Oh, yes. Procrastination is an art.
It's rather difficult to do correctly.
Procrastination, put simply, is the act of putting things off until the last minute. One common instance of this is teenagers not doing their homework until the last minute. Usually, procrastinating includes distractions of some kind, such as books, movies, music, cell phones, or Facebook. A person will start to do his or her task, get distracted or just choose to do something else, and be face with a huge deadline. That is, they will find themselves with two minutes to create a Sistine Chapel.
Successful procrastinators will have no problem with this. I should know- procrastinating has always worked wonderfully for me. Here is a sort of schedule for a successful procrastinator, supposing that she gets home at 4 p.m. and her bedtime is 9 p.m.
4:oo- Eat a snack and watch TV.
4:20- Talk about starting homework soon while really continuing to watch TV.
4:45- Get up and go to wherever homework is done; start slowly unpacking needed materials
5:00- Sneak back to the living room to find out why everybody's laughing at the TV.
5:02- Make an excuse to the parents and run back to the homework area.
5:03- Discover friends are online. Instant message three or four at a time with textbook open.
5:37- Text a few friends to ask questions.
5:40- Arrange your flair on Facebook.
5:50- Write on some people's Facebook walls.
5:59- Do a couple easy homework problems so it won't look like you've done nothing all evening.
6:04- Instant-message different friends.
6:30- Eat a lengthy dinner and converse merrily with your family.
7:15- Start writing a novel.
7:38- Get out your iPod because it'll help you "concentrate."
8:00- Start wondering whether you'll have enough time to finish your homework.
8:25- Start working hard and heavy, regretting all that procrastination.
8:45- Start freaking out because you have so much left to do.
8:50- Scream at your computer because it won't pull up pictures fast enough.
8:51- Print out some pictures.
8:52- Glue pictures onto posterboard. Hurriedly do a few math problems in between.
8:54- Suddenly remember you had French homework. Conjugate three verbs and give up.
8:56- Where did those Sharpies go?
8:57-Use Sharpies to make poster colorful.
8:58-Make mental list of what isn't finished.
8:59- Do a few more math problems.
9:00- Go to bed.
7:15 A.M.- Finish math homework on the bus.
7:45- Finish French homework sitting in front of your locker.
8:15- Go to class and turn in all your completed homework.
Whew. Things get pretty stressful when you procrastinate.
I wouldn't recommend procrastinating to anyone, really. Hours of laziness paid for with brief moments of intense stress... Not really worth it.
The thing is, procrastinating is habit-forming. It's hard to break that habit.
The only good thing that comes out of procrastination, I would say, is the ability to do things well at the last minute. That's a nice skill to have. But things don't always turn out right, unfortunately, which really bites.
Oh, procrastination is an art. A difficult art. A fickle art. A regret-causing art.
Love her. Fear her.
I remain, gentlebloggers, your obedient servant,
Commodore Scribbles
Monday, November 10, 2008
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Bad Technology.
The one irritating thing about technology is that sometimes it DOESN'T WORK.
Which is irritating.
I am an artist. I know enough about technology to keep my laptop running. Usually. Although... my laptop is: 1) Asthmatic. 2) Slow. 3) Extremely vulnerable to viruses. 4) Ornery.
My laptop has a mind of its own. For one thing, I like to shut it at night, which puts it into hibernation. But it doesn't really like to wake up from hibernation. Another thing: It thinks all the videos I watch are stupid, so it lags and drags and pretty much doesn't let me watch them. And also, it hates PDF files, which means I have a hard time pulling up my online textbooks.
I think my laptop hates French, too. Because usually when it shuts down unexpectedly, it saves all the documents I have open with its funky little Microsoft Word AutoRecover thing. However, it chose to delete most of the VERY IMPORTANT documents I needed for my most recent French project, leaving me to spend an hour and a half re-typing.
And then there are times when it just doesn't work. That's when I call my dad. Because he, unlike myself, is a Man of Technology. Meaning this:
Laptop: **cackles evilly**
Dad: **clicks a few buttons**
Laptop: ...ouch.
Dads are great. Technology is also great. But only if you have a dad to fix it for you.
I remain, gentlebloggers, your obedient servant,
Commodore Scribbles
Which is irritating.
I am an artist. I know enough about technology to keep my laptop running. Usually. Although... my laptop is: 1) Asthmatic. 2) Slow. 3) Extremely vulnerable to viruses. 4) Ornery.
My laptop has a mind of its own. For one thing, I like to shut it at night, which puts it into hibernation. But it doesn't really like to wake up from hibernation. Another thing: It thinks all the videos I watch are stupid, so it lags and drags and pretty much doesn't let me watch them. And also, it hates PDF files, which means I have a hard time pulling up my online textbooks.
I think my laptop hates French, too. Because usually when it shuts down unexpectedly, it saves all the documents I have open with its funky little Microsoft Word AutoRecover thing. However, it chose to delete most of the VERY IMPORTANT documents I needed for my most recent French project, leaving me to spend an hour and a half re-typing.
And then there are times when it just doesn't work. That's when I call my dad. Because he, unlike myself, is a Man of Technology. Meaning this:
Laptop: **cackles evilly**
Dad: **clicks a few buttons**
Laptop: ...ouch.
Dads are great. Technology is also great. But only if you have a dad to fix it for you.
I remain, gentlebloggers, your obedient servant,
Commodore Scribbles
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Shut Up and March!
There are few people in the world who truly understand the art of marching band. That's okay. That's why I'm here- to explain.
Most marching bands follow the same general format:
-Director(s) to shout, threaten, and make people run laps
-Drum major(s) to conduct, criticize, contradict, and be awesome (Funnily enough, they don't actually play the drums most of the time)
-A band to be abused and follow orders
Obviously, the purpose of a marching band is to march. And play. At the same time. I've heard some people claim that this is easy.
IT'S NOT THAT EASY.
Sometimes, it's downright hard. But that's okay- we like challenges.
A marching band has all the instruments a regular concert band would have:
You've got your woodwinds, which is basically the group of instruments that are made of wood or have some wood part on them and you blow into them. Except you really don't want to take wood instruments out on the field... they deteriorate quite quickly. And reeds tend to break when you toss your saxes and clarinets around all the time. And double-reed instruments? Sorry, bassoons and oboes. You're not allowed. How about you learn a new instrument? And... wait a minute, where do flutes fit into this all? There's not a piece of wood on them! That goes for piccolos, too. But don't insult the piccolos- they could easily make you deaf.
There's the brass section, which includes all the instruments made out of- you guessed it, brass. Just a note: Saxophones, although shiny and metal-y like trumpets and tubas, are not actually brass instruments. Why not, you say? They've got teeny little pieces of wood called reeds. That's enough to stick them in with the woodwinds. Because tubas are so hard to carry around, they invented a special kind of tuba called the Sousaphone (you know, like John Phillips Sousa? Google him.) . You know what a Sousaphone is- it's that tuba that wraps around you and looks ridiculous. You probably don't know what a euphonium is, though. A euphonium, also called a baritone, is basically a teeny tuba. Although it's not all that teeny, and it does get heavy because you have to hold it like a trumpet. Ever tried to march a French horn? They're kind of weird, what with all that brass spaghetti in the center. That's why they invented the mellophone, which is basically a French horn twisted up in a different way to be more portable. They don't cut anyone any slack.
There's the percussion section (drums and other things you beat with sticks), which, in the lovely world of marching band, is split into two sections.
1) Drumline. Ever seen that movie? Yeah. Basically the most portable percussions- snares, cymbals, bass drums... Oh, yes. Bass drums (the huge ones) are portable. You just get some shoulder straps and- BOOM. Portable bass. Just don't fall over. The drumline is generally extremely loud, and it sometimes hacks off the rest of the band because they have to play louder to be heard.
2) Pit. Ever tried to march with a xylophone? They get pretty big, and even with wheels, they don't move easily. Hence the traffic jam when the percussion tries to move those things through doors. Basically, anything that's too big or too hard to march with gets lined up on the sidelines and played there. This can include xylophones, marimbas, string basses, and sometimes pianos.
The marching band season (which is pretty much just football season in disguise) usually starts before the actual school year- that's right, during summer vacation. That's when band camp happens. Band camp is a good time to teach the rookies how to march. It's also a good time to un-lazy the veterans and remind them how to march.
Bands march using the football field's yard lines and hashes as guides. The yard lines are fifteen feet apart, and there are two hashes on each line, cutting them into three pieces. Band members must magically know how big of a step to take to get to each position without looking at any of the painted lines. There's a way to do this: it's called weeks and weeks of repetitive practice.
And what about those uniforms? I think that's one of the biggest reasons band geeks get picked on. Truthfully, they can look nerdy sometimes. But uniforms are big deals. Band kids learn to be very, very careful with them because there's a team of elite band moms who will come down on them if they don't. The Uniform Committee doesn't like it when the uniforms get dirty or ripped up. They often don't let the kids touch the plumes that go in their hats. (Plumes are feathers, by the way.) They're scary. The uniforms themselves vary from band to band, but usually consist of shoes, pants, jackets, gloves, and hats of some kind. Drum majors can get special uniforms because they're special. But aren't we all?
Marching bands are good for all kinds of things! Like halftime! And parades! And pep rallies! And competitions! And showing off! And getting out of gym! And... probably for taking over the world.
Oh, and for learning discipline, too. Before learning to march, one must learn to stand completely still without moving at all. This is called standing at attention. That means chins slightly raised; shoulders back, down, and relaxed; elbows bent slightly (just slightly! no chicken wings!); feet together, and knees bent ever so slightly, just enough so that they don't lock. Oh, that brings me to a good point:
DON'T LOCK YOUR KNEES.
If you lock your knees, your blood won't be able to get through them, and 9 times out of 10 you'll pass out.
DON'T LOCK YOUR KNEES. DON'T LOCK YOUR KNEES. DON'T LOCK YOUR KNEES!
Another common band position is horns up- that's just when the band puts their instruments up to their faces so they can play.
There is no talking or moving allowed in either of these positions. Your head itches? Too bad. There's a spider crawling up your leg? Hope it's not poisonous. You've really got to pee? Hold it. And do. not. talk. That will bring the wrath of the drum majors and directors down on you.
So, that's marching band in a rather large nutshell! Go cheer for your high school marching band at the next game!
I remain, gentlebloggers, your obedient servant,
Commodore Scribbles
Most marching bands follow the same general format:
-Director(s) to shout, threaten, and make people run laps
-Drum major(s) to conduct, criticize, contradict, and be awesome (Funnily enough, they don't actually play the drums most of the time)
-A band to be abused and follow orders
Obviously, the purpose of a marching band is to march. And play. At the same time. I've heard some people claim that this is easy.
IT'S NOT THAT EASY.
Sometimes, it's downright hard. But that's okay- we like challenges.
A marching band has all the instruments a regular concert band would have:
You've got your woodwinds, which is basically the group of instruments that are made of wood or have some wood part on them and you blow into them. Except you really don't want to take wood instruments out on the field... they deteriorate quite quickly. And reeds tend to break when you toss your saxes and clarinets around all the time. And double-reed instruments? Sorry, bassoons and oboes. You're not allowed. How about you learn a new instrument? And... wait a minute, where do flutes fit into this all? There's not a piece of wood on them! That goes for piccolos, too. But don't insult the piccolos- they could easily make you deaf.
There's the brass section, which includes all the instruments made out of- you guessed it, brass. Just a note: Saxophones, although shiny and metal-y like trumpets and tubas, are not actually brass instruments. Why not, you say? They've got teeny little pieces of wood called reeds. That's enough to stick them in with the woodwinds. Because tubas are so hard to carry around, they invented a special kind of tuba called the Sousaphone (you know, like John Phillips Sousa? Google him.) . You know what a Sousaphone is- it's that tuba that wraps around you and looks ridiculous. You probably don't know what a euphonium is, though. A euphonium, also called a baritone, is basically a teeny tuba. Although it's not all that teeny, and it does get heavy because you have to hold it like a trumpet. Ever tried to march a French horn? They're kind of weird, what with all that brass spaghetti in the center. That's why they invented the mellophone, which is basically a French horn twisted up in a different way to be more portable. They don't cut anyone any slack.
There's the percussion section (drums and other things you beat with sticks), which, in the lovely world of marching band, is split into two sections.
1) Drumline. Ever seen that movie? Yeah. Basically the most portable percussions- snares, cymbals, bass drums... Oh, yes. Bass drums (the huge ones) are portable. You just get some shoulder straps and- BOOM. Portable bass. Just don't fall over. The drumline is generally extremely loud, and it sometimes hacks off the rest of the band because they have to play louder to be heard.
2) Pit. Ever tried to march with a xylophone? They get pretty big, and even with wheels, they don't move easily. Hence the traffic jam when the percussion tries to move those things through doors. Basically, anything that's too big or too hard to march with gets lined up on the sidelines and played there. This can include xylophones, marimbas, string basses, and sometimes pianos.
The marching band season (which is pretty much just football season in disguise) usually starts before the actual school year- that's right, during summer vacation. That's when band camp happens. Band camp is a good time to teach the rookies how to march. It's also a good time to un-lazy the veterans and remind them how to march.
Bands march using the football field's yard lines and hashes as guides. The yard lines are fifteen feet apart, and there are two hashes on each line, cutting them into three pieces. Band members must magically know how big of a step to take to get to each position without looking at any of the painted lines. There's a way to do this: it's called weeks and weeks of repetitive practice.
And what about those uniforms? I think that's one of the biggest reasons band geeks get picked on. Truthfully, they can look nerdy sometimes. But uniforms are big deals. Band kids learn to be very, very careful with them because there's a team of elite band moms who will come down on them if they don't. The Uniform Committee doesn't like it when the uniforms get dirty or ripped up. They often don't let the kids touch the plumes that go in their hats. (Plumes are feathers, by the way.) They're scary. The uniforms themselves vary from band to band, but usually consist of shoes, pants, jackets, gloves, and hats of some kind. Drum majors can get special uniforms because they're special. But aren't we all?
Marching bands are good for all kinds of things! Like halftime! And parades! And pep rallies! And competitions! And showing off! And getting out of gym! And... probably for taking over the world.
Oh, and for learning discipline, too. Before learning to march, one must learn to stand completely still without moving at all. This is called standing at attention. That means chins slightly raised; shoulders back, down, and relaxed; elbows bent slightly (just slightly! no chicken wings!); feet together, and knees bent ever so slightly, just enough so that they don't lock. Oh, that brings me to a good point:
DON'T LOCK YOUR KNEES.
If you lock your knees, your blood won't be able to get through them, and 9 times out of 10 you'll pass out.
DON'T LOCK YOUR KNEES. DON'T LOCK YOUR KNEES. DON'T LOCK YOUR KNEES!
Another common band position is horns up- that's just when the band puts their instruments up to their faces so they can play.
There is no talking or moving allowed in either of these positions. Your head itches? Too bad. There's a spider crawling up your leg? Hope it's not poisonous. You've really got to pee? Hold it. And do. not. talk. That will bring the wrath of the drum majors and directors down on you.
So, that's marching band in a rather large nutshell! Go cheer for your high school marching band at the next game!
I remain, gentlebloggers, your obedient servant,
Commodore Scribbles
Saturday, August 18, 2007
Boredom Should Be a Crime
It is extremely boring to be bored.
When you get as bored as I am now, there's really no point in trying to find anything to do. Because there isn't anything to do. There's absolutely nothing to do.
Because...
-Your laptop is dead and will never again wake to see the light of day
-None of your friends are online
-You don't want to practice whatever instrument you play... or you don't even play an instrument, which is worse
-Nobody at home is doing anything fun
-Nobody at home likes any of the movies you like
At this point, you're so bored, you don't even feel motivated to do anything.
This is a terrible, terrible feeling. It leads to:
-Staring at someone else's laptop and wishing you were rich enough to buy yourself a new one
-Watching soap opera reruns
-Staring at your instant messager and silently begging anyone, anyone to get online
-Feeling almost guilty about A) Not practicing your instrument or B) not playing an instrument
-Writing pointless blogs about being bored
I beg of you... please save me.
I'm slowly dying of boredom.
And I'm also getting depressed.
:(
And now I might have to do something really crazy so that I don't just fall unconscious by being bored.
I remain, gentlebloggers, your obedient servant,
Commodore Scribbles
P.S. WHY would a laptop feel the need to suddenly just die? I would think that no machine could be so cruel, and yet... I stand corrected. Actually, I sit corrected, because I'm too unmotivated to stand. So I sit.
When you get as bored as I am now, there's really no point in trying to find anything to do. Because there isn't anything to do. There's absolutely nothing to do.
Because...
-Your laptop is dead and will never again wake to see the light of day
-None of your friends are online
-You don't want to practice whatever instrument you play... or you don't even play an instrument, which is worse
-Nobody at home is doing anything fun
-Nobody at home likes any of the movies you like
At this point, you're so bored, you don't even feel motivated to do anything.
This is a terrible, terrible feeling. It leads to:
-Staring at someone else's laptop and wishing you were rich enough to buy yourself a new one
-Watching soap opera reruns
-Staring at your instant messager and silently begging anyone, anyone to get online
-Feeling almost guilty about A) Not practicing your instrument or B) not playing an instrument
-Writing pointless blogs about being bored
I beg of you... please save me.
I'm slowly dying of boredom.
And I'm also getting depressed.
:(
And now I might have to do something really crazy so that I don't just fall unconscious by being bored.
I remain, gentlebloggers, your obedient servant,
Commodore Scribbles
P.S. WHY would a laptop feel the need to suddenly just die? I would think that no machine could be so cruel, and yet... I stand corrected. Actually, I sit corrected, because I'm too unmotivated to stand. So I sit.
Saturday, July 28, 2007
Holy Overrated Icons!
My opinion?
We give superheroes waaaay too much credit. Honestly.
I've discovered that the gutsy tight-wearing heroes we idolize are actually just overrated icons.
Seriously.
There I was, cornered by the evil Homeworkanator, waiting patiently for a superhero to arrive and save my butt. It was actually taking quite a long time, and both of us were getting bored. The Homeworkanator taught me how to disable a bomb, and I taught him how to snap his fingers. It was a win-win situation, really.
But suddenly, the door banged open.
Random Superhero: FREEZE, Homeworkanator!
Fuhh.
The dude was a complete and total dork. He had numbers all over his baggy tights and he was wearing a football helmet with a big radical on it.
If there's one thing I absolutely despise on this planet, it's radicals.
Not the political kind.
The mathical kind.
You know.
Square roots and junk?
Yeah.
Anyway.
Random Superhero: I'm MathMan, and I'm here to save the day! Beware, Homeworkanator, as I whip out my amazing TI-84 Silver Edition Plus!
Now, I had to hand it to him, he had a niiiice graphing calculator. But that didn't make up for the fact that he was a dork. Who did he think he was, my eighth grade algebra teacher?
Wait...scratch that. My algebra teacher was cool.
MathMan: *zaps Homeworkanator with a stream of numbers that emanate from the graphing calculator*
Homeworkanator: *blinks* Uh...was that supposed to hurt?
MathMan: *screams and runs to hide behind me*
Me: Dude, what kind of a superhero are you?
MathMan: A smart one!
Me: Dude. The Homeworkanator is not frightening. Irritating, yes. Consuming, yes. Life-ruining, most definitely. But he's not scary. Seriously, I could take him!
MathMan: Well, if you're so big and strong, then why don't you?
And so I became acquainted with a beautiful new idea... Why don't I?
Homework, beware! Landlords, cower in fear! Bigots, run for your life!
Today is the dawn of a new era...
The reign of Bohemian Girl!
Da-da-da-daaaaaaaa!!!
And all this time, the Homeworkanator has been watching me rather boredly, wondering why I don't go out and save the world or something. No, no, no, I don't do that. Not me.
I make it a point to go after the sources of my personal pet peeves, like... Band teachers who inform you of an audition a week ahead of time when everyone else has had months to practice. Oh, and whoever picked out my wardrobe for saddling me with a lifetime supply of t-shirts and jeans.
Oh, wait... that was me.
But I can still go after the friendly folks at Apple because I can't afford to buy the Cats original cast recording on iTunes. And I can throw flaming eviction notices at every car dealer in the world because I can't afford the Jeep I've always wanted! And I can make mean faces at the nation's economy for forcing me to get a job!
Yes, my friends, this is the beginning of a very beautiful thing...
I remain, gentlebloggers, your faithful servant,
Commodore Scribbles/ Bohemian Girl
We give superheroes waaaay too much credit. Honestly.
I've discovered that the gutsy tight-wearing heroes we idolize are actually just overrated icons.
Seriously.
There I was, cornered by the evil Homeworkanator, waiting patiently for a superhero to arrive and save my butt. It was actually taking quite a long time, and both of us were getting bored. The Homeworkanator taught me how to disable a bomb, and I taught him how to snap his fingers. It was a win-win situation, really.
But suddenly, the door banged open.
Random Superhero: FREEZE, Homeworkanator!
Fuhh.
The dude was a complete and total dork. He had numbers all over his baggy tights and he was wearing a football helmet with a big radical on it.
If there's one thing I absolutely despise on this planet, it's radicals.
Not the political kind.
The mathical kind.
You know.
Square roots and junk?
Yeah.
Anyway.
Random Superhero: I'm MathMan, and I'm here to save the day! Beware, Homeworkanator, as I whip out my amazing TI-84 Silver Edition Plus!
Now, I had to hand it to him, he had a niiiice graphing calculator. But that didn't make up for the fact that he was a dork. Who did he think he was, my eighth grade algebra teacher?
Wait...scratch that. My algebra teacher was cool.
MathMan: *zaps Homeworkanator with a stream of numbers that emanate from the graphing calculator*
Homeworkanator: *blinks* Uh...was that supposed to hurt?
MathMan: *screams and runs to hide behind me*
Me: Dude, what kind of a superhero are you?
MathMan: A smart one!
Me: Dude. The Homeworkanator is not frightening. Irritating, yes. Consuming, yes. Life-ruining, most definitely. But he's not scary. Seriously, I could take him!
MathMan: Well, if you're so big and strong, then why don't you?
And so I became acquainted with a beautiful new idea... Why don't I?
Homework, beware! Landlords, cower in fear! Bigots, run for your life!
Today is the dawn of a new era...
The reign of Bohemian Girl!
Da-da-da-daaaaaaaa!!!
And all this time, the Homeworkanator has been watching me rather boredly, wondering why I don't go out and save the world or something. No, no, no, I don't do that. Not me.
I make it a point to go after the sources of my personal pet peeves, like... Band teachers who inform you of an audition a week ahead of time when everyone else has had months to practice. Oh, and whoever picked out my wardrobe for saddling me with a lifetime supply of t-shirts and jeans.
Oh, wait... that was me.
But I can still go after the friendly folks at Apple because I can't afford to buy the Cats original cast recording on iTunes. And I can throw flaming eviction notices at every car dealer in the world because I can't afford the Jeep I've always wanted! And I can make mean faces at the nation's economy for forcing me to get a job!
Yes, my friends, this is the beginning of a very beautiful thing...
I remain, gentlebloggers, your faithful servant,
Commodore Scribbles/ Bohemian Girl
Monday, July 16, 2007
Holy Cheese Nips!
My opinion?
We don't appreciate our superheroes enough.
Seriously, it takes guts to wear tights! And, really, who else is going to save us from the giant robots and monsters sent our way by supervillains? Who else is going to punch them out before they destroy all our skyscrapers? Who else is going to come up with a handy catchphrase for the press?
So, my fellow super-bloggers, I invite you to join me in a day of celebrating superheroes. Don your capes and spandex! Sing your theme song loudly and obnoxiously in the Metro! Run throughout the streets saving innocent citizens from cackling evildoers!
And, all together now:
"Holy cheese nips, Batman!"
Actually, we could probably do without the creative interjections. And the dorky costumes. And the lame gadgets that couldn't possibly exist. Like shark repellent. Puh-leeease.
Unless you created a gadget that did homework. Because then I would fall to my knees and beg you to save me from...
DUN, DUN, DUNNNNNN!
The Homeworkanator!
He's here to get me!
Fleeeeee! Run, don't walk! Head for the hills!
Cower!
Hide!
I must call for a superhero! If only my cell phone were actually charged!
Will a superhero arrive in time to save Commodore Scribbles from the Homeworkanator? Will Commodore Scribbles ever get to finish celebrating superheroes? Tune in next time to find out!
We don't appreciate our superheroes enough.
Seriously, it takes guts to wear tights! And, really, who else is going to save us from the giant robots and monsters sent our way by supervillains? Who else is going to punch them out before they destroy all our skyscrapers? Who else is going to come up with a handy catchphrase for the press?
So, my fellow super-bloggers, I invite you to join me in a day of celebrating superheroes. Don your capes and spandex! Sing your theme song loudly and obnoxiously in the Metro! Run throughout the streets saving innocent citizens from cackling evildoers!
And, all together now:
"Holy cheese nips, Batman!"
Actually, we could probably do without the creative interjections. And the dorky costumes. And the lame gadgets that couldn't possibly exist. Like shark repellent. Puh-leeease.
Unless you created a gadget that did homework. Because then I would fall to my knees and beg you to save me from...
DUN, DUN, DUNNNNNN!
The Homeworkanator!
He's here to get me!
Fleeeeee! Run, don't walk! Head for the hills!
Cower!
Hide!
I must call for a superhero! If only my cell phone were actually charged!
Will a superhero arrive in time to save Commodore Scribbles from the Homeworkanator? Will Commodore Scribbles ever get to finish celebrating superheroes? Tune in next time to find out!
La Vie Boheme!
Ah...La Vie Boheme.
Or, the Bohemian life.
Bohemians are artists that drift away from the mainstream. They're often starving artists, struggling to pay their rent and hiding from their landlords.
If it's that bad, who wants to be a Bohemian?
I do! :D
It means I don't have to have a boring nine-to-five job pushing papers. I won't have to listen to a boss, I can work on my own schedule, and I can toss burning eviction notices off the balcony of my Lower Manhattan fifth-floor loft, which, of course, has no heat. It doesn't have a buzzer, either, so you'll have to give me a call from the payphone down on the street. I'll toss you the key.
And, most importantly, I can just write all day. To be honest, that's what I want to do with my life. I want to write.
Okay, people... I know you're thinking that starving artists will amount to nothing and that it would be better to just go to college and be an engineer or something. Engineers are important. So are inventors and doctors and junk. Without those people we'd be sick and we wouldn't have any fun stuff. I appreciate my iPod and the guy who made it.
But let's face it. Without artists, life would be boring. You know it. Admit it. There'd be no actors to fawn over, no art galleries to take your fifth grade field trip to, and absolutely no music. No classic symphonies. No heavy metal. No soundtracks. Not even elevator music.
And so, I dedicate this blog to art. And fun stuff. And random stuff.
Isn't blogging an art of its own?
Now go pat an artist on the head and say, "Thank you for making my life not boring." Who knows... maybe you'll inspire a new song called "The Crazy Guy Who Patted My Head."
I remain, gentlebloggers, your humble servant,
Commodore Scribbles
Or, the Bohemian life.
Bohemians are artists that drift away from the mainstream. They're often starving artists, struggling to pay their rent and hiding from their landlords.
If it's that bad, who wants to be a Bohemian?
I do! :D
It means I don't have to have a boring nine-to-five job pushing papers. I won't have to listen to a boss, I can work on my own schedule, and I can toss burning eviction notices off the balcony of my Lower Manhattan fifth-floor loft, which, of course, has no heat. It doesn't have a buzzer, either, so you'll have to give me a call from the payphone down on the street. I'll toss you the key.
And, most importantly, I can just write all day. To be honest, that's what I want to do with my life. I want to write.
Okay, people... I know you're thinking that starving artists will amount to nothing and that it would be better to just go to college and be an engineer or something. Engineers are important. So are inventors and doctors and junk. Without those people we'd be sick and we wouldn't have any fun stuff. I appreciate my iPod and the guy who made it.
But let's face it. Without artists, life would be boring. You know it. Admit it. There'd be no actors to fawn over, no art galleries to take your fifth grade field trip to, and absolutely no music. No classic symphonies. No heavy metal. No soundtracks. Not even elevator music.
And so, I dedicate this blog to art. And fun stuff. And random stuff.
Isn't blogging an art of its own?
Now go pat an artist on the head and say, "Thank you for making my life not boring." Who knows... maybe you'll inspire a new song called "The Crazy Guy Who Patted My Head."
I remain, gentlebloggers, your humble servant,
Commodore Scribbles
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