Oh Prince Adam You Stud

So I’m watching a little He-Man before class (nothing gets you ready to teach Early Modern literature like a barbarian with a big sword) and I had the thought: who decided dressing Prince Adam in pink and purple was a good idea?



I mean, maybe He-Man is supposed to represent a bear and twink in his various incarnations, but I think there’s enough there you could read him as at least bi-sexual. I mean with that much bulging masculinity can’t we imagine there’s enough to go around?



So I’m throwing this out there to the universe: what do ya’all think?

Oh yeah: and totally check this out!

I’ll Manifest You!

How can revising be so bloody hard?! I already wrote the stupid paper so making it sound good ought to be cake. And yet here I sit, sweating and itching no doubt getting an ulcer, completely unable to sound smart.

So let’s talk this through:

If: The Joker is cool.
And: I need to write a paper about Shakespeare.
Then: Regan from King Lear is evil,.
Therefore: Regan and the Joker…

Dammit!

Okay, I got it.

If: The Joker is evil
And: Regan is evil
Then: The Joker is like Regan

Right? Right?!

I mean, do brilliant people have this much trouble? Does brilliance just flow out of them onto a paper that makes the first editor who reads it go, “Oh! Brilliant! I must publish you!”

I mean did Foucault really ever sit in front of his typewriter and say, “I don’t want to?” Cause I’ve been sitting in my computer chair (which was really comfortable for hours 1 and 2 but as we head into hour 4 my bum is starting to ache a little) and have basically cursed, typed, deleted what I typed, cursed again, taken a shower, cursed, eaten a pot pie, typed, deleted what I typed, surfed the net, cursed one last time, and am now writing this masterful piece of literature.

Right about now you’re thinking: why am I reading this? I don’t have an answer for you. Bad things happen to good people all the time.

Why did I quit the tool factory? I mean the smell of coolant in 100 degree weather isn’t that bad is it? Making $18,000 a year is like…like…

*sigh*

If this were a John Hughes movie a hot guy would be knocking on my door right now and asking to make out with me. Then he would say something brilliant that would motivate me to finish writing, make out with me again after reading the finished product, and ask me to marry him. (At which point I would find out he was both hot and rich.) Seriously. The universe mocks me in ways even Nostradamus couldn’t have anticipated.

Alright. I’m going to do this. I’m going to write it. It will be brilliant. It will be published. And someone will pay me a lot of money very soon to teach at their college. And a hot guy will make out with me.

See, I know the secret. To make it manifest you need only threaten people with imminent bodily harm until they do what you want them to. Works every time.

This is the paper you’re looking for. This is the paper your looking for. Ewan McGregor’s in love with me. This is the paper you’re looking for…



I am Obi-Wan Kenobi. I am pensive and hot.

The Year of Mystery

I should be grading (shut up!) but we’re taking a small break to discuss the awesomeness of my health issues for a second. Mostly because I think everyone else deserves to know about the tremendousness of my year.

I think I’ll name it…The Year of Mystery. That has a nice ring to it don’t you think? Kind of like a pompous literary work about a woman, alone in the world, striving to discover the secrets of her great grandmother’s past before the ghost of her long lost great uncle kills the man she loves and forces her to bear the child of a fallen angel?

So anyway, it all started last year when I went for my yearly and a week later the dear doctor called me to tell me I had abnormal cells. And she kept saying “abnormal GLANDULAR cells” as if the fact that they were glandular instead of skin cells should mean something to me. After listening to her explain things and tell me I needed to come back for this and that test I finally said, “I don’t understand.” It wasn’t the most useful comment as I clearly understood that something was amiss and I was to come back for more tests, but I couldn’t understand why she kept saying “glandular” like you might say, oh I don’t know, cancer. The dear wonderful doctor then says, “I’m not saying you have cancer,” and I’m like whoa lady! I didn’t even know we had to say you weren’t saying that! Cause really, when the doctor starts comforting you, you know you’re in trouble.

So that was like February and long about May I FINALLY get in (which by the way, now that I understand that when they say GLANDULAR they aren’t looking for pre-cancerous cells--at least that was my understanding--I will not be talked down by the nurse who assured me there was no problem with waiting) and this other doctor kept saying GLANDULAR and I’m like, “WHAT THE HECK WITH THE GLANDULAR PEOPLE?!” Apparently that’s less common which means more possibility for trouble? I still don’t understand, but I share for all you girls out there who have a similar experience because I pretty much gave myself an aneurysm trying to figure all of this out.

Anyway, he asked me if I’d ever had a baby and I, not exactly in my right state of mind, snapped, “NO!” because I felt like he was calling my cervix fat. It’s not logical. Don’t question it. And when all was said and done I did not have cancer though I do have mutated cells (let the jokes begin) and every time I go back I get a nurse that doesn’t know what’s going on who is sure I DO have cancer or at least HPV and doesn’t believe me when I try to explain that we’ve done all of this before. It’s awesome.

This gloriousness is compounded by a twitchy shoulder blade (muscle relaxers for that bad boy) and a mystery rash. I blame the mystery rash on band camp since that’s when it started, but basically I scratch myself raw about every other night. The scabs on my hands, legs, arms, and chest are super sexy. Going back to the doctor she looks at me and says, “I have no idea what that is.” Exactly the words you want to hear when the only relief to be found is under ice packs that numb the majority of your skin.

So I’m recommended to a dermatologist who can’t get me in for two weeks and at this point I just don’t have any fight left in me. They ask what’s going on and I say “itchy, painful rash” and they say “Okay, see you in two weeks!” Because apparently when I say “itchy, painful rash” that actually translates to a mild discomfort, barely noticeable symptoms with no need for urgency.

And, AND I’m sunburned. So now I can’t tell what is itchy from the rash and what is itchy from the peeling sunburn and I’m hot ALL THE TIME. For reals all the time. Like basically I sit around and sweat which, when teaching, is absolutely fabulous.

So I’m scabbed, peeling, and sweaty with mutated cells. This could be the most attractive I’ve ever been in my life. Clearly it’s time for me to make my move on Gerard Butler or Paul Telfer because when my sweaty scabby self walks up they won’t even know how to contain their tremendous love.

Seriously. Two weeks. And I have some steroid cream which kinda works but not really. She put me on the oral roids last week and that made for an insatiable appetite and some really awesome mood swings. And my students wonder why I’m short tempered.

And (because this story isn’t epic enough) I caught one of them staring at the scab on my chest yesterday and it suddenly occurred to me it looked an awful lot like rug burn.

I’m a classy dame.

How Do I Tell You You’re A Bad Person?

Now I’m in a writing mood but the question is certainly what to write about? There’s Paul Telfer, my new love:



And there is the really, really awful miniseries that I might have watched last night with my wife because she appreciates Mr. Telfer as well. He was Hercules but he wasn’t the son of Zeus, but he was super strong, but Hera was suddenly a fertility goddess, and the Ancient Greeks wore Roman Armor. Don’t ask. It was just all bad.

But honestly, what’s really on my mind is what to do when someone close to you does something incredibly offensive, even if only by proxy. I mean, obviously you ask them nicely and privately if they would cease the offensive behavior: excuse me Uncle Shamus, would you mind not being a racist bastard in my presence? But what if there is the chance Uncle Shamus won’t? What if he and Cousin Elbert decide that the joke is worth more than how you feel about it and you just need to get a better sense of humor?

You see my dilemma. Compound that with family politics, what is Uncle Shamus and Cousin Elbert’s standing in the family in comparison to yours, and their general sensitivity (which can’t be much if they make the joke in the first place) and you have yourself in a pickle. Of course, I don’t believe that not saying anything is the right choice either: you come across enough drunk old white guys in bars that you have to listen to silently while secretly plotting escape--it just isn’t cricket to have to put up with it in your family too.

And don’t we have a responsibility to those we love not to let them be douche bags? Maybe we don’t; maybe it’s more important to look the other way and stifle your anger, but when someone does something really egregious, makes a gay joke in front of the gay kid, makes a fat joke in front of the fat kid, makes a racist joke in front of well, anybody, don’t we have an ethical obligation to find someone way to point out the inappropriateness of the situation?

And it isn’t like all of you are going to get along all the time, or even that you should speak up at every offense, but isn’t there a line that shouldn’t be crossed? Isn’t there some level of bigotry or insensitivity that goes too far?

Honestly it’s the same part of me that wouldn’t stand down when my friend got beat up in 8th grade. There were, like, 14 of us and three of them and these stupid bullies start picking on our friend. I looked at everyone standing to the side while said friend got beat up and all of a sudden I was charging. I tried to get everyone else to join in, protect our friend, but no way in hell was I going to let him get beat up. So I shoved the dude on top of my friend down and did my best to protect. I wasn’t as successful as I wanted to be, my fist never made contact with anyone’s face for example, and I still don’t feel our friend was appropriately protected (cause he wasn’t) but I just can’t stay quiet when people do wrong things. Making fun of the fat chick, making fun of the kid with a speech problem, picking on the little guy--these are all wrong things.

And I know, not everyone feels this way. Some people who were bullied grow up to be bullies, but isn’t that just tragic? To demand someone’s obsequiousness through force in order to prop up seething self hate is simply unacceptable. And/or, to make fun of others because it improves the way one feels about themselves is also unacceptable. And I’m no saint; goodness knows I’ve secretly mocked more than a few people in my time, but I work really hard not to cross the lines that matter. I also cultivate friends who call me on it when I flirt with actual meanness.

I’m not going to say something like “mean people suck” cause sometimes mean people are really, really funny, but bullies. I really, really hate bullies. Always have. It’s just reprehensible. You don’t pick on people. You don’t tease people. You absolutely never ever make somebody cry. But if more people had a self-awareness I suppose we wouldn’t be debating whether that preacher should or should not burn the Qu’ran.

See? Isn’t there someone in his family who could pull him aside and say, “this is unacceptable?”

SupernaturalMasochism.net

I know, it’s been awhile. I would make up some awesome excuse like depression, but that just seems entirely too cliché. Instead I would like to inaugurate my new year of school with a tribute to my new remembered worst loves ever. Ladies and gentlemen I give you:

Jareth, the Goblin King



It’s wrong. I’m not going to defend it. Especially when one considers that his threats to “be cruel” in no way resemble a pledge to love, honor, and protect. And yet I don’t think it sounds like such a bad idea. Honestly, look in those dual colored eyes and tell me you could resist.



I don’t know what it is; his promise to turn her brother into a goblin? The thinly veiled threat of his eyes to love her in a way that leads to the emergency room? Those shiny, shiny balls? It’s a mystery. I mean, when compared to my other big crush from my childhood Jareth is a rockstar.

Hello Darkness my old friend…



This guy is actually the devil. And as I spent some time revisiting old childhood movies I was astounded to see I hadn’t grown out of my crush on him. The devil is not supposed to be sexy guys; the part where he steals soul? That should be a deal breaker. But there is the line in the movie where he asks her to be free and to give into her temptations--for a girl with impulse control issues that’s a little bit like chubby girl crack.

And I know I’ve discussed these two characters before but this round of nostalgia has seemed particularly sketchy. I think because for the first time ever I was tempted to say the words out loud, “I wish the goblin king…” No! I’m not going to say it! Do I look stupid?

But that doesn’t mean the idea doesn’t appeal. I’m just saying, if the sight of David Bowie in eyeshadow and stretchy pants doesn’t start your engine you might want to check the oil. Why isn’t there a match.com for girls who seek partners that may or may not kill them? We could call it supernaturalmasochism.net. I think it would catch on. The problem, of course, is that all those killer supernatural dudes don’t have a problem getting dates--we could promise a hardier breed of girl, though. Someone who promises to survive the first full moon. The tag line could be something like: Sure we’re chubby, but we’re way harder to kill.

I like it. That’s a dating service that could promise results!

What Wouldn’t I Do For My Brother?

We need something happy to read and I was going to get this done before going to see Splice but there is no time like the present!

I recently rewatched all of Firefly with my hetero-life mate and a funny thing happened along the way. Firefly for those of you that don’t know is a brilliant show created by Joss Whedon that Fox murdered in its sleep. (I hate you sometimes Fox. For reals.) This space western revolved around a crew of unlawful miscreants and their marvelous misadventures. Recipe for awesomeness is what I like to call it.

Two of the characters on the show, though, are a brother and a sister. The first time I watched it I wasn’t particularly interested in them because he’s kind of a whiner and she’s the kind of crazy you read about, but this time through I found myself significantly more connected to their story.

River Tam is a genius (just like me) and the government kidnaps her, more or less, and experiments on her brain. (Not so much like me.) Simon, her brother, spends his fortune to save her and gives up everything to go on the lamb and keep her safe. Much like the Sam and Frodo moment watching these episodes through again all of a sudden--I got it. Like almost started crying got it. (I’m a hormonal woman. Don’t judge me. I’ll kill you.)

But here’s the thing: watching Simon and River try to run from the authorities, deal with River’s mind being almost completely destroyed, and never knowing where they are going to be or how they are going to survive I turned to my friend and said: “You know what? If I had to give up everything to save my brother and keep him safe it wouldn’t even be a question.” And the funny thing is I’m being truthful.

Sometimes you look at a situation and you think, I hope I would react in such and such a way. But sometimes, not often but sometimes, you look at a situation and you absolutely know what you would do. It’s not a theory or a question; you know what you would do because there is literally no other option. Watching Firefly through this time I realized that if anyone messed with my brother’s welfare I would do whatever I had to--no question. My life, my degrees, everything wouldn’t matter at all if he was suffering and I could stop it.

Now, there are the very real problems that I am neither a super spy nor sneaky and so any attempt to save him might very well result in both of our deaths, but I would try gosh darn it! I would just higher someone else to do the sneaky parts. It’s all about anticipating your weaknesses and planning for them.

And finally…

How about Gina Torres for Wonder Woman?! She plays Zoe in the show, “the soldier”, and she would be perfect! Look at this picture!



We’ve found our woman. Of course, there will never be a script or a movie. But it’s good to know we’ve got the thing cast.

The Bad Scriptwriting Gene Spliced With The Offensive Gene = Splice!

I just saw Splice. Mostly I’m irritated because it managed to be offensive in ways I didn’t anticipate. When you see a movie like this you expect a certain level of badness. I mean, it’s Splice after all. But when the movie manages to not only be bad but also offensive I find a low and steady heartburn settling in. How about we put these in order of Least Offensive to Most Offensive?

10. The Female Scientist is Raised by an Abusive Feminist? Mother

All you really know from the movie is that Elsa’s mom was some horrible monster. You see a barren room covered in bird crap and it’s revealed that her mother kept her in squalor for most of her childhood. What tidbits of dialog are used to convey just how much of a monster her mother was? Elsa was denied playing with Barbies and not allowed to wear makeup because it was “degrading.” Her response: Who doesn’t want to be degraded from time to time? I know I shoot for trollop every Saturday night.

9. The Biochemists are Completely Unable to Predict the Characteristics of Their Creations

This one isn’t so much offensive as it is stupid. Apparently these people are splicing hundreds or thousands of animals together and have no idea what kind of characteristics will be manifested? Because what you really want to do is create a life form with no idea of its capabilities?

8. Raising a Spliced Part Human Creature is a Turn On

Our illustrious male hero travels the moving character arc from wanting to kill the monster to having sex with it. Because apparently in men that’s the natural progression. I hate my child. I love my child. I want to have sex with my child. Did you just throw up in your mouth too?

7. Who Needs a Plot When You Have Freud?

Along the lines of the previous one, instead of providing motivation, plot, or really any narrative at all, the screenwriters figured the Electra/Oedipal Complexes were all the explanation anyone needed for why people behaved as they did. It was as if scientific explanation was unnecessary because we could all agree that if we spliced human DNA with animal DNA not only would the human characteristics dominate, but also the aggressive tendencies would only manifest when the creature wanted to kill one parent and sleep with the other. Bad science people. Very, very bad science.

6. The Path of All Evolution is From Female to Male

This one is one of my personal favorites. The spliced creatures start out female, but then “evolve” into males. Cause that’s not loaded at all. And correct me if I’m wrong but don’t all fetuses start out female before the testosterone kicks in? It’s like we’re all infantile until we finally grow our very own penises. Somebody didn’t think that one through.

5. The Creature “Dren” Couldn’t Speak Until She Became a He

That’s right. No human vocal abilities until she “evolves.” Sitting in the theatre I was like, “really?” Did you really just do that? I mean, taken by itself--not such a big deal. Taken with everything else on this list? Bad idea. Bad, bad, BAD idea.

4. Dren Culminates Sex With Murder

Because clearly every animalistic female kills the male after sleeping with him. Again, if this were Species okay--cause that’s a movie about a scary female monster thingy. But this is Spliced. Who needs a new plot though? Especially when it is so much easier to translate her monstrosity through her man-killing attitudes. This one could actually go higher up the list because by itself you wouldn’t think about it. After two hours of whatever this movie was and the very, very disturbing sex scene between “dad” and “daughter” I’m just wishing I could have the last two hours of my life back.

3. It’s An Anime

Anime can be exceptionally sketchy sometimes. Usually there are monsters and inappropriate sex acts and unethical decisions. As I’m watching this movie I thought “I thought this was a horror movie.” But it wasn’t. Even though they marketed it as a horror movie, what it actually was, was an anime--an argument bolstered by all the anime art throughout. I’m offended by this mostly because you can’t lure someone in with promises of The Alamo and give them the Red Shoe Diaries instead. Uncool people. Very uncool.

2. After Dren Becomes Male He Rapes Elsa

Yeah. There was no need for this to happen. The threat of it was freaky enough, but to carry it through was both ridiculous and offensive. Elsa lives but her punishment is to be raped by her creation? Because as soon as this thing becomes a male it immediately wants to have sex with its mother? And to top it all off…

1. Else is Impregnated by Dren

Not only does Dren switch from having female organs to male organs in under an hour, apparently she also switches from ovaries to viable sperm AND is close enough to human to procreate? And Elsa’s punishment is to carry this monstrosity to term because why? She’s a monster? She deserves what she gets? It’s funny when the sassy, crazy, scientist lady gets put in her place?

ARE YOU KIDDING ME WITH THIS?!

Summation: Do not go see this movie. At best you’ll be bored. At worst you’ll have indigestion. It’s so not worth it.

Star Wars in Concert!



By all that is good in holy in this universe, Star Wars in Concert was quite possibly the coolest thing I have ever seen live. That is a huge claim to make I am aware; I’ve been blessed with some pretty cool performances in my life, but Star Wars in Concert--in the same room as Anthony Daniels (CP30 for all of you non-geeks out there)--is like stumbling upon the promise land when you didn’t even know you were looking. I mean, it feels like I’ve been wandering the desert for about 40 years so I guess it is about time, but it was just so awesome!

I’m going to geek out now. Geek out in ways that non-geeks might find both disturbing and legitimately fear-inducing.

I cried before the Star Wars theme was done being played. That’s right. Big, wet tears pouring down my face smudging my makeup. Why? Because I should have been playing those gosh darned timpani. I was born to play those timpani! But I also cried because the 13 year old inside of me that (possibly maybe) lay on her bed upset, listening to Star Wars music wishing it were real, has never gone entirely away. I still sometimes (though I cannot confirm nor deny) try to use the force when I’m really, really bored.

You can judge. I saw Star Wars in Concert and you didn’t. I win.

But here’s the thing: Star Wars is part of my soul. No, I’m not being hyperbolic here. I grew up watching those movies over and over and over again. I distinctly remember one summer when my dad would give $2 and tell me to ride my bike to the video store and rent two movies. I would, inevitably, come home with Star Wars and Return of the Jedi. Why he continued to let me pick the movies I will never understand, but I have, literally, never gotten sick of these movies. My notions of morality and heroism were shaped by these movies. My desire to be a musician was fueled in no small part by the music.

I still giggle every time, every time, Luke Skywalker jumps off the plank in ROTJ, spins around in mid-air and jumps back up. Seriously, Jabba the Hutt is ordering his death, Luke gives R2-D2 the nod, the music tenses, then Luke jumps! Spins! Somersaults! It’s the sort of exciting most people need mind-altering drugs to experience. Me? I got Star Wars.

But a person can’t live their life with that amount of geek all over the place or said person would never get a job, a boyfriend with a job, or shower regularly. Trust me. I went on the gk2gk dates. This I know. So you tamp it down, put it away. Grow up and leave your dreams of being a Jedi behind in favor of homework, bills, and responsibility. You don’t really talk about it all that much, and you might even convince yourself that you don’t care that much. It’s something you love, sure, but love in the way you love all nostalgic things of your childhood.

But sometimes--sometimes you get to find Neverland all over again. That’s what Star Wars in Concert was like.

I remembered just how much I like these movies. All 6 of them. (Yeah, I said it.) I remembered just how good the music is. I remembered just how much of what makes me happy is personified in this story. All concerts should be performed this way. The Star Wars Symphony plays while a giant screen plays scenes from the movies and Anthony Daniels narrates. They retell the story through music, lights, and clips. It’s fan-freaking-tastic!

And I also have high hopes that after seeing this a whole group of people that just didn’t get it when they watched episodes 1-3 will catch on. I’m not going to defend them whole, clearly there are parts that are indefensible, but episodes 1-3 are a tragedy, not an adventure story. And episodes 1-3 change the focus of the story from Luke to Anakin/Vader. Once 1-3 came out Star Wars wasn’t about Luke anymore; it was about Vader’s redemption. People can still hate on it, but they should at least understand what they’re hating instead of accusing it of “not being Star Wars.”

Right or wrong (and, like I said, I won’t disagree that Mr. Lucas had some wrong) it’s a really good story. I mean--it’s a really good story. I’m so glad I got to see this. I wasn’t sure I wanted to because I think I was afraid I wouldn’t really care that much. I think I was afraid that the 13 year old had actually died. How wonderful to discover she’s still very much alive, and very much a geek, just waiting for the right opportunity to pop out once again.

Star Wars healed my black little heart!

Wait for it…

Wait for it…

May the force be with you.

McSteamy = McBadforme

For those of you perplexed by my title it is a reference to Grey’s Anatomy. I have recently become a fan (read: rabidly addicted) of this show and, having reached season 3, I am now blessed with regular appearances by McSteamy.

I mean…wow. Just…wow.

But despite the wow factor this character is bad news. We’re talking sleeps with everybody, just looking for a girl to save him, but can’t help but be a manwhore bad news. This is the guy that promises to never cheat on you again and he really, really means it--until he just can’t stop himself. Serial cheater this one.

Now, with that being said I’m not quite as ashamed of my new found McSteamy love as, oh say, Guy of Gisborne--at least McSteamy isn’t leaving his newborn child to die in the woods as bait for Robin Hood. But, here I am, a little bored, avoiding work, hanging out at my parents’ house watching my tv show and all of a sudden IT was there. No--not the clown. Grey’s Anatomy did not suddenly sprout fangs and attempt to pull me down to the deadlights. Or it did and I just never realized it; my integrity and pride does seem to be missing of late, but I think that’s just a side effect of the show.

No--there on my father’s shiny new HD TV Flatscreen in full crystal clear color was IT. The look. The look that says, “Hey baby, I know I’m bad news, but I’m just so hurt deep, deep down and I really, really want you to be the woman to heal me. Fix my broken heart; teach me how to love. I want to love you. Let me love you. I promise I’ve never felt like this before.”

You know the look I’m talking about. You know exactly that look. IT. No matter how old we are, no matter where we grew up, no matter how strong we think we are none of us is a match for IT. You can’t fight IT. You can’t withstand the full force of that broken, pining, beautiful please-love-me-pain even if you long since died inside and now pump your dead shriveled heart through sheer force of hate.

McSteamy gave that look and suddenly an avid appreciation for his steaminess turned into something much, much more intense. I (possibly) said out loud, “Oh! He’s just so broken!”

Me. I. I said that. (Possibly.)

I mean what is wrong with me?! What is it about broken, destructive, please-love-me faces that makes me want to forgive them? This is why if any of my fantasies came true it would be a murder mystery and not a romance novel. I don’t want the Cowboy or the Veggie Vampire. I want the psychopath who lives under the Opera and has a thing for strangulation. I want the husband whose so intense he may or may not lock me in the attic with his first wife while attempting to marry a third. I want the young jedi knight who is just so passionate he can’t help but kill all the little jedi babies.

Because clearly someone who commits genocide is excellent marriage material. (In my defense the attraction to that last one mostly stops after he loses all his limbs and gets burned by lava--that’s something, right?)

I’m just so incredibly screwed. My happy ending is not getting my happy ending so that I have a hope of living past the age of thirty-five.

But it’s not my fault. Isn’t McSteamy a step up at least? Isn’t it an improvement that I worked my way up from sociopaths to serial cheaters? At least the cheaters won’t kill me right? Right?!

DAMN YOU GREY’S!!! TV on DVD will be the death of me.

Dissertation Wars: An Intermission

Oh my goodness--the introduction is up and running kids. It’s crazy! It’s neat! It’s everything your mother warned you about when she said don’t take candy from strangers!

I live in perpetual fear that it also marks my inability to graduate. NGES strikes again. (That’s Not Good Enough Syndrome for those of you who forgot.)

But! I’m smart enough. I’m clever enough. And gosh darn it people are scared of me. Wait…(I also may, or may not, be clinically insane.)

Serially--the thing is as a grad student, or anyone that reads a lot of hoity-toity books, you read a lot of people using big words, sounding important, and acting for all the world like they have done something brilliant. You accept it because, let’s be honest, they are a tenured professor and you…you’re a lone grad student hoping no one notices you’re a crazy anarchist feminist who (not so) secretly believes in superheroes.

Short digression: I honestly have grad school PTSD. I carry constant anxiety that my professors are going to drunkenly email me and accuse of my wasting their time, being egotistical, and otherwise blackening the space-time continuum around me. I wonder if this anxiety will ever go away or if I will respond to every email from a person in charge with a wince, an elevated heartbeat, and a tentative click of the mouse? I would say it’s my NGES, but my NGES is due, in part, to my PTSD.

At what point should someone seek professional help?

End digression.

The thing is I had a bit of a health scare and my future was in pretty serious question (believe me, I wish I were being hyperbolic). Suddenly I was all like, “Can I get this done? If everything goes south can I finish this thing before I run out of time?” Somewhere in my mind the impulse to get the thing written overwhelmed the fear that I would fail and I just knew I had to start writing immediately (again, I wish I were making this up).

I had a friggin’ existential out-of-body experience. Another sign professional help is in order?

I didn’t even know I could sit and pontificate for pages on end, but I wrote twenty pages (single spaced) without citing anybody in about ten hours. For you non-writers out there that is C.R.A.Z.Y. That’s like Batman smiling. It just doesn’t happen.

But the meth addict in my brain (metaphoric not literal) that kept whispering “you aren’t smart enough,” disappeared and, for better or worse (please don’t let it be worse) I managed to put what I was thinking into logical, coherent order. I really, really hope someone else hasn’t already done this and I just missed their book.

Right after I finished I immediately thought, I can’t believe you did that. You are sooooo not smart enough to act that confident. But I think I need to stop that behavior. I think at some point, if you are going to write a gosh darned dissertation, graduate with a PhD and make your brother refer to you as “Doctor” for the rest of your natural lives you have to believe--deep, deep down in the place where you think superpowers are real but don’t tell anybody--that you are smart enough and anyone that doesn’t agree with you just doesn’t get it.

I mean, what other option is there?

To do what we do (academics that is) you have to believe and have faith, despite all evidence to the contrary, that the dissertation you write will someday be a book. And that book, even if it only sells 100 copies, will change the world. I mean seriously. Because if you don’t believe that then all the heartburn, the headaches, the eye twitches (those are my favorite as they increase my attractiveness tenfold) and mental breakdowns are pointless.

I refuse to believe that the irreparable mental damage I have done to myself over the last five years has been pointless.

We’re talking M. Night Shyamalan--Lady in the Water quality arrogance. Or…self-confidence. I like self-confidence better. Sounds more positive.

So we’ve finally had our first “aha!” moment. I credit this silly blog and all you poor sods who get suckered into reading it. Afterall, I’ve been using the internet to pretend my thoughts are brilliant and worthwhile for years.

Cockroach War 2010: The Cockroach Heard ‘Round My Room

They always wait until you’re most vulnerable. That makes the most sense, strategically. Clearly, if you want to plan an attack that will do the most damage, you are best off waiting until your enemy is heeding the call of nature.

It’s what I would do to these little bastards if I could ever find where they sleep.

There I am, getting ready for bed doing getting ready for bed things, when I hear what sounds like someone slithering into my room. Little did I know it wasn’t someone, but something. Turning from the window I see on my wall a GIANORMOUS cockroach. Just hanging out. Saying “hi.”

Taunting me.

Tempting me.

Thwarting me.

Stealthily I go into my closet for my greatest weapon--Shocaliber; its name translated from the Old Language means “Bane of all Things that Creep and Crawl into my Bedroom Uninvited.“ So armed I prepared myself for the attack. This was a big boy--he was going to crunch a lot. There was a high splatter factor.

I reared back and swung, but as Shocaliber came down the monster leapt off the wall--I was unsure for a moment if he had hid his wings from me under camouflage, such a tactical mistake could cost me my life--when gravity over took it and he disappeared into the dark of bags, papers, and a small plastic container that lay below his former position.

He was under deep cover now--I was going to have to flush him out. But I was up to the task, if for no other reason than the impossibility of my sleeping until he was dead and flushed. I pulled out the first bag and he popped out onto the carpet, but quickly scrambled along the woodwork before I could strike at him.

Next I pulled out the plastic container providing haven; I would offer no quarter, no compromise. He knew that when he twitched at me with his mocking antennae from my wall. There he was, trying to blend into my eggshell carpet and eggshell walls with his pulsating brown and black body. I swung and missed! He shoved himself between the carpet and the woodwork and I could see the gap he was scurrying for. If he reached that gap he would escape me! He would return to this colony of evil and speak of his triumph over ale and women.

All the time mocking me with his existence.

Alas, I was not quick enough. I have sealed his entry way into my room with duct tape and black magic, but I know it won’t be enough. It’s never enough. They always find a way in--I will never be safe. I will never be secure. I must sleep with one eye open, my weapon at the ready. When my students ask why I’ve grown haggard and sallow I won’t be able to make them understand. You can never understand the horrors of battle unless you’ve lived them.

The buds of spring and the warmth of summer herald no happiness for me. As Mother Gaia travels on her elliptic the change of seasons brings only sneezes to my nose and shadows to my eyes. While the rest of life is rejoicing and rejuvenated by the return of crops and the blessings of wild flowers I am fighting for my very soul against those creatures that would invade my bedroom and my bathroom--the inner most sacred sanctums of my existence.

He escaped me this eve, but I will not forget his twitchy appendages and bulbous body. I will have my revenge.

I WILL WIN THIS WAR!

Dissertation Episode 5: Mucking Myth Mucker Mythy Myth-Myth
Or
Aaaaahhhhh!!!! I Broke My Brain

I don’t actually have anything to say--no axe to grind, no soapbox from which I will preach. Indeed my normally bounteous supply of rage lies cold and still like a dead volcano. Rather, I thought I would muddle through all the stuff on myth I have been reading and try to make some sense out of it.

That’s a great opening eh? I know THAT is precisely the sort of introduction that makes a person want to keep reading. (Lack of rage does not denote lack of sarcasm.)

In all honesty, though, I feel like I broke myself. I fear I am literally, actually, and truthfully (do you like how I used 3 words that mean the same thing?) not smart enough to do what I want to do. It’s kind of hard to tell because I’ve never actually applied myself wholly to something and seen just what my limits are--hell of a time to start, huh?

Even in music, certainly the only activity I devoted any serious amount of concentration to prior to grad school, I was only ever interested in being good enough. My naturally competitive nature (did you know I was stubborn and like to win? Apparently everyone has known but me) meant that I worked to be the “best” amongst the people around me, but being all I could be (thank you Army) was a non-issue. Who cared how good I could be? All that mattered was that I knew I was good.

This is, by the by, precisely the sort of thinking that led to a copious amount of B’s and not a few C’s on my report cards over the years. I’ve just never been interested in investing a lot of worry in a job that could be accomplished satisfactorily with little fuss.

But now, of course, I’m engaged in this process of active self-realization, education, and improvement. In other words, I am consciously trying to be the best thinker, et. al. that I can be. It’s incredibly over-rated and I highly recommend you pursue other venues of excitement. But active self-realization, especially this whole dissertation process, means that if I accept “good enough” then I will never know what I am capable of. I will never feel like I found the boundaries of my abilities.

At some point if you want to do something that matters you have to suck it up and try, regardless of the almost assured result of failure.

And so, having no shortage of ego, I embarked on my dissertation with lofty hopes and high goals of “saying something that mattered.” It’s really a good thing I was as concrete as possible in my goal-setting by the way. I have revised this goal, in no small part thanks to my awesome (AWESOME) advisor to “saying something that matters to me” and that small revision has allowed me to move forward whereas before I had the momentum of a beached whale.

But…(why is there always a but?) saying something that matters to me means figuring out what matters to me. Furthermore, due to my need to be right (oh shut up) I want everyone else to agree that what matters to me matters to them. And finally (isn’t it impressive I can lay out my neurosis like this in shopping list form?) because I am, at heart, a performer I want them to like agreeing with me; I want them to be entertained.

Why am I not humble, shy, and retiring? WHY?! In answer to that I’m going to go with the current obesity epidemic--it’s hard to fade into the background when you’re the size of a small dump truck. There’s one for the insurance companies: obesity made me egotistical.

But I digress. All of this rambling is to the larger point that I have been reading books of myths, books on the history of myth, books on the nature of myth, books on archetypes, and books on books about things that might possibly have contributed to the possible construction of social matrixes which in turn reproduce the myths of pre-history all the while claiming to be removing myth resulting in the myth of mythlessness…

You see why my brain is broken?

I have been reading these things and highlighting and note taking and composing and idea garnering and I can’t help but think to myself: Self, you’re no dummy. You can see the connections. You can see how things are interrelated. But are you really smart enough to make the argument yourself? Do you really have what it takes to put all of this into conversation with itself and make a larger overarching point that is valid and interesting?

And my self replies: I want a cookie.

This is my life people. By the power of Grayskull someone please find me a wealthy husband to support me and a vanilla cake with chocolate frosting.

Not necessarily in that order.

Dissertation Episode 4: I Put My Collective Fist Into the Face of the Collective Unconscious or Psychoanalyze THIS!

I hate psychoanalysis. I hate it; I hate it; I hate it. I think it’s dumb; I think it’s sexist. I think I’ve read way to much psychoanalysis and stuff about psychoanalysis in the last week.

But honestly, let’s just look at this logically for a moment. The Oedipus complex (based on Oedipus) rests on the belief that Oedipus who killed his father and slept with his mother secretly wanted to both kill his father and sleep with his mother. The problems with this analysis are twofold: 1) there is no textual evidence that Oedipus wanted and/or knew that Jocasta and Laius were his parents; 2) Oedipus is not a real person; he’s a textual character. Therefore, to base an entire theory on what he “secretly wanted” assumes that he has a psyche to secretly want something.

I like to believe that the Batman secretly wants me in his bed, but probably if I based an entire psychology on that belief I would not be allowed to live an unsupervised life around sharp objects and children.

But hey, Freud gave us the unconscious and dreams and all sorts of good stuff and I will admit that. His writings on civilization in particular are interesting. That being said I read a little Jung yesterday and I thought, “I like myth. I like mythy stuff. I should like Jung.” Yeah. As is said in the land I hale from: “whoopsie-doo.”

Jung’s collective unconscious, kind of a neat idea if your twelve playing D&D, is based on the universalist idea of humanity. Well, what’s wrong with this universal idea you ask? The universal human is male, white, educated, heterosexual, and reasonably wealthy. Cause that is SO universal. I know that deep inside me, the place from which all my morals, courage, and independence arises, lives a wealthy, educated, heterosexual, white man. (Really, doesn’t that explain so much of my behavior?)

So here I am, reading Jung, screaming (SCREAMING) out loud and then crying deep inside because there was no one to understand my rage and pain. Apparently when you read Jung, no one can hear you scream. Not only is this collective unconscious formulated from a purely male perspective, but one of the archetypes, the anima, is that damned female influence that exists particularly to test, uplift, defeat, and perplex men.

And I should digress for just a minute: I’m at a place here where I’m not sure that I believe there is an inherent male or female perspective--I think I’m moving into a realm where we all just have “perspectives” that have been shaped by our lives and environments and, because society is gendered, we learn to gender those perspectives. Probably well over half of the ten people reading this are cursing at me now, but for the two or three that might take issue with my use of “male perspective” I wanted to throw that in. When I say male perspective what I mean is a perspective coming from a person that is classically close-minded and unaware of their biases in favor of stereotypical masculine traits over stereotypical feminine traits.

No doubt someone will still hate me for that definition but whatever. I’m a feminist. My rage is infinite.

Back to psychoanalysis, however…

I think myth is really interesting and I think the same stories appearing in cultures all over the world in all different time periods is equally interesting. I love this tactile proof we have that societies, despite some fairly major differences, all evolve in similar ways or at least with similar mythic constructions. However, once you start making claims about a “universal humanism” (a term that is fairly, if not certainly, indefinable) then lines get drawn between what is natural and unnatural, human and inhuman, etc. etc. This is how witches get burned, crusades and jihads undertaken, and citizens denied equal rights due to their sexuality, race, and gender.

When we say “universal humanism” what we mean is “how I imagine a utopist version of the human to be” and what we imagine the perfect human to be is incredibly subjective dependent not a little on our religious, social, and economic backgrounds.

I think psychoanalysis has some incredibly interesting things to say--certainly notions of repression and suppression have informed my knowledge of family dynamics my whole life--and we would never be able to explore so many “whys;” I.e. why we like horror, gothic, or grotesque. Furthermore I would agree that we are unaware of our reasons for behaving as we do sometimes--certainly all of us have ample proof of that.

But here’s my sticking point: I have yet to see someone say (in a scholarly article I’ve read anyway) that they are borrowing from Freud or Jung, or Freud and Jung, in “this” particular way but want everyone to know that, in general, Freud and Jung are sexists, ego maniacs. I just feel like that disclaimer should be at the start of any psychoanalytic text so I, the reader, can know that the author understands and acknowledges the ridiculous aspects of the theories being worked with.

Too harsh? Must be my penis envy.

Dissertation Episode 3: I’ll Have A Large Iced Tea, No Lemon Or Sweetner

I feel better about today then I did five hours ago. Since feeling like a failure at research I’ve watched a JCVD with Kate and it feels right to be working on the JCVD project once again (jcvdproject.blogspot.com for those of you who are late to the game).

But JCVD is not my dissertation (though wouldn’t that be awesome?) and what has actually prompted this latest episode in the galaxy of Dissertationia is the incontrovertible proof that I am, in fact, my mother. In order to explain what brought me to this realization I must first share a story:

When I was little, too young to be left at home alone, but too old to be easily entertained by shiny things, my mother brilliantly navigated the problem of needing to grade and me needing to be watched by taking me to school with her. In retrospect I’m amazed that I was never bored. Sure, there were days I was particularly petulant (come on, I was a little kid) but I don’t recall ever being bored. I was scared (have you been in a high school when all the lights are off? I saw parts of Nightmare on Elm Street at some sleepover and it was all over after that. Creeping shadows are never the same for a seven year old) and I (possibly) had adventures in the “faculty bathroom” but I was never bored.

Mostly, my entertainment was due to my mother’s brilliant use of movies. Mom would load me up in the van with pillows, blankets, and my bean bag chair (it was my very favoritist thing there for awhile) and we would go first to the video store where I got to pick any (almost) two-three movies I wanted to watch, and then drive thru for some lunch and then over to the school where we would push four desks together. On those desks we would make a little nest for me out of my bean bag chair, blankets and pillows and Mom would roll in a tv/vcr cart from the AV department. If it was really special we popped popcorn in the Home-Ec room. I was blissfully happy for the length of movie, usually two, and Mom got her grading done.

Looking back on it I have to say my mom was pretty brilliant.

Along with wracking up a lot of good memories, a habit was also formed that I hadn’t consciously thought about until today. No, not the movies (though we all know that’s a habit) but the ritual of getting a large iced tea before undertaking any hard work.

When we would drive thru, you understand, even if we didn’t get food Mom always got a large iced tea with no lemon or sweetner. In fact, the necessity of this iced tea has shaped our drive thru habits at times (McDonalds has the best iced tea and is therefore the favored restaurant while Wendy’s is rarely visited due to their subpar beverage service). When I was home over the summer and studying for my comps like a madwoman, my mom would come into my room and say, “I’m going to go get an iced tea, would you like one?” And I would say “yes please.” And just that one little act, the act of her bringing me an iced tea made me feel so darned taken care of that I didn’t lose my mind until September when I was back in Las Vegas with no iced tea in sight.

What I didn’t realize, even as lately as this past summer, was that the iced tea was not simply a drink, but triggered in my mind all the feelings and emotions of being blissfully relaxed and refreshed--either after working on the house, track practice, or whatever. In a sort of Pavlovian response my mind/body recognizes that anything is doable--so long as one can take a break to drink some iced tea every now and then.

Today I headed into school because I needed to research Joan of Arc. I knew it was going to be painful (and indeed, today’s experience was remarkably unfulfilling so it will continue to be painful) but as I drove up Maryland Parkway I thought, I should get something to drink. Carl’s Jr. is right across from my building so I just popped over. A crackly voice said “would you like to try *crackle* bac-*crackle* gian-*crackle* pie?” and I responded “No thank you. Could I just have a medium iced tea?” “Was that Hi-C or Iced tea?”

“Iced tea please. No lemon or sweetner.”

As I walked into school on my Saturday to work I looked down at my iced tea and thought, wow--I really am my mom. But I’m pretty okay with that. She doesn’t believe me, but she’s a pretty cool lady to be.

(And McDonald’s really is the best iced tea. As this horrifying experience known as dissertation writing continues I will be imbibing only McDonald’s beverages not Carl’s Jr. It’s important to have good tea!)

Clash of the Titanically Bad Ideas

I imagine it started with someone’s 6th grade mythology project in 1981. Fresh from the thrill (and I use the word loosely to be sure) of Harry Hamlin’s Clash of the Titans, some intrepid twelve year old took it upon himself to rewrite Greek Mythology and make it “cool.” Unfortunately, due to bad teaching or indulgent parents, this same child never learned that he had grossly misunderstood the myths that so entranced him and that to remythologize, rewrite myths, you need to be smarter (and a better writer) than the average teenage twitter.

This is how a catastrophe is born.

It’s no surprise really; the writers seemed to be lacking experience and one of the two credited for the screenplay is responsible for Aeon Flux--could no one really see this coming? I mean, I don’t have much faith in Louis Leterrier the director either, but he made the most recent Incredible Hulk; you would think after that experience he would have learned the importance of remakes being…you know…good.

Instead this movie is the cinematic equivalent of pyrite: shiny, pretty, and totally useless. The cinematography is quite something; the music is great. But the script, and Sam Worthington for that matter, were the sort of bad that makes babies cry. Is it that hard to buy a copy of Edith Hamilton’s Mythology? It’s like five bucks at your local Barnes & Noble.

Some of the flaws weren’t the movie’s fault, or at least, the first Clash made the same mistake. I’m thinking here specifically of Medusa’s lair which someone, somewhere decided should be in the Underworld. It’s hard to die in the Underworld since you’re supposed to be dead when you get there. Sticking Medusa in the Underworld serves no purpose at all; people don’t just wander in. But hey, it gives everyone a chance to see Charon and talk about “bribing the ferryman” so okay, whatever.

But then (and this might be my favorite part) the Kraken is a creation of Hades? And it was the Kraken that destroyed the Titans? And it was the Kraken that was the mightiest weapon on Olympus? And Hades pretends to love Zeus? And goddesses that have no part whatsoever in all of the story? And (I take back my earlier assertion--this is definitely my favorite part) King Acrisius attempts TO LAY SIEGE TO OLYMPUS.

He attempts to lay siege to Olympus. I don’t…I can’t…I mean who thought that was a good idea. What writer in what room said, “hey, I know--let’s have Acrisius lay siege to Olympus and then Zeus can pull an Uther Pendragon and sleep with his wife while disguised.” You don’t lay siege to Olympus. It’s like trying to run from God (see my Legion rant).

But this whole mess of a grade school script was clearly uninterested in mythology, rules of myth, or even basic fantasy. In fact, what this movie actually proves is that Neo-Platonists are alive and working in Hollywood. Allow me to explain.

Long about 1,000 years ago Christianity was doing real well, and all the borrowing from Greek and Roman writings meant that philosophers needed to explain why we were borrowing from Plato and Aristotle, etc. Since the word of God was the word of wisdom, we couldn’t be building civilization based on the words of pagans who worshiped multiple deities. So began the subsuming of the Greek Myths into Christianity. There was absolutely nothing wrong with this; it’s a time honored tradition and Milton shows off this melding of Greek and Christian mythology to perfection in Paradise Lost.

The problem is that now, four hundred (almost) years after Milton we have the latest Clash of the Titans that felt like Zeus and Hades are boring as the Gods of Sky and Underworld and that this story would be vastly improved if rewritten into some Bible battle over humanity. This means that Zeus goes on and on (and on) about his “love for mankind” and his disappointment in their turning away from him while Hades counteracts with his having learned to live off our fear and hate. Perseus then becomes the savior of man who must teach us how to save ourselves and protect our souls from the corruption of Hades. Yeah, read Genesis and the story of Christ and you can see why they released this movie on Easter Weekend.

Zeus doesn’t have love for mankind. Zeus has love for pretty women as evidenced by his plethora of rape/seductions and demi-god children. Speaking of which, there’s a whole lot in there about how there is “only one” demi-god child (Perseus) and how only he has the power to save the people who have turned away from the Gods. Because apparently Theseus, Achillies, Jason, and Hercules don’t count.

And Io is cursed with agelessness? Because her being a cow was just too trite? It’s like thousands of years of mythology didn’t even exist for these people.

And maybe maybe all of this bad blending of myths could have worked (though I seriously doubt it) except that while we are clearly supposed to be put off by the insulting of the Gods, we are also supposed to believe in the power of man (more rhetoric that gets beat into the ground) and how man has strength without the Gods.

It’s just a mess. Just a horrible, horrible, horrible mess. Horrible mess.

And why do filmmakers keep letting Sam Worthington make speeches? The man is not rhetorically gifted (a bit of a problem considering his career choice) and they really need to keep his lines to a minimum.

Oh, and apparently if you’re a demi-god you know sword Kung Fu after one lesson? But you’re going to turn down the gifts of the gods because you want to do this “as a man?” What does it even mean to do something “as a man?” We’re not talking about a Faustian deal here; we’re talking about using the super sword that will kill the monster you’re supposed to kill without getting everyone else around you killed.

It was just so bad. I’m almost too heartbroken to be that upset.

I feel a little bit like the preview told me I was pretty and promised to love me forever and after I said yes and gave this movie two underwhelming hours of my life it never called me back. And gave me the pox in the process.

I’m just saying; this is the sort of abuse one doesn’t recover from quickly.

Stay away from this movie--if you look at it too long you’ll probably turn to stone.

Dreamslayer. Hopebreaker. Wishcrusher. Funsucker.

Why can’t Hollywood make a decent kids’ movie? It’s not like the plots of these books are difficult. But they are nuanced, and heaven forbid we make a gosh darn nuanced movie. I mean, why would we want girls that can fight alongside boys without the boys first conquering the girls in battle? Why would we want mythology and horror and excitement and LOGIC presented with any sort of seriousness? Why would we want, oh I don’t know, PLOT. That’s just silly.

Clearly all we need is shiny.

First there was The Golden Compass. I mean, whoever thought those books would get made into movies was a bloomin’ idiot; that was the sort of tremendously bad idea that leads to eating forbidden fruit and opening boxes. I love those books, absolutely adore them, but there is NO WAY mainstream America is going to let their kids watch anything approaching a truthful adaptation. A father kills his child’s best friend? God dissolves into dust? I don’t care how good the story, those books make Harry Potter look like Winnie the Pooh.

(Speaking of which, who gets angry over WITCHCRAFT anymore? Seriously?! Witchcraft? You’re gonna protest books because of WITCHCRAFT? Like, go burn somebody at the stake already so we have a reason to get you off the streets.)

But speaking of HP we should mention Harry Potter 6. Why did they change the end? Why mess with that? Let’s have a history lesson shall we? Once upon a time, in a cartoon studio that suffered bankruptcy, they tried to change LOTR into something less complex. It failed. Miserably. Nobody loved them. All of their friends left them. They died lonely and ignored. Perhaps, in a story as tightly crafted as the Harry Potter series, those making the movies should take note.

And let’s not forget City of Ember or Inkheart or Stardust. Now, some of these I really love (Stardust) and some of these were okay (Inkheart) but they could have been SO much better if just a little more time had been taken; a little more attention to detail was all that was needed to turn an acceptable movie into something really fantastic.

Is it so hard to make The Princess Bride? Why? Because true love is a storyline that nobody believes in anymore? Screw ‘em. True love is a glorious storyline and we should believe in it; we should believe in it because if it isn’t possible (I’m not talking Nora Ephron possible here but suffering, fighting, questing and finding the sort of happiness in sharing that load with another human being that makes it all bearable) then life is not only pain but ugly and worthless too.

What about The Goonies? Kids can’t handle scary villains like the Fratelli’s or skeletons or near death? Maybe that’s because we don’t ever allow them the beauty of real fear in the safety of film and books. Stories offer us the chance to experience and deal with things in a safe environment; when we deny children genuine stories with real terror (I’m not talking Wes Craven I’m talking villains that are actually scary) their imaginations cease to be engaged. Nobody wants to be pandered to. Nobody wants to be played with. You want a story that moves you, speaks to you, entertains you. That doesn’t happen when the director or the author chooses to make it “less intense.” All that does is make it boring.

The Princess Bride is smart and unapologetic. You don’t give up on true love because it’s hard. You don’t give up on being a good person because it’s hard. You suck it up and do it. The Goonies is exciting and terrifying. Not as terrifying as, say, The Dark Crystal, but I’ve never been able to enjoy the actress that played Mama Fratelli in anything else because she was so petrifying in that role to my young mind. I was intrigued by the thrill of adventure--never mind the beauty of Sloth turning out to be a good guy.

These movies have morals. They have meaning. They don’t prance around what might be right and wrong they just tell you. And not in some Jimmy Falwell “you’re all going to hell” sort of way, but THIS is a hero being heroic. THIS is a villain being evil. THIS is what an adventure could be. You can’t tone down adventure or heroism or excitement. You can’t simplify a plot or characters or the world. The kids that are reading these books have imagination and the movies should be sparking that imagination, not stymieing it. Why are we so afraid of telling seriously good stories in kids’ movies? When did parents become so afraid of their children watching something that makes them think, dream, or hope that all of our major media had to be neutered? When is Steve Spielburg going to make another blockbuster and show everybody else how it’s done?

I’m just...I’m just fed up. The new Transformers movies suck. G.I. Joe sucked. TMNT sucked. The Golden Compass sucked. The Harry Potter’s are hit and miss. I want movies that thrill and entertain and enliven. I don’t want stupid movies that assume a stupid audience and butcher good stories because the people making the movies don’t understand how storytelling works.

Our division of text into “high culture” serious Oscar films and “low” culture everything that’s actually fun means that nobody pays attention to storytelling anymore. The art of entertainment has given way to “good enough.” That’s a travesty that has finally prompted me to say something.

I want my dreams back. I want the ability to walk out of a theater without saying “it was good enough” back. I want someone to tell a good story instead of saying “well it’s just a [fill in the genre] movie.” I want people to accept the fact that it’s hard; do the task they set out to do, and to not compromise on the quality of their actions just because they won’t get awarded for success.

This is what happens when dreams die people. The vacuum of imagination allows things like Texas’ hostile take-over of education to happen.

When you stop imagining how things could be, you never question what they are.

* The above rant was fueled by watching Percy Jackson and the Olympians, walking out saying “it was good enough” then reading the first book and realizing what an awesomely engaging story it actually is.

Seriously Texas. Just Go Away.

I can’t....I can’t formulate cohesive thoughts through my anger. It’s like No Child Left Behind all over again. There is so much (SO MUCH) to be upset about in this article. The Texas School Board might ratify changes to textbooks in May that offset the “bias” of academia.

http://news.yahoo.com/s/ynews/ynews_ts1253

My favorite, the one that really shows the ridiculousness of what’s happening here is the recommendation to include country and western music among the nation’s cultural movements, but to drop hip-hop. Because clearly hip-hop isn’t American.

And it’s this blindness, this willful stupidity that has me nearly spitting with rage. Because apparently if you don’t like something and don’t understand its value from an aesthetic standpoint, it serves no purpose to anyone else. I love education that never tries to imagine the existence of anyone different from the one teaching.

Another gem is the decision to remove Thomas Jefferson as an influence on the nation’s intellectual origins. Instead they want to focus on Thomas Aquinas and John Calvin. Because clearly, Calvinism directly fed into the construction of our Constitution. Who needs Jefferson and his Declaration of Independence anyway?

I mean, what is there to be upset about? Why would we want to educate our students to question their surroundings, their information, and their own thoughts? Why would we want to raise a populous that considers the consequences of one‘s actions, good and bad? Why would we want to raise a critically aware, ethical, educated populous? That’s just silly talk! Let’s just hate everyone that’s different. It’s so much easier.

I’m not saying textbooks don’t have problems; I’m not saying we shouldn’t constantly be reassessing our textbooks, their information, and possible neglect and/or “spin” that is harmfully effecting the education of students. We should be critical of our textbooks; we should revise our textbooks We should be as honest as possible about the plurality of belief in our country, the problems it causes, and why the U.S. was designed to house all of those conflicts.

But the irritation with a few (and I do believe it to be a fairly minor population who happens to be loud) consistently irritates me because these few manage to affect many. The problem with the possible school board revisions is that Texas provides 80% of the textbook market; this means that it isn’t simply a state decision (though that would be bad enough). And, theoretically school systems in other states could choose not to buy from the Texas publishers, but the reality of budgets and costs means that to shift publishers at this point would be nigh on impossible.

But let’s make sure to play up McCarthy’s noble fight against Communism because that damn liberal bias in academia dares to question the ethics of a man who destroyed multiple lives for very little purpose. This idea that you must be “tolerant” of intolerants, and that those who are unwilling to accept tyranny are tyrants drives me insane. I’m not saying there aren’t crazies all over the place, but I am saying that the crazies, no matter what they’re saying are crazy; crazy is its own party. The rest of us do the best we can and you cannot argue against an ideological move because some crazies share the same label.

My point here is we shouldn't attack the “liberal bias” in academia because there are some crazy liberals and we shouldn't attack “conservative” values because there are some crazy conservatives. That’s not what this rant is about.

This rant is about the refusal of some (in this case the Texas School Board) to accept the multiple, wonderful variants of beliefs in this world and specifically in this country. To attempt to destroy that plurality destroys democracy; yes country and western music is a very important cultural movement in America. So is hip-hop! Have them both!

Yes, much of our government was influenced by Christian thought, but much of it was designed to allow for non-Christian thought. You can’t ignore either of those sides. Nor does our beginning dictate our path; there were no other value options when things were being imagined, but there was enough fighting happening over “Christian” values (Catholics vs. Protestants vs. Puritans) that people realized we needed to allow for freedom of choice. You can’t cut Thomas Jefferson out because two hundred years later it’s too darned inconvenient to make room in the country for those you don’t like!

I believe, honestly, that some level of bias is always going to be present. I think anyone that claims otherwise is unaware of their bias. I also think the best way to combat this is to be honest as a teacher about your biases and place the emphasis on sharing ideas, not arguing. We need to present educational material to the best of our abilities as decided by those who have dedicated their lives to the study; that means historians, sociologists, etc, not the Texas School board, should be making these decisions.

We then need to educate our teachers to be critical thinkers who are aware of what they believe, why they believe, and willing to teach and encourage the students that agree and disagree with them. But how are we ever going to get self-aware teachers when we’re busy designing textbooks that offer “conventional wisdom” instead of a critical, and yes sometimes disturbing, picture of the world.

Heaven forbid education upset you. I’d just hate for someone to learn something.

Dissertation Episode 2: Apocalypse Now

I dreamed a dream. And it was the apocalypse. Twice.

It was my witty, wise, and wiley roommate that said, “it’s probably from your dissertation!” I think she is right. Apparently, the stress of dissertating has produced “apocalypse” dreams in my head. I actually dream, and believe in the dream it is happening, about the apocalypse. The world is literally ending.

That is a highly unpleasant experience to feel.

The first dream took the form of a flood myth. I was strangely pleased with myself for imagining the end of the world in such classic terms: Gilgamesh, Plato, Popl Vuh, Genesis--all of these things contain a “flood story” and I thought to myself at least my apocalyptic endings have a literary history. The disturbing part of the dream was that it was a continuation. Prior to the night of actually dreaming the apocalypse I had dreamt that myself and friends were preparing for the apocalypse. We were gathering our necessities and had moved to a “safe” house; in the previous dreams it had been stressful to cut myself down to only a backpack’s worth of stuff, but I was able to keep things at the safe house and I wasn’t overly anxious about never seeing it again.

When the apocalypse dream hit, however, the most emotionally disturbing part of the dream manifested itself as I was holding my backpack in my hands, some clothes, some minor toiletries, and staring at my books thinking: you can only take two, maybe three books and these are the only books you can read for the rest of your life. You will never see any of this again. This moment was by far more emotionally disturbing than the twenty foot waves that pounded into the side of our safe house as we waited for the storm to abate long enough to move to higher ground. Oddly enough fear of death wasn’t nearly as bad as fear of no books. It was an admittedly materialistic moment, but what had me upset (honest to god) was only the loss of the books. I couldn’t imagine only reading two to three books for the rest of my life, and I was having a hell of a time picking them out quickly.

What two books did I pick? The Hobbit and The Bible. I was in mid-third choice when the dream ended, unable to make a decision. What were my rationale (this is really the better part)? I’ve never gotten sick of The Hobbit and there is a lot of story to read there. It’s more contained than The Lord of the Rings (which I considered picking, but the one volume is huge and the three volumes are too much though the final decision hadn’t been made) but was still a grandiose enough story to bear re-reading. After thinking about LOTR I realized I wanted the longest books I could find that were easy to transport--what was important was that I didn’t get sick of reading it over and over again. That was when I thought, The Bible. Easy to carry, obscenely long, and full of lots of smaller stories and poetry which provides variety amongst the reading (it was the variety of text that vaulted it above Atlas Shrugged). What was even more fun was that I became angry at myself in the dream for being “clichéd” but then decided it didn’t matter what others thought because a) it was the apocalypse and b) The Bible really does fit the limited-books-to-read-must-be-easy-to-carry category brilliantly.

I should go purchase a smaller one volume copy of LOTR, though, just in case. Preparedness is key.

One apocalypse dream (not just a nightmare, actual end of the world dream) would be enough for a month right? I would think it would be enough for a lifetime, but oh no--apparently apocalypse dreams are my new thing. Last night, therefore, I dreamed of the friggin’ zombie apocalypse.

I was in India (because clearly when experiencing the zombie apocalypse one would be in India) and fortunately everyone spoke English--that was handy. It was a disease situation that was passed through the bite, but could also be slightly airborne? I don’t know how a disease is slightly airborne, but I try not to question my subconscious too much. All of the healthy people left were loaded on tour buses and we were making a break for healthier countries (the disease hadn’t yet spread outside of India to our knowledge) but on the way to the tour bus a zombie lady is sitting in the front seat of my car. I, very casually, pull out the gun I bought earlier (with case and ammo for $27--even in the dream I thought that was a good deal) and shot her in the head. But, because I had such a weak gun, it didn’t kill her.

I quickly recocked (because it didn’t autoload?) and tried to shoot her again, but the gun jammed. At this point, the zombie lady was angry I shot her in the head and has gotten out of the car to chase me. My friends are beating her off with sticks, screaming at me to shoot her and I’m cursing at the gun trying to get it to work. Finally it’s ready to go and I proceed to unload an entire clip into her head. She finally goes down after that.

We make it to the buses and load up, but I’m in the very back, the last seat. We have stopped to turn onto another highway (it didn’t make sense, but it was a dream) and suddenly someone screams and points behind me. There, standing up was a strange man that hadn’t been on the bus before. Before I tell the next part of this story I would like to refer you to the zombie preparedness guide:



He looked disheveled, pale and disoriented and I was not about to see if he was craving my brains when someone else screams “Wait! We don’t know if he’s infected!”

I hold off on shoving him out of the bus, and he starts to talk but I keep thinking “this guy is totally mid-turn. He’s going to turn into a zombie and infect all of us. I am not going to be the person that dies because she was afraid to act.” So I hit the emergency release button that opens the exit doors behind this guy, the bus hits a bump and he flies out--dying as he hits the road. I had a brief moment of guilt in the dream because I hadn’t intended on him flying out of the bus, I was just getting the door ready in case I needed to shove him out of the bus, but I shrugged it off.

Then, same lady screams “You didn’t know if he was infected or not!” And this is the part of the dream that has left me feeling both disturbed and slightly ashamed of myself. I looked at her and very coldly said, “I wasn’t going to find out.”

So apparently, not only has my dissertation caused me to dream of the apocalypse, but it has turned me into a sociopath as well. It’s good to know my soul has, in fact, finally died.

In my defense I do think he was infected. Really.

On the plus side, if the apocalypse does hit I am going to be so prepared.

Perhaps this is a sign that I might be turning to the dark side?

Dissertation Episode 1: The Crazy Menace

It is a dark time for the Republic. As the senate meets in my head to discuss possible solutions to my inability to write a dissertation successfully, a shadow looms over the proceedings. That shadow is an agent of the Dark Side, Darth Crazious.

Instead of a brilliant treatise on heterosexual romantic expectations of masculinity and femininity the Jedi seem to be producing a document more in line with the diary of a young, unstable teenage girl.

A teenage diary does not a dissertation make.

I have been caught off-guard by the biological attack leveled directly at my midi-chlorians. Darth Crazious has infected me with NGE.

NGE (not good enough) is a situational condition (it has been known in some cases to be genetic, but those are rare and often terminal) common in graduate students. It manifests itself slowly over time. Symptoms include: slowly disintegrating social life, elevated blood pressure, facial ticks, writer’s block, irritability, indigestion, identity crisis, and uncontrollable sobbing. One of the most common signs that a graduate student has come down with NGE is a persistent belief that she will be “found out” by her professors and colleagues, banished from the program, and forced to resume her job at Hardees.

You would think with an ego as healthy as mine I would be immune to NGE. Instead I find my foundation shaky, my confidence shot, and my ability to make an argument flagging. As the NGE destroys my midi-chlorians my connection to the force is severed leaving me unable to complete abstract thought, critically think or focus on anything besides my driving need to eat cake.

This is the test I have spent years preparing for. This is the momentous occasion when I thought I would face the Dark Side and scoff at its attempts to turn me. I have studied the writing process A LOT. Me and comp theory are close; I know how these things work. I imagine this must be what it feels like as a psychologist to realize you have a mental disorder. You can recognize it; you can diagnose it. You can even plan a treatment for it and clearly delineate the process by which healing will begin. But because it’s you, all you do instead is bash your head against the desk and wait for someone to find your catatonic body on the ground. Hopefully before you soil yourself.

I will not NOT graduate. I will not be a student forever. If I have to find a swamp, brave snakes, and crawl through a cave at the behest of Yoda I will be a Jedi. The force is strong with me. I will not be defeated by this NGE. I will not turn to the Dark Side because gosh darn it, I am smart enough, strong enough, and people like me!

(If you dare disagree with that statement I will put catfish bait in your vents.)

Just kidding.

Maybe.

I’m riding the crazy train right now. You don’t want to push me. It won’t be pretty.

Will Darth Crazious succeed in her nefarious plot to destroy the Jedi Order with NGE? Will the young Jedi Knight turn to anger, fear, and aggression to complete her dissertation? Will she perhaps throw herself into a pit of lava to end it all before it even begins?

Stay tuned for the next exciting episode of “Dissertation”.



(See? Teenage Diary)

Who is Wonder Woman?



On the way home from Albuquerque, my car-mates and I killed well over an hour discussing the possibilities for a Wonder Woman movie. It all came about from my panel chair announcing that the only way a Wonder Woman movie would ever get made was if Megan Fox was “in that outfit” and there was a good script.

There are several things I love about that comment: first, that “the outfit” has become a personified object of fantasies everywhere instead of a costume/uniform whatever; second, that Megan Fox’s involvement precedes the requirement of a good script.

The fact of the matter remains, however, that a Wonder Woman movie most likely will never get made and if it does, it will be awful. There are several reasons for this: 1) they’re going to cast a “sex kitten” who looks appropriately hot and vulnerable while fighting in high heeled boots; 2) they’re going to write some god awful script that revolves around her “discovering the world” with Steve Trevor who also happens to help her discover his bedroom. No way, no how that works, but Hollywood is going to bank on sex selling and that’s the product that’s going to get produced. The best part is, when it fails miserably, executives will just say “told you it couldn’t be done” instead of thinking about what they did wrong.

It gives me heartburn just thinking about it.

What was most fun about this conversation in the car, though, was trying to figure out who we would cast as Wonder Woman. It was also the most disheartening. Specifically there are some actresses that would have made a great Wonder Woman, but they’re all too old now. Whoever plays Wonder Woman needs to be tall, buff, and look most certainly like a woman, not a girl. That means we need someone at least 5’8”, preferably 5’10”+ and between the ages of 27 and 37.

Here is a picture of Wonder Woman as currently portrayed in the comic books:



And were this 1997 instead of 2010 the following actresses would have been awesome:

Lucy Lawless



She was Xena. Clearly she’s got what it takes.

Angela Bassett



There’s no reason Wonder Woman needs to be portrayed by a Caucasian, and Angela Bassett is an Amazon from way back.

Carrie Ann Moss



Her portrayal of Trinity convinces me she would be much more warrior than fantasy.

Michelle Yeoh



Come on. Crouching Wonder Woman Hidden Badass? I think so.

And that’s a requirement with Wonder Woman that cannot be forgotten. She’s a warrior. She’s not just an Amazonian Princess who can fight; she’s not just a beautiful woman with superpowers. Whoever is cast needs a Matrix/300 style work out prior to filming and she needs to be athletic enough to be a believable fighter. Sienna Miller is, therefore, out. (Did you see her as the Baroness in G.I. Joe? No one’s believing that woman is a warrior.)

No one wants to see a warrior woman:



They want to see this:



I should have been using pictures a lot time ago. They make the case for me so much easier.

All the major actresses around now, Megan Fox, Sienna Miller, Kirsten Stewart are too young, too thin, and entirely to waifesh to pass for either an Amazon or a warrior. The closest would probably be Emily Deschanel (at least she’s got the structure) but I don’t know that she’d be willing to undergo a 300-esque transformation to look the part.

Maybe Lena Headey could get it done.



I at least believe she’s got the attitude.

And then there is the problem of the script. The movie needs to be about Wonder Woman--not about her love life and certainly not about “her mission.” The whole “bring peace to mankind” thing needs to be tossed immediately. No one’s buying that one and there is, literally, no way to make that plot line work in a way that isn’t awful. The gods make excellent villains, Ares and Circe specifically, and the best bet would be to make use of Greek Mythology. Hercules fights for the common person, protects them from the gods and all that, and they definitely don’t want to rip that off, but the gods screwing up mortals lives is not a plotline unique to Hercules in any way. There have been several storylines that have involved Wonder Woman fighting for mortals against the gods already--any one of those could be appropriated.

None of this will happen, though. The first and most obvious reason is because there are entirely too many pictures of Wonder Woman looking something like this:



The second and more insidious reason is that no one (aside from maybe Joss Whedon) has ever tried to write a strong female protagonist without compromising. (Check out Halle Berry’s Storm from X-Men. I still get mad about it.) Instead we end up with Amazons playfully splashing each other in a pond (see the latest animated Wonder Woman) and an infantilized Wonder Woman who needs big, bad Steve Trevor to show her the ropes of this complicated world.

Wonder Woman might have a chance if her biggest obstacle was only finding an engaging plot; with all the gender issues added to the chaos it’s almost inevitable she’ll end up the pin-up doll of the superhero genre.

Man...that’s depressing. I suppose I can hope that someone has the guts to just write it (and cast it) the way it deserves, though, but who wants to watch a movie about a warrior woman that actually is the biggest and the baddest?

I do!