in Minnesota: the DFL. DFL stands for Democratic Farmer Labor, which means that the party is specifically interested in the well being of the farmers and laborers that built and feed this nation. I am DFL. I am a liberal. I may be more liberal than anyone you've ever known...
Regardless of what anyone thinks of my party's platform, candidate or morals, please take a moment to listen to me...
I believe in you. I believe in your right to vote, work, live and love. I believe that you care about America, your family, your freedom and your rights. I believe that you are doing everything possible to live your life as a good person. You are doing your best with what you have. You hope for a better tomorrow. You believe in this nation and its people. You give a damn.
Here's why I'm voting for Obama...
I believe that you have a right to affordable health care that will not block or bankrupt you. I believe that you have a right to marry the person you love, regardless of gender. I believe that you and your children have a right to make important and difficult decisions about your bodies without the interference of government. I believe that education is a right, not a privilege. I believe in the American Dream.
Why do I believe in health care that will not block or bankrupt you? Because my best friend on earth was diagnosed with breast cancer when she was 35 and could have been turned away from insurance coverage because of that pre-existing condition. Because my parents are worried that they might be unable to afford their prescriptions. Because I, myself, have more than one pre-existing condition. Because no one should be afraid to go to the doctor because it's too expensive.
Why do I believe that you have a right to marry the person that you love, regardless of gender? Because I have two friends whose partnership of 18 years has produced two of the most delightful, cherished, adorable and wanted children that I've ever known. Because of my gay friends who have found a life partner that they adore, respect and honor. Because love is love, no matter what.
Why do I believe that you and your children have a right to make important and difficult decisions about your bodies without the interference of government? Because it's your body, not mine. While I am in the midst of what may become a life-altering quest for motherhood, you might be trying to stay afloat in uncertain times. My journey and my struggle is not yours. You have every right to determine what happens to your body. Even though I might not make the same choice in your situation, I will fight for your right to make that choice for yourself.
Now, education: Here's my soapbox... I hate every movie ever made about a heroic teacher who has overcome obstacles to teach their students. Every "Stand And Deliver," every "Freedom Writers," every "Won't Back Down" is an affront to America. Why? Because teachers shouldn't have to be heroic. IT SHOULDN'T BE A MIRACLE THAT TEACHERS TEACH AND STUDENTS LEARN! Let me be clear: I am not denigrating the important gifts that the teachers whose real-life experiences informed these movies gave. Rather, I am calling out the system that required super-human efforts and sacrifices on the part of educators to get a basic job done. I don't know a single teacher who hasn't invested hundreds of his or her own dollars to set up their classroom. I don't know a single teacher who hasn't stayed late or come early to sit with a student in need. I don't know a single teacher who hasn't extended themselves beyond their means for the well-being or advancement of their class. We need to respect the teachers of this country and empower them. We have exploited their idealism for too long.
And I believe in the American Dream. Rather, I want to believe it can happen. I want to believe that, if you have a good idea, work hard and back up that idea with scholarship and responsibility, you can achieve your dreams. I want to believe that American entrepreneurship is on the rise. I want to believe that every corporation that does business in America is working its ass off to be responsible, forward-thinking, respectful and gregarious. I want to believe, like my grandfather did, that if you work hard enough and give enough of a damn, you can succeed.
Please, America, don't prove me wrong.
Regardless of what anyone thinks of my party's platform, candidate or morals, please take a moment to listen to me...
I believe in you. I believe in your right to vote, work, live and love. I believe that you care about America, your family, your freedom and your rights. I believe that you are doing everything possible to live your life as a good person. You are doing your best with what you have. You hope for a better tomorrow. You believe in this nation and its people. You give a damn.
Here's why I'm voting for Obama...
I believe that you have a right to affordable health care that will not block or bankrupt you. I believe that you have a right to marry the person you love, regardless of gender. I believe that you and your children have a right to make important and difficult decisions about your bodies without the interference of government. I believe that education is a right, not a privilege. I believe in the American Dream.
Why do I believe in health care that will not block or bankrupt you? Because my best friend on earth was diagnosed with breast cancer when she was 35 and could have been turned away from insurance coverage because of that pre-existing condition. Because my parents are worried that they might be unable to afford their prescriptions. Because I, myself, have more than one pre-existing condition. Because no one should be afraid to go to the doctor because it's too expensive.
Why do I believe that you have a right to marry the person that you love, regardless of gender? Because I have two friends whose partnership of 18 years has produced two of the most delightful, cherished, adorable and wanted children that I've ever known. Because of my gay friends who have found a life partner that they adore, respect and honor. Because love is love, no matter what.
Why do I believe that you and your children have a right to make important and difficult decisions about your bodies without the interference of government? Because it's your body, not mine. While I am in the midst of what may become a life-altering quest for motherhood, you might be trying to stay afloat in uncertain times. My journey and my struggle is not yours. You have every right to determine what happens to your body. Even though I might not make the same choice in your situation, I will fight for your right to make that choice for yourself.
Now, education: Here's my soapbox... I hate every movie ever made about a heroic teacher who has overcome obstacles to teach their students. Every "Stand And Deliver," every "Freedom Writers," every "Won't Back Down" is an affront to America. Why? Because teachers shouldn't have to be heroic. IT SHOULDN'T BE A MIRACLE THAT TEACHERS TEACH AND STUDENTS LEARN! Let me be clear: I am not denigrating the important gifts that the teachers whose real-life experiences informed these movies gave. Rather, I am calling out the system that required super-human efforts and sacrifices on the part of educators to get a basic job done. I don't know a single teacher who hasn't invested hundreds of his or her own dollars to set up their classroom. I don't know a single teacher who hasn't stayed late or come early to sit with a student in need. I don't know a single teacher who hasn't extended themselves beyond their means for the well-being or advancement of their class. We need to respect the teachers of this country and empower them. We have exploited their idealism for too long.
And I believe in the American Dream. Rather, I want to believe it can happen. I want to believe that, if you have a good idea, work hard and back up that idea with scholarship and responsibility, you can achieve your dreams. I want to believe that American entrepreneurship is on the rise. I want to believe that every corporation that does business in America is working its ass off to be responsible, forward-thinking, respectful and gregarious. I want to believe, like my grandfather did, that if you work hard enough and give enough of a damn, you can succeed.
Please, America, don't prove me wrong.
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
Stupid, stupid, stupid...
In the middle of an existential crisis of epic proportions three years ago, I solo hiked the West Face of Cadillac Mountain in Acadia National Park. Dumbest. Idea. Ever.
First of all, I was emotionally fragile. Don't hike alone when you'd rather be writing Loreena McKennit lyrics in your journal and artfully weeping. You will be sorry. Second of all, it was raining. Very few hikes are good in the rain as most mountains tend to get wicked slippery and anthropomorphically hateful when wet. Third of all, I told people I was hiking a different mountain. If you solo hike, you MUST tell SOMEONE where the fuck you'll be if only so they can identify your broken, moose-gnawed body when you meet with tragedy. Fourth of all, I thought I was a better hiker than I actually AM.
Suffice it to say, in '09, I found myself crawling up the side of the tallest mountain in Acadia National Park, weeping and humming to myself. At the top of the mountain, I noticed my hands were bleeding. I couldn't stop shaking. I have nightmares about that trail to this day.
A normal person would have stopped hiking, or at least have curtailed their solo hikes. I am not normal. For the past three years, I have been stepping out in the early hours of summer days to drive into the park and hike something. I hiked Penobscot and Sargent: Lovely. I hiked Pemetic: Gorgeous. I hiked the North face of Cadillac and Dorr Mountain: Majestic. I hiked South Bubble, North Bubble and Connor's Nubble: Ubble-y. In short, I was determined that my initial mistake was not the measure of me.
Today, I set out on another solo hike. I went up Huguenot Head to Champlain Mountain via the Beachcroft Trail and down via the Bear Brook Trail. IT WAS FUCKING TERRIBLE! I am so used to hiking paths that are lined with trees so that you're not actually aware of your altitude until you reach the summit. Huguenot Head was like a series of staircases without a railing where you could plummet to your death at any moment. I told myself "You can just turn back if you want to. Don't be proud." Myself answered back "No way in hell. It'll just be scarier on the way back down." I scaled Huguenot Head and scrambled up some rudimentary stairs on the way to Champlain. And then I faced my worst fear ever.... What the guide book listed as a "very steep climb over smooth rock." What that means is that you're a bajillion feet in the air, walking on a surface as smooth as glass and that surface is at a 65% angle. And there's nothing but smooth rock around you. No trees. No rocks. If you slip, you will plummet a BAJILLION FEET to your death.
As I do in all tense situations, I started singing. It was 16 bar tune with a rudimentary melody. The lyrics varied with my fear. Most of it was "Oh god, please keep me from dying of hubris." I sang and I sang as I crouch-ran across smooth rock from cairn to cairn. Finally, the ground evened out and I saw the signpost that marked the summit. I threw my arms in the air in victory. I was safe! Nothing would be scary from here on out! YES!
I took a picture of the signpost at the summit, smug in the notion that I had conquered my fears. I was happy. I was validated.
I was wrong.
As soon as I turned away from the sign marking the summit, I noticed that all around me, the land sank away at alarming angles towards the ocean. I meekly consulted my guide book and headed toward the path for my descent only to see a rock cairn (a trail marker), poised on the edge of a horrific ledge that seemed to drop off into nothingness, marking the trail I was supposed to take. The wind blew. I staggered and almost fell. I inched toward the cairn to see if I could make it past the cairn and advance down. The drop behind the cairn was precipitous, so I did the only thing that I could on that bald face of rock a thousand feet in the air: I sat down and scooted along the rock on my butt.
I scooted along for maybe three tenths of a mile. That may not sound like much, but just TRY it. It is an eternity. I spent the better part of my time on Champlain Mountain looking like a poodle with parasites. Finally, the ground leveled out some and I could resume my previous simian crouch to navigate the trail.
I kept singing my idiot song as I scooted and crab-walked down the mountain. Verses included lyrics such as "When I have children, I hope they have better impulse control that I do." or "Don't let me die here, God, because I'm pretty sure that my husband would screw up my funeral." I was singing, full-voice, when a couple of hikers came out of the trees in front of me to head up the treacherous trail I had been scooting down. If I were a more modest person, I suppose I would say that I was embarrassed by the fact that strangers caught me in the middle of singing my "brave song" while sliding on my butt. Since I was so focused on survival, though, I'm pretty sure those nice folks think they ran into a mentally disturbed person hiking down Bear Brook Trail today.
Suffice it to say, I made it back in one piece. I hated almost every minute of that hike, though. And I hate that I hated it. By this point (eight years into exploring Acadia National Park), I should know what I love and what I hate. I should know to avoid steep climbs over sheer stone. I should know that I fucking hate anything with a dramatic view because that usually means you're hanging on by your fingernails off the side of a cliff to enjoy that view. I SHOULD know that my time is valuable and is not to be spent on something that is destructive, terrifying and horrible.
Ultimately, that's the lesson I SHOULD have learned in '09, before I let myself be emotionally beaten down enough to think I deserved to hike the West Face of Cadillac in the rain.
Don't hike what you think you deserve, hike what you love.
First of all, I was emotionally fragile. Don't hike alone when you'd rather be writing Loreena McKennit lyrics in your journal and artfully weeping. You will be sorry. Second of all, it was raining. Very few hikes are good in the rain as most mountains tend to get wicked slippery and anthropomorphically hateful when wet. Third of all, I told people I was hiking a different mountain. If you solo hike, you MUST tell SOMEONE where the fuck you'll be if only so they can identify your broken, moose-gnawed body when you meet with tragedy. Fourth of all, I thought I was a better hiker than I actually AM.
Suffice it to say, in '09, I found myself crawling up the side of the tallest mountain in Acadia National Park, weeping and humming to myself. At the top of the mountain, I noticed my hands were bleeding. I couldn't stop shaking. I have nightmares about that trail to this day.
A normal person would have stopped hiking, or at least have curtailed their solo hikes. I am not normal. For the past three years, I have been stepping out in the early hours of summer days to drive into the park and hike something. I hiked Penobscot and Sargent: Lovely. I hiked Pemetic: Gorgeous. I hiked the North face of Cadillac and Dorr Mountain: Majestic. I hiked South Bubble, North Bubble and Connor's Nubble: Ubble-y. In short, I was determined that my initial mistake was not the measure of me.
Today, I set out on another solo hike. I went up Huguenot Head to Champlain Mountain via the Beachcroft Trail and down via the Bear Brook Trail. IT WAS FUCKING TERRIBLE! I am so used to hiking paths that are lined with trees so that you're not actually aware of your altitude until you reach the summit. Huguenot Head was like a series of staircases without a railing where you could plummet to your death at any moment. I told myself "You can just turn back if you want to. Don't be proud." Myself answered back "No way in hell. It'll just be scarier on the way back down." I scaled Huguenot Head and scrambled up some rudimentary stairs on the way to Champlain. And then I faced my worst fear ever.... What the guide book listed as a "very steep climb over smooth rock." What that means is that you're a bajillion feet in the air, walking on a surface as smooth as glass and that surface is at a 65% angle. And there's nothing but smooth rock around you. No trees. No rocks. If you slip, you will plummet a BAJILLION FEET to your death.
As I do in all tense situations, I started singing. It was 16 bar tune with a rudimentary melody. The lyrics varied with my fear. Most of it was "Oh god, please keep me from dying of hubris." I sang and I sang as I crouch-ran across smooth rock from cairn to cairn. Finally, the ground evened out and I saw the signpost that marked the summit. I threw my arms in the air in victory. I was safe! Nothing would be scary from here on out! YES!
I took a picture of the signpost at the summit, smug in the notion that I had conquered my fears. I was happy. I was validated.
I was wrong.
As soon as I turned away from the sign marking the summit, I noticed that all around me, the land sank away at alarming angles towards the ocean. I meekly consulted my guide book and headed toward the path for my descent only to see a rock cairn (a trail marker), poised on the edge of a horrific ledge that seemed to drop off into nothingness, marking the trail I was supposed to take. The wind blew. I staggered and almost fell. I inched toward the cairn to see if I could make it past the cairn and advance down. The drop behind the cairn was precipitous, so I did the only thing that I could on that bald face of rock a thousand feet in the air: I sat down and scooted along the rock on my butt.
I scooted along for maybe three tenths of a mile. That may not sound like much, but just TRY it. It is an eternity. I spent the better part of my time on Champlain Mountain looking like a poodle with parasites. Finally, the ground leveled out some and I could resume my previous simian crouch to navigate the trail.
I kept singing my idiot song as I scooted and crab-walked down the mountain. Verses included lyrics such as "When I have children, I hope they have better impulse control that I do." or "Don't let me die here, God, because I'm pretty sure that my husband would screw up my funeral." I was singing, full-voice, when a couple of hikers came out of the trees in front of me to head up the treacherous trail I had been scooting down. If I were a more modest person, I suppose I would say that I was embarrassed by the fact that strangers caught me in the middle of singing my "brave song" while sliding on my butt. Since I was so focused on survival, though, I'm pretty sure those nice folks think they ran into a mentally disturbed person hiking down Bear Brook Trail today.
Suffice it to say, I made it back in one piece. I hated almost every minute of that hike, though. And I hate that I hated it. By this point (eight years into exploring Acadia National Park), I should know what I love and what I hate. I should know to avoid steep climbs over sheer stone. I should know that I fucking hate anything with a dramatic view because that usually means you're hanging on by your fingernails off the side of a cliff to enjoy that view. I SHOULD know that my time is valuable and is not to be spent on something that is destructive, terrifying and horrible.
Ultimately, that's the lesson I SHOULD have learned in '09, before I let myself be emotionally beaten down enough to think I deserved to hike the West Face of Cadillac in the rain.
Don't hike what you think you deserve, hike what you love.
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