As you may recall, I made a promise. I said that if you donated money to the Mustache Cause, I would write a blog post about you.
Even if I don't know you.
Well, Emily, you now have permission to eat your words. I have in my possession the list of those who donated. And one such person is Lisa K. Lisa K, who I do not know, and have never met. As far as I know. And neither has Adrienne. The 'stache count says she is from Indy, so I first asked my Indy contacts if they knew her. They do not.
So Lisa K, I now owe you one kickass blog post, without ever knowing you. So for you I have a poem based on what I could discover via Google. I hope you enjoy it.
Lisa K. Lisa K.
What on earth do I now say?
Wait a second! Look here! Ooh!
This girl REALLY likes I.U.
She hangs out there and learns real things
Of blood and guts and arms in slings
At least that's what she prob'ly does
She's in med school. Or...well, she was.
Want to hear 'bout cells transgenic?
Hope you do! It's a pandemic!
But maybe not. It might not be.
Her paper's 10 p. long, you see.
Oh wait! She's not in med school! No!
She's in law school. Why? I don't know.
But, oh that Lisa. She likes school.
She must think it's pretty cool.
You know who I think's cool? Why, Lisa.
More than leaning tower of Pisa.
For she donated without knowing
How much she'll get those kids' smiles glowing.
Okay the end is Barf City, but hopefully Lisa will enjoy it.
Showing posts with label Poetry Oh Noetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Poetry Oh Noetry. Show all posts
Friday, March 19, 2010
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Mustache Thanks: Keith P; The Man, The Artist, The Legend.
Today is another thank-you day for those who donated to the Mustache cause. I bring to you two wonderful people: Keith P and my younger sister, Hannah. Keith and Hannah went to high school together. When I found out Keith had donated, I immediately got to work inventing a really great post about him. I started with a poem:
Keith, Oh my Keith. You wonderful boy.
You fill up my days with such bountiful joy.
'Twas on that fine day within Luscombe we met
You thought I was Hannah, and started to fret.
Why won't she say hi? Why won't she look here?
But soon you saw differences, though they were mere.
For, my hair was shorter, my eyes bit more round.
At once a new kinship was formed, I have found.
I know you know Hannah, but I'm so much better.
It's just that it's been some more time since you met her.
...Which is true, Hannah does know Keith better. And with that reasoning, I decided to introduce my first guest blogger, my sister Hannah. Take it away, Han!
What can I say about Keith P?
First of all, let me preface this post by noting that my family does (and always will) love Keith P. more than me, and that is just an established fact.
“But Hannah!” you say, “That can’t possibly be true. WHERE are the facts?”
Step into my office, stay a while.
On the day of my graduation, the day that I was meant to be honored and adored by all family near and wide, there was one picture taken of me while I crossed the stage to be handed my diploma. Fine. Good. Grand. I had no problems with this. I wasn’t exactly looking my best in a floor-length bottle-green robe (Harry Potter reference? Anyone?) And cardboard cap.
But there were THREE PICTURES taken of Keith P. by my family. And damn him, does the boy know how to pull off a bottle-green robe.
Second of all, Keith P. is an unstoppable musical machine and I am painfully jealous that he plays piano and cello and sings and acts and can do handstands while juggling and plays the harp with his toenails, blindfolded. (His eyes are blindfolded of course. His toenails aren’t blindfolded. That’d be cool, though.)
Where was I? Ah. Talent. The boy is talented in every way. This scored him major points with every freaking teacher in high school. Every time a play was coming up Keith would be summoned to the front of the class:
Mr. Schoenburg: “Oh KEITH (*gush gush*) (EDITORS NOTE: I SAID *GUSH GUSH* IN MY LAST POST! IT'S LIKE WE'RE SISTERS!!) I hear you’re going to be playing the part of Male Lead #1 and might I just say that you are perfect in every way and you smell like what I imagine Jesus must use as aftershave. By the way, Hannah is spreading a vicious rumor that you play the harp with your toenails. Any truth to that?”
But I digress…
Keith P. had talent in one much more important area. An area I like to call: Speech Team. Lets all take a moment of recognition for the fact that I was a big major nerdlinger in high school and absolutely loved speech team (as did Keith).
Boiled down to the essentials: in speech team you wear a suit and memorize an eight-minute speech that is written by you, or by someone else. Some are funny, some are dramatic, and some are serious. Some are done with a partner, and some are done by this terrible chick in the pink suit who thought she was all that but she wasn’t and GOD who fake cries during dramatic interpretation and REALLY?! A PINK SUIT?!?!
But I digress. Again.
Keith and I balanced our time at tournaments between performing our speeches, and stalking the people who we thought were good/terrible/wore pink suits and therefore had no reason to live.
How many "speech boyfriends" did I have? Lets conservatively say five.
How many of them knew who I was? Zero. Possibly one.
How many of them knew who Keith was? All. And they loved him. They would all go out on weekends and pick out matching china patterns.
And now Keith P. is a roaring success with reviews on his plays that would knock your socks off. He is going to be on Broadway and I’m going to show up with flowers, which he will politely accept and then add to his pile of gifts (including, I would have to assume, some sort of priceless antique china patterns that his old speech team buddies brought him...curse them.) And we will reminisce about the days of old when we would hang out in the music lab, and laugh at the gym teachers as they foolishly beg that we run at least one lap, and write wildly inappropriate notes in psychology, only to be discovered later by Mr. Reddel, the famed crazy man from crazytown. (EDITORS NOTE: DON'T YOU TALK THAT WAY ABOUT MR. REDDEL.)
So here’s to you, Keith P. I wish you success in everything you do.
P.S. Have you heard the rumor that Keith P. has nasty long toenails that he uses to play the harp? Spread it.
Keith, Oh my Keith. You wonderful boy.
You fill up my days with such bountiful joy.
'Twas on that fine day within Luscombe we met
You thought I was Hannah, and started to fret.
Why won't she say hi? Why won't she look here?
But soon you saw differences, though they were mere.
For, my hair was shorter, my eyes bit more round.
At once a new kinship was formed, I have found.
I know you know Hannah, but I'm so much better.
It's just that it's been some more time since you met her.
...Which is true, Hannah does know Keith better. And with that reasoning, I decided to introduce my first guest blogger, my sister Hannah. Take it away, Han!
What can I say about Keith P?
First of all, let me preface this post by noting that my family does (and always will) love Keith P. more than me, and that is just an established fact.
“But Hannah!” you say, “That can’t possibly be true. WHERE are the facts?”
Step into my office, stay a while.
On the day of my graduation, the day that I was meant to be honored and adored by all family near and wide, there was one picture taken of me while I crossed the stage to be handed my diploma. Fine. Good. Grand. I had no problems with this. I wasn’t exactly looking my best in a floor-length bottle-green robe (Harry Potter reference? Anyone?) And cardboard cap.
But there were THREE PICTURES taken of Keith P. by my family. And damn him, does the boy know how to pull off a bottle-green robe.
Second of all, Keith P. is an unstoppable musical machine and I am painfully jealous that he plays piano and cello and sings and acts and can do handstands while juggling and plays the harp with his toenails, blindfolded. (His eyes are blindfolded of course. His toenails aren’t blindfolded. That’d be cool, though.)
Where was I? Ah. Talent. The boy is talented in every way. This scored him major points with every freaking teacher in high school. Every time a play was coming up Keith would be summoned to the front of the class:
Mr. Schoenburg: “Oh KEITH (*gush gush*) (EDITORS NOTE: I SAID *GUSH GUSH* IN MY LAST POST! IT'S LIKE WE'RE SISTERS!!) I hear you’re going to be playing the part of Male Lead #1 and might I just say that you are perfect in every way and you smell like what I imagine Jesus must use as aftershave. By the way, Hannah is spreading a vicious rumor that you play the harp with your toenails. Any truth to that?”
But I digress…
Keith P. had talent in one much more important area. An area I like to call: Speech Team. Lets all take a moment of recognition for the fact that I was a big major nerdlinger in high school and absolutely loved speech team (as did Keith).
Boiled down to the essentials: in speech team you wear a suit and memorize an eight-minute speech that is written by you, or by someone else. Some are funny, some are dramatic, and some are serious. Some are done with a partner, and some are done by this terrible chick in the pink suit who thought she was all that but she wasn’t and GOD who fake cries during dramatic interpretation and REALLY?! A PINK SUIT?!?!
But I digress. Again.
Keith and I balanced our time at tournaments between performing our speeches, and stalking the people who we thought were good/terrible/wore pink suits and therefore had no reason to live.
How many "speech boyfriends" did I have? Lets conservatively say five.
How many of them knew who I was? Zero. Possibly one.
How many of them knew who Keith was? All. And they loved him. They would all go out on weekends and pick out matching china patterns.
And now Keith P. is a roaring success with reviews on his plays that would knock your socks off. He is going to be on Broadway and I’m going to show up with flowers, which he will politely accept and then add to his pile of gifts (including, I would have to assume, some sort of priceless antique china patterns that his old speech team buddies brought him...curse them.) And we will reminisce about the days of old when we would hang out in the music lab, and laugh at the gym teachers as they foolishly beg that we run at least one lap, and write wildly inappropriate notes in psychology, only to be discovered later by Mr. Reddel, the famed crazy man from crazytown. (EDITORS NOTE: DON'T YOU TALK THAT WAY ABOUT MR. REDDEL.)
So here’s to you, Keith P. I wish you success in everything you do.
P.S. Have you heard the rumor that Keith P. has nasty long toenails that he uses to play the harp? Spread it.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Poetry and Grammar, your two faves
I didn't blog yesterday. Or, really, I couldn't. I couldn't, because I went to a poetry thing. Poetry slam. Whatever. SEE?! I CAN'T WRITE ANYMORE! IT IS PHYSICALLY IMPOSSIBLE!!
So the deal is, I went to this poetry whatever with Adrienne and it was AWESOME. (Check it out here) I know nothing about poetry, but I assume that it has to do with rhythym? And not putting a lot of words on one line? Question mark? Clearly I don't know how to write them. But I'm not going to lie, I am pretty awesome at the 3rd grade version of poems.
There once was a dog named Roof.
Upon his small tail was a poof.
Case closed, I am awesome at it. But these poems with their symbolism and their anger and their humor and their...moving your arms when you read them... it was incredible. It was like Robin Williams in What Dreams May Come when he dies and he's all "What IS this magical place?" and then he finds out it's actually familiar, because it's all from his mind and the hot Asian girl is his daughter and it's weird.
It was like that. And when I got home, I was a bit over-inspired. All I wanted to do was write symbolic poems about gay rights and childhood memories. So instead I watched tbs and went to bed. And now I need to get back on the writing horse.
My bout with poetry yesterday and my other bout with trying to be an editor have made me realize that I am not a real writer. I can call myself a writer. My occupation even has "writer" in the title. But the last time I got a grammar lesson was my Sophomore year in high school, and that's only because my teacher was appalled at how bad our grammar was. Do I actually know where commas go? Clearly, no, I do, not. And when I freelanced over the summer and a REAL editor went over my work, I was mortified to learn all my wretched writing mistakes. Did YOU know there are rules for what kind of hyphen to use, AND what kind of spacing to use around them? I didn't. I still don't really know, which just makes me jittery every time I use one now.
Really, being a copywriter means I'm not good at any kind of writing except writing how I speak. Which isn't always helpful because I say things like, "Okay but no because it's like super awesome and stuff" on a daily basis.
Oh, and copywriters are supposed to be able to write concisely.
*blinks*
So I raise my glass today to the real writers. The ones who know what the hell they are doing. To you I say, will you write a poem about me?
So the deal is, I went to this poetry whatever with Adrienne and it was AWESOME. (Check it out here) I know nothing about poetry, but I assume that it has to do with rhythym? And not putting a lot of words on one line? Question mark? Clearly I don't know how to write them. But I'm not going to lie, I am pretty awesome at the 3rd grade version of poems.
There once was a dog named Roof.
Upon his small tail was a poof.
Case closed, I am awesome at it. But these poems with their symbolism and their anger and their humor and their...moving your arms when you read them... it was incredible. It was like Robin Williams in What Dreams May Come when he dies and he's all "What IS this magical place?" and then he finds out it's actually familiar, because it's all from his mind and the hot Asian girl is his daughter and it's weird.
It was like that. And when I got home, I was a bit over-inspired. All I wanted to do was write symbolic poems about gay rights and childhood memories. So instead I watched tbs and went to bed. And now I need to get back on the writing horse.
My bout with poetry yesterday and my other bout with trying to be an editor have made me realize that I am not a real writer. I can call myself a writer. My occupation even has "writer" in the title. But the last time I got a grammar lesson was my Sophomore year in high school, and that's only because my teacher was appalled at how bad our grammar was. Do I actually know where commas go? Clearly, no, I do, not. And when I freelanced over the summer and a REAL editor went over my work, I was mortified to learn all my wretched writing mistakes. Did YOU know there are rules for what kind of hyphen to use, AND what kind of spacing to use around them? I didn't. I still don't really know, which just makes me jittery every time I use one now.
Really, being a copywriter means I'm not good at any kind of writing except writing how I speak. Which isn't always helpful because I say things like, "Okay but no because it's like super awesome and stuff" on a daily basis.
Oh, and copywriters are supposed to be able to write concisely.
*blinks*
So I raise my glass today to the real writers. The ones who know what the hell they are doing. To you I say, will you write a poem about me?
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