Questionable Taste?

I tend to like strange, dark, or twisty things, especially in stories (maybe because I dream odd things prolifically), but sometimes in other things as well. Things that are at once off-putting and beautiful.  Here is such a thing:

I can't stop looking at it. For more of these portraits, please (oh please) visit Thornston Schmidtkord's website here.

A Word a Day

I love learning new words. I believe that the more words you know, the more malleable, creative, and fun language use can be. Thus, if you look to your right, you will now see a "Word a Day" feature from wordsmith.com. Use it wisely.

via toothpastefordinner.com

Goodreads: The Hobbit

The Hobbit by J.R.R. Tolkien

My rating: 3 of 5 stars


Yes, it's true. This is the first time that I have read The Hobbit. I was a wee lass of about 10 when I first tried to read it, and I just couldn't get into it. So I decided it wasn't for me. Sure, I have since read the LOTR seriers, a couple of times in fact, and I love them. But I could not bring myself to start The Hobbit after my childhood experience. I have to say that while The Hobbit was very good, I still found myself not quite as "lost" in the story as I usually am when I read.

As compared to the LOTR series, The Hobbit definitely feels more geared to a young adult audience. There's a lot of action without a lot of laborious "history," and there's a light, jaunty tone attached to Bilbo's adventure. (After all, it was just a dangerous adventure and not a series of events that could lead to evil conquering the world.) But even though the characters were likable, there was a glaring lack of emotions or actions that helped me feel attached to them. Surprisingly, my first evaluation as a child was spot on; The Hobbit just wasn't for me.

So while I would recommend The Hobbit to anyone, it will never be among my favorites.


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Picture Pages

Rad. Talk about the right place at the right time OR very clever photoshopping.

As seen on ffffound.com.

Hot Reunion

Over the 4th of July weekend, my family had a reunion. In attendance were 42  family members: 2 parents, 8 siblings, 7 in-laws, and 24 nieces and nephews. It was all of us together for the first time in several years except for one nephew who is currently in Chile. It was hot, it was a madhouse, and at times it was even fun.

Oddly—or considering my family, maybe not so oddly—there seemed to be an undertext of Star Wars at our reunion. First, there was the hot air balloon raising where we saw this:

The dark side rises.

And took some pictures with him:

Lou, Clara, Daisy, and Lord Vader.

 Then there was the always awesome Provo parade where we saw this:

Star Wars meets We Are the World

And finally, the Star Wars theme came to a close by revisiting these videos with my nerd-in-law Jaron:

Anything goes on the NYC subway.


The first in a series of funny videos about Darth Vader's brother, Chad.

Picture Pages

via swiss-miss.com

Goodreads: Their Eyes Were Watching God

Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neale Hurston
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

I read a short story by Zora Neale Hurston in one of my college courses that lead me to buy this book. I am always interested in learning about life experiences that I may not necessarily have. With that in mind I expected to learn more about a different life perspective rather than fully relate to the culture and experiences depicted in Their Eyes Were Watching God. However I found that the overarching theme of the whole book is about a human experience that is not necessarily connected to a specific race, color, creed, or culture.

Hurston's main character, Janie, is searching for happiness throughout the story. (And what is more human than the pursuit of happiness?) At 16, she follows her grandmother's perceived recipe for happiness, but realizes quickly that she is supremely unhappy. Janie leaves her first path behind to follow her own idyllic and naive recipe for happiness. On this path she finds she has no voice, though she feels like she has a lot to give, and no say in her life's direction. Finally, after years of struggling, yet quietly learning who she is, Janie finds the path that leads her to a life of supreme happiness: a life filled with understanding and love. Hurston intermingles this overarching theme with vivid pictures and insights into black history and culture from the time period. (One of these smaller insights interestingly includes the racists attitudes that some African Americans had about their own race and about indigenous Indians.)

One feature that may turn-off some readers is Hurston's style of writing dialogue in the Southern black dialect. The language-nerd in me finds this fascinating, therefore I am more willing to work through any pronunciation or word recognition difficulty that may arise. But I find that a great deal of people don't want to work a little bit harder to understand dialect writing.

Overall, this is a book that I would recommend to anyone who is interested in working a little to learn a lot.


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Poems: Love or Otherwise

I have no love for poetry. I have tried, believe me you. I find that for me most poetry hits one of two extremes:  too schmaltzy, or incomprehensible in its abstractness. Of course, the exception always proves the rule, and I have read or heard poetry that I have downright enjoyed.

This enjoyment, and maybe the reason why I still give poetry a chance, may be the result of my belief that within every type of media genre, food category, political affiliations, or whatever class of items and ideas that you can have opinions on, there is likely at least one thing/person/author/idea/aspect that you will find palatable in that category. For instance, I do not enjoy heavy metal, but I absolutely love Metallica. In fact for years I have harbored a secret hope that one day they will come and play at my backyard birthday party, simply based on the fact that they heard about the love I have for them.

Side note: I have realized over the years that this very belief has helped me keep an open mind because it allows me to continue to listen to and contemplate ideas and arguments about things that I’ve already formed opinions on. But I digress. I’m sure there will be more on this topic later.

Phew. The reason I bring up this poetry business is that I feel an inexplicable need to share a poem called “Allen’s Extra Toe” that I wrote for a college writing class. I’m not sure why I feel this need, as the poem is a downright silly, rhyming kind of poem.

Allen’s Extra Toe
I didn’t even have a say
When they cut my toe away.
I miss that toe so terribly,
Although it was no use to me.
We could have run and jumped and played,
Instead it’s gone, cut off, decayed.
I could have named it something fun,
Like George…
Max…
Frank…
Algernon!
I suppose my parents were wise
Sending that toe to its demise.
My shoes never would have fit,
But I’d’ve gotten used to it.
Some kids may have teased and taunted,
But I know I’d’ve been undaunted,
And shown my toe by wearing sandals,
Stirring up a local scandal.
As it is I’m down to ten,
But if I could have it back again,
I know my folks would finally see,
Eleven toes were great for me.

The premise of the poem is true; my oldest brother was born with an eleventh toe, which was promptly removed. His extra pinky toe came complete with toenail, but absent of bones. However, I highly doubt my brother ever daydreamed about his missing extra toe. He is a far too sensible forward-thinker to dream about a toe he never remembers meeting.