Friday, January 22, 2010


Kimber reports.

The LDS Film Festival is currently being held at the Scera Theatre. I wouldn't recommend that you go though, as most LDS films suck. However, the nerd night crew did take part in the 24 Hour Film Making Marathon, and completed it successfully. We didn't win any prizes, overhear any old ladies say how awful our film was, or even get our DV tape back (what the hell, festival organizers?), but we are trendsetters.

Two years ago, when Devin, Nolan and I entered the 24 hour film contest, we made a movie about a hobo killer. During the screening of that film people gasped in horror, children cried, and it was a worthwhile experience for all three of us. Back then the LDS film festival consisted of milquetoast testimonial films and feelgood crap. We were the only film with hobos, violence, and a macabre sense of humor.

Two years later and half the films have hobos, while the other half have violence. We've made some great strides forward in getting LDS filmgoers to understand that not everything is about being good, but we still didn't get a prize. Oh well, there's always next year.

Tuesday, January 19, 2010

Toilets and Footprints

Kimber speculates.

I'm not sure what it is about bathrooms that scream "decorate me with religious sentiment", but people really take that advice to heart. Both my grandmothers have a copy of the "Footprints" poem hanging in their bathroom(you know, the one where Jesus carries the guy through all the hard parts of his life), and in the last week alone I've seen the poem hanging in three other bathrooms.

The washroom deserves to be decorated as much as any other space in the house, but why do people so commonly decorate it with slightly corny poems? I do want to make it clear that I think the "Footprints" poem is a touching one, but its sentiment is undermined by the fact that nine times out of ten, when I see it I am passing bodily waste.

Perhaps hanging religious poems in one's bathroom stems from a desire to appear classy while simultaneously providing mental stimulation, should any be needed. My grandmother likely wouldn't approve of the fact that I decorate my bathroom with whatever I find funny (my toilet has a sign hanging on it which reads "I'm a media console"), and she would definitely think it's disgusting that I keep the current copy of Vanity Fair as easily reachable as the toilet paper.

What I find to be a comfortable, useful space, my grandmother views as repellent. To be fair, I see her bathroom as equally repellent, as all she has in it are a set of matching towels and the "Footsteps" poem. How we've each chosen to present the most intimate of rooms to the world is very different.

After considering it for some time, I've come to the conclusion that what we put in our bathroom reflects how we want people to think about us. Publicly, I let it all hang out, so to speak. The only thing not easily apparent to my guests are the extra roles of toilet paper and feminine hygiene supplies I keep under the sink, and even if someone were to snoop, I wouldn't be embarrassed. On the other hand, my grandmother's washroom presents a very proper face to visitors, but doesn't betray that fact that as soon as she's done using it she makes an entry into her poo diary; a notebook she keeps in her bedside table which has records on every single one of her bowel movements since the mid-sixties.

She would be horrified that I put that information on the internet, but she doesn't have a computer, so I'm not worried.

While my grandmother is confident in calling me limited for referring to "urine" as "pee", I am confident in calling her anally fixated for keeping a poo diary. We both think we're right, and we both have some evidence to back us up, but in the end I think I'm more comfortable, because I don't have any secrets lurking behind a framed copy of "Footsteps".


my new video is in the nerd night post...

Wednesday, January 6, 2010

Early Onset Alzheimers

Kimber forgets.

Today on campus several people said hello, asked me about my life, and even noticed my different haircut and new bag. These people seem to know me, and like me, but I can't remember who they are. They look familiar, but whether it's from a class I took last semester, high school, or a play date when I was seven, I can't place them.

Here and there this creates a little awkwardness, but mostly I smile, inquire about their life, make a few mild jokes, and then wish them a good day before running for my life. I'm not used to this procedure so much as I go into it automatically, like some kind of social emergency operation.

The brain has long-term and short-term memory. Short term memory is limited, and is usually used to manipulate information, or to create reminders. Once something has been sufficiently learned, it is stored in long-term memory, where theoretically it stays forever, requiring only the right stimulus to bring it out. I'm sure these people are stored in my long-term memory somewhere, and that I used to like them since they remember me so fondly, but for some reason I'm not able to find the right stimulus to bring them out.

I like to think this is simple forgetfullness, but that can't be the case, as I can still remember random facts I learned when I was seven, elaborate life stories I made for myself when I was twelve, and arcane academic theories about the English language I learned when I was twenty. Some of these people I've met more recently than that, yet I can't recall who they are or where I met them.

Sadly enough, I think the simple truth of the matter is that I don't care to remember them. Things have changed dramatically for me since high school, and I present a different face to my college classmates than I do to my real friends. Either shame for who I am now, or anxiety about how people will react to me, keeps me from connecting to people in a way that lets me remember them. Their names and faces and stories are somewhere in my long-term memory, but I no longer have, or no longer want to find the triggers that will give me access.