On the street

NEW Season, NEW Bars, NEW Friends-Downtown District Bar Crawl

carly.weber — Fri, 18 Apr 2008 20:56:00 GMT

Like eating watermelon in the summer or squash in the fall, I think there are certain drinks that go well with each season. A sparkling gin and tonic, for example, is the quintessential summer drink to me. Though I love them, once there is a nip in the air I put away the highball glasses until next summer. I haven't had one yet this year either. It's just hasn't felt quite right. There are other drinks that say summer to me, like sweet mojitos or slushy strawberry margarita (with chips and salsa of course). I wouldn't drink a Corona with it's pop of citrus in the winter either, but during the summer I wouldn't turn down a cold one.

Throughout the winter I'm more of a wine gal. I have a friend that even tailors her wine choice to the seasons. Spicy reds for winter, cool crisp whites for summer. I pass on the reds year round. But that's just personal preference. I haven't been able to get past the way a dry red sticks in my throat. But that's just me.

It's interesting what someone's drink choice says about them, or at least what an observer might think it says about them. Like a person's car, what drink they choose sends a certain message. A guy drinking a Bud Light, for example, is a no muss no fuss kind of guy. A micro brew? He's a little more high maintenance. What about the girl with a glass of wine versus a beer. Or a martini. Don't lie. You wouldn't be the only one to jump to a conclusion that she's not just one of the fellas.

I expected to get a wide range of answers at the Cedar Rapids Downtown District-sponsored bar crawl Friday. I wasn't disappointed. Some people had elaborate answers. Others simply said beer. Whatever their choice. Bottoms up!

You can dance if you want to

Molly R. — Sat, 12 Apr 2008 18:53:00 GMT

When I was a little girl – and well into my early high school years – I was one of those girls who spent two nights a week and most Saturdays taking dance lessons. Not practical dance, like ballroom or jazz or country or Latin or anything I could use now, but the classes that taught you one routine to one song per costume. If you were in an advanced class you got to learn two or three routines (and your parents got to purchase two or three insanely expensive costumes because heaven forbid you wear the same one for multiple routines).

I still remember some of the movements to our routine to “Funkytown,” and the costume. Rather than donning the traditional spandex/glitter/frills costumes, this one was simple: a pair of disco jeans, a plain bright-colored t-shirt with rainbow suspenders and our names spelled out in rainbow iron-on letters that you could get at one of those shops in the mall.

Now, more than 25 years later, I can’t ballroom dance, I don’t know the paso doble and if it weren’t for the directions to the cha-cha slide being sung for that dance, I probably couldn’t do that, either. I did take line dancing lessons once upon a time, but unless the club is playing “Achy Breaky Heart” I’m out of luck there, too. I’m more the “hear the music and get up and move somehow” kind of dancer.

So it goes without saying that I am impressed both by and with people who dance for a living, or for a very fun hobby. To those who take the time to learn a dance – like swing – and actually put it to practical use, I tip my hat in admiration. (Actually I look horrid in hats, but you get the idea.)

Whether we can give full credit to “Dancing with the Stars” or not, a dance craze has definitely been sweeping the nation. I find I know more and more people – adults – who are taking or have taken dance lessons, anything from country and jazz to ballroom and Latin. Watching celebrities give it their all has really inspired a lot of people to learn, and has spawned some spin-offs such as the “Ballroom with the Cedar Rapids Celebrities” competition next weekend at the Cedar Rapids Marriott.

I have to admit I’m a little envious of all the moves they’re learning. Maybe that will inspire me to finally take some lessons.

Or maybe I’ll just keep moving on my own.

Cedar Rapids Independent Film Festival

carly.weber — Sat, 05 Apr 2008 17:36:00 GMT

I have a new rule that I'm not allowed to ask people the On The Street question until I've at least tried to think of what I would answer myself. It's only fair, right? If I expect them to answer on the spot, I should be able to do the same.

So, with that new rule in mind, I was trying to think of who I would name as my favorite director. I realized I was at a distinct disadvantage to the people that I would be talking to Saturday at the Cedar Rapids Independent Film Festival. While they were all, I assumed, film buffs who watch movies knowing who was behind the camera calling the shots -- I am not. I can rarely come up with the names of actors and actresses, let alone the people behind the scenes. The best I can usually come up with is, "You know. That guy. He was in that movie. With that other guy." See where I'm going with this? While I love watching a good movie, a Hollywood buff I am not.

I decided my answer would be one of the actors turned directors, like George Clooney or Mel Gibson. Or Ben Affleck. To my husband's horror, we both really liked Gone Baby Gone. I'd also count Ron Howard among those ranks. And it was he whose name I was trying to summon from the depths of my memory Saturday when the conversation did indeed turn to the question of who my favorite director might be. But, in true Carly style. I couldn't think of his name. Luckily the woman I was talking to caught on to my game of verbal charades.

I think I should stick to just watching the movies.

Spring? What spring?

Molly R. — Fri, 28 Mar 2008 21:36:00 GMT

Aaaaah, spring. The flowers, the sun, the birds … whatever.

Let’s face it, right now the best thing about the coming spring is going to be temperatures that remain above 60 for more than a day or two at a time. We thought we had spring last week when it came really close to 60 degrees – then it went and snowed on us Thursday and brought us all back to reality.

I know I sound like a whiner, but this year I think I’m in good company – we’ve had more than our share of snow, ice and cold temperatures and we’re due for some spring-like weather, darn it! The opening of the golf courses is a good start, but it won’t mean much to me until it actually begins to feel like spring.

Once that happens you’ll find me working in the yard, painting my house (ugh), on the golf course or on my bike. As the temps continue to rise, I’ll add more and more activities to the list of things the kids and I will be doing.

Until then, I’ll continue to whine about the cold.

'Tis a wonderful thing bein' Irish

Molly R. — Thu, 20 Mar 2008 15:31:00 GMT

Sometimes it’s just too tempting to try to help people answer the questions we pose when we’re out doing the “On the Street” interviews. It’s a temptation we never give in to, but it’s there, all the same.

This week’s question was probably the most tempting for me. Not really a question, I asked those braving the return of Iowa’s colder temperatures to watch the SaPaDaPaSo St. Patrick’s Day Parade to finish this sentence: “You know you’re Irish when …”

And then I watched as nearly all of the 12 people I talked to struggled for an answer.

Maybe it’s no longer true that “everyone is Irish on St. Patrick’s Day,” but it’s not something I’d be able to confirm with great conviction. I’ve loved being Irish since I first learned I was Irish. For me, being Irish has always centered around a love of family; although it may be true in any other ancestral background, for me there's just something comforting and familiar in the geneology.

There have been, of course, other reasons I've been proud to be Irish. When I was in grade school it meant bragging to my friends of non-Gaelic descent that there was a day each March that was devoted just to “us.” In college … well, that was college and a long time ago and hey, even the Scots and Germans were up and drinking in time for the 8 a.m. parade.

As an adult I’ve changed my way of thinking from “everyone is Irish” to “everyday is St. Patrick’s Day.” Sure, I still wore green on Monday (there was bound to be some smart alecky 40-something out there ready to pinch anyone not in proper attire), donned my Irish button and even listened to a little of my favorite Wylde Nept CD before leaving for work – but there’s a part of me that is conscious, every single day, that I am Irish.

So here, in the true “You know you’re XXXXXXXXX when …” fashion, is my own list.

You know you’re Irish when:

• You have two skin tones in the summer: red and white.

• Strawberry-blonde hair, even heavy on the “strawberry,” is considered “blonde” in your family because it's not nearly as red as everyone else's.

• Your family gets together because someone is getting older, getting married, getting divorced, having a baby, having puppies, having a garage sale, getting confirmed, getting baptized, getting home from the Army, getting home from vacation, or just baked brownies and wants to share – and you absolutely love them for it.

• You not only know that your ancestors are from Ireland, you know which county (County Wexford and County Kerry for me, thank you very much!) (And thanks, too, to my Aunt Patty for reminding me!)

• You were a sophomore in college before you realized that not everyone eats corned beef and cabbage on St. Patrick’s Day.

• You rejoiced with your family when your mother “lost” your father’s polyester green plaid St. Patrick’s Day slacks.

• You mourned when your father found another, more obnoxious pair.

For me, being Irish really is about belonging to a family that still cherishes getting together for even the smallest of occasions, let alone the big ones. It’s knowing there’s a reason we are where we are and why that is important. It’s staying in contact with those who are still on the Green Isle, and looking forward with great enthusiasm to the visits from cousins and others from Ireland, and planning with stars in my eyes my first visit there.

Iron Chef Cedar Rapids

carly.weber — Thu, 13 Mar 2008 19:48:00 GMT

I should have thought about how I would answer this week's On the Street question, "What's your signature dish?" before walking into the Junior League's second annual Iron Chef competition Wednesday night. It didn't take long before someone threw it back at me. And, I didn't have a clue what to say. After verbally fumbling around for a while I grasped at the first thing that came into my head -- Salmon.

Now that may or may not be true. But, it got me off the hook and I got a new recipe out of the deal. The woman who posed the question suggested the next time I grill salmon I should add orange juice, orange zest and rosemary. Sounds good to me!

Now I do have a freezer full of salmon, and not the farmed Atlantic mush. Nope. I have the real deal, wild Alaska salmon sent by my mother. But here comes the reason I may have lied to those women. I rarely cook it. For that I blame my husband. You know how people either love or hate seafood? He'd fall into the hate camp. Not only does he not like to eat it, he turns green at the smell. So, I only get salmon when I can cook it outdoors and the wind can carry the scent away.

The salmon is actually a good example of the dinnertime tango at our house. When I met my husband I hadn't eaten a bite of meat in five years. He, on the other hand, won't eat any vegetables except corn and lima beans (I know. Wierd. Right?) So, what happens when a meat and potatoes carnivore and a foodie vegetarian get married? The vegetarian starts eating free-range hormone free chicken and the two of them eat a whole lot of pasta. Throw a picky 4 year old into the mix and you can imagine how painful our meals can be.

You can also understand my excitement when I'm able to add a recipe to our repetoire. It doesn't happen often since the criteria is strict. No vegetable can be detectable and no red meat can be involved. Enter enchiladas. I use ground chicken. He gets corn and cheese in his. To mine I add black olives and black beans. We're both happy and he can inhale three or four in a sitting.

A few more sucess stories like that and maybe I can write a cookbook for vegetarian wives and their picky meat-eating husbands. We can't be the only dysfunctional family in the kitchen.

Daylight Saving Time

carly.weber — Sat, 08 Mar 2008 01:42:00 GMT

In search of people to talk to for this week's On The Street I decided to take the opportunity to check out Iowa City's Gallery Walk. Granted I could have chosen a warmer month to get a taste for the event. But, it ended up being kind of appropriate. Why not talk to people who braved the cold to take a look at local artists' works about what's the best and worst about Daylight Saving Time?

Without counting I think it's safe to say the decision was split 50/50. Half of the people I spoke with took a postive approach to the annual event. It is after all an extra hour with which to do whatever you want after work or school. For many of us, it means not leaving our jobs after the sun sets every day. This benefit lasts until the fall when that hour is stolen away from us again. Still, the other half took the pessimist twist. They may get an extra hour every night, but they don't appreciate the fact that it's stolen from them during the night.

I can appreciate both viewpoints. With a new baby in the house, sleep is precious. I'm not relishing the thought of how Sunday is going to mess with our schedule. But, I do love the prospect getting home when it's still light. And in the warmer months, I will truly love being able to relish those evening walks or dinners on the deck.

That is, if spring ever comes.

The Finals

Stephen.Schmidt — Sat, 01 Mar 2008 23:13:00 GMT

We've come full circle.

Two weeks after asking people questions and taking their pictures at a rodeo, I was back at the same U.S. Cellular Center to ask another round of questions-- this time to a band of cheerful fans at the U.S. Cellular Center watching several singlet-clad teens duel it out at the Iowa dual-meet state wrestling tournament.

Replacing the dirt floor of the rodeo were several mats, each holding two wrestlers trying their best to force their opponents to lie (lay? Blast it!) still in the center of a circle; and if that sounds entertaining, it was. There's something about sports where important things happen only after long periods of struggle that raises the intensity level of each victory. It reminds me of soccer, or watching the Iowa Hawkeye basketball team try to score points. I watched as two wrestlers-- both dressed, befuddingly enough, in purple and white-- fought each other for more than ten minutes, until finally one purple guy did something to another purple guy, and the crowd belonging to the purple guy who was winning erupted into cheers, and, as they cheered, I, also, became excited.

That's a sign of a good sport-- when people can be entertained without knowing what is going on.

It also occurred to me, as I watched all the wrestling matches going on below, that anyone on that floor could beat the living daylights out of me if they so wanted. Even those little elementary kids who were going at it in the lower left hand corner. You might disagree, I know-- but it'd hard to stop a four-foot kid who was determined to shoot for your legs. I would be a goner.

With wrestling in Iowa being the biggest thing since showchoir in Iowa (bringing it full circle), I grew up with several wrestlers while going to school in nearby Solon; and there is something about the sport's association with pain that I find somewhat unsettling. However, I think it is this suffer-to-succeed mentallity that also provides it part of its appeal. In a sport like football, for example, people get injured all of the time, but that is only secondary to the main goal of running the ball into the end zone, achieving fame and glory, and driving off with a cheerleader beside you and a stack of money in the backseat.

There are outside motivations to the game of cleats and pads, is what I am saying.

When it comes to wrestling, however, the only motivation seems to be victory. If these wrestlers are anything like the wrestlers I knew growing up, they starve themselves, run, practice, starve themselves, run, and then starve themselves some more-- all so they can win the priviledge of trying to make another wrestler who has starved and run and practiced submit at the center of the ring.

It is for this reason, I think, that the really good wrestlers are so intensely into the sport. And it is also why the mindset of a good wrestler, from the outside, seems so difficult to grasp.

But I've gotten way off track-- again. Full circle.

What was the question I was supposed to ask this week?

Ah.

What ties you into knots?

And how would I answer it?

I have no idea. I suppose, once again-- maybe this time more than any of the other questions-- it really depends on how you interpret what is being asked.

There's the literal interpretation, of course, but that would just be silly. Besides, it's already been done. If interpretation is brought into it, then it could mean anything ranging from what confuses me to what vexes me to what pushes me to the point of spiritual exhaustion, and the best answer I can come up with that will suit them all is just plain old, perplexing, enigmatic, stupid, silly, daily life.

Perhaps this answer is a copout, as I don't plan to really explain it, but an ambiguous question deserves an ambiguous answer.

Besides, it's the truth.

And with that, I conclude my stint as On the Street Gazette correspondent. A colleague who I had been filling in for has since returned from maternity leave, and she will now have the priviledge of once again asking people questions and then blinding them with the flash from a point-and-shoot camera.

Or maybe I'm the only person who did that...

What's not to like about winter?

Molly R. — Wed, 13 Feb 2008 17:11:00 GMT

I know I could get a giant snowball lobbed directly at my head for saying this, but I don’t really mind the snow. In fact, I kind of like it.

This IS Iowa, after all, and it IS winter. We have become so accustomed to not having a real winter in recent years that when one finally does strike, we’re flabbergasted. In fact, we’re downright paralyzed.

I do like winter, and I do like snow, but even the most die-hard fans realize there comes a time to say, “Enough is enough.”

Granted, I’ve been one of the fortunate ones who even as a commuter haven’t put a car in the ditch, in a snow bank or into the side of another vehicle. I’ve not fallen on the ice or pulled a muscle shoveling my driveway (thanks to generous friends I’ve only had to do that once, and that was only because I got out early enough to beat the plow).

When the weather (and by that I mean temperature) is right I enjoy going sledding, taking the dogs for a walk or even just walking down the streets of downtown Cedar Rapids to pick up something for lunch – an admission some of my co-workers question. Cooler air gets your blood pumping and your heart moving, and a brisk walk just feels good.

So when it comes to beating the winter doldrums I guess I’m at a loss. I encourage my kids to go out and do something in the snow. We aren’t stymied by the flakes that fall, only when they accumulate to make the roads treacherous. Even then we travel within our small town to visit friends or pick something up from our local grocery store.

I do have to admit, though, that I’m ready for spring. I prefer the warmer temperatures, safer driving conditions and variety of colors – and no, the whites, grays and browns of city snow does not count as “variety of colors.” So when it came time for me to fly to Phoenix for a long weekend, and the kids to go stay with family and go to an indoor water park, we were more than ready.

So now I guess I’m saying it. Enough is enough.

Britney Spears music mix, the smell of hotdogs, the Rodeo.

Stephen.Schmidt — Sat, 09 Feb 2008 09:21:00 GMT

A stretch hummer passed me as I was walking to my assignment at the U.S. Cellular Center Friday night. Where was it going, you ask? Why, where else would a stretch hummer be going on a Friday night in Cedar Rapids-- to the World's Toughest Bulls & Broncs, of course. An event that was being held at the same place, incidentally, where I was heading.

It was my first rodeo, and although initially there was a moment of culture shock to see fresh dirt on the entrance steps and cowboy hats on every other individual, it soon became clear that rodeo operates on the same basic principals that make all popular sports so successful-- people doing strange, physically daunting things while other people watch them and consume as much meat and alcohol as possible.

Following a brief introduction period, where the cowboys were described and homage was paid to America (and vague threats, in song form, were made against enemies of freedom) the first rider was soon launched into the arena. The best way to describe what this looked like is to imagine a pinball machine, except instead of pin ball in motion, there is a human being with incredibly elastic joints attached to a giant bucking animal darting about in random directions. This lasted about 8 seconds, which apparently was a good ride. The crowd seemed nonplussed, except when they gasped in concern (excitement?) when the rider had difficulty getting off the animal. I think this reaction is somewhat like Nascar and its potential for fatal crashes.

The arena smelled variably of horses, dirt, beer, grilling, leather, people and the salty, unmistakable aroma of stadium hotdogs. The arena was dimly lit, and the building’s sound system blared with an eclectic mix of disco standards, eighties hits, late nineties hip-hop, and of course, out of nowhere, Britney Spears.

The songs were played in 5 to 10 second increments, before being changed to another song. This makes me wonder whether all rodeos work this way, or if the U.S. Cellular Center’s song board was being implemented. In either case, I would find it disconcerting as a cowboy to have to face death while "The Power of Love," by Huey Lewis was playing at 100 decibels.

I’m just saying.

Because the actual "action portion" of the show lasted only a few seconds at a time, it was necessary for the announcers-- who sounded suspiciously similar to professional wrestling announcers-- to keep up a constant chatter along with the incessantly changing soundtrack. There were even skits, including one involving a chicken, but I couldn't quite follow it and then they started playing "Cotton-Eye Joe" over the loud speaker.

It was all so confusing.

But I forgot to mention why I was sent to the event in the first place. I was supposed to ask people how long they thought they could last on a bucking bronco, a question that became a lot easier to get responses for once people had consumed a sufficient amount of alcohol.

The format of this blog makes it incumbent upon me to answer this question as well, and in my mind, there are two schools of thought of how to answer it. There is the honest way, and there is the fantastical, and hopefully humorous, dishonest way. The honest answer to this question is that if I tried to ride a bucking bronco, it would throw me off like a dandelion seed in around two seconds, and then I would end up smashing into the side of the arena, probably with blood running down my face and dislocations in multiple areas of my body that I don’t want to spend time contemplating. The humorous answer to the question is that I would ride the horse so long that it recognize me as its master, and later that day I would use it to go fox hunting along with my genteel friends.

Tally ho!

(Sadly enough, I don't really have any genteel friends.)

In closing, I would like to recall a conversation a girl I worked with at a grocery store once had with one of her girlfriends. Mind you, this was a long time ago, so this is likely not exactly how it went.

Girl One: I’m going to go to the rodeo tonight.

Girl Two: Why are you going there?

Girl One: To pick up guys. They’re so hot!

Girl Two: They are?

Girl One: Mmmhmmm…especially the bronco riders. I’d never date a bull rider, though, they’re crazy.

The conversation then degenerated (or elevated, depending on your perspective) into describing the praiseworthy parts of cowboy anatomy, and I excused myself to go stock the milk. I could never quite understand why it was somehow a mark of sanity to ride a giant angry bronco instead of a larger, angrier bull, but I suppose if you had to choose between the two...

Incidentally, I saw a picture of Girl One in the paper the other day. The man she married was wearing a cowboy hat.

I’m glad that worked out for her.

Which is worst?

Molly R. — Fri, 01 Feb 2008 21:13:00 GMT

When I stopped to ask the University of Iowa students bowling at Colonial Lanes in Iowa City on Martin Luther King Jr.’s Birthday what they thought was one of the most important human rights crises of our day, I knew I’d be writing this blog to coincide with the question. Still, that didn’t help determine my own thoughts on the question. It did make me realize how difficult it can sometimes be to answer something like this on the spur of the moment.

There are so many variables involved in that question, it’s pretty difficult to come up with an answer. Domestic or global? Physical or emotional? Government or private? All of those things can make a big difference in how someone would answer the question.

If we’re talking domestic human rights crises, the answers of those I spoke with stand out: racism; gay marriage; gay rights; religious bigotry; child abuse and neglect; elder abuse and neglect; the list goes on.

Globally the list gets even longer: genocide in any number of locations; political imprisonment; discrimination and bigotry even wider than we see in the United States.

What I’ve come to realize, I guess, is that it’s not my place to rank one violation as worse than another. Who am I to say one person’s pain is worse than another’s? I’ve been very fortunate to not have fallen victim to any of these. I had a wonderful childhood, was never beaten or tormented by anyone, I have always had a roof over my head and food in my refrigerator. While I’ve been outraged at seeing racial or other discrimination occur around me, I have not felt the blow of that discrimination upon myself.

That doesn't mean, however, that I am blind to the atrocities that occur, or that I am willing to tolerate them. I do find it disturbing that such things still take place. Some people still look at their neighbors and co-workers through tinted glasses, so to speak, ever-ready to cast that first stone. Others, while not casting the stone, sometimes find themselves stepping out of the line of fire rather than coaxing the offender to drop the weapon.

Then there’s the other group, the one whose members do what they can to raise awareness, promote tolerance and understanding, close gaps and build bridges.

Maybe one of the biggest crises is that there aren’t more in that group.

Ode to the Oscars

Molly R. — Fri, 25 Jan 2008 18:12:00 GMT

As far as unqualified voters go, I lead the way – at least when it comes to the Oscars.

Don’t get me wrong, I love the annual contest that pits actor against actor, movie against movie. I, too, can get caught up in the hype with Oscar parties, contests and pools to predetermine who and what will win.

Problem is, all my guesses are virtually uneducated, based more on popularity than skill. I do eventually get around to watching the movies that have been nominated, but not usually when they’re still in theaters and certainly not before the Oscars are awarded. I’m generally a once-a-month movie-goer, preferring instead to rent a movie and watch it at home at my own convenience. Need to get a glass of water? Hit the pause. Phone rings? Pause again. Want to make dinner and get the kids settled? There’s nothing like popping a DVD in close to midnight for a late-night viewing.

So when it comes to picking my choices for the Oscars, it’s a popularity contest of sorts, based on my movie-going experiences of the past – which makes the Best Actor contest this year virtually impossible. George Clooney, Viggo Mortensen, Johnny Depp, Daniel Day-Lewis and Tommy Lee Jones. How do you choose? George Clooney has certainly had some winners in the past, yet how do you ignore Johnny Depp’s stellar career (21 Jump Street excluded)?

Then there’s the Best Actress pool: Cate Blanchett, Julie Christie, Marion Cotillard, Laura Linney and Ellen Page. That one’s a little easier – although having never heard of Ellen Page prior to this year’s contest I was convinced of her ability by the people I chatted with at Wehrenberg Theater this week.

As far as Best Picture, it’s anyone’s guess. In addition to being a stay-at-home viewer, I’m also a like-all-kinds movie watcher – so the differing styles in this year’s selection does me no good in making my picks.

It’s probably a good thing the folks at the Oscars don’t call me for my vote.

Bucket.

Stephen.Schmidt — Sat, 19 Jan 2008 10:32:00 GMT

It's too cold. It's so cold, I'm wearing a scarf indoors and I don't feel like a hipster. That's cold. I think it also helps that I'm wearing long underwear.

I am a bit of a movie snob. Not enough of a movie snob to have a set of matching Godard towels in my bathroom or anything (although now that I think of it, that would be delightful!), but I'm enough of one to judge a movie unfavorably without ever having seen it. And when it comes to the movie "The Bucket List," I only had to sit through a few minutes of movie previews to know that seeing that movie is not something I need to do before I die.

That's cold.

And, like any good snob, for any wine and cheese you have, I have a slightly older-- and to the discerning palette, better-- version I can recommend.

I give you, Ikiru, a movie by acclaimed Japanese director Akira Kurosawa about a man who learns he has terminal stomach cancer and embarks on a quest to thwart a tangled web of bureaucracy in order to build a playground for children.

I know you probably hate subtitles, and grainy black and white movies, but watch it anyway. If the swingset scene doesn't make you burst into tears and vow to volunteer somewhere the next day, then I don't know man, I just don't know.

As a side benefit, this movie is in the public domain, so unlike most things on the internet, you won't have to feel guilty about enjoying it.

As for bucket lists, I've had several dreams where I've died recently. This morning, for instance, I dreamt that I was attending some sort of class in a restaurant, and for some reason, for this class I was holding an incredibly poisonous snake and I ending up dropping it on the ground.

You can imagine how that one ended up.

But dreams about death are really no preparation for the real deal. The disconcerting feeling of waking up after dreaming about your death aside, it is hard to really grasp that there will be an end to this life. I mean a real end. Not one where you wake up afterwards and ask what class would possibly have you holding a poisonous snake in a restaurant.

There are two likely possibilities that this finallity of death raises, and both of them somewhat invalidate the motivation for making a list of things to do before you die. Either there is an afterlife, in which case you probably won’t care that you never got to take your picture with Bruce Willis or skydive naked or bake the greatest cake that was ever baked by anyone ever; or there is no after life, in which case you won’t be able to care about anything.

(I'll allow for a small chance that there is an afterlife where you may regret things that you haven't done, but I'm not really sure how that would even work. It would just be like a lame continuation of this life.)

This is why I’ve always found the idea of a bucket list a little bit silly, as it posits you looking back on your life after death and being disappointed at something left undone. Instead of asking “What do I want to do before I die?” isn't a better question to ask, "What should I be doing right now?" Or "What do I want to accomplish in my life?" Too much attention is paid to the final moment when so many exist between now and then, even if that moment is coming sooner than we think.

(Besides, I have a strong aversion to lists. They just end up making me feel guilty for not fulfilling them)

I would argue that it is less important to look at life from the perspective of death, than to look at it with a real sense of urgency, living every moment to the height of its potential. Carpe diem, live in the moment, the whole nine yards.

With that said, I shall now go surf the internet and drink my third cup of coffee this morning.

At least it's warm.

A Supernova...of music?

Stephen.Schmidt — Sat, 12 Jan 2008 14:56:00 GMT

"Are you from here?"

I'm too tired to ask people about their favorite show tunes. I know this because I don't notice the bus pull up next to me and open its doors. I also know this because I don't immediately know the answer to the question being asked to me by a red-haired man who is standing just inside the bus.

"Excuse me, are you from here?" he asks again.

"I, uh, no. I am not. Why are you asking?"

"Well we're from Bemidji, MN, and we wanted to know if there was any music store in town where you can buy a harmonica."

I blink, and it seems to take a long time. I tell him I'm sorry but I don't know of where one can acquire a harmonica in the city of Marion. The bus from Bemidji continues on its quest.

This is the Supernova Show Choir Competition at Linn Mar high school, and I have been dispatched by my editors to find out the answer to this question:

"What is your favorite Show tune, and why?"

It seems like a simple enough question, but it seemed to be met by some resistance when I asked people about it. Whenever I asked the question, people would squint and pause for a few moments, as if they were rolling the question over in their minds.

"Show tunes...show tunes? How can I possibly answer this question in a way that will make me look good?"

I think the difficult part of that question lies in the reality that there is no way to answer that question and look good doing it. Although "Rent" and "Wicked" seemed to be the most popular musicals for those that I asked, I must admit to being a traditionalist. Give me some "Singing in the Rain" or "Music Man," and I'll be happy. Also, cheesiness aside, I think "West Side Story" is genuinely a good movie.

Go ahead and judge me.

Speaking of West Wide Story, one of the interesting things about attending a show choir competition is mingling with hordes of pre-teens who are dressed in matching outfits. They were like street gangs, but with shinier shirts.

I waited to buy food behind a team of yellow-clad youths from "Happiness, Inc." a team from Cedar Rapids Kennedy, and ate luke-warm pizza while sitting with the members of "Studio 2008" out of Urbandale. Later "Infinity," out of Des Moines Lincoln, sang a rendition of "Tainted Love" that while good, was neither tainted or like love.

Later, as I was roaming the halls looking for people to interview, I saw two young girls, identically dressed, with their hair filled with curlers, walking by and sharing one pair of headphones between two heads-- a sight that was so ridiculous that it transcended reality and was instantly transfigured into myth.

Did I mention I was tired?

My favorite team, however, was Vocalmotive, out of the aforementioned Bemidji, MN. Apparently there is such a dearth of serious show-choir competition in Northern Minnesota that the team takes to the road, competing in high-class venues in Wisconsin and Iowa-- where, and this is again news to me, show choir is a much bigger deal. For travelling ten hours by bus to get here, Vocalmotive gets my "Spirit of the Show" award, which I made up just now, and is worth just as much as that would suggest.

On a side note, I also like Bemidji, MN, because I have never met someone from there who didn't introduce him or herself as being from "Bemidjiminnesota." A stream of words accompanied by a wide and friendly, Midwestern grin.

But I digress. Good luck at your competition in Orlando, Vocalmotive!

First in the nation?

Molly R. — Fri, 04 Jan 2008 19:38:00 GMT

It was really hard to walk away from the Iowa caucuses. There was so much enthusiasm, so much energy and so much passion that I really wanted to take my coat off and participate. But I couldn’t.

As journalists, we’re not supposed to caucus. It was that way at my former newspaper and it’s that way here – and I would assume it’s that way at newspapers across the state. As objective providers of what’s going on, we lose some of that objectivity when we wear our political passions on our sleeves. I completely understand and agree with that assessment – as a journalist, I would not feel comfortable sitting among hundreds of caucus-goers and airing my opinion.

That said, congratulations to the literally hundreds of thousands of Iowans who did go out. Whether your candidate came out on top or straggled near the bottom, you can count yourselves among the proud who showed the rest of the nation just why it is Iowa is first – and why organizers will fight to keep that title.

I’ll admit I wasn’t completely sure why it was important for us to remain first. Would it really matter if we were first, 17th or 32nd? I didn’t think so. Then I had a friend who is better-versed than I am in all things politics explain a few things to me.

If Iowa weren’t first, there likely wouldn’t have been the millions of dollars spent on advertising here. A lead candidate would have been named somewhere else, and Iowa would be just another Midwest state with a few voters and caucus-goers who really paid attention.

If Iowa weren’t first, and this is taken directly from my friend, Mike Huckabee would probably not have been able to do what he was able to do here. Say California or New York or even New Hampshire would have been first. Would Huckabee have been able to cajole with the regular folk, thereby competing with his dollar-tossing competitor in a far more personable way? Probably not.

It’s not over yet. Iowa’s status as first in the nation could still be in jeopardy for the 2012 elections. But if this year’s caucus bears any weight, I’m guessing we get at least one more crack.