I know it’s not exactly an original sentiment, but this is my favorite time of the year. Or, at least, it will be once finals are over. I adore the Christmas season – I love the story, the music, the decorations, the time with family, and I love the wrapping paper.

Christmas wrapping paper embodies a part of the happiness of the holidays. Seeing role upon role of the colorful paper crammed into bins down holiday

aisles at the store, one can’t help but think of some of the best parts of Christmas – Santa Claus, Christmas trees, a friend or family member’s face as they open an unexpected gift, the anticipation of Christmas morning. Looking through the bins of paper always makes me smile – sometimes because I like the patterns, and they make me inexplicably happy, but sometimes because they’re so terribly cheesy or awful that I can’t help but want to laugh.

Whenever I walk into a store at this time of year, the holiday aisle(s) have a nearly magnetic draw, mostly because of the wrapping paper. I love looking at the different patterns: traditional, funny, religious, modern, shiny, movie or television themed. I love to judge which patterns I like, which ones I think are cheesy, and which ones I could imagine certain people buying. It’s always difficult to remind myself that I already have plenty of wrapping paper already.

Of course, the best part about wrapping paper is actually wrapping things and getting creative with it, like the girl in the picture above. Although, that might be going just a little bit overboard.  If you’re looking for some creative wrapping ideas this website has some good ones.

Wrapping paper is a funny thing. It’s technically pointless, yet nothing says it’s a gift more than wrapping a present in patterned paper that’s just going to be thrown away. It’s such a personal thing too.  Everybody has their own style of wrapping. One person’s wrapping may look like  a train ran over it, while someone else’s may look like a piece of art – so beautiful that you almost don’t want to rip the paper off.  Almost.

That’s a wrap for the semester.

Happy (almost) Holidays and Good Luck on finals!

The 9/11 generation.  That’s what they call us.  The first time I heard that our generation is “defined by 9/11” was freshman year.  I remember feeling oddly offended.  Surely we are more complex than that, I thought.  One event, no matter how horrific it was, cannot be the defining moment of our generation, especially not one that happened when I was 11 years old.  I still have so many experiences ahead of me.  How can scholars or marketing executives or whoever it is who makes these decisions tell me what defined my identity and the identity of the rest of the people in my age group?

I am currently taking a class on the contemporary American novel.  All of the books we’re reading were written after 2001.  Only about a third of the novels we read dealt with 9/11 directly, but the tragedy left its mark on all of the books in one way or another.  The Lovely Bones, a novel set in an entirely different decade, still grapples with issues of mortality and unspeakable acts of violence.  Zone One is a straight-up zombie novel, but the imagery evokes pictures of destruction– ash-filled skies and unstable skyscrapers.  As we begin our final weeks of the semester, I am coming to certain conclusions about the state of the American novel.  Many of these conclusions are related to 9/11 and what a pre- and post- 9/11 American novel looks like.  If novels are supposed to reflect society, as I believe most good novels do in one way or another, it only follows that these same conclusions are indicative of our culture and identities.

We are more paranoid.  We are more concerned with what the societal structures we’ve depended so heavily on mean and how much we can trust them.   We worry about the legacy we’re leaving for our children.  Dying parents or other authority figures crop up time and time again.  We’re scared, we’re in a constant state of change, and we are looking for something to believe in.  In the case of many of these novels, the characters turn to books.  Before they may have searched for help in the Bible, but their faith has been shaken and they are looking for another outlet.

I sympathize with these characters.  As I’ve gotten older, religion has taken a backseat in my life.  At the moment, it is sort of a nonentity.  I don’t think about it one way or another.  Where some might “cling to guns and religion,” I “cling to text and art.”  They might not leave me with hope or reassurance, but through characters and masterful writing, I am given the supreme gift of faith in humanity.  According to Jonathan Franzen, a good novel should teach us how to live in this world.  I don’t need an author to teach me how to live, but at the very least they should make me want to learn how to live.

The authors we’ve been reading are certainly not in my generation.  They are my parents’ generation.  Some are a bit younger.  I like to believe that they are cynical and only see our generation as distant outsiders.  Many of them try to tackle the voice of our generation by bringing in younger narrators or central characters.  While the way they speak may not be realistic, there is something in the tone that feels right.  I still remember George W. Bush declaring war on Iraq a couple days after my 13th birthday and feeling indescribable fear because I did not know what was next.  They’ve got that uncertainty down.

As I’ve learned about the contemporary American novel, I’ve learned about contemporary American society.  We’ve got a ways to go.  For the time being, I’m reluctantly agreeing that my generation is the 9/11 generation.  Our adolescence was colored by uncertainty and fear.  As we move forward, I am excited to see what sort of novels we produce.  Maybe we will complete Franzen’s goal and learn how to live.  You know what?  Let’s do him one better.  Let’s learn how to thrive.

So far this year I’ve been writing mostly about music you all should be listening to, or at least, music I’ve enjoyed listening to lately. Which isn’t really fair to all those artists who have released music that I haven’t enjoyed listening to recently. And who am I to discriminate? To all of these horrendous musicians, I apologize, but fear no more! My music racism stops here: following is a letter to Aubrey Graham, known mostly by his stage name, Drake, who just released his studio album “Take Care” on November 15.

Dear Aubrey,

Oh, you poor, poor child. If only you had stretched your prime, golden years on Degrassi into a more substantial career, because, in all honesty, you belong nowhere near the Hip-Hop profession. You could have been happily shooting season 28 with the rest of the old crew, but instead you’re producing worthless albums such as this one. Oh well, at least middle school girls now have your lyrics to use as material for their feisty teen anger.

Your opening track, “Over My Dead Body” is actually a beautifully crafted instrumental, full of powerful accompanying vocals, a soft and muffled beat, and a wonderful piano overtone. It truly embodies the nostalgic, quiet pride you are attempting to evince. Which is why it’s actually so hard to hear you, Drake, so pitifully ruin your own masterpiece. This song potentially could have been a revealing sentiment, but as soon as your oily voice appears, somehow clashing with your own beat, the song is destroyed. In the opening 30 seconds of your first verse you say, “Shout out to Asian girls- let the lights dim some.” Really? Who and what are you shouting out to Asian girls, if I may ask. Out of four consecutive lines, three end with the word “some.” Three! That’s not how rhyming works, pal, you have to find different words that sound the same. And no, it doesn’t count when you use “dim sum,” instead of “some.” That’s still the same word. You do this throughout the entire song. Three “again’s” in a row. Four N words. Two “from’s.” Maybe you had your Degrassi audition during this first grade rhyming lesson, I’m not sure, but you crucially need some help here.

The only song I enjoy shares the same name as the album. “Take Care” featuring Rihanna, is the only track that deserves to be classified as Hip-Hop. I always expect quality hooks from Rihanna, especially now as she is continuing her streak started by “We Found Love,” (yes, I like that song. Everybody likes that song) but “Take Care” exceeds her repertoire. Her voice powerfully secretes emotion and vulnerability; her soft passion coincides with the simple piano and hand-shaker beat to the point where it is almost palpable. You even manage not to completely and utterly ruin it, and I particularly enjoy how you change between rapping and singing, although your singing voice is far from gifted. If I force myself to only partially listen to the lyrics, this song gets a spot in my top favorite 50 songs. Of November. Also the Florence and the Machine cover is equal to if not better than your version.

A complete breakdown of every song (like D Prep’s heinous, praising, over exaggerated excuse for a review on Sunset in the Rearview) would probably result in me smashing my computer repeatedly against the wall from having to actually listen to every second of your album. Luckily for me, because of how dreadfully similar they are, I can accurately describe the remainder of songs in one general statement: they are not good. The only redeemable quality you have left is that you somehow feature Andre 3000 on the song “The Real Her.” Since it sounds somewhat like an Outkast song off of Aquemini, it starts off as a conceivably impressive song, but, true to your nature, you find a way to ruin it by offering Lil Wayne a verse as well. Andre 3000 is a legend. Lil Wayne serves no purpose on this planet.

Drake, I’m sorry. I don’t particularly enjoy doing this, and I want you to be a star just as much as the next twelve-year old, but you really need to show some improvement. There might be a slight possibility you have some actual talent buried deep, deep down somewhere, but in order to display it you have to stop pretending like you are a moron. You have a brain, stop writing these emotionless, ignorant lyrics. Get back to your “Forever” remix skill level. And if you really want to improve, leave Young Money and take Nicki with you. It’s either that or season 32 of Degrassi, your choice.

Respectfully,

Alex

PS. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LofSI8vfEZ4&feature=related

The weeks preceding finals are bleary-eyed and coffee-scented, punctuated by the restless clicking of keyboards and the shuffling of pages and episodes of forgetfulness. Lights gleam cold and florescent, the apathetic overseer of offices and classrooms, penetrating into libraries and dormitory rooms, a flat unforgiving glare that attempts to mimic the light of day but is never quite able to replicate it. They glaze windows into opaque sheets of blackened mirror until there is nothing outside; there exists only the image of you, notes and references lying in a sprawl before you, lit perhaps by a rectangular screen of blue-white light. Thoroughly unpleasant, indeed.

Warm, dim lighting is not necessarily conductive to productivity. A hazy oddslot glow might lull you into a sense of contentment, and the pool of light a single lamp spreads does little better than its cooler, flatter cousin. But sometimes- sometimes- in the hours past logic or reason- all one wants is some nice light, really, that doesn’t feel like a sledgehammer to the skull. Mixed lighting can be a good balance, of course, as long as the most unusual temperatures or colors are not the most dominant.

Diffuse light, though, tends to be a nice all-purpose. Bright or dim, warm or cool, day or night, the quality of the light is even without being cutting. String lights (Christmas lights, holiday lights), especially in neutral colors, I’ve found, work wonders in serving as versatile (and flexible) substitutes for single-bulb lamps. Alternatively, a lamp pointed at a white wall or ceiling lets the light bounce off those surfaces, creating a more even consistency that is often better for reading than a clearly defined pool of light sitting directly on one’s page, or a direct light that creates glares.

Thinking about lighting for spaces is in principle not unlike thinking about lighting for the camera, but it is certainly less complex and entirely more rewarding.

Like many people, I usually approach performance art with, at best, apathy. Similar to contemporary painting, which is often caricatured as simply canvases painting in a solid color or just a dot in the center, the art world has done a good job at distancing itself from anything tangible or easily relatable to a general audience. Three years of art history classes have somewhat numbed me to this argument; I rarely look at art anymore for the purpose of evoking in myself ‘feeling’ or ‘emotion.’ I typically approach any era or genre of art as a lens through which to contextualize or reflect the historical period surrounding it. To this extent, I can understand the backlash to minimalist and performance art considering so much of its importance is its reaction to image theory and art history. Similarly, my reaction to performance art has more often than not been “ok it’s interesting that people are exploring artistic barriers but none of this will stand the test of time.” However, recently I have come across a few pieces that have caught my attention and further pushed by conception of what “art” is. I think the two most exciting pieces I’ve heard of are by Chris Burden and Marina Abramovic and both explore the importance of audience participation and compliance, to the point where they blur the line between sociology experiment and artwork. Chris Burden’s piece “Samson” is part instillation, part performance. Burden, who made a name for himself in the 70s when he had a friend shoot him in the arm for a piece and in the 80s when he had himself crucified to a car, created “Samson” to further understand how far the audience is willing to participate when being directed. “Samson” is a set of beams constructed to fit between the walls of a gallery, connected to a turnstile. Each time a patron of the museum enters the gallery they pass through the turnstile, and every time it is turned the beams are rigged to push outward. Theoretically, if enough people passed through the turnstile, the walls would be pushed to collapse. Considering the museum did not, in fact, collapse, either there were not enough patrons or Burden’s audience made the conscience effort to prevent the demolition. I’m inclined to think that there just were not enough people visiting the museum (surprise surprise). Marina Abramovic did something similar with her performance “Rhythm 0,” in which she placed 72 items on a table, some harmless and others not, and allowed audience members to do whatever they wanted with those items to her while she remained motionless. She said afterward about it:

“I felt really violated: they cut up my clothes, stuck rose thorns in my stomach, one person aimed the gun at my head, and another took it away. It created an aggressive atmosphere. After exactly 6 hours, as planned, I stood up and started walking toward the audience. Everyone ran away, to escape an actual confrontation.”

There’s a malady well-known in the undergraduate theatre community.  It begins in late August and symptoms reoccur periodically throughout the year.  Thankfully, there is a support network out there for those of us so afflicted by this terrible disease.  I have been suffering from a flare-up lately.  That’s right.  I’m not ashamed.  I have post-internship depression syndrome (PIDS).

Common symptoms of PIDS include:

• Desperately wanting to be in an office surrounded by scripts.
• A detached desperate feeling to be plugged back into the professional theatre scene.
• Missing working alongside salaried employees and bemoaning your unpaid status.
• A yearning to see the future of professional American theatre created before your very eyes.
• A slight watering at the eyes when Skyping, Facebooking, or texting former colleagues.
• Sinking of heart when reading about something awesome that is happening at your previous place of employment.  When you’re not there.
• Constantly reaching for your phone to share nerdy news that only your co-workers could fully appreciate.

The good news, if you’re afflicted with this condition, is that some of the most exciting theatre companies in America have now joined the 21st century.  Their websites are up to date and slick.  Their Twitters are tweeting.  Their Facebook fan pages have photo exclusives and ticket deals.

I do what I can to stay up to date on the conventional theatre news websites, like Playbill and Broadway.com, but for the younger, fresher, ideas, I often turn to Twitter.  The hashtag #newplay is my best friend.  I can follow dramaturgs who are doing the work I would love to; even LMDA (Literary Managers and Dramaturgs of the Americas) has an account.  The national organization for professional not for profit theatre, Theatre Communications Group (TCG), live tweets their conferences and panels.  This is an excellent way to stay up to date.  It’s like you’re in the room with the top theatrical minds sharing in their dialogue.  There are accounts set up exclusively to promote a new play discussion.  The greatest thing about Twitter, as obvious as it may be, is that anyone can add into the conversation if they feel so moved.  This often results in discussions between people who may not otherwise communicate– a writer in San Francisco and an upstart artistic director in New York, a storefront theatre in Chicago and a New York marketing director.  There are blogs that serve this purpose as well.  One of my favorites is Howl Round, maintained by Arena Stage.

Today, something major happened.  The Actors’ Theatre of Louisville, an excellent non-profit theatre with one of the most impressive new play festivals in the country, appointed a new artistic director today, Les Waters, director of many young playwrights and associate director of Berkeley Repertory Theater.  I read about this decision minutes after it was announced, thanks to Twitter.  It then exploded all over my Twitter and Facebook newsfeeds.  I was hearing about it from professional organizations, new play think tanks, and theatrical friends who either had worked for ATL in the past or are interested in their work.  It’s moments like this that I’m reminded how small the theatre community is, and what a community it is.  The excitement generated by this shift in personnel made me excited without having any personal connections to the theatre.  The community, my community, was buzzing. It’s days like this that my PIDS subsides.  I am still at one of the best universities in the world, learning what I need to learn to permanently join the community that I so yearn for, and remain a part of that community, at least technologically.