Better yet go here: Voice123.com profile.
Contents
-
Categories
-
Tags
-
Archives
Blogroll
UM links
-
RSS Feeds
-
Meta
Voice demo 2012
Sunday, April 8, 2012
Our own nest
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
In 1992, the nationally acclaimed Forever Wild program was a surprise slam dunk with Alabama voters, who voted for it by more than 4:1. The act was designed to be renewed by legislative action every twenty years. But last year the Legislature punted on a renewal. Instead they decided to make the renewal a question for referendum this fall. That’s when I knew something was up.
Make no mistake, there are people who want this program ended now. ALFA, for one. Other Alabamians reflexively hate the idea of conserving Alabama wilderness because it’s “socialism” or they just don’t like tree-huggers.
So now the opponents have plenty of time to work up a fine-tuned campaign to persuade voters to block renewal. By the time they’re through, you’ll be convinced that Forever Wild is a plot by eco-terrorists who want to take money from vital immigration law enforcement personnel and use it to create joint al-Qaeda/Occupy training camps in wetlands in order to force Sharia Law upon Alabama charter schools.
The Official Bookie of the Revolution gives the renewal about a 40% chance of passing. Never bet against Alabamians fouling their own nest.
Time to starve the beast.
Sunday, February 5, 2012
Alabama, even among other deep South states, is a special case. It is culturally isolated and pathologically insular. People have come here and protested bigotry and racism until they were blue in the face, or murdered, and no hearts and minds have been changed. Doubling down on the hate has been the inevitable response. Some become fed up and leave. Still others like me are suckers. We stay here, complaining about things by whining on Facebook. Oooooh, fear the wrath.
State legislators Hammon and Beason, and Governor Bentley are the three faces of the noxious HB 56 illegal immigration bill. But it has widespread enthusiastic support from the vast majority of state officials, and, I regret to report, the majority of Alabamians. Any appeal to reason will fall on deaf ears. Most citizens are convinced that the state would only benefit from the kind of ethnic cleansing that this law encourages. Self-deportation, they call it. You can read all about the details on the Web.
This American Life is a radio program that recently devoted an entire show to the corrosive effects of this law on the people of Alabama. You can listen to the show online or read a transcript here:
( http://www.thisamericanlife.org/radio-archives/episode/456/transcript )
To the extent Alabama has progressed, it has been due to overwhelming economic pressure. For example: I currently live in Huntsville, a town justly proud of its role in the country’s space exploration. Huntsville made fewer headlines during the Civil Rights struggles of the 1960s not because the people were morally superior, but precisely because they knew the economic benefits of being a NASA town could disappear in a hurry if the Feds decided it made them look bad.
I’ve never advocated boycotts on a large scale, especially of my own state. They are a form of collective punishment, which I despise. Most of them seem like just so much theater, and I’m not sure they actually work.
Boycott Alabama? It’s a scary pair of words. But this state has never changed for the right reasons, so the wrong reasons are all that’s left.
-cls
February 04, 2012.
Noelist
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
My favorite Christmas came just a few years ago as a direct result of me being a butthead. I’m a notoriously awkward gift giver, and I am not much better on the receiving end. So late one year I’m being pestered by my sister and mother over what I wanted for Christmas. I said exactly what was in my heart: nothing. I want nothing. Pure cynical Noelism, that’s what that was. Coming over and visiting or hearing them on the phone is the only gift I need, etc., etc.
But they were both subtle and persistent. At the end of a conversation I’d get the question again. And they refused to take nothing for an answer. And I refused to say anything they might find useful. And on it went. Finally I decided to break up the monotony and answer with helpful suggestions like, “a fan blade.” “Some aquarium gravel.” “A test tube.”
Christmas drew nearer and they finally stopped asking. Ah, the best gift of all, I thought. So on Christmas Day I went to my mother’s house and unloaded what I hoped would be moderately non-embarrassing gifts and got ready to enjoy world-class home cooking, the only gift a single guy ever really needs.
But I was first directed to a section under the tree where three boxes with my name were lurking. I opened a wrapping with an exquisite jewelry box containing one (1) small test tube nestled in a luxurious blue velvet lining. Next, a small lumpy bag. Delicious candy and fruit? No way. A fun-sized™ bag of multicolored aquarium gravel. By now I had my suspicions about the long narrow box but I still reckoned it was a tie or belt or something NORMAL.
NOT A CHANCE. It was a single ceiling fan blade.
I got a few usual practical things but I don’t remember anything else about that day except that I never have laughed so much over a 24-hour period before or since. Best Christmas ever by a mile.
HONEY, I’M HOME!
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Viciousness is just a cost of doing business here in America’s Eternal Boomtown. Not any amount of attaboys and company recognition tokens, nor the number of badges on your lanyard will help you when it’s time to rightsize the workforce.
One example from a few years ago. A suit and another large gentleman come by a cubicle. Your cubicle. You hear a faint murmur in the room, then silence. “Hands away from the keyboard!” The large gentleman unplugs your computer and disconnects any network cables in case you’ve got something funny planned. You are given a memo from Human Resources. The obligatory cardboard box is handed over and you have about five minutes max to collect your personal belongings, which are inspected by the suit and the large gentleman. “Where is your car parked?” You are led away from as much other office activity as possible to the parking lot and ordered to leave the premises at once. After the shaking subsides enough you manage to put your keys in the ignition and start your car, and make your way onto the public street as a company security vehicle follows you off the premises and tails you for a block or two.
That night, you try to piece together the day’s events. It seems crazy but the few co-workers you passed on the way out sounded like they were softly quacking like nervous ducks in the presence of a predator.
Technical and documentary imaging.
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Tuesday at the Lowe Mill meeting I was graciously given the opportunity to speak briefly about a service I’m going to start up: technical and documentary photography.
Artists should have their work documented, for their own records, for grant applications, and submissions to competitions and juried shows. I have spoken to a couple of jurors who have told me that poor photos have caused them to reject submissions. A high-quality photo can make a difference.
Right now I plan to offer accurate photo documentations of visual artwork — paintings, small sculpture, and glass — on your site at reasonable prices. Future plans include 360-degree capture and even 3-D imaging. I’m also interested in more technical and scientific imaging. That’s a bit on down the line.
I’ll have more info on Facebook and unclaimedmysteries.net as this operation gets going. I can always be reached via email at: clsmith@unclaimedmysteries.net or unclaimedmysteries@gmail.com.
Not Helping
Monday, June 27, 2011
I’m not crazy about driving traffic to realclearpolitics, but this time …
David Carr's forehead of unusual inclination.
Maher and the panel on his HBO show were lamenting the stance of New Jersey governor Chris Christie on the issue of state-sanctioned gay marriage. Maher said it was one thing for states such as Alabama and Kansas to not be on board with the idea, but not his beloved New Jersey, one of the “smart states.” This prompted New York Times columnist and media critic David Carr to take it to the next level, and refer to “those middle” states as “the dance of the low sloping foreheads.”
I’ve always believed there was less to Bill Maher’s act than meets the eye. And as for media critic guy, well, he actually comes across as the Major Burns of the group, failing so hard to keep up with the panel’s witty barbs.
The fact is there are gay people who live in these untrendy, unsmart states, remaining here for whatever reason despite it all. And every time an insular coastal media star cuts loose with this sort of remark, it just makes their lives that much harder. For now as if the bigots even needed another reason to hate, oppress, or worse on Southern and “middle” gay and lesbian people, they now have the added fuel of SPITE.
P.S. : Dave Dooling on Facebook observes, “Doesn’t this moron realize that the term originated as a racist slur against Asians? He just used the equivalent of the N-word.”
A Zombie’s Lament
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
A couple of years ago I fell in with a bunch of low-life actors called Crash Boom Bang Theatre. I wanted just to write a few sketches and maybe do an offstage voiceover or two. I ended up actually performing with them. Whenever they have needed an unhinged authority figure, I have been there. But there was this one sketch I really wanted to see them put on, inspired by their dictum that zombies are automatically funny. Several times it got accepted, then cut at the last minute for some gol-dern reason or another. I’ve gotten other sketches accepted and performed, but never this one. The one I loved most of all.
William Faulkner once advised writers to “kill your darlings.” I’m 100% sure he was talking directly to me through time and space. But since killing is a little redundant in this case, I’ll just post it here it is for each and every one of of my blog reader(s).
A ZOMBIE’S LAMENT
by Corry Lee Smith for Crash Boom Bang Theatre, Huntsville, AL
ACT I
Scene 1
PEACEFUL NIGHTTIME SCENE IN A PARK, CRICKETS CHIRPING. ZOMBIE #1 LOOKS ABSENT-MINDEDLY OVER THE AUDIENCE. ZOMBIE #2 STUMBLES UPON THE SCENE, BOTH BEGIN TO MOAN AND MAKE SLOW AGRESSIVE GESTURES AT ONE ANOTHER. THEN THEY RECOGNIZE EACH OTHER AS ZOMBIES AND ADOPT SEMI-NORMAL POSTURE. THEY CHUCKLE. ZOMBIES SIT DOWN ON PARK BENCH, LOOKING STRAIGHT AHEAD MOST OF THE TIME. THEIR SPEECH IS SLIGHTLY SLURRED, BUT CONVERSATIONAL AND COMPLETELY UNDERSTANDABLE.
ZOMBIE #1
You ever get tired of this?
ZOMBIE #2
Tired of what?
ZOMBIE #1
This. Zombie. “Arrrgh.” Don’t you wish you could just pass on to the next life?
ZOMBIE #2
Nah. I get to see the world, man. I never traveled so much when I was alive. I get respect now, too. I was a wimp back then. Now, people get that look of FEAR when they see me. Payback, baby! GAAAHHRR! I’m somebody now!
ZOMBIE #1 NOTICES ZOMBIE #2′S FULL BELLY.
ZOMBIE #1
Two or three somebodies, from the looks of it.
ZOMBIE #2
Good times, eh?
ZOMBIE #1
Yeah, good times.
THEY BOTH PAUSE.
ZOMBIE #1
Is he coming?
ZOMBIE #2
I’m sure of it.
ZOMBIE #1
You said that last night.
PAUSE.
ZOMBIE #1
You know, there is something I miss.
ZOMBIE #2
And that is?
ZOMBIE #1
Variety.
ZOMBIE #2
Who needs that? Fresh brains have all the nutrition a rotting zombie needs!
ZOMBIE #1
Don’t get me wrong, I love brains. I just wish we could, you know, cleanse the palate sometimes.
ZOMBIE #2
Brains are the fruit of the skull, man. You can barbecue brains, boil brains, broil brains, bake brains, saute brains. You got brain-kabobs, brain creole, brain gumbo, pan-fried, deep-fried, stir-fried, there’s pineapple brains, lemon brains, coconut brains, pepper brains, brain soup, brain stew, brain salad, brain and potatoes, brain burger, brain sandwich. That’s about it.
ZOMBIE #1
And wash it down with a tall cold Braineken!
ZOMBIE #2
Braineken? FUCK THAT SHIT! Brain Blue Ribbon!
ZOMBIE #1
Okay, then.
********
OPTIONAL SONG “I’M ONLY HAPPY EATING BRAINS” SUNG BY ZOMBIE #1 AND ZOMBIE #2. AFTER SONG, THEY HIGH FIVE EACH OTHER, WITH MANNEQUIN HAND AND ARM, AND RETURN TO BENCH.
I’m only happy eating brains
My diet isn’t very complicated
And Jenny Craig won’t appreciate it
I’m only happy eating brainsI miss a lot of French cuisine
I used to be in the foodie scene
Now your cerebellum fills my dreams
I’m only happy eating brainsI stumble through the night with no will
My zombie tummy keeps grumbling until
I get to fire up my Zombie Grill
I’m only happy eating brainsBrains, brains, brains brains
Eating human brains
Goodness, how delicious
Eating human brainsI may be dead but I’m no fool
They say you kill the head and kill the ghoul
Well I don’t think that is one bit cool
I’m only happy eating brainsWhy did you have to be so unkind
I didn’t think that I was out of line
When I said I love you for your mind
I’m only happy eating brainsBrains, brains, brains brains
Eating human brains
Goodness, how delicious
Eating human brains********
LONG PAUSE.
ZOMBIE #2
It won’t be long now.
ZOMBIE #1
I wonder what he looks like.
ZOMBIE #2
I think we’re about to find out.
ZOMBIES NOTICE A FIGURE APPROACHING FROM OFFSTAGE.
ZOMBIE #1
He’s here! He did come!
ZOMBIE #2
Told ya!
DELIVERY PERSON ENTERS, WITH PIZZA, SLIGHTLY CONFUSED, CHECKING SLIP. ZOMBIES SIT QUIETLY AND STARE, BEGINNING TO MOAN UNDER THEIR “BREATH.”
DELIVERY
I uh, have a large pepperoni for a Mister Zaambighmrr-ugh?
BRIEF PAUSE. DELIVERY PERSON PUTS PIZZA ON BENCH BETWEEN ZOMBIES AND BEGINS BACKING AWAY SLOWLY. SUDDENLY ZOMBIES ATTACK DELIVERY PERSON, EVENTUALLY MOVING OFFSTAGE.
ZOMBIE #2
HARMAN BRRRAINS! Grrrr-agh!
ZOMBIE #1
B-B-BRAINS!
ZOMBIE #1 LAGS BEHIND, WISTFULLY (!) LOOKS BACK AT PIZZA BOX ON BENCH. ZOMBIE #2 REACHES BACK WITH ONE ARM AND GRABS ZOMBIE #1 BACK INTO THE ATTACK AS ALL THREE MOVE COMPLETELY OFF STAGE.
END
Copyright 2011 Corry Lee Smith.
Spotting the fastball
Monday, May 16, 2011
A couple of weeks ago during a rain-delayed baseball game, the Braves radio broadcasters filled the time with stories about former pitcher Greg Maddux, a player Jim Rome once admiringly called “a witch.” It seems that one year at spring training, Maddux was throwing in a practice session and attracted an large audience of rookies and minor leaguers. They wanted to see how he got opposing batters out even though he lacked the 95+ MPH velocity that many of them possessed. Surely there was some classified ultra-secret pitching mojo technique at work here. Had he gone to the Crossroads like Robert Johnson? Was he a witch?
Maddux saw the gathering and paused. Then he casually said, “You all really wanna know why I have some sweet beach property in Southern California? Because I know how to spot the fastball.” Whoosh. He delivered another darting but modest fastball to the bullpen catcher, who moved his glove maybe one or two nanometers from the target.
Ever since I started doing photography for real about nine years ago, I’ve made do with, well, less than cutting-edge gear. I’m definitely not engaging in reverse snobbery here, because I know I’ve missed a bunch of shots and other opportunities due to equipment limitations. But that hasn’t made me less satisfied with what I do. It has forced me to carefully pick my opportunities, and improvise a bit more than you pro cats. But it’s still knowing where to stand and when to push the button. Spotting the fastball.
I don’t know if I would be any good or better if I had a Canon 5D MkII dropped in my lap, although I’d LOVE to have the opportunity to find out. (If you would like to help me perform this crucial scientific experiment contact me right here on this page.) 
Anyway, I still appreciate photography. It has helped me see things in this would I never would have noticed otherwise, and even kept me from devolving into a completely asocial hermit in my middle age. And when I do make a picture that sells, gets me a clipping or byline, or just pleases someone, it’s probably a case of knowing how to spot the fastball.
Don’t ask, “can I?” Ask, “I can!”
Friday, February 11, 2011
Father and son.
Nine inches of snow in Alabama in early January drove us all a little crazy. By “us” I mean me, mostly. Snow is my second least favorite thing to fall out of the sky, the first being an airplane with me in it. Fortunately, Arrested Development’s Steve Holt (STEVE HOLT!) appeared to show us the way through the crisis by challenging us to ask, “I can!”
Steve celebrates Auburn's recent championship by appearing to threaten to slash the tires of nearby parked cars with a bread knife. Rock on, Beatrice. (BEATRICE!)
Now, the innermost secrets of the Steve Holt (STEVE HOLT!) snowman can be revealed.
That's not creepy AT ALL.
A broken, soon to be discarded aluminum photo tripod was inverted and became not only the spine for the Steve Holt snowm- (STEVE HOLT!) -an, but fully adjustable arms as well. Fitting the jacket was a piece of cake. This endoskeleton had no trouble supporting the jacket and maintaining the arms at the desired angle.
God, “Bob,” and/or the Flying Spaghetti Monster willing, there won’t be another hateful snowfall like this any time soon, but I’m making rough sketches of Easter Island snow heads just in case. Many thanks to Jagosaurus for providing the venue and technical support for the Steve Holt snowman project.
(STEVE HOLT!)