Believable Femininity

2011-11-12T15:15:00.001-06:00

I'm making the move. It's been 10 years and a whole lot of life, but I'm moving over to tumblr where I'm going to try combining real work with the fun of the internet. We'll see how it goes.

http://litwithmccall.tumblr.com/

2011-11-11T00:26:00.000-06:00

2011-09-27T17:32:00.011-05:00

“The New 52”

It’s time. I’m a comic book reader with a Ph.D. and I am (are you ready for this? It’s about to get pedantic up in here) the preeminent Wonder Woman scholar of everyone I know. There are things that need to be said about DC’s relaunch that I can’t say in comments on other people’s blogs. I’m probably going to say them again at the National Popular Culture Conference, but most of the people here won’t be there. I’ve bolded the important parts throughout for you scanner-readers.

Let me start with a summary in case you’re new to, well, the world: in September of 2011, DC—one of the “big 2”—released a new line of major comic books restarted at #1 designed to combat waning sales with “reader-friendly back stories” (salon.com). According to Jim Lee of DC the point of the relaunch gives DC the opportunity to “show how this brave new world evolves into the DCU we all know and love. By seeing them band together as the champions of the world, you’ll see the world embrace them, and the coining of the word ‘superhero’ and establishment of these as iconic and inspirational characters” (salon.com). I want you to remember that last phrase especially: “establishment of these as iconic and inspirational characters.” That’s going to figure prominently later.

Now the main controversy surrounding this relaunch is over Catwoman and Starfire. Little to nothing has been said so far about Wonder Woman, Batgirl, Supergirl, Black Canary...you can tell by my use of the ellipsis that I feel unkindly about this. There will be a “part 2” about Wonder Woman and how she got jipped. (And why more people should be upset.)

Within this controversy claims of “objectification” have been leveled as well as “sexism” and “misogyny.” I’m going to define these words before we continue because everybody needs to know what these things mean.

Objectification: a) the process whereby a person is turned into an object generally through the use of specific body parts in place of the whole person. Why it matters: if you objectify someone then you don’t have to worry about annoying things called feelings. If I’m having sex with an object, it doesn’t matter what I do to that object. It’s not a person; it doesn’t matter if I spit on it, hit it, or—we’ll keep this g rated (eh, maybe pg-13) so you can imagine any manner of other things that could be done to it. When people are objectified in text—comic books, television, cinema, books, advertising—one of the consequences is the unacknowledged consequence of objectifying real people in real life. So, when people talk about Catwoman being objectified it is upsetting because Catwoman’s existence in the comic books is purely to be sexy as opposed to intelligent, interesting, or capable. <-- This is upsetting because when female readers read themselves into the text they learn that their humanity doesn’t matter as much as their body. That makes them crazy. Heterosexual male readers learn that women’s personalities are merely the unfortunate toll that must be paid to have sex with their bodies. That makes them abusive.

Everyone still with me?

Misogyny: hatred, dislike, or mistrust of women. Objectification leads to sexism which leads to misogyny.

I took the time to explain this not because I doubt anyone’s intelligence but because I want everyone to understand how I am using these terms. So many readers/listeners/viewers shut down at all that “feminazi” talk. If only I were exaggerating. Read the comments on the links at the end and see what I mean.

Now we get into the DC relaunch proper. Let me start by saying I’m not sure I think Catwoman is objectified. I’m not sure I think she isn’t either. Before people start calling me names I wanted to make that clear. The issue is the opening sequence of Catwoman #1. The reader is treated to close up shots of her chest and ass before they ever see her face on page 3.

Page 1

Page 2

And finally page 3

So maybe she is objectified. Except Nightwing gets the same treatment:

Page 2

“Ah,” I hear you saying, “Nightwing’s pectorals aren’t depicted in the glistening sweaty gloriousness of Chippendales!”

“You’re right,” I respond. So are they both objectified? Or is what is happening to Catwoman different?

While I think entirely too much attention is attributed to Catwoman’s lingerie, unclothed body, and leather-clad posterior, I think her humanity still comes through the page because it is her voice relaying the story to the reader. Furthermore, the opening sequence of seeing parts of the hero before the full page spread is a typical rhetorical move of comics. Seeing only the pieces of Catwoman’s body, therefore, doesn’t necessarily mean she’s objectified. Seeing pieces of her unclad perky-in-ways-only-comic-books-make-them breasts does. We see Nightwing’s face—even if only a piece—on page one.

As I said before, though, the imagery of her body is offset by the strength of her narrative voice. Especially when put within the context of Catwoman’s existence as a femme fatale I’m not sure depicting her in various stages of undress removes her subjectivity. Most importantly, following this debatable opening Catwoman is on every single page of her comic book fighting, investigating, and outwitting the other characters. That would seem to offset this opening sequence. Unless you take issue with the end: (spoiler alert)

That’s right. That is Batman and Catwoman GETTING IT ON. The fangirl in me cheers. CHEERS I tell you! I don’t find this offensive IN THE LEAST. And do you want to know why? Because Catwoman instigates it. She “seduces” the Batman (he didn’t really look like he took much persuading honestly) she’s on top dominating him, and if anything he appears powerless and at a loss in this image. The fingers curled into the carpet, the splayed legs—the Batman doesn’t even know what’s happening to him. So many of the arguments I’ve seen criticizing this image seem based on the claim that because the reader sees them having sex it is somehow denigrating to Catwoman. HOW IS MAKING SEXY TIME WITH BATMAN EVER A BAD IDEA?!

It could be I’m just not feminist enough when it comes to Batman.

My point here is that while I think the opening sequence of Catwoman is problematic, I think the choices fit with her character. I also think that seeing pieces of her body doesn’t necessarily objectify her. If she had no personality (*cough* Starfire *cough*) or was drawn in awkward, unrealistic positions (*cough* Starfire *cough) I would be happier to jump on bandwagon. But while the images are racy I am just not sold that they’re sexist. Girls get to like sex too. (Especially with Batman. Duh.)

But I don’t want people to think I disagree with the articles linked below because I don’t entirely. I think what they have to say has value and is true for them. (That “for them” part matters a lot.) At the end of the day if, as a reader, you feel objectified there’s a good chance you probably are. In this case, while I don’t agree with the criticisms of Catwoman #1, I ABSOLUTELY agree with the criticisms of Red Hood and the Outlaws.

Here’s what Starfire used to look like:

Here’s her most recent incarnation:

Oh yeah. Cause I’m sure this picture was designed to make a reader wonder what her favorite band is. Her personality and superhero status is CLEARLY primary in this artistic choice.

But, again, this isn’t as clear cut as it seems.

It objectifies her and ruins her status as a hero (go back and reread that Jim Lee quote now) because no one in their right mind takes this woman seriously. Based purely on the picture above and the one below

Who you gonna call when things get real? If you say Starfire you’re lying.

But the reason her depiction is offensive it isn’t a simple matter of misogyny; rather, I would say it is because Starfire also teaches men it’s okay to be used. Discussions of her inability to remember her sexual partners and easy willingness to jump in bed with everyone (seriously—99% of her dialogue is taken up with asking Red Arrow to sleep with her) as well as her blatant statement to Roy that he didn’t matter, she wouldn’t remember him, and nothing he ever did would make him special to her, change what is supposed to be an “iconic and inspirational” character into someone so detestable she isn’t even aware of who she’s saving let alone who she’s sleeping with.

When men get taught it’s okay to be used (so long as the babe is hot enough) and women get taught that they only thing important is being beautiful enough to use men, you end up with date rape, misogyny, anorexia, and “crazy.” Despite the protestations of self-proclaimed “bad asses” around the world it is the rare person who doesn’t actually need emotional attachments. The rest of us just fool ourselves into thinking we don’t care and never stop to notice why we’re treating other people like shit. (Oops, does that raise this to an R?) It’s called the bitter pill kids, and letting Starfireites sleep with you, forget you, and dehumanize you isn’t going to be nearly as much fun in the morning as you think it’s gonna be. Let’s take a minute to talk about men’s self-respect shall we?

I know there’s at least one dude reading this going “I wouldn’t mind getting used by Starfire” and I grant you, you might not. But you’re never going to get used by Starfire a) because you’re not a superhero and b) because the male superhero physique is equally as impossible as the female superhero gravity defying chest. This means that guys and gals alike are only actually getting used by people not nearly awesome enough to qualify for the job, disrespecting each other massively and generally growing up to be awful people who do awful things. You think I’m joking? Go to a college bar and watch the meat market. That’s objectification at work.

But I’m not going to stop buying DC comics. I’m not. I love comics too much, and I want to buy Batgirl and Supergirl and Batman. I tell myself that if Red Hood and the Outlaws included a racist character—had even one of them said “faggot” or “nigger” in a way presented as acceptable to the reader—I would have put down the whole line of DC stories. I have to recognize the possibility that I don’t want to be mad and that bias is shaping my response. Regardless, I refuse to write off all DC comics because Red Hood is offensive, misogynistic, and ridiculous.

I believe this is different. Maybe because I think comic books are still one of the best avenues for change in the world alongside romance novels. I do. Millions of people read them, love them, and learn from them. If we could just change the message enough, millions of people would start thinking about heroes, love, and sexiness differently. That would trickle down to young adult fiction. That would change television. That would affect movies. Suddenly people are learning to be what they are in less bifurcated man=tough/woman=nurturing ways. I believe it can happen, but not if I give up on comics.

And certainly not If DC Comics persists in producing CRAP.

Hear that DC? How about you hire some more female writers, fire some of your really, really crappy male writers, and generally aim for a more talented production staff?

Links referenced:

http://www.comicsalliance.com/2011/09/22/starfire-catwoman-sex-superheroine/

http://io9.com/5844355/a-7+year+old-girl-responds-to-dc-comics-sexed+up-reboot-of-starfire

http://mssnarky.wordpress.com/2011/09/24/a-response-from-a-female-comic-book-fan/

http://www.bleedingcool.com/2011/09/22/no-more-mutants-52-problems-by-andrew-wheeler/

2011-06-18T17:22:00.000-05:00

I know it’s been forever since I posted, but what’s a blog for if not an on again/off again relationship? So, in honor of Vegas in the summer I give you the newest top ten list:

Top Ten Reasons I Would Marry Someone on the First Date:

10. He’s a secret agent man

Please, you’re on the run, adrenaline is pumping and not only is your well-being his top priority, but he can kill with his hands. You know what that spells? T-R-U-E-L-O-V-E

9. His sword gets bigger when he says “Thundercats.”

There are so many reasons to marry someone like this. A) He has a sword. B) It responds when he says “Thundercats.” C) He knows who the Thundercats are. D) He might just be Lion-O. The one downside is he might have bag lady fingernails/claws, but nobody’s perfect.

8. He’s a werewolf.

The only truly important question to consider here is: do you make the sexy time while he’s shape shifted?

7. He’s a vampire.

Piercing gaze? Check. Able to wear frilly shirts without irony? Check. Offers eternal life and a significant personal fortune? Check.

6. He’s a fallen angel fighting on the side of humanity.

I mean, there were so many reasons I hated Legion, but I think the thing I can never forgive, the thing that broke my spirit, was the dangling of Paul Bettany in all his Angel-hotness (shirtless with wings people. Shirtless with wings) was a lie. He was neither shirtless, nor had wings for any significant portion of time. Why does Hollywood have to destroy my dreams?

5. He tells me I’m pretty and means it.

Boys, you think we’re complicated, but what you never understood is that deep down inside--no matter how tough we are or how much we hate to cuddle--all girls want to be told they’re pretty without sleaze, mockery, or ulterior motives. I’m not one to stereotype, but I’m standing by this. Being rich helps too.

4. He’s a Master of the Universe

Let’s consider the pros and cons of this: marry a stable accountant? Marry a barbarian with a magical sword who rides a Battlecat? Hmm…decisions, decisions.

3. He can use the Force.

You move a pencil with you’re mind and/or build your own light saber and I’m yours for life. End of story.

2. He looks at me with tears in his eyes and says, “I’ve never loved before, but I’m willing to change for you.”

This is the one I’m most ashamed of. I mean, there’s a chance I would mock him ceaselessly for being so melodramatic, but honestly? Gonna swallow that hook, line, and sinker. And be divorced within a year. Never marry a man more moody than you.

1. While being chased into a mountain cave by the British he sacrifices himself to save, but not before promising: “I will find you. Stay alive, and I will find you!”

Yeah, you’d marry him too. You can deny it all you want, but I know you’re dirty secret. Daniel Day-Lewis ruined love for a whole generation of women.

2010-10-04T16:54:00.004-05:00

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!

2010-09-26T19:11:00.002-05:00

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.

2010-09-16T15:36:00.001-05:00

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.

2010-09-09T18:59:00.004-05:00

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?”

2010-09-07T20:43:00.004-05:00

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!

2010-06-12T20:30:00.001-05:00

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.

2010-06-12T20:17:00.001-05:00

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.

2010-05-30T17:07:00.001-05:00

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.

2010-05-14T03:30:00.000-05:00

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.

2010-05-06T05:47:00.001-05:00

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.

2010-04-28T05:04:00.001-05:00

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!

2010-04-21T17:29:00.001-05:00

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.

2010-04-17T19:13:00.002-05:00

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.

2010-04-11T01:38:00.001-05:00

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!)

2010-04-05T18:14:00.002-05:00

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.

2010-03-22T01:05:00.000-05:00

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.

2010-03-16T19:16:00.000-05:00

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.

2010-03-05T16:03:00.003-06:00

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?

2010-03-02T02:52:00.002-06:00

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)

2010-02-22T01:47:00.014-06:00

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!

2010-02-20T05:13:00.012-06:00

The Top Ten Worst (but hottest) Fictional Husbands Ever

We need something funny. I’m right, right? I thought so. In honor of such needs (because I’m such a giving, caring person) it is time for a new top ten list. Therefore I offer...

The Top Ten Worst (but hottest) Fictional Husbands Ever

(I promise to follow with a top ten worst wives soon.)

10. Will Turner

The Why: Orlando Bloom might not seem like an obvious choice, but I defy any woman with half a libido to maintain a frosty visage when he pops up on Davy Jones’ boat at the end of the third movie wet, looking like a true pirate, and sporting a nifty scar where his heart used to be.

The Problem: You get to see him for one day every ten years and he doesn’t age. That means about three days of sexy time for the rest of your life. I don’t care how hot the scar--that’s a bad deal.

9. Mr. Rochester

The Why: I’m imagining a Timothy Dalton and/or William Hurt portrayal with this one. But either way we’ve got brooding, dark good looks, and falling in love with the “plain girl.” Every girl who didn’t have a date to the seventh grade sweethearts dance is bound to fall in love with this guy.

The Problem: Possibly he’s going to lock you in a closet. Or secretly make you his second wife. I know marriage is about compromise, but that seems a little extreme to me.

8. Any Werewolf Anywhere

The Why: How much better can angst be? A man whose animal side is LITERALLY UNCONTROLLABLE once a month? Talk about the beast within.

The Problem: That very same beast that lends him all of his hairy hotness might also maul you, eat you, or at the very least get you arrested for bestiality. Hard to work through that.

7. Anakin Skywalker

The Why: Episode 3. He wakes up from his nightmare in pajama pants and no shirt. I rest my case.

The Problem: Psychopathic serial-killer personality and a tendency to be controlling makes him difficult to live with. Assuming he doesn’t kill you in a fit of rage he might go after the kids while partaking in his genocidal spring cleaning.

6. Dracula

The Why: Gary Oldman showed us that the only mind-tricks Dracula needs are his suaveness and sophistication. Plus, he’s loved the same woman for hundreds of years. That’s serious commitment.

The Problem: Again with the multiple wives, though he does promise to make you wife #1. The bigger issue is that you have to sell your soul to the Devil. Eternal damnation is a lot to ask of a girl.

5. Sir Guy of Guisborne

The Why: Stupid manly jaw with his stupid manly stubble and stupid blue eyes.

The Problem: Not only will fidelity always be a problem, but he will use your child for bait and kill you if you lie to him. That’s a lot of stress to carry around in a marriage.

4. James Bond

The Why: Dude. He’s James Bond.

The Problem: I’m not sure you can count on James to be faithful. And there’s the issue of his possibly hitting you depending on his incarnation and your tendency towards hysterics. Most importantly, however, if James loves you--really truly loves you--you will die. Consider it the universe’s way of keeping balance.

3. The Phantom

The Why: Sure his face is a little messed up. I mean, he makes babies cry, but that voice and that body! (I’m going with the Gerard Butler incarnation here.) And this man can LOVE like no man has ever loved before! Mental neuroses make a guy passionate.

The Problem: Intense jealousy issues followed with probable strangulation. Hard to feel safe in an environment like that.

2. Batman

The Why: He’s honed his body to its absolute peak of perfection. He’s honed his mind to its absolute peak of perfection. He’s the world’s greatest detective. Consider the possibilities for a game of hide and seek...

The Problem: Even assuming you don’t die (because Batman’s need for on-going pain dictates that you must) he brings new meaning to the term “workaholic.” You’ll see him maybe twice a week for about two hours if you’re lucky. And you can’t even complain about it because he’s out saving babies all night.

1. Any Character Portrayed by JCVD

The Why: Have you looked at pictures of JCVD? I think the why should be fairly obvious.

The Problem: If JCVD marries you, you will die. It’s been proven. Consider it a law of physics like gravity or the unattractive result of wearing spandex.

2010-02-16T04:05:00.000-06:00

The Story of Trust...I mean Us

This is going to be sort of a weird one. Part of it is my mood (it’s late, I’m tired, and anyone that knows me understands how sharply my moods shift (that last is a joke...I hope)) and part of it is that I’ve spent the day reading four-hundred-year-old texts actually looking for gender discrepancies to be angry about. I know; I could simply continuously cut myself with a dull razor and I would probably be less upset. But education is pain! Or is that love? I can so rarely keep them straight.

Seriously, though, I just watched The Story of Us; it’s a delightful little movie starring Bruce Willis and Michelle Pfeiffer, directed by Rob Reiner, about marriage--specifically the day to day of marriage and what happens when the romance disappears. As I watched it this time I found myself thinking a lot about trust. Michelle Pfeiffer’s character has a great line in the movie where she says “there are some hurts that never really go away;” I like that line because I think it’s true, but as I watch these two characters play out and I think about that line, I started thinking about the reality of it. Specifically, when trust is lost--when you no longer trust someone you care about to listen to you, to know you, to love you--how do you come back from that?

I think this idea is applicable to all relationships, marriages, friendships, family--that’s why I’m considering it here. The really odd thing is that while it can happen all at once, the most dramatic examples are those where one painful act destroys everything, it can also happen slowly over time. A little pain here and there; a thoughtless comment that really hurts; a dismissal of someone else’s dreams or joys; an enduring selfishness that disallows one party to see or understand the world through the other’s eyes.

None of those things have to be big deals right? How often does someone you love say something that really hurts your feelings? And I’m not even talking big things like, “my you have certainly gotten fat” but something small like, “you were at that wedding?” when you were a bridesmaid. And it all plays into this vortex of emotional slop: you feel like you’re constantly being taken advantage of, like the person you used to trust doesn’t actually understand you at all, like they never actually paid attention to what you said or who you are, like the onus is always on you to keep things going, steady, calm, on and on and on.

Meanwhile, most likely, they’re experiencing some variation of the exact same cycle or, even more likely, they have no idea that all the little things they do are constantly ripping you apart but they know you keep getting angrier with them, colder with them, irritated with them. And then, before you’ve even finished your Big Mac you’re sitting there in awkward silence wondering when it stopped being fun to be around each other wishing desperately it would all just go away.

This movie does a really fantastic job of portraying all of this, and as I sit here with all these thoughts running through my head I can’t help but ask how do you come back from that? I honestly don’t know. It’s hard to be a good friend (and I use “friend” here to cover everything from lover to family member); relationships take a lot of work, and when that moment hits, the little thing that feels kind of like a heart attack, and you realize you don’t trust them at all with anything you say, do, or feel, how do you continue to do the work of the relationship? How do you even know if you want to do the work of the relationship?

I’ve been the person on the hurting end more than once in my life and I always hated it; it feels awful to hurt someone like that, even when you know you have to. But having been on the other side I’m not sure if I don’t quite envy the hurter. For one, if you’re the one that hurts you know whether you’ll do it again (assuming you aren’t a complete idiot); for another the hurter has a sense of closure following whatever episode occurs. If you’re the one that suddenly realized you can’t trust anymore you land in this horrible limbo of “what the hell do I do now?” Even if you know the other person is really sorry, that they didn’t mean to do it, that it wasn’t intentional, [fill in the blank] some part of you is broken that never heals right. Just like the movie, “some hurts never really go away.”

And it isn’t like keeping score, though, I think a lot of people mistake it as such. I think I would draw the line between the two with the oh-so-concrete concept of perspective. I know; perspective is such a subjective measurement to use, but I think it is the right one. Mostly I think it’s the right one because the only difference between keeping score and breaking is the person, the context, and the hurt; that has to be decided subjectively case by case. And a whole host of other things get mixed into the slop like self-awareness, thoughtfulness, loyalty, affection, genuine feeling, etc. I mean it’s such a mess right? There is no way to parcel this out neatly; there is no way to say “here are the 12 steps of trusting someone again.” When you are literally struggling with yourself you cannot ever get away or get enough distance to figure it out.

And this goes back into that post a long time ago about knowing when to walk away from someone; when they are good for you and when their brokenness is simply shredding you by proximity. I mean, that’s part of the trusting right? In agreeing to trust someone you accept that they won’t destroy you, or, at the very least, they won’t make your life so painful you wish they could destroy you. But once you reach the point where every moment spent with them is pain, how the hell do you fix that?

It was a good movie. Probably no one else has ever thought this hard about it. It’s the curse of being an English major movie watcher.

2010-02-06T05:24:00.001-06:00

Inappropriate Facebook Status Updates

Due to the awesomeness of my roommate I was recently introduced to a website called Lamebook.com. There at ye ol’ Lamebook they take the best of the best, and the best of the worst, of Facebook and post it for the world to see. Be warned: this isn’t for the faint of heart.

There is everything from the hilarious to the offensive to the just plain odd, but after spending no small amount of time on this website myself (insomnia is a harsh boyfriend) I find myself contemplating the lure of the inappropriate Facebook status update.

For example: if you are Girl A and your friend Girl B breaks up with her Boyfriend C, then A and C start dating, wouldn’t you, as A, remove B from your friend list? (If you’re confused just graph it out--I promise it makes sense.)

I mean, as I read some of the status updates and the exchanges happening on the internet--FOR ALL THE WORLD TO SEE--I have to wonder, do these people remain friends on Facebook out of spite, or are their profiles set to public? And either way, don’t you show a severe lack of intelligence, tact, class, and forethought to post personal business where anyone can read it?

We can all pretend like we haven’t seen them, but we know we have. Inappropriate status updates generally take the following four forms:

The Inappropriately Angry Update:
John Doe is so *BLEEPING* angry at the *BLEEPER DE BLEEPS* that made him go *BLEEPING* *BLEEP*.

The Inappropriately Personal Update (this one has two sub-categories):

Inappropriate about Self--
Janey Smiles wants you all to know that she has brain cancer and only five months to live.

Inappropriate Divulging of Information About Others--
Marjorie Black is sorry her neighbor’s little six year old daughter was also diagnosed with leprosy and must go live in a colony.

The Inappropriate Sharing Update:
Keith Brown hates Charlie Shore so much because he is such a *BLEEP* to steal my girlfriend. If your best friend is going to father three children on your girlfriend while you’re dating her, and she’s going to lie to you about being the father, he should recognize that he isn’t a friend at all!

The Inappropriately Passive-Aggressive Update:
Tina Red wishes she could stop crying. Why would he do that?!?!?!?!

And, of course, because sharing this sort of information with the world isn’t enough--almost always these updates are written in some horrendous form of text speech (Tboz thnkz u r stw a8f al08 lol haha!) or use ridiculous grammar.

And you know, on the one hand I sort of get it. When something happens, good or bad, you want to talk about it. You want to share with people. I totally get that impulse. You want people to know what’s going on in your life and in this modern era of the internet and Facebook the status update seems like a great way to get it done. But as I push ahead in my studies and I read more and more about the internet and the internet in classrooms and the internet and society and I (obviously) use the internet a lot I keep wondering if people have always been this unaware of decorum, if lack of decorum has always been prevalent but the internet makes it more visible, or if the anonymous nature of typing in your bedroom by yourself makes it easier to lose decorum.

And I recognize a lot of the irony in me remarking on this. I am not, nor ever will be, a lady (a fact I’m not worried about). But, I do try my darndest to have and demonstrate good manners. Anything less would simply disappoint my poor mother and I try my best to never disappoint my poor mother. And I (as evidenced by this post and the many that have preceeded it) use the internet to share my personal opinions and views as if anyone cares; all bloggers do, and certainly that runs the risk of tricking those of us writing from the privacy of our own homes into thinking our opinions matter in the grand scheme of things. I recognize this about myself and in case any inappropriate updaters are reading this and feeling offended I want you to know I recognize it about myself.

But I feel like there’s a difference between being censored and demonstrating tact, no? And facebook is not the place to “let it all hang out” right? You try not to make the family cry at Christmas dinner because it’s rude, and whether you care what they think or not if you’re there, being an adult means doing your best to be pleasant. Christmas Dinner is not the place to be a snot. That’s not censorship, it’s agreeing to live peaceably together for the time it takes to share a meal. Sometimes it feels like a plastic bag over your face, but gosh darn it you paste on that smile and get the job done! At least, that’s how we roll in the Midwest.

But I worry (and I know how old this makes me sound) about the kids (let’s hope Girls A and B and Boyfriend C are kids for goodness sake) who are sharing all manner of things with the world via Facebook and getting fired and never realizing that not every thought that passes through their mind at every moment of the day matters.

I mean, after I read Lamebook I overwhelmed by the whole bevy of people in the world that had no idea how much none of us care about their breakups, anger, or pain--at least not via update. Cause when you want to share that with people isn’t it worth the phone call? Or at least an email? This is why I despise Twitter. What do you possibly have to say to me, that is worth saying, that can be said in under 140 characters? I don’t care if you’re eating pizza! I don’t care if you’re shopping! I don’t care if you really like pictures of puppies!

Sorry...I think that’s been building for awhile.

So yeah, check out Lamebook.com if you think you’re up to it. I promise you won’t be bored; though, if you find yourself crying over the state of civilization don’t say I didn’t warn you.

2010-02-01T05:26:00.000-06:00

Legion

All I wanted was to see some angels fight. That is not too much to ask for out of a movie. Paul Bettany was hot; I do appreciate that at least, but the movie...the movie was...I’m so irate with it’s failure that I find myself shaking with rage.

Let’s start with a simple logic problem. When writing a movie about angels, or any movie dealing with the Christian mythos for that matter, the first issue that must be addressed is the following question: is God all-powerful?

As a logic problem it would look something like this:

If God is All Powerful = True then Humanity Dies.

If God is All Powerful = False then Humanity has a Fighting Chance.

This is where you start because if you don’t have an answer to this question then you sure aren’t going to be able to write a movie about it. Whoever wrote this catastrophe of an apocalypse obviously grew up on The Prophecy and Constantine and was so excited about playing with ideas of angels, scripture, and Christianity that they apparently forgot you still have to have a believable mythos. The world you create must make sense.

I expected a particular level of suck from this film; let’s be honest about that. All I wanted was Paul Bettany with wings, preferably shirtless, fighting another man with wings, also preferably shirtless. I started to suspect there was trouble when the studio logo came up on the screen and it was BOLD pictures. Yeah. They call themselves Bold and apparently the best logo they could imagine for themselves was the world “bold” in bold font. Hyperbole is the BEST thing ever! We were off to a bad start, it was true.

Then the movie starts and the opening voice over is fine; not spectacular, but fine so far as movie about angels go. But then the music started. I pay attention to these things because music matters and when you’re making a movie about oh, say, THE FREAKING APOCALPYSE, you should have some pretty apocalyptic music--wouldn’t you agree? You better agree because I’m right. But still I thought to myself, Self--it’s gonna be okay. You aren’t expecting too much.

I feel a little bit like I’ve had a Dragon Wars pulled on me here. When I went to see that I expected dragons warring and was sadly (SADLY) disappointed, but this movie had Paul Bettany and in the end he is what saved it from being a total failure. I can’t even imagine what might have happened if they had to rely on Ashton Kutcher to carry that role. Probably I would have been in tears (but we all know I still would have seen it because the movie was about angels).

But even that part failed on many levels. The angels were sort of a part but not exactly. Because once again these people who thought they were so darned clever to present a new imagining of the Christian apocalypse couldn’t figure out which Christianity they wanted to present. After all, if God decides he wants to wipe out humanity and he’s all powerful then humanity doesn’t really get a say in the matter. If God decides he wants to wipe out humanity and he’s all powerful but the angel assigned to do the deed rebels perhaps, so long as it all happens in a short, finite amount of time, there is chance if said angel can reveal to God the error of his ways. If God decides he wants to wipe out humanity and he isn’t all powerful (or for some reason can’t use all of his powers to do so) then an angel absolutely can make a difference.

But if you present a God the audience is supposed to believe is all powerful and then there’s a baby that has to get protected for two days until it’s born and then has to be protected until it grows up...humanity is so screwed. Why? Because WHERE ARE YOU GOING TO FREAKING RUN FROM GOD AND HIS ANGELS? Kansas? Canada? Maybe New Zealand? What do all of these places have in common? Ding, ding, ding! They’re all on Earth and Earth is all under the jurisdiction of God! Hard to get away from a being that can literally see everything all the time. Hiding in the desert doesn’t exactly get the job done. Never mind the fact that he has a LEGION of angels at his beck and call. So one angel decides to rebel and won’t carry out the order? There are still thousands that must be fought off for an INDETERMINATE AMOUNT OF TIME.

You can’t fight the apocalypse because it’s the gosh darned apocalypse. By definition it happens everywhere at once. Even Iowa.

These are not questions that should stump screen writers. These are not even questions that are that hard if you’ve ever read a fantasy novel in your life. Even just reading Lord of the Rings would suffice. But apparently whoever wrote this monstrosity just assumed that because they showed us angels we wouldn’t think to hard about the physics of it all. Apparently they assumed no one would question the folly of trying to out run God.

I mean seriously. They try to out run God. I can’t...I can’t even deal with that right now.

I wanted angels. I wanted fighting. I wanted awesomeness. I would have settled for a few really cool scenes.

Instead I got a man and a woman climbing a mountain as the sun rises behind them literally hours after she’s given birth. Not even dealing with the fact that I have never known anyone that would climb a mountain after giving birth there isn’t even the pretense of subtlety in showing a man and woman carrying the savior of mankind coming over a ridge as the sun rises behind them. Like, I’m pretty sure that’s the visual equivalent of “Since the dawn of time love has been the greatest theme of all humankind.”

If this movie were one of my students’ papers I would fail it with malicious enjoyment. Malicious. I would make whoever turned it into me as a finished product cry with shame. And I would make sure they never, ever, did anything so silly again.

That’s how you keep the world safe.

2010-01-26T01:42:00.001-06:00

Hawaii, Illness, and Burnout

I had a whole blogging thing planned for the trip to Hawaii. I even wrote a little in my notebook on the plane there and a few times while I was there so that I could record my experience for the posterity of all. A week has passed since I returned, however, and none of this delightful blogging has happened.

I caught the plague while in Hawaii, you see, because apparently I am allergic to paradise. My body rejects perfection. But really that’s no surprise to anyone.

And maybe it was deciding to attend a conference the first week of school; maybe it was getting sick and having to fly six hours to get home. Maybe it’s just the combination of last semester and this one, but I have embarked on a hermitage. Only recently have I willingly left my apartment for something other than required needs; only in the last two days have I felt like socializing, shopping, or...showering.

I could certainly blame part of it on being sick. I had a fever (which is always fun) and sinus issues and now currently still carry a really sexy cough. My voice sounds like I’m smoking two cartons a day of pure arsenic. But I think part of it is due to Hawaii itself.

I didn’t love Hawaii.

I feel like I’m betraying all that is good and holy in the world even typing such an admission, but living in Las Vegas has ruined me for tourism. I don’t like being on a beach surrounded by people. The conference was fine, but my experiences weren’t overwhelming. None of the souvenirs I saw were anything I couldn’t purchase on Fremont Street; all of the streets were lined with hotels, and ABC, the Hawaii equivalent of CVS.

We went to the North Shore one day and that was tremendous. On the North Shore we were away from the people and the tourism and the clearly presented “paradise” front. I saw twenty foot waves, I jumped up on a rock barely avoiding getting splashed (demonstrating dexterity to make a gazelle jealous I tell you) and I triumphed over the Dole Pineapple Plantation Maze. It’s possible that were I on a different island than Oahu I would be happier.

But because the conference fell on the first week of school (something I didn’t realize when I originally submitted) I was worried about classes and teaching and paperwork. Because I got sick I was acutely aware of needing to get home, and wanting to be home, and wishing I weren’t in a hotel room. There also wasn’t much in the way of restaurants and I was really looking forward to some tremendous food.

It was certainly beautiful, there is no denying that. And it felt really different to be off the continental U.S. But conferences the first week of school are a bad idea. As is getting sick. I have been sick more in the past seven months than I have for the past four years. Unacceptable.

So I’m sharing these gripes in an attempt to get myself back in the space of working, thinking, and studying. Hopefully if I can make myself sit down and type all of this I can make myself sit down and do some genuine work as well.

My failure to love Hawaii as I should is a sign, I believe, of Vegas finally eating away my soul. All that was good in me lasted here for two and half years--it was a decent run.

2010-01-07T17:53:00.001-06:00

Oh Sir Guy...You Killer of Babies You

It’s a shameful day in my existence. There I am on the couch, just trying to do a little recoup before the semester gets back into full swing watching Robin Hood. It’s a fantastic show; I don’t know if the Brits do it better because it’s their story or because the BBC is, in general, more classy TV than what we got over here. Regardless I’m really loving the show, life, and most especially the part where I’m on the couch.

As I watch I’m reviled by the Sheriff of Nottingham who is like a short, midget version of Tim Curry and Alan Rickman shoved together; I’m disgusted by the Sir Guy of Gisborne, an undeniably more charismatic character than the Prince of Thieves version, but still appropriately evil. I’m thrilled by Robin and his band of merry men. The writing is good, the action invigorating, and the show is simply, overall, thoroughly entertaining.

And then the unthinkable happens...

Sir Guy of Gisborne looks up with his piercing blue eyes and his stubble-ridden jaw and his dark, dark hair and I feel a hitch just behind my rib cage. But this guy takes his illegitimate child and leaves it in the forest to lure Robin into a trap. There’s no way I’m going to find myself suddenly attracted to a character like this. And then the kitchen maid (the same one he lied to about giving the child a happy home to) says “you don’t know him like I do” and I scream at myself (SCREAM) that lines such as that, even when paired with icy blue eyes and stubble-ridden jaws are simply the way we talk ourselves into trouble. I’m too smart to think that a man who leaves his illegitimate child in the forest has a good side! I would never find myself fantasizing about strong jaws lined in stubble! THOSE ARE THE ACTIONS OF A CRAZY WOMAN!

And then he looked up and the camera angle, aligned to perfectly capture his profile, dark hair, stubble, and one piercing, icy blue eye seemed to sear into my soul. My heart did the thing where I can’t breath and before I even knew what was happening--before I could think, react, or remind myself that I don’t lust after baby killers--I was lost.

Without my conscious choice I began concocting alternate plot lines in my head. He was nearby; the baby wasn’t really in trouble. He used it for bait and that is wrong, but he made sure the baby was safe the whole time. He’s broken, wounded, confused by life and really just needs the love of a woman like Marion (or me) to make him better.

It’s not fair. It’s not my fault. It’s like an addiction. You show me a clean cut bad guy and I’m safe, clear, no problem. I mean, there was that one time with Universal Soldier and the necklace of ears, but I wouldn’t really date that guy. Honest I wouldn’t. But Sir Guy of Guisborne...it’s taken all of my not inconsiderable writing skills to manipulate the plot of Robin Hood into one where his character is savable. He’s been under spells, he’s been drugged, he’s been misunderstood, he’s been secretly working as a spy for King Richard to keep the Sheriff under watch...

Seriously it’s exhausting having a crush on this character and trying to justify it to myself at the same time. I keep trying to rationalize it away and I, the queen of rationalization, am almost outmatched. Hence my deep and overwhelming shame.

But I just can’t fight this feeling anymore. Apparently the way to my heart is to convince me there’s a large chance you’ll kill me someday with psychopathic remorse shining from your eyes.

And people wonder why I stay single.

2010-01-05T18:18:00.000-06:00

Epic Trashy Romance Fail

So I’m reading a trashy romance novel (like you do) and I am appalled, though not shocked, by the unacceptability of this sketchy story. This particular author, Jacquelyn Frank, has bordered on sketch before, but I was in need of something to read and she had a new book out and I thought why not? It’s not like I won’t enjoy it.

Except I hadn’t counted on her latest story being built around a world where punishment for the female criminals is forced prostitution. And I don’t know about the rest of you, but anytime the word “forced” gets attached to a sexual act I just go ahead and call it rape. I find it so much more simple.

In the book’s defense the heroine makes the argument this system of “justice” is heinous and I will finish the story to see if Frank somehow saves the story by demonstrating, beyond a shadow of a doubt, how incredibly unacceptable such a civilization is. But I don’t have high hopes because it’s hard to fall in love with a hero (sort of the point of the trashy romance) who doesn’t get why giving someone some pretty clothes doesn’t make up for forced sexual activity.

I mean, I love this argument that the hero makes. Well, it’s not like we’re killing them. They know the consequences of breaking the law, so if we punish them by forcing them into prostitution instead of killing them they should thank us for feeding them and clothing them and letting them live! Obviously. Never mind this particular storyline revolves around a society near extinction due to severe lack of females so the free women are “cherished” and “kept indoors” and “protected.” No, I don’t know why that sort of lifestyle would drive anyone crazy do you? I know I just love not being able to go outside or be an individual because my duty to the “colony” is more important.

I mean...it’s almost like someone thought to themself “Self, how can we make jess the most disgusted and angry she could possibly be? Oh I know, create a fantasy world where we somehow surpass Victorian England for bad gender roles, rape is an acceptable form of punishment, and women must allow themselves to be caged birds so that the world may survive!”

And my problem here, the reason this book is driving me insane (and yes if I were smart I would stop reading trashy romance, but I resent the fact that I can’t find ethical, intelligent romance that doesn’t depend on ridiculous hurtful expectations of domination and submission) is that I never have and never will agree that the good of the many outweighs the right of the one to choose. So the colony is short on women. That’s cool; if a woman wants to choose to be gilded and accept her role as necessary to colony survival I support and respect that choice. But she gets to choose. And she, while perhaps first in line for sustenance and shelter, is not turned into some form of statuary.

Because, aside from the whole it’s unethical to force someone to support others thing, it’s also unethical to torture somebody. And when you torture them instead of kill them it’s a big deal. You are too dangerous to be allowed to live? Okay, if this is a world where the death penalty is used then you kill them. I’m cool with that (I have strange libertarian impulses it’s true) but you don’t torture them. If you want to afford your women the opportunity to breed because you’re so short on females you work something out, but you don’t sell them. It’s torture; it’s slavery, and just cause you do it to the “criminal” women doesn’t make it okay. Not even considering the implications for the women who are criminals, it makes the society worse. It makes each member of society a worse person to agree to such an act and to be complicitous in it.

That’s the part that all these crazy romance novel authors don’t seem to get. Yeah, it sucks for the person suffering from abuse, be it rape, gilded cage syndrome, etc., but it also destroys the person allowing, endorsing, or doling out the abuse. Not only is your world unacceptable because you’ve created some monstrous perversion of society, but your hero is unacceptable cause he’s a big, dumb rapist! Not hot. I mean really, has any of us ever just found ourselves with heaving breaths upon the realization that the one we love sometimes pays society for the right to have sex with another person? If it were prostitution I might not be so irate (though let‘s be honest, still irate) but it’s forced prostitution. I mean, the only difference to me is that it’s rape with a free dinner after! Well la-di-dah. That just makes everything okay doesn’t it?

I know, I know--I need to stop reading trashy romance. This happens every time. I know it’s bad for me and I do it anyway and then I get mad and then I rant about it for awhile. I have no one to blame but myself for my current heartburn and I accept that responsibility.

I’ll go back to watching Robin Hood on the BBC now. Which, incidentally, is really awesome and I am so Little John (you see why romance and I just aren’t meant to be). More on that later.

2010-01-03T22:49:00.000-06:00

The Grass is Greener and I Suppose It’s Always Complicated

I’m hoping that if I force myself to write about some of the movies I have been watching of late it will get me back in work mode. Here’s to hoping.

I recently watched both It’s Complicated, recently released with Meryl Streep and Alec Baldwin, and The Grass is Greener, an old movie starring Cary Grant and Deborah Kerr. Both dealt with marriage, infidelity, and divorce and it was only quite by accident that I watched them both in the same day. It made for a really interesting experience, however; The Grass is Greener is designed to be a comedy and the whole situation of marriage, adultery, and wedding vows is treated humorously and (dare I say it?) lightheartedly. Oh, as a viewer you know that these are serious issues, but Cary Grant isn’t nearly as distraught in this film as he is in, say, An Affair to Remember (best chick flick ever). It’s Complicated, however, endeavors to show, much more realistically I might argue, the realities of adultery.

I think the reason both got me to thinking was because in Grass Cary Grant gives a very good speech about how marriage is “for better or for worse” and that one spouse shouldn’t simply walk away from the other one when they reach the “for worse” part of marriage. It’s a good speech; I won’t argue that. But contrary to Mr. Grant’s very charming rhetoric, I think adultery is sometimes a good reason not to be someone. It just doesn’t seem very sporting (I’ve been watching a lot of Cary Grant lately so if my syntax seems British just go with it) to sit around an empty house and wait for your cheating spouse to come home and, hopefully, love you again. That’s not cricket.

On the other hand, if you’ve got ten or twenty or thirty years of marriage under your belt and a few kids to boot one little affair (or two or three) might not seem worth calling the whole thing off. I suppose it’s dependent upon how necessary trust is for the particular two people involved and how that trust is defined. Maybe, if you’re Cary Grant and Deborah Kerr, you don’t worry about fidelity, but you trust that said adulterous spouse will always come home at the end of the day.

But if you require fidelity from your spouse are you a failure if adultery makes you demand divorce? And there are levels of adultery right? First base--worth getting angry and a mild cold shoulder. Some second or third base action--definitely within rights to throw something at someone’s head. Homerun--all bets are off. And how many times has it happened? What were the circumstances surrounding it?

And there is the other question both films play with: if your spouse cheats first are you allowed to cheat back? Obviously my answer is going to be no because I’m not big on that whole “revenge gig” but I think what has me going here, what I’m really after, is that when it comes to affairs of the heart, love, the unspoken rule is that love, and lack thereof, justifies everything. If our husbands don’t love us we get to cheat on them. If our wives don’t sleep with us we get to have sex with someone else. If we really feel a connection with someone then we can’t possibly be expected to control ourselves. Lancelot and Guinevere, Tristan and Isolde, The Bridges of Madison County, etc., etc., etc. And I make concessions for Guinevere, it wasn’t like she could exactly divorce Arthur, but so many movies purport the romance of the affair. At least in An Affair to Remember (I feel I have to acknowledge what it is since I admitted to loving it ever so much) their decision to be together is made with the simultaneous decision to end their current relationships. There’s no hemming and hawing there. (I hate the hemming and hawing.)

And it’s not like these things are easy; I think they probably are always complicated, but lack of ease is so often used as an excuse for wrong behavior. I edited that previous sentence from “bad” to “wrong” because I don’t really think the choice to cheat is often a “good” or “bad” one, but it is a wrong one. Unethical behavior is always wrong, even when understandable or expected. And perhaps that’s what I’m driving at here.

Both films, I felt, didn’t take a strong enough stance against the wrongness of willfully hurting another human being. Now, some would argue it hurt’s them to divorce them, but that’s a false argument. Either you still love them and don’t want to divorce them, in which case you’re simply too lazy to be a good person, or you don’t actually want to be with them but are too lazy to change. At the end of the day if you don’t love someone as they deserve, have no intention of ever doing so, and stay with them out of guilt, laziness, or usury, it’s a sublimation of their life to yours and that’s not okay. Vows or not, I’m gonna go on record and say that’s not okay. And, if you’re the wronged party hurting back the person that hurt you only makes you as wrong as they were. More understandable perhaps, but understanding does not go inevitably with condoning.

It seems to me, after watching these movies and thinking about it, that too often we equate understanding (shit happens) with the need to condone (well it wasn’t that bad you’re right) and I think that’s lazy ethics. And I’m not preaching judgment here, I hope I’m not preaching at all, but putting forth the idea that allowing ourselves off the hook for our bad behavior because it’s understandable only furthers more bad behavior. We all have excellent reasons for why we do the crazy things we do, but how does one work on themselves (assuming of course that one wants to) without acknowledging, painful as it is, that one has screwed up? And, this might be even more tricky, attempting to not make the same mistake again. That second part is key. A revolving door of acknowledged bad behavior doesn’t really get the job done either.

And so, thinking on both of these movies, I have to say I still think one bad does not justify another and adultery, while always wrong, can also be understandable. And I kind of wish both movies would have taken a harder line on that.

But hey, I’m the friend that when you ask “is it wrong?” after sleeping with your ex-husband who is currently remarried answers, “it’s wrong.” Just call me the dreamslayer.

2010-01-02T19:15:00.000-06:00

Avatar or Wow...Shiny

I can’t exactly not talk about Avatar. It would be ridiculous of me, me the girl who watches more movies than any living human being ought and reads (or used to read) more fantasy books than any living human being ought (as opposed to dead human beings who are judged by entirely different standards) to watch Avatar and not talk about it.

The problem is I don’t know exactly what to say. We’ll start with the things that are important:

1) Watch it in a good theater with 3-D; I recommend IMAX if available.
2) Part way through, when you’re thoroughly caught up in the world, try to remind yourself that none of the things you are watching are real. You’re brain probably won’t be able to process that.
3) Try to count all the lines/characters/stories that are blatantly ripped off of other movies and/or video games.

Avatar is a really, really beautiful movie and the effects are everything they were cracked up to be. It was a truly tremendous movie watching experience. The problem was the story; the story was good enough for the effects, but that was all. The story absolutely couldn’t stand on it’s own...at least not solidly.

But that, by itself, is another problem. Even as I wished the story (think Pocahontas) could be different, I have no idea how it might be different and still be the story that Cameron is telling. At times he does some really brilliant things--he plays with the hero quest in an unexpected way, he plays with gender roles in a manner I’ve grown to expect and love him for, he attempts to make what has become a joke something serious in its own right. I actually respect the attempt to present a nature based culture as not hoakey; the problem is he doesn’t exactly succeed. Partly I think because he relies too much on cliché and stereotypical Native American tropes, but mostly because as I was watching it I could feel how hard it was trying. A story should be like any other creative act; the audience should never know how hard it was to present.

A story should feel seamless, easy, and inevitable. Regardless of whether we can predict what will happen next, if we feel the plot is exactly the right plot for the story being told we forgive it. None of us doesn’t expect the hero to succeed and live happily ever after, and, in fact, many of us will be incredibly irritated if we aren’t presented with an ending that fulfills those requirements acceptably. But, the story can’t feel forced, preachy, or stolen. Nothing is original (and I really mean that) but everything great is individual. The problem with Avatar’s story was that it didn’t feel like James Cameron’s story. It felt like a lot of James Cameron’s stories, plus Independence Day, plus New World, plus Starcraft/Warcraft with a dash of Star Wars thrown in a blender and mixed around.

And the parts that were original to this movie, the parts that you felt encapsulated the movie best sometimes felt forced. Like Cameron had this great idea for a world where biology is magic and life and connection...but he just didn’t have the time to make it work in a narrative. That made me sad.

But it was good enough. It was good enough because the visual aspect of the movie was so stunning that as a viewer I didn’t necessarily care about the finer points of storytelling while I watched it. The story was solid enough that, while at times I was pulled out of the imaginary world, most of the time I could accept it and enjoy the sensation of seeing my childhood imagination brought to life...quite literally at times.

So it’s worth it. You have to see it in the theater, and you absolutely should do whatever you can to see it in a good theater. And if, at times, you find yourself finishing the quote from Empire Strikes Back that has been lifted directly, just concentrate on the shiny things. There are a lot of them and they are very cool to look at in this movie.

2009-12-21T05:00:00.001-06:00

Give Everything Up For Love?

For anyone who noticed my recent status update on Facebook I am now involved in a relationship with Gene Kelly. The only surprising aspect of that should be that it took me this long to become involved with him. The term “dreamboat” comes to mind. What has me writing tonight, however, is Brigadoon. I had never seen this musical previously; we watched Singing in the Rain last night and I absolutely loved it. (I could do a thing with all caps to show just how much I loved it, but trust me when I say I’m still on a little bit of a high over that one.)

Brigadoon, however, while not bad, wasn’t quite as good. Cyd Charisse was marvelous and Gene Kelly was marvelous (of course) and I liked the love story between them. But the plot both left me dissatisfied and got me to thinking. In this movie the town of Brigadoon is only a part of the world for one day every hundred years. The townspeople wake up, have their day, then go to bed only to wake up one hundred years later. This came about because in 1754 the pastor of the town worried about the unpleasant influences headed for the townsfolk, specifically a band of witches headed their way. He went out to a hill and prayed for a miracle. God granted this miracle by removing the town from reality for all but one day every hundred years. No one could ever cross the boundaries of the town (none of the townsfolk that is) or all of the townsfolk would wink out of existence. Well Gene comes along and finds the town and falls in love with Cyd and of course he is able to join them.

My problem is this: is it really a miracle to live your life one day at a time every hundred years and to never, ever be able to leave? You can never go anywhere else, never see anything else, never access any other part of human existence outside what is encased in your small town. One young man goes insane and tries to leave and is accidentally shot; it’s sad, but as a viewer I was left conflicted. His escape would have destroyed the town and he couldn’t stand to be there any more; death was his only real option then, but death seemed an unfair solution to him. I’m not sure I buy that what the reverend did was a good thing; I am, it should be noted, predisposed to side with witches in almost everything concerning the social view of witches in the 18th century--I freely admit that bias.

Aside from this problem there is also this very important philosophical question to consider: could I actually give up everything, my friends, family, life, everything, to live in an isolated faerie existence with my love? What made me seriously think about this, is that as I watched I realized I didn’t, and don’t, think I would.

Let’s imagine for a second really, truly falling in love over the course of a day just like the movies. The sort of love that never leaves you alone, never gets out of your system. The sort of love that takes years to heal. I’m blessed to have that sort of love, I would argue, with my friends and family. To never see them again, to never be able to see them again, would make me unhappy in a way that would lessen, possibly even negate the love I’ve found with this magical person who requires me to give everything up.

When I was eighteen I could have done it no problem. When you’re eighteen you’re still close enough to fourteen to call someone a “murderer of love” and really mean it. When you’re eighteen you can run away from life for love with no idea of what you’re giving up, and by the time you realize it’s too late to change it. But at twenty-eight things are a whole lot less melodramatic, and a whole lot more consequential. Even assuming for a moment that where I went wasn’t this magical town I could never leave (because if that were the case I really wouldn’t ever do it) assuming that perhaps I were traveling to a whole other world that was green and lush, full of arts and education and all the things that offer fulfillment. If, and this is a ridiculous if but we’re already contemplating a ridiculous situation, this other place were my own personal utopia I might do it. But the thing is I don’t think simply being with one person would make it my own personal utopia.

Is that wrong? Selfish? Unromantic? Well, certainly unromantic. But when you’re somewhere you hate, the only thing that makes it tolerable are the people you love. And if you fight or become disillusioned with the person you love sometimes the only thing that keeps you sane while you work through it is the place (if you don’t hate it) or the friends and family--other people you love. But if you’re somewhere you grow to hate, with no friends, no family, and no escape eventually you’re going to fight with this person you love no matter how true and wonderful the love is. And if there is literally nowhere and no one you can talk to there is no way to get distance or perspective and bitterness sets in. Over time (especially if you can only live one day every one hundred years) things are going to get very Tennessee Williams in that relationship until everyone is unhappy and screaming at everyone. The only way to avoid that would be for you, the person who gave up everything, to carry the load of that sorrow. And that would be a very heavy load to carry.

So no...I don’t think I would do it. Now, I admit I’m factoring into this my belief that no love could accrue over a day that I wouldn’t eventually heal from no matter how intense. In my opinion the sort of love that is worth giving everything up for happens over a little more time than that, so that plays a part. The love i have for my friends and family as accrued over years and if that means giving up Gene Kelly I think I might. Further proof of my lack of romanticism.

But I think, at the end of all this musing, what it comes down to for me, is that I actually, truly do believe there are all sorts of loves in life and a person generally needs more than one of them to get by. We can make do if we’re missing one and most people rarely have them all--family and friends can make up for no lover and vice versa; friends for family; family and lover for friends and so on--and sometimes if absolutely necessary we can get by on one. But more than one, at least in my limited twenty-eight years of experience seems to make for the most happiness. None is a sure bet and all take hard work on the part of everyone--these are givens--but realistic knowledge of that hard work makes me achingly aware of the ability of one type to magically buoy while another type fails, breaks, or hurts. So if you have a big fight you have friends and/or family there to catch you. If you’re ridiculously happy you have someone to share it with. If you start to wear on one person or group you can offer relief by visiting another.

But if everyone is stuck in Brigadoon you eventually go crazy and attempt to force mass destruction on the town to end it all. We all know that would totally be my ending.

Perhaps that’s unromantic. Perhaps I’m missing the thrill of this particular fairytale. I freely admit to all of these possibilities while placing equal fault on myself along with the movie. Gene Kelly really was spectacular, but I don’t think I could give up everything even for him.

Well...nope. Maybe 300 Spartans...maybe.

The possibility of little leather panties does add an enticing variable into the mix.

2009-12-17T14:49:00.000-06:00

Are You Worth Saving?

I wasn’t going to do it, but I have to. The ridiculousness of the public perception of government programs and publicly funded programs has finally pushed me to the edge. Newsweek’s Article, “A Mountain of Bills” discusses the high costs of rescue operations; this is a conversation that has been sparked following the search for the missing climbers on Mt. Hood. Apparently it costs a lot to mount a search and rescue operation; there are helicopter costs, specialist costs, and *gasp* overtime costs. Well heaven forbid.

My question, and the only one I feel actually matters, is: are we really not going to put forth our best efforts to save/help people because it costs too much? Really? (That second really is part of the first question--honest.)

Obviously a search and rescue operation on a mountain is going to cost money. It cannot, realistically, be done all volunteer. Do any of us actually have a problem with making sure rangers are employed, their stations stocked, helicopters available, and orientations for mountain climbers provided? If you do you are the Grinch who made pre-Christmas ghost Scrooge look cheerful. And that argument is ridiculous outside of a fascist state so we won’t consider it here.

But, the only option for finding money for programs such as these is through taxes and all one has to do is say “taxes” and everybody gets flibbertigibbeted. That’s right. I said flibbertigibbeted cause that’s what it is. The social contract, the one we agree to live by when we make a conscious decision to be part of the American community and the one we vote on every election includes taxes. It can’t NOT include taxes. The government, so long as we chose to have one, must find money somewhere and we, the people, agree to pay money for the government to use--as it sees fit until we use our power to change the spending--our money. Now, there are any number of things we can argue about so far as how our money should be spent and I’m not going to do that because that’s not what I’m talking about here. The only premise that needs be accepted is that we should pay the government some amount of money so that it might function.

Keep in mind if you say “no” you better be very, very sure you understand what that means (and then let me know because I would be happy to consider that idea elsewhere).

Moving on, what on earth should our money be spent on except, oh I don’t know, making sure the citizens and peoples of our country aren’t on their own? We can’t not allow people to climb mountains (we could, but again, go look up fascist) and we can’t inject GPS locators onto their body (someone suggested that in the comments, I kid you not, go read a dystopian book) so in order to walk that fine line between life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness (it really is that one that is the sticking point in so many things) we have to accept that sometimes people pursue happiness in dangerous ways. Does it not behoove us to provide safety nets where possible? Do we really want to run a country where the only people you can turn to for help are your friends and family? Getting robbed? Can’t call the police! Call Mom! That idea is so ridiculous I have heartburn.

And I’m not saying these ranger programs are perfect; certainly how much money, the way the money is being spent, and every other nitpicky thing would be watched as the government watches all of its money (another topic I refuse to be sidetracked by) but the thing that makes this situation different from PBS or Art Grants or any of the other myriad of programs that people debate over, is that this is specifically about saving lives. Seriously. We’re not paying rangers to play lumberjack. Is a ranger station not an important thing to have? Why not? Because you’re never going to be on a mountain, therefore it doesn’t require thought, care, or funding?

That was the thinking of some of the comments and it is that close-sightedness, the inability to think outside of their own little world, the sheer selfishness, violently protected selfishness, that irritates me and causes an article like this to be written. Hate is louder so policies and conversations keep getting had based on the noise the hateful people make. The problem, of course, is that you can’t exactly be an angry non-hater. But we could be loud non-haters if more of us, instead of screaming back at them, would simply say “that is unacceptable” and ignore them. But that definitely is a topic for another day.

In meantime, go find some gosh darn hikers!

http://www.newsweek.com/id/227009?GT1=43002

2009-12-16T00:35:00.001-06:00

Top Ten Greatest Parts of Holiday Inn (1942)

First I must set the stage: I'm home for Christmas break and that means a lot of movie watching. Imagine two to three movies a night. Movie watching is what my dad and I do, so when I come home a game ensues of "pick the movie" which usually takes up the better part of an hour before every movie that is watched. Sometimes, as with Holiday Inn, my mother feels strongly about a movie and so attempts to steer us away from watching said movie even though she isn't going to watch it with us.

Thus it was that multiple conversations surrounding Holiday Inn went like this:

Night 1
Me: Let's watch Holiday Inn!
Mom: It's not good. It's just another movie about a whiny guy.
Dad: Can't watch that one then.
Exit Mom.

Night 2
Me: Let's watch Holiday Inn!
Mom: Why would you want to watch that? It's awful.
Dad: Can't watch that one then.
Exit Mom.

Night 3
Me: Let's watch Holiday Inn!
Mom: Whiny, whiny man!
Dad: Can't watch that one then.
Me: I want to watch Holiday Inn! Mom, you're not going to watch it anyway!
Mom: Well that's true. But it's a bad movie.
Dad: You're mom doesn't want to watch that one.
Me: Mom's not watching!

Repeat scene.

You begin to have an idea of the epic quest it is to pick just one of the two to three movies that gets watched when I'm home.

But, eventually after much struggle and battle, we did watch Holiday Inn and my mom was right. It was pretty awful. In honor of the stupendous, marvelous, tremendous awfulness though I give you this top ten list. Keep in mind that every time something happened that upset me, causing me to cry out in horror, my father brought up Aaron Burr, the man that shot Alexander Hamilton on the grassy knoll. Why did he bring up Aaron Burr? I don't know. My best guess was to get me to stop screaming about the movie.

Top Ten Greatest Parts of Holiday Inn

10. Severe Lack of Surprise When His Fiancee Throws Him Over
It's hard to believe Jim, Bing Crosby, loved Lila all that much when he shrugs off her abandonment in the space of two seconds. And that's not an exaggeration.

9. Ted Hanover's Existence Seems to Rely Solely on Screwing His "Friend" Jim
It's almost like Ted, Fred Astaire, doesn't have a purpose if he can't ruin Jim's life. How is that a basis for a friendship, and why does Jim keep letting him hang around? Oh, that's right, cause Jim has no backbone and is more than a little emo.

8.Lila--The Gold-Hunting Man-Eater
She ends up back with her man at the end and it's a happy ending. Kind of. Really she's getting a little long in the tooth and she obviously needs to get someone to marry her before it's too late. Now that's true love.

7. A Madonna/Whore Complex That is Subtle Like a Semi-Truck
You gotta love a Madonna/whore complex that is so thoughtful as to even divide up the women according to hair color. Linda=Madonna=blond hair. Lila=whore=brown hair. That's the sort of consideration I appreciate in my movies.

6. Self Righteousness Following the Sabotaging of Your "Fiancee's" Career
Only Bing could sabotage his "fiancee;" the fiancee, by the by, he forgot he proposed to, and then get all self righteous about her destruction of his dream before she even says anything. My mom was right. He is whiny.

5. Two Men Who Have a Friendship Based on Stealing Women From Each Other
There are so many parts of this aspect to take joy from. Do we laugh because the women are objects waiting to be stolen? Do we wink at the friendship that seems not quite friendly? Do we root for men who hang out with each other only to ruin the other one's life? It's all just so cute and quirky.

4. A Black Cook/Nanny Named Mamie
She even has bad grammar. I mean, I know it's 1942 and we have to keep the time the movie was made in mind, but that doesn't mean we can't get a good laugh at the ridiculousness of it.

3. Dropping the Woman He "Loves" in a Pond Instead of Marrying Her
Jim doesn't marry the women he loves; instead he pays the cab driver to ruin their career and drop them in a pond in the middle of Connecticut. Cause that obviously makes the most sense. Gee Bing, it's a mystery why these women would leave you for Fred Astaire isn't it?

2. The Shameless Stealing of Another Man's Fiancee
This one's tricky as it speaks to the constancy of the women in the film, but regardless the entire film seems to revolve around one man stealing another man's fiancee the night before the marriage. Talk about romance and true love.

1. Blackface Song About Lincoln
Oh yeah. There's blackface in the song for Lincoln's birthday. The stereotype abounds with the sort of awful sublimity that is only possible in a time where racism is funny.

2009-12-14T19:49:00.001-06:00

Marriage Over 30

I’m home again in Macomb, where dreams do to come true (please note the sarcasm) and I ended up on the WIU campus today as I waited for my mom to get done with a meeting. The meeting and the circumstances behind it are funny stories by themselves, but they aren’t mine to tell so I’ll stay quiet.

As I’m sitting on the couch in the lounge, however, I hear one of the student workers behind the desk, a young sorority girl by the sound of her, say, “If I weren’t married by, like, 30, I don’t know what I’d do! I mean, like, all my friends would be married and that would be so weird. I would feel like my life was over!”

You wish I was making this up. I wish I was making this up. Unfortunately, I wrote down what she said because I knew I was going to want to repeat it.

The really sad thing is I don’t not understand why she was saying this. When I was 21 the idea that I might be unmarried by 30 seemed foreign and impossible to me. I don’t think I was ever stupid enough to think my life would be over without it, but marriage was so inevitable I never envisioned my life without it. That’s what little girls do. As I sit on the porch of 30 however, some of my friends are inside the house, I have a much different outlook on things. Honestly I don’t know if I will ever get married and that idea both thrills and disappoints me.

On the one hand I really, really, REALLY like being single. It’s almost ridiculous how much I like being single. I like moving where I want to move when I want to move there. I like going on trips and staying out without anyone to worry about me. I like being as selfish or not as my mood moves me. I don’t like to cuddle (particularly) I don’t like to talk about my feelings and I hate being emotionally genuine. I’m also, on occasion, slightly curmudgeonly.

But when I look at my new nephew I think about how nice it would be to have kids. When I go to family reunions and funerals I become acutely aware of how nice it would be not to be alone. When I do feel like cuddling (approximately 3 times a year) I become incredibly sad for the empty spot on the couch next to me.

But what gets me about the young lady today, and most everyone’s thoughts about marriage in general, is the belief--sometimes verbalized, sometimes silent--that a person’s life is incomplete without marriage. The belief that if, especially as a woman, you don’t get married it’s because you’ve done something wrong. If you aren’t married by 30 then obviously you aren’t pretty enough, feminine enough, or family oriented enough. Some people consciously believe this, but everyone--at least that I’ve ever talked to--subconsciously purports this if they don’t obviously believe it. That--that pressure, disappointment, and judgment--makes me want to get married more sometimes then any actual urges towards marriage I have.

The truly humorous part about all of this is that I rarely feel this pressure from my happily married friends. Perhaps when we’re older things will change, or perhaps none of them actually believe I won’t get married, but there seems to be a bit of “the grass is greener” going on when we hang out. I’m ambivalent towards marriage in general and they are realistic about it’s wonders and stresses. That means they sometimes wish they were single, and I sometimes wish I was married, but our interactions are based on the wisdom that no path is by default more fulfilling or happy-making than another.

And there is that point again. The idea that by default marriage makes you happy. You are automatically happier if you’re married. You’re automatically validated as a human, as an adult, as a human being. If you aren’t married by 30 then you’re an old maid, unwanted, used goods. I get irritated just thinking about it. My mom was appalled when I told her what the young girl had said. “That anyone in this day and age could believe that,” were her words. But it isn’t shocking to me because I once thought those words even if I never said them. And, as I approach 30 while I’m not in any particular hurry to get married, I feel a very real weight judging me for not doing so.

That young girl probably will get married before 30, but I’d still rather be me than her. She’s going to get married because she can’t imagine any other option. Let’s hope she doesn’t settle for just anyone. And let’s hope for all the little girls growing up today, that someone explains that, single or in a couple, no one can make you happy but yourself.

And that’s a good thing.

2009-12-09T20:02:00.001-06:00

All I Want For Christmas Is Some JCVD!

That’s not actually all I want for Christmas, but it’s definitely at the top of the list. In all honesty I would also like a werewolf, a vampire, a pirate, a ninja, and a jedi. Preferably all in one person who maybe, on occasion, holds aloft his magic sword and says, “By the power of Greyskull!”

I thought it behooved me to meditate on Christmas for a moment. A recent conversation reminded me of the consumer aspect of Christmas and I agree that it is awful how much pressure is put on all of us to spend the appropriate amount of money, and buy the right gifts, and follow the traditions etc. But as I opened presents with my roommates tonight and watched them open the presents I bought for them I realized how much I totally don’t care about all of that.

I love me some Christmas.

This is odd; I’ll admit that. I’m not Christian, not capitalist, not even particularly sentimental so it defies reason that I should enjoy Christmas as much as I do. But, it occurred to me, in true Jimmy Stewart fashion, how little it matters whether you believe in any single aspect of Christmas--religion, presents, or sentimentality. It doesn’t matter because it’s a tradition that creates family; when you put a tree up together and decorate together and buy gifts for each other it creates a shared memory of enjoying each other’s company. That’s the kicker. That’s why it doesn’t matter if you care about the tree or the gifts or not. The tradition is the part that matters because it solidifies a family dynamic that offers a free zone to love each other without awkwardness or complication.

Sure, someone no doubt might say why do we need Christmas to show how much we care? And they would be right. But it isn’t that we need Christmas, it’s that we have Christmas. A festival, tradition, etc, isn’t necessary, but it does offer structure and the chance to share and express emotions that might not find a viable outlet otherwise. Christmas is a version of carnival right?

But in this changing world of both increased connectivity and isolation, there aren’t moments to create family that often anymore. Ritual can solidify emotion; that’s one of the reasons it is so powerful. The Christmas ritual then, when done correctly anyway, can solidify a social unit’s--a family’s--love for each other. And the beauty of the Christmas spirit, I might hazard, is that everyone agrees to be a part of the larger social unit of humanity if only for a month. That feels nice.

Now Christmas can also be an incredibly depressing time of year; I would never be so silly as to not admit to that. But again, while the “joyous holidays” might show how alone you are, it also provides the opportunity show how not alone you are. That’s important when it’s cold, dark, and bleak outside.

Anyway, that’s why I love me some Christmas. You buy the gifts and you put up the tree because it can feel nice to make those around you happy, and sometimes it’s the holiday that most makes me want to throw myself out of a moving vehicle, but for every moment of pure agony I usually have a moment of pure joy too.

It’s nice to have a day where nobody minds if you tell them you love them. :)

2009-12-08T16:40:00.002-06:00

Are Emotions A Useful Evolution?

Before I even begin to contemplate the slightly college freshman-esque question I have posed here I want it understood that I always answer yes. Self awareness is required for mental evolution and with self awareness must come emotion. To say otherwise is fairly ludicrous in my opinion.

But, leaving all of that aside, I’ve been having a reasonably hard time of it this semester. To say that it’s been a rough sixteen weeks seems both sarcastic and understated. I don’t know if I’ve ever, at least since I’ve become an adult, had sixteen weeks like these. None of this matters except as backstory; specifically as I attempt to push through finals week, finish grading, write a final, write a paper, put in grades, etc., it all comes down to me whining at the world. A large part of me just wants to walk away from it all with the sort of disdain and sneer only my seventeen year old self could muster.

On a side note: isn’t it odd how no matter how old we get, circumstances can still promote our teenage selves to come out and sneer at the world on occasion? Or maybe that’s just me and my perpetual immaturity.

But here’s where the question about the evolutionary wisdom of emotions comes in: life totally doesn’t care about how I feel. If one were to personify life a conversation with it would go like this:

Me: “Life, I’m really tired of this.”
Life: “Get over it.”
Me: “Why don't you care about me?! You’re no good for me! You never let me play video games or watch movies or just relax anymore!”
Life: “Bored.”
Me: “Don’t you care about me anymore?”
Life: “You got bills to pay.”

This is what I’m saying. Being an adult means you don’t get the luxury of whining anymore--well, some people certainly still whine, but it doesn’t make a difference and they shouldn’t. No matter how over it all you are you still have to do it; bills need paid, chores need done, and mothers need called. Becoming a hermit in Montana and seceding from the United States is no longer a legitimate option--if indeed it ever was. (But I had dreams! Dreams of living a life outside the bounds of the law! Dreams where I could use the Force and travel the cosmos! Wait...wrong dreams. Sorry.)

But we evolved emotions and, for myself at least, I spend a significant amount of time attempting to consciously further evolve my emotions in an attempt to better myself as a human being. Wishing to be more compassionate, more wise, more dialogic I sit around and think about things A LOT. And I have to wonder sometimes, especially when the adult side of me is required to overtake the rest of me, what is the purpose?

Consider it sincerely for a moment: leaving out all of that human condition crap and movie cliché “there’s a silver lining to every tragedy” boloney, does it not make sense from a purely evolutionary standpoint for emotions to either a) not exist or b) be more directly connected to the social stratification we are drawn to genetically? Furthermore, human society itself is caught in a Catch-22 of its own making. We must have emotions to create and improve society, but emotions limit our ability to work ourselves to death for society’s benefit (and we all know how I feel about the commodification of human beings). As a citizen, then, you end up in the untenable position of needing emotion to be a member of society and constantly fighting against those same emotions as you attempt to accomplish all that is required of you as a member of said society.

Are we all following me here?

If we cannot be human without emotion and if we all agree emotion and the evolution of emotion allows us to be better human beings, then it follows that emotion cannot be the problem. Therefore, if emotion and social duty do not coexist peacefully that would seem to imply that social duty is the problem.

Obviously we should be more like France with an automatic 6 weeks of vacation.

But being aware that something is broken both in what is expected of individual citizens and the apparatus within which the world is made does nothing but irritate me more because at the end of the day there is no other apparatus within which I might exist. That means that I have to suck it up and do what needs to be done.

Which brings us full circle to what is actually spurring this meditation on emotion this afternoon. Because society both deifies and demonizes emotion, the average person is left almost completely defenseless when it comes to the awareness, analysis, and critical contemplation of his/her own emotions. You’re told from your earliest days that you should feel like this and act like this and good people do these things and respond in these ways to situations a, b, and c. You’re also told from your earliest days that only babies cry and strong people are stoic and nobody has the patience or time for an emotional mess. Neither of these expectations can be fulfilled as no one reacts or feels the same way about anything, and no one exists successfully (not counting sociopaths) without emotion. To pretend you are without emotion or always in control of emotion is as idiotic as never being in control of emotion.

So we’re left with the middle of the road, once again, being the seemingly best option. Sometimes emotion must be shelved so action can be accomplished, but sometimes actions are not nearly so important as feelings. I knew all of this when I started, but what I’m attempting to work through is the complication of trying to figure out which situation is which.

When do you put on a happy face and make everyone else happy, and when do you take a stand and demand that life bow to you? I suppose this is what one might call the tightrope of responsibility and happiness. And, in all honesty, more often then not an individual situation is fairly easy to read--like the end of the semester. It would be the sort of stupidity that makes my father shake his head and my mother cry for me to just give up this close to the end. There isn’t really any question there about what should be done. But other situations like relationships, social obligations, or family gatherings are not so easy. Just because you feel a thing does not mean it matters or should matter and, likewise, just feeling something is sometimes reason enough.

I don’t have any answers. Where’s the Sex and the City episode about all of this?!

2009-11-30T20:30:00.001-06:00

Sports and Gender Politics

I had an interesting conversation with my father the other day, and I never got around to discussing it as I felt I ought. We were discussing male athletes versus female athletes. Specifically, a girl can wrestle all year except in the playoffs. This rule exists because an all boys team won the state championship in girl’s bowling (I think it was bowling anyway--you’ll have to fact check me on that one). Upon hearing this news I said “Well that’s dumb. Why even have boys and girls teams in bowling?”

My dad said whether we should or shouldn’t, the fact remained that the best boy bowlers still bowl better than the best girl bowlers. There are any number of factors that could (and do to some degree) go into this: the boys are stronger, the boys use heavier balls; all together that means the best male bowler and throw with greater speed and force down the lane than the best female bowler. I don’t accept this as a reason to separate the genders, however.

I’m not going to figure out the math, but I have a theory that there is a finite amount of force needed to knock down all ten pins and that force can be reached easily by either a male or female. Assuming all other things are equal--ability to throw straight, etc--strength and speed should cancel out. But then I had this thought: what if the best male bowler is still better than the best female bowler because the best female bowler never competes against the best male bowler?

I believe that while you can achieve a particular level of skill and success based on your own practice, drills, etc, in the end you are only going to be the best if you regularly compete against everyone. Otherwise you are never driven mentally (and probably not physically) to be the best. If girl bowlers played co-ed from high school onward, those that wanted to be competitive with the boys would have to develop the strength, skill, and speed to do so. This might mean training their bodies to use a heavier ball. This might mean engaging in any number of physical activities to propel their body to the level it needs to be. But I think, in bowling at least, this is a completely feasible idea. Obviously with some sports, football, basketball, and probably baseball, a woman just isn’t going to be as competitive as a man--maybe (MAYBE) the right woman with the right training, but they would almost always be a very slight minority.

But could it be that our gender bifurcating has done as much as it can? Could it be in some sports, like bowling and maybe golf, women would become competitive with men if that was their competition all along? I know the arguments; we want to give women an equal opportunity to participate etc. But this wouldn’t be limiting women’s ability to participate. To some degree I think it might limit their ability to continuously keep women competing only with women. Sure, that means that some women won’t be able to succeed as easily as they did when competing only against other women. Sure that means size, speed, and strength would be a problem for many. But it would be no more of a problem for the women than it is for any number of underdeveloped boy freshman.

And what might be achieved by creating co-ed sports where feasible? It would eliminate, possibly, many of the boy vs. girl mentality that seems to dominate since the 70s. It would teach girls honestly and truthfully what it means to compete and succeed, not just amongst other girls, but amongst other human beings. It would teach boys that girls aren’t fragile and breakable any more than boys are, and, quite possibly, help make girls more tough as well.

This little experiment would be a mess in the beginning; for awhile, perhaps for a long time, boys’ teams would dominate. But I think if sports were turned co-ed where possible eventually the integration would present a possibility of healing the gender wars in much the same way racial integration dealt with racism. Things wouldn’t be perfect and they certainly wouldn’t be fixed quickly or easily, but just what might happen if sports could be used to better males and females together instead of separately?

2009-11-26T12:36:00.001-06:00

Top Ten Thanks 2009

Last year I did a top ten list of things I was most thankful for, and it ended up being such a pleasurable exercise that I thought I ought to do it again. Drum roll please...

Top Ten Things I Am Most Thankful For in 2009

10. My Parents' Hot Water Heater
It's probably not new at this point; I can't remember exactly when it was bought, but I know when I was little a hot shower in the winter was more like something slightly better than lukewarm. Somewhere along the way, though, they got the sort of hot water heater that approaches the surface temperature of Mercury and I am so very thankful for that.

9. Twilight
Yeah, that's right. I love those stories, and I really love the movies. Perhaps I'm more thankful because the Harry Potter movies are so hit and miss; perhaps I'm blinded by the wolf pack of 8 packs on the screen in front of me. Whatever the reason I like it, and I say thank you to the universe.

8. TV on DVD
I have cable, but it only really shows Judge Judy and Dr. Phil. Thankfully, though, the entertainment industry offers TV on DVD and this means that my roommate, friends, and myself can luxuriate on our newly acquired seating and bond over Sex in the City and CAM ON THE TABLE! (Bones). We also, following in aforementioned roommate's footsteps, now scream "MAKE OUT!" whenever Bones and Booth get within kissing distance of each other. It's the sort of emotional bonding that makes a person thankful to be where they are with the people they are.

7. Memphis Championship BBQ
Revealed to me by the brilliance of a good friend and her husband, my husband-in-law (it's a long story (not really, but it sounds more exciting if I call it a long story)) I now eat the delicious Burnt Ends of Memphis Championship BBQ about once a week. I would feel guilty about that, except that it seems silly to feel guilty over enjoying perfection. I'm just saying.

6. Living Somewhere With Many, Many Movie Theaters
I love movies. This isn't surprising. But what you might not have known, is that I love to go to movies late, late at night. Lucky for me I have a friend that also likes to go to movies after she gets off work at eleven pm; thankfully we get to go to late night movie together. There are days I don't think I would cry if Las Vegas was swallowed up by the sinkhole of damnation that sits below it, but on nights when my insomniac self can't sleep, I'm really happy I live somewhere with late showings.

5. Netlix Instant Watch
This one goes along with #6 in the movie category, but this might be the single greatest invention ever...after indoor plumbing, antibiotics, and adhesive maxi-pads.

4. Not Being Raised by Crazy People
As police bust up the polygamy compounds, I see kids with some really disturbing visions of how the world works, and then rock stars' daughters accuse them of incest. I am quite grateful that I was never abused, ignored, or married off as wife #45 at the age of 9. I think that's a good thing to remember at Thanksgiving.

3. Not Being of Easily Kidnappable Size
Have you seen Taken? I have never been so happy to be fat in my life. Seriously--it might cut my lifespan short and cause any number of health problems, but most likely no one's going to kidnap me and attempt to sell me on the sex slave market. Also, I'm too big for an anaconda to eat, and that means they wouldn't bother stalking me (which they do!). Those are both excellent reasons to say thank you!

2. Never Having to Take Comprehensive Exams Again
I never have to take comprehensive exams again...ever.

1. Shannon (my new nephew)
I know. It's so cute even I threw up in my mouth as I typed it. Doesn't mean it's not true though.

2009-11-23T14:16:00.000-06:00

Top 25 Songs

I engaged in this exercise last year, but I never felt like I really sat down and fulfilled my list to my satisfaction. So, in an effort to further procrastinate, I revised the following list to my current mood. Below are the 25 songs that I would chose if I could only listen to them for the rest of my life. I suppose you could call it my top 25. In order to narrow my list down I limited myself to one song per band/composer--at times that was the most difficult part of the process. Also, they are arranged with being played in mind, not necessarily in order of preference. The first disc would break after the 1812 Overture and the second disc would start at More Than a Feeling. I invite everyone to who hasn’t done this to do so; it’s fun and surprisingly difficult.

1. Don’t Stop Believing’ -- Journey
2. If I Could Turn Back Time -- Cher
3. Drift Away -- Dobie Gray
4. Jupiter from The Planets -- Holst
5. Battle Hymn of the Republic -- Mormon Tabernacle Choir
6. Bohemian Rhapsody -- Queen
7. Pennies from Heaven -- Louis Armstrong
8. Mack the Knife -- Bobby Darin
9. I Want You Back -- Jackson 5
10. Dare -- Stan Bush
11. Hysteria -- Muse
12. 1812 Overture -- Tchaikovsky
13. More Than A Feeling -- Boston
14. Jurassic Park (Theme) -- John Williams
15. Lightning Crashes -- Live
16. Man in the Mirror -- Michael Jackson
17. Defying Gravity -- Wicked
18. Joshua -- Dolly Parton
19. Life is a Highway -- Tom Cochrane
20. Mamma Was A Looker -- Garth Brooks
21. Elvira -- The Oak Ridge Boys
22. Suspicious Minds -- Elvis
23. I’m Shipping Up To Boston -- Drop Kick Murphy’s
24. Sweet Child O’ Mine -- Guns ‘N Roses
25. William Tell Overture -- Rossini

2009-11-21T17:18:00.000-06:00

New Moon or How I Learned to Handle Inappropriate Teenage Werewolf Attraction

Don’t try to act surprise. You all knew it was coming. I’ve never hid my Twilight love, though perhaps there were those that hoped feverishly I was just pretending. I wasn’t.

New Moon was, quite literally, everything I hoped it would be. There were a few things here and there that I wished might have been more explicated, of course, but overall it was a better made movie than the first one and carried far fewer cringe-inducing moments. There were no random monkey references that were both incongruous and slightly pornographic; there no were no bad animal metaphors that made you want to eat a rack of lamb and shoot a lion. But there was an exceptional amount of shirtless werewolf--often in the rain. I can’t even explain how strongly I feel that was an excellent directorial decision.

Watching this film alongside a theatre full of teenage girls was a humbling experience. For example, the first time each male lead appeared on scream a general “Wooo!” went up from the crowd in the way only teenage girls can. At first I thought I would mock them--I couldn’t possibly allow it to be believed that I might ever partake in such silliness. But as the movie continued I realized that while I might mock them outwardly, the sad fact was the teenagers behind me were screaming the reactions I was having in my own head. It was like meta-Twilight. You sit and watch the film quietly, but every strong thought and/or emotion that passes through you is rerouted through the voices of 300 others who express it with both volume and sincerity. I could pretend I was above it all, but that would be a lie and my dad taught me not to lie.

But all of this is an excuse to avoid what I feel should be addressed: my general lack of sympathy for Jacob’s teenage boy angst and Bella’s continued stupidity with Jacob’s feelings. First, Jacob’s teenage boy angst. He really loves her; she really loves someone else. That hurts. I get it and I’m over it. His rage at her for her refusal to see/consider/explore why Jacob is better for her really wears on me. Not to mention, I feel very strongly that when your best friend is in love with someone else, you know they’re in love with someone else, and they tell you at every opportunity they’re in love with someone else, you sort of lose the sympathy vote when you get angry because (SHOCKING) they’re in love with someone else. It’s not like Jacob can’t say he didn’t see it coming.

But yes--all of his heartbroken moping (especially when paired with aforementioned werewolf wardrobe) can make a person feel kindly towards him. However--and this is definitely I sign of my soulness--I’m over it. You have a short window when you think maybe, possibly, there might be a chance that the person you love is no longer going to be with the person they love and so might love you, and when that all falls a part it could take a moment to bounce back from it. I respect the need to go mope in the woods for a few hours following that. It’s a heartbreak. I have two more movies, however, to sit through his repeated anger at Bella for not loving him back when she never loved him, never said she loved him, and only said, in fact, that she could/would never love him. The girl was pretty dang clear. I have to prepare myself for this annoyance now or the teenage girls aren’t going to so much be spouting my inner monologue so much as shocked at an adult’s reaction to teenage stupidity and their strongly held belief that a boy is allowed to emotionally abuse you if you break his heart.

I acknowledge Bella does complicate the situation as well. When you break a boy’s heart what you don’t keep trying to explain to him is that you really, honestly, truly do love him...just not like that. All he’s gonna hear is “I love you” and the really important part that comes after is carried away on sound waves that never find a home. Her perpetual need to deny Jacob his moping is also irritating; his heart is broken, let the boy go. But no, she’s gotta keep him close for maximum dramatic possibilities.

In the end, the conclusion that must be drawn from all of this is that I will never write books as exciting as Twilight. My story would go as follows: girl meets vampire. Vampire and girl have problems working out relationship. Girl’s best friend steps in. Vampire comes back. Girl breaks vampire’s face before they make up through excessive making out. Girl’s best friend gets jealous. Girl tells best friend to get over it. Best friend runs off and mopes. Girl and vampire live fairly happily for some exceptional amount of time that seems like forever. Best friend realizes stupidity and returns for the occasional cup of coffee. The end.

There’s just not nearly enough angst there for a best-seller.

2009-11-19T13:59:00.001-06:00

Don’t Be A Funsucker!

This time MSN has gone too far. There’s no joy they won’t deny. There’s no pleasure they won’t investigate. There’s no life they won’t destroy.

They’re trying to take away my movie theatre popcorn.

I know; it’s shocking. I too had to take a moment to collect myself, to remember what it is I love about going to movies. The darkness, the big comfy chairs, the ability to lose one’s self in the fantasy of celluloid—most importantly, though, the chance to engage in socially approved physical inactivity for between 1 ½ -- 2 hours while eating corn popped in oil, slathered in butter, and sprinkled with salt. Perhaps with a Bunchacrunch by a my side.

But these Tapeworms of Fun don’t want to let us have that. It’s not enough they want to tax our Little Debbie and take away our Soda Pop. It’s not enough that they make us feel self conscious on the beach, on the plane, or in the grocery store (where we’re buying the over-taxed Little Debbie). No, now they want to make us feel guilty about our popcorn. I won’t have it! I will not let them take this from me!

YOU CANNOT HAVE THE POPCORN!

I don’t care if it contains the caloric count of Cambodia’s daily intake. I don’t care if it stops up my heart valves and renders me paralyzed and drooling by the age of 65. I won’t give it up and if they try to make me I will fight. I will call for revolution. I will find the energy not only to get up off the couch, but to rally the troops and lead us all to victory.

You aren’t scared right now because you think we’ll all run out of breath before our revolution really takes off. You’re not wrong. But where stamina and health abandon us sheer persistence will win out. Have you ever seen what happens when you stand between a movie lover and their popcorn? Have you ever seen the carnage left behind when the hedonistic are denied their impulse gratification? It’s mass chaos people. It’s a Dionysian festival of carnage and slaughter topped off with the victorious ceremony of eating junk food and drinking large quantities of alcoholic beverages.

Neither calories, nor fat, nor salmonella will keep us from our small pleasures. Not broken joints, quadruple by-passes, or diabetes will make us put the popcorn down. Your scare tactics are no good here. Your hate rhetoric has no home in our hearts. We will not let you take what is most sacred to our movie going experience and tarnish it with your research.

You are the kid that wouldn’t go swimming because the water wasn’t chlorinated. You are the kid that never ate raw eggs. You are adult that offers only pure fruit juice and water to those in your household alongside organic vegan foods cooked no higher than 108 degrees. Your love is a plastic bag over our face suffocating the joy and pleasure in our existence. You are the funsucker of life.

We are immune to your guilt. LONG LIVE THE POPCORN!

http://health.msn.com/health-topics/articlepage.aspx?cp-documentid=100249578>1=31057

2009-11-16T18:10:00.000-06:00

Othello or How I Learned to Hate Love

I should probably start by saying I don’t hate love. Really--I love love. Who doesn’t? But watching Oliver Parker’s film adaptation caused the same rage in me that reading the play did. What a ridiculous tragedy. I say this knowing that many people love it and have written truly brilliant things about it, but for me I find nothing tragic in Othello. I never have been able to find tragedy in people’s inability to handle life. Really, though, if someone is capable of killing you because of supposed infidelity is that tragic? Are blatant flaws of humanity tragic? I feel it accords them too much honor or prestige to label them tragic.

Tragedy is supposed to invoke catharsis; that might be the only thing Aristotle and I agree on. Good tragedy, or what I define as good tragedy, should present some aspect of life that is unavoidable and horrible I feel. There should be a level of inevitability to it. There is nothing inevitable about Othello except maybe that if you marry because of what you think someone is you will inevitably find sorrow in the realization of who they are. What I mean by that is, when we love someone for the object we have created out of them in our mind when their agency and humanity presents itself we will have no recourse for the processing or handling of that. But I don’t find that tragic.

Lawrence Fishburne plays Othello in this movie and he does a marvelous job of it. I found the acting moving and the adaptation truthful. It is a beautiful film. But I was enraged by the end. Desdemona is Othello’s thing, she isn’t a woman to him but a pretty pretty who is his. He would rather she die than be possessed by any other man. Desdemona obviously took issue with that, but I find her trust and acquiescence to his rage also infuriating. In her defense I don’t think she could have swayed him; the passion with which Othello took to the idea of her infidelity wasn’t something she could fight against.

But is jealous rage tragic? Does extreme human failing count as tragedy? Certainly in the most recent century it seems we’ve gone this way; the normal man, the average person who is destroyed by life or rendered inert by circumstance and either wastes away or destroys everything around them. I don’t know that I honestly consider that tragic. Or, rather, I might consider it tragic if the characters existence was so stymied as to be inescapable. But I don’t feel that Othello’s is. Most of Shakespeare’s love tragedies seem to revolve around our inability to get outside ourselves and I can see the argument for why that is tragic; we are our own worst enemy and all of that. But can we even call what Othello feels for Desdemona love? Should we?

On the one hand I’m moved to say yes. Love does not always present itself in healthy, safe ways. Looking under the more destructive versions of love then it could certainly be said that Othello very much loves Desdemona and it is precisely that love which kills her. It could also be taken that the play presents a particularly powerful commentary on the varied nature of love and why people should be wary and self-aware of what they consider love. Feeling powerfully does not, by default, make what you feel a good thing. I can accept that as a reason for why we continue to read this play and should discuss it.

But does that make it tragic? That’s the word that I think I might take issue with. I think something must be more than sad for it to be tragic; I think something ought to be more than awful as well. And on the surface Othello does present something larger than life and more powerful; it also provides catharsis in regards to sketchy love experiences, but all of these experiences weren’t brought about by fate or lack of knowledge. Perhaps the problem is that I don’t find Othello particularly noble either in his goodness or his faults. In order for me to label a character’s suffering tragic I need to feel like they possess some level of nobility, something that raises them above simply having a really bad day.

We know that Othello is a good general and we know that his men love him. But the speed with which he turns on Cassio and then Desdemona--is that the quality of a noble man? Sure you could say his jealousy is his tragic flaw, but jealousy isn’t something self contained like pride. Jealousy encompasses a whole host of other characteristics like trust, pride, ownership, and love. Othello’s jealousy, therefore, seems to me more symptomatic of larger issues rather than one characteristic he is powerless against.

The long and short of this is that I hate tragic love stories. Mostly I just want to say get over yourself already. I know--that kind of shows I’m dead inside. But...if that means I never get strangled to death by my husband I’m kind of okay with that.

2009-11-05T13:35:00.000-06:00

Why Can’t The World Just Recognize My Brilliance?

So there’s a cliché somewhere about how anything worth having is worth fighting for...or struggling for...or being mildly inconvenienced for. Something like that. My point is, however, I think that’s a load of hooey. You know that makes something sweeter? It being easy.

We’re not supposed to talk about these things; we tell our kids “crime doesn’t pay” and “hard work makes the rewards more worthwhile” but it’s all a lie. You know when crime doesn’t pay? When you get caught. You know why a cold drink tastes better after working outside in the hot summer sun than it does after you’ve sat on the couch all day? Because you’re tired and dehydrated. Clichés are what we use to convince ourselves that playing by the rules is worth it.

Now, before you go and get worried I’ve slipped into some sort of uber-cynical coma understand that my outlook isn’t any different today than it was a week ago, but as I prepare to submit an article for publication (and I have to submit a hard copy which seems so 1999--don’t you agree?) I realize that my life would be better if I could just say “World--here is my brilliant article! Take it and love it!” and the World would reply, “Indeed yes. I like what you’ve done here.”

The Suzy Sunshines of the world would say, “you don’t really want that. It feels better when you’ve fought for publication and really worked for it.” I hate the Suzy Sunshines. They’re completely and utterly wrong. You know what feels better? Having my article accepted. The difference in emotion between the first submission and the tenth one happens because after about the third rejection my soul starts to wither and die, and when it finally gets accepted the healing process begins. But that doesn’t make the acceptance sweeter; it just makes it necessary for me not to turn into an uber-cynical crazy person. I now know why so many professors have crazy hair, crazy eyes, and crazy clothes. This life will drive you crazy.

But my latest round of “look at me, I have something to offer the world” has me irritated with all the people that try to make you feel better. You know who tries to make you feel better by offering anecdotes about how your pain and suffering is worthwhile? People who don’t have pain and suffering. Seriously, has anyone whose ever suffered a situation offered some trite piece of advice about how it’s good for you? No. A person whose lived through the situation says, “Yeah...that totally sucks. Nothing for it, but it totally sucks.” I appreciate that person. There’s no silver lining there. No clichés designed to convince you that annoyances, poverty, and lack of job will make you a “better person” in the end. You know what makes me a better person? Being independently wealthy; that’ll make me a better person.

And all of this raises an interesting existential question: do we become compassionate, caring, sympathetic people because we suffer, or if we didn’t suffer would there be no need to be compassionate, caring, sympathetic people? That’s an interesting one. We assume the suffering is good because it teaches you all manner of things about morality and ethics, but what if our consideration for fellow human beings is only necessary because fellow human beings suffer so much? This is, of course, a mute point as suffering (used here to include everything from annoying one floor elevator riders to people with a life like Job’s) isn’t going anywhere. But I find myself short tempered with the very puritanical viewpoint of suffering as good for the soul.

For example, what happens when you recognize the necessity or inevitability of something, i.e. the world has yet to understand my brilliance and so getting a job is going to be difficult, but don’t attempt to view it as a positive thing? What if it is simply viewed as a course of existence, horrible or annoying, and accepted as inevitable? Does it make sense what I’m saying here? I think it makes more sense to approach things that way. At least then there wouldn’t be any Suzy Sunshines trying to convince me that a) it’ll all be okay (cause sometimes it’s not and I get irritated when people just assume it will be) and b) that it’s good for me. A glass of orange juice is good for me. Perpetually high blood pressure due to stress that is occasionally relieved by a small victory is not good for me.

Thank you. I feel better now. Time to go to the post office and send this thing off so one more person can inform me I’m not good enough. But that’s okay--I totally know more about Star Wars, Star Trek, and Twilight then them. We must take our victories when they come.

2009-11-02T19:38:00.000-06:00

The 10 Goofiest Moments from Twilight

I can’t believe what I’m about to do. In fact, I’m so ashamed of myself that I might not be able to show my face in public...at least not until November 20th when we all know what movie I’ll be attending. But a friend just finished Twilight and got addicted and now we’re watching the movie so I thought hey, I should do a little something about this not so hidden obsession of mine. Because I can’t sincerely admit to my Twilight love, however, I offer this list instead. The top ten goofiest, lamest, and flat out bad moments from the movie Twilight. New Moon is going to prompt the top ten moments when I go to hell for lusting after men too young for me, but that’s another day.

10. You’re like my own personal brand of heroin.
It’s hot in theory; when I read the line I thought to myself, “self, it wouldn’t be a bad thing if someone said that to you.” But upon further reflection I have to take a minute for the sheer teenage silliness embedded in this sentiment. First, it’s only hot for someone to be addicted to you when you’re too immature to realize the implications of that. Second (and this one might be the most important) if you drive someone into a nearly uncontrollable state of lust and violence that could end badly for you both.

9. Every time the vampires are supposed to react.
I don’t know what Catherine Hardwicke was thinking in the editing room, but for creatures that are supposed to be “super fast” their reaction times are a lot more like casual head turns. Seriously--every time there is supposed to be a snap reaction it’s a little bit like watching Dopey Dwarf turn his head.

8. The Make Up
This isn’t a goofy moment, but it deserves to be mentioned. Please, please, please--PLEASE--can someone promise that in New Moon the vampires won’t all be wearing “Sassy Red” lipstick?

7. Bella’s Freak Out
At the end of the movie Edward says Bella should move to Florida and Bella freaks out, ending said freak out with “you just can’t say things like that to me.” Nothing like a girlfriend who has a panic attack when you express your concern to promote good communication. A young man in the theater said “she crazy!” I think that sums up this moment adequately.

6. The Lion-Lamb Fiasco
The line goes like this: “So the lion fell in love with the lamb.” “What a stupid lamb.” “What a sick sado-masochistic lion.” Only teenage love takes metaphor and turn it into something so awfully toxic.

5. Rosalie’s Oddly Porno “Monkey Man” Comment
After Emmett catches a baseball Rosalie says in her best porn voice “my monkey man.” It makes a person feel dirty, uncomfortable, and turned off simultaneously. Rosalie’s a bitch, but do we really have to turn her an Emmett into some sort of sexually aberrant couple?

4. Spider Monkey Abuse
Edward is hot. I mean Edward is HOT. And I can say that cause he’s really 90 so I’m not going to hell for inappropriate attraction. However, when he says “hold on spider monkey” it’s like the heroin moment; suddenly a character that is primarily defined by his hotness becomes weird, awkward, and disturbingly not hot. I would guess the reason is because it is impossible, against the laws of nature impossible, to be hot while saying “hold on tight spider monkey.” Simply can’t be done.

3. Edward’s Wardrobe
Who dressed him like it was 1985? I know the 80’s are back. I cry about it every night before sleep. But seriously; skinny pants are not hot, and the only thing that makes them even less hot is an awful gray jacket from 1988.

2. Edward and James’ Snarling Match
Nothing says “I’m a badass vampire who is going to rip you apart” like opening your mouth and fo-snarling in someone’s face. Honestly--who looked at that shot and thought to herself, “this is the best way I can show the violence and tension of this moment”? Oh I know, the same person that thought “hold on tight spider monkey” and “my monkey man” was hot. Apparently there is some sketchy animal love in Catherine Hardwicke’s subconscious.

1. Bella’s Belief that She is Somehow Going to Save Her Mom
This is my biggest gripe with the book and movie. James, the bad vampire, says come alone or I kill your mom. And she does it?! Has Bella never played a strategy game?! You think a dude that eats people is going to let your mom go after he kills you?! Really? Bella totally deserves to die in that moment. If a vampire tried to lure you away from your only defense you just say no!

2009-10-31T19:09:00.000-05:00

Michael Jackson’s This Is It

I’ve been mulling over this one for almost twenty hours at this point, and I’m still not sure what I want to say except I know that I want to say something. How’s that for a paradox? The short answer: go see it. If you like Michael Jackson definitely go see it; if you have any appreciation for music at all go see it. If you’re dead inside it might not do anything for you.

I’ve loved Michael Jackson, literally, my whole life. He was my first cassette tape (Janet was my second) and I still want to bounce up and down in my chair like a four year old when I watch him sing “Smooth Criminal” or “The Way You Make Me Feel.” Aside from the performance aspects, though (which were amazing) it is so interesting to watch MJ and Kenny Ortega put that show together.

One of my on-going battles in life is to explain to people why material must change for different mediums; a book must change when made into a movie and vice versa. Songs should change when performed live. Each experience makes different demands of the reader/viewer/listener and attempting to meet those demands with the same material is an incredibly difficult thing to do. LOTR, for example, had to cut some things out and add some things in (and before you jump my crap understand I don’t agree with all of the changes) in order for that story to not only entertain on screen, but to feel like LOTR.

Watching Michael Jackson craft a concert was, quite frankly, like watching genius at work. It was just stupid brilliant. Not only does he recognize that the songs must be the same songs that his fans expect and know, but he uses video, dance, and sound to craft a performance not simply a concert. This means that as an audience member you are watching a show, not just a singer sing his songs. I generally hate going to concerts because I find them boring. I don’t derive any fulfillment from watching someone stand still and sing their songs; I can listen to the c.d. anytime I want. MJ, however, was creating theater which is something very different; that concert would not only have impressed but entertained. It looked to very much resemble musical theater.

Someone a while ago asked me why Michael Jackson was such a genius; what was so special about him? He had a whole lot of crazy, and I throw that in so anyone wondering where I stand on the issue understands I’m not unaware. But he was an amazing singer, dancer, and musician--he was just crazy talented. He wrote songs that are, at times, almost too funky to bear. You only wish I was making that up. He was one of the first performers to dance while he sang; we take it for granted now when we watch young pop stars that there will be good dancing to go with the singing, but MJ was one of the first to promote that. And he consistently melded music and technology in incredibly impressive marriages.

On a personal level, watching this film is really, really hard if you gave up a music career at some point in your life. From the age of eleven on I didn’t think about doing anything with my life other than music; even as I went to school for an English degree my life revolved around drums. I didn’t want to go through all the audition anxiety and try to make a go of it professionally either in percussion or piano, but I don’t think I realized at the time that I was really giving it up. On some level I think I thought I could still have it on the side.

Watching this film, though, and listening to the dancers talk about pursuing their dream of dancing because of Michael Jackson I was reminded of that single minded resolve I once had to play drums no matter what. Everything took a backseat. Hell, I even went back to school to become an English teacher because of band camp--figure that one out. But while I don’t feel bad about my decision to pursue English instead of music, and I know I could pick up a community band gig wherever I land, it isn’t the same. Watching these guys prepare for the tour I very vividly remembered just how not the same it was. I was in band because I liked to entertain people. I practice because it’s fun to make the audience feel that thrill when you lay down something particularly sweet. It would have been really, really fun to work on a tour like that and This Is It is too raw and honest not to make anyone with memories like mine not miss it...a lot. So be prepared for that.

That’s my plug for this movie.

2009-10-25T20:59:00.000-05:00

How to Survive a Demon Attack

I went and saw Paranormal Activity last night. I won’t ruin it for you, but it’s worth mentioning that I slept by sheer force of will last night—not because I felt safe and sound in my bed. In honor of this ridiculously frightening movie, therefore, I thought I would share a new top ten list in hopes that these following words of wisdom might one day save someone.

Top Ten Ways to Survive a Demon Attack

10. Don’t Play with a Ouija Board
It’s a bad idea. You know it’s a bad idea. All of us, no matter how cynical, still giggle a little at the idea of the Ouija board. And you want to know why? Because it’s a bad idea.

9. Don’t be a Hero
When shit gets real don’t try to take care of it yourself. There are any number of trained personnel with the experience, mental fortitude, and Jedi ways prepared to take out the demon. If you’re made uncomfortable by the “demonologist” who looks like a guy named Frank still living in his mom’s basement playing WOW then call a shaman. If you don’t know any Native Americans go hunt yourself down a priest. If you’re uncomfortable with Catholics call your nearest Latter-Day Saints ward. And if all of that doesn’t work go back to Frank. Even if he is a loon he’ll probably stand a better chance against the demon than you will.

8. Do Not Antagonize USE’s (Unknown Spiritual Entities)
You don’t know what this thing is. It could be the ghost of Fluffy the neighbor’s goldfish or it could a demon looking to possess and impregnate your girlfriend before killing you. When your immortal soul is at risk do you really want to call the thing out? There’s a time for trash talk—card games, sporting events, really intense games of croquet—and there’s a time for recognizing that volume does not equal bad-assery. Specifically the USE doesn’t care how loud you shout at it; it doesn’t care what threats you make. You want to know why? Because it will just kill you in your sleep by making the roof fall on you or push you down the stairs or have someone you love turn into a flesh-eating demon zombie like creature. You can’t fight what you can’t see, sense, or touch and probably you can’t do any of those things if you’re dumb enough to antagonize the USE.

7. Buy Yourself Some Sage or Make Really Good Friends with Someone That Has Some
The USE is not some drunk guy at a bar. Yelling at it, threatening it, and generally mocking it is ineffective (see #8). What you need is something that will at least slow the thing down. I recommend sage, but a safer bet is really to just find yourself a Jedi Knight and let them do the dirty work (see #9).

6. Don’t Play with a Ouija Board
It’s important. I like to accentuate this point.

5. If It’s Connected to the House…LEAVE
Poltergeist taught us this one, and I feel The Grudge really drove the point home. Once a tree eats your son, weird shadows form in corners and kill your mother, and/or general mayhem ensues don’t question why it happened. Don’t worry about being crazy. Don’t go to sleep that night in your bed. If a lion attacked you would you lay back down in its den? I think not. Go to the hotel. Do not pass go. Do not gather your belongings. You can figure out whether you’re crazy or not when trinkets aren’t flying at your head.

4. If It’s Connected to Someone Decide Just How Much You Love Them
This one’s a bit trickier. If said demon has decided it wants to make the sweet demony-love to your girlfriend you have a decision to make. How much do you really love her? Cause wherever she goes, it goes, and you can live out the rest of your days in peace and happiness. Of course, if you actually care about the person this situation gets more tricky. I refer you to #’s 10-6

3. Turn the God Forsaken Lights On
Why hang out in the dark? If things are bad enough the lights won’t help, but at least you’ll see what’s coming at you (maybe). Regardless, monsters in the dark are scarier than monsters in the light. Don’t wander around your house with a flashlight, candlelight or any other version of light that be definition makes a Care Bear look like a serial killer. Turn on the light. It’s not hard to do. Trust me, you’ll thank me for this one.

2. Do Not Rely on Your Internet Research to Save the Day
This one goes along with #9 and #7. When mugged do you consult the internet for a proper response? Do you search the web instead of attending a self-defense class? Then why, in the name of all that is other-worldly, would you rely on the internet to save you from a demon?! WHY?! Because a demon’s not real? Has someone’s head spun all the way around? Has a child tried to kill you? Has a tree tried to eat you? Has strange slime appeared in inexplicable places? Do priests, preachers, shamans, and psychics go running out of your house without even saying goodbye? If you answered yes to any of these things then you deserve what you get if you break this rule (or any of the others really).

1. DO NOT PLAY WITH A OUIJA BOARD
I just feel like I can’t emphasize this one enough. Let me explain why by analogy. Once when I was young, but not so young I didn’t know better, I watched my brother clean out the window wells by first lighting the leaves on fire and then pouring gasoline on it. From the can. His plan was good in theory; burn the leaves and suck up the ashes with the shopvac. However, two very important factors were forgotten—1) the window well was right next to the house and 2) pouring gasoline on the fire directly from the can may blow you up. For the record I knew it was a bad idea (honest). If you have a USE, using a Ouija board seems like a great idea in theory. You can talk to it; you can find out what it wants. You can politely ask it to leave. You can get a thrill. But as in most things, theory and practicality are almost entirely divorced. Do you want to know why you can talk to it? Because you threw the door wide open and had it over for afternoon tea. Now the thing, from Fluffy the dead goldfish to the blood-thirsty demon lusting after your girlfriend can wander around your house freely with nothing between its machinations and your very fragile mind.

All I’m saying is when your house burns down, your significant other tries to kill you, or you mysteriously fall down the stairs breaking your neck don’t say I didn’t tell you so.

So these are my 10 simple steps to avoiding Death by Demon. If you follow them you’ll survive (most likely) and if you don’t at least you can go down knowing you died smart and (most likely) didn’t lose your immortal soul.

2009-10-22T15:57:00.001-05:00

Let’s Talk About Tao

Let’s talk about Tao baby
Let’s talk about you and me
Let’s talk about all is one and all the same that all may be
Let’s talk about Tao.

I know. Sometimes I hate me too, but these songs just come to me and I’m helpless in the grip of the muse.

So I had to teach Taoism! And I had no idea what the differences between Taoism, Zen Buddhism, and Hinduism really are! So I bought a book. Cause that’s how I roll.

The book I bought was What is Tao? by Alan Watts and it is brilliant. I’ve read Alan Watts before, specifically The Book, and I found his description and laying out of Tao to be as accessible, careful, thorough, and educational as his life philosophies. Not to mention I’ve discovered that I have some serious love for Tao (and I’m guessing Zen too, but I haven’t got there yet).

But it’s a weird thing contemplating my existence as a post-modern Taoist. Why do you ask? What a fantastic question, I’m so glad you did. As a post-modernist I believe that language defines reality and, to a very large part as explicated before, knowledge is created simultaneously with language. For a Taoist words have value because they have meaning and society values words but Zhuangzi does not because he does not value what society values. American translation: once you discover The Way you won’t need language anymore because you’ll have evolved past it. You won’t need to understand or define things; you’ll just know them.

Obviously this business about “just knowing” goes against the grain for me. I’m all about knowledge and language being intertwined and what we know stemming very precisely from what we can create. (Again, language here is almost any form of communication--“there is no outside the text” as everyone’s second favorite Frenchman would say.) But it is that process of taking an emotion, an inkling, an intuition, a premonition, an electrical impulse in your brain and consciously making sense of it that, in my previous and possibly current opinion, allows for self-awareness, critical thought, and obtainment of knowledge.

The real question then is not who is right--according to this mind boggling philosophy I have stumbled into we can both be right as neither of us are actually RIGHT--but whether the possibility exists outside of my comprehension. What we have here is something a bit like death; there is no way to conceive of it as we have nothing in our consciousness or experience that is anything like it. Anything like it. We can make similes, therefore, death is like sleep, or state what is, we will know without language, but we don’t actually have any real knowledge of what that means. We can’t. It’s sort of like consciously and carefully contemplating the size of the universe and then imagining it getting bigger; your mind shorts out after awhile.

Now some are thinking “I can imagine knowing something without language” but I’m going to say “No. You can’t.” I’m saying that specifically because from our earliest memories we have moved past the pre-language state and so our minds are formed around creating meaning, a.k.a. language; furthermore, what is being discussed here, and I would put my not inconsiderable close reading skills behind this statement as evidence, is an evolution past language not a return to the infancy. Granted, simultaneously I would be simplistic and infantile in the perception of others, but if I did attain The Way their perception of me offers no real clue to what I actually am.

Mind boggling. So here I am, getting’ down with my post-modern self contemplating the origins of knowledge, the role of language, and what whatever comes next might feel like. Lucky for me I got some Memphis BBQ in the fridge--when considering The Way it is good to know the way to the BBQ restaurant. I’m just sayin’.

2009-10-14T20:05:00.000-05:00

New Rhetoric, Feminism, and Why I Don’t Care That I Care

I am going to take my final written test tomorrow for my comprehensive exams. I’ll let you know how I feel about it once I know that I’ve passed. In my reading for my tests, though, I found myself revisiting some composition theory and writings on rhetoric in an attempt to refresh my memory and prepare myself. What I found there was tiring, exhilarating, and reminded me why I loved comp theory so very, very, much.

Let me ‘splain. No, that will take too long; let me sum up:

I do not believe in transcendent truth or knowledge as it exists outside of language. Don’t confuse truth with knowledge in that previous sentence. I do believe the world (and universe) operates according to set of laws and that it will do so regardless of my awareness or explication of those laws. I do not, however, believe that I can speak or know those laws without language. Hence, knowledge does not exist outside of language. Truth I define as different from fact; the Earth (to the best of our human knowledge) revolves around the Sun and that is, therefore, a fact. It exists without any intervention by humans. That it is always wrong to hit a baby would be an example of transcendent truth; a truth is an abstract concept existing purely within the realm of human social constructions. I might agree that it is always wrong to hit a baby, but what if that baby was buried in Pet Cemetery and is now trying to kill you? That is why I don’t believe in transcendent truth.

Before we continue anyone who disagrees with my truth/knowledge construction should understand I am not proposing this construction as proper for everyone, but explicating what I believe. You can argue with it, therefore, (and I invite you to do so) but remember you are arguing with my world view from your world view, not disproving the conclusions I am about to reveal having come from said world view. We all still together?

Building from this there are a few main reasons I chose to communicate ideology that matters to me. 1) To explain why I believe what I believe and allow people to know me. My goals in these sorts of situation are not persuade but to share--a completely different urging. The hoped for outcome when I chose to explicate what I believe is for dialogue; I say I believe in X and someone else says “why is that?” or “I’m not sure I agree” and we talk about it. Perhaps we argue. Perhaps we throw things. But we dialogue about who believes what and why. 2) To debate with someone why I feel their particular ideology is flawed or to point out an error in some belief or conclusion they have reached. It should be known that in this case I am still interested in dialogue; regardless of whether persuasion happens, and I must be honest and admit that I hope it does, my goal is to share my conclusions about the subject and provide a different lens--not simply to convince.

The reason that I focus more on dialogue and less on convincing someone I’m right is because--going back to knowledge existing within language--I only feel someone knows what I know, critically and thoughtfully agrees with me, if they possess the language to encompass that knowledge as well. That means we must first dialogue before persuasion can happen; if agreement is accepted immediately nothing new has happened. A poorly understood idea has been exchanged for another poorly understood idea.

So, how does all of this fit in with feminism and why I don’t care that I care so much about feminism?

First, when I talk to people about gender issues (note the use of the word gender there please) I don’t want them to feel guilty, feel angry, or follow me blindly. When I talk about how women still connect their moral worth with their virginity, or wonder why it is all of my female friends feel intimidated to argue passionately with my male friends, or contemplate the implications of always being accused jokingly (except not) of being an irrational, emotional, over-zealous feminist--I want other people, hopefully those I’m talking to, to understand that none of that is okay. It might not be life threatening; it might not even be life shaking, but it’s not okay. In order for such a realization to happen the point must be for us to converse or share in dialogue, not persuade or convince.

Now despite the problems with allowing someone, anyone, to see that I care about gender issues, I do it anyway. Usually only in particular situations, but that I chose any situation outside of an enclosed gynocracy to do so could be considered silly by some and poor arguing by others. In particular there are those that would argue I am only causing myself more pain instead of empowerment by focusing on these issues. There are others that accuse me of losing the argument from the moment I show emotion (and there are probably at least three of you saying to yourself right now, “Crap--is this about me?” And it is, but there have been many, many more than only you three and there will be many, many more so don’t feel special or pointed out).

My response is this: based on the aforementioned premise that knowledge is only available through language I state that language about ideology is never impersonal for me. Therefore, I have to care. I can’t not care. If I don’t care then I don’t care about myself, my world, or all the myriad of factors that have created me. To not care is to pretend that every time I’ve felt inadequate because I wasn’t woman enough and every time I felt inadequate because I wasn’t man enough didn’t happen. It did happen. I got over it, but it happened. Part of the reason I got over it, too, is because I acknowledged that it happened, examined it, and created new knowledge, through language, about what it meant that it happened and what it was going to mean for me. I wouldn’t have gotten over it if I hadn’t cared; I would have repressed it. That’s not true for everyone, but it is true for me, and, judging by the wealth of literature available, it is true for a great many other people as well.

Secondly, if, as soon as I show emotion, someone judges me, stereotypes me, or stops listening to me, then they are not in a place to dialogue and our conversation becomes pointless. They don’t want to hear what I have to say, they want to argue, debate, or tear down. With a situation such as this I am not interested in any of those three things. That I’m passionate demonstrates that it matters, and that it matters should demonstrate that the person conversing with me should care. If my passion, emotion, “female irrationality,” etc. serves instead as a marker that I am vulnerable, weak, or irrational then I am attempting to converse with someone who is incapable of recognizing inherent gender stereotypes in their ideology. And that’s okay; they don’t have to recognize them, but it doesn’t mean that I’m going to dialogue with them. If I “convince” them of anything, it will only be that I’m a “cool” girl, or “just one of the boys,” but still somehow removed from all the other “crazy females” they’ve known. That’s not what I want to do. I don’t want to be the exceptional female. I just want to be me, and I am just a female in the same way that I am just a human being.

I want the ways in which I’m exceptional to have nothing to do with how I am not like a group that has been defined based on notions of power relations. I do not want to be exceptional in spite of my race, gender, or upbringing, and I don’t want to be exceptional because of those things. I want those things to be aspects that have shaped my world view and the lenses through which I have seen things others without those lenses have not. If I have to deny how I feel and what I am in order to persuade, then I am no longer arguing what I believe.

I care about the things that I feel shape and affect the world. I’m not limited by that, and I’m not ashamed of that.

This would be one of my truths, though not transcendental by any means.

2009-10-03T19:35:00.000-05:00

Yes, I’m Talking About Fat People...Again

Slate’s latest article “Let Them Drink Water!” by Daniel Engber (found here http://www.slate.com/id/2228713/pagenum/all/#p2) deserves some consideration. My goal in life is not to fight the good fight for fat people even though it seems my posts are unequally weighted (ha) in that direction, but I still feel strongly that awareness must be raised.

I suppose my over-arching question is this: what are our goals as a society and what sort of society do we want to be?

That was two questions but whatever. If we consider ourselves a democracy where life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness is the primary goal for each citizen then legislating pleasure is a dangerous and tricky business. If we consider ourselves a democracy (or a theocracy or something else entirely) where support of government, productivity, and socially approved lifestyle is the primary goal for each citizen then legislating pleasure is a necessity. Before we go any further it should be understood that if you feel the second set of goals is preferable to the first then you are not in support of a free society.

That might seem like a ridiculous statement, and no doubt many would take offense at their support of freedom being questioned, but saying you believe in freedom and actually believing in freedom are two different things. Never mind that the first is significantly easier than the second. Furthermore, true freedom is impossible outside of anarchy. The reason for this is that once you agree not only to live with other human beings, but to allow your behaviors to be policed by a ruling group for the good of all you have given up some freedom. It isn’t a big deal; certainly I’m happy that we have a society that functions (fairly well) and allows for many freedoms. This agreement to cohabitate is not slavery or tyranny or anything so melodramatic as that, but it is an agreement to allow some personal rights to be restricted in favor of public harmony. Examples of this range from the mundane to the extreme: you are not allowed to sunbathe naked on your front lawn where others might see you, and you are not allowed to assault someone else because they irritate you. I don’t consider myself less free because of this, but I feel “freedom” can still be applied to my situation specifically because I am allowed to pursue my own endeavors, education, and pleasure so long as it remains within the private sphere dictated by our social agreement. We don’t (or shouldn’t) arrest people for engaging in consensual adult sex acts--even if we personally feel they are perverse. We don’t (or shouldn’t) keep people from pursuing whatever philosophy/religion appeals to them, even if that philosophy/religion worships classically defined notions of evil.

But if our goals as a society are the support of government, productivity, and socially approved lifestyle then it is no longer an issue of giving up some freedom in the public sphere in order to pursue the individuality that appeals to each citizen, and it becomes a society based on conforming. To borrow from Marx we really do become cogs in the machine. If a citizen is not allowed to be unhealthy because it restricts their labor producing capabilities than that citizen becomes not a human being, but a laborer. If a citizen is punished for illogical, unhealthy, or unwise pursuits that are bad decisions for their longevity, even their happiness, then we aren’t allowing liberty and the pursuit of happiness. And this is the problem with being a society that seeks to promote citizens who pursue liberty and happiness.

Because of the nature of the social agreement, not all happiness can be pursued. Some of it must be restricted or denied because it hurts others and/or society. Child pornography is an extreme, but apt example. When one moves away from the extremes, however, the lines become less clear. Is an unhealthy lifestyle an acceptable pursuit? At what point does a citizen fail to contribute acceptably and at what point does that failure constitute being a leech on society? The question of when society should or should not support non-contributing citizens is a chapter in itself and I will not consider that here.

The problem, I feel, lies in how we define “harm to society and others.” What constitutes a harmful act? This is not an easy question. Many have and will argue effectively that a non-contributing member of society, or simply a less-contributing member of society, is causing harm. Many have and will argue effectively that a citizen cannot and must not be evaluated based on their societal contribution. To do so is to commodify them, which in turn dehumanizes them.

To connect this to the article, therefore, is to say that fat people and smokers cost their healthcare providers more money on average than thin people and non smokers. This cost lessens the overall profit of these businesses, which in turn requires the businesses to raise their rates in order to maintain and increase their profit. This raise affects those not costing healthcare providers money and so the lifestyle of some affects the lifestyle of all. Furthermore, because these few have health problems they are also not providing an effective labor force which lessens the productivity of the economy as a whole thereby lowering whatever nebulous achievements society imagines could be had if productivity were at a maximum.

This is a very compelling argument. It as also an argument that leans away from life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness because at its base it argues non productive citizens and unhealthy citizens are harming society because they cost it money. That’s the sticking point. Once you argue that harm is connected to monetary value, citizens are no longer human beings. We can choose to be a society like that; we can choose as citizens to accept our role not as human beings exploring their humanity, but as laborers seeking as much personal profit as possible. There is nothing inherently right or wrong about that choice. But it is a choice that should be made intentionally, not because of a conflation of morality and money.

Now, can a society that pursues liberty and happiness also encourage its citizens to be healthy? I don’t see why not. I don’t even see why we can’t tax pleasurable activities; we tax property and income as part of the social agreement, why shouldn’t we tax pleasure? But to specifically tax one pleasure specifically taxes one group, and that is not encouragement but discrimination. If we can all imagine that we don’t want a society based on monetary achievement and we do, in fact, want to pursue life, liberty, and happiness, then the choice to tax tobacco but not movies, junk food but not sport’s tickets creates a value-laden hierarchy where particular lifestyles are seen as better than others. Once something is seen as better it is simultaneously seen as more right. Once something is seen as more right it is seen as more moral.

This is why people view smokers not as a group of people that choose pleasure over health, but as immoral questionable folks who are less intelligent, less interesting, and less “good” than others. This is why people view fat people not as a group of people who are large for all sorts of reasons ranging from laziness to economic status, to genetics and instead think of them as inhuman caricatures. Choosing a lifestyle that isn’t wise isn’t a personal choice, therefore, but something akin to substance abuse. Everyone understands that you aren’t strong enough, bright enough, or moral enough to be what you should be, and they really hope that someday, you’ll find it in yourself to become a better person who can better interact with those around her. As a fat person your unattractiveness, both due to your size and your apparent unhealthiness, implies a mental and physical slovenliness that is a personal and moral affront to everyone.

That is what happens when you target one group specifically and tax them not because it makes good economic sense, but because you want to punish them for how they live. Especially when promises are made that the punishment will stop at exactly the same time their lifestyle changes. At exactly the same time they change.

I’m not opposed to taxing pleasure; I think we should legalize drugs and tax them. I think we should tax tobacco. I think we should tax professional sport’s tickets. People will pay for tickets with the same enthusiasm that they buy cigarettes, alcohol, and junk food. It’s a pleasure they feel is worth the cost. That’s why taxing them makes such good sense. What I’m opposed to is using taxes to support a morality that is imposed on citizens with a monetary agenda, and full awareness that such a morality can never be fulfilled.

There will always be people who are less than whatever standard is set. A utopia of healthy, thin, productive citizens is a ridiculous dream that can never be reached--no matter whether it should be reached or not. Once fat people are effectively turned into a minority like smokers another group will be targeted and another “unwise” pleasure will be attacked. This is because society needs conflict to fuel the economy. Whatever group is demonized, people will spend money to get out of that group and to keep themselves from falling into that group. And my dream, an educated self-aware populous that chooses to be what it is knowingly and with acceptance of that choice is a utopia as well. I am aware of that.

But along with the people holding up signs that say President Obama is a “communist, socialist, anarchist” (which doesn’t work as those three things don’t exist in harmony with each other) there are people that consistently fail to realize what a morality based on commodity really is.

As a fat person I don’t want to be discriminated against. As a human being I don’t want to be a commodity. For me, it’s just that simple.

2009-10-01T16:26:00.001-05:00

Samwise the Brave--I finally understand.

I just completed my yearly watching of The Lord of the Rings, and for the first time in my life--in all the times I have read the books, watched the movies, talked about the story, and thought about the story--I have finally had genuine sympathy and empathy for Sam Gamgee.

In the course of my life I have always loved Merry and Pippin; they’re fun. I carry deep passion for Aragorn (that one doesn’t even need to be explained). And Gimli and Legolas are the two cool kids you wish will be your friends. Gandalf obviously needs no explanation. But Frodo and Sam have never seriously captured my interest. I understood it was hard for Frodo and Sam to make it to Mount Doom; more than hard, it was a quest with such little chance of success that their completion of it defies any true understanding. But watching Lord of the Rings this time around it struck me how hard, how unimaginably hard, it must have been for Sam.

Frodo is effectively a substance abuser; the longer he carries the ring the more his mind is no longer his own. He lashes out at those around them, doesn’t take care of himself, and sinks deeper and deeper into a world where no one can follow. Frodo could not have made it without Sam because he would have crumpled under the ring. I think anyone who attempted the quest on their own would have. Sam’s job, therefore, is not only to accompany Frodo and help him but to carry him, literally and figuratively, all the way. Sam must bear the burden of the journey and the burden of Frodo. Yes, Sam doesn’t have to worry about the ring working on his mind, but he is alone, hated, and abused in turns. Gollum, another necessary figure doesn’t make anything easier. And to watch his best friend turn to Gollum over him, and to be able to understand it (perhaps) objectively but never emotionally.

And Sam can’t walk away. No matter what Frodo does to him. No matter what Frodo makes him do. No matter what Frodo requires of him. Sam is the pack mule, the load bearer. There is nothing glorious or archetypically heroic about Sam Gamgee; he isn’t the most interesting or charismatic or funny. But he’s strong and staid and to have made that journey with Frodo and Gollum, to have stood by Frodo all that way and to bear no resentment and no ill will when it was all done--I don’t think I have ever appreciated what sort of strength that would take.

We don’t glorify that sort of strength in our society; I’m not sure I know of a society that does. We look up to the Aragorns and revere the Gandalfs. We have people who bluster and preen and imagine themselves Legolases or Gimlis, but no one sets out to be Sam. Sam isn’t glamorous. And on the surface of it, why would you want to be Sam? He wants nothing more than to live a quiet life; he wouldn’t adventure if it weren’t thrust upon him, and he certainly doesn’t want to keep adventuring when it’s over. But as I’ve contemplated what makes a hero I think there is an aspect of immovable strength combined with simplistic decency that should be considered. Most people are neither naturally good enough nor naive enough to be Sam, and more than that most people could not survive bearing the load Sam does. But despite his lack of glory he is a truly impressive character.

Perhaps even among LOTR lovers my ode to Sam seems a bit much. But I share it anyway because even with all of my imagined philosophizing about any number of things I still miss the most obvious things sometimes. How could I live my whole life with LOTR and never once until just now, fully understand--emotionally and objectively--how impressive Samwise the Brave truly is? What does it mean for my own philosophies if they now metamorph to include an idea of heroism that is neither exciting nor glorious, but unimaginably difficult, tedious, and necessary?

I remember a professor said once that we return to stories over and over in our lives because each time we revisit them we might find they mean something different. He was right.

2009-09-29T01:27:00.001-05:00

80’s Cartoons and Restraining Orders

I’m laying on the couch recovering from a bout of cholera (it was actually the flu, but it sure felt like cholera there for a moment) and because I can’t sleep, can’t move, and can’t think I’m watching Jem and the Holograms. It’s a classic cartoon from the 80’s that revolves around the good girl rock band, Jem and the Holograms and the bad girl rock band, The Misfits. Jem and Holograms represent everything Mouskateers in Rock and Roll--good wholesome girl rockers who run a charity house for foster girls; their boyfriends sleep on the couch; they dress nice, have good manners, and make nice music. The Misfits on the other hand are more like the Sex Pistols--they engage in massive property destruction; dress in “alternative fashions;” and make mean music.

As I lay on the couch watching this classic entertainment I’m struck by two things: 1) how could I idolize Jem and the Holograms so much as a child and grow up so much like the Misfits? and 2) why didn’t Jem and the Holograms ever take out a restraining order on the Misfits?

Let’s consider #2 because that’s the more interesting point here. Consider this scenario: you and your new band perform in your first ever public appearance, a battle of the bands. After appearing and winning by a landslide a rival band STEALS your instruments, DESTROYS your instruments by throwing them out of a moving vehicle at you, and nearly RUNS YOU OFF A CLIFF in the process. So maybe you don’t press charges because that silly other band is just like that. But then, 1-2 days later after your house burns down and you perform again, the same rival band tails you, wrecks the house of a millionaire you’re attempting to court for a free mansion and NEARLY KILLS YOU AGAIN with runaway construction equipment.

At what point is one justified in taking out a restraining order?

Good girl band or not, when you’re life is literally in danger because of the antics of the other band is it not acceptable to say enough is enough?

And not that this is the only logistical problem with this show’s plotline; the daughter of a music company owner and her friends are fortunately rock band material over night (literally) and said daughter’s boyfriend is also (fortunately) band manager material. I suppose we could chalk all of that up to fate.

And, I just noticed something else while laying here in my sickbed, despite Jem’s role as a superstar mogul saintly type, she is also the consummate damsel in distress. She runs a foster house for girls and does the plumbing herself working side by side with her boyfriend Rio who does the electrical work. What a sharing partnership. Then, as Jerica becomes Jem and gains in popularity and power she is nearly run over by runaway construction equipment, thrown off a yacht at top speed, and burned to death in a freak soundstage equipment. Rio is thankfully there for each situation to save her, thereby solidifying his place as her man.

So does Rio not push Jerica to take out a restraining order because he has savior syndrome? Deep down inside he feels inadequate and he knows so long as the Misfits run free Jerica/Jem will constantly be in mortal danger? Perhaps I have found a solution to my quandary.

Perhaps the crux of Jem and the Holograms is that Jerica and Rio have an emotionally destructive relationship that manifests itself in her attempts to seduce him with her alter ego (Jem) and his refusal to urge her away from physically dangerous situations. I think we’re on to quite the psychoanalytic reading here.

And as an addendum: the bad guy named “Zipper” puts his mask on before robbing the casino while wearing a leather jacket with “Zipper” written in giant lettering across the back. Sneaky bad guys in this cartoon. Very sneaky.

2009-09-24T18:15:00.000-05:00

When Did Fat People Turn Into Sith Lords?

I was reading an article on Newsweek http://blog.newsweek.com/blogs/thehumancondition/archive/2009/09/16/cleveland-clinic-ceo-apologizes-to-overweight-staffers.aspx and apparently a CEO in Cleveland said that if he could legally avoid hiring fat people he would. He sounded shocked in his apology that any of his fat employees were offended and stated that he didn’t mean to hurt their feelings. Apparently he made it clear that he hates obesity but not obese people.

We’ve had a long and illustrious history of “hate the sin, love the sinner” in this country. In the early 20th century we thoughtfully told ethnicities that we didn’t hate them because they were Black, Asian, or Hispanic, we just couldn’t love them because they weren’t white. In the latter part of the 20th century we told homosexuals that if they would just stop being what they are, or at the very least have the decency to be celibate their whole lives, we could all get along happily. Now we tell fat people we don’t hate them because their fat, but we have to hate them for their own good until their skinny.

I just feel like everyone in this world loves the skinny girl inside me so much they can’t help but do their best to support her.

So when did obesity become a headline? When did being fat become akin to killing a baby or two? Have I massacred the Jedi while I was sleeping?

Let’s think about this logically for a second; even if we accept some of the stereotypes as true, fat people are lazy, fat people are dirty, fat people are worthless--we still haven’t touched on a great many problems that (I feel at least) could use our attention. Pedophilia, not tied to weight. Rape, not tied to weight. Murder, not tied to weight. Torture (and/or invading other countries on false pretences) not tied to weight. But let’s really focus on diabetes and obesity because that is OBVIOUSLY the world’s biggest problem.

And it isn’t that I don’t see the point of educating people about the health risks of eating cookies (and cake and ice cream) or smoking, but charging those members of society that have “avoidable” problems has yet to lead us down a good path. First of all, our definition of avoidable has included everything from homosexuality to bi-racial marriage. Glad no one’s ruining society with those anymore. Secondly, when people are forced or punished for their failure to live as they will within reason the part where we’re supposed to be living in a republic gets iffy. Now, we could argue over the “within reason”; what is within reason? It’s a good question.

Perhaps within reason would include your basic behaviors like non-violence, non-thievery, not committing genocide, and basic considerations like not spitting on each other, cleaning up after pets, and not running down pedestrians who cross when they aren’t supposed to. Let’s consider adding on to this now: every member of society should contribute as much as their potential allows; they should be healthy; they should create as little of a stir as possible in the economy while serving as the perfect consumer. Wow, that really does sound like a utopia doesn’t it? To never be annoyed be a fat person next to you on a plane; to never have to consider why someone on welfare should or should not receive it. To never have to accept that a lifestyle you abhor could make someone happy. It would so simple; it would so perfect. We would be a society of perfect beings each making each other perfectly happy. Wait a minute...didn’t they try that once before? In Germany? Say, oh, about 1930’s or so?

Maybe you think I’m being too extreme. After all, fat people DO cost society money. And what right do the obese have to health care? If no one needed health care then all of our premiums would go down and our preventative costs would be so low. And it’s a good argument; why should we pay out for health care costs that could be avoided? Why should we allow people to exist in a state that is unbeneficial to society? Why should we consider health care a right instead of a business?

Then again, why don’t we carry this argument to its logical conclusion: if we are upset that particular groups cost the health care industry unnecessary money that in turn drives up the cost for everyone else, then all specific groups that are known money drains should be terminated from the health care plan. This includes but is not limited to:
1) The elderly--come on, once you hit seventy you’re health is only going to get worse. It only makes sense to deny them health care as their days of productivity are long gone and there is no economical gain for keeping them alive.
2) The premature--sure there’s a chance a premature baby will survive, but the more premature it is the lesser that chance and the greater amount it will cost. Healthcare should not be afforded until the child has proven itself viable and not a drain on society’s resources.
3) The mentally disabled--why should counseling, Special Olympics, or any other myriad of programs be supported? And why should any mentally disabled person be provided healthcare? They drain society’s resources, even when supported by family.
4) Anyone who has ever attended a rehab facility of any sort--whatever you did to land yourself in that rehab facility could have been avoided. You now, therefore, have a pre-existing condition that should disqualify you from affordable health care. Perhaps, given enough time if you can prove yourself a healthy, stable individual who will not take out more than you pay in, you could be granted health care sometime in the future. Unless of course your years of abuse have caused chronic health issues. Then you’re on your own.

What’s wrong with this plan? Why wouldn’t people like this? It’s a plan based solely on economic growth that completely and totally reduces people to numbers: how much they put in versus how much they take out. There is no “right to life” or “freedom” in the economy. You don’t have a right to live poorly or waste your life or (heaven forbid) be unattractive. This plan is feasible through methods like public shaming and not so subtle hints that particular groups are hated not, exactly, for what they are, but certainly for what they’re not.

Arguing that all obesity isn’t controllable isn’t the way to get things done either; that is a kinder, gentler way of saying “You can’t help but be the fat slob that you are and while I never want to have sex with you, I wish you all the best.” No, the only solution here is to force gastric by-pass surgery on the obese; a one time cost that would thoughtfully and considerately mutilate their body into something more economically viable.

Because this is a SERIOUS issue in the world today. Your role as a citizen and an American depends on your ability to be healthy, attractive, and productive. Our economy is failing not because CEO’s ran their companies into the ground, or banks engaged in predatory lending, but because YOU, Mr. And Mrs. Fat Person, have type 2 diabetes. Our world is a mess not because various nuclear warheads are unaccounted for or terrorists like to blow people up, but because YOU, you big fat slob, dared to have joint trouble. The size of YOUR ASS is directly related to the war in Iraq.

It’s not funny cause it’s true. That last sentence was logic actually used by an eighteen-year-old.

How does our news shape our perception of morality?

2009-09-21T15:27:00.000-05:00

Summer’s Eve

I recently viewed a Summer’s Eve bottle and I thought some serious deconstruction needed to happen. On the back of the bottle it lists the purposes:

~Sensitive skin formula
~Gently washes away odor causing bacteria from the external vaginal area
~Soap-free
~Fragrance-free

And directly underneath all of that in big bold letters was the tag line:

“enjoy being a woman”

Well, of course, this got me thinking. When one has an excess of odor causing bacteria does one not enjoy being a woman? That is the reasonable conclusion implied by their statement. Furthermore, this implication seems to put forth that odor causing bacteria is a particularly female problem and that should there be odor for those not females (males for instance) it wouldn’t be nearly such an issue. If you can’t enjoy being a woman it might be because of odor; odor is only such a strenuous hurdle for women as stated by the gender specific use of “woman” at the end of the catch phrase instead of person. If odor were an issue for both sexes the phrase would read “enjoy being a human” or “enjoy being alive” but instead it is targeted specifically at females with the message we alone need to worry about odor and if we don’t take proper care of said odor we will not be able to enjoy being a woman.

I am reasonably sure I am not a fan of odor causing bacteria, but I am also reasonably sure that I am not a fan of odor causing bacteria on men or women, be it in the genitals, the underarms, or behind the left nostril. My point here is that odor causing bacteria is more an unpleasant situation for all concerned regardless of where it occurs. What’s more, I have never, up to this point in my life, considered my enjoyment in being a woman dependent on the existence or non-existence of said bacteria. Firstly, I don’t really have much choice. No one ever asked if I wanted to be something other than a woman, and while transgender surgery exists it isn’t a viable option for me. It seems slightly pointless, therefore, to not enjoy being a woman because that would be like not enjoying existing. Both are possible, but neither is preferable. Secondly, the notion put forth here that one needs to engage in specific activities to enjoy being a woman ties my happiness to the cleanliness of my vagina in specifically destructive ways--in my opinion. If one were attacked and overcome by odor causing bacteria one should be annoyed, perplexed, perhaps even embarrassed (if people held their noses when you walked by that could be mortifying) but should one stop enjoying their existence? That’s a fairly severe reaction. Is it not more plausible that one would be annoyed at the health issue and take care of it, but still happy to be alive? Do we stop enjoying being alive when we have the flu, a cold, or a herpes outbreak?

There have been multiple times in my life I have not been able to enjoy my day because I felt ill, tired, or beaten down by life. But my ability to enjoy life has never been called into question because of those slight hardships. Everyone understands such hardships are passing and inevitable. Why is it with Summer’s Eve and other feminine cleansing products the message is put forth that you could avoid it, should avoid it, and won’t enjoy living if you don’t avoid it? You can no more avoid at least one yeast infection in your life than you can avoid at least one cold. There is a complex eco-system down there and many pools, detergents, and climates are not user friendly. But it isn’t viewed as an inevitable annoyance, rather we treat it as a slight outbreak of the plague. I hear the Black Death was fairly unpleasant for all, not to mention highly contagious. I’m pretty sure if you don’t use Summer’s Eve you won’t cause the death of thousands.

No doubt some think I am once again reading too much into things, and I won’t tell you you’re wrong. But reading too much into things is what I do. And I ask you this: does my reference to vaginal odor make you uncomfortable? More so than body odor would? Does reading the word vagina cause a twinge or giggle? Why is that? It seems more daring, shocking, or offensive to write about Summer’s Eve than it would be to write about deodorant or even jock itch deodorizer, and it is that very simple reality that proves my point. How many women even know what jock itch is? We put different emphasis on different health requirements and that is what I’m attempting to illuminate here; in the case of odor causing bacteria we emphasize first that it is a specifically female problem and second that you cannot be a real woman, a happy woman, or a pleasant, sociable woman unless you are vigilant in your addressing of the problem. Finally, the occurrence of severe odor causing bacteria is not as rare as some might think, nor does its existence ever become known except in particular cases. There is a whole lot of life outside of those particular cases where one can still enjoy being a woman.

I don’t like the idea that I can only enjoy my existence if I do what Summer’s Eve tells me. That’s all I’m saying. Why can’t the Summer’s Eve bottle just sit quietly awaiting its use (and appreciated use) without passing judgment on what it means to be female? I don’t think that’s too much to ask.

2009-09-17T19:55:00.001-05:00

Douchasaurus Rex Sighting or How I Met an A-Hole

How do people go on blind dates? How do you find the courage to keep going after everything is so awful every time? Not that I’ve had a ton of experience or even that all my experience has been bad, but as I attempt to do this “dating” thing I’ve made a brilliant discovery about why I never dated before: I don’t like people.

My mother, she would be sad to hear me say such a thing. But here’s the deal, when you go on a date (and you don’t get drunk) you realize within ten minutes whether you are attracted or not attracted and whether you want to talk to them further or not. Perhaps that seems like too short a time to some, but in my admittedly short experience I have found this rule to be true. The only time it isn’t true is when I ingest approximately a Ball Jar full of rum in that ten minutes.

Dating is hard when you’re grown up! It’s not about cute boy/cute girl, hey do you want to play doctor? It’s not about he likes me and no one else does so I guess I’ll say yes. Once you cross 25 it isn’t enough that you are or are not attracted to them (and honestly when the attraction isn’t there you find yourself going down the rest of your list anyway just in case) but you think, would I like to talk to this person for a significant length of time? Would I want to call this person with news? Do I want to tell this person all my most embarrassing stories? Would I ever want them to meet my family? How would they interact with my family? Would they be able to survive my family? These are not questions that bothered me when I was 16. When I was 16 it was all about “Sweet. We totally just made out. Let’s do it again.” Life was simpler back then.

But within a reasonable amount of time a person can assess both the physical attraction and the mental and then you’re stuck. Not because you don’t like them (though sometimes you don’t) but because you promised some hours to this person and you must make good on that. Never mind that it is an undefined amount of hours so unlike an unpleasant business meeting you have no idea when it will end; no, with a date you must continue conversation, listen when you don’t want to, try not to show your mind wandering, and maintain a polite veneer.

An earlier date wasn’t like this, it was pleasant from start to finish and I really appreciated the experience. But most recently I found myself across from someone with no recourse for escape. I’ve never felt so unneeded at an activity which was supposed to include me in my life. He didn’t care what I had to say. He didn’t really care about my face either--unless he just “zones out” in the general direction of my chest. I wanted to slap my hand down on the table and scream “Really?!” but that wouldn’t be polite.

He wasn’t wholly unpleasant, and I’m sure he’s a nice guy. But I discovered some things about attraction that I had previously only theorized about:

1) You can’t force it. Either there is a twitching in your loins that signals interest or there is a very real feeling of revulsion.

2) While I don’t need super muscled men I do need a man that is comfortable with himself. This was a big realization for me. There is a difference between a person that isn’t particularly in shape or svelte, but is comfortable with their body and moving their body, and someone who is not only unathletic, but moves and holds him/herself as if they aren’t quite sure how their limbs are supposed to move. I don’t need someone who can protect me, but I really can’t stand the idea of dating someone who it is obvious couldn’t protect himself. I’m not looking for the Karate Kid here, mind, but at least the ability to run away without falling down. And I run exceptionally slow so he doesn’t even have to be able to run fast. I don’t think my standards are set at the Olympic athlete level.

3) When someone looks at you while you talk as if they are looking for a reason to argue just walk away. What I don’t need is some A-hole that thinks he can mentally dominate me and make up for getting made fun of in high school by proving his manly intelligence by destroying me.

4) There is no substitute for general peace of mind. It doesn’t matter how smart you are. It doesn’t matter how good looking you are. It doesn’t matter how rich you are. If you are bitter, unhappy, argumentative, or hoping no one realizes that you don’t actually like yourself that comes through in everything (EVERYTHING) you do and say. Those around you will be uncomfortable and unsure how to handle what appears to be a nuclear warhead.

So this is my proposal for an internet dating website. The following questions will sort people into groups from which they will then choose possible dates:

1) Are you thin if you’re a woman and muscular if you are a man?
2) Will you not date someone who answered no to the above question?
3) Were you picked on in high school and do you still think about that (however rarely)?
4) Have you had a tendency to date “crazy” people? And, has this made you bitter or aggressive in your mannerisms?
5) Have you ever, for any reason, had the cops called on you?

With this system we can sort the pretty people from the rest of us, the snobs from the losers, and the crazies and those that love them from the lame and mundane like myself. Where are those questions internet dating? We, the people, need them.

There are good reasons I’m a hater not a dater.

2009-09-12T11:38:00.003-05:00

I am about to attend my first football game in three years. This is only remarkable in that my grandfather recently passed away and I think he would like that his passing somehow results in more football in my life.

We take football very seriously in my family.

Football and my attitudes about it weren’t something I ever consciously thought about growing up; I knew that when Dad was watching football you left him alone, and that when I went to a game I could watch the marching band. I also learned fairly early that football was an out I didn’t have; I didn’t get out of chores because I was tired at football practice or anything else. Despite how that sentence sounds, however, I don’t carry any bitterness about that. And this is sort of the crux of my football musings here: football is, and always has been, another member of our family. I would say it was like a religion, but that implies some level of deification or worship and that’s not how we approach it at all. Football merely is to us; you do what needs to be done to get to the game, and you support the people who are involved in it whether they be coaching, playing, or part of the marching band.

We are not football snobs.

I muse over the role football has played, though, because I’ve discovered since leaving home there is no way to explain how I feel or what I expect to someone who wasn’t there every day. We don’t obsess over names of players and stats; we don’t watch the games avidly, and while we care no one would call us rabid fans. But, for me at least, unlike someone who likes football or has discovered they like football it has, quite simply, always been there. I never questioned it; I never felt bad about it. I never wondered why football got more attention than other activities. I never doubted my Dad loved me even though I couldn’t play football. You don’t harbor bitterness towards the member of your family that requires so much attention; you do what you can to fulfill that need and enjoy your time outside of it.
And I have decided talk about football now (I have decided that anyone cares about the role football plays for myself and others) because my grandfather really loved football. I don’t think I ever fully understood how much until I recently read some of his writings. It wasn’t just a game for him; his players were like family and the institution offered the chance for kids to learn something meaningful. What’s more, you could learn whether you played or not—if you knew how to listen anyway. Football was a lens through which he viewed life, and he wanted the us to see life through that lens as well.

Football is the only game where eleven bodies slam into eleven bodies with enough kinetic energy to kill someone; the ball is inconsequential to the physical aspect of it unless you are a quarterback or wide receiver. For the lineman and the defense especially the difficulty lies in finding a way to overpower one or two people as big or bigger than you are, running yourself into them as hard as you possibly can. But when it’s all over, when the game is done, and the score decided what matters isn’t whether you won or lost; what matters is whether you won or lost correctly. I know, sort of a weird concept isn’t it?

But the important part here is the struggle. The fight to move the ball and protect your team--the fight to obliterate the other team. That you have literally fought as hard as you could, as fairly as you could, and learned to accept either outcome. I don’t know of anything in life where that attitude does not serve one well. As think back over the discussions I've listend to between my grandfather, my dad, and my brother--and any discussion concerning our approach to extra curicular activities--I realize how embedded this idea is in our familial philosophy. You learn to fight through pain, physical and mental, to do what needs to be done, and you learn to deal with that pain when the job is over, not ignore it or repress it or boast about it, but to quietly heal so that you are prepared and healthy to fight another day. That’s what football, or in my case living with football, has taught me. As I think back over the conversations of recent years I think this is the concept Grandpa was really trying to emphasize. It doesn't only matter that you win, but that you struggle always the most ethically and nobly that you can.

I haven't learned that lesson fully yet; how can you? But my mind has been recycling these ideas over and over again for the past few days and this is an idea, a concept, that is important to revisit. This idea of ethical struggle is worth understanding. If football were a religion then only those of us who have played could follow it truly. But because it's a member of our family it is simply one more personality that shapes the family dynamic. That is why I can think about all of this in terms of football even though I haven't played a sanctioned game in my life. I think Grandpa would appreciate that.

Added on 9-14-09: This post arose as much out of a conversation with my brother as out of my own philosophical musings. I wanted to make sure I added that so that everyone would know that in this case, my ideas were not formulated in a vaccuum, but owe as much to him as to myself.

2009-09-08T15:50:00.001-05:00

I’ve been doing some self-evaluation. I even busted out ye old Codependent No More to see what gems of knowledge the only self help book I’ve ever read and not laughed at had to offer me. After pondering codependency, my life, and my relationships I have a question of the world: what do you do if you’re a recovering codependent who seeks other codependents to be codependent with? Or: what do you do if you’re a recovering codependent and feel there are particular behaviors you must cut out of your life and those around you for your own sanity and happiness? Ms. Beattie doesn’t address these questions in her book.

I keep in mind that this book isn’t exactly meant for the me now; it was more applicable to the me of four years ago, but, regardless of the ways I’ve changed, old knowledge is always worth reevaluation for worth and possible reapplication. But I can’t help but wonder what is ethical and moral in relationships when it comes to helping and supporting friends, and walking away from friends you feel are bad for you. Let me see if I can clarify--if you’re friend has a rough day, week, even month, you are a crappy friend (I pass judgment here, it’s true) if you abandon them because they aren’t “fun” or it is too difficult to stand by them when their mood is down. But if you’re friend is having a bad life punctuated by the occasional good day, week, even month, then when is it ethical to walk away and save yourself while leaving them to figure it out? When it is unethical and selfish? This is the crux of my immediate questioning.

And I think it’s an important question. We tell people they need to be aware of themselves and their needs; they need to protect themselves from abusive relationships and destructive choices. We have Lifetime movies and ABC Family movies where the boyfriend/girlfriend is so obviously awful and the hero/heroine is so desperately drowning. But real life is rarely, if ever, that simple. While it’s hard to walk away from a destructive relationship--sometimes impossible--once you manage to extract yourself there is a definiteness there. When the story is told everyone will quickly and clearly understand that the alcoholic, drug user, emotionally abusive bastard treated you poorly, and that while s/he might not be a bad person there was nothing you could have done. It was both right and good that you walked away and congratulations on pulling yourself out of an awful situation. But...when it’s someone who makes you tired, stressed, or generally unhappy without exactly hurting you when are you at liberty to walk away? When is your decision to let that person figure it out ethical, and when is it abandonment? And (though I don’t think I can begin to evaluate this idea here) when and/or how do you tell them that you are walking away?

I know. Not even JCVD can get me through this one.

It is precisely this gray area that I find myself subsisting in presently, however; not all of a sudden (does anything that promotes self-evaluation ever really happen all of a sudden?) but over the course of the last four years. I’ve worked past the self-help book. I know how to take time for myself (you might call me selfish and you wouldn’t be wrong) and I know how to stand by my friends (I would go to jail for those I love). But when I discover that someone isn’t good for me, that beyond simply not making me happy they make anxious, stressed, irritable, judgmental, short tempered, mean--the list goes on--when or how do I proceed from there? My modus operandi heretofore has been to pull back, gain distance, disappear. But is that the better choice? Is it better to simply give them room to grow or not grow as their own life journey dictates or am I ethically bound as a friend to tell them why I’m pulling back?

I think I feel that space in this cases is the best decision; it is no more fair to me to be miserable because of unpleasant company than it is that the unpleasant company is miserable in the first place. But with my assertion of autonomy--this is my space and my mind and you aren’t allowed to manipulate it--must I reveal, explain, and/or justify that assertion? If the answer is sometimes, when do those sometimes occur and how does one recognize and navigate them?

It doesn’t feel right to me to simply pull away from those I’ve established relationships with, but I am codependent so of course it doesn’t feel right. It doesn’t feel right for me to be brutally honest about how someone’s behavior makes me feel and affects me, but I come from a family that would sooner admit to venereal disease than own up to feeling sad or wounded. I’ve been raised to believe that if someone affects me it is because at some very basic level I have allowed it to affect me; if I were tougher/stronger/smarter whoever it is that ruined my day wouldn’t have ruined it. I recognize now that is a patently false idea. Simultaneously, however, you aren’t always a complete victim; often in life we have some degree of power and wielding that power responsibly is as important as surviving someone wielding theirs irresponsibly at us. If I get robbed we can all agree there was nothing I could do, but if I get manipulated and feel used...should I have been tougher/stronger/smarter? If that feeling of use and manipulation makes me angry, depressed, and/or unsympathetic am I being over sensitive?

I understand that things aren’t easy; it no longer surprises me that they aren’t, but knowing a thing to be true and knowing what to do about that true thing are two very different skill sets. The last four years of graduate school have required a particular level of selfishness from me I do not feel bad about--I needed to learn and to learn one needs to spend time with/on one’s self--but I also know I have not held the line of necessary selfishness and convenient selfishness as strongly as I should. But hell, even knowing all of that I still have no answer to the problem of what constitutes ethical behavior when you recognize destructive behavior in another. I guess we all do the best we can, but that idea is a copout and too often used to excuse our failure to do what we should.

This would all be so much more awesome if I could fix it with a roundhouse kick to the head. Granted I can’t roundhouse kick, but I could learn man. I could so totally learn.

2009-09-08T04:33:00.001-05:00

The JCVD Project

I’ve embarked upon a new adventure with my fellow partner in JCVD love. We have set, as a goal for ourselves, the task of watching every movie with JCVD in the credits. We will document this journey on our new blog, “The JCVD Project” which I have thoughtfully included a link to on the right. You will find there our Mission Statement, an explanation of our ratings system--the VD rating--and a breakdown of the movies watched as we watch them.

Mayhap it’s my natural response to studying so very hard these last few months. Maybe I’ve been building towards this moment that fateful summer I watched every movie Family Video had starring JCVD. Maybe this is why fate gave me an English degree. I don’t know the whys. I only know I must do it. This is the quest destiny demands of me, and I will deliver.

2009-09-07T05:31:00.002-05:00

I want to tell the world about JCVD! No, it’s not Jess Carries Venereal Disease but Jean Claude Van Damme!

I recently watched JCVD (twice if you must know) and was blown away by its awesomeness. Now, perhaps because this is text and many markers of communication are missing, you might think I’m being sarcastic or employing hyperbole. But I simply must inform you with all seriousness that JCVD is one seriously impressive movie. After watching this movie I discovered something: JCVD can actually act--I know; my shock was significant as well. I also rediscovered something: I have inappropriate (you have no idea how inappropriate) love for JCVD in all his incarnations.

I admit I feel better about my JCVD love than, say, Steven Segall (it just happened okay? One day I was watching Under Siege and before I knew it I found him attractive. It wasn’t my fault; the devil comes at us in moments of weakness) but I’ve never owned my VD love as I have other obsessions. In all honesty, however, there was a summer when I rented every movie our video store had, but that isn’t a story I’ve shared freely until recently.

Spurred on by my re-ignited love for Mr. JCVD I happily dove into my Netflix watch instantly and discovered to my thrilling delight a classic known as Double Impact awaiting me. After finishing it I find myself giggly and nostalgic for the action movies of yesteryear. Double Impact (hereafter referred to as DI in keeping with my egregious abbreviations abuse) has everything a great action movie from the 80’s and early 90’s ought to have: there’s martial arts, there’s gratuitous boob shots, there’s a purposeless sex scene, there’s unlikely explosions, there’s ripping of the action hero’s shirt for proper exposure of pectoral muscles, and there’s such a painfully juvenile attempt at a story that as a viewer you can’t help but cringe every time something like genuine emotion comes on the screen. In short, it has everything I love and miss about action movies.

Sure it’s sexist. Dear lord is it sexist. At one point the heroine, who didn’t bother me overmuch until she started talking in the second half of the movie and it become painfully apparent that she couldn’t act, dropped the blanket she was wearing while her clothes dried (because she got wet...obviously) and we saw her chest. You know...like ya do. And there was the “bad girl” who had to have been a professional body builder cause the girl was stacked. Naturally she had to “search” the “good girl” at one point in what was a clumsy attempt at 1992 heterosexual male fantasy of lesbian domination. Oddly enough the “bad girl” wore leather and black and had dark hair while the “good girl” wore pastels with flowers and had blond hair. You just can’t get gender roles and sexism like that anymore. And I simply must mention the sex scene; you see there was no reason, even in this hastily thrown together plot for there to be a sex scene but they got around that by Alex (played by JCVD) getting drunk and hallucinating that his brother Chad (played by JCVD) was having sex with his girlfriend--the blond girl. Brilliant!

And the final fight scene was glorious, stupendous, beautiful! JCVD, wearing a rather dull turtleneck, loses said turtleneck when the bad guy rips it off of him. You only wish I was making this up. And then (AND THEN) bad guy, played by Bobo for those of you that know who I’m talking about, takes his shirt off so they can have some short of martial arts throw down and assert their dominant masculinity over each other. ‘Twas awesome.

And I sat here and ate this shit up. Seriously, we don’t have action movies like this anymore. You could call it senseless violence and say it’s a good thing, but as I enjoyed the dubious pleasure that was DI I couldn’t help but miss the time when gratuitous violence was SO gratuitous that it had absolutely no chance of warping a child’s mind. You watch classics like Kickboxer or American Ninja or Under Siege and you know you aren’t bettering yourself. You are, in fact, treating the lowest part of yourself. I, the person that rails against the concepts of “high art” and “low art” gladly concede that this stuff is low art. But it does what it does well. Things blow up in exciting ways. Heroes are sexy and action stars can actually do the moves you see on the screen. Bad guys die overly complicated deaths, usually through helicopter blades or a thoughtfully exposed electrical box. If ever there is a scene with things marked “flammable” you know there will eventually be an explosion even if there has been no HINT of an incendiary device on screen; sometimes I think the hero is so cool that all he has to do is look at a barrel marked “flammable” and it will explode. But the neat part, the reason why I think I like it so much, is that no one watches a movie like DI and walks away worse because of it. The gender roles are crap, but there is less chance of danger for a young girl watching the chick in this be weak all the way through then there is in watching something like G.I. Joe where she learns she can be tough like Scarlett--as long as her uniform is thoughtfully unzipped all the time. There’s less danger in watching the violence of JCVD’s sweet martial arts moves than there is in watching any number of revenge movies where the thrill isn’t in the fighting but in the gore.

I’m not saying you should run out and watch DI (really, I promise I’m not saying that) but I offer this slightly embarrassing testimonial of JCVD love to helpfully bring back whatever fond memories you too might have of a time when action movies were simple and action movie stars didn’t shave their body hair.

Sometimes you just want to watch stuff blow up, and I know that JCVD will always be there for me when I do.

2009-09-02T16:32:00.001-05:00

Working out, Cowboys in my Kitchen, and the Douchasaur

I just lifted weights for the first time in *mumble mumble* years. I feel a little bit like my arms have been stretched out by the rack and then flogged by little people placed at two-inch intervals each wielding a variation of a cat-o-nine-tails. But, I can sit down without my thighs giving out so that’s a plus. We’ll see if that’s still the case tomorrow after doing legs.

I came home and was standing in the kitchen heating up my leftovers from Bucca di Beppo (because nothing accentuates a good work out like family style Italian food) and I looked to my right at our “Studs ‘n Spurs” calendar. It was a joke (sort of) but some days when I’m feeling particularly sad I find my spirits buoyed by the shirtless cowboy on my kitchen wall with his too, too tight jeans. As I gazed at Mr. September I was excited at first; July, my birthday month, had a model who if he was a day over eighteen I’m a super model. Other months have been pleasant, but for a calendar dedicated to studs wearing spurs we haven’t always been guaranteed studliness.

All of this is to say that when I gazed at Mr. September, shirtless and appropriately misted so as to appear wet and tired after a hard day’s cowboying I became aware of something ruining my delightful objectification. There was something nagging at the back of my head that this picture just wasn’t as hot as it ought to be, and that bothered me. Gleaming six pack abs? Check. Wet? Check. Pleasant face? Sort of. I narrowed my search and realized it was, in fact, his eyes that were ruining our little moment.

I know. Have a laugh. Mock me. Who looks at a “Studs ‘n Spurs” calendar and feels bereft because the EYES aren’t right? It’s sort of like anyone on the planet actually knowing what color Pamela Anderson’s eyes are. But here’s the thing--or at least, here’s what I’ve decided the thing to be. There is a certain amount of badassery that exists metaphysically. Part of it is attitude; a man walks into the room and thinks, subconsciously even, I can take anyone here. Not because his self worth is dependent upon his ability to take anyone there, and not even because it’s true. More, it’s the knowledge that if he had to he could protect himself, but he won’t have to because no one there is worth his time to fight with. No matter how assy they get he’ll just buy them a drink and go on about his business. Unless they piss him off.

Furthermore, that attitude needs to exude from every pore of his being. Some call it confidence or assurance of self, but I don’t think that quite captures the self possession I’m attempting to describe. More it’s the complete inability of this man to conceive that even if he gets his ass kicked, even if he gets laughed at, even if no one in the room is aware of what he could do to them, he won’t be beat. That’s badassery my friends.

Bringing this back around to Mr. Sept. I want, when I look at a picture of a shirtless, wet cowboy on my kitchen wall the knowledge that the character portrayed for that photograph (and it is a character, you don’t shave your chest if you’re a real cowboy) has the sort of badassery that makes genitals weep. I want John Wayne with a James Bond attitude. I don’t want some dude with a six pack in a pair of tight jeans that looks like the only thought he’s contemplated for longer than a moment was how awesome he is.

I hate it when my fantasies are so rudely destroyed by life’s refusal to be objectified.

But that brings us to the discovery of a new species known as the douchasaur. There will be a list of all the various types of douchasaurs, but I’m sorry to say my hot cowboy fantasy has been destroyed in no small part to the undeniable knowledge that Mr. Sept. is a douchasaurus. And yes, I know this because of the eyes.

2009-08-26T02:02:00.001-05:00

I’m doing schoolwork I promise. But the last few nights as I’ve walked to my apartment door instead of running away from me the roaches have taken to charging (CHARGING) my poor, vulnerable feet. This newest attack on my person has caused me to write poetry--or in this case to parody. They say literature is the music of the soul (I don’t know who “they” are, but I’m sure they said something like this sometime) so here’s my soul; my battle weary, cockroach assaulted soul laid bare for all the world to see.

Charge of the Roach Brigade

1.

Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Sin
Rode the six hundred.
“Forward, the Roach Brigade!
“Charge for the house!” they said:
Into the valley of Sin
Came the six hundred.

2.

“Forward the Roach Brigade!”
Was there a bug dismay’d?
Kakkerlak couldn’t know
Someone had poisoned.
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die:
Into the valley of Sin
Came the six hundred.

3.

Motel to the right of them,
Motel to the left of them,
Motel in front of them
Waiting with poison;
Tempted with bait and smell
Boldly they ate and fell
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the house of Hell
Came the six hundred.

4.

Discovered and hated
They fell as were baited
But retaliated
Claiming the Hell-house while
The occupants slumbered:
Cloaked in the dark and smoke
Right thro’ the wall they broke;
Black, brown and giant
Reel’d from the poisoned stroke
Creeping and crawling.
Then they came out, but not
Not the six hundred.

5.

Motel to the right of them,
Motel to the left of them,
Motel behind them
Waiting with poison;
Tempted with bait and smell
Crawling and flying fell,
They that had ate so well
Came thro’ the jaws of Death
Storming the house of Hell,
More than came in with them,
More than six hundred.

6.

When can their ranks decrease?
When can their species cease!
The occupants slumbered.
Can’t stop the charge they made,
Can’t stop the Roach Brigade
Now there’s six million.

2009-08-25T17:20:00.001-05:00

I’m about to throw myself into some medieval and tudor drama, but before I do I thought I should take this opportunity to talk about Streetfighter: Legend of Chun Li. In fact, I think this movie is worthy of a top ten list; we haven’t had one of those in awhile!

Top Ten Most Awesome(ly BAD) Moments of Streetfighter: Legend of Chun Li

10. The Gratuitous Use of Voice Over
I try to be understanding of an action movie’s use of voice over to move the plot along. After all, we’re watching this to watch people bleed, not to have our soul moved. To that end a little voice over that says the following is acceptable: “I was once a happy child, and then my family suffered horrible tragedy. I proceeded to learn the art of Kung fu and now beat the crap out of sinister looking men” Done and done. With this movie, however, we have more voice over than dialogue or fighting and it all seems to revolve around the line “I stand up when standing up isn’t easy.” Yeah--it gave me indigestion too.

9. The sudden connection and understanding of Chun Li and the international police force
Don’t know about you, but generally when a cop watches me kill someone, even if that someone is a bad guy, and then I run away from him he usually isn’t willing to “back me up” when I set out on a rampant course of vigilantism. Of course I don’t look like Kristin Kreuk. Maybe that’s the key...

8. Moon Bloodgood’s apparent worthlessness to the plot outside of being hot
Moon Bloodgood is a GORGEOUS woman. We’re talking stupid beautiful here. But aside from her walking out of her bedroom in jeans and a bra fresh out of the shower I don’t exactly know what her purpose was for this movie. And the bra was wet--who does that? Have you ever tried to put on a wet bra? It is ridiculously difficult to do. I spent a solid five minutes of the movie perplexed by this wet-bra conundrum instead of watching people get beat up. Lame.

7. The lack of awesomely choreographed ass-kicking
There was a distinct dearth of fighting in this movie. It’s called StreetFIGHTER. Seems like people should fight little bit. That’s all I’m saying.

6. The lack of sexy time
Chun Li never gets any. Since I was eight or however old I was when this video game came out I have waited patiently for some gorgeous male character (like Ryu for example) to wise up to the hotness and coolness of Chun Li. I thought surely in 2009 there would finally be some sexy time for Chun Li! I was wrong. Who wants to learn Kung Fu if you don’t even get to make out with Ryu? Stupid movie.

5. Gen’s Douche-stache
Robin Shou, oh what are you doing to me? He was in Mortal Kombat and a fairly good looking guy I have to say. But in this movie he has this graying, oddly Velcro looking mustache that is neither grown in, nor scruff. It’s like they were aiming for Mr. Miagi and landed at Mr. Miapornstar. Every time he was on screen I found myself screaming out loud from the horror.

4. Chris Klein’s Hair
Rule of Life #578: If, as a man, you find your hair thinning cut it short. Please. It doesn’t look good long. It being long doesn’t hide that it’s thinning. In fact, the excessive length accentuates the thinning hair and/or pronounced widows peak. Who was the stylist that looked at Chris Klein and said, “you’re not a very good actor, but you could be a good-looking guy. I think I will give you BAD hair so that your looks cannot mask your bad acting.” I think they probably said it with a Russian accent. And I think they were probably part of the Russian mafia. We should deport them.

3. A fully Chinese little girl growing up to be half-Chinese Kristin Kreuk
Kristin Kreuk is Dutch-Chinese according to imdb and in the movie her father was Chinese and her mother non-descript Caucasian. Okay, not exactly faithful to the game, but whatever; I would have forgiven this. Except the picked what was obviously a Chinese little girl to play her at a young age who somehow morphed into a Dutch-Chinese girl when puberty came. Because we all change ethnicity as we get older...wait a minute...

2. Bison transforming from a Thai mob boss to an albino Irishman (who has an Irish accent despite growing up in Thailand...)
Again, I would have accepted the change in origins--they did still have Bison having grown up in Thailand--but if he grew up in the slums of Thailand how did he learn to speak English with an Irish accent? And not a thick one either. But, when the moral of your movie is to stand up when standing isn’t easy, probably you don’t the critical thinking skills necessary to contemplate why this might be a problem for the viewer.

1. That another Streetfighter movie manages to suck more than Mortal Kombat--14 years later
Streetfighter was a vastly superior game to Mortal Kombat. (It’s my blog I get to say what I want.) And yet we have now had TWO Streetfighter movies and they are both so incredibly bad that I’m almost ashamed to love Streetfighter like I do. Why is Mortal Kombat better? 1) They fight. A LOT. 2) There’s an appropriate amount of sexy time possibility. 3) They fight. A LOT. Why is this so hard for Streetfighter to understand? You know what would make me relate more to Chun Li’s character? If she kicked a lot of ass. You know what would make me want to see a sequel? If she kicked a lot of ass. You know what would make me buy the dvd? If she got to have some sexy time or least if the possibility of sexy time existed following the end of the movie. I do not feel my demands are extreme.

So be warned: if you want some awesome martial arts action Streetfighter has failed us once again. Just watch Jacki Chan; he’s always a good time.

2009-08-24T04:08:00.001-05:00

A Little Fall of Rain or How to be Maudlin in the Desert and Emotionally Cut Yourself

It’s been a long time comin’ really. If this were a country song I’m pretty sure Dolly Parton would have written it, someone like Whitney Houston would sing it, and we all be in tears by the end wondering when Kevin Costner became a viable romantic interest. I’ve been reading for my big tests you see and this causes stress, but also (and more importantly) takes a significant emotional toll.

The problem is that everything I have to read is sad. And not Nicholas Sparks sad either where you can’t help but feel a little depressed but you’re as likely to control your reaction as not, while simultaneously feeling pissed because you’ve been emotionally manipulated. No, we’re talking indie-film sad where it’s all you can do not to ball like an infant in the theatre and embarrass yourself. But that alone wouldn’t be enough to get me down normally; books generally don’t move me like movies do-at least not in the same ways. But the sheer volume I’ve had to read and due to time constraints the necessity of immersing myself in these stories has removed whatever small flecks of joy once sparkled in my slightly smoggy atmosphere. On top of that pile back-to-school blues and various personal tragedies and we have the makings of a first class sulk.

So I do what I always do; I overdose on tragedy. First I drove out into the desert and parked. There was a storm rolling in and it was something to behold. The sheer ability to breathe in air with moisture here is so rare that some part of my soul un-shrivels when it happens. Feeling particularly melodramatic I took full advantage and stood in the rain letting a mixture of water and sand pelt me. It always seems like a silly thing to do at first, even more silly to admit to doing, but I can honestly say you can’t beat it. If I weren’t worried about things like, oh, death, I would wander off into the desert for the full experience. But my plan is to feel relieved--not inadvertently bring myself to some Shakespearean end removing the story of my life from the comedy section and placing it amongst the tragedies.

But I wasn’t wholly better yet so I went for the M.K.O. (movie knock out) I started with Mysterious Skin, a movie about two boys who are sexually abused when they are eight. One blocks it from the memory and the other becomes a male prostitute. It wouldn’t be described as an upper. I followed it up with (wait for it) Wit. The movie where and English professor dies of cancer. That’s right. When I take a razor to my emotions I don’t slice the wrong way; oh no, I cut long and deep--I think this time I severed a tendon.

But--I have a plan and it worked! To put it into Star Trekian terms everyone knows the best way to escape a black hole is to eject your warp core and detonate it. The resulting explosion (theoretically) pushes you out past the gravitational pull, thereby allowing you to escape. Or, for those of you not cool enough to watch Star Trek, I smoked a whole carton of cigarettes in five hours today to kick the habit.

Now, this emotional regimen does come with a warning: if there is any chance you are genuinely unstable as opposed to melodramatic, maudlin, or melancholy do not, I repeat DO NOT, try any of this at home. Possible side effects are blacking out, uncontrollable sobbing, or complete mental breakdown. If you can survive two movies like the ones I just watched, however (pick movies that eerily mimic your life for full dramatic effect) you will come out on the other side feeling better. Even if it is only because you couldn’t actually feel any worse.

Take that Nicholas Sparks. I’ll show you a message in a bottle written in a notebook on a walk to remember. Loser.

Gerard Butler’s new movie needs to come out soon. I seriously need to watch beautiful men blow things up while saving civil liberties and their wives. I LOVE it when they do that.

2009-08-13T04:15:00.001-05:00

G.I. Joe. A Real American Blowout.

I'm going to try and make this different than simply a "G.I. Joe" is bad commentary because let's face it: we all know G.I. Joe is bad. We all knew G.I. Joe was going to be bad. You can't go see this movie and act surprised when it's bad.

So all the female Joes walk around the base with their uniform unzipped to somewhere mid-breast. So Scarlet is some sort of super smart chick whose body armor requires DD cups built in. So Ripcord has to teach Scarlet what it means to love. All of these things might be forgivable under the "I knew what I was getting into" heading.

But then there was the Baroness. I can't forgive the Baroness. First of all Sienna Miller is not an athletic woman. She's pretty, and in some shots she's even beautiful, but watching her run is downright painful. Also, she is no one's definition of legitimate. With black hair at least she's stunning, but with blond hair she blends in with every other thin, beautiful blond in the world. But looks aren't everything; perhaps with a better script she could have acted the part of the Baroness in such a way you believed she was a voluptuous viper who preyed on those around her. But she wasn't voluptuous. And apparently (watch out spoilers) she was only a viper because the evil mind control made her that way.

I mean SERIOUSLY?!

Here's the thing: G.I. Joe was an awesome cartoon because all the females kicked serious ass. The good girls, the bad girls, the in-between girls--every single one of those characters was the equal of any male and was also completely unique from the others. This movie turns the Baroness into some sort of heartbroken, mind-controlled former lover of Duke that completely removes all the coolness from the character! The Baroness rocked because she was EVIL. She kissed you, killed you, then ran away laughing that evil laugh of hers. She didn't feel bad about it in the morning. If she had any past lovers that were still alive it was probably just because she hadn't had the chance to kill them yet. That was what made her so very awesome. Why can't we have a ridiculously evil female character? Why is that a plot point that needs to be messed with? Why does the Baroness need to be sympathetic and saved? I know I'm on gender role alert most of the time, but you can't tell me Joe fans across the country aren't upset by this.

Plus--Destro is a scrawny Scottish man? Does Destro look like a scrawny Scottish man to anyone? How does a deep, Barry White made a deal with Satan voice turn into a tenor complete with Scottish accent? Who made that decision? And by all that's holy why?!

These are the things that I couldn't forgive. Keep in mind I walked into this movie thinking it was going to be Street Fighter bad--that's like cream of the crop bad people. And for the first half or so I was pleasantly surprised. For a moment I was even afraid I was actually going to like it. I thought maybe something would happen and Destro would have to get a new voice. I thought Sienna Miller was going to pull off the Baroness. I thought Scarlet would have a scene that wasn't overshadowed by her gianormous cleavage.

I just don't understand.

Oh yeah, and Paris gets decimated. I mean...I haven't seen that sort of property destruction since the action movies of the 80's when entire Central American towns were carpet bombed while the hero fought the drug lord.

It wasn't Street Fighter bad. I guess it had that going for it. But honestly, what's a girl to do when she has no awesomely evil female villains to look up to? Maleficent can't go on carrying the torch forever.

2009-07-28T17:10:00.001-05:00

My Trip to the Eye Doctor

I go to my eye doctor today. It irritates me off the bat because I don't want to have all the tests run that they require; I just want my eye exam so that I can renew my contact lens prescription. But I get to see the same eye doctor I grew up with today so I'm feeling more jovial than I might otherwise. The exam is unextraordinary--nothing of note happened. But then I was dropped off with one of the opticians? Nurses? Ladies who work up front to order my contacts and pay.

She sits down slowly and sort of looks through the folder. Her pace isn't what one might describe as quick. After a minute or two she says she'll be right back; she needs to ask the doctor something. She walks away and a couple with two kids walk up to another lady. All four are dirty, dressed in various stages of camouflage, and wearing footwear that's seen better days. The woman says she would like for her kids to have an eye exam. The nurse/optician/lady replies that there are no walk-ins today. At this point the little girl starts screaming something insensible about wanting her mother. The mother is standing no more than five feet from her. The lady asks if the mother wants an appointment and the mother steps closer to make one. The little boy joins the little girl in screaming now and the father is something beyond ineffectual. Eventually the little girl is removed from the cart and given to her mother. This sets the little boy off into a full fledged tantrum, complete with kicking and screaming the likes of which haven't been heard since the fat lady broke the glass in the Memorex commercial. Finally the woman taking care of me comes back.

Now, there are a couple of rules when it comes to getting a PhD in Las Vegas. Rule #1) Never tell people you are getting a PhD. They think you're a snob and try to make lame "I don't know English" jokes. Rule #2) (and this one is by far more important) Never tell people you live in Las Vegas. Every time--EVERY TIME--they will want to know all about it and you PLUS tell you how much they want to go there/enjoyed being there/will go back again and all the details of their trip including family or friends that have also gone there/lived there/want to go there. I forgot this rule. I knew better, but I still forgot the rule. That is why my trip went from unextraordinary to so very much worse.

She started to badger me about making an appointment for a year from now and I just wanted to make it stop. "I'm from Las Vegas" I blurted and immediately regretted it as soon as I saw the glint in her eye. From that point on I learned about her uncle that used to live out there whom her mother thinks was part of the mafia. This uncle paid for a cousin who is in jail for drug use to fly on a special plane with four guards to her grandfather's funeral. I learned about her and her husband's TWO honeymoons and how much they love Niagra Falls, but that I shouldn't do my hair if I visit because you're just wet all the time. I learned how their other honeymoon was to San Diego, which she also loves, but there were gay couples kissing on the beach and she didn't think straight couples should do that either because there were families out there.

At this point I really, REALLY, wanted to interject and ask if the gay couples were sodomizing each other in public since kissing has yet to aversely affect a child, but I was still clinging to basic rules of etiquette.

I learned that another nurse saw two girls kissing in Walmart and wasn't in a shame her husband wasn't there to see it. I learned that on the Niagra Falls honeymoon they drove up? down? Superior Road and stopped at every waterfall along the way. Maybe that was the trip to Canada. I learned about their trip to Canada too.

Eventually--a solid twenty minutes later--I knew drastic measures needed to be taken before the last vestiges of my control slipped away. I texted my mother blatantly and openly in front of the talking lady opting for minor rudeness versus extreme rudeness in an effort to extract myself from the situation. I might have felt bad about it, but the other option was me screaming, much like the little boy and little girl of twenty minutes prior, "I don't care about you and your life!" at the top of my lungs. Under the circumstances a text message seemed the way to go.

That was my trip to the eye doctor. The moral of this story: whenever you feel the need to share details about yourself with a stranger don't. Always remember--nobody cares.

I thank you.

2009-07-15T16:27:00.001-05:00

Ooooohhhhh my gosh. I just read Taming of the Shrew. You wanna know why I've never read it before? Because I knew I would have this reaction. I knew I would HATE it. Yes. I used all caps. I used all caps because my rage cannot be contained. And why should it? There is nothing about this play that is sexy or romantic. Let's break down the action shall we?

Our romantic leads:
Woman who is a complete and utter bitch for seemingly no reason.
Man who is a complete and utter douche-bag because he wants said woman's dowry.

(We're off to a great start already. I know these are the makings of my ideal romance.)

The "Courtship:"
Man starves, freezes, sleep-deprives, and imprisons woman until she agrees to obey him without question.
Man instigates a "cat-fight" to show off how much more awesome his woman is than his fellows.
Man parades woman around room like prized animal.

The Ending:
Man and woman live happily ever after...wait, what?

And really, none of this would be worth mentioning because it's all been said and done except then I read one of the scholarly excerpts from the back of my Signet edition. An excerpt by Germaine Greer who says:

Kate courts ruin in a different way, but she has the uncommon good fortune to find Petruchio, who is man enough to know what he wants and how to get it. He wants her spirit and her energy because he wants a wife worth keeping. He tames her as he might a hawk or a high-mettled horse, and she rewards him with strong sexual love and fierce loyalty. Lucentio finds himself saddled with a cold, disloyal woman, who has no objection to humiliating him in public (145-6).

I would like to say maybe it's the editors fault and he excerpted badly. I would like to say maybe the argument is misrepresented. But that final sentence is so wholly unsupportable (we have no idea what Bianca is like in the bedroom, nor any real proof that she is cold or disloyal) that I am led to believe the previous part is intended seriously as well. Kate has the "uncommon good fortune" and Petruchio is "man enough to know what he wants and how to get it"?!?!?! Is this 1955? I can barely control my punctuation I'm so irate!

And I think this is what has me so upset. We can all agree this is a "problem play" in that the gender roles represented are difficult to interpret. We can make movies reimagining the play and its outcome that make this story more politically correct and we can even (though after reading the play I really don't understand how people swing this one) argue that Kate is being ironic and isn't actually broken. But deep down inside where no one else can see--the place where feminists that say they hate Twilight are actually just angry because they love it, but don't want to admit it--a lot of women secretly wish for a Petruchio. A lot of women secretly want a man who is "man enough to know what he wants and how to get it" and they want him to want them. They want him to push past their "resistance" and dominate them in his awesome manly way. Why? Because it's really sweet to be broken like a horse? Because it's so much fun to have a husband that treats you simultaneously like a child and a sex slave? In what universe is that romantic?!

I have heartburn I'm so upset. At least in McClintok there's enough else going on right that a person can just close her eyes during the spanking scene and still love the movie. Honestly I think this play should only ever be taught in conjunction with one of the better re-tellings like Shakespeare Retold or 10 Things I Hate About You. This is written proof of why Shakespeare is not a man for all time.

And that right there is why Harold Bloom will never hire me. Oh my blood pressure can't take this abuse.

2009-07-13T00:40:00.000-05:00

We must needs discuss Star Trek: The Next Generation. Specifically, William Riker (pictured above hopefully). Do you see that little shoulder cock? I HATE that should cock. Why does he do it? Imagine looking at that oddly "debonair" slump which falls somewhere short of debonair and lands round about the "douchey" marker. And I like Riker! I do! I'm in the minority it's true. But I've always found him slightly endearing and good looking. At least for a Star Trek crewmember. But as I continue on my process of watching all The Next Generation's (TNG's) in order I find my continued exposure to his refusal to stand up straight slowly robbing me of sanity and control required to function in society.

And...we have a new winner for worst line of dialogue ever. Or best, depending on how you look at it. Captain Picard says, "Is there any hope of penetration?" I'm not making this up. It's Patrick Stewart and everyone knows how much I love Patrick Stewart, but no one, especially a man, can say the line, "is there any hope of penetration" and not expect a slight giggle out of the crowd. Did the script writers do it on purpose? Did Patrick Stewart have to fight to deliver that line seriously? These are questions I find burning deep, deep inside my blackened little soul.

An educated man, or even an uneducated wise man, might say to me, "it's time to stop watching Judge Judy and TNG." And he wouldn't be wrong. But you see I've been reading a lot (A LOT) of Shakespeare and other tragic plays lately and I find my general demeanor to be a dour one of late. As I am also lacking in trashy romance to provide me with some other means of recuperation I've turned to my TV on DVD friends and bad cable access to get me through. But when you're reading things like Richard III and Othello your expectations for entertainment simultaneously go up alongside the requirement that little is demanded of one mentally. This is a hard shoe to fill. Or, if you're Captain Picard, to penetrate. TNG fulfills these requirements admirably and I can even look myself in the mirror in the morning unlike previous obsessions such as--oh, I don't know, Beauty and the Beast staring Linda Hamilton and Ron Perlman--but I just want to reach into the screen and force Riker to stand straight! If this PhD thing doesn't work out I'm totally writing a metatheatrical play where just such an occurrence takes place. It would look something like this:

[LIGHTS UP] A young woman sits center stage, perpendicular to the audience on a couch. A diet soda rests perspiring on the end table next to her and a forgotten bag of chips sits on the floor. She is slowly eating popcorn, while nursing a box of oreos to her left. A television set is in front of her, hollow with its "actors" performing her show on the other half of the stage. It quickly becomes apparent she is watching Star Trek: The Next Generation.

Picard: Is there any chance of penetration?
Riker, standing with his right should cocked down giving him a slanted appearance: I believe so sir.
Picard: Engage.

The young woman jumps up from the couch, knocking over her oreos and discarding her popcorn haphazardly behind her on the seat cushions. She steps INTO the T.V., walks up to Riker, grabs him by each shoulder and forcefully straightens out his stance until he stands tall--his shoulders now parallel with the ground. That done the woman steps back out of the T.V. into her "living room," resumes her seat on the couch, takes a large drink of the diet soda and belches loudly, but contentedly.

[BLACK OUT]

It would be the best play EVER.

2009-07-08T21:44:00.001-05:00

I'm watching Judge Judy (because that's what I do) and I become so incensed over her treatment of this last case that I felt the world should know.

The plaintiff who is 50+ years old, allowed the defendant who is 30-something to move into his house without paying rent or utilities because she needed help and...he had feelings for her. He had an email from her where she stated she was sorry, but didn't feel anything for him because she had already lost her heart to "Dwayne." The defendant stands in court now engaged to some other guy who isn't Dwayne, and Judge Judy stops the case to take a moment to lecture to the fiancé that this woman would break his heart too.

It is established that the defendant took advantage of the plaintiff because the plaintiff allowed her to and the defendant, literally, is never allowed to speak. She is allowed one "yes" and when she doesn't offer it up dutifully, Judge Judy talks over her lecturing her and her fiancé about "good form" and "bad women." She then rules on the side of the plaintiff in the amount of $1500.00.

Now here's the thing: old dude is suing this woman because she took advantage of him. If she had slept with him for some amount of time he probably wouldn't have sued her, or if he had, it would recognized as the spurned lover suit that it is. As it stands, he allowed her to stay at his house with no payment agreement and no understanding as to what she would pay him, if she would ever pay him anything. But once she brought another guy home he pulls her into court for back rent and utilities.

Should you take advantage of men? No. Should men who are stupid enough to let pretty girls stay in their houses be allowed to sue them because said pretty girl was tasteless? No! I don't know if I can go on watching Judge Judy; basically she uses her show as an opportunity to preach at the people in her courtroom and she seems to pass judgment based more on who was more "morally" upright opposed to who was actually cheated and deserved the money.

This is crap! Judy what are you doing to me? When someone asks, actually ASKS, another person to take advantage of them can't some form of social darwinism reign here? Old dude was dumb enough to let the chick move in with him without any form of written agreement, and he's pissed that his abundant niceness didn't land her in his bed. To this I say you're being a schmoe shouldn't mean you get money! I'm irate with Judy's moralizing. It's a good thing the show is only a half hour long or I would be in cardiac arrest by now.

This is what happens you have bad cable and are avoiding reading depressing plays. Your day is reduced to Judge Judy and heartburn. I think people that are dumb enough to let those they want to sleep with move in with them should have to pay the rest of us for tolerating their stupidity. Case closed.

2009-07-01T12:46:00.000-05:00

Why do I read books? I mean honestly; all a girl asks for is some supernatural love with a little mystery thrown in--perhaps a battle or two for an immortal soul--and this is, apparently, a difficult order to fill. Mostly I feel this is the universe punishing me for not focusing solely on my comps list like I'm should be at the moment. "You dare not read Othello straight through!" it accuses me. "I punish you!" I hate you too universe.

And this most recent foray into young adult fiction wasn't an unpleasant one. I did enjoy the book. The mythology was unique and engaging; the characters were easily sympathetic and moving. But when your villain is a vampire that makes other people vampires against their will in some sort of weird vampire-rape scenario you can't expect me to have sympathy for him. You can't just end the book with the heroine still torn over whether or not she loves him. When you create an entire world and spend 300+ pages teaching me to hate vampires you can't suddenly drop a vampire on me who has literally stolen people's souls and expect me to think he's sexy. Even I'm not that screwed up and we all know how sketchy my love of the undead can be.

Plus, there is a strange werewolf romance going on. In fact, the book is billed as a bit of a werewolf romance but the boy doesn't even kiss the girl until five pages from the end and the book ends abruptly with some implication that said boy runs off an joins a wolf pack never to be seen or heard from again. How is that a romance?! If I wanted this sort of dissatisfaction from reading I would have kept reading Othello and maybe thrown a little Romeo & Juliet in for good measure!

I'm seeing a trend in young adult fiction, and I'm not sure how I feel about it. Books are marketed as romances, or at least as romance being a major plot point, that are decidedly lacking in the romance department. I understand with the Twilight phenomena you want to sell your books to teenage girls and immature adults like myself by claiming "this book too has supernatural love!" But it seems unfair that a book can be marketed as a love story when it's actually a strange five act play about emotionally distant teenage werewolves, evil vampires, and strange vampire-raping of one's soul. No part of that spells l-o-v-e to me.

And it wasn't that it wasn't a good book--it was a pretty decent book (other than the ending which seemed to reek of the author being tired of writing) but it wasn't a teenage love story. Fiction should not be allowed to marketed as a genre it isn't. I, the consumer, purchase this book in good faith expecting some werewolf love action; the book should be required to make good on its promises.

So I guess I'll go finish Othello, but the thing is if I only read love Shakespearean-tragedy style what little hope I have for happiness and light in the world will be squelched and my soul will live in darkness forever. That's why I count on, NEED, my young adult fiction and trashy romance to perform as expected. Otherwise I really am going to become the bitter old feminist who every time she meets a man greets him with, "Don't talk to me. You're just going to try to break me with your patriarchy and I won't be held down by your misogynistic discourse."

And, really, none of us needs that.

2009-06-29T16:08:00.001-05:00

Elevator Etiquette: Part 2

It's true. I can, on occasion, be grumpy in the morning. Those of you that know me have experienced this first hand (though I still maintain I do a fairly good job of being pleasant when required) but the more tired I am and the less I want to engage in the early activity required, the more grumpy I get.

I woke up this morning pounding on my alarm to shut it off. After a weekend of shenanigans, flying across the country, and grading papers where my young male students thought a wife cheating was justification for female genocide I really, with every quark in my body, did not want to get up and teach Hamlet at 8:00 am. Hamlet and I don't get along under the best of circumstances--see the "Ophelia" rant. But a person can't cancel class just because they hate everything and everyone.

I over slept a little bit, but I still made it to school on time. Coffee in one hand and bottled water in the other, I walked to the elevator sweating profusely and silently debating the suffocating humidity of my home state vs. the blast furnace weather of my current state. I could feel my backpack pushing my shirt against my perspiring back and my mood was less than elevated as I also considered how professional sweat stains are when discussing Hamlet. In the grand scheme of things, however, I hadn't peed on my skirt so I was still a step ahead of this time last year.

I hear the door down the hallway open and who comes around the corner but a young undergraduate fellow. His demeanor oozes disinterest and a smirk seems to be fairly plastered on his features. He eyes me as if I were a member of the ugly sorority and I felt my grumpiness toward the world intensify and zero in on his face. First off, the kid wasn't nearly good looking enough for the attitude he was sporting; this is not "the guy" that all the girls run after. This wasn't even a guy that most girls would notice. I wouldn't have noticed him if his raging case of I'm-nineteen-and-so-cool-it-hurts-itis hadn't more or less assaulted me when he came around the corner. Secondly I never to my knowledge look that unpleasant in public. In fact, I'm reasonably certain my unpleasant face is my most charming since every time I wear it random strangers want to talk to me.

The elevator arrives. This is the slowest elevator on campus by the by. We enter and I push 3. Two + floors is a perfectly acceptable elevator ride. He looked at me and I looked at him. Theme music from The Good, The Bad, & The Ugly whistled in the background. I said with my eyes, "Don't do it! I can tell you're a douchebag, but don't push 2! Don't be that guy!" I stood in a slightly aggressive posture blocking the number pad in such a way as to telepathically communicate my complete and total judgment of his character should he reach across on push 2. With a sneer on his lips and a vapidness in his eyes he reached over...and pushed 2.

I hate perfectly healthy people that ride the elevator only one floor.

Now, it's possible this young man had reasons for his behavior (the attitude, not the elevator). Maybe he woke up that morning, realized he was Oedipus, and was understandably befuddled by the new knowledge that he had killed his father and was sleeping with his mother. Maybe he was actually living a Quentin Tarantino movie and was on his way at that precise moment to assassinate someone. Maybe his mother never hugged him enough. I try to take these things into account, and to remind myself that not everyone knows the basic rules of polite society; you know the ones, don't belch in public, don't kick babies, don't ride the elevator one floor.

Here's the thing: nobody likes a whiner, and this kid was the archetype of a whiner. But despite all of that I never would have noticed or remembered him if hadn't ridden the elevator only one floor. It's a tough lesson, but one that I feel is worth learning.

2009-06-28T21:57:00.001-05:00

Top Ten Reunion Moments

I went to my 10 year high school reunion this weekend. It was, I have to admit, surprisingly fun. I shouldn't say "surprisingly" as if I didn't expect to have a good time; I wouldn't have flown home if I didn't expect to have a good time. But I was surprised at myself--how much I enjoyed seeing and talking to people again; how nice it was to learn that people were happy and healthy; and last, but certainly not least, how totally sweet it is when a non-watered-down cocktail only costs $3.50. That last one possibly got me in trouble, but it wouldn't have been "just like the old days" unless I was stupidly ill in my parents' bathroom at least once.

It was requested, however, and I always answer my requests, that I offer up a top ten list for the weekend. It's okay, I know you want it. So here we go!

Top Ten Moments From Ye Olde 10 Year Reunion

10. Cockroaches in IL are blacker and jucier than cockroaches in NV.
So this one isn't technically "about" the reunion, but since you've all been with me in my recent cock-a-roach escapades I felt it worth putting on the list. I get home Thursday. Thursday night a friend and I watch Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves (Alan Rickman, you know you love him). I get up for a drink and there on the floor if a GIANT black cockroach. I pick up my flip flop and kill him until he is dead. I return to the kitchen a little while later and there are TWO GIANT black cockroaches. I kill them, my martial-arts style technique impressive for even a prodigy of Bruce Lee, but before I can recover a THIRD GIANT black cockroach attacks from the side! The kitchen is now littered with carcasses, all oozing some stinky, yellowish-white substance and I suddenly remember why I hated killing cockroaches when I lived in that state. They're just so...juicy. At least out here they're dehydrated like everything else.

The crowning moment to this story is that the following morning when I told my dad he seriously needed to invest in some roach motel real estate he replied with, "if you walk hard enough you never see them." Thanks Dad. As always your logic is impeccable.

9. Narrowly avoided face-plants, trips, and other classy kung-fu moves on my part.
I'm feeling good; I'm feeling pretty. And then I missed the last step at the bar housing our official "reunion" and nearly face planted in front of several former classmates. It's hard to contain awesomeness such as this. Nothing says "I'm a fully grown classy lady" like breaking a fall with your face.

8. Some random dude from the bar I used to go to thinks we're friends.
Many (many) years ago I frequented a bar in my hometown. I frequented said bar almost every night of the week for two years because my roommate and I were what a professional might describe as "alcoholic" but what I like to simply term "fun." Many (many) other people frequented this bar because it was a popular place amongst the college students. A year or two ago I was sitting in a different bar in my hometown, over Christmas break I think, having a beer dressed nothing like the ho I once was and a fellow tapped me on the shoulder and asked if I used to attend this previously described bar awhile ago. I said yes and we chatted amicably for a second and then his friend hauled him away. I had a brief seizure as I attempted to remember what acts I committed in that bar that made me memorable six years later from all the other college girls that went there. This would make a find story in and of itself. But Saturday night, one or two years after our last encounter, he was at the bar the reunion was being held and tapped me on the shoulder. He said hi and we chatted amicably some more before I boogied out of there. I'm perplexed by this. It didn't seem like he wanted to sleep with me (it's been awhile, the radar could be off) and it didn't seem like he wanted to get to know me so what the hell? Like the homeless man who kissed me or the other homeless guy that asked me if the street we were walking on was the "road to nowhere" I feel my pheromones mock me by only attracting unfathomable situations and wildly inappropriate men. This doesn't actually have anything to do with the reunion either, but the story was too inconceivable not to share.

And really...if there are pictures of me somewhere doing something in that bar please burn them. I learned the lesson about no cameras while drinking WAY too late.

7. Once a geek, always a geek.
I feel I have the best high school senior prom date story ever. Only time I was asked to dance was by a friend and it was for the senior prom. My friend said, "Would you like to go to the prom? I thought about it and I figured you would be the most fun girl I could go with." And it was a great night. Fast forward ten years, this friend was at the reunion which was fantastic, and we fell into a conversation about the Watchmen, Transformers, and various other geeky endeavors. Those around us politely excused themselves and I thought this is why we always had such a good time together. Deep down inside, no matter how serious our jobs, or how grown up we have to be, some of us will always enjoy ourselves most while debating comic books and philosophy. T'was awesome.

6. I got to say where I lived.
It's shallow and it doesn't matter. It's not like I live anywhere more special than anywhere else (trust me I know, I live here) but I'm not married and I don't have kids and while I'm not any fatter than I ever was I'm also not any skinnier than I ever was. Getting to say I lived in a big city known for being a good time at least let me play the "I can carry alcohol on the street as I walk from penny slot to penny slot" card. It's not something that would make my mother proud and isn't like I saved a baby to get here, but it was something.

5. If you have a wedgie any attempt to fix it will be caught by someone turning the corner at the exact wrong time.
I wore the wrong underwear. Sort of like nearly face-planting this was my other crowning achievement. I'd like to think it's the universe's way of keeping me humble, but more likely I'm just a dumbass. So you step into a dark corner; you look left, right, and left again. You reach back for the quick tug and...someone walks around the corner and you're totally caught. Bastion of class. Right here.

4. If you didn't have anything to talk about in high school chances are, no matter how well meaning you both are, you will have nothing to talk about ten years later either.
Everyone is adult, or at least mostly adult. We all know how to carry on pleasant conversations. But once you say hi and run through what you're doing now there really isn't anywhere to go. And a couple of times as I stood awkwardly with my awkward smile pasted on my face I thought, "why can't I talk to this person?" I can talk to homeless guys, and carnie guys...I have even talked pleasantly with people that believe the Earth is 6,000 years old. But perfectly nice, sane people I shared four years of my life with...I've got nothing. A few of us lamented our social ineptitude together, but what could be done? If we aren't talking books, movies, the undead, or music I'm out. I got nothing.

3. A videocassette is still in existence that would make my mother cry.
New Years Eve 1999. Never EVER imbibe something illegal and then say yes when someone asks if you want to stand in front of the video camera. Ten years later it will come up. Seriously. Never. Ever.

2. The Breakfast Club was alive and well.
It was like the lunch room in high school. All of one type of kid on one side of the bar. All of another type of kid on the other side of the bar. I stood back in amazement as everyone gravitated towards their respective social hierarchy and I was amazed. I don't think it happened because anyone intended for it to happen--see #4.

As an addendum, an even better example of this happened as I stood in the bathroom waiting for my friend and three stall doors opened up, and three gorgeous women walked out. All in satin, mid-calf, black cocktail dresses. All with (almost) the same shade of blond hair. All with (almost) the same tan. All with fantastic shoes. I almost ducked into a stall, but it was too late. There was no way to avoid being rude. And again, I thought, why is this so uncomfortable? I think it's cause pretty people scare me.

My friend took forever getting out of the stall because she was laughing at me and didn't want to come out.

1. Everyone (apparently) was surprised I engaged in activities that are unhealthy.
Sometimes I engage in activities that come with the Surgeon General's warning on the box. Multiple people were shocked by this. All I gots to say is the only reason I wasn't breaking the law in high school is because no one showed me where the parties were. For everyone that really knows me, every time I do something that is unhealthy, stupid, or just plain dangerous my name is said with a sense of resignation that said activity was always inevitable. Did I really come off as that much of a good girl in high school? Lame.

2009-06-20T19:44:00.000-05:00

I took a facebook quiz because I wanted to better understand the hidden depths of my soul. The quiz was, "What Shakespeare Character Would You Be?" And my answer was:

"Ophelia. Young and vulnerable, you are in love, but are obedient to the thoughtless powers who command your life. You must play the parts demanded of you, but cannot understand how your complicity can so quickly turn your lover's tenderness to hatred and contempt. Where to turn? Whom to trust? Can you even keep your grasp on reality? Surely the love in that tormented heart can be returned...but will it be too, too late? Shakespearean kindred spirits: Hero, Desdemona, Cordelia, Imogen, Hermione, Hermia, Lady MacDuff, Banquo, Troilus."

Now--this is worth writing about for a couple of reasons. First, I am, perhaps, the least Ophelia-like person I have ever heard of. Second, the "kindred spirits" are not all like Ophelia...at all. The simple fact that these other characters are mostly females from Shakespeare's plays do not make them kindred spirits to Ophelia. Hero and Desdemona are true women wrongly accused. Cordelia has daddy issues. Imogen outsmarts everyone; Lady MacDuff gets sliced and diced at home when her husband more or less abandons her. Banquo's a slightly sketchy "friend" who may or may not support regicide.

So who wrote this stupid thing? Shouldn't a person have to understand Shakespeare to make up a quiz about Shakespeare? And, considering how many Shakespearean characters there are, shouldn't there be some sort of sorting quiz to get you in the right genre and character type? For example, do you 1) crave power; 2) crave abusive love; 3) want your usurped position back; 4) like to hurt people; 5) enjoy wearing clown make-up; 6) just want to love and be loved in return? We have to narrow the pool a little bit here I think.

And, AND--one of the questions on this silly quiz was, "what book are you most likely to read next?" My answer: A Vindication of the Rights of Women. Do you know what book Ophelia would read? Names and Household Uses for Wildflowers. So the next step in narrowing down your (gianormous) pool of Shakespearean characters is establishment of reaction to life changing and/or threatening occurrences. If someone tries to rob you of your freedom, agency, or life do you: 1) kill yourself; 2) attempt to kill them; 3) cry a lot and wait for someone else to kill them; 3) take charge and prove your innocence/independence; 4) wander around incessantly and debate the meaning of life, the universe, everything; 5) take your bat and ball and go home?

I'm incensed (INCENSED) that someone could equate me with Ophelia--even a facebook quiz. That's like being equated with some homicidal dictator responsible for genocide but without even the coolness of being a homicidal dictator responsible for genocide. At least if you kill (or are capable of killing) hundreds, thousands, or millions of people are fascinated by your evil. That's tremendous, fascinating, addictive in its horror. But if you're just a girl who likes indecisive, emotionally abusive men, can't stand up to Daddy, and prone to self-mutilation and/or suicide to escape the soap opera drama your life has become nobody cares about you. They feel sorry for you. They try to imagine a world or a perspective where you're not quite such a loser, but they have to make it up cause pretty much all you do is wander around and be pathetic.

Do I wander around and act pathetic? Am I devoid of identity and voice? Am I incapable of kicking Hamlet in the balls when he tells me to "get thee to a nunnery?" Does my dad speak in bad clichés and suck up to those of higher social status? Am I even capable of falling in love with a guy like Hamlet to begin with? Do I find extreme moodiness and indecisiveness attractive?!

I'm having an identity crisis here. I go to facebook quizzes for relaxing fun because obviously 10 questions made up by a random stranger reveals an unknown truth about my existence. But I don't like the truth revealed to me this day. I think I'm going to go find a man to marry and talk him into murdering someone. At least then when I go crazy it'll be because I DID something.

2009-06-13T18:49:00.001-05:00

You know what's not hot? What is never, ever attractive in any way, under any circumstance, or fantasy? Besides the mullet or fanny-pack? Rape. Here I am, reading the latest trashy romance, and I'm stopped, flabbergasted, confounded by the two most offensive sentences ever published in one book. And you know I've read some offensive books. Sentence one: "A husband can't rape his wife." Sentence two: "Rape or seduction, he would take either."

NOT HOT!

The worst part is, I kind of liked this book. It's about shape-shifting dragons; the heroine is strong and the hero is Alpha (oh yeah, she describes him as Alpha. Probably that should have tipped me off to the caliber or writing I had gotten myself into, but I cut a lot of slack when it comes to these books). But when the "hero" (notice the ironic scare quotes) says he's going to marry you and RAPE you, but it won't be rape because you really want it--in what twisted, Nora Ephron world is this romance? This is like some freakish woman's fantasy who grew up on James Bond films and never actually tried to live one of those scenarios out.

It looks really good when the man is all uber-masculine and fighting his need to ravish her immediately; it adds to the sensuality of the moment if we are all very aware of how the only reason she isn't naked and panting is because he has so magnanimously chosen not to use his superior strength against her. And nothing tops of a sex scene quite like the knowledge that if she weren't into it he still wouldn't stop. Cause that's exactly what I want from my husband/hero/super spy. I want to know that if I'm weeping or silent or stiff or protesting or trying to get away he'll push ahead because he knows that's what I really want.

It's a good thing we have stories like this to remind us that real men will "take care of us." That's right. I used the scare quotes again. You know why? Cause it's scary.

I'm flummoxed. What editor let's this get published? What writer imagines it heightens the sexual tension of the scene for the reader to know her hero is capable of raping her heroine? HELLO?! You know what it is? This is a woman that watches Sleepless in Seattle and says "that's romantic." This is a woman who imagines that any manner of behavior is excusable so long as genuine "love" provides the motivations. This is a woman who gets smacked across the face and when her man says he's sorry and he only did it because he loved her believes him and cooks him dinner so he won't feel so bad.

Sometimes I try not to judge, but I'm judging now. There is a very big difference between I want you so much I can't slow myself down and I want you so much I'm gonna rape you. One of those is hot. The other is only sexy if you're a hot mess of a human being who is so broken she can't even conceive of fantasy as different than reality.

Why is it so hard to find a good love story any more? Why can't I, just once, get a sexy, dark, brooding hero who isn't emotionally abusive or fighting an inner-struggle against his own rape tendencies? I mean for craps sake here people. Is the literary bar for genre fiction really set this low or do I just have to worst luck picking out easy reading?

Stupid, stupid book. I'm totally going to burn it and use it's flaming pages to kill roaches. Then at least it would be good for something.

2009-06-09T01:22:00.002-05:00

I am under attack from the GFRS--Giant Flying Roach Squad. You remember last spring don't you? When I declared war on the roaches? It was a hard season for the war, but I was ultimately victorious. But the roaches are back...and this time they brought the big guns.

It all started a week or so ago when I came home and went into my bathroom late one night. There on the floor playing dead was a member of the GFRS. I wasn't fooled. I knew he lay there on his back to offer the illusion of death so that I would lean in close providing the perfect opportunity to spring into flight and dive bomb my head. I walked into my closet, picked up a large shoe, returned to the bathroom and smashed the shit out of the fucker.

I had been right. He wasn't dead. But he was when I was done with him.

Apparently he had only been a scout. War was declared at midnight on June 5th, 2009. My roommate, quiet and unsuspecting turned to see what she thought was a moth flying around her bedroom. It was not a moth; it was, in fact, a bomber from the GFRS. Understandably upset at this mutated monster circling her room she killed him dead, but no sooner was he gone and another took his place. It's been three days now and the fighting has been rough. Their side bears many casualties, but our side is not unscathed.

Earlier this evening while watching Quarentine, a movie I didn't expect to scare me half as bad as it did, I heard (HEARD) Red Leader push his massive frame through our air conditioning vent and launch his attack. Petrified from the movie, unprepared for so bold a maneuver, we screamed in surprise and I barely jumped off the futon before vile spawn of Satan landed right where my head had been. Measuring a solid four inches in length, the antennae extended another two, twitching as it attempted to discern my whereabouts. Assessing the situation I decided such an unwarranted attack on my person could not be ignored and I picked up a tennis shoe and screamed my bloodthirsty screech of anger as I beat the life out of it.

Their trying to wear us down. Haranguing us day and night we are offered no quarter, no rest as we never know from which direction the next attack will come. I have heartburn from the stress of trying to keep my spirits up as I attempt to snatch a victory from the jaws of their vastly superior numbers. Right now I estimate they have us outnumbered approximately 1,000 to 1. It will be a close battle, but I'm still hopeful we can persevere.

I write this war journal now in case we lose the front. If my body is lost under the swarm of the GFRS I want there to be record of my existence and the bravery that took place in this small, modest apartment. Courage has been seen here and true heroism. The human spirit has been tested and proven its worth. We are an apartment of English majors and we bleed text. We won't go down easy, but if we can't find a way to get rest--just a few moments here and there--they might overcome. If that happens don't mourn. Cheer for all the evil we destroyed in our battles and pick up where we left off. Don't let them take the apartment. Promise you won't let them win. More than just our home is at stake here, the very values by which we live could be threatened.

Good night and God bless.

2009-05-28T16:08:00.001-05:00

I'm procrastinating...still. I've been procrastinating for two weeks now, but I actually have the document opened on my computer screen right now! And minimized so I can procrastinate by writing this blog.

I decided it was time to come clean. This isn't an easy process for me; I'm not proud of what I've done, but I feel I owe it to myself, my family, and my friends to admit to having a problem. I'm addicted to Star Trek. How addicted are you? you ask. I'm reading fanfiction--lots and lots of fanfiction. In alcohol terms, I just drank the bottle of rubbing alcohol because I was all out of scotch. I've sat on my loveseat with my computer on my lap and read score upon score of Spock/Uhura love stories and even a little Spock/Kirk. And this obsession has grown past Mr. Spock. I've fallen in obsession with the crew of The Next Generation; I've watched episodes of The Original Series and enjoyed them on an unhealthy level. I've watched the first SEVEN Star Trek movies and am currently contemplating doing it again.

This is like Twilight-quality pathetic here people. I'm going to walk into class on Monday and have to explain I have no syllabus and no lesson plan because I couldn't focus on anything except my own depraved Vulcan fantasies. I'm like an X-rated version of someone off Trekkies.

And there's nothing for it. Nothing I can do to make this better; no safety mechanism that can bring me back from the brink. Like any unhealthy relationship I just have to ride this one out; help has been offered but until I am in a place I can accept it, it does me no good. I've thrown myself into my obsession, the Star Trek equivalent of smoking an entire carton of cigarettes at once, in an attempt to kill this overwhelming fascination that roots me to my loveseat. But nothing is working. That's why I'm making this plea to the world.

I don't want to be one of those people on Trekkies, dangerously angry because my custom made Starfleet uniform has stripes that are two inches too thick. I don't want to be one of those people who can ONLY talk about Star Trek, and actually feels aggression towards those that dislike it. I don't want to be one of those people who speaks in Klingon because it's cool.

But I feel my humanity slipping away more and more each day. I find myself surfing the net for hot pictures of Leonard Nimoy (some actually do exist) and comparing the possibilities of new movies with the reality of the old ones. I speak of Spock and Uhura as if they were real people, and I become jealous of Nurse Chappel because I hate her. She doesn't deserve Spock. Her character is useless and offensive! See? That was an explosion of emotion that no sane, healthy person would experience.

I felt betrayed when I realized just how racist and sexist The Original Series was even though it did wonderful things for 1966; I've even gone on Amazon to see if there are any books out there I might want to read. So this is my plea for help. This is my cry to those around me to save my soul from the black-geek-hole that is Star Trek.

Or you can just come over and watch the movies with me. I'm really open to anything.

2009-05-24T23:15:00.001-05:00

I want to write about the Devil. I haven't talked about my friend Satan in awhile, so it seems about time. I was watching Storm of the Century, a made for tv based on a Stephen King book or short story or something, and it got me thinking. As with all (ALL) Stephen King there is a demonic figure who terrorizes a small town in Maine (don't live in small town Maine) and the townsfolk have to deal with it as their strengths allow.

But as I sat and thought about this idea, and as anyone who has watched King's made for tv movies you know there is a lot of time to think because nothing happens for the first two and a half hours, I realized facing the Devil holds a decided lack of fear for me. Perhaps that sounds like an inane thing to say and I grant you it might be; after all, who am I to imagine what facing the Devil might be like? But here's the thing: first, I can only be so scared before I just get angry--it's a delightful tactic of self preservation. Second, what's the Devil going to do except kill me, torture me, or otherwise torment me? I understand the second point might need more clarification.

The fact of the matter is I can't fight the Devil. What am I gonna do, pull out my rosary and pretend to be Catholic? Make a cross with my fingers and recite the Lord's prayer? Either the powers of light save me or the Devil torments me. I have very little power in the situation. I know I wouldn't make any deals, and would, in fact, not listen to him at all. When the Devil speaks it's best to put your fingers in your ears and say "la la la!" over and over again. That saves my soul as best I know how and after that, what can you do? I have no great celestial powers; I know no special prayers for banishment. I don't even know an old priest, let alone a young one. You want to throw demons at me, shadowy evil, or old fashioned ghosts and we got a fight on our hands. Even whatever IT is I would be willing to throw down with. But the Devil, Satan, Lucifer himself? I got nothing but resignation and no fear. Either he has his way or he doesn't, but all I can do put on some Star Trek and hope he leaves me alone.

And this is why the Devil as the primary bad guy doesn't work in a scary story for me. What's to be scared of? It's the mother *&^#*$^& Devil kids. Fear is a little wasted at that point, don't you think? Once you're face to face with the bastard well...not a whole lot you can do at that point except studiously avoid answering any questions lest you inadvertently barter your immortal soul.

Speaking of which...why do people talk to the Devil?! Especially when they know he's the Devil?! Why do that? You KNOW he's the Devil; you KNOW he only wants to hurt you. Why listen when he says, "I just want to talk for a moment." Seriously people. It's the Devil. Just walk away.

And living in Sin City I feel it's possible I can take this stance because I've met him a couple of times on Fremont Street. And he was a frat boy.

2009-05-12T20:01:00.001-05:00

Why everyone should watch Friday Night Lights

I love football. That sounds strange because I've never been driven to watch it all the time or learn anyone's name or follow stats, but I love football. It's kind of like the way I love super-volcanoes; their both hella fun to watch on television, but not quite so much fun up close and in person.

Enter Friday Night Lights. It's like a mecca of awesomeness:

Gratuitous violence? Check
High school drama? Check
Hotness of all ages (a few of which I'm going to hell for noticing)? Check
Wounded bad boy? Check
The handling of serious plot points? Check

And then the bad boy bonded with a small child while greasy from working on his truck. Best. Show. Ever.

The other fun thing about any show like this happens when I watch it with friends that didn't grow up on sports families. Inevitably they see a scene where the coach is yelling at a player and say, "Oh, that's mean!" That always makes me smile.

So this is my plug for Friday Night Lights. I'm still on the first season, but if you love football--and especially football pants--I highly suggest you pick up a copy of the first season.