INDEED
College Essay, Philosophy, and Mr. T and the Three Wookies....
Common App Essay
When the typical kid thinks of literature, more often than not they’re going to think of some stuffy British bloke. A well-groomed moustache perched atop his face, a monocle crammed into his eye. Sitting in a plush leather chair before a roaring fireplace. And in his lap sits an ancient text, cover worn from years of use, its pages yellowed with age. With each turn of the page his gaze turns upwards and he thoughtfully stares off into space, eyes squinted, appreciating the subtle genius of the words and sentences with an quiet, “Hmmmm...”
So basically, literature isn’t viewed as the most exciting of things. It’d be much easier to turn the TV on, listen to the tasty riffs of Led Zeppelin, and allow the mind to turn to mush. And hey, I’m not going to say that wasn’t me a few years ago. Sure, I read a lot, but it was all meaningless pulp, little popular paperback novels, which littered the floor of my room, cast aside and forgotten as soon as the last page had been vanquished.
Then, through the proverbial entranceway, comes Catch-22. It’d be a lie to say I remember how I got a hold of it, my best recollections conjure me picking it up at a book sale. The origin is unimportant though, for when I haphazardly decided to read the book, all the way back in 8th grade, my mind was blown completely out of my skull. The first impression was of course, “Hey! This books has language and naked chicks!” But as the story moseyed its way along, as the goofy exterior gave way to the traumatic tale of the insanity of war, I fell in love with everything the book had to offer. Nary a word bore with me a complaint. Not a sentence was out of place.
But the most stunning thing about Catch-22 was, to me at least, that it was counted to be important literature. That it was adored and admired by a vast number of critics. To think that Joseph Heller’s little subversive masterpiece was considered to be spectacular, a shining beacon of excellence in a sea of lesser novels, made me think that maybe, just maybe, literature wasn’t for old fogies. That just maybe, it could be something worthwhile. And also, that real writing, writing that held with it weight and significance, not fancy covers and Bestsellers stickers, didn’t have to be about Victorian adultery or some other far-off intellectual topic.
This thought, that true writing wasn’t limited to an overly serious take on overly serious actions, inspired me. It was, if you will, the conception of my urge to write. From my reading of Catch-22 on, writing became more and more of a central role in my life. It went from becoming enjoyable in school, to a hobby, then branching out into journalism, at which point it became a passion, and most recently it’s served as my employment with the Hunterdon County Democrat. Though nothing I’ve done has even scratched the surface of Catch-22's greatness, I still proudly call myself a writer, it’s become the most integral part of my life. And it’s incredible to think that I can trace it all back to a single novel.
Philosophy
Once I was lost, once my soul was floating in a morose river of despair. And then, from yonder mountaintop, a shining god with a shimmering axe spoke to me in a voice transcending human pitches and notes. My eyes were spurting tears as I admired every perfection of his portly, bearded frame. And he said, “It doesn’t matter if it’s good...it only matters if it rocks.” Then, with a shrill whine from the axe, a few stomps of the wah-wah pedal, and the bending of a few strings, he vanished in an eruption of fog and laser lights. His departure, so soon after his majestic introduction, struck me as but another reason to add on to my sorrow and melancholy. But then I remembered his words, his two clauses combined by an ellipsis. It doesn’t matter if it’s good...it only matters if it rocks. Indeed, the fair god o’ rock’s words rang true that day, like the mighty beatings of Bonhamn, and his words opened up a door. Man was not placed upon this small clump of dirt for the purpose of worshiping imaginary bearded beings floating out in the cosmos, man was not tossed upon this spherical mound to purge himself of passion and live the life deemed acceptable by higher-ups. Man was placed upon this rock to rock, and the quality of said rocking matters not, as it is the sheer existence of the rock itself that brings soul and significance to the rock that the rocking is taking place on.
It all revolves around integrity. For to rock, one must have the most steadfast integrity available to mortal homo sapiens. You can’t truly rock if your only reason for rocking is to be on the cover of a magazine, get a promotion, hang some shiny plaque above the mantle. To do so is betrayal, simple falsehood. What is life is the actions your life is filled with aren’t being pulled off with all your heart held with them? A soul’s there for a purpose, it’s an inexhaustible dynamo with which you can fuel and re-fuel your life’s performance. It’s an all-purpose tool, serving not just as the energy source, but as a compass and guide as well. Do what you want to do, do what you enjoy, and everything else will fall into place. If your soul is telling you, in the words of Michael Strike, that, “I’d rather chew my leg off, than get trapped in this.” then the best bet is that you should probably stray from the situation.
It’s foolishness to believe in fate, that we’re all just bit characters in some infernal screenplay, but life has a way of working out. There is a higher power sitting out there, whether or not he’s a one-eyes raven-lover or an omnipresent force with a penchant for flooding is up to your preference, but the point is that there is indeed something of a safety net strung out below us. This net gives us the chance to express ourselves, to shout from mountaintops, or, if your style is one more subdued, to simply live life on your own terms. When your clock’s finished ticking, your heart near done beating, or your sand castle unguarded from bully-kicking, your last thoughts are going to revolve around a life full of actions. And inevitably, you’re going to question everything you’ve done. You’re going to wonder if you should have gone for the girl, taken the train to Alaska, or streaked across a town completely alone.
Regrets are the impending result of this. Those little pesky varmints, a plague to all those whose mind is cluttered with them, are like disgusting anchors, weighing down your soul and contentment. But if you danced to the beat of a different drummer, one as heftily skilled as say, Keith Moon, then what’s there to burden you? If you rocked, if you cared not for the outcome or quality, if you instead sat out, gave it the ‘ol college try, and let the chips fall where they may, who’s to say that you were in the wrong? Who’s to say that the random nature of existence just didn’t swing out of your favor for that brief moment? There’s nothing wrong, because there’s no failure in the first place. Only varying degrees of attempts and efforts. Most of life is already out of your hands.
Since despite what your mom and pop may have told you, whatever dreams your childhood enthusiasm and optimism may have implanted in your head, a whole lot of things are beyond your reach. Race, location of existence, the two most important contributing factors in the livelihood of future generations are out of their hands. If you’re blessed enough to be white, your life will automatically be better than what, 90% of the rest of the world? Maybe 80% if by some magic the world becomes a better place in a few years. If you’re in the US or Europe, you better be pretty freaking glad you aren’t in the wastelands of western China or all of Africa. But don’t wallow in self-condemnation or anything of the sort for having a far more priviledged life, which if you’re reading this you do, but instead simply take it as a fact of life. Some people have a better life than other people. The world is pre-arranged into castes, and despite what the American dream may have to say, there’s very little chance of ascending the social and economic ladder. Of course, there’s always plenty of opportunity to descend. But many times, your elevation isn’t determined by you.
Let’s say you’re a hard-working chap in the midwest, and your job is with a box company in Idaho. And let’s say you try your hardest at work, and let your social life and all suffer so that you can get that promotion, succeed in your profession. But then, your company’s CEO turned out to have sold false stocks, embezzled money, cheated taxes, all that jolly stuff that comes along with capitalism. So when you’re sitting in your humble abode jobless, wondering what you’re going to do when the next round of bills are going to come along and hide in your mailbox like a bear-trap, you’re going to feel regret. You lost you job. Boo-hoo. But look at the cause of it. Your employment didn’t depend on how well you preformed your duties. It depended on how much of a wretched scum your employer was. His actions determined your life’s path. It’s like when a leader announces war. Kings and Queens of the modern era never stomp about the battlefield, Presidents don’t take up arms and bring the fight to the enemy. They sit in their fancy clothes while younger folks take it upon themselves, or in drastic times are forced, to sacrifice their lives for an ideal.
So how is it going to work out for you? Are you going to take your entire life incredibly seriously? Bearing the burden of the world on your shoulders, trying to change everything and do everything in the 80-something years you’ll spend alive? Or are you going to simply enjoy what time you’ve been given, rig up a hammock once in a while, take a good book and a nice iced glass of lemonade, and relax and watch the trees sway and the clouds commute overhead. Life’s pretty simple. You’re born, you die, and many times no one’s the wiser. So why not have a ball. It doesn’t matter if it’s good, it doesn’t matter if you were some great leader of men or hero whose image will be inscribed upon a statue, it only matters if you lived it on your own terms, to the best of your own ability. Because that’s what it means to rock, and that’s what the man-god Jack Black hath proclaimed to the world in his poetic musings about life, death, double teams and karate.
Mr. T and the Three Wookies
Alright, so everyone knows Mr. T. Otherwise known as B.A Baracus, the muscle of the A-Team, what have you. What few people know about him is that not too long ago, while taking a break from pitying the fool, beating up bad guys, and scaring cancer into submission, he was a lumberjack. And one time, while lumber jacking in the tiny jungles of Canada, he found a cabin. Knocking on the door, he saw that there was no response. Now, Mr. T was very tired from chopping wood for Housing for the Homeless and Octagons for the Orphaned, and took it upon himself to tear the door from its hinges and step inside of a breather.
Little did Mr. T know that the house belonged to earth’s mightiest and most prideful of races, the Wookie. And not just any one wookie, bu three wookies. They had left their cabin early in the morning to hunt down some food, gather some berries, and pick out some new curtains at Linens and Things. Mister T tiptoed into the house, calling out, “Hello?” with every few steps, and it was obvious that there was no one home. All that hard work had made Mr. T very hungry, and on the table of the kitchen were three bowls of porridge that the wookies had completely forgotten about.
“Hmmm...” Mr. T mused, “The fools must have left in a hurry. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind if I had but a bit of their porridge. Remember, breakfast is the most important meal of the day!”
He then pulled out a big box of his hearty T-Flakes, but to his dismay, the box was empty.
“Confound it! Looks like I’ll have to eat porridge without the delicious all-grain and marshmallow mix of my T-Flakes!”
And so he did. Leaving a batch of bills on the table, Mr. T then went upstairs and took a nap in the biggest bed of the house.
While Mr. T snoozed on with sweet dreams of getting fools to quit their jibber-jabber and drinking his milk, the three Wookies came home to find their front door missing.
“Hwoor gnarl whuvch!” the tallest wookie said, and, from hereon out, the wookie-speak shall be translated.
“What villain hath the gall to encroach upon your most humble of abodes?” the tallest wookie said.
“Surely he is a character of much strength.” the second-tallest wookie theorized, looking at the gaping hole in the house.
“Such a trespass shall not occur without just retribution!” the smallest wookie announced.
“Yea! Verily!” the other two chorused.
“And look here!” wookie #2 exclaimed. “Our delicious wookie-porridge has been consumed! And in its place, these strange green papers sit upon our table!”
The wookies crowded around their kitchen table, and then heard a mighty snore come from upstairs.
“Hark! Our truant is in a golden slumber! We must ascend and discover his identity!” wookie #3 said.
And so the three wookies went upstairs to find Mr. T snoozing on a bed. His T-senses now tingling, Mr. T opened his eyes to see three giant furry beasts howling at him.
“It seems that they’re communicating...” Mr. T thought. “This is a perfect opportunity to use the Insta-Understando pill the great wizard Bernardo gave me...”
The pill now ingested, Mr. T listened to the wookies complain how he had broken into their home, eaten their food, and un-made their bed. Mr. T felt bad for offending the three proud creatures. So with one of the strokes of genius that came so easily to him, Mr. T gave each wookie one of his legendary T-necklaces. The wookies politely thanked him for the glittering goods, and Mr. T smiled.
“Anytime you need my help, just push on the T on those necklaces and I’ll come to your aid. And remember kids, stay in school, drink your milk, and don’t do drugs! Mr. T...away!” he shouted, soaring into the air.
Once they were sure that Mr. T couldn’t hear them, the wookies curled into a circle and stared at the gifts they had been given. The tallest wookie looked down to the other two.
“How much do you think we can get for these things on eBay?”
The End.
Common App Essay
When the typical kid thinks of literature, more often than not they’re going to think of some stuffy British bloke. A well-groomed moustache perched atop his face, a monocle crammed into his eye. Sitting in a plush leather chair before a roaring fireplace. And in his lap sits an ancient text, cover worn from years of use, its pages yellowed with age. With each turn of the page his gaze turns upwards and he thoughtfully stares off into space, eyes squinted, appreciating the subtle genius of the words and sentences with an quiet, “Hmmmm...”
So basically, literature isn’t viewed as the most exciting of things. It’d be much easier to turn the TV on, listen to the tasty riffs of Led Zeppelin, and allow the mind to turn to mush. And hey, I’m not going to say that wasn’t me a few years ago. Sure, I read a lot, but it was all meaningless pulp, little popular paperback novels, which littered the floor of my room, cast aside and forgotten as soon as the last page had been vanquished.
Then, through the proverbial entranceway, comes Catch-22. It’d be a lie to say I remember how I got a hold of it, my best recollections conjure me picking it up at a book sale. The origin is unimportant though, for when I haphazardly decided to read the book, all the way back in 8th grade, my mind was blown completely out of my skull. The first impression was of course, “Hey! This books has language and naked chicks!” But as the story moseyed its way along, as the goofy exterior gave way to the traumatic tale of the insanity of war, I fell in love with everything the book had to offer. Nary a word bore with me a complaint. Not a sentence was out of place.
But the most stunning thing about Catch-22 was, to me at least, that it was counted to be important literature. That it was adored and admired by a vast number of critics. To think that Joseph Heller’s little subversive masterpiece was considered to be spectacular, a shining beacon of excellence in a sea of lesser novels, made me think that maybe, just maybe, literature wasn’t for old fogies. That just maybe, it could be something worthwhile. And also, that real writing, writing that held with it weight and significance, not fancy covers and Bestsellers stickers, didn’t have to be about Victorian adultery or some other far-off intellectual topic.
This thought, that true writing wasn’t limited to an overly serious take on overly serious actions, inspired me. It was, if you will, the conception of my urge to write. From my reading of Catch-22 on, writing became more and more of a central role in my life. It went from becoming enjoyable in school, to a hobby, then branching out into journalism, at which point it became a passion, and most recently it’s served as my employment with the Hunterdon County Democrat. Though nothing I’ve done has even scratched the surface of Catch-22's greatness, I still proudly call myself a writer, it’s become the most integral part of my life. And it’s incredible to think that I can trace it all back to a single novel.
Philosophy
Once I was lost, once my soul was floating in a morose river of despair. And then, from yonder mountaintop, a shining god with a shimmering axe spoke to me in a voice transcending human pitches and notes. My eyes were spurting tears as I admired every perfection of his portly, bearded frame. And he said, “It doesn’t matter if it’s good...it only matters if it rocks.” Then, with a shrill whine from the axe, a few stomps of the wah-wah pedal, and the bending of a few strings, he vanished in an eruption of fog and laser lights. His departure, so soon after his majestic introduction, struck me as but another reason to add on to my sorrow and melancholy. But then I remembered his words, his two clauses combined by an ellipsis. It doesn’t matter if it’s good...it only matters if it rocks. Indeed, the fair god o’ rock’s words rang true that day, like the mighty beatings of Bonhamn, and his words opened up a door. Man was not placed upon this small clump of dirt for the purpose of worshiping imaginary bearded beings floating out in the cosmos, man was not tossed upon this spherical mound to purge himself of passion and live the life deemed acceptable by higher-ups. Man was placed upon this rock to rock, and the quality of said rocking matters not, as it is the sheer existence of the rock itself that brings soul and significance to the rock that the rocking is taking place on.
It all revolves around integrity. For to rock, one must have the most steadfast integrity available to mortal homo sapiens. You can’t truly rock if your only reason for rocking is to be on the cover of a magazine, get a promotion, hang some shiny plaque above the mantle. To do so is betrayal, simple falsehood. What is life is the actions your life is filled with aren’t being pulled off with all your heart held with them? A soul’s there for a purpose, it’s an inexhaustible dynamo with which you can fuel and re-fuel your life’s performance. It’s an all-purpose tool, serving not just as the energy source, but as a compass and guide as well. Do what you want to do, do what you enjoy, and everything else will fall into place. If your soul is telling you, in the words of Michael Strike, that, “I’d rather chew my leg off, than get trapped in this.” then the best bet is that you should probably stray from the situation.
It’s foolishness to believe in fate, that we’re all just bit characters in some infernal screenplay, but life has a way of working out. There is a higher power sitting out there, whether or not he’s a one-eyes raven-lover or an omnipresent force with a penchant for flooding is up to your preference, but the point is that there is indeed something of a safety net strung out below us. This net gives us the chance to express ourselves, to shout from mountaintops, or, if your style is one more subdued, to simply live life on your own terms. When your clock’s finished ticking, your heart near done beating, or your sand castle unguarded from bully-kicking, your last thoughts are going to revolve around a life full of actions. And inevitably, you’re going to question everything you’ve done. You’re going to wonder if you should have gone for the girl, taken the train to Alaska, or streaked across a town completely alone.
Regrets are the impending result of this. Those little pesky varmints, a plague to all those whose mind is cluttered with them, are like disgusting anchors, weighing down your soul and contentment. But if you danced to the beat of a different drummer, one as heftily skilled as say, Keith Moon, then what’s there to burden you? If you rocked, if you cared not for the outcome or quality, if you instead sat out, gave it the ‘ol college try, and let the chips fall where they may, who’s to say that you were in the wrong? Who’s to say that the random nature of existence just didn’t swing out of your favor for that brief moment? There’s nothing wrong, because there’s no failure in the first place. Only varying degrees of attempts and efforts. Most of life is already out of your hands.
Since despite what your mom and pop may have told you, whatever dreams your childhood enthusiasm and optimism may have implanted in your head, a whole lot of things are beyond your reach. Race, location of existence, the two most important contributing factors in the livelihood of future generations are out of their hands. If you’re blessed enough to be white, your life will automatically be better than what, 90% of the rest of the world? Maybe 80% if by some magic the world becomes a better place in a few years. If you’re in the US or Europe, you better be pretty freaking glad you aren’t in the wastelands of western China or all of Africa. But don’t wallow in self-condemnation or anything of the sort for having a far more priviledged life, which if you’re reading this you do, but instead simply take it as a fact of life. Some people have a better life than other people. The world is pre-arranged into castes, and despite what the American dream may have to say, there’s very little chance of ascending the social and economic ladder. Of course, there’s always plenty of opportunity to descend. But many times, your elevation isn’t determined by you.
Let’s say you’re a hard-working chap in the midwest, and your job is with a box company in Idaho. And let’s say you try your hardest at work, and let your social life and all suffer so that you can get that promotion, succeed in your profession. But then, your company’s CEO turned out to have sold false stocks, embezzled money, cheated taxes, all that jolly stuff that comes along with capitalism. So when you’re sitting in your humble abode jobless, wondering what you’re going to do when the next round of bills are going to come along and hide in your mailbox like a bear-trap, you’re going to feel regret. You lost you job. Boo-hoo. But look at the cause of it. Your employment didn’t depend on how well you preformed your duties. It depended on how much of a wretched scum your employer was. His actions determined your life’s path. It’s like when a leader announces war. Kings and Queens of the modern era never stomp about the battlefield, Presidents don’t take up arms and bring the fight to the enemy. They sit in their fancy clothes while younger folks take it upon themselves, or in drastic times are forced, to sacrifice their lives for an ideal.
So how is it going to work out for you? Are you going to take your entire life incredibly seriously? Bearing the burden of the world on your shoulders, trying to change everything and do everything in the 80-something years you’ll spend alive? Or are you going to simply enjoy what time you’ve been given, rig up a hammock once in a while, take a good book and a nice iced glass of lemonade, and relax and watch the trees sway and the clouds commute overhead. Life’s pretty simple. You’re born, you die, and many times no one’s the wiser. So why not have a ball. It doesn’t matter if it’s good, it doesn’t matter if you were some great leader of men or hero whose image will be inscribed upon a statue, it only matters if you lived it on your own terms, to the best of your own ability. Because that’s what it means to rock, and that’s what the man-god Jack Black hath proclaimed to the world in his poetic musings about life, death, double teams and karate.
Mr. T and the Three Wookies
Alright, so everyone knows Mr. T. Otherwise known as B.A Baracus, the muscle of the A-Team, what have you. What few people know about him is that not too long ago, while taking a break from pitying the fool, beating up bad guys, and scaring cancer into submission, he was a lumberjack. And one time, while lumber jacking in the tiny jungles of Canada, he found a cabin. Knocking on the door, he saw that there was no response. Now, Mr. T was very tired from chopping wood for Housing for the Homeless and Octagons for the Orphaned, and took it upon himself to tear the door from its hinges and step inside of a breather.
Little did Mr. T know that the house belonged to earth’s mightiest and most prideful of races, the Wookie. And not just any one wookie, bu three wookies. They had left their cabin early in the morning to hunt down some food, gather some berries, and pick out some new curtains at Linens and Things. Mister T tiptoed into the house, calling out, “Hello?” with every few steps, and it was obvious that there was no one home. All that hard work had made Mr. T very hungry, and on the table of the kitchen were three bowls of porridge that the wookies had completely forgotten about.
“Hmmm...” Mr. T mused, “The fools must have left in a hurry. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind if I had but a bit of their porridge. Remember, breakfast is the most important meal of the day!”
He then pulled out a big box of his hearty T-Flakes, but to his dismay, the box was empty.
“Confound it! Looks like I’ll have to eat porridge without the delicious all-grain and marshmallow mix of my T-Flakes!”
And so he did. Leaving a batch of bills on the table, Mr. T then went upstairs and took a nap in the biggest bed of the house.
While Mr. T snoozed on with sweet dreams of getting fools to quit their jibber-jabber and drinking his milk, the three Wookies came home to find their front door missing.
“Hwoor gnarl whuvch!” the tallest wookie said, and, from hereon out, the wookie-speak shall be translated.
“What villain hath the gall to encroach upon your most humble of abodes?” the tallest wookie said.
“Surely he is a character of much strength.” the second-tallest wookie theorized, looking at the gaping hole in the house.
“Such a trespass shall not occur without just retribution!” the smallest wookie announced.
“Yea! Verily!” the other two chorused.
“And look here!” wookie #2 exclaimed. “Our delicious wookie-porridge has been consumed! And in its place, these strange green papers sit upon our table!”
The wookies crowded around their kitchen table, and then heard a mighty snore come from upstairs.
“Hark! Our truant is in a golden slumber! We must ascend and discover his identity!” wookie #3 said.
And so the three wookies went upstairs to find Mr. T snoozing on a bed. His T-senses now tingling, Mr. T opened his eyes to see three giant furry beasts howling at him.
“It seems that they’re communicating...” Mr. T thought. “This is a perfect opportunity to use the Insta-Understando pill the great wizard Bernardo gave me...”
The pill now ingested, Mr. T listened to the wookies complain how he had broken into their home, eaten their food, and un-made their bed. Mr. T felt bad for offending the three proud creatures. So with one of the strokes of genius that came so easily to him, Mr. T gave each wookie one of his legendary T-necklaces. The wookies politely thanked him for the glittering goods, and Mr. T smiled.
“Anytime you need my help, just push on the T on those necklaces and I’ll come to your aid. And remember kids, stay in school, drink your milk, and don’t do drugs! Mr. T...away!” he shouted, soaring into the air.
Once they were sure that Mr. T couldn’t hear them, the wookies curled into a circle and stared at the gifts they had been given. The tallest wookie looked down to the other two.
“How much do you think we can get for these things on eBay?”
The End.