A time of innocence, a time of confidences
Long ago, it must be, I have a photograph
Preserve your memories; They're all that's left you.
-- Simon and Garfunkel, "Bookends"
Edward Hopper
Letters
I can hear the collective groan of my "peeps" as they look at their email and find such a massive one from me. "Oh no," they say, almost simultaeneously, "The reviews have started up again." They call their respective senators, and then buy concrete, emailproof bunkers. And lots of pop-tarts. Then they ask their senators what they are doing in their bunkers. The senators respond, trying to look innocent, that they saw the pop-tarts and thought there was a party going on. Their voices just trail off as they (the senators) realize they (the people) are not buying a word of it. The senators then go out into a world where they must risk receiving long-winded emails with pointless attachments.
While this is all going on, Garrison Keillor steals the pop-tarts.
I warned you guys--I'm back on the Signal. Here's how it works: I write this opinion column, see, and every other week I write the movie reviews. With the movie reviews, it's the same as it ever was: I get to see a movie on the school's check, and then they print me. It's a win/win situation. With the opinion columns, it's a little different. I am not, in the strictest sense of the word, writing for the Signal. I write a series of short essays, called "The Edward Hopper Papers," and if the Signal wants to print them, I let them. If they don't want to print them (as has already happened with my essay "My Clone and I") fine, I don't care. If I don't like the cuts they make--well, they don't have to print it. Everybody walks out with their heads high.
Except for Quasimodo, but that's not really a pride issue.
I'm not joking, the Signal has taken on Quasimodo as the new sports writer. It's a little difficult, because his articles are written in French, but once we get them translated, we have something up to the standards of the Signal. Here, I'll quote you a passage about a recent swim meet.
"Gwaaaaah! Goo bah bah feee!!! Grrrrrnnn! Bellllllllsssss! Guuua!"
Only the most gifted journalist on the Signal could make our tragic loss at the event seem so enheartening. He's an asset to the team.
Well, I had a splendid birthday. Up until the last ten minutes. At that time, I fell off of a chair and sprained my wrist. Of course, it wasn't sprained at first--there was actually a bone out of place--I could see it. By the time I got the X-rays taken, it had already settled back to its natural position. It was quite amusing, though, seeing just how calm I was.
"Hm. Well, I'm in quite a lot of pain, actually. Rachel, could you go get some ice? Thank you, I appreciate it. Okay...well, that should be there. Hm. Which one of you guys is parked closest? I think it might be advisable if we headed to the hospital now. Hm."
But now I'm feeling just hunky-dory. I've been dory quite a lot, actually, but the hunky is a first for me. It must be the moustache. Actually, I disposed of my moustache just this morning. My face looks fatter now--those of you who have had moustaches (Jeremy, Pickle, Stayski...kidding) will understand the phenomenon. There's nothing for me to focus on anymore whenever I look at my face.
Okay, so, birthday presents. I acutally expected none, but I got a couple. My mother (indirectly) got me the 20th Anniversary Special Edition of TRON on DVD. Jenny Burke got me GROUNDHOG'S DAY on DVD. Ben Utter got me Ivan Turgenev's FATHER'S AND SONS on a strange, mystical format...a book. It was a great thought and everything, but I can't find a TV in the world that will play it. "Book" must mean "Beta."
Last night, my brother took me out on a belated birthday dinner. We ate at Sink's Kitchen. Ladies and Gentlemen, if you are ever in Hot Springs, I heavily advise you to go to Sink's Kitchen! The food is exquisite! I had this delightful lobster ravioli with artichoke hearts and a nice, butter sauce...hmmmm...unexplained bacon.
After dinner, we went on the gallery walk. For those of you who don't know, the first Friday of every month in Hot Springs, there is the Gallery Walk. All the art galleries on the main drag there (and there are quite a few of them) stay open somewhat late and people come in and look around. It's a fairly big event. I saw some beautiful stuff last night. I also saw some frightening things (First Prize, Jeremy) but all in all I enjoyed myself.
Guys, I would appreciate your prayers. Pray for guidance. Pardon me if I do not get specific.
Anyway, here it is, "The Aesthetic Image." The first installment of THE EDWARD HOPPER PAPERS. I was originally wanting to print these pseudonymically as "The Edward Hopper Man," for a reason that would be explained in a future essay, but Jeff Root seems to have something against pseudonyms (so much for Washington Irving and Samuel Clemens.) So I just incorporated the pseudonym into the collective title of the column, and there you go.
Commentary: There's a lot in this one that doesn't have universal appeal, but I included it unscathed just for sentimental reasons. Hm... Was this really March 2? Funny thing, the second of March is the day that was supposed to be my birthday. I just got tired of waiting. Odd, though, that this archive should start so close to March 6th...
....but that's another matter.
Garrison Keillor: Okay, so how do you play this?
Gershenefield Ambisiduloskidrov: It's easy. You take a sip for every self deprecating joke. Finish the glass whenever he says something in Russian. Gulp whenever he mentions us.
Zdravstvuityeh, mah'i droozya i syemyah. I see Keillor and GA are already here to assist in consoling all of you to another Jeffrey R. Villines press release.
Garrison Keillor: Okay, I'm confused. What are we supposed to do? That was all three. Do we do all three at once?
GA: I don't think the order matters.
Garrison Keillor: Hold on, here... What kind of drinking game is this?
GA: The type only for the strongest.
Garrison Keillor: We're using TAB!
GA: Not many survive.
Well, here I am, another press release.
In Russian, I'm required to put my Russian name on all of my documents. My name is, transliterating, "Dzhyefri Dannievich Velains." The middle name, called patronymic (or ot'chyestva) is derived from the father's name. For instance, if a man's father's name was "Aaron," is patronymic is "Aaronovich." If a woman's father's name is "Chuck," an that's just the nickname, her patronymic is "Charlsovna." My patronymic is "Dannievich." Dr. T. took one look at my patronymic and furrowed her brow.
"Dzhyef, wahd eez youw fahther's neim?"
"Danny."
"Daniel?"
"No, ma'am, Danny."
"Donny?"
"No, ma'am, Danny."
"Dan?"
"Danny, ma'am."
"That's the familiar. I mean heez fool neim."
"That's what it says on the birth certificate. 'Danny Ray Villines.'"
Dr. T. furrowed again.
"Okay. Dat's wared, baht I gess you gaht eet right. Dannievich."
I was a little sad last Wednesday. Unrelated to that, I had to take a library book back. I thought "Well, it's almost suppertime. I guess I'll just cut through the Starbucks (which joins the library to the cafeteria) to eat." As I got through the back room, I remembered that, at this time of the day, the Starbuck's was closed. "Dang," I thought. It was then that I remembered that the back room in which I stood was the room in which they kept the discards for sale. "I wonder if there's anything in here I want." I turned my head and saw a nice, thick volume. "I wonder if that's anything I'd like." I stepped toward it and saw the title: "Collected Poems." I shrugged. Poetry. I have just recently been growing as a poet, but the reading of it still doesn't fire me up as other things do. I checked the name beneath the title. "Robinson." A bell went off in my head. I had to see if that was the editor, or if that was the featured poet. I pulled the book off the shelf and opened it up. Certainly, it was the collected works of Edwin Arlington Robinson, my favorite poet. In one volume, it have everything. Even his verse Arthurian trilogy--Merlin, Launcelot, and Tristram. Tristram! My favorite poet writes about my favorite knight! So I took the book, paid for it, and went along my increasingly merry little way. This has got to be the only way Robinson's poetry could actually CHEER SOMEBODY UP.
And then, recently, I found another copy of the exact same book. Rather than just let it sit there and rust, waiting to be bought by somebody who would be unable to fully appreciate the poems of Robinson, I bought it to give as a gift. Earlier today, I delivered that gift. I put the book on the chalk tray of one of Dr. Wink's classes and then wrote on the board "Eta k'niga--seyshas k'niga Seri Gudmani, p'tamu shto ona loobit stikhi Robinsona. Yeh'yo braht, Kilgore" Which Dr. Wink translated to mean "This book is now the book of Sarah Goodman, because she loves the poems of Robinson. Her brother, Kilgore." Kilgore is a nickname Dr. Wink applied to me after the whole "Bad Russian Word" incident, because when Dr. T. and I showed up at his classroom door, he said he felt like a fisherman who had just lugged in a giant catch, and there is a recurring character in Vonnegut's writing named Kilgore Trout.
Hey, I think I'll be alright
Yeah, the worst is over now
The mornin' sun is risin'
Like a Red Rubber Ball.
It's looking like I might be acting professionally this summer. Every summer Scott Holsclaw, the director down here, directs Steven Foster -- the Musical. It's a pretty big deal in Kentucky. I auditioned last year, but didn't make it. Of many problems in my audition, the accompaniest turned over two pages at once. Oh well. I wasn't even able to audition this time. I had incredibly short notice and it came right on the heels of something else hectic. So, I'm not going to be doing the Kentucky thing this year, either. However, Scott has been talking with Theatre West Virginia about me, and I've got to throw together an audition tape.
Everbody's looking forward to Spring Break. I just shrug. At this time, I must send out my apologies to my good friend and former QuizBowl compatriot, Ms. Tiffani Varner, and tell her that her Spring Break is the week before mine. You may visit VB all you wish, you hyperactive hyacinth, but I fear I shan't be there to receive you.
(Tiffani wipes the sweat from her brow, relieved.)
GA: There, Garrison, self deprecating joke! Garrison?
Garrison Keillor: Forget it, buddy. I draw the line at drinking TAB.
GA: It's not really TAB. That's just the label on the bottle.
Garrison Keillor: Really?
GA: Yeah. It's really... eh... strychnine!
Garrison Keillor: Well, in that case (sip) (SPIT!) Hey, this is TAB!
Monkeymonkeymonkeymonkeymonkeymonkeymonkeymonkeymonkeymonkey...TREE!
Hey, I just want you guys to know that I've been watching an inordinate amount of "Twin Peaks" lately. It's the only television I watch. My friend Drew Rogers has almost the entire series on tape, so he's been my supplier. Apparently, the entire show is about pie, coffee, and doughnuts, and is set against the backdrop of something like a murder investigation, or something like that.
I don't want to talk anymore.
"Nah go a'wie or Ah shall tawnt yoo a sek'nd tahm!"
Commentary: Oh yes, this was the year I had started studying Russian, and so Russian phrases were creeping into everything I did. I had forgotten about the bit here with the drinking game -- a nice jab at my self, avenging all those whom my random russophoning had readily enraged. Notice, too, that this is the first mention of Theatre West Virginia, which would figure so prominently into my life in the near future, and up to the present day.
This also combines a few other of my passions: Edwin Arlington Robinson's poetry, the works of Kurt Vonnegut, Twin Peaks, and a little game called "monkey monkey tree." If there was ever a game born out of boredom and pointlessness, this is it. Many squirrels on my old college campus, and one day I watched as a few of them would gallop from tree to tree, stopping momentarily when they touched the bark, as if they were participants in some lower animal game of tag. I nudged Matt "Mpulse" Morgan and said, "Hey, do you know what those squirrels are thinking right now?" "What?" "Monkey monkey monkey monkey..." which continued until a squirrel touched bark, at which point I shoulted "Tree!" "Why monkey?" Mpulse asked. "Squirrels like to pretend they're monkeys; it's a well-known fact.
And yes, gentle readers, I was sober.
Ladies and gentleman, may I welcome you to another Jeffrey R. Villines press release...
I may not?
Why not?
I worked really hard on it.
Oh.
Oh.
Hm.
Well I'm a bit upset about that.
You're sure I can't welcome you?
Hm.
Well, how about if you just go ahead and read it, fully cognisant that you are not welcome in any sense of the word.
That'll work? Okay!
Get off my lawn, you crazy punk kids!
I've received some questions, comments, and bricks through my window, all requesting that I explain some of the names and other things that frequently show up.
So, here goes.
Beer Nutt (Ben Utter)--A man even more long-winded than I am. This erudite fellow and I, when we combine our powers, become the most pretentious force on campus.
adawpted--a word I ferrenastioed to describe the process of my collecting sisters. "adawpted" is spelled as it is to distinguish it from "adopted," which is legally binding and complicated, whereas adawption is completely arbitrary.
ferrenastio--a word Dr. Wink made up. It means "to make up a word."
Dr. Wink (Beefboy, the Vicious Weasel, Old Man Nictatio, Vanya Morgunov)--mischievous English professor who tricked me into saying the worst word in the Russian language to Dr. T.
Dr. Trofimova (Irina Alekseyevna, Dr. T, Volchitsa)--my Russian professor. One of the two people on campus that I fear.
The other person on campus that I fear--Dr. Mrs. Wink.
Russian--a language.
Gershefnefield Ambisiduloskidrov--the sadistic leprechaun that has, for some reason, been assigned to me. He usually punches me in the head, though lately, he just goes to Schlotszky's and makes fun of me with Garrison Keillor.
Garrison Keillor--national celebrity. This guy really exists. He's a writer and has a radio show on NPR. He's been showing up in my press releases ever since I stole his traditional Lake Wobegone closing.
Law & Order--the best American television show still in production. CHUNG CHUNG!
Drew Rogers--once upon a time, this goateed little boy wrote for the Signal. The Evil Signalpixies kicked him off, though, for being interesting, so he started writing the Signal Lampoon, which makes fun of the Signal, Ouachita, and, more often than anything else, Drew Rogers.
The Signal--that newspaper thingy for which I write for. Duh. I likes me some pronouns.
Twin Peaks--my recent addiction. It's a bizarre, semisurreal television show that had been on ABC back in 1991. If it's not a dancing midget in your dreams, it's a ten-foot-tall man in a bow-tie waking you up to take your pinky ring. But, I don't have to tell you that.
Joe Pesci--I actually don't think I've ever mentioned him, but I should have. It's a fun name. Pescipescipescipescipescipescipescipesci....
Since I sent out a press release just the other day, I really don't think I have anything all that new to tell you.
I bought a monkey.
No I didn't.
Commentary: Eh. What a waste of space. A waste of time, too. Eh.
My friends and my family,
Yes, I do have both an Edward Hopper Paper and a Movie Review in the Signal this week, but I shan't send them for a while.
I have just received word that a friend of mine from High School, Miss Sommer Lovette, has passed away.
She was a delightful, energetic young lady. She had a wonderful sense of humor and acres of untapped talent. When I was in OLIVER!, she was Bette. When we were in high school together, we had been planning to perform in a talent show together.
It's difficult, near impossible, to fathom this. I'm fighting now to keep from editorializing, to turn this into another Edward Hopper Paper.
Perhaps, in the future, I may draw on this experience and write about it.
But for now, what is needed is silence.
Commentary: No, Sommer and I had never been in any relationship. She was just the first of my age whom I knew well to have passed away. Some commemoration, I felt, was in order, not only for her, but for that day when each of us realizes the universality of mortality.
In closing, on a more serious note, I would like to thank everybody who sent me a word of encouragement or consolation after I announced the death of my friend. If the situation ever rolls around, and I hope it does not, I hope I do not fail you.
Well, this has been an odd transitional week back into the scholastic thing of swings.
Well, I've been hammering away at my degree plans over here. Yep, it's about time for Pre-Registration, and I'm getting my gaskets in gear over here. This is what I love about a small school: Two classes I had on my list for next semester (1, American Literature until 1877, which I need and 2, Intermediate Russian I, which I want) conflicted, so I did what any person who is me would do in this situation: I talked to the professor and she said it is quite possible to move the class, and it was at that time that I noticed something: I had just used three consecutive colons. [I really have been quite busy, and I'm studying for a big Western Letters test, so please insert the spastic colon pun here.]
Earlier, I met Dr. Trofimova's trilingual dog, Lucky. Ohn mozhet pahnimaht pa'angliski, pa'rooski i pa'nyemetski. (He can understand in English, in Russian, and in German.)
I felt like such a wonderful English major the other day. Notice: I deftly avoided using a colon. Notice: I just screwed that up, but I hope I don't do it again. Notice: D'oh. Anyway, we had a guest here at the Ouachitenglishdepartment, one Dr. Gilbert Morris, who had once taught here, and is now making quite a nice living by writing books (it does happen, but it's rare.) The night before he was to leave, the English department took him out to dinner. Invited to attend were Dr. Curlin (who is the chair of the department) and his wife, Dr. and Dr. Wink (Dr. Wink was there, but Dr. Wink was a no-show), and Dr. and Dr. Sonheim (Neither of which showed up.) In addition to these professional types, Beer Nutt and myself were invited. We are the English major capstones! It was a very very beautiful feeling (HOOK: Like the first time you run someone through with your blade) getting to sit at the big-kids table.
The play's getting closer. We open a fortnight from last Thursday. Please don't ask me for specific times.
Well, I can't think of anything else that's new, so I'll send this letter and promptly think of something else.
Commentary: Another waste of space, as far as these old letters are concerned. Sure, they're nice as diaries, but this was when I pretty much just rambled in these things. It would take the unbridled bitterness and isolation I would pick up at Theatre West Virginia before I started having fun with these letters. Let's see, the play I mention here couldn't have been The Nerd, for that closed the day after my birthday. It must have been The Secret Garden.
--Completely Expunged--
Commentary: This one had nothing interesting, just some poems I had memorized that week, and the announcement that I had been hired by Theatre West Virginia.
Well, there has been a particularly lovely specimen of irony in my neck of the woods just earlier this week. Not those little annoyances that Alanis Morisette tried to pass of as irony--we're talking Greek irony here. Actually, Norse irony.
In Norse mythology, Baldur was the most loved of all the gods. However, Frigga, queen of the gods, was afraid he was going to die (she might have heard a prophecy or something, I'm not certain.) So, to keep this from happening, she goes through the world and exacts an oath from everything that it will never harm him. Later on, the gods amuse themselves by hitting Baldur with axes and arrows and chicken-pot-pies, or what have you, and watching just how big of an injury it would not make. However, there was something so harmless that Frigga did not think to exact an oath from it, and that was mistletoe. Sure enough, Baldur was killed by a stake of mistletoe through the heart.
Recently, a friend of mine, who shall remain nameless but whom, for ease's sake, we shall call Frigga, started dating a lad that we shall call Baldur. Well, Ms. Frigga had not told her parents, and she did not wish to, since it is so close to the end of the school year yada yada yada I don't understand it either. Anyway, to this end, she asks all of her friends to be dead certain (or else, certainly dead) that they did not tell her parents when they came in to see her in the play.
Most certainly, when Mr. and Mrs. Friggafolken came in to visit their daughter, none of us told them.
You wouldn't think to look at him that Dr. Holsclaw is just like a stake of mistletoe, would you?
I was in the process of removing my makeup when Frigga came in, something obviously wrong. When asked what it could be, we found out. O, delightful.
I think the Friggafolken actually like Baldur, but that's beside the anecdote.
Commentary: Just the first thing of remote interest in a loooong dry spell. This was the humorous story inolving two of my friends being greatly humiliated. It's faaaantastic!
Ladies and gentleman,
To those of you who have been receiving my movie reviews and EHPs (Edward Hopper Papers) over the last few weeks, I am sorry that this last one has taken so long to get out. For those you you just joining us, I'm sorry that I dragged you down into this hideous waste of time that is the Jeffrey R. Villines press release, where triviality is the rule, self-deprecation is the theme, Garrison Keillor is the bridge, Gershefnefield Ambisiduloskidrov is the countermelody, mustard is the coda, Twin Peaks is the piccolo solo in the third movement, and the random inclusion of the Russian language is that bit that nobody can get out of their heads but instead just walking around humming day in day out until they annoy everybody to tears...
Which is why you'll need a box of kleenex on hand.
Okay, as you can already tell, I'm going to try to keep you guys posted on my exciting adventures throughout the summer, even if I have to make them up. (Speaking of making up my adventures, I guess now, on its one year anniversary, I should announce that, no, I was never really married to Anna Paquin. And you can't prove otherwise. Believe me, I've tried, and all I've gained is fatigue and a Canadian restraining order. {You are, y'know, restricted 'dere to be at least, oh, let's say, fifty yarrds frum Mz. Paquin, eh?}) Anyway, if you feel that, for reasons of time and electronic space, you would rather not keep receiving these emails, just let me know. I won't take it personally. I just like to sit here and type, and I'm going to keep doing it even if I'm the only person who reads them.
(Which reminds me, Jeff. I'm going to have to unsubscribe.)
What?
(Yeah, I'm afraid so.)
But you're me!
(Oh, that's a low blow.)
Why aren't you going to read the emails I send you?
(I knew it, you're taking it personally.)
This is a hard thing to not take personally, Jeff.
(I just don't have time. You know, with the new job and everything, I just don't think I'll be able to read through all of your boring tripe.)
But listen, Jeff! You're writing it! What do you mean you won't read it?
(Well, whilst I'm writing it, I won't pay attention, and I won't particularly enjoy it.)
I can't believe this...
(Quit whining and finish the letter, will you)
Anyway, I'm not certain just how often I'm going to be able to check my mail, so I don't know just how often you guys'll be getting these. Oh well, in the immortal words of Aaron Michael "Not-from-Texas" Cardona, "Alright, we're going to be getting some happy emails this summer. No more complainin' 'bout the factory."
Well, just a quick recap of the recent events, then I'll get on to the last EHP.
I got sick as a dog during finals week. I woke up the morning of my acting final with a little something in my throat (besides my larynx and other vocal accoutrements) and, by the time I went on stage for my Faustus monologe, I was running at least a one hundred fever. As that went down, my throat got worse, and I was quite afraid that it wouldn't be clear by next Monday, when
I start work. But, surely, my voice is almost back to normal, my lungs (I think whatever I had rekindled some old bronchitis) are clearing up, and I'm finishing this sentence. Things are good all over.
I had to take an incomplete in my American Lit class, which upset me. Oh well, this summer, one of my projects will be to memorize the last eighty-two lines of verse I need for the class, as well as finish my (hypefully) brilliant Faulkner paper. Then I'm going to learn how to tie my shoes.
I'm feeling a little silly. I think it's because I bought pants today. The next time you buy pants, just stop and think, "I'm buying pants." Will the silliness hit you like it hits me?
Shortly after my most recent press release, I visited a good friend of mine in Russellville.
My mother and I saw Spider-Man today. Wonderful, ladies and gentlemen, and on more than one level. I've always thought that Spiderman was an interesting superhero, just because of his very vulnerability, which is missing in all the bullet-bouncers that abound in the comic book pages today. Also, ever since The Matrix, a lot of films have been using "bullet time," and, more often than not, having been using it for its own sake. (MOVIE EXEC: Hm. I think as {insert hunk du'jour} leans in to kiss {insert "America's Sweetheart" du'jour}, we should stop the film for five minutes and just turn them around for ten complete circles.)
Plus, as for Spider-Man, yes, I'll say it: Kirsten Dunst. I'm not going to back down, but instead shall say that I found her quite enchanting. My lady-friends are rolling their eyes now, but take this as my revenge for listening to everybody talk about DiCaprio in ROMEO+JULIET, or Heath Ledger in A Knight's Tale, or Ewan McGregor in Moulin Rouge, or Ewan McGregor in Moulin Rouge, or Ewan McGregor in Moulin Rouge, or that guy, who was also in EPISODE I (I can't think of his name, he played Alec Guiness's part) for that movie, that was some kind of musical, set in a brothel, and I remember thinking it had the same title as a Jose Ferrer movie about Toulouse Latrecque (not certain on spelling), but for the life of me, I can't think of that movie... Oh well. And let us not forget, Ewan McGregor in Moulin Rouge.
Commentary: Somewhere, I am wanted by the local authorities for aggravated assault of a dead horse. Sorry about all the Moulin Rouge business. It was a big deal at the time; it was impossible to get into any sort of group without somebody throwing in that movie and singing along! At the time, I just saw it as one more in a neverending string of movies glorifying tenors, since we all know only they are worthy or capable of love... Sorry, the baritone in me is creeping out.
This was the final issue for The Edward Hopper Letters. In the next week or two, we would see the beginning of my letters from West Virginia. This one ends with a sort of a cliffhanger, what with the incomplete in American LIt... no, you don't care either, do you? Also, this is the first to mention Kirsten Dunst, who showed up regularly in Season 3, and has appeared every once in a while now that we're in Season 4.
When Cardona said that bit about getting happy emails, he was of course comparing the yet unwritten Season 1 with the hideous proto-season, Letters from the Factory Summer.
Well, there's that. Another chapter done.
And then there was always Ewan McGregor in MOULIN ROUGE.
This one wasn't quite so bad, I thought.
Could have been better.
And it shall be.
--The EHM