Pirates of Penzance

Collaborating on fourteen operas in their career, Gilbert and Sullivan are an impressive pair as they created some of the best-known musicals in history. Each musical is even more absurd than the last, and they almost seem to take pleasure in ridiculing the different characters they have created. Both were born in London in the early 1800s, and when they started writing for the theater, its popularity was at an all-time low. Their first work, Thespis, was done in 1871 and was wildly popular in London. However, their first international hit was the H.M.S Pinafore, which ran for over 500 performances in London, the second longest run in recorded history.

The comic opera The Pirates of Penzance was first performed in New York City in December of 1879. It was written by Gilbert and Sullivan, a famous musical duo from London that brought their work to the United States to undercut the American copyright laws. Since foreigners were not protected in the US, they decided to bring the premier here to avoid replications in the United States. One of the most famous songs in this musical is “Modern Major General” as it is not just entertaining, but one of the hardest songs to sing in a musical. Very fast paced with difficult words and a unique rhyming scheme, the song is a very elaborate tongue twister that supposedly dictates the knowledge of a modern major general. While Gilbert and Sullivan were not American citizens, their change within the realm of theater changed how plays were written in the US and the roles of music within the plays.

Even though this musical was written almost 140 years ago, it is still wildly popular today due to its timeless humor and its ridiculous storyline. Updated in 1980 for a more contemporary audience, the light opera is still a parody as it pokes fun of class establishments and Victorian morals. The modern version is even more lighthearted than the original as the pirates now sail across the stage on a mini-ship with cardboard waves. However, the overall meaning remains the same- it still has humor, some dialogue to keep the story going, and a ridiculously happy ending where the boy gets the girl. It is often used to represent this light opera period due to its ability to connect with the audience.

Another reason that this musical has endured is that it pokes fun at normally serious or professional roles, such as police officers and generals in the army. The police are a cowardly group of men who hide at the smallest hint of danger while the general himself lies to the pirates about being an orphan. Making fun of those in charge has always been a productive pastime. The ceaseless energy of the opera from start to finish also draws people in as their energy adds to the story’s appeal.

This play has always been one of my favorites, and the song “Modern Major General” has always fascinated me with its crazy rhymes and fast-pace style. I choose to do a parody of this song because I wanted to try to match the rhyming scheme that Gilbert and Sullivan had created. However, such a thing is not possible- while my piece is funny and light, it cannot even compare with the original version. Their lyrics are a work of genius. Further, the original general in the premier of the opera must have possessed the lungs of an elephant to go through the song as quickly as they wanted. Overall, their work cannot be matched unless another genius comes along and creates something extraordinary. The work put into the song though, was fun as I created a sort of storyline to go along with the piece instead of weaving nonsensical rhymes together.

The Greatness of Gatsby

Written about the American Dream, “The Great Gatsby” is perhaps one of the greatest satires in American history. It speaks of this “self-made man” that grows from poverty to extreme wealth, but the journey is one of falsehood and deceit. Gatsby is not the man he claims to be- he is covered in lies and his whole life is a sham- the point of his life was to get the woman of his dreams, but once he fulfilled his dream, he had nothing to live for.

I remember the scene where Gatsby would stand on the cliff, looking over the water to a tiny green light on the other side. That green light was his fixation- the entirety of his life was to prove of his worth to Daisy, but what happens when that does happen? When she’s looking through all of his silken shirts, bought from Europe and shipped to the United States, she weeps openly and says she has never seen anything more beautiful. This is how wrapped up in themselves this society had become. Like the great parties Gatsby threw for the sake of society- the people did not know him. They started rumors, looked down upon their host all while drinking his champagne and eating his oranges.

This is one of the main hypocrisies created by the 1920s and 1930s. The word "great" is meant to signify something grand and powerful- Fitzgerald uses it in his work to show the chicken wires under the supposed "great" society of high society. Gatsby is "great," but only to the extent of what money can buy. Greatness is not something that can be bought- it must be earned. Throwing money towards the swine will not make them respect whoever is throwing it. Image is hard to build, but easy to break, and how does Gatsby keep it from breaking? By never being close to people, but when he begins to get closer to Daisy, his already hurting image falters into an abyss of decay and distrust.

However, Gatsby does draw some sympathy from readers, particularly after he dies and not even the "love of his life" comes to see her beloved buried. Once again, image rules as she quietly goes back to Tom, a man she married to get over her grief and for the image his money would allow them to have. In the end, Gatsby is cast as the victim, but he is only the victim of his own lies. Love is meant to prevail over all else, but sometimes the mind overrules the heart, and once the heart gains control, life goes spiraling out of control. Striving for the prize was more rewarding than the actual prize, and this is the tragedy of the "oh-so-great Gatsby"- that he was not allowed to fully love what money could not buy him.

A very cheesy "The Great Gatsby" trailer, but it does a great (ha) job of capturing the essence of the novel.

NPR 100 Songs

Good Vibrations

One of the greatest songs performed by the Beach Boys, “Good Vibrations” unmistakably captures the essence of the 1960s. Listening to the excerpts of the songs in the different stages of development is remarkable as the song grew and developed over a period of months. Brian Wilson worked on the project endlessly, and his dedication towards finding the right sound shows his love and insanity for perfection. He did not just work on the project though, but obsessed over it, and the obsession certainly shows in the product.

An interesting observation about this hit tune is that it is not the Beach Boys creation; it is wholly Wilsons. He knew every note, every little bit of music, and he revolutionized how songs could be made as he recorded and used three different studios for the song. Most artists are content to stay within their realm of comfort and familiar instruments- Wilson added an organ, a cello, a harmonica, and even created an instrument called an electro-theremin that mimicked the human voice. The harmony of sound that he created from instruments created a new-age version of pop, and from this sound, he created his last hit single. Every part of this song was revolutionary, and the only contribution the Beach Boys made to the song was their name and their voices. Before the NPR broadcast, I did not know the extent of the effort put into the music in one of my favorite songs.

The lyrics from the song added to the immensity of the project as Wilson refused to write about the material things of the world. Instead, he decided to personalize the song and make it about the “good vibrations” between two people. This song was his passion, and when he finalized the project, the result was astounding. He created a masterpiece over, and by listening to the story of its creation, the genius of the project makes it unforgettable.

“Rock Around the Clock”

Billy Haley’s success was not centered on instant stardom or luck- his fortune was based off patience and persistence. One of the earliest rock ‘n roll bands, Haley brought more into the music industry than history dictates and more than I had ever realized. The famous guitar solo, overused and drawn out by so many bands today, was first done in his music, and the cacophonous rhythm and the uproarious sound of rock ‘n roll started in his band and continued onward. However, what is amazing about Bill Haley is not the creation of his music, but the way he brought his music into existence.

In the face of opposition, most people are content with folding their losses and moving onward, but what is most admirable about Haley is that when he faced obstacles, he found ways around them. When Jim Meyers refused to let Haley record in the studio, Haley did not consider that the end of the song- he continued by finding other studios. When he recorded it and the song completely and utterly failed, he kept on playing it for the public, tweaking it every performance until people loved it. This song was a work in progress, and it took hard work to make it known. Until NPR told this story, it was completely unknown to me how much he persisted to work on this single. Not only did he persist with the public, but with different companies to record it.

While some fortune comes with persistence, a small part of it is luck as well, which is expected. When the show “Blackboard Jungle” decided to use his music for their theme song, it really was the turning point in his career. If he had not gotten that publicity, the song would have still been successful, but not to the same propensity seen today. Even the technology behind putting the song together was a work of genius-due to working under time constraints, the studio pieced together the song and allowed it to air only after one recording. Bill Haley’s music song was not a first-time success, but dedication allowed his song to reach the top of the charts and let his band be known as the originator of rock ‘n roll.

“White Christmas”

Originally written by Irving Berlin, “White Christmas” is a classic that brings back memories of home, loved ones, and better days. Although the song is about Christmas, I was shocked when I realized it is also completely secular, which now seems logical, as Berlin was a Jewish immigrant. The song makes no mention of Christ, but for me, this does not detract from the value or love that emanates from the song. However, what makes this song great is that it is about the Christmas spirit- the feelings of home, of being surrounded by loved ones, and of feeling secure and loved. While the time and place of the song’s composition is unknown, this little fact only adds to the timelessness of Berlin’s piece.

The melancholy tone of the song is far more understandable as the broadcast talked about the death of Berlin’s son on Christmas Day. Now the phrase “I’m dreaming of a white Christmas/Just like the ones I use to know” has new meaning and another level of understanding because he wrote this song for his son. As I listen to the song repeatedly, I can almost see how it could be written as a reminder of a life that was taken too early for a father. I had always believed that it was a song written for soldiers wishing to see their families again, but now I can see its original purpose is to remember things that have past and to hope for things to get better.

Unbeknownst to me, the original version of this song has outsold all other versions, and it eventually became the song of soldiers oversees. Considering how many people have made different versions to this song, I was surprised that the original had outsold them all. It was also interesting to note how the soldiers in Vietnam used the song as a signal for evacuation and as a reminder for what they missed about home. While the National Public Radio did not mention the movie based off “White Christmas,” the facts given by the broadcast cast the movie in a more accurate historical light as it showed the evolving nature of the song. The song slowly shifted from a small, personal audience to a wide range of people who wanted their lives back and who wanted to be free of war. Overall, this song evolved to touch the hearts of many who dream of having a “White Christmas” at home once again.

Unconscious Reality

Marked by an expression of unconscious thoughts and dreams, the Surrealist movement began a new wave of artists that flooded the United States in the 1930s. This new realm of thought inspired artists to liberate their minds from reality and to look within to find meaning. The American artist Vance Kirkland found relief in this style as he sought to find a needed release from realism. His painting “Clouds, Mountains, and a Lake” embody this idea of surrealism as he shows realist abstraction through geometric shapes, opalescent colors, and a dream-like state of reality.

Born in 1904, Kirkland’s painting career ranged from realism to abstraction to dot paintings as it spanned over a 52-year period. In the beginning, he worked with landscapes and watercolor, but later discovered a new method of mixing watercolor with oil (Museum 1). This process caused his paintings to have a textured, almost alienated look that gave him the title “Father of Modern Colorado Painting.” His passion for art exuded to his students as he oversaw and taught at the University of Denver as the first Director of the art school. This led to the creation of the Kirkland Art School, which catered to thousands of students and now stands as a historical museum (Museum 1). His insistence for modern art in the newly founded school made it a beacon for hopeful painters as they wished to become a part of this new art movement. While he is well known for his more abstract paintings during the latter part of his career, his early paintings helped to start a new wave of surrealism.

In the beginning of his schooling, Kirkland failed an art class at the Cleveland Art School because he chose to work with colors that were not meant to compliment or define each other. However, the radical experimentation of his paintings, especially when he shifted from realism to surrealism, caused little commotion when he moved to the Southwest. While modernism did not have a respectable reputation in the East, Kirkland’s work excited Denver as they welcomed his art with open arms. Conservative works were the norm until he introduced the modernist thought of the art process being the center rather than the subject matter (Cook 1). The rhythmic shapes of his art attracted national audiences for his surrealist qualities, even though he chose to disregard Freud and his idea of unconscious thought as the reason for his paintings (Cook 2). The prestige he gained as the founding director and curator at the University of Denver propelled his career and made him acclaimed as starting a new age of art, and his individual style reflects in all of his paintings.

Adorned with translucent clouds and serene colors, his painting “Clouds, Mountains, and a Lake” is torn between the Designed Realist and Surrealist movement. His career can be divided into five distinct movements, but each change was slow and unhurried, which reflects in many of his paintings. In this particular painting, done in 1940, he leans towards surrealism as he plays with the colors and the shapes of the mountains. Geometrically arranged to be curved and sensual, the mountains rise and fall around a pristine lake that makes that leads to its dream-like state. However, the crystal clear lake and the trees add certain truths, because they are the reality that keeps the painting from going to complete abstraction. Without the water and the trees, the mountains would become senseless lines and curves with little or no meaning.

Rationally depicted but with simplified shapes and colors, Kirkland’s painting shows his steps towards abstraction and modern thought. The wispy clouds cover the mountains and hide the sun, forcing the dark and dreary mood upon the painting, while a single dark mountain looms in the center, forcing attention on its lack of color and depth. Looking at the painting, the dark hues of blue and green are hypnotizing as the eyes are drawn up and down in a circle that never ends. These darker colors bring out a saddened tone and almost seem mournful, as if the lake was lost in either Kirkland’s mind or lost in reality. However, the clarity of the water makes the painting seem more like a reflection of a memory as the lake echoes the mountain peaks. This painting, however abstract, could represent what lies under the lake if the viewer could look beyond reality and into a new realm of modernist thought. Known for climbing the mountains and viewing the wonders of nature, Kirkland’s paintings often mirrored his view of the natural world and the thoughts that came from it.

The painting is simple and unique, but the subject matter needs to be studied to fully understood. Aesthetically, the painting pleases the viewer as the curved lines of the mountains and the simplified mountains forms are soft and sensual; however, its cultural meaning remains insignificant if the viewer is unaware of the radical movements involved. If the viewer cannot appreciate the courage to present non-realistic forms to the art world, the painting is simply a mass of shapes molded together to create a landscape. Without its history, it can never be more than pleasing to the eyes of the viewers. However, if it is viewed in a museum, with works of art drawn from the same movement, it is certainly more compelling and thought-provoking. In the pages of a book, its grandeur is lost and the attention is drawn to the dogs playing poker on the next page. In its true form, the painting is a masterpiece of the art world.

As a symbol of modernism in the Southwest, Kirkland’s career is still felt today as artists come and pay tribute to his work in the Kirkland Museum in Denver. His career liberated art and led to the acceptance of non-conservative works in the West. This painting, done early in his career, reflects his early transition from realism to abstraction. This liberation inspired the students of his art school to free themselves and to find what it means to be a truly inspired artist. Overall, his works began a new wave of art that is still being felt today as it educates those under his influence.

Bibliography

Cook, David. "Vance Kirkland | Facebook." Welcome to Facebook. 11 Mar. 2010. Web. 26 Oct.

2010. .

"Kirkland Museum of Fine & Decorative Art." Wikipedia, the Free Encyclopedia. Ed. Wikipedia

Encyclopedia. 21 Oct. 2010. Web. 26 Oct. 2010. .

"Vance Kirkland." Kirkland Museum - Promoting Colorado's Pre-eminent Artist. Ed. Kirkland

Museum. Web. 26 Oct. 2010. .

Milena Kalinovska

Milena Kalinovska- say that five times fast. I dare you.

Today in class, a girl announced that a visiting curator from Washington D.C. would be lecturing in the Museum of Art at 7 p.m. To encourage people to go, Soper said that we could use it in for our "Great Works Response." So, of course, I went. It was either going to this droll, exhausting lecture or enduring a 2-hour Western. I went and it was, of course, amazing.

I arrived five minutes late to a packed gallery of students writing feverishly in their notebooks. When the door closes, only one or two turn; the rest are too engrossed in the obvious grandeur of the lecture. I sit on the floor, next to the door, unable to find a seat. I begin listening to this woman, this Milena Kalinovska, talk which her thick Czech accent about the Communist nation she grew up in.

In 1968, she decided to go West, and for the Czechs I guess going west is going to England. She said that it was irrational, that looking back, it was insane to consider leaving, but she wanted to escape and experience life. She had one suitcase filled with ten pounds worth of belongings. While she's talking, I look around the room again, more interested in the people than in the lecture. To my right is a young couple sitting. The boyfriend is reading the newspaper. He definitely didn't want to come, but young love drives people to do crazy things.

Trying to focus my attention on the presentation, I begin to notice the slideshow on the wall, and the picture being shown is of a strange white sculpture that looks like an egg crushed into a million pieces and rearranged again. It could possibly be Humtpy Dumpty. I try to listen attentively, but even straining I can't make out the words and even when I do hear her speaking, Kalinovska's accent is a death trap. I sighed, leaning back against the wall and just catching random bits of conversation.

"Father...midnight...breaking the code of the Smithsonian..."

I'm sure it's fascinating, but since I'm on the ground, I'm having a hard time distinguishing between the voices around me and the voice onstage. I can hear the man asking the questions clearly, but what good are questions when there are no answers?

"American...another telephone call...."

She keeps on talking about her rise to fame, but with people wandering in and out of the hall, it's hard to understand.

"The artists were determined to find themselves...ordinary material to make great things..."

The next part of the lecture I could make out. She was talking about a fellow artist who she admired in the 1980s while she was in England. I personally thought he wasn't the best artist I'd seen, but she kept on raving about how "you can see the glue, the screws, the bent wood" of this sculpture. Words cannot describe it. It looked like a mass of deformed rocking chairs that the artist had attempted to morph into a giant fish while still keeping the chairs intact. But, she had wanted this artist in her gallery (I can only guess that she was a curator at that point, but I missed that vital fact in the conversation) but he was unable to do so as he was already in league with another gallery. Apparently, you cannot put works in two galleries at once. What a shame. His modernist view on art would have inspired artists for generations to come.

She kept on talking about this piece of art. "Two thousand dollars," she said. "Two thousand dollars for this beautiful show. For this cloth with wood, steel with wood."

The next piece of art she shows is actually fascinating. Two blocks of something (she later told us it was bread) with figures depressed in the centers. One is male, one is female. The body tells the story of art; without the body art could not exist. She told a joke about the artist eating the bread for the depressions; the audience laughed, wanting to make her feel welcomed.

I sit up, wanting to see the woman making the laughter. I see a flash of dark red hair, but the only face I can see is the man asking the questions. I look closer- fat, brown hair, receding hairline. Is that my old art history teacher? I can't tell without getting closer. I guess I'll never know. How sad.

I look around the room again, bored, wishing that the lecture was over. 7:28. I still had 32 minutes. People are still taking notes, acting like the words that fall out of her mouth are made of gold. But then, I realize something- why is Kalinovska talking about other people's art? Isn't she an artist? Why would I care about other people's art?

Her story is interesting though. She talks about her homeland, how growing up in a communist nation made her realize what people were saying and how she needed to be open about art. It is all very enrapturing, but my mind keeps on wandering.

Some girl sitting in front of me is taking up two chairs. One is holding her leg, which has a wrap around her upper thigh. I'm a little angry. The pregnant woman who just sat down on the floor should be sitting in a chair. Whatever happened to common decency?

"This photo makes us aware..." A picture is up on the wall. A man on a horse in front of the mountains. It sold for $1 million, but the man who sold it didn't even take the picture. Where's the justice in this world?

The significance of the photo was that it meant photos could be considered high art. A chair opened next to me, but I'm too lazy to get up. Someone else takes it five minutes later. Some Korean boy with spiky hair in black clothes.

Kalinovska keeps talking about the storytelling of art, how it elevates us to a higher plane of thinking. Meanwhile, my mind has already taken off to another plane of thinking. I'm admiring the 31 diamonds on my left ring finger, making it sparkle it the dim light. The kids in the back are starting to slack off- some are texting, and the guy forced to be there had finally fallen asleep on his girlfriend's shoulder.

"...sex..." I heard. Strange how that one word can snap you back into the present world. A new picture is up on the wall- two long, horizontal paintings, with scrolls and cave-man paintings of women. According to Kalinovska, not only can this relate to women, but to all of us. I still don't see the point of it.

I look around. Several people have walked in, even though we're 40 minutes into the lecture. One is a boy wearing a mustard yellow coat, a red and navy striped tie, and dark khaki slacks. Oddly enough, even with the red hair and glasses, he still manages to look like a classy nerd.

"Look within ourselves for answers," she drones on. People in the back are still texting. Most of the crowd is probably forced to be here, for one class or to keep their significant others company. The ones that care sit in the front, not in the back with the late comers. They're 15 minutes early with a notebook in hand, ready to partake of the vast knowledge she has to offer us.

Some begin trickling out. I envy them as I rearrange myself on the tile floor. I'm beginning to think it would nice to leave.

Suddenly, several families walk through the museum. At first, I thought it was one big family, but after the 15th child I began to hope that one woman wasn't forced to give birth to all of them. That just sounds unpleasant.

Kalinovska (I'm still having a hard time spelling that correctly) keeps talking about how art should share the excitement of creativity. People are talking, some are listening, but after she mentioned "rhetorical image" I was out of there. One thing I do not mess with is rhetoric; it just keeps you awake at night. Sorry Socrates. I don't know how you did it.

And word to the wise- do not walk in late wearing high heels. You are the biggest distraction there.

Here is a re-write of Daisy Miller, written at BYU. I've added pictures for those who have short attention spans and for those who just like pictures. Enjoy!

At the little town of Provo, in Utah, there is a particular university nestled next to the Wasatch Mountains. There are many places here to go and learn, but this place caters to those with actual intellect. Wandering around the university are students from all walks of life- some are from Africa, others from Asia, a few from Europe, and the majority reigning in from all fifty states in the Union. It might be said of this place that it was a marriage watering hole, for the number of women in this place far outweighed the number of men, and so for men to leave this place without marriage would be a travesty. However, in this particular instance, a young gentleman named Percy Sumerdiede was not looking for his eternal mate- he was however, searching for a young lass to write him on his two-year sabbatical of dating and courtship. And so we see young Percy walk up the steps to a front porch to pick up his romantic interest for the night, or if things go well, for the next few years.

Knocking on the front door, he immediately began the standard male check- zipper up, hair in place, nothing in his teeth- when suddenly the door opened and a beautiful young lady appeared. Startled, Percy gulped nervously and opened his mouth to ask if this could possibly be his date (for it was a blind date, as it was extremely popular in this small town) but before he could say anything, she put all his efforts to waste.

“Oh, so you’re Randi’s date huh? You’re early. But that’s alright. Nothing wrong with being a little early. Come on in- she’s still getting ready.”

Stepping nervously on the worn rug in front of the door, it was all that Percy could do from gaping at this wonderful girl. She was extremely pretty- tall and thin, with a heart-shaped face and very lovely blue eyes. Smiling brightly, she immediately began chatting with him, and he soon learned that she was from the South, and that she was here going to the university as well. “It’s extremely fun,” she said brightly as she watched his face, “I rather like it here. But you won’t hear that from Randi. It’s all I can do to keep her here and not jump on the next plane home. All she can talk about is how she wants to go home.”

Leaning towards him slightly, her voice suddenly dropped to a whisper and she asked him quietly, “Randi’s not that much fun, I doubt you’ll get a second date out of her. I was wondering, or rather hoping, that I could get your number, if you don’t mind at least. Do you mind? I would love to see you again sometime.”

Stuttering slightly, Percy replied very politely that he would be very happy to give her his number, and when he had just said the last numeral, a girl who he assumed was Randi came moping down the stairs, looking quite morose as she munched on a bag of popcorn.

“She just broke up with her boyfriend a week ago,” the roommate whispered. “You’re not from Utah are you? Because she hates men from Utah. That’s where her last boyfriend is from. And Utah men just aren’t as nice as Southern gents.”

“I’m originally from back East,” Percy replied, “but I’ve lived in Utah since I was around ten.”

“Then you’re not a Utahan,” she replied confidently as Randi finally made it down the stairs. “Did you hear that Randi? This one’s not a Utard.”

“It doesn’t matter. Men are pigs,” Randi mumbled, “And he is being really rude tonight. Did you even introduce yourself? Don’t you have any manners? I hate men.” She said, looking at Percy like she would rather be a thousand miles away then standing in front of him.

“This is Randi,” the roommate said, responding to the silence that had crept over the room. “And I’m Rose. Rose Tiller. Who might you be?”

Trying with all his might to put on a convincing smile for Randi’s sake, he stretched out his hand. “My name is Percy. Percy Sumerdiede. I’m very pleased to meet you both.”

Grunting slightly, either in disapproval or apathy, Randi stomped out the door. Percy turned around to say a final goodbye to Rose, but she had already disappeared into the dark recesses of the house. Silently groaning to himself, he walked after Randi and readied himself for a long night of atoning for all the sins of men and hearing all their gross, ignorant stupidities.

Months passed. Growing impatient day after day, Percy anxiously awaited a certain phone call. While some might have forgotten such a detail by now, the suspense was driving him wild. “Is this the way that women work?” he wondered to himself as he tried to keep busy with school and work to avoid sure insanity. But one summer day, the phone finally rang with an unknown number, and soon his fears were eased. Breathlessly answering, he was relieved to hear a familiar voice coming from the other end.

“Hello, is this Gerald?” He paused, unsure of whether or not to play along in order to get a date or to sooth his conscious and tell her that he was indeed not this Gerald fellow she was seeking.

Stammering slightly, Percy replied. “I’m sorry, this is Percy. And who might this be?” Although he already knew that it was his Rose, manners forced him to ask and to not assume what he hoped was true.

“Oh Percy, you silly boy. This is Rose. I knew it was you. I just like playing jokes on people I like. I was wondering if by chance you were coming down to Moab with me this weekend. It’d be so much fun- we’d go camping and sleep in the same tent, go hiking, we could go on long walks . . . what do you think?”

Nothing excited him more than this proposition. He could already imagine the days they could spend together in the wilderness, but he was a little sorry that his values and sense of propriety would force them to sleep in separate tents. When he told her yes, he paused and explained that he would love to come but that he would be bringing his own tent to sleep in.

“Oh, you’re so old-fashioned;” she laughed heartily, “Who does those kinds of things anymore? Separate tents? Please Percy. But I guess you’re still welcome. Come to my place at six and we’ll leave from there. Does that work?” Without waiting for a reply, the phone went silent, leaving him breathless once again.

The days passed slowly, and finally, the happy day arrived. Armed with an arsenal of supplies, including a plethora of small chit-chat, Percy drove to Rose’s domain to begin their trip to Moab. As he drove, he thought back to a conversation he had with his roommate Connor that morning, on how he needed to be more careful with who he associated with.

“Percy, I know you’re excited about this trip, but I don’t think you know what you’re getting yourself into. She’s a nice girl, but what are people going to think when they find out you’re going on a camping trip alone with her? That’s not a good idea Perc. You’ve been in Utah way too long- you don’t know how these other girls think. You will make a mistake- you’re too naïve when it comes to these kinds of things.”

Shaking his head to rid himself of these thoughts, he immediately began to rationalize his behavior towards Rose. “She’s just different,” he said to himself, “People don’t understand her. She’s just a little innocent when it comes to these types of things. And why should she have to change her habits for them? It just doesn’t make any sense.” Gleefully, he drove up to her house, completely satisfied in the answers he had supplied for himself.

Walking up to the front door, he suddenly heard two voices- one, deep and resonant, and the other, higher and bubbly with just a hint of laughter. Hesitantly, he knocked on the door and took a step back. “Well, maybe she was nice and invited her roommate and her boyfriend,” he thought to himself, but her only roommate was Randi, and he couldn’t envision her having a suitor with her current anti-social stance.

“Hello? Rose? Are you here?" He paused, waiting for a reply before entering the house. When he heard an affirmation to come in, he walked in and saw Rose and another young gentleman in the sitting room, laughing and talking like old friends. Gulping, Percy asked “Now who’s this? Is he waiting for Randi or was he just keeping you company until I got here?”

“Oh, you silly willy. This is Gerald. I meant to call him earlier this week, but I accidently called you instead. And guess what? He decided to come with us! Isn’t he just the cutest thing you’ve ever seen?” She exclaimed excitedly, pinching his cheeks and sitting directly on his lap, “And he served his mission in Italy, so he speaks Italian. And he’s letting me drive his car down to Moab. How perfect is he? He’s not as perfect or as darling as you are Percy, but he’s one of the sweetest guys I know.”

Grinning, Gerald took all of her chatter in stride for the next half hour, occasionally responding and laughing at her humor. “Darn his good looks!” Percy thought as he stepped into the backseat of Gerald’s car. “Why is it that she can’t tell I’m the real catch? I haven’t been on my mission yet, but I’m still better than him! I should be the one sitting in the front seat!”

Needless to say, the drive to Moab was long and extremely difficult. Moping in the back for hours, Percy simply sat there, dejected, staring at the window and wondering how he could possibly get rid of Gerald. If Percy was not so blinded by jealousy, he could have seen that Gerald was enthralled with Rose and had the best intentions, but little did they both know that even the best intentions can make a turn for the worse. Gerald was a little too apt to follow Rose, and such behavior and lack of thought can certainly lead even the best people down the worst paths.

Speeding mercilessly and taken wild turns on the freeway, Rose’s driving frightened Gerald and Percy, but only Gerald was brave enough to mention how she should slow down and consider the safety of her friends.

“Oh Gerald! You’re so funny! Nothing bad is going to happen! You worry too much.” Just as she said those words, red and blue flashing lights turned on behind them. Smiling softly, Rose pulled over to the side of the road and awaited the arrival of the police officer, but when he knocked on her window, she rolled it down and said started smiling and laughing with him. Treating him like an old friend, she received a simple warning and a smile from the young police officer, who chastised her lightly and told her to drive slower in the future. Smiling broadly to herself, Rose pulled back onto the road and continued talking to Gerald as if nothing had even happened.

With that behind them, Rose continued the drive to Moab, and in the dark they arrived. Finding an adequate campsite, they leisurely set up tents and a main area, for they were intent on enjoying their weekend excursion. After about an hour of work, everything was completed for the night, and so they all went their separate ways for the night, or so Percy thought.

The next morning dawned cold and crisp as the cool desert night turned into a hot summer’s day. Percy arose, anxious to get Rose on a walk through the forest and to perhaps get lost for a little while. But when he walked out of his tent, bile rose in his throat as he saw Gerald and Rose sitting very intimately next to one another, conversing and laughing while Gerald made pancakes over the fire. Looking behind them, Percy saw the two sleeping bags in Rose’s tent, and he started to believe the warnings his roommate had given him. He knew that her behavior was not representative of what a young lady from the university should be doing.

“Percy! How did you sleep?” Rose asked, seemingly to genuinely care about his answer. But when he did not respond, she continued on as if nothing had occurred, and soon she initiated a walk between her and Gerald through a path in the forest that was suppose to lead to a very pretty part of the park.

“Allow me to come with you,” Percy demanded. “It might not be safe out there. You could get hurt.”

“Ah, I am not afraid,” Gerald said confidently, “Nothing will happen to either of us.”

Laughing, Rose agreed to let Percy come, and so he followed behind Rose and her suitor as they prattled on about love and nature and wildlife. When they arrived at the end of the trail, it was indeed very pretty, as you could see for miles in every direction, but Percy was too infuriated to notice anything besides the red haze that covered the couple in front of him. As they were standing on the edge of the cliff, Percy took Rose aside.

"I wish you wouldn't do that," he said, "I wish you would only flirt with me. Why won't you go out with me?"

“Oh Percy, you’re the last person I’d think of dating. You’re nice, but you are just too stuffy.” Seeing the enraged look on his face, she just laughed. “Oh, you’re so much more fun when you’re angry. I should make you angry more often!”

Back at the campsite, Percy just sat down next to the fire, jabbing it with timber and thinking of how delightful it would be to do the same to a certain gentleman he knew. As the day drew on, Rose decided that she was somewhat tired of this adventure they were having and wanted to return to her home. Catering to her every need, Gerald picked up the campsite, along with all of her things, while Percy silently packed his belongings and settled them in the back of the car. Exhausted from his endeavors of watching over the couple, he dozed the rest of the way home, needing sleep but unable to retain it for long.

Going back to her house, Rose and Gerald simply stopped the car in the driveway and looked at Percy, who stared back at them with a puzzled look in his eyes.

“Percy darling, thanks so much for coming with us. Hopefully we’ll get to do this again sometime soon! We’re just going to go up the canyon for a bit. Thanks so much for coming!”

Seeing the looking on Percy’s face, Gerald chimed in and said “Do not worry too much. If we get in by midnight we will be quite safe.”

Flabbergasted at her outward rejection and Gerald’s apparent approval, Percy just simply nodded and gathered his things. Standing next to his car, he watched them drive off into the dark, hoping that they did not encounter the dangers he had heard of at such a late hour. Utterly drained, he made his way home and slept, wishing that things could be different.

As the days dragged on, he heard less and less of Rose, and from his roommates had heard of her they did not approve of her meandering ways. There were rumors of her going into boy’s bedrooms, staying past curfew, drinking caffeinated beverages, all of which stunned Percy. Then one day, he received word that she had left Provo and gone home without a word. Inquiring about her from her roommate, he learned from Randi that she has gotten herself into some trouble and that the university would not allow such happenings to be present at their institution of learning.

“She’s probably with child,” Randi replied confidently as she continued munching on a bag of half-eaten chips. “It can happen. Even here at the university. And it wouldn’t surprise if she was one of the few it happened to.” When asking about Gerald, he found out that he had also left the university, never to return.

Walking home slowly, Percy tried to regain control of his thoughts and wrap his mind around the idea that he would never see his Rose again. “I have lived too long in Utah,” he said silently to himself. “I need to get out and see the world as the world sees itself.”

Regardless of his conviction, he returned back to his apartment, and in Provo he remained, dating the women of Utah Valley to his heart’s content. However, a few months later, after his nineteenth birthday, he received his call to go south, to the southern states of the Union. Only he could see the reason why, and only he could do what he knew he was called to do- find his Rose and bring her home.

I swore that in my lifetime I would never, ever, ever (emphasis on that last ever) create or write a blog. But since I've already succumbed to the horror of Facebook and have now Twittered every hot male celebrity in existence (I'm hoping that by keeping tabs, one day I'll miraculously "run into" them and just "happen" to hurt something, at least for 5 minutes) it's not surprising that I now want to spread my evil influence throughout the cyber realm And Lance, my wonderful fiancé, please ignore the sentence regarding hot male celebrities. As you so wonderfully told the world before, "She's mine." Sorry Matt Damon. Better luck next time.

Anyways, I've never tried to write my thoughts in a "non-formal" style before (writing a blog is certainly beyond my comfort zone) but I think for once it will be nice to not have to worry too much about whether or not I put my commas in the right place (my communications class just made us read 3 pages on comma usage). But, for now I'll just try and concentrate on doing here what was my main intent- to blog for my Humanities 262 class and get a wonderful-looking A on my transcript.

And now for my serious entry. This past week I've been privileged to read for the second time in 2 months Daisy Miller: A Study by Henry James. Reading this for English 293 and now for Humanities 262, it is certainly a different experience each time. Unfortunately, I cannot claim to say that this is one of my more favorite works, as the main character keeps on leading himself down a horrific path that is sure to not end well (It's like that horror movie, where for some STUPID reason the girl just has to go into a strange house or open a door just to "see what's on the other side." Idiot) The main character, Winterbourne, from the high and oh-so-elegant upper class, needs to learn to grow an upper class backbone. I certainly understand his fascination for Daisy's beauty and uncharacteristic female qualities (actually, this may be the first time in literally history where a man likes a girl that talks too much) but his fascination is like the fascination a cat has with a laser beam- it's fun for everyone to watch for the first little bit, but after a while the people get tired of it and the cat is still left just as stupid as before. That is the extent of his fascination. He likes the way it looks (and by it I mean she) but he can never quite figure out where it came from. His aunt certainly has, as she warns him that he has "lived too long out of the country" and has become "too innocent" for this American girl who's caught his fancy (for all those non-humanities 262 friends, Winterbourne is in fact, American, but has lived in Switzerland for several years. He is what we like to call an expatriate, someone who has abandoned America). However, it is somewhat mysterious that his aunt, who has also lived outside the country for years, would retain her "American-ness" while Winterbourne could lose his so easily. Perhaps it's the age difference.

"Tell a man that there are 400 billion stars and he'll believe you. Tell him a bench has wet paint and he as to touch it." -Stephen Wright

While this quote explains how some men act (and some women for that matter) I fail to understand throughout the entirety of the text is just why he continues to remain so fascinated with her. Is she another “bench” with wet paint that he has to see if she is dangerous, or is it the morbid fascination with having a girl that refuses you? Is the chase for some guys really that exhilarating that they're willing to make complete fools of themselves? Perhaps I lack the capacity to sympathize with their plight as I am in fact, a woman. It's just amazing that from the beginning, he could see Daisy's faults but just plain refused to acknowledge them, or when he did acknowledge them he would simply make excuses. Here's a list of of examples that I find particularly irritating-

- "It might have been said of this unknown lady ... that she chattered"

- "He was inclined to think Miss Daisy Miller was a flirt"

-" Daisy turned away from Winterbourne, looking at him, smiling and fanning herself. 'Good night,' she said; 'I hope you are disappointed, or disgusted, or something!' He looked at her taking the hand she offered him. 'I am puzzled,' he answered"

As the story draws on and on, the frustration I feel towards Winterbourne mounts to rage as I simply want to throttle him. While he may not be the brightest man (and in the movie created in 1974 he's certainly not the most handsome. I blame the mustache) he's certainly doesn't deserve the kind of treatment he's getting. He goes from Geneva to Rome just to see her and what does he get? He gets

"rather annoyed at Miss Miller's want of appreciation of the zeal of an admirer who on his down to Rome had stopped neither at Bologna nor at Florance, simply because of a certain sentimental impatience"

Wow.

And later, when Winterbourne escorts her to meet her Italian suitor (why was he escorting her? It's not worth explaining) he exclaims to himself "Damn his good looks!" and then cursed Miss Miller for "not knowing the difference between a spurious gentleman and a real one." Now I know this story is more about Henry James's attitude towards the American populace, as he was an expatriate himself, but for myself it's more about jealousy and men's general stupidity. Now I didn't say that just men were stupid, because I'll openly admit to having blonde moments many times a day, but the frustration I felt towards Winterbourne is very uncharacteristic of my attitude towards men. Sure, some may ruin, perhaps forever, their chances with a certain girl, but here's the main difference- it's simply because they had no idea what they were doing. Winterbourne did, and that is where the fault lies. He knew throughout the whole story, and to top it off, when she dies, he feels grateful that he avoided some social downfall. That's 19th century love for you.

Anyways, as we are to provide several "outside clips" for our blog, here is a short out-take of the movie "Daisy Miller" directed by Peter Bogdanovich and starring Cybill Shepherd as Daisy and Barry Brown as Winterbourne.

I don't like the feel of this movie clip as much as the book, as the producers seem to cast Winterbourne as the creepy, stalker gentleman who goes for the trophy wife, but it does help one feel the dynamic of the book. She's luring on Giovanni (her Italian suitor) to simply make Winterbourne jealous. Classic.

And this seems to sum up Daisy and Randolph's relationship pretty well. Brother and sister just never seem to get along very well. Or perhaps this is what Daisy would like to do to her little brother.

* I would like to formally apologize if any of you assume that I'm a man-hating feminist. I assure you, that's not the case. Sometimes.