Athletes Take Over

There is nothing more important in today's conventional schools system than sports. If there was no sports in our school, there would be no reason to go to school. Teachers have a much more central role in the school than just teaching-they are coaches. Some people are complaining that we place too much importance on today's sports-playing youth.
I disagree entirely.
Without sports, students today would not have nearly as much of the teamwork and intelligence that they have, because nothing helps grades like being hit in the head with a basketball. Watching a group of athletes perform is like watching a National Geographic special on monarch butterflies- the sheer grace and beauty with which they move is astounding. And we all know that it takes an extreme amount of talent to do well in any sports. Those arts kids, the ones that play instruments, sing, or paint, they have it so easy. No talent is required to do anything even remotely artistic. Furthermore, the school board should continue sucking the budgets of said arts programmes dry, and siphon all of those funds into new uniforms, new buses, better equipment for our athletes. Those band kids can use the tubas and trumpets from 50 years ago. As if those band geeks can actually tell the difference between used and new. All scholarships and awards should also continue to go to those students who are involved in sports. If it comes down to two kids, one who plays sports and one who is in an arts program, choose the athlete. Chances are they will be the one landing the CEO job for some big company, that arts kid will spend the rest of their lives selling pencils on street corners. Athletes should be the elite, the most revered membes of the social pyramid. Everyone else is just an audience to appreciate them.

Frosty form of Prejudice?

"Well how about Christmas carols? Can we write on those?"
" I don't see why not, as long as don't write on something silly, like Frosty the Snowman."

What do you have against Frosty the Snowman?

You told the class that songs are a form of poetry, right? I don't see why the tale of a cheery snowman written by Steve Nelson and Jack Rollins isn't considered poetry. That's akin to telling Dr. Seuss that the Cat in the Hat isn't poetry, but rather just an ordinary children's story. Do most songs and poems not have a good solid rhyme scheme? Yes. As for Frosty? I see a clear A-B-A-C rhyme scheme. Further proving my case is that the entire song is one cohesive story, also known as a narrative poem, written in similar fashion to The Cremation of Sam McGee, a classic Canadian poem. Some alliteration is also present in Frosty the Snowman, perhaps not quite to to the extent of Betty Botter by Mother Goose, but "heard him holler stop" certainly qualifies as the poetic device . Onomatopoeia, the use of words as noises, is also used throughout the song in much the same way that Edgar Allen Poe uses the device in The Bells. Would you deny that Poe's masterful piece of writing is a poem? No. So why is Frosty's "thumpity thump"-ing any different? Personification is giving human characteristics to non-human things. Things like dogs and dishes and trains and snowmen. Sure Frosty had some magic in him, but he was still a snowman, and snowmen are not actually men. So him "danc[ing] around" would then be considered personification, right? Maybe is isn't as well-written and interesting like Emily Dickinson's The Train, but the same basic idea is there. Also, Frosty the Snowman, without a doubt has irony, more specifically dramatic irony. Most of the listeners realizes that Frosty isn't going to last forever, unlike the sweet-tempered but dim-witted children in the song. Frosty's untimely death comes as no great surprise to the listeners. Frosty also has a clear theme for the children, that patience is a virtue. These children realizethat they will have to wait an entire year to see the icy snowman again. So yes, Frosty the Snowman is a poem, perhaps not one good enough to win the Nobel prize, but that is why you don't read War and Peace before Curious George.

The Patient

Upon opening up the patient's door, I saw the most remarkable face. His face could only be described as one of character. His face had the wisdom of the ages, it appeared as though he had been through a lot of tragedy. Mottled, wrinkled, a weathered, his face was a piece of aged parchment, a thousand years old. The potpourri a nurse had placed on the patient's table didn't really do much to combat the stench of cigarette smoke. Eyes veridian in colour stared at me without really seeing me, sending deep chills through my bones. Resting underneath a muddy brown pageboy cap was a white, tangled nest of candy-floss hair. He gestured me to take a seat, and I glanced down at his hands. They were easily the most aged part of his body. The withered and lined hands were similar to those of an ancient Egyptian mummy. Just looking at his hand, calloused and tabacco-stained, one would think that they were those of a dead man. Staring quizically at me for a moment, he poses the question, "Who are you, and why are you here?"
My eyes sparkling like a prism in the sun, welling up with tears, I answer him, "It's me Grandpa. Don't you remember?"

To be or not to be? No, I am!

I am a leader in my community. I can often be seen juggling chainsaws, saving kittens from vicious dogs and writing novels in Swahili. People see me as the girl reading the entire set of encyclopedias and planting trees. I recycle everything. Occasionally I swim the English Channel in 3 hours. I impress people with my doctoral skills (I was an emergency surgeon at the age of 10), and my astounding ability to make the bagpipes sound beautiful. My soufflés never collapse. Using only my voice, I single-handedly saved the entire Amazon rainforest. Oprah comes to me for advice. I speak Latin fluently, read daily, and have actually watched all of War and Peace, without falling asleep. In my spare time, I build replicas of World War II tanks using only macaroni and a glue stick. The FBI and the KGB trust me. I jump, I spin, I create, and I win. Writing haikus with only 14 syllables isn’t difficult.
I’m a big deal
You see me and are impressed
Math is fun
I breed prize-winning labradoodles. I know the time from the position of the sun, what direction I’m facing from the stars and why the Earth is round. I have spoken to Leonardo da Vinci. Years ago I invented a time machine, but forgot to get it patented. I only write in purple ink. I have won pumpkin-carving contents in Salem, writing contests in Spain, and geography bees in Somalia. On my eleventh birthday, I got a letter from Hogwarts, but couldn’t make it to Platform 9 3/4 on time. I have read Hitler’s Mein Kampf. Yes, I have done all of those things, with ease, but I have yet
To find a college who will believe me.

It Ain't Over Until the Fat Lady Sings....

If looks could kill, I would be dead. But I stood my ground. The wind whistled, the sun blared overhead and the tumbleweed blew. But I had nothing to fear but fear itself. We stared at each other, eye to eye, man to man.

"Where'd he go?" Curley growled, " I got a bone to pick with that two-faced murderer

I just played dumb as a post, "Well, I dunno, you sure played him for a fool, didn' ya?"

He didn't like that so much. His face turned redder than a tomato. He lunged at me quick as a fox, but I was faster than a speeding bullet, and his face met the cold, hard dirt. He got up, pride shaken and looked at me with a murderous gleam in his eye. I, clearly, was barking up the wrong tree, since Curley thought he was the best thing since sliced bread. Curley ran at me again, but this time I didn't get away fast enough. He knocked me out cold.

When I finally woke up, it was like waking up for the first time. My world seemed shiny like a new dime. Until I saw Curley's ugly as sin face, then it was a whole new ball game. My hands were tied, and Curley had a gun, and my life, in his hand.

"That Lennie's a bald-faced liar, bad to the bone, cold-blooded killer. And you can bet your bottom-dollar that I will blow his brains out!" he screamed at me. He mounted his noble steed, leaving me in the dust.

I escaped my prison, and ran like the wind. I knew I had to find Lennie before Curley did.

Yes,Dear

"Everyday all you do is read that silly paper! All you care about is all the tragedy in the world! Why don't you start paying some attention to me, your wife? Why don't you ask me how my day went, for once?" snarled Jane.
Hugo lowered his glasses and glanced at his furious wife. "Alright," he replied in soothing tones, "how did your day go today dear?"
Jane took a deep breath and released a torrent of words, "Just plain awful! My roses won't grow, my lilacs are drooping, the neighbours were giving me strange looks, and, and..."
"This, this is why I don't ask you how your day went," muttered Hugo.
"Are you even listening to me?"
"Of course, dear."
"No, of course you're not, only a husband who even remotely cares whould listen!" Jane screeched, getting more and more angry by the minute.
Hugo raised his hands in a gesture of innocence, and suggested, "Perhaps, if you did something more interesting, something worth noticing, I would pay more attention to you."
"Like everything you do is so interesting," Jane sneered, cackling with fury, "you're an accountant! You really think I like listening to all your supposedly witty stories about numbers that all your office drones laugh at? You could be the most boring person on the face of this planet!"
"Now Jane, just calm down..."
"I'm perfectly calm," Jane claimed. "I won't bring up the subject again, I promise." "But, by the way," Jane smiled sweetly, "we're getting a divorce."
Hugo's face went as gray as the newsprint he was still holding. "What?" he stammered. Jane continued smiling for a moment, then rolled over and went to sleep.

A year later, Hugo opened up the paper, like he did every evening, and gasped at what he saw on the second page. The headline of the London Tribunal read, "Jane Goodall Saves Chimps From Extinction", with a blown-up picture of a woman and the chimps she just saved. The woman? Hugo's ex-wife.

And so the Men Step on the Mice...

Beatrice Strait won a Best Supporting Actress Oscar in 1976 for the movie Network . Her screen time? Just five minutes and 40 seconds. Is it really plausible for a person to completely develop an entire character in just 5 minutes? Furthermore, is it plausible to completely develop an entire theme of a movie in just 5 minutes? In the 1992 version of Of Mice and Men, Joe Morton, the actor who plays Crooks, has to do just that. While not a huge component of the novel of the same name, Crooks symbolizes the discriminated in John Steinbeck's microcosm of society. To boil down that entire symbol, the entire theme of what loneliness can do to a person, to just over five minutes of a two hour movie simply isn't good screen writing. What Morton did with those few lines is pure gold though. He combined the meanness George was supposed to have had, with the desperation of a man downtrodden, into a character Steinbeck himself would have been proud of. However, one thing that should have perhaps been included was Crooks asking George and Lennie if he could become a part of their ranch, that would further explore the power that dreams can hold on a person. The way Crooks was portrayed and written is arguably one of the best elements in the entire film, and certainly the best element transferred fro text to screen. Crooks' character is definitely as fantastic in the movie as he was under-looked by the ranch hands in the novel.

A Timely Visit

"Has the stress of the day ever made you feel insane? Made you feel as though it might just be easier to live in simpler times?" the overly cheery TV announcer practically shouts at me. Yeah, I think to myself, maybe it would be nice just to live in an era where there was no computers, no cell phones, no televisions. I picture myself in a small cottage with a roaring fire and not a trace of modern technology, me in a dated skirt and blouse. I force myself to return back to my own world. Oddly enough the same ad was playing.
"We here at FT Industries believe that no one should be forced to spend their days stuck in their own time! Just one payment of $29.95 could grant you this wonderful power, based on centuries' worth of knowledge!
"If I could control time," I mutter to myself, "I would pay FT Industries much more than $29.95."
"Really?" a snide voice from the corner of the room questioned. "How much would you be willing to pay?" The man was clearly ancient, wrinkled from head to Grecian- sandaled toe. He also had the most peculiar thing around his neck, an enormous hourglass.
"Well, I think that if I could control time, if you could give me that power, I would pay you 10 times that." I reply, trying my best to ignore his very eccentric appearance. "But you would have to explain yourself first."
"I am," he begins in the most pompous voice I have ever heard, "Father Time, master of all time, and I will give you a share of my abilities for $295.95!"
I contemplate this for a moment and decide if this guy was a fraud, then I would learn my lesson and never watch infomercials again. But if he was real? Then I would be able to control time for virtually nothing. He did appear out of nowhere, a fact that was still flummoxing me. I ask him if takes Visa, and he takes my card and returns me a slip to sign. Then he snaps his fingers and leaves me alone, powerless, and feeling like a complete fool. So I sit back down on my couch when the most strange feeling washes over me. It's a curious mixture of nostalgia and happiness, and it doesn't go away. Maybe it did work after all? I concentrate hard on willing all time to stop, visualize the hands of the clock coming to a standstill, and snap my fingers expectantly. All time stopped. It was so eerily silent the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I went outside and surveyed my surroundings-a gridlock of frozen cars, water from sprinklers halted in mid-air, and a man whom I had just saved from cutting his entire hand off with a saw. Quickly I walked over and unplugged the saw, saving the poor man from a lot of pain. I snapped my fingers and the world came alive again. Then I return back to the inside of my house, smiling slightly as I watch the man whose hand I saved, stare, perplexed, at the unplugged cord. I glance back at my TV, which is now showing some program on Michaelangelo, and I suddenly have the most intriguing idea. Could I teleport to other places when I go through time? I close my eyes and focus on Florence, Italy in 1501, and snap my fingers again. Before even open my eyes,I smell the most enchanting of smells- wonderful Italian food and finely made wine. I hear the bustle of people, the soft clip-clop of horses, but not a single car, or the doleful purr of those Vespa scooters the Italians are so fond of. Upon opening my eyes, I see the many famous buildings of Florence in their infancy. Then I fully take in my surroundings. I appear to be in a workshop of some kind, and the man staring intently at his work of art, has not seemed to notice me. With closer inspection, the work of art appears to be David, Michaelangelo's most famous statue.
"What to call it?" the small, dark man vexes in Italian, which I now seem to understand perfectly. Father Time certainly did a good job with giving me powers! But I'm confused, the statue is clearly David, why can't Michaelangelo realize such a simple name?
" I was under the impression it was David." I reply, causing the artist to jump, but then he forgets his fear and considers what I've said.
"David, David, David," he mutters, "so simple, so classic, just like his proportions. It's perfect! Thank you kind stranger for giving me the perfect name to the perfect piece of art!"
Well, I guess my work here is done, and I snap my fingers to go back to my own time, my own house. When I'm there I start to think. Sure these powers are fantastic, but if I have them, then I need to make sure that I do some good with them. As I trudge up the stairs to go to bed, it was a exceedingly long day, I realize that if I could have any superpowers, it would be time-travel, and maybe, just, maybe, Father Time already knew that.

These Bones May Be Lovely, But the Film Sure Isn’t

Imagine the world. Now imagine it without you into it. That's the sole basis for Director Peter Jackson’s, “The Lovely Bones”, based on a novel by Alice Sebold of the same name. One day, a girl named Susie, “like the fish”, Salmon (Saoirse Ronan) decides to wander into a mysterious cornfield and go with her decidedly creepy neighbor, Mr. Harvey, to his underground shelter. Who can guess what happens next? Well, she certainly doesn’t get away, and the rest of the film depicts her in heaven as well as her family in their grieving process.

Understandably, Susie’s death must have been hard to film, and hard to make it appropriate for the younger audiences watching it. However, the whole scene after Susie was killed was rather confusing to anyone who hasn’t read the book, where it is made clear to exactly what has happened. For just a moment it seemed as though Susie had made it out alive, and was really running away from Mr. Harvey, not just leaving Earth. It wasn’t until she was calling for her Mr. Jack Salmon, who was portrayed wonderfully by Mark Wahlberg, that anyone realized what was going on. The death was made harder to understand by the fact that there was no implied death at the underground shelter, just Susie running away, interchanged with picturesque views of the idyllic family life when the Salmons are eating their supper, unaware of what has happened.

When the Salmon family finally does realize what has happened, they are instantly devastated, and there are moving performances throughout the cast, especially Rachel Weisz’s atypical portrayal of the grieving mother. One thing that Jackson neglected to include was the memorial for Susie, where I would have like to see George Harvey, as included in the book. Upstairs, Susie has discovered the not-quite-heaven Inbetween, a place where you can have everything you want, or that’s how it as described in the novel anyways. In the film adaptation, Susie’s heaven was just an array of fantastic special effects, such as the glass bottle with ships in them, but with little relevance to what her heaven was supposedly like. It also appeared as though only Mr. Harvey’s, who was a long-running serial killer, victims were there. Jackson did away with people like Frannie, Susie’s guidance counselor and Bethel Untermeyer, Susie’s old neighbor. While Jackson did do a good job on the visuals of Susie’s heaven, it was a far cry from the humbler version that Sebold took her time to create.

While some of the less important plot details of the novel, such as Abigail (Rachel Weisz)'s affair with Detective Len Fenerman (Michael Imperiloi, who nailed the "good cop" routine) were scrapped from the film, which makes sense, the ending, however, was true to the book. Stanley Tucci's evil, sinister, and loathsome character of Mr. George Harvey dies in the most peculiar of manners-death by icicle. This happens in both the film and the novel, and then the Salmon family moves on completely, Abigail returning to her husband, and Susie's little sister Lindsey finding a seemingly happy life with one true love Sam. But what of Buckley, Susie's little brother? He doesn't seem to age at all, and just disappears part way through the movie. Poor, overlooked little Buckley. Now Susie, once she has finally fulfilled her life's desire- to kiss Ray Singh (Reece Ritchie), decides to let go of all life on Earth and move on to heaven-the real heaven, not the one Salvador Dali created. And yes, all of that happen in the book, a politically-correct Hollywood ending.

Overall I would give this movie a 3/10. Good cast, bad screenwriters. Shame on you Fran Walsh!

Once upon a time, in a kingdom far, far away, there was a young maiden with big blue eyes that were the windows into her soul. Her father was the king of all kings, ruling a land rich in prosperity. Still, there were no suitors that the young princess, but she figured that patience was a virtue, so she waited in vain for the right prince to sweep her off her feet. One day, an evil hag convinced her father that, in order to protect her, she would locked up in a tower guarded by a fire-breathing dragon, doomed to an eternity of loneliness. So she waited for her prince in shining armor. Many years later, the day had to come where she would meet her destiny. Strolling along was a handsome young prince, dressed to the nines, and it was love at first sight. The young woman called for her Prince Charming to rescue her, but she missed him by a hair. Clearly, the prince wasn`t sharp as a tack. So for weeks on end, the princess called to him, running around like a chicken with its head cut off. Finally, the prince realized what lay within the tower, and decided to slay the savage beast. Off the top of his head, the prince realized that to kill the dragon needed brute force, not brains. So he swung Excalibur around and soon the beast was dead as a doornail. He rescued his fair maiden, and they rode off on his noble steed to his castle, where they were married, made the beast with two backs and lived happily ever after.

I felt my heart falter as I heard the small explosion contained within the barrel of his gun. The steely glare he shot me gave me a shock that even the worst convict shouldn't have to endure. A wide, cow-hide hat partially obscured the man's dry,weathered face. His brow was furrowed, two dark pussy-willows smashed together in concentration. Rough, tanned hands caressed the silvery smoothness of the gun in his hand,and I took a step back in fear.

I regained consciousness to find my ears bombarded with the sounds of gunfire. From the artillery that I saw around me, it looked as if the year was 1914. I was at the Battle of Ypres. Slowly, I started to rise out from the trench that I had landed in, trying to rid myself of the layers of mud that cloaked me. I started to walk to try and get my bearing straight. Suddenly, I heard the blaring noise of a 18-pounder field gun being used beside me. Soon after, the Germans returned fire, I quickly dived into the nearest trench. "Lo," said a quiet voice with a distinct Cockney accent, "wha' bring you 'ere?" The man then quietly laughed to himself, "O course, it be the war, well me name's Thomas. What be yours?" I told him my name and then asked what the date was. Thomas chuckled again, and replied that no one knew what the day was, only that they didn't want to spend another day in the horrific trenches. My mind was reeling, why was I sent back to the first world war? What purpose could I possibly serve? My wondering swere interrupted abruptly when I could smell the gas, the horrfic chlorine gas. Me being from the future, knew what it was and how to deal with it.

Free Speech in Canada? Oh the Hypocrisy!

Canada has free speech. By the Charter of Rights and Freedoms, one has the right to the " freedom of thought, belief, opinion and expression, including freedom of the press and other media of communication". Everyone, except for harmless Republican author Ann Coulter. Coulter was on a a tour of some of the universities in Canada when she was barred from giving one of her speeches by the student council of the University of Ottawa because a speech she made earlier in the week. Students took offense after she told a Muslim to "take a camel" to the U.S, as opposed to a plane. Coulter was warned by the University of Ottawa to tone down her speech, and when she didn't, was subsequently banned for her supposed safety.
Despite the fact that Canadian are so proud of the fact that they are a tolerant nation, one who accepts everyone they fail to realize that Coulter was just expressing her own opinions. It would almost seem that Canadians have the same amount of of free speech that China does, banning or shying away from subjects deemed to be taboo. Let Coulter speak her mind. Let Coulter have the same free speech rights as the rest of the world. Let Coulter go one-on-one with the people who oppose her. If she truly believes that Muslims don't deserve to be on that plane because they're terrorist risks, then she should be able to defend her points with a group of students breathing down her neck. Coulter has claimed that "even at the stupidest American university" has she been boycotted and told she couldn't speak.
While Canada does have laws prohibiting people from saying statements that are clearly offensive to cultural groups, claiming Coulter's statements as discriminatory would be the social equivalent to Gilles Duceppe comparing the French Canadien sovereignty cause to the Nazi resistance movement of World War Two. Both were vastly over analyzed and overblown. Clearly, Ann was just making a point, intended to be a joke, to create effect, to help illuminate her opinions. To say that she was breaking the Constitution would just be overkill, and help garner herself more attention, exactly what she wants.
Even though Canadians are held on a tighter leash, that there are laws against hate-mongering, Ann Coulter is protected by law under the United States Bill of Rights, where people are not "[abridged] of free speech". As an American citizen, Coulter has the right to say what she wants without being censored. Free speech is a right. Whenever Ann Coulter is saying something deemed controversial, that is her own opinion and she has the choice to speak her thoughts in any way she chooses.