Conscious vs. Conscience

My vaguely insulting blog entry that discusses the difference between Specific vs. Pacific is consistently one of my biggest traffic generators. I had no idea there were so many people who needed the clarification. And yet somehow, I'm not surprised.

I had several snide remarks ready to explain why I'm not surprised, but then I remembered that I probably shouldn't insult people taking the time visit my blog. Besides, I live to better society! I'm kind of like Batman, when you think about it.



And in the spirit of Batman, I'm going to teach you the difference between 'conscious' and 'conscience.' That way you can avoid looking stupid. I'm like a vigilante; preventing vocabicide!


Conscious has several meanings, but for our purposes, we're going to go with these definitions:

Example: Cartman proved Kenny was not conscious by waving a dollar in his face.

Classic episode.

'Conscious' is used pretty often as a part of other words like 'unconscious' and 'consciousness.' The former word indicates a lack of latter word.


Conscience has a completely different meaning and application. Namely this:

This is what crickets looked like in 1940.

Or more precisely:

Your conscience is that voice that tells you the difference between right and wrong. Depending on who you are, it can be kind of aggressive.

Hopefully that clears up any confusion there might have been. It bothers me to no end that people were unclear on the proper usage of these—but wait! Citizens! It is the Bat-Signal! I must go and render assistance!

Which can be purchased from this vendor.

Sunday Funday & Community Support

So we got that last bit of snow I wanted! Haha..ha..ha....oops. Sorry to everyone for ruining your first week of spring with my unfulfilled wintertime wishes! I can’t say I’m completely sorry though! It was really quite pretty. I was fortunate enough to remember to take pictures of some of the spring time flowers in the area before this weekend--something I’d been meaning to do!

I love crocuses (croci?) because they're the first hint that spring is coming!

Sadly, most of the flowers I’ve seen post-snow look a little bit worse for wear.

Sad flower is sad.

Another casualty of the snow, Church Hill’s Irish Festival was forced to close early on Sunday. But that was not before a few friends (@rvaplaylist, @kevinclay, and Cristina) and I had a chance to peruse the festival.

Perhaps put off by the forecast and cool temperatures, the crowds were thin--which made Andrew and I VERY happy, as we despise being rammed in the ankles by strollers (being driven by distracted parents who also forget the importance of the phrase, ‘I apologize for that!’) Kevin got his “best ever mac and cheese” made by the lovely people of St. Patrick’s Church. I’m not the biggest fan of their mac and cheese--though I know many would disagree with me. I have ridiculously high standards for one of my favorite foods. Still, that didn’t stop Kev from enjoying it.

I could watch this .gif for hours.

Andrew too. He’s enjoying it so much he had to look away from the camera in order to hide his tears of joy.

After that, it was a quick loop around the festival because the temperature was dropping RAPIDLY. I picked up my long sought after RVA Beard League sticker from Dash.

I fucking love mustaches.

And I got some green beads from the Irish American Society to add to my ever expanding collection.

I really love beads.

And we perused the wares of the vendors. We particularly enjoyed the Say Something Hats.

Don’t they look so handsome? Those hats are definitely saying something. Sadly I neglected to get a picture of Cristina in her fabulous fuchsia chapeau. She definitely looked Strawberry Hill ready!

After the hats and nearly getting run over by a herd of bagpipers (Kevin screamed when he turned around and saw them bearing down on us,) we all decided we wanted a sweet treat, so we headed to one of my favorite places in Church Hill: Sub Rosa Bakery. While en route, the impending winter-esque weather we’d been hearing all about began to come down in the form of painfully sharp bits of ice. (“You know how I--OW! DAMNIT!”) Sub Rosa was a welcome haven, after a few blocks of having this stuff pelted at us.

This picture is from their Google Places page.

It’s amazing. This bakery is one of my favorite places in RVA. It’s so amazing, I didn’t get any pictures of the food because I could only think of consuming the delicious baked goods when I got them. This “problem” has been the case every time I’ve gone there. My favorite item they have is, so far, the seeded braids. They’re chewy and buttery, and they have a spice that I can’t quite identify that makes the flavor so unique and lovely. We headed back to my place after the bakery where pastries were consumed and couch cuddles were had.

Soon thereafter everyone else left, and I got into my PJs, cuddled up in front of my space heater with Season 2 of The Simpsons, and proceeded to take a nice nap. Only to wake up to this:

It was so pretty out! I got a chance to enjoy the snow on my walk with the lovely Brittney, with whom I went to Patrick Henry Pub for some drinks and dinner.

Sunday Funday indeed! It was a really great day, I must say!

It’s worth noting that people attending the festival were much more well behaved this year than last year, aside from continuing to forget that you’re not supposed to park next to a fire hydrant. I’m not really worried about that though, because I have faith the Richmond Fire Department won’t hesitate to do this if my house catches on fire and there’s a car parked next to the hydrant:

Update: So I held off on posting this entry for over a week because I was determined to get up early, go back to Sub Rosa, and get pics of the pastries, but I never was able to get up early enough. Sadly, around midnight on 4/3/13, a fire broke out and Sub Rosa and the above apartment were badly damaged, which led to the building being temporarily condemned. It’s so sad and my heart goes out to the Sub Rosa family and the residents affected by this. I’m really glad everyone is okay.

Efforts are being made to assist both parties in the interim, while insurance does its thing. The community has been rather amazing in their response. It's made me an even prouder Richmonder. Three fundraisers have been organized, and I hope you’ll participate in one.

There's Indiegogo, which is raising funds to help both the residents and the bakery. Over $14,000 has already ben raised!

A food truck event has been organized, featuring some of Richmond's best mobile restaurants!

And The Roosevelt, along with several local (FANTASTIC!) chefs are holding a dinner next week--something I'm really looking forward to!

Also, very important, the residents managed to get their cats out, but they ran off in the chaos of the night. Please help them find their pets!



Here’s hoping the bakery will be up and running in some capacity soon (the owner thinks it could be anywhere from 4-6 months.) I'm so happy they'll be rebuilding!

And since that update was a bit depressing, even with all of the community support, here's a .gif of Kevin dancing in a wig.

Les Misérables

A heads up, this is not necessarily a review. I talk about what I want to talk about, and it includes commentary that compares previous performances and recordings, includes personal anecdotes, and a little bit of this and that. In other words, it's long. It's funny too, but ya know, if you want something short and sweet, you best head over to Jessi's much more reasonably sized review on Richmond.com.


Wednesday night Christmas 2012 came to a close. Yep. My family got to enjoy our group Christmas present: Tickets to see Les Misérables at Landmark Theater.

Les Mis is sort of the family musical. I know I've seen it at least 5 or 6 times. It was the first show I've ever seen—it was at the Roanoke Coliseum when I was 7 years old. I remember being completely appalled by my mother and father's tearful display throughout the show. I was so embarrassed—my parents crying! The shame, the shame! Of course it turned out everyone else had been crying too. On the way out of the show, a good ole boy in his formal flannel and very best denim turned to his also dungaree'd friend and said in a very Southern Virginia accent, "Well there might have been a dry eye in the house, but it sure as hell wasn't mine." As it turned out, when I got older I joined the crying masses, although I'm pretty sure my mom still cries way more than me.

Love you, Mom.

If you don't know the story of Les Mis you can go to Wikipedia and read the plot. Go ahead. I'll wait.

Or don't. I don't particularly care either way; just know that at no point am I going to summarize it for you in this post.

We really enjoyed ourselves—it was once again a beautiful, moving experience. Each company's interpretation is obviously going to be different, as are the strengths and weaknesses of the individual actors. That's what I actually love about seeing a show again and again—it's going to be different in one way or another.

In past shows, Jean Valjean has been performed by actors who tried way too hard to emulate Colm Wilkinson. Wilkinson, whose performance of our tragic hero was fantastically overwrought, is difficult to imitate well, but I've certainly seen it done.

Skip to the :30 mark for a sample of his work.

I'll give you all a moment to collect yourselves.

In this case Wednesday night's Valjean, portrayed by the surprisingly young Peter Lockyer, there was no hint of the specter of Wilkinson hanging over his performance. It was so refreshing seeing an actor's take on a character, instead of an actor's take on another's actor's interpretation. His performance was, more anything humble, the confidence and strength of his character being conveyed as a gradual, natural build, which I quite liked. The humble approach only failed to satisfy when he sang simultaneously with Javert, during which his vocals were lost.

Andrew Varela, who previously played Jean Valjean for 5 years, gave a stunning performance as Inspector Javert. He was flawless, simply put. "Stars" is among one of my favorite songs, and it's one of the few times in my life I wish I were a man, just so I could sing this song. The other times involve camping.

There's a reason why Russell Crowe didn't get nominated for a Golden Globe or an Oscar for his role in the film version of Les Mis: He was unremarkable as a singer, which was most apparent during "Stars." And since I saw the movie I've carried the injury Crowe so carelessly inflicted on me. Enter Valera, the Neosporin to my Russell Crowe wound. And it was more than just "Stars." His commanding performance made him the standout performer in this production.

Alright, honest Oprah time, I freaking love Enjolras. Seriously, I love that character. Even though I can't pronounce his name. It doesn’t matter which production we're talking about, I love him. I have never seen a bad Enjolras. This performance was no exception. Jason Forbach's Enjolras was charismatic, passionate, and hauntingly beautiful.

The Thénardiers, performed by Tom Gulan and Shawna M. Hamic, were solid. Both actors were very comfortable in their comedic roles. Probably the biggest laugh of the show was when Mme Thénardier dropped a silver tray she'd been attempting to make off with. I was particularly glad to see they didn't employ a Cockney accent. I don't really get why others make that acting choice, but it doesn't add anything, IMHO. Also worth nothing, Gulan did a really good job with "Dog Eat Dog." It's really easy to go off the deep end with character acting, and he struck a good balance. "Dog Eat Dog" was one of the songs cut from the film version—something that was pretty disappointing for me.

I not-so-secretly long to play Mme Thénardier, one of those few roles in which a big girl (such as me) can flourish. I'm not exactly sure why the role's always played by a big lady (except for Helena Bonham-Carter, although I'm not really sure why she played Mme Thénardier either.) It doesn’t make sense from a historical standpoint. A poor person isn't going to be fat. It isn't logical. But there's no logic at work here. No, Mme Thénardier is fat because fat people are HILARIOUS. Ending that rant, here.

Not everything was peachy keen though. Devin Ilaw's approach to Marius was a little too meek and boyish for me, and as a result he seemed like the youngest adult in the cast. But maybe I'm biased. I mean after all I am a staunch Nick Jonas as Marius fan.

Lol, j/k. Seriously? They cast him as Marius?? SERIOUSLY?! No. Gtfo, kid. Where's Michael Ball?

Jokes aside, it was obvious how much Ilaw has poured into "Empty Chairs and Empty Tables." The desperation and mourning in his voice brought me to tears.

The only real complaint I have will probably cause anyone who's still reading this far calling me a prude. The graphic sexual miming was a bit much. And I double checked with my friend Jessi, this isn't just me—it was GRAPHIC. I know I'm an adult, but it was awkward to the point of distracting seeing a prostitute mime oral sex. I pretty much missed half of Mme Thénardier's rant about her husband because there were two people in the "balcony" of the tavern set who were having sex, complete with vigorous thrusting motions as her legs were up over her head. Only, of course, to be immediately followed by a change of positions with him going at her from behind as she gave appropriate facial expressions to convey her ecstasy. It was awkward, and I don't care if you lot think I'm a complete prude for saying so. So maybe a little less thrusting next time?

A pretty big change that took some getting used to on my part was the set. In the past, I've seen it performed on a rotating stage; a piece that I'm guessing was expensive, cumbersome, and probably limited which theaters could host the show. Now the show is being done a traditional stage floor. And it's fine, it works for the most part. The only time I think something was lost was during scenes at the barricade. Seeing Enjolras's body draped over the front of the barricade, or seeing Gavroche's final moments, taunting his enemies, even as he dies; the impact of the modified versions of these moments just wasn't as meaningful.

Something that always nags me about the show is the hidden message. Consider who dies and who suffers the most. Good people, for the most part. Even Javert is good, even if he's the antagonist—he's just doing his duty. But then look at the Thénardiers, who abuse Cosette, con their customers, steal from everyone—including from the dead and dying. And they're unapologetic about it. Yet at the end of the show, they are able to successfully parley their way into society, and arguably, (except where love is concerned) end up on top. The innocents suffer while the corrupt win. That's a pretty bleak ending. I guess it's realistic too, when you think about it.

And on that note…

Name That Storm!

It's been a while since I've last posted, and no, I'm not going to address my blog laziness. Needless to say,

I'm not even going to discuss the purple Tina Turner wig Elton's wearing. It's here and it's queer, get used to it.

It's still winter, despite a Pennsylvanian groundhog's prediction, confused crocuses, jonquils, and foxgloves (I wish I'd thought to snap some pics!), and my friend Karri's terror/joy of possible snow.

And with winter comes winter storms, all of which the Weather Channel has independently decided to name. As irritating as it is to have a television station unilaterally decide that all storms will have names we're all supposed to address the storms by, the names themselves have been FANTASTIC.

So far, we've had:

Draco

Gandolf

I don't care if they've spelled it differently.

Iago

I was only disappointed that the 'J' storm was not named 'Jafar.' How badass would that have been???

Nemo

Okko

Since we're nearing spring/global warming, it's possible we may not see these storms left on the list, even though their names are equally amazing:

Triton

Xerxes

Skipping the scissoring joke.

Yogi

I'm hoping for a Winter Storm Boo Boo next winter.

Zeus

Incidentally, there was also a Winter Storm Athena,

Who is Triton's dearly departed wife and Ariel's mother in Disney's "The Little Mermaid."

Now obviously they're going with a lot Greek/Roman gods and goddesses and Shakespearian characters (because when I think snow, I think of Shakespeare.) And all of the names are pretty cool, with the exception of Ukko, which is just begging to be added to the blooper reel after some poor weather girl accidentally says, 'Fuck-o' on the air. But the best name by far is the storm current burying eastern California and western Nevada: Winter Storm Q.

And I immediately thought of/made this:

You're welcome, world.

While we're on the subject of snow, my family and I have this fun tradition: Whenever it snows where ever one of us might be, that person calls the other family members and sings the opening lines of "Snow" from "White Christmas." It's off-key, it's silly, and I love it. It never fails to make me smile!

So while spring is on the way and I'm really looking forward to not having heating bills for $124 (hey, eff you 103 year old house with poorly sealed door and windows,) I can't help but feel a little sad that we haven't had a really good snow yet this season.

 

We got enough for me to make a mini-snowman at a bus stop near my place, which was great, because I'm actually 10.

Still, I'd like one more really good, deep, city paralyzing snow. Maybe Winter Storm Rocky won't disappoint?

And yes, I'm going to blog more often.

A look into the future...

Using an exceedingly complicated and technically advanced time machine of my own design, I have been able to travel through time. Employing the stealth and grace for which I am known, I was able to infiltrate my home 70 years from our present date, cleverly disguised as an armchair.

The man on my right is my son and he is as one would expect:

Smart, polite, friendly, charming, funny,well dressed, a little on the special side, and very, very gay.

While in the home I was able to snap this photograph of my best friend Kevin and I enjoying glasses of wine.

Kevin looks lovely in plum!

It is a bright, beautiful future I have ahead of me.

Specific vs. Pacific

Alright people, we need to have a talk. The word is 'specific,' not 'Pacific.' (Unless you mean Pacific, of course, then the word is ‘Pacific,’ not ‘specific.’) The easiest way to remember the difference between these two words is there is an 's' in the word 'specific.' And that's just the easiest way!


A further investigation will reveal that the word 'specific' actually means:

While you'll find that the word 'Pacific' is not just a word, but a proper noun and the name of the largest ocean on the planet!

To further drive home the difference between the two words I'll use them in a sentence!

Example: When discussing the Pacific Ocean I'm talking about a specific ocean.

See what I did there? Good. Because the next time you say ‘Pacific’ when you clearly mean ‘specific’ I’m going throw a large, heavy object aimed specifically at your head.

And don't hand me this crap about it being a charming regional pronunciation, because it is not. It is a mispronunciation that ought to have been phased out by the third grade.

Cold Turkey Project: Twitter

One of my favorite people on the internet—and that is a bit of a distinction, fyi, since the internet is unfathomably and intangibly huge, is Mark Malkoff. He's a writer and comedian, and generally seems to be a nice guy. He takes on quirky challenges like conquering his fear of flying by living on an AirTran jet for thirty days, soliciting invitations and staying overnight with celebrities, visiting every Starbucks in Manhattan, and (at this very moment) watching 400 hours of streamed movies from Netflix in a month. His life’s like Jackass without the multiple trips to the ER or the contingent of dumbasses who’ve seemingly proved Darwin was wrong.

Oh, and you probably won’t see this guy commandeering a shopping cart for the purpose of violently colliding it into things.

I could be wrong. Am I wrong Mark?

Anyway, the reason why I bring him up is that despite the fact that these challenges seem to be all fun and games, they still require a fair bit of discipline and sacrifice. It can't all be sleepovers with this guy:



Example: Mark attempted to be carried from the most southerly point of Manhattan to the most northerly by city dwellers and tourists. Due to a few factors he was not able to make it the whole way, but the effort was still admirable. Braving poor weather conditions, physical discomfort, and probably a slew of communicable diseases, when all was said and done Mark was in a quite a bit of pain. You've got to figure being slung over shoulders, dangled by limbs, and damn near dragged down the sidewalk was going to result in some muscle fatigue and tenderness. Still it seems as though lessons were learned, laughs were had, and blogs were posted.


The aforementioned themes of discipline and sacrifice have inspired me to explore a challenge my own challenges—specifically in the form of tackling some pretty bad habits I've developed. I sat down and made a list of things I thought I could or should change. Could and should didn't always overlap, which was the first revelation. The second revelation was that some of these habits I really didn't want to change. God knows I love most of the things I came up with! I love my wine, eating out, cursing, sitting on my ass, tweeting my inner monologue with reckless abandon, staying up late, and sleeping in for as long as I feel like it—and that’s just to name a few. Changing some of those things, if not all of them, would be exceptionally challenging—and there it was, the third revelation: The things I didn't want to change were probably the things I needed to change the most.


To my thinking, it’ll be a little bit like Lent, only without the feigned religious observation.

Because Jesus is really impressed you gave up soda for forty days.

The first thing I'm giving up is going to be pretty tough for me: Twitter. If you know me, you'll know how hard this is going to be for me.

 I can quit any time I want—I just don't want to.

I love Twitter. I tweet all the time—it's like my own reality show/standup comedy special/platform from which I can tirade and rage to my heart's content. And trust me, I know how self involved and delusional that sounds, it does not escape me. But then not too long ago I went on and on about a subject for the duration of the day. My Twitterfeed functioned like a chat window, every time I had a follow up thought, BAM, tweeted. I knew I was going overboard, yet I didn't stop. Eventually my friend Amanda took me aside via direct message (which is a private message for those who aren't on Twitter,) and she expressed that while she understood I was passionate about what I had to say, my commentary had pretty much filled up her entire timeline that day. That was my first sign that I needed to pull back, and though I understood her advice and appreciated it, it obviously didn't stick. I went back to excessively tweeting.


The second sign came from a harmless ribbing from my friend Jack. He made a joke about my nearly 32,000 tweets and I laughed it off. But then I actually started really examining things: 32K—that's anywhere from 12-20K more than a majority of my friends. I thought, "Well yes, that's a lot more, but I've been on Twitter since April 2009, when it was just Ashton Kutcher and a couple million nerds. Most of my friends didn’t even have Twitter back then.”

100 million of those users are spam bots.

Denial—it’s not just a word that can be used with homonym-like humor in order to illustrate a lack of acceptance—I had it bad. As I went back and counted how often I tweeted in 24 hour periods I was shocked. I can equate it to how you might feel when you count up how many days you’ve shaved off your life by mindlessly consuming a plate of chicken and broccoli pasta at Ruby Tuesday’s.

This will set you back 2060 calories and 128 grams of fat. We won’t even talk about salt content.

And no, I'm not kidding.

I was tweeting 90, 100, even 120 tweets in a day—and that was just when I was bored. If I was on a tear about something, the numbers spiked well beyond that.

Jack, in his teasing, had a legitimate point, as did my friend Amanda: This was excessive. And it wasn't out of being butthurt (read: childishly pissed off,) that I decided that this cycle of oversharing needed to stop. It was out of a real honest to Oprah reality check and having the realization that enough was enough. Not everyone needed to know what I was thinking when I was thinking it, even if it could be funny or thought provoking—which I'd like to think I can be.


My friend Renata recently took a sabbatical from Twitter. For a month she stayed away from the social media platform. When she took her break she endured some good natured teasing from friends—sorry about that Renata—who couldn't get their heads around why anyone would do such a thing. Now that I'm trying this thing I’m already starting to understand.


Today is day one. Last night at about 12:02am I tweeted Proverbs 17:28 ("Even a fool is thought wise if he keeps silent, and discerning if he holds his tongue,") and indicated I had accepted the challenge of staying off Twitter in all its forms for a period of nine days. Last night nine days seemed like a long time—my God, I'm having a party next Friday, I might want to post inside jokes and hilarious pictures on Twitter about it! People won’t know I throw a great party, make great food, and have awesome friends if I don’t tweet pictures and put out a running commentary! I can't NOT tweet during the party! In the daylight though I've begun to think that maybe nine days was selling me short. I bet I could be stronger than that. In that spirit I've resolved to wait until my trip to Philadelphia with some friends, which is taking place in three weeks.

Even in the few hours that I've been up and had enough coffee to form a coherent statement I've found myself mentally forming the words I would have otherwise tweeted. I've tried writing them down so I can look back and see if they were of any value. Already I know the answer would be no. Still, Twitter has become such a natural thing to engage in that I've actually caught myself going to click on links that would lead to Twitter or my fingers playing over the keys, ready to type in the address before I remember, 'No, I'm not doing that.'

I'm not just doing this out of a desire to conquer a challenge or to gain/demonstrate some discipline by sacrificing doing something I enjoy. My friend Andrew jokes with me about Twitter addiction and I tell him to fuck off. (No, seriously, I do.) Sometimes I think he's right though—there's a compulsion to share. I want to get beyond that compulsion.

I do want to take a minute to defend my drug of choice: Not all tweeting is inane.

Although don't get me wrong, that goes on quite a bit. My tweeting varies from expounding on the number of lives that have been spared by not acting on my impulse to kill the idiots I encounter on a daily basis, to making fun of/participating in internet dating, to live-tweeting particularly hilarious events like going to bars or attending concerts and parties. And then there's everything else I seem to talk about. I found myself making the excuse that if people weren't interested in what I had to say, they'd just unfollow me, but I realized again this was just another form of denial. And what's more, I didn't want people rolling their eyes whenever they saw I tweeted, the way I do when I see a few of my friends repeatedly post on their obsessions.

I want what I have to say mean something. I want people to read a tweet and appreciate the humor or the intelligence behind it. I don't want to have everything I say become white noise because I've tweeted so many times that people just pass over my tweets due to oversaturation. And maybe I'll discover that what I have to say doesn't matter, even if it is funny or smart. Who knows!

Twitter can matter though. Revolutions have been staged with the help of social media. Friends have been made by meeting people with similar interests and attitudes. Businesses have had to create whole new approaches where internet presence and customer outreach is concerned. People have indulged their inner voyeur by being entertained by the daily fortunes and misfortunes of others. Twitter is a powerful tool that can connect people in all sorts of ways.

So Twitter: I love you, but for both our sakes I've got to spend some time away from you. I've turned off all email notifications, deleted the Twitter app from my smartphone, and I've taken what I think is the final step in cementing my commitment: I've shared it with others. My goal: To make it to May 17th without tweeting a single thought, be it profound or frivolous. I'll be documenting this experience through this blog, though I promise not to over-blog this topic. That would be kind of defeating the purpose of this whole exercise, wouldn’t it?