Notes from SunnyJay

Imaginary Character Description

     Kevin walked down the hall, his floppy untied sneakers slapping the carpet with each step.  In his hand he held his latest comic book find, Zorack and the Death Triangle, and a crumpled bag of potato chips.  As he joined Ryan, Sarah, and I in the lounge, we all shot each other mournful glances.  Our frustration at his arrival was soon proved well-founded.  As we sat on the couch trying to catch up on the reading in various textbooks, Kevin began loudly munching chips and performing a series of hand gestures that were meant to illustrate the action in the book.  More irritated glances were shot around the room, followed by puzzled smirks that more clearly communicated thoughts than words could have.  However, the worst was yet to come.

     He soon started picking out snippets of dialogue to share with the group.  As he spoke in his forceful, piercing, voice he read, “At last I have you, Zorack.  I’ll crush your spine into a pulp with my super strength I was given by the evil Dr. Heeb!”  Spittle spraying from his mouth, he paused only long enough to wipe off the pages of the book, before continuing, “I was cloned to destroy you and your government, there’s no stopping me now!”  He wiped the pages again, and began explaining the action that we couldn’t see drawn on the damp pages.  During times like these, friends can easily communicate via telepathy, and at that moment, the telepathic lines where clogged with expletives, jokes, and witty remarks.  With the exception of discreet facial expressions, none of us expressed our annoyance publicly.  We all considered ourselves ‘too polite’ to actually say something, but in fact, we were too timid.  We all knew that eventually, he would leave, probably to let his book dry, and be back again to bless us with more dramatic readings from Zorack and the Death Triangle.

The following text was written by Jason Cunningham on January 29, 2006 as an exercise in Character development.  He was supposed to describe himself.

     Jason was a man from a by-gone era, the reincarnation of a proper English gentleman, seeming better suited to wearing tuxedo tails at a dinner party at some baronial castle than shorts and a T-shirt on the campus quad.  He was very set in his ways; once Jason got it into his head that a certain event was going to play out a specific way, he would never willingly accept anything different.

     When nervous, or in any way uncertain about his environment, Jason would slip habitually into a very rigid formal tone, as though he were acting on some custom learned during a previous life as a courtier or butler.  This tone, while friendly, often involved stiff handshakes, floury word choice, and a strict, self-imposed code of conduct.  His internal code of conduct regulations, provided guidelines for almost every possible situation, and the few that it didn’t seem to cover, were approached with extreme conservatism.

     However, when at ease with friends, Jason can always be counted on for a quick joke or playful jest.  He is often the one looking for ways to crack a joke, or laugh at himself.  There were very few things he enjoyed more than sitting and laughing with his friends.

     Conservative is one word that would sum up Jason’s view on everything.  When in doubt do nothing seemed to be his motto.  He hated change above all.  If his dad got a larger screen for his computer, he would question what was wrong with the old one.  If there were even the slightest possibly risk, Jason would automatically imagine the worst-case scenario for that event – it usually ended in his death.  When his Resident Assistant set him up on a blind date, he imagined she was an ax murderer.  When he was invited to go ice skating, the skates would cut off an arm or leg when he fell.  He simply found it a safer bet, to do nothing at all.

A Poem for a Teenager
by John P. Rogers

Can one stand the middle?
Are you on the side that counts?
Does that side care?
Unasked for efforts are extreme, what rewards do they pay?
A closer friend?  A loyal friend?  A friend who doesn’t care?
Is there a one-sided friendship?  Or simply a failing one.
I try too hard, it’s not cool to try too hard.
You shouldn’t care, you shouldn’t notice, you shouldn’t stand up.
Is faithfulness to friends rewarded?  Are the faithful, friends?
To this the answer clearly is,
God is faithful more than men.

Well friends, I have just returned from my first-ever visit to a gym.  I sit here typing while each bead of sweat – the cherished sign of a successful workout – dries into the salty remnants of what was your glory in the gym.

The domain of the jocks, the playground of the physically fit, the tainted realm of muscular comparison – this was the land into which I descended.  My goal was simple – survive the treadmill while avoiding looking like a fool (or falling off) while acting as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

While I was in the gym, I mentally keep going over what I will say when the most athletic man on campus challenges my presence in his lare.  I imagine I casually flip a towel over my shoulder saunter past him and comment back at him, ”I have a reputation to uphold back home”, or I attempt the air of a jock, ”I don’t keep track of what I do on the bench” unaware that he doesn’t mean the park version, or that curls could refer to something other than rococo architecture.  I imagine a muscular finger on the end of a bulging arm pointed in amusement as I try and step onto a moving treadmill, as I contemplate a barbell, or glance at the jungle of white bars and black weights labeled things like 45lbs or 50lbs.  I promptly shy away, ashamed at being unable to play the “I’m the creative type” card.

But not this time - this time I impose myself on a friendly athlete!  Michelle, the Friendly Athlete!  Sounds like a TV show!

We entered the gym a sprawling arena crammed with equipment.  It was what I had been expecting: as much equipment as I had imagined, but far fewer egos.

Michelle sat with me as I filled out the “If I have a heart attack while using ______” form, which we gave back to the receptionist who seemed suitably hostile for such a nerve-wracking place.

After we had gotten by the the receptionist, Michelle led me up a flight of stairs to an upper level that housed all the treadmills and stair-stepping machines (they have a fancier name).  the upper level was essentially an elevated island surrounded by railings that looked down on the weight rooms and various other exercise rooms.  As I walked on the treadmill I was able to look out over a forest of white equipment and watch the more athletically inclined work through their routines.

Here are some basic stats about my first day out:

     Walking Speed:  4.5mphs
     Distance: 1.5 miles
     Time: 22mins
     Calories Burned: 83 ( = 1 Almond Joy wrapper)

I must confess that I now feel amazingly more confident, and am actually looking forward to capitalizing on Simon’s offer to teach me the “science of running.”  I am presently experience a minor paradigm shift as I break through self-imposed boarders and experiment with what I formerly considered “not something I do”.  Now, that category is one step closer to be reserved strictly to what it’s meant to apply to – that of God’s commands against doing morally reprehensible - and eating tuna fish.

A few days ago was Martin Luther King day.  So Simon and I decided to go down the the Lincoln Memorial to stand on the spot that MLK did when he gave is speech.  (we also wanted to take advantage of our time in our nations capital!)

As we stood there, we suddenly wondered what the history of Caviar was.  Naturally, this instantly comes to mind when looking out across the mall in gentle contemplation of the glowing monuments and capitol building.

So I did a little digging and I found caviar’s history as a delicacy.

It all started in 1812 when Napoleon launched his campaign against the Russians.  By September of 1812 he had managed to capture the Russian City of Moscow where most of the city had burned down leaving very little protection from the harsh Russian winter.  Supplies were running low across the Russia, and the only food the Russian Government could offer it’s people where fish.  Soon, Russian peasants, who were given only the worst part of the fish – the eggs, discovered that they couldn’t survive on eggs alone, so they devised a plan to sell their worthless fish eggs for more substantial food.

The nearly 230,000 French troops still stationed in Moscow were getting desperate for the luxuries of home, for civility, for culture.  Most troops were looking for something to make them feel special, to make them feel superior to their fellow soldiers, and especially to the Russians.

So the Russian peasants told the French troops that their Fish eggs were a rare delicacy called in Russia “Vademoskiaev” and eaten only by the Czar and important nobles.  They went further to say that because the Czar was loosing the war so severely, that he had been forced to abandon his supply of “Vademoskiaev” and since only the Czar and his officials were allowed to eat such food, that very few normal Russians would ever have heard of such a treat!

The French bought the ploy!  However, in an effort to ”destroy Russian culture and nationalism” in the region, they insisted that they change the name of “Vademoskiaev” to something befitting it’s new french master.

Commandant Caviar Octavio Del Babousa Lemanchiano was the top aide to Emperor Napoleon during the Russian Conquest.  Of Spanish origin, he was classically trained in the Military school of Barnora in northern Spain and went on to study tactics at the University of Paris.  While serving with Napoleon on several of his early conquests, Caviar distinguished himself as a master connoisseur of fine foods and between 1779 and 1830 lead the effort spread french culinary culture around the world.

In 1813 Napoleon officially renamed “Vademoskiaev” after his favorite aide, and food aficionado, making famous what we now know as “caviar”.
 

“Vademoskiaev” (pre 1813)

“Caviar” (Post 1813)

Well friends, I’m back at college!  I moved in unofficially Saturday night, but went back home to do Facility Staff at church.  I also had dinner with the Riddlesbergers after what was evidentally a stellar performance by the Steelers (which I always thought was the Stealers, or some reason.)

However the Hightlight of the first 2 days of the semester so far was last night when I presented this poster:

(At the top it says “Master of the World” in German – yes – he speaks German)

To this person:

While he’s not known for his amazing reactions to things, I must say that this time, his reaction was more than satisfying! If fact, it was exactly what I was hoping for!

I don’t know if it’s just me, or if everyone does this, but I after I finished the poster a few weeks early, I was trying to imagine what his reaction would be.  I usually conjure up an ideal setting where an audience is dazzled by my amazing photo-shopped poster, and a crowd of expectant friends bursts into laughter and the gift brings delight to all who view it.  This usually is indicative of the recipient of the gift being blown away by how considerate the gift was.  Most of the time this carefully chorographed mental picture doesn’t quite match reality, and I’m inevitably disappointed by what is the less cinematic result.

However, this time, for the first time that I recall, the poster-giving played out exactly as I had imagined it!  I walked into the room casually sipping tea from my brand new Union Jack mug! 

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Lesley was kind enough to import this mug all the way from London (where she’s from) for me.  She has one just like it, and I had expressed an interest so she bought me one for Christmas – what a surprise!
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As I sipped my tea, filled with British Pride, Ryan’s Irish roots kicked in and caused the desired (but unexpected) reaction against my beautiful mug!  He grabbed an Irish mug in retaliation, however, was forced to put it down in order to open the poster tube.  (Minor Victory – note previous post)

Then the real excitement began, as he slowly pulled the poster out of the tube, and slowly unrolled it he burst into laughter – the scene was exactly the way I had hoped it would be!  He laughed the hardest I’ve every seen him laugh, and then, the turned the poster so Sarah and Mike join in the joyous chorus!

He then noticed a few features of the globe in the poster that I had adjusted specifically as joke.  The entire globe is red, except for the very prominently placed England!  Great Britain was the only country that has not been (and never will be) under the oppressive domination of Ryan’s thumb (or heal, or elbow, whatever…).  I was worried that he’d never notice this subtle jab at his “world governance”, however, he did!  He glanced down, then glanced up with a frustrated look of shock saying, “You didn’t make England red!” (slightly paraphrased).  I smiled, sipped more of my tea from my British mug (which I imagined was beaming with pride) and smugly said, “you’ll never own England!”  (since a poster somewhat bears the authority of law when it comes to those kind of things, he was forced to comply – though I’m keeping an eye out for red magic markers!)

Ryan, was soon able to accept the fact that Buckingham palace would never be his (he settled for Versailles) and continued to laugh at each an every element of the poster, from his roommate being the jester, to Sarah and I being Salt miners, to the army of soldiers that lay at his feet – each carefully placed joke was met with hoots of laughter and delight.

I was standing there, sipping my tea, feeling the joy of a gift well given!

After profuse expressions of joy and thanksgiving, he hung the poster on his wall above his computer where I hope it will distract him from making wise decisions when we face each other in our Civilization 3 game later in the semester.

I must say that I found greater joy in giving him a gift that he actually enjoyed and will continue to enjoy, than from any gift I’ve been given this year (except maybe the mug!).  It really is more blessed to give than to receive!

Dear Friends, I’m proud to announce that I have at last triumphed in my assertion that the British Empire was the largest Empire in History. Here are the Stats:

1. The British Empire and Commonwealth — 14,157,000 sq. miles

2. The Soviet Empire — 13,800,000 sq. miles (The entire Communist world) 
                          - or -    9,883,591 sq. miles (The Soviet Bloc incl. Cuba)

3. The Mongol Empire — 12,800,000 sq. miles (some put it as high as 13 million)

Now, some of my college friends made the understandable argument that in fact the Mongol Empire was the largest, this is clearly not the case.  However, the Mongol Empire was the largest contiguous land empire in history.

Remember: The Sun Never Sets on the British Empire!

*these stats are thankfully provided by http://www.hostkingdom.net/earthrul.html

In spite of recient publications that could be contrived as contrary, thank God for friends like David, who will forever be a blessing in my life!  I offer to you what a good friend does when you go to work for the day without putting up an away message.

David: Oh, my goodness.David: My idea is working.David: What should we put in the Janis area?David: So you’re not there, huh?David: Well, you smell like beef and cheese.David: I’ll talk to you later.David: In my office.David: With a gun.

David: (Garrett will be holding it.)

 David signed off at 8:57:48 AM.

David signed on at 10:11:09 AM.

 David: You’re at WAMU, aren’t you?

David: Fo’ shame.

 David signed off at 10:19:26 AM.

David signed on at 10:44:48 AM.

 David: CALL ME.

David: (nerd)

We did a show last night!  Yes!  What a blast!  We really do need to do those more often!  Such a fun group of guys!  One problem was that I definitely felt out of practice – I couldn’t even get through my first line!

One problem was that I kept freezing up and fumbling my line – I was concentrating so hard on doing it right that I forgot to relax and inprov what was being said.  Hopefully this won’t be a problem next time.

Apart from that, I’m really not sure how the show went, I haven’t listened to it yet.  It’s funny how I can sit through a show listening and acting in it, and sometimes you come out with a firm sense that the show was good, and other times that the show was bad, and even, like last night, with no clue how the show went at all.  It seemed to have many good concepts in it, and even creative characters, but again, presentation might have tripped us up.

One other reason for my lessening skill at the acting end of our radio dramas is the stress that I take upon myself before hand. Last night the stress of doing a late-night show (from 7-11:00pm) and trying to steer three creative masterminds through the program in a timely manner when we only seem to be getting sidetracked.  I feel as though if I made more of an effort to relax during the planning stages of our shows, than I would do a better job when the time came to record.

In another interesting development, Garrett climbed into the director’s seat, taking charge, and filling the leadership role so inadequately filled by myself.  He did a wonderful job story boarding, directing scene transitions, and even guiding the plotline!  It was good to see him so enjoyably engaged in a medium I don’t think he ever consider his strong point.  Garrett are sorta the ying and yang of the SDP – we fit together like a puzzle.  He thinks he’s bad at radio, but is actually quite good at it, I think I’m good at radio but am actually quite bad.

But on a less analytical mode, it really was a wonderful time, out of which many wonderful jokes will be pulled.  I believe it builds upon the classic SDP style and enhances the character of the station, as well as firmly implanting the SDP in the digital age!

A few shocking things to come bursting out – David’s hat, and the proposal to have the SDP theme involve an electric guitar.  Both of which I am opposed to.

Don’t get me wrong, his hat was… er… wonderful.  I’m sure it does a wonderful job at protecting his hair follicles, however, it strikes at the root of one of the many things I love about my dear friend David – his disregard of the “skateboarder style”.  Not only does it grind against the playful spirit that I so love about him, but it definitely effected the way I interacted with him that evening – something deeply psychological no doubt.  I expect to be bombarded with Pac Sun storefronts from Garrett and the Ricuccis, but not from Dave!  ::sigh::  But constant change is here to stay, and progress marches on!

However, one thing I REFUSE to yeild on is the prospect having the family hour theme changed to something resembling a heavy metal concert!  (or at least implementing an electric guitar)  Why don’t we just change our name to the “Payable On Death Hour”!  Or the “Iron Roses, Kiss of Death Hour”.  What will be next, Rap?!

Now I’m not opposed to widening the number and variety of instruments played during the intro.  I think adding a flute, bagpipe, harp, harmonica, violin, organ, drums, even an acoustic guitar, would be beneficial to the spirit of the SDP’s innocently, playful theme.  The aggressive, antagonizing, grind of an electric guitar reflects exactly such a state of soul that we don’t want sprouting in our young listeners.  It’s also inconsistent with our productions, which are inherently comedic, and playful, not “grungy”.

There, my rant is done.  Sorry.  I had to get that off my chest.  don’t be offended.