Category → writing
a Sunday with Emily Dickinson
Woke up this morning feeling very quiet*. Strange for me, but I put on some classical music (Chopin if you must know) and started reading poetry…another unpredictability.
I was reminded of a poem by Emily Dickinson that I’ve kind of always associated with my antipathy of organized religion. It seemed only fitting to re-read it on Sunday morning.
Some keep the Sabbath going to church;
I keep it staying at home,
With a bobolink for a chorister,
And an orchard for a dome.Some keep the Sabbath in surplice;
I just wear my wings,
And instead of tolling the bell for church,
Our little sexton sings.God preaches, – a noted clergyman, -
And the sermon is never long;
So instead of getting to heaven at last,
I’m going all along!
__
*- as soon as I finished this post a chorus of lawnmowers started outside. so much for quiet.
The (new) swagger of Buell
The other day, during a very long drive to Topeka, Kansas, a friend and I were talking about advertisement and marketing. It’s not an unusual topic for either of us as we’ve both been in the middle and periphery of that trade for years. Though our modus operandi are different; she’s done far more corporate work versus my music & technology background, we do agree on quite a lot.
Our discussion turned and we found ourselves looking across an immense crevasse at one another. We disagreed not just a little, font choice or layout, but about content. We became the USSR and USA at the height of the Cold War -polar opposites. Her disdain and my admiration came at the newest marketing effort from Buell Motorcycles.
Titled The Book Of Buell, this 20+ page PDF (and gorgeous hard copy I later found out) reads like a 70/30 split: 2-wheel manifesto and marketing brief. The artwork is mostly action shots of the bikes with architectural-style drawings overlaid. The text is meant to look newly printed but smeared. The whole thing, pictures, text and all, gets a bit of a whitewash muting down the colors.
Book of Buell - Page 3
Except for gender, my friend and I are of similar ethnography: mid-30s, married, both have been riding motorcycles for similar lengths of time, both own Japanese bikes (though she’ll soon be returning to the Ducati fold) and both enjoy going to and watching motorcycle races.
So, how could two people who are so alike view the same marketing materials so differently? Let me give you a snippet (from page 14): Continue reading →
Goodbye, Mr. Hughes
John Hughes (February 18, 1950 – August 6, 2009)
The man who brought us Weird Science, Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, Career Opportunities, Uncle Buck, Sixteen Candles and Pretty In Pink has passed on.
Strangely, I feel like a part of my past is gone. George Lucas, Steven Speilberg, and John Hughes had the most direct impact on my adolescence. They were, are, the movie triumvirate.
Hughes’ characters, while archetypes, felt real within their world -the babe, the stoner, the jock, the geek. Maybe it was the era but it seemed that everything was possible, nothing was cynical and (lets not forget) there was a life-lesson to be learned by the end of every movie.
His talent will be missed.
I suppose it’s only fitting to end this post with the last bit from the John Hughes’ screenplay of The Breakfast Club -
INT. LIBRARY – DAY
We see Vernon pick up Brian’s essay and begin to read.
BRIAN (VO)
Dear Mr. Vernon, we accept the fact that we had to sacrifice a whole Saturday in detention for whatever it was we did wrong. But we think you’re crazy to make an essay telling you who we think we are. You see us as you want to see us... In the simplest terms, in the most convenient definitions.
CUT TO:
EXT. FOOTBALL FIELD – DAY
We see Bender walking towards us as Brian’s monologue continues.
BRIAN (VO)
But what we found out is that each one of us is a brain...
ANDREW (VO)
...and an athlete...
ALLISON (VO)
...and a basket case...
CLAIRE (VO)
...a princess...
BENDER (VO)
...and a criminal...
BRIAN (VO)
Does that answer your question? Sincerely yours, the Breakfast Club.
We see Bender walking across the football field as he thrusts his fist into the air in a silent cheer and freezes there.
