Indie Kid Quotes

It's the witching hour once more- When the Muse comes out to play. He calls me through that magic door- Where galaxies of worlds await!

If life is a movie most people would consider themselves the star of their own feature. Guys might imagine they're living some action adventure epic. Chicks maybe are in a rose-colored fantasy romance. And homosexuals are living la vida loca in a fabulous musical. Still others may take the indie approach and think of themselves as an anti-hero in a coming of age flick. Or a retro badass in an exploitation B movie. Or the cable man in a very steamy adult picture. Some people's lives are experimental student art films that don't make any sense. Some are screwball comedies. Others resemble a documentary, all serious and educational. A few lives achieve blockbuster status and are hailed as a tribute to the human spirit. Some gain a small following and enjoy cult status. And some never got off the ground due to insufficient funding. I don't know what my life is but I do know that I'm constantly squabbling with the director over creative control, throwing prima donna tantrums and pouting in my personal trailor when things don't go my way. Much of our lives is spent on marketing. Make-up, exercise, dieting, clothes, hair, money, charm, attitude, the strut, the pose, the Blue Steel look. We're like walking billboards advertising ourselves. A sneak peek of upcoming attractions. Meanwhile our actual production is in disarray--we're over budget, doing poorly at private test screenings and focus groups, creatively stagnant, morale low. So we're endlessly tinkering, touching up, editing, rewriting, tailoring ourselves to best suit a mass audience. There's like this studio executive in our heads telling us to cut certain things out, make it "lighter," give it a happy ending, and put some explosions in there too. Kids love explosions. And the uncompromising artist within protests: "But that's not life!" Thus the inner conflict of our movie life: To be a palatable crowd-pleaser catering to the mainstream... or something true to life no matter what they say?

Everyone's got something. Not even just us, everyone we know. (...) Except maybe the indie kids. They're probably the most normal ones out there.

The indie kids, huh? You've got them at your school, too. That group with the cool-geek haircuts and the charity shop clothes and names from the fifties. Nice enough, never mean, but always the ones who end up being the Chosen One when the vampires come calling or when the alien queen needs the Source of All Light or something. They're too cool to ever, ever do anything like go to prom or listen to music other than jazz while reading poetry. They've always got some story going on that they're heroes of. The rest of us just have to live here, hovering around the edges, left out of it all, for the most part.

From the Indies to the Andes in his undies And he never took a shave except on Mondays He didn't eat a thing but chocolate sundaes 'Twas a very, very daring thing to do

Kids or no kids, you are my life. That has never changed. Not when you struggled to get pregnant, not when you left me, and not when we lost the adoption. The thought of living in a world without you in it? It’s unimaginable. You are irreplaceable to me, Evie.

With the indie kids you have to remember this: they really think that what they do matters in some way. They reckon that history will care. (They don’t know that history will have other shit to be getting on with.) The indie kids figure that they’re passing on the torch or some fucking thing. That, just as they were influenced by someone—the Velvet Underground, Jonathan Richman, the Stooges, whoever—then, in the future, young bands will be influenced by them. Maybe so. Maybe a few thousand malnourished cockless freaks scattered around the globe will give a shit. So what? Real people don’t..

MacKaye never told anyone to get off the stage. Sometimes this encouraged a rapid and irreversible descent into chaos, but usually it just meant a steady stream of stage divers and kids who just wanted a few seconds of attention while they did some silly dance for their buddies. Anarchy, it seemed, could work.

I think it’s really important that we get you in to see someone who can be your sounding board when life seems unmanageable. We both know I’m not enough.” “You’re enough for me, Jenner. I love you.” “And while I realize I might not be enough for you, you will always be enough for me. Kids or no kids, you are my life. That has never changed. Not when you struggled to get pregnant, not when you left me, and not when we lost the adoption. The thought of living in a world without you in it? It’s unimaginable. You are irreplaceable to me, Evie.

We do a thing in America, which is to label people “workaholics” and tell them that work is ruining their lives. It’s such a widespread opinion that it seems like the premise to every indie movie is “Workaholic mom comes home to find that her entire family hates her. It’s not until she cuts back on work, smokes a little pot, and takes up ballroom dancing classes with her neglected husband that she realizes what is truly important in life. Not work.” Working parents have now eclipsed shady Russian-esque operatives as America’s most popular choice of movie villain. And to some degree, I understand why the trope exists. It probably resonates because most people in this country hate their jobs. The economies of entire countries like Turks and Caicos are banking on US citizens hating their jobs and wanting to get away from it all. And I understand that. But it’s a confusing message for kids. The reason I’m bringing this up is not to defend my status as someone who always works. (I swear I’m not that Tiger Mom lady! I don’t think you need to play piano for eleven hours with no meals! Or only watch historical movies, then write reports on them for me to read and grade!) It’s just that, the truth is, I have never, ever, ever met a highly confident and successful person who is not what a movie would call a “workaholic.” We can’t have it both ways, and children should know that. Because confidence is like respect; you have to earn it.

If this is true—if solitude is an important key to creativity—then we might all want to develop a taste for it. We’d want to teach our kids to work independently. We’d want to give employees plenty of privacy and autonomy. Yet increasingly we do just the opposite. We like to believe that we live in a grand age of creative individualism. We look back at the midcentury era in which the Berkeley researchers conducted their creativity studies, and feel superior. Unlike the starched-shirted conformists of the 1950s, we hang posters of Einstein on our walls, his tongue stuck out iconoclastically. We consume indie music and films, and generate our own online content. We “think different” (even if we got the idea from Apple Computer’s famous ad campaign). But the way we organize many of our most important institutions—our schools and our workplaces—tells a very different story. It’s the story of a contemporary phenomenon that I call the New Groupthink—a phenomenon that has the potential to stifle productivity at work and to deprive schoolchildren of the skills they’ll need to achieve excellence in an increasingly competitive world. The New Groupthink elevates teamwork above all else. It insists that creativity and intellectual achievement come from a gregarious place. It has many powerful advocates. “Innovation—the heart of the knowledge economy—is fundamentally social,” writes the prominent journalist Malcolm Gladwell. “None of us is as smart as all of us,” declares the organizational consultant Warren Bennis,

From the Introduction to Christopher Columbus and the Age of Exploration for Kids: In 1892, with the 400th anniversary of Christopher Columbus’s arrival in the West Indies, the world rushed to celebrate—or at least the United States did. In America, the glorifying of the Discoverer took its most lofty form in the Columbian Exposition, held in Chicago. In a nation with 63 million people, the fair attracted 24 million visitors. It cost as much to put on the extravaganza as it would to build the Panama Canal more than a decade later. The Columbian Exposition had but one purpose: to celebrate America’s magnificence—a result of Columbus’s brave and daring initial voyage, its surprising revelation, and its marvelous impact on world history. Clearly, in 1892, Christopher Columbus held center stage. Not so a hundred years later, in 1992, when the 500th, anniversary of the Discovery rolled around. No longer, it was said, should Columbus’s achievement be considered an unmixed blessing. Nor should the man, himself, be viewed with uncritical reverence. Columbus, many historians were now willing to concede, had numerous character flaws that resulted in misadventures and moral failure. The Admiral was seen as the first of many Europeans, who, in coming to the New World, would ravage the land, plunder its wealth, and eventually introduce African slavery. There was no Columbian Exposition in 1992. In the United States, Columbus was hardly mentioned at all. Christopher Columbus is possibly the most researched and written about individual in history. That is not surprising. No matter what one may think of Columbus, hero, heel, or both, the significance of what he did, however interpreted, is monumental. Christopher Columbus changed the world. For that, the Admiral of the Ocean Sea deserves to be known and explored. What follows, hopefully, will be your own act of discovery.

they weren’t kids anymore—they were pushing thirty; even more important, Lunsford had become a proud papa in 1990. “I had to say, ‘What are my primary commitments?’ ” he says. “Being in a seriously touring rock & roll band is difficult to do as a parent.

nerdier, more sensitive bunch who weren’t interested in perpetuating the malice and exclusion they had felt growing up. “People made me feel bad when I was a kid,” says Pedersen, “so why would I want to go out of my way to make people feel rotten, like somehow they don’t belong or they don’t cut the mustard?

Owen liked his afternoons with Grandma before he had to go home and do homework, eat his spinach, clean his room and other such booooring things.

Grandma's always seemed messier than his home where Dad constantly nagged him to put his stuff away and tidy up.

Owen and Bandit turned around slowly, very very slowly, more slowly than even a snail, and saw... the Great, Messy, Multicoloured, Monstrous, YARN MONSTER. Its eyes, nose and mouth were made of pompoms set deep into the mess of wild angora curls. Its limbs were coils of tough sinewy camelhair, and its fingers were whips of twine.

Indy Daily update—this is a few days late, but I gotta tell you something. I dry-humped your brother’s leg like a dog in heat.  Stevie, why aren’t you answering? AM I BLOCKED?! Stevie Renee Shay! You were the one who wanted me to live with him! Kidding. This isn’t your fault. I LOVE YOU!! Are you mad at me?

No one! That’s the point.” Alaya turned, eyes looking fierce again. “This forest is older than people can even comprehend. And the ocean around this island has always been for everyone. Humans are here to protect the earth and to live in peace with it. Not destroy it like Old Ugly has.

Determination filled her as she made up her mind. Her parents did this for a living, and she was going to prove in her own way that she could be useful on these trips. She would be a part of the family business and help find these artifacts that seemed to be disappearing into the mist.

The little boy snuggled closer into my chest, patting the cleavage visible from the neckline of my top. “Soft VeeVee.” Jenner’s amused voice said from behind us, “Watch it, buddy. Those are mine.” Ollie reared back to glare at my husband over my shoulder. “No! My VeeVee!” Peeking behind me, I saw Asher nudge Jenner with his shoulder. “Better watch out, man. I think you’ve got some real competition there. The kid’s a charmer, and it looks like he’s gunning for your girl.” “Can’t say I blame him. She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on.

I know this isn’t what you wanted.” “What?” I needed more clarification. “I know you wished I’d stayed gone.” “Are you fucking kidding me? How could you think that?” I rasped. “You’re the one who walked away, Evie.” “Because you gave up on us!” she cried. “I never gave up. I cared more about you than anything in my life. I still do. You have to know that.

Kids. They wreaked havoc on your sex life.

The popular definition of “independent movie” was changing. Instead of the cheap acts of insurrection that had spurred the movement in the early nineties, such as Clerks and El Mariachi, many of the new indies were glossy, classy, and thoroughly nana-pleasing. By the time Sundance 1999 rolled around, there was a well-worn playbook for turning a low-budget movie into a middlebrow success, one that Miramax had helped create: find a slightly outsidery tale of uplift with a famous face or two; hype up its festival cred and underdog charm; roll it out delicately across the country. Then a bunch of kids went and got lost in the woods, and the rules changed all over again.

I remember the summer of 1996, at a drunken wedding with one of my professors, a Hendrix-freak baby boomer, when he was complaining about the 'bullet-in-the-head rock and roll' the kids were listening to today, and he asked Renée, 'What does rock and roll have today that it didn't have in the sixties?' Renée said, ‘Tits’, which in retrospect strikes me as not a bad one-word off-the-dome answer at all. The nineties fad for indie rock overlapped precisely with the nineties fad for feminism. The idea of a pop culture that was pro-girl, or even just not anti-girl - that was a 1990s mainstream dream, rather than a 1980s or 2000s one, and it was real for a while. Music was not just part of it but leading the way - hard to believe, hard even to remember. But some of us do.

Everyone should have a kid. They really put things in perspective. I know a guy can get you one cheap.

Being indie means being artistic and finding your own eccentric identity. The name of the game for being an indie kid is to never admit you are one. If you do, it goes against your beliefs against labeling, thus making you a hypocrite.

Mario, you had fucking kids in that container. How the fuck could you sell little kids to pedophiles?

Mario, you had fucking kids in that container. How the fuck could you sell little kids to pedophiles?” He shrugs and snorts as if selling kids is no big deal to him.

Kids had never been on my radar. Hell, settling down, period, hadn’t been. Not until now. Not until her.

Ugh.” I groaned. “They should’ve had more kids. How did that become my problem?” “They got it perfect the first time. Why tempt fate?” “That was probably the cheesiest thing you’ve ever said. Please go back to the sexy Maddox I love before we go inside.

A year ago, you were alone. Now, you’ve got the family you always wanted with the woman who has always held your heart. It’s time to go out there and make your wife and kids proud.

Surprisingly good-looking kids considering who their father is,” he teased, trying to lighten the mood. Without hesitation, I replied, “That’s because they look like their mom.

It’s summertime. Finally, the snow is gone. The days are sunny and hot. Daddy says, “Let’s go to the cottage.” Mommy says, “Let’s go to the lake.” I just say, “Let’s go have fun.

Daddy builds a fire. He teaches me to roast hot dogs and marshmallows. Mommy looks for birds. She teaches me their names and calls.

Enjoying nature is special. Being at the lake is special. My family is the most special.

Liberty was the only small cat in the circus. Walking across the stage on her hind legs, ears back, head held high; she would let the children shake her paw and stroke her lovely orange fur.

She would even ride a scooter. and toot its horn. Everyone knew when Liberty was on the stage.

There was a tiger in the circus too. Her name was Tiger Princess.. Her act in the circus would be to balance on two boards, then leap over to a pool and have a swim. Princess loved to swim and splash.

In the immortal words of that random dude who gave Indiana Jones his hat —on the same day Indy coincidentally developed a fear of snakes, got his rad chin scar, and first snapped a bullwhip—' You lost today, kid. But that doesn't mean you have to like it.'" —Jack Sullivan

I am one with every season, Summer, Fall, Winter, and Spring. I am one with every experience that this lifetime can bring.

It is the practice of daydreaming. You need to find a quiet place and sit in a comfortable position, close your eyes, and imagine what you want as though it’s here and it’s yours. Imagine it until you can feel it and believe that it has already happened.

Papa tells me, “Be patient with yourself, one stitch at a time. By going too fast, you can miss the details of the process. It’s best to take your time and enjoy each moment.

When I was a kid, I hated the mask of adulthood. And I was threatened by it.

Will you just look at that!" She trailed a black crepe sleeve across the west. " Like those sunsets when I was a kid." "I remember. Volcano blew up, out there in the East Indies someplace, dust and ashes stayed aloft, all the colors changed, went on for years." ... "I thought sunsets were just always supposed to look like that. Every kid I knew. We all believed it for a while till they started getting back to ordinary again, then we figured it was our fault, something to do with growing up, maybe everything else was supposed to fade down that way, too...

I remember watching these kids getting up in the morning on my dorm floor, putting on a suit and tie and a briefcase, talking about this guy from California named Ronald Reagan and how he was going to be the next president,” says Mould. “And I’d be sitting there arguing with those fucks in speech class and poli sci and just hating that, thinking, ‘This is not acceptable behavior. This is not what we’re supposed to be doing with our late teens.

People made me feel bad when I was a kid,” says Pedersen, “so why would I want to go out of my way to make people feel rotten, like somehow they don’t belong or they don’t cut the mustard?

The movie played to a completely packed house and it was a smash. I was waiting with Bruce and Joe Lansdale up near the screen as the end credits rolled, ready for the filmmaker Q&A afterward, and something incredible happened that cemented it for me. Since the film ended on such a melancholy and downbeat note as Elvis closes his eyes at the finale, to raise the audience’s spirits and give them some hope, I inserted a line in the end credits that read, “Elvis returns in … BUBBA NOSFERATU—Curse of the She-Vampires.” As a kid I always got a thrill watching the James Bond movie end credits where they would announce the next 007 that way, so I figured why not try that with Elvis. As this announcement rolled on-screen, suddenly a guttural roar erupted from the crowd and they burst into riotous applause. Three hundred people wanted a sequel, like, immediately.

What were we, but kids with apartments and jobs anyway?