This bodes well for a retraction of the redesign of "Mtn Dew", which is also a Pepsico product. As long as bloggers like me keep trying to stick it to the man.
"Mtn Dew" was formerly known as Mountain Dew. But then Pepsi apparently decided it was too good for efficient, clear, beautiful design. They changed the trade name of Mountain Dew to "mtn Dew" and redesigned the can of "mtn Dew" in some pretty heinous ways. It makes me steamed.
Dear Pepsi,
You're like someone's mom trying to send text messages. Useless abbreviations are not cool and irritate those of us who prefer marketing that follows standard rules of spelling and grammar. You know what's right, Pepsi. You're just a poser rebel, and it's lame.
Furthermore, realize that there is a large market of girls (ok... maybe just me) who drink Diet Mountain Dew like it's ambrosia. And we feel alienated by the hyper-masculine image Mtn Dew is putting out there! Gaming? Sports? The Adventures of Darrell Waltrip and Grease Monkey? Drinking Mtn Dew is like bad hair days, sweatpants, and NFL: it's frumpiness in a can. No matter how much I may LIKE sweatpants and the NFL, I don't necessarily look good liking it.
You know what girly soda looks like? Tab. Tab is a girly energy drink. You know who makes Tab? Coca-motherloving-Cola. Fortunately for you, Tab is an acquired taste. Once you acquire a craving for liquid Smarties... and metal... and butt... then the problem is solved. Until then... I want my Diet Mountain Dew back. The old one. With the swirly green logo with "Mountain Dew" in the middle. Even if it did look like the New York City Cyclones logo... it was still better than this disjointed green crap.
I hate you, Pepsi! And I hate that I'm completely addicted!
love,
claire
Dear proletariat and 18-25 age bracket,
Pepsi wants our money. They suck for taking the oun and ai out of our beverage of choice. Are we going to stand for this? No! Blog!
love,
claire
Monday, February 23, 2009
Sunday, February 22, 2009
WATCHING
"Pushing Daisies." Say you like slightly macabre entertainment with a punch or two of the grotesque... like James and the Giant Peach or Nicholas Nickleby. Also, let's say you love musicals, like Little Shop of Horrors and Grease. Oh! I forgot. You also like a really strong but also kind of ambiguous design fifties-futuristic design concept. Lucky you. You've found your favorite cancelled show. Oh, wait. You probably found it while it was still on. Aren't you smart?
Also, Lee Pace wears clothes that would make my sister swoon. Namely, button-up shirts with rolled-up sleeves.
READING
The Age of Innocence by Edith Wharton. No, I'd never read it before. Say F. Scott Fitzgerald and Jane Austen had a literary baby. That literary baby would probably look a little like The Age of Innocence. My favorite quote, thus far, describes why an evening's opera diva is singing in Italian:
"An unalterable and unquestioned law of the musical world required that the German text of French operas sung by Swedish artists should be translated into Italian for the clearer understanding of English-speaking audiences."
The book actually has a lot of theatrical motifs; I think Wharton was probably a really smart gal to hype up the theatrical context to show that everyone in the novel is essentially an actor.
LISTENING
"Flood," by Jars of Clay. Because, sometimes, at the height of college work and college stress, one needs the quintessential thoughty 90's college band and their quintessential vague and thoughty hit.
"Pushing Daisies." Say you like slightly macabre entertainment with a punch or two of the grotesque... like James and the Giant Peach or Nicholas Nickleby. Also, let's say you love musicals, like Little Shop of Horrors and Grease. Oh! I forgot. You also like a really strong but also kind of ambiguous design fifties-futuristic design concept. Lucky you. You've found your favorite cancelled show. Oh, wait. You probably found it while it was still on. Aren't you smart?
Also, Lee Pace wears clothes that would make my sister swoon. Namely, button-up shirts with rolled-up sleeves.
READING
The Age of Innocence by Edith Wharton. No, I'd never read it before. Say F. Scott Fitzgerald and Jane Austen had a literary baby. That literary baby would probably look a little like The Age of Innocence. My favorite quote, thus far, describes why an evening's opera diva is singing in Italian:
"An unalterable and unquestioned law of the musical world required that the German text of French operas sung by Swedish artists should be translated into Italian for the clearer understanding of English-speaking audiences."
The book actually has a lot of theatrical motifs; I think Wharton was probably a really smart gal to hype up the theatrical context to show that everyone in the novel is essentially an actor.
LISTENING
"Flood," by Jars of Clay. Because, sometimes, at the height of college work and college stress, one needs the quintessential thoughty 90's college band and their quintessential vague and thoughty hit.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
I Need... A Break
So, I did that thing where you type in your name plus "needs" into a search engine just to see what pops up.
Boy, am I glad my name is Claire.
The first one was "Claire needs a visit to the bunny planet," which is, I believe, the title of a story by Peter Balestrieri.
"Claire needs private support"... "Claire needs Facebook"... "Claire needs a boyfriend"... "Claire needs help"... and, my favorite, "Claire needs booze to kiss."
All these things, which, to be fair, are fairly universal things to need... and none of them are really what I need right now, I think.
I need some good, anti-thesis, worship music. I need downtown time.
Incidentally, I went to sleep joyfully praising God... and then I dreamed that I had a birthday party that was really horrible, one of my secret minor crushes was there, looking very suavely grungy and vaguely European, and he was flirting with a high school student ("Don't you know that's illegal?") Mrs. Bell moved to Atlanta (without Mr. Bell and all the children) ("Don't you know you're not cut out to be a heartless, Atlanta-living career woman? Whatever happened to Bellhaven?") and nobody would swing dance with me except my dad. Fortunately, he was remarkably spry in my subconscious. And at least I spoke my mind.
Boy, am I glad my name is Claire.
The first one was "Claire needs a visit to the bunny planet," which is, I believe, the title of a story by Peter Balestrieri.
"Claire needs private support"... "Claire needs Facebook"... "Claire needs a boyfriend"... "Claire needs help"... and, my favorite, "Claire needs booze to kiss."
All these things, which, to be fair, are fairly universal things to need... and none of them are really what I need right now, I think.
I need some good, anti-thesis, worship music. I need downtown time.
Incidentally, I went to sleep joyfully praising God... and then I dreamed that I had a birthday party that was really horrible, one of my secret minor crushes was there, looking very suavely grungy and vaguely European, and he was flirting with a high school student ("Don't you know that's illegal?") Mrs. Bell moved to Atlanta (without Mr. Bell and all the children) ("Don't you know you're not cut out to be a heartless, Atlanta-living career woman? Whatever happened to Bellhaven?") and nobody would swing dance with me except my dad. Fortunately, he was remarkably spry in my subconscious. And at least I spoke my mind.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
hunger
Cravings are the weirdest thing:
Right now, I have a sinking feeling that I will never possibly be satiated except with a pecan waffle from Waffle House, of all places.
I am my grandfather's progeny, that is for sure. Minus the trucker cap and safety pin-and-duct-tape wardrobe. (He's the original punk. Yes, I'm proud.)
And he loves Waffle House. In fact, you can't imagine the family drama that has taken place at Waffle House, and I'm not going to tell you.
I went to Waffle House on prom night with one of the nicest, most personable writers to hit the planet. It was deliciously sketch and the pecan waffle was incredible.
Going to the Waffle House is sometimes like flirting with death, but in the best way possible. It's like speeding on the Blue Ridge Parkway or eating M&Ms that drop on the floor.
And I will never be happy unless I eat a pecan waffle. Right now.
Right now, I have a sinking feeling that I will never possibly be satiated except with a pecan waffle from Waffle House, of all places.
I am my grandfather's progeny, that is for sure. Minus the trucker cap and safety pin-and-duct-tape wardrobe. (He's the original punk. Yes, I'm proud.)
And he loves Waffle House. In fact, you can't imagine the family drama that has taken place at Waffle House, and I'm not going to tell you.
I went to Waffle House on prom night with one of the nicest, most personable writers to hit the planet. It was deliciously sketch and the pecan waffle was incredible.
Going to the Waffle House is sometimes like flirting with death, but in the best way possible. It's like speeding on the Blue Ridge Parkway or eating M&Ms that drop on the floor.
And I will never be happy unless I eat a pecan waffle. Right now.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
the american college theatre festival: a critique
1) Too much writing reviews; too little theme parties. What kind of theatre kid am I?
2) Fell mildly in love with boys for their punctuation. Bad idea, Claire. Usually, if their punctuation is that good, they've never heard of Chuck Taylors, the Beatles... or they like boys.
3) You write plays? You need a dramaturg. Here's my facebook. You're a dramaturg? You need a dramaturg. Here's my facebook. You're a random professor from a school I've never heard of? Hi, I'm Claire, and I'm a dramaturg.
4) Apparently, at other schools, Alpha Psi Omega members come to a consensus and agree on t-shirts. I know, weird.
(This said, I may never agree to a long-sleeved t-shirt. Suckas.)
5) My own personal paradise will include a Tate Street Coffee. That accepts debit cards. It will have forty-seven paintings on the wall and a barista with impeccable eyebrows.
6) So a professor here was trying to defend someone else's script because she knew him or whatever. I said that it had potential but was undeveloped. "Well, that's the point." Um, no. Ambiguity can sometimes be the goal but some scripts just seem sloppy and unfinished. I know this because every single play I've ever written has been both ambiguous AND sloppy/unfinished and they are different entities.
7) My professional, ambitious heart was broken when someone who is not me mislaid my dramaturgy packet. Arguably, this needed to happen. I didn't like my professional, ambitious heart and wanted to return to my apathetic one.
Still, it left me emotionally drained and exhausted on many levels. I will consume comfort food for an entire week, gaining about nineteen pounds of fat: Brach's gummi bears, cheap-o gas station cappuccinos, Pillsbury crescent rolls--and I will look for Vaughn every day, because I need a long-arm hug. I also bought eyeshadow.
8) I realized that I write criticism like a dramaturg: basically, "OohprettylightsIguessIlikedititwasgood... but the script needs ______." This is why I never win Critics and will never compete as one again. I just do it because I like to see plays and critique my own writing.
9) I like college kids. I hope when I graduate, I'll find out that twentysomethings are cool, too.
2) Fell mildly in love with boys for their punctuation. Bad idea, Claire. Usually, if their punctuation is that good, they've never heard of Chuck Taylors, the Beatles... or they like boys.
3) You write plays? You need a dramaturg. Here's my facebook. You're a dramaturg? You need a dramaturg. Here's my facebook. You're a random professor from a school I've never heard of? Hi, I'm Claire, and I'm a dramaturg.
4) Apparently, at other schools, Alpha Psi Omega members come to a consensus and agree on t-shirts. I know, weird.
(This said, I may never agree to a long-sleeved t-shirt. Suckas.)
5) My own personal paradise will include a Tate Street Coffee. That accepts debit cards. It will have forty-seven paintings on the wall and a barista with impeccable eyebrows.
6) So a professor here was trying to defend someone else's script because she knew him or whatever. I said that it had potential but was undeveloped. "Well, that's the point." Um, no. Ambiguity can sometimes be the goal but some scripts just seem sloppy and unfinished. I know this because every single play I've ever written has been both ambiguous AND sloppy/unfinished and they are different entities.
7) My professional, ambitious heart was broken when someone who is not me mislaid my dramaturgy packet. Arguably, this needed to happen. I didn't like my professional, ambitious heart and wanted to return to my apathetic one.
Still, it left me emotionally drained and exhausted on many levels. I will consume comfort food for an entire week, gaining about nineteen pounds of fat: Brach's gummi bears, cheap-o gas station cappuccinos, Pillsbury crescent rolls--and I will look for Vaughn every day, because I need a long-arm hug. I also bought eyeshadow.
8) I realized that I write criticism like a dramaturg: basically, "OohprettylightsIguessIlikedititwasgood... but the script needs ______." This is why I never win Critics and will never compete as one again. I just do it because I like to see plays and critique my own writing.
9) I like college kids. I hope when I graduate, I'll find out that twentysomethings are cool, too.
Monday, February 2, 2009
They call this... fear?
I'm so excited!!!!!!!!!!
...I guess I'm scared.
Scared that what I wanted so intensely is too big, too smart, too religious for me and my attached mistakes.
Scared that it's not meant to be and that I'll get burned.
I don't need or want anyone to tell me I'm big enough, smart enough, or Christian enough for this. I need people to pray that God would change my heart to want what He wants. That every struggle would end with a limp--a permanent change in me thanks to a ridiculous encounter.
Occupational hazard of being a passionate person, I guess. I've fallen in over my head for a dream I know is the real thing. I just don't know what to do with it.
I keep seeing myself as so much bigger than I really am. I hate that.
I, I, I, I, I.
Grody.
...I guess I'm scared.
Scared that what I wanted so intensely is too big, too smart, too religious for me and my attached mistakes.
Scared that it's not meant to be and that I'll get burned.
I don't need or want anyone to tell me I'm big enough, smart enough, or Christian enough for this. I need people to pray that God would change my heart to want what He wants. That every struggle would end with a limp--a permanent change in me thanks to a ridiculous encounter.
Occupational hazard of being a passionate person, I guess. I've fallen in over my head for a dream I know is the real thing. I just don't know what to do with it.
I keep seeing myself as so much bigger than I really am. I hate that.
I, I, I, I, I.
Grody.
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