I used to teach Shakespeare to young folk. I so wish I had thought of this first…
Okay readers, I am starting on an interactive craft project. It’s an online craft project, but a project involving craftiness, nonetheless.
As you know the name of this blog is: You’ve Never Heard of Jen Tidwell
Pursuant to this, I have decided to start an image gallery here providing photographic evidence of folks who, in fact, HAVE heard of me. Therefore, I am collecting photos of folks proclaiming their knowledge of my existence. It will include signed photos from both celebrities and lay-people alike. I will even accept images of animals professing they know me.
These photos will look something like this:
Want to get in on this? Please email me your “I’ve Heard of Jen Tidwell” image to email@example.com and I’ll let you know when it’s been added to gallery!
A post of the official gallery launch will go up in the next couple of weeks.
If we can turn this into a meme it would be SO COOL and I would love you all FOREVER AND ALWAYS!!!
Please note: If I don’t choose to include your image in the gallery, I will let you know as well. I’d appreciate it if we could avoid nudity, images of dead things (that aren’t taxidermied) and other things of questionable taste. Signed photos of celebrities need to be authenticated somehow (like a pic of them signing the submitted photo, or something).
For those of you unfamiliar with the “Trocks” (as they are affectionately known), here is a little history: Founded in 1974, an all-male group of dancers came together for the purpose of presenting a playful, entertaining view of traditional, classical ballet in parody form and en travesti (in drag). Since then, the TROCKS have established themselves as a major dance phenomenon throughout the world. To quote from their site:
The comedy is achieved by incorporating and exaggerating the foibles, accidents, and underlying incongruities of serious dance. The fact that men dance all the parts–heavy bodies delicately balancing on toes as swans, sylphs, water sprites, romantic princesses, angst-ridden Victorian ladies–enhances rather than mocks the spirit of dance as an art form, delighting and amusing the most knowledgeable, as well as novices, in the audiences.
I’d first learned of the Trocks from a documentary about them shown on PBS several years ago. I was immediately intrigued. Sure, I found the campiness of their premise to be tons of fun, but what really got my attention was just how incredibly good the dancing was. All of the performers are skilled technicians and at the top of their craft. Just thinking about how much strength it takes getting a 160lb. man up en pointe exhausts me and I’m just sitting here. These guys can really, REALLY, dance.
The first piece of the evening was Act II of “Swan Lake,” featuring the brawny, hairy chested men in tutus. The group’s schtick-in-trade is to closely follow the original choreography (in this case by Lev Ivanov), then unexpectedly toss in a pratfall and some slapstick. A ballerina fell flat on her (his) face. Another hollered “ugh!” while leaping. A maverick corps member suddenly began sashaying Broadway-style while the others vainly tried to keep the ensemble together. Another ballerina got kicked in the head. Still another mugged flamboyantly at the audience. I don’t think I’ve ever laughed so hard in my life. My face hurt by the time we got to the first intermission.
After we’d all pulled ourselves together and given our facial muscles a rest, it was right back to the riotous comedy with “Patterns in Space”, a hilarious parody of modern dance innovator Merce Cunningham and experimental composer John Cage. Three dancers moved about solemnly but aimlessly while two onstage “musicians” made “music” by rustling paper bags, popping sheets of bubble-wrap and gargling water (while hanging upside down), among other oddities.
Next was a real treat for ballet history enthusiasts, “Le Grand Pas de Quatre” saucily mocked a quartet of great ballerinas who came together for an all-star showcase in 1845. The tyrannical grandiosity of Sveltlana Lofatkina (Fernando Medina Gallego), the dancer evoking Marie Taglioni — the eldest of the original foursome — induced into the audience such gleeful a state of schadenfreude for the dancers under her gaze, you couldn’t help but root for her next holier-than-thou tactic. Posed with delicacy and seeming refinement, with the mere glint of her eyes (empowered by gargantuan fake lashes), she forced one co-star to keep lowering her groveling bow — ballet protocol as torture.
The troupe concluded its performance with a largely straight version of Massenet’s Spanish-flavored “Majisimas,” which provided plenty of opportunity for the dancers to dazzle with effortless leaps, double air turns and other feats of pyrotechnical skill.
I urge you, implore you, beg you – even if you’re not a fan of ballet or dance – if the Trocks come to your town, you MUST see them perform. Consider it a decision for your health, you’ll lose pounds in belly fat from laughter alone.
Doctor Who has made the Fez a thing again. I say “again” as if it ever was one to begin with. Not so sure it was. But I like to cover my bases and assume the best, so I’ll stick with “again”.
So fezzes, they’re back. Should they be?
Well I say, why not?
What I love about them is that, as an article of clothing, they serve no purpose except to make the wearer look silly no matter who that person is. They make everyone look equally doof-y.
A fez a paradox. It is so uncool it goes around in a full felt circle and smacks Cool right back in the face and says, “Eff you Cool! I am SO cool.”
Hipsters who rock a fez think they are doing so because they are cool and ironic. But, HA! Joke’s on you hipsters because just by wearing a fez ironically, you have fallen victim to the Fez Paradox, wherein a fez is so uncool it becomes cool, but if you wear it ironically to be cool it returns to its uncool state and you end up looking like a dweeb. (Yet another reason why I’m for the Fez.)
You can wear a fez with sincerity, and the Paradox will bless you with Cool. The exception to this is driving a tiny car while wearing a fez – then, no matter how sincere you are, you are still uncool.
And now, a poem:
I wear my Fez
And my wife says
“Is that from Chez?”
I say, “Nope not a pres.”
I eat some Pez
I pick up the phone
And call *Inez.
*Note: I don’t know anyone named Inez
This cartoon says exactly what I was thinking…