I'm a high school student and I *really* want to work at NPR once I'm done with college. What should I be doing now to prepare myself?
Enjoy college. Enjoy life. Do things outside your comfort zone. Everyone here took a different path. People change. What you want now might not be what you want in five years. Explore all of your options. Leave your mind open. Write and read and experience as many things as you can. This is true for any path in life, not just working here. (I’ll stop the zen for a sec: we have an internship program.) But seriously: just do as much as you can and meet as many different types of people as you can. College is short. Too short. Worry about us later.
Hi Amanda, I'm Kieran from Bumblefuck Illinois. I'm going away to school next year and I've been debating on whether I should do music as my job .I've been playing piano since first grade and I play 6 different instruments now as well as sing. I'd love to go into performance or possibly music education. I've been really scared to, the what ifs of a career in music kind of scare me. What I'm asking is, do you think the risks and the uncertainty is worth a life of music?
cold fact: there is no path or job you can take in life that doesn’t involve risk and uncertainty.
if you have the inkling that working in/with music would make you happier than any other job, i’d argue that you’d be happiest coping with the risks and uncertainties associated with working in music instead of dealing with the risks and uncertainties involved in being a doctor, lawyer, veterinarian, astronaut, barista, bus driver or whatever other career choices are currently on your list of possibilities.
many jobs are hard work, but if you love the work, it doesn’t feel like work. if you choose your career path based ONLY on what you think is going to bring you safety and security instead of adding in the factors of what will bring you joy and happiness, chances are high you will wind up living a life of quiet desperation. if you factor your own joy into the decision, chances are also higher you’ll work harder and be a generally more valuable member of this giant chaotic society we call the human race.
pick your poison, and make sure it’s a poison you really like the taste of. you’re going to be drinking a shit ton of it.
Title: Hugh Done It
Tagline: “A Parody of mystery plays like the ones Agatha Christie was wont to write. God, she was a woman. Full, passionate, rich. I miss her so.”
The program needs to have something like (or this could be a “doctor” moment before the curtain rises),
“A fair warning to all ladies and gentlemen present: there is a moment in the first act in which a loud noise comes suddenly. Sometimes Sabetha, I mean “the murderer,” gets carried away. In this likely case there could be more than one successive loud noise. Hopefully this will provide ample warning as to the potentially startling noise, and apparently as warning of who is the murderer. (note to self, re-write before going to press.)”
But of course, no rewrite.
(Lead) Richard Richardson. He is a private detective. As it might be pointed out at some place in the play. He is mild mannered, shy, single, and quite handsome. He looks a lot like me. He is also very slow to catch on to sexual innuendo. Also much like me.
(Lead) Sabetha Monrow. She is an heiress or some such nonsense. She is filthy rich. A sexual predator, and an amazing cook and artist. But around RR, she is shy, somewhat coy, and only lets the sexual predator out when other people are around.
Janet Vise (pronounces Veesay). Janet is an ode to Rocky Horror Janet. She is Sabetha’s mentee, at Sabetha’s behest and is the opposite in every way from Sabetha, but of course is drawn to her. She is in love with Sabetha and sees the budding relationship between SM and RR as a problem. She is always caustic to RR.
Raynaldo Fazmal (pronounced fahjmal). A gay porn mogul. He is filthy rich and is trying to get Sabetha to do a movie with Janet entitled “Two Women Have Sex.” Apparently the gay porn industry is tired of coming up with titles that are innuendo. As Reynaldo will put it at some point, “Most of our titles zing right over the heads of our main audience, so I figure we have to give them what the want, and what they are able to understand.”
Tabetha Monroe. Tabetha is Sabetha’s mother. A dottering old woman who approves of nothing that Sabetha is interested in, which includes breathing. She is constantly trying to commit suicide in order to keep Sabetha from getting even more money. However, she finds a reason to live when she meets Reynaldo, and doesn’t care one whit if he is a gay porn mogul, or apparently if he is a gay, porn mogul.
Hugh Monrow. Husband of Sabetha in name only. Yes, Sabetha was once named Monroe, but when she married she took Hugh’s name of Monrow. Same pronunciation though. Hugh is fated to die in the first act. Sorry Hugh.
Scenes to write the entire play around (because every great play started out with only a few snappy one-liners):
Richard: That’s right. Richard Richardson, no, that’s not a stutter. (Chuckles to self at oft told, yet unfunny joke.) I am a private detective. (Or detective for hire)
Reynaldo: Richard, doesn’t that makes you a private…
Sabetha (walking in from SL): Dick!
Richard (to Sabetha): Richard!
Richard (to Reynaldo): Detective.
Richard (to Sabetha): Is it always like this?
Other silly scenes:
Richard: I am sorry to have spoiled your dinner plans, what were you having?
Sabetha: We’re having… red herring.
[Orchestra plays brief suspense music]
Richard: Never had it. I’ve had Red Rockfish, Monkfish, Ahi Ahi… Red herring you say?
Sabetha: Yes. You won’t have spoiled my plans if you decide to join us.
Richard: That would be nice. Frankly, I was hoping you’d ask.
Sabetha: Well, then. Since I am on an asking roll, would you like some… Champagne?
[Orchestra plays brief suspense music]
Richard (looking about, confused): Yes, Champagne would be fine. (Looks at painting above fireplace.) Did you paint this?
Sabetha (about to pop cork): Yes… I did. (Cork pops)
[Orchestra plays brief suspense music]
Richard walks over to orchestra pit (or area) and says to the conductor: Do you mind…?
Janet (to all): Reynaldo is a gay porn mogul. He’s loaded.
Sabetha: Is that gay, comma, porn or just gay porn?
Janet: Both actually… I think.
Reynaldo (enters): My ears are burning. (and then as an aside, almost to the audience) And for the first time this month my ears are the only part of my body that are on fire.
And in the shakedown scene:
Richard: And I’ve posted guards (police) at each entrance to the house; at the foot of the main and back stairways; by the fuse box in case of an ill-timed power outage; by the outside telephone lines, in case of “accidental, rapid fraying,” and of course behind one of the lamps in this room. No one leaves here until I solve this case. And it should prove rather easy, since the murderer is in this room. And, no, it’s not me. And, no, it’s not the one behind the lamp.
Historically, I’ve put an enormous amount of pressure on myself to constantly improve Sifter. Add a constant flow of customer requests on top of that, and there’s never been a shortage of feelings that Sifter’s not good enough. Until recently, my solution was to work more and make those…
“I don’t believe in guilty pleasures. If you fucking like something, like it. That’s what’s wrong with our generation: that residual punk rock guilt, like, “You’re not supposed to like that. That’s not fucking cool.” Don’t fucking think it’s not cool to like Britney Spears’ “Toxic.” It is cool to like Britney Spears’ “Toxic”! Why the fuck not? Fuck you! That’s who I am, goddamn it! That whole guilty pleasure thing is full of fucking shit.”—Dave Grohl (via bootykhaleesi)
Poached Alaskan Sockeye Salmon with Cherry Sauce and Couscous
From left to right…
Couscous. Made with vegetable stock.
Sweet red cherry sauce. Chopped sweet, red cherries sauteéd with salted sweet cream butter and Muscovado brown sugar. Reduced. Add lemon juice to finish. Sieved.
Alaskan Sockeye Salmon. Sauteéd rice wine and left over cherry juice with fresh rosemary and sage. Added poaching water to this, set to simmer. Rubbed salmon with Quatre Épices and layered with zucchini medallions. Then poached for ~8-10 minutes.
Plated as you see it.
Next time will double the amount of cherry sauce for the plating. The Quatre Épices went well with the fish, but overpowered the cherries a bit. Adding a bit more sauce per bite helped.
Overall, an excellent dish. And pretty good for just making it up as I went along.
“The sky is blue as far as I can see. The trees are green and yellow and red and brown. The grass is brown and green, but not growing in most parts.”
I tell him it’s fall. The last time he spoke, he said hello and told me that he was four. I said that I knew that already, and he said, “Me too.” His name is K. and he is now four and a half. K. has been resting in this bed, in this place, for over a year now. I now say resting because his mother gets angry whenever I say coma.
In all the time K. has been here, he has woke from resting only twice. The first time I was here for, and the short conversation that I have mentioned was all that took place before he went back to sleep. The second time came when I was away on a business trip, which I heard about from the nurse that was on duty at the time.
“He must have actually gotten up,” she explained, “because his feeding tubes had been taken out and he was wearing one of his slippers. When I went to check on him he had already lapsed back into the coma.”
A brief smile crossed my face as I recalled the one slipper philosophy. Whenever I would go to tuck him in at night, I’d have to remind him to brush his teeth. He would put on one of his slippers, ones that sported a Snoopy face on the toes, and hop on his one foot to the bathroom.
When I asked him why such an elaborate production, he replied, “It takes less time to put on one slipper, and if I hop all the way I get exercised, see?” “Of course.” I replied, knowing it is next to impossible to argue with kid logic.
Now I sit and watch and wait. Wait for K. to wake up and tell me about his dream; but he doesn’t move. This entire room draws a blank. I am its only source of color, even though the color is gray. White walls, white sheets, white instruments and machines, white slippers, and my kid is the whitest of all. There is no trace of the pink cheeks that would run through the house after playing in the sun all day. For all intents and purposes he is dead. Only the machines keep him alive now.
“Come in, please,” said K.’s doctor. The wall behind his desk was plastered with diplomas and degrees from clinics and universities from around the world. The doctor took his chair while K.’s mother and I sat in uncomfortable chairs in opposite him.
“I’m afraid that the prognosis for your son’s recovery is rather bleak,” he continued. “Since his second awakening in late August, he has taken the turn for the very worst.”
K.’s mother interrupted, “Is our son going to die?”
“I’m sorry, but as of two hours ago, when we called you both in, we had stopped receiving any evidence of brain activity. I’m afraid we have exhausted all of our options; he is being kept alive by machines now.”
Here it comes, I can feel it.
“I really wanted to explain to you what your options are from this point. And there are, as I can see it, only two: he can stay on the machines, almost indefinitely, or…”
I asked, “Is there any chance that he will recover?”
“No. Your other option is to release him from the care of this facility.“
That was the first time since our divorce that K.’s mother has referred to him as “our son.” And now we are faced with no longer having our son. There is nothing more that she and I can do for him.
We will always be his parents, but now we must give him peace and let him die. I cannot say who is less fortunate, my son for having to miss all that a full life has to offer or, myself and my wife who have to live the rest of our lives without him.