We've had the first roach sighting of the new year! And where does it show its ugly, insidious face? My bathroom while, mind you, I'm incapacitated by pants around my ankles. This is my life. My life is war. And while I've fought against genocide my whole life, I'm taking out as many of those scurvy little bastards as I can. I hate them so much. I don't hate them more than snakes, well, maybe I do hate them more than snakes. I'm afraid of snakes, but I hate roaches. Snakes I just don't want to ever, ever be around.
Speaking of snakes (stay with me here, it's gonna be a bumpy ride) I watched a show on Discovery about snake attacks. All of these people were telling stories about constricting snakes and nearly dying from them. You know what I say to those people? Those people that keep twenty foot pythons as pets? You deserve your painful death my fellow citizens of the world. You deserve whatever that snake does to you because you can't tame a snake. You wanna know why? It's brain is too small. If a snake doesn't attack you, all that means is that it isn't hungry and/or you don't seem like a threat. With a twenty foot python it's only a matter of time.
But...more disturbing than all of that...ANACONDAS STALK YOU. I put that in all capital letters because some pieces of information are really, really important, and I didn't want you to miss that one. Once again it pays to be fat because most likely an anaconda looks at me and thinks, eh--she's too big to eat. But all you slim kids who strive to be healthy and live long, long lives? Totally screwed. You know what your health is going to get you? Eaten by an Anaconda. That's right--and that's assuming you don't get kidnapped and sold into human trafficking before that. It's a harsh life out there for pretty people; I won't lie to you. And if you're a virgin just give it up now--if, by some miracle, you avoid the human traffickers AND the anacondas, you're totally being sacrificed to the dragon. Of course if you're the town whore you get burned a the stake as a witch...
I think I understand why people are agoraphobic. It's a dangerous, dangerous world out there people.
P.S. Yellowstone is a super volcano. Geologically speaking it could erupt anytime.
Be afraid, be very afraid.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Get ready for it--here comes my response to Dr. Zhivago.
First, fairly early on in the movie it becomes apparent that the two people don't end up together in the end and that's always strike one in my opinion. Second, he's married but in love with Lara, a woman who bewitches all the men around her because she's beautiful: that's original. Third, the music blows. Three strikes you're out.
Now, we'll start with the music because it's famous and everybody quotes it and thinks it's just so darned amazing. I'm over it. I've heard the theme song many times (who hasn't?) and found it trite and repetitive, but assumed that when I heard the full score along with watching the move I would be moved by its majesty. I wasn't. It's still trite and repetitive three hours later. Moving on...
I hate movies where old dude falls in love with beautiful, slightly broken woman at first glance. When I say hate, I don't want you to misunderstand me or think, for even the briefest of seconds, that I don't mean to imply absolute disgust and revulsion; I despise these movies. To top it all off dear old Doctor Z, the man we are all supposed to love and support and admire, cheats on his wife with his true love whom he goes on to write an amazing book of poems about.
Let's digress for a second and examine what it would mean to be this wonderful man's romantic partner either as wife or mistress. As wife you are loved, but ignored--respected but never enough, eventually left to your own devices (not wholly his fault with the revolution going on and those damn commies) but never truly yearned for. As your mistress you are loved and worshiped--it's impossible to miss the Petrachan conventions in this movie, especially with her named "Lara." Ayn Rand couldn't be that obvious and she writes 1,000 page books, complete with 90 page speeches at the end to make sure you got the point. Regardless, at the end of the day, it breaks his heart but he sends you off for your own good to have his love child on your own and die nameless in some laborer's camp. What are you gonna do when you're trying to love each other amid the Russian revolution? It's all the communists' fault.
Okay, so Dr. Z is a man, and thankfully Alec Guiness is there at key moments to remind us how good of a man, and after three hours the impression is that he was better than some and worse than others. Oh, I'm moved by the depth of that message. Lara is a freakishly flat female lead. She's tough, but she has to be. Seduced by a man with complete power over her at 17 and married to a man who assumes complete power and then abandons her not long after, a chick's gotta toughen up. But everyone that comes in contact with her is at least "a little bit in love with her" if not more. Because she's beautiful? Her personality is developed nearly enough explain her charisma otherwise.
The cinematography was great--the musical instrument theme was a little to Rosebud for my tastes, but it works as a theme throughout the whole movie. The acting was fine, but the dialogue wasn't the most moving ever written. This no doubt aids in the flatness of the characters.
So--as always seems to happen when I watch movies that are considered "classics" of romance--I'm left irritated and unfulfilled. It seems the stories we elevate of human love personify the weakness of people to resist each other, love at first sight, and the idea that sometimes you have a really shitty life, but so long as you loved someone greatly at some point (regardless of ANY context) you've succeeded in some way.
And so the cult of romantic love in the Western tradition continues.
There are so many reasons I'm single, and none of them are surprising.
First, fairly early on in the movie it becomes apparent that the two people don't end up together in the end and that's always strike one in my opinion. Second, he's married but in love with Lara, a woman who bewitches all the men around her because she's beautiful: that's original. Third, the music blows. Three strikes you're out.
Now, we'll start with the music because it's famous and everybody quotes it and thinks it's just so darned amazing. I'm over it. I've heard the theme song many times (who hasn't?) and found it trite and repetitive, but assumed that when I heard the full score along with watching the move I would be moved by its majesty. I wasn't. It's still trite and repetitive three hours later. Moving on...
I hate movies where old dude falls in love with beautiful, slightly broken woman at first glance. When I say hate, I don't want you to misunderstand me or think, for even the briefest of seconds, that I don't mean to imply absolute disgust and revulsion; I despise these movies. To top it all off dear old Doctor Z, the man we are all supposed to love and support and admire, cheats on his wife with his true love whom he goes on to write an amazing book of poems about.
Let's digress for a second and examine what it would mean to be this wonderful man's romantic partner either as wife or mistress. As wife you are loved, but ignored--respected but never enough, eventually left to your own devices (not wholly his fault with the revolution going on and those damn commies) but never truly yearned for. As your mistress you are loved and worshiped--it's impossible to miss the Petrachan conventions in this movie, especially with her named "Lara." Ayn Rand couldn't be that obvious and she writes 1,000 page books, complete with 90 page speeches at the end to make sure you got the point. Regardless, at the end of the day, it breaks his heart but he sends you off for your own good to have his love child on your own and die nameless in some laborer's camp. What are you gonna do when you're trying to love each other amid the Russian revolution? It's all the communists' fault.
Okay, so Dr. Z is a man, and thankfully Alec Guiness is there at key moments to remind us how good of a man, and after three hours the impression is that he was better than some and worse than others. Oh, I'm moved by the depth of that message. Lara is a freakishly flat female lead. She's tough, but she has to be. Seduced by a man with complete power over her at 17 and married to a man who assumes complete power and then abandons her not long after, a chick's gotta toughen up. But everyone that comes in contact with her is at least "a little bit in love with her" if not more. Because she's beautiful? Her personality is developed nearly enough explain her charisma otherwise.
The cinematography was great--the musical instrument theme was a little to Rosebud for my tastes, but it works as a theme throughout the whole movie. The acting was fine, but the dialogue wasn't the most moving ever written. This no doubt aids in the flatness of the characters.
So--as always seems to happen when I watch movies that are considered "classics" of romance--I'm left irritated and unfulfilled. It seems the stories we elevate of human love personify the weakness of people to resist each other, love at first sight, and the idea that sometimes you have a really shitty life, but so long as you loved someone greatly at some point (regardless of ANY context) you've succeeded in some way.
And so the cult of romantic love in the Western tradition continues.
There are so many reasons I'm single, and none of them are surprising.
Saturday, March 07, 2009
I had a thing here about not having hot water for four days but no one cares.
Let's talk about Watchmen because that's way more fun.
I read a review from the New York Times and was rendered irate because the movie reviewer hated both Watchmen and V for Vendetta. When I read the review I hadn't seen Watchmen yet, but I knew I liked V and that his comments about V for Vendetta were a gross misinterpretation. After seeing Watchmen I understood the review and how it was the reviewer came to hate it so fervently. This latest movie in Hollywood's mood swing of superheroes is the deepest genre study produced so far. If you don't like superhero movies and/or if you don't know anything about superheroes than you might very well not like this movie. The final line of the review mentioned above (and I'm paraphrasing here) was, "where did the comedy go in the comic-strip?"
This comment encapsulates why some people, perhaps a great many, won't like this movie. Comic books haven't been funny as a genre for a very, very long time--think fifty years or more. Watchmen is an ironic (dare I say satiric?) study of superhero myths and what the reality of our imaginings would look like. It is also a delving (sometimes juvenal delving it's true) into philosophic ideas often commented on by superhero myths: think nihilism, existentialism, and Platonic moral absolutism. But the movie does all of these things reasonably well with very little error; I would argue it possesses no unforgivable mistakes, provided--and this is an important provided--that you judge it based on the conventions of the genre and the overall intention of the piece.
It has some truly enjoyable action, but it isn't an action movie. It has some truly enjoyable dialogue expounding on the human condition, but it isn't a philosophical exploration. It has some romance, but it isn't a love story. It's a superhero movie for a world that doesn't tolerate superheroes or heroics for any serious stretch of time. It deals with issues of humanity extinguishing itself--something we're still in danger of today. It deals with issues of renewable power sources--certainly something we're dealing with currently. And, for every annoying nineteen year old boy that enjoys wading through the philosophical muck produced by Alan Moore and Zack Snyder, it puts into popular conversation ideas about what it means to be a hero or a villain. Most young people, or old people, aren't going to pick up Nietzsche or Foucault. Most people never question what happens to their moral and ethical codes when they sacrifice those very codes to the greater good. Watchmen presents those questions and challenges readers and viewers alike to deal with them. At times it is heavy handed. At times it is outright immature. But it still puts the subject into popular discourse in a way no Literature (notice the capital L) is currently managing. Stories, be they movies or books or comic books, are one of the chief ways we learn what it means to be human. They certainly play a defining role in teaching us the difference between good and evil. A story like this that questions our own basic assumptions that good is simply good, that we don't have to know it or define it because we just know, is certainly worth telling over and over again.
If one understands all of this, and not in some highbrow academic way that thinks There Will Be Blood is all the world needs for artistic contribution to societal investigation, and still doesn't like this movie than I can respect that. Aesthetically it won't be to everyone's taste. I didn't find it flawless. But aesthetics aside you cannot judge Watchmen by the same standard you judge an Oscar winner. You must know what a thing is before you can love it or hate it, and asking where the comedy is in a comic-strip demonstrates, more powerfully than any argument I could make, that one doesn't have any idea what this thing is. Too often, I feel, people love or hate a thing and assume the fault lies with the thing itself and not their own ignorance.
The moral of the story is that no one watches the Watchmen and we all need to watch ourselves--in every sense of the phrase.
Let's talk about Watchmen because that's way more fun.
I read a review from the New York Times and was rendered irate because the movie reviewer hated both Watchmen and V for Vendetta. When I read the review I hadn't seen Watchmen yet, but I knew I liked V and that his comments about V for Vendetta were a gross misinterpretation. After seeing Watchmen I understood the review and how it was the reviewer came to hate it so fervently. This latest movie in Hollywood's mood swing of superheroes is the deepest genre study produced so far. If you don't like superhero movies and/or if you don't know anything about superheroes than you might very well not like this movie. The final line of the review mentioned above (and I'm paraphrasing here) was, "where did the comedy go in the comic-strip?"
This comment encapsulates why some people, perhaps a great many, won't like this movie. Comic books haven't been funny as a genre for a very, very long time--think fifty years or more. Watchmen is an ironic (dare I say satiric?) study of superhero myths and what the reality of our imaginings would look like. It is also a delving (sometimes juvenal delving it's true) into philosophic ideas often commented on by superhero myths: think nihilism, existentialism, and Platonic moral absolutism. But the movie does all of these things reasonably well with very little error; I would argue it possesses no unforgivable mistakes, provided--and this is an important provided--that you judge it based on the conventions of the genre and the overall intention of the piece.
It has some truly enjoyable action, but it isn't an action movie. It has some truly enjoyable dialogue expounding on the human condition, but it isn't a philosophical exploration. It has some romance, but it isn't a love story. It's a superhero movie for a world that doesn't tolerate superheroes or heroics for any serious stretch of time. It deals with issues of humanity extinguishing itself--something we're still in danger of today. It deals with issues of renewable power sources--certainly something we're dealing with currently. And, for every annoying nineteen year old boy that enjoys wading through the philosophical muck produced by Alan Moore and Zack Snyder, it puts into popular conversation ideas about what it means to be a hero or a villain. Most young people, or old people, aren't going to pick up Nietzsche or Foucault. Most people never question what happens to their moral and ethical codes when they sacrifice those very codes to the greater good. Watchmen presents those questions and challenges readers and viewers alike to deal with them. At times it is heavy handed. At times it is outright immature. But it still puts the subject into popular discourse in a way no Literature (notice the capital L) is currently managing. Stories, be they movies or books or comic books, are one of the chief ways we learn what it means to be human. They certainly play a defining role in teaching us the difference between good and evil. A story like this that questions our own basic assumptions that good is simply good, that we don't have to know it or define it because we just know, is certainly worth telling over and over again.
If one understands all of this, and not in some highbrow academic way that thinks There Will Be Blood is all the world needs for artistic contribution to societal investigation, and still doesn't like this movie than I can respect that. Aesthetically it won't be to everyone's taste. I didn't find it flawless. But aesthetics aside you cannot judge Watchmen by the same standard you judge an Oscar winner. You must know what a thing is before you can love it or hate it, and asking where the comedy is in a comic-strip demonstrates, more powerfully than any argument I could make, that one doesn't have any idea what this thing is. Too often, I feel, people love or hate a thing and assume the fault lies with the thing itself and not their own ignorance.
The moral of the story is that no one watches the Watchmen and we all need to watch ourselves--in every sense of the phrase.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
It’s Saturday night and I just submitted a paper to Shakespeare Quarterly. That’s like the big, head honcho of Shakespearean academic journals. It won’t get accepted, but you have to submit if you’re ever going to get one accepted so that’s that. The important thing about all of this is that it’s Saturday night and I’m working on Shakespeare stuff. How lame is that? I mean really--how lame am I?
To add to the lamitude of my life and this post, I’ve wanted to write something for awhile, but have had absolutely nothing to say. I think that also speaks to my general lack of worth to the world at the moment. I’ve searched, honest I have, but I like Obama, and I like most of the movies I’ve seen, and nobody actually cares about Shakespeare, even the Shakespeare nerds. Well, some of them do, but they don’t count cause they’re even lamer than I am.
So where does that leave us? I’ve been watching G.I. Joe--which is awesome! And, yeah. That cartoon is a bit goofy, has anyone else noticed this? I didn’t realize it until I started watching it again, but it’s just so darn silly at times. Cobra isn’t just a terrorist organization, but some weird sci-fi, mad scientist, fundamentalist, crazy group. It’s pretty sweet. And then there’s Zartan. See picture provided for your enjoyment.
Do you see the abs peeking out from under the shirt there? What bad guy wears a shirt that only comes down to just above the belly button? How do you get scared of a bad guy dressed like that? And is he attacking because he’s evil or because he doesn’t like your hair? These are important questions to answer before I accept the validity of the G.I. Joe mythos.
Finally, there is the very important issue of neither G.I. Joe nor Cobra being able to shoot ANYTHING. Seriously, anything. Now, I’m sure that’s directly related to no one dying in the cartoon ever--people are jumping out of helicopters for goodness’ sakes and something clearing the propellers and pulling their rip cord. Frankly, it’s impressive. But I think the cartoon could have allowed for flesh wounds at least. I mean, this is supposed to be America’s elite special forces group and they can’t hit anything. It’s embarrassing really. And Cobra, this dread terrorist organization, is more comedic than scary.
There really is no question why I’ve grown up with absolutely no respect for bad guys. I had examples like Cobra Commander and there’s nothing to be scared of there except a headache from his screechy voice. Which sends me off on another tangent. What does Cobra Commander sound like during sex? It’s a valid question. Does his voice get higher because I can’t imagine anyone else could reach orgasm while listening to that in their ear. Does it get more snake like? Cause that’s not hot. I have no justification for my yearning to know what Cobra Commander sounds like during sex. I just want you to know that I know that.
So that’s all I’ve got. Some G.I. Joe musings, acknowledgment of Shakespeare offering nothing meaningful to my life and an acute awareness of my Saturday night’s lacking in…well…anything. I think I’ll write a trashy romance novel.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
I just saw Taken, but before I get into that let’s go back sixteen hours to the start of my day.
I woke up in a rage this morning. You probably think that’s hyperbole, but it’s not. There was rage in me when I opened my eyes at 7:45 am. There was rage--red hazed, bloodthirsty, violent rage--because there are roofers that pick what appear to be only my days off to roof our apartment. They don’t do it on Tuesday or Thursday when I’m up early. They don’t do it Friday when I’m kind of up early. They do it Monday, Wednesday, or sometimes Saturday when I’m attempting to sleep until the crack of the afternoon.
And, it’s worth noting, that roofing is not a quiet activity. Literally, it sounds like a morbidly obese person, or perhaps Godzilla, is doing up-downs on my roof. Sometimes the smell of tar leaks in to make things that much more pleasant. What’s even better is we don’t know when they’re going to do it because no one tells us so I’ve developed a small case of PTSD. The first time it happened for example I thought someone was being MURDERED above me. Again--there’s no hyperbole here.
So I get up. One can’t sleep through the apocalypse, after all, and I go about my day. I discover in the course of my day that Folger’s coffee gives me diarrhea and I’ve started to manifest physical symptoms of stress. We’re off to a great start here. My day gets better though through good company, dinner, and going to see Taken.
It’s a good movie, I recommend it to those that aren’t bothered by human trafficking. But as I watched this movie I found it was difficult to be entertained because it was simply to real. No one watches Roadhouse, for example, and feels bad for the people of the town because drug lords are actually ruining their bar. But young girls actually are being kidnapped and sold into slavery as prostitutes and a movie about it, even with Liam Neeson being oh so very, well, Liam Neeson, is good but not exactly entertaining. Mostly I just sat there and felt horrendously bad for all the women that won’t be saved by dads that kick serious ass.
But then I had another thought. It’s a selfish one to be sure, and perhaps not everyone will see the humor, but I find it one of those slightly morbid thoughts that is funny because it’s true. I’m glad I’m fat. Really, seriously glad. Why am I glad when I have diabetes, joint problems, and possible enforced celibacy to look forward to? Because my very unattractiveness means that no one is going to kidnap me and sell me into human trafficking. Yes, there are people with fat girl fetishes out there, but most of them are poor and my chances are so small as to be infinitesimal.
Now, the downside is that in the event of an apocalypse people are totally going to try and kill and eat me first, but I’m prepared to kill them before they get the chance so almost all my bases are covered.
So here’s to fat girls: we’re hard to kidnap and nobody wants to pay to have sex with us.
It’s funny cause it’s true. I swear.
I woke up in a rage this morning. You probably think that’s hyperbole, but it’s not. There was rage in me when I opened my eyes at 7:45 am. There was rage--red hazed, bloodthirsty, violent rage--because there are roofers that pick what appear to be only my days off to roof our apartment. They don’t do it on Tuesday or Thursday when I’m up early. They don’t do it Friday when I’m kind of up early. They do it Monday, Wednesday, or sometimes Saturday when I’m attempting to sleep until the crack of the afternoon.
And, it’s worth noting, that roofing is not a quiet activity. Literally, it sounds like a morbidly obese person, or perhaps Godzilla, is doing up-downs on my roof. Sometimes the smell of tar leaks in to make things that much more pleasant. What’s even better is we don’t know when they’re going to do it because no one tells us so I’ve developed a small case of PTSD. The first time it happened for example I thought someone was being MURDERED above me. Again--there’s no hyperbole here.
So I get up. One can’t sleep through the apocalypse, after all, and I go about my day. I discover in the course of my day that Folger’s coffee gives me diarrhea and I’ve started to manifest physical symptoms of stress. We’re off to a great start here. My day gets better though through good company, dinner, and going to see Taken.
It’s a good movie, I recommend it to those that aren’t bothered by human trafficking. But as I watched this movie I found it was difficult to be entertained because it was simply to real. No one watches Roadhouse, for example, and feels bad for the people of the town because drug lords are actually ruining their bar. But young girls actually are being kidnapped and sold into slavery as prostitutes and a movie about it, even with Liam Neeson being oh so very, well, Liam Neeson, is good but not exactly entertaining. Mostly I just sat there and felt horrendously bad for all the women that won’t be saved by dads that kick serious ass.
But then I had another thought. It’s a selfish one to be sure, and perhaps not everyone will see the humor, but I find it one of those slightly morbid thoughts that is funny because it’s true. I’m glad I’m fat. Really, seriously glad. Why am I glad when I have diabetes, joint problems, and possible enforced celibacy to look forward to? Because my very unattractiveness means that no one is going to kidnap me and sell me into human trafficking. Yes, there are people with fat girl fetishes out there, but most of them are poor and my chances are so small as to be infinitesimal.
Now, the downside is that in the event of an apocalypse people are totally going to try and kill and eat me first, but I’m prepared to kill them before they get the chance so almost all my bases are covered.
So here’s to fat girls: we’re hard to kidnap and nobody wants to pay to have sex with us.
It’s funny cause it’s true. I swear.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Let’s have a discussion about incest. I’m talking about incest in books and movies not real life, of course, but we should probably be clear about that. I recently read a book--it was a good book. It was a fun book. It was an adventure book. It was a romance book. It was an incestuous book. I’m sure you can understand why I felt unfulfilled.
Let’s look at this situation logically:
Premise 1: Incest is not hot.
Premise 2: Stories of typical romance and love should be hot.
Premise 3: Once you fantasize about someone as evidenced in premise 2, you will be unable or at least find it very difficult, to think of that person in a familial and non-incestuous manner.
Conclusion: If you are going to write a book and market it as a typical romance/adventure story there should be a disclaimer like: CONTAINS INCEST WITH INTENTION TO PROCREATE.
That’s all I’m saying.
This book, which I will only reveal the title to in private conversations with those that don’t want to stumble across it on accident because I don’t want to ruin it for everyone, should have been a great read. Girl living in the real world thinking she’s all normal. Finds supernatural boy and they end up in a whirlwind adventure accompanied by her best friend who actually is all normal and loves her, though she obviously doesn’t love him. I say obviously because everything about this book is formulaic. The best friend loves her, but she’s not normal so she can’t return his love; the supernatural boy, on the other hand, is cold and tough and when he loves her she absolutely returns his love. Unfortunately, the supernatural boy is her brother (so we think).
I was so angry at the end of this book that I screamed (screamed) from the couch. I warned my roommate leading up to this moment that violence might occur if the book ended the way it appeared. My powers of foreshadowing, honed through years of English major experience, served me well--we were still a few chapters away when I caught the scent of possible incest, but I kept going. I persevered because I thought, “Surely I’m wrong. Surely this isn’t the way it’s going to be.” But, when all was said and done the book only replied, “Screw you. And don’t call me Shirley.”
Now, some of you are no doubt imagining Luke and Leia, and the author does attempt to draw some analogy between the two. Look, I imagine her saying, Leia kisses Luke and it isn’t freaky because they didn’t know. To her I reply: see above. Leia did not kiss Luke with intent to procreate. Luke has, at most, a schoolboy crush on Leia in a New Hope. By Empire she and Han are fairly dancing around each other and Leia’s decision to kiss Luke is so without heat or sexual intent as to be laughable. To compare a nearly realized young sexual relationship to Luke and Leia is a false analogy in an attempt to justify an egregious abuse of incestuous plotlines.
I feel cheated, abused, and dirty. If I’m expected to relate to the heroine and she’s expected to fall in love with the supernatural boy then said supernatural boy better not be related to her because then I feel like I’ve fallen in love with my brother. And that’s something that I, he, and his wife would all have an issue with I’m sure.
It’s like this book is a skeezy uncle who sat my young mind on his lap so as to better grope me. And now I have to read the sequel. I hate everything.
Let’s look at this situation logically:
Premise 1: Incest is not hot.
Premise 2: Stories of typical romance and love should be hot.
Premise 3: Once you fantasize about someone as evidenced in premise 2, you will be unable or at least find it very difficult, to think of that person in a familial and non-incestuous manner.
Conclusion: If you are going to write a book and market it as a typical romance/adventure story there should be a disclaimer like: CONTAINS INCEST WITH INTENTION TO PROCREATE.
That’s all I’m saying.
This book, which I will only reveal the title to in private conversations with those that don’t want to stumble across it on accident because I don’t want to ruin it for everyone, should have been a great read. Girl living in the real world thinking she’s all normal. Finds supernatural boy and they end up in a whirlwind adventure accompanied by her best friend who actually is all normal and loves her, though she obviously doesn’t love him. I say obviously because everything about this book is formulaic. The best friend loves her, but she’s not normal so she can’t return his love; the supernatural boy, on the other hand, is cold and tough and when he loves her she absolutely returns his love. Unfortunately, the supernatural boy is her brother (so we think).
I was so angry at the end of this book that I screamed (screamed) from the couch. I warned my roommate leading up to this moment that violence might occur if the book ended the way it appeared. My powers of foreshadowing, honed through years of English major experience, served me well--we were still a few chapters away when I caught the scent of possible incest, but I kept going. I persevered because I thought, “Surely I’m wrong. Surely this isn’t the way it’s going to be.” But, when all was said and done the book only replied, “Screw you. And don’t call me Shirley.”
Now, some of you are no doubt imagining Luke and Leia, and the author does attempt to draw some analogy between the two. Look, I imagine her saying, Leia kisses Luke and it isn’t freaky because they didn’t know. To her I reply: see above. Leia did not kiss Luke with intent to procreate. Luke has, at most, a schoolboy crush on Leia in a New Hope. By Empire she and Han are fairly dancing around each other and Leia’s decision to kiss Luke is so without heat or sexual intent as to be laughable. To compare a nearly realized young sexual relationship to Luke and Leia is a false analogy in an attempt to justify an egregious abuse of incestuous plotlines.
I feel cheated, abused, and dirty. If I’m expected to relate to the heroine and she’s expected to fall in love with the supernatural boy then said supernatural boy better not be related to her because then I feel like I’ve fallen in love with my brother. And that’s something that I, he, and his wife would all have an issue with I’m sure.
It’s like this book is a skeezy uncle who sat my young mind on his lap so as to better grope me. And now I have to read the sequel. I hate everything.
Wednesday, February 04, 2009
I just finished one of those "books." You know the type; the kind that makes you look at the world a little wonky and think about what it means to exist. I don't know why I do this to myself either. Oddly enough, I've simultaneously discovered young adult fiction and so have started to raid bookstores for teen sci-fi/fantasy/horror/love stories that read quick and easy. Welcome to the many facets of me.
On the one hand I wish to discuss The Book (that's actually it's title, I'm not being facetious). On the other hand I'm not entirely sure I have thought through what I just read enough to share those thoughts in any sort of meaningful manner. Compile that with my continued readings of Aristotle and Cicero and you see my current philosophical dilemma.
I think I've settled on the topic of mistakes for this particular musing. I, like most everyone else I would imagine, do my best to never mess up. Sometimes my best is tremendous and sometimes my best seems more like a specific effort to mess up, but none-the-less I try my best to never mess up. Recently, though, I've had a thought about that. I have to mess up. I don't mean have to in the sense that nobody's perfect and thus all will mess up at some point to differing degrees, but that if I don't mess up, then I never have a comparison against which to judge my behavior.
There are other people certainly, and for many mistakes I am more than happy to look at someone else and see that I need never experience a particular mistake or moral/ethical error, but if I am the person I imagine I should be everyday in every way I imagine I should be then I will forget why I should be that person, what it means to be that person, or the value in being that person.
Here now it sounds like I am excusing my mistakes--I'm not. I was recently involved in a spectacular debate over The Philadelphia Story because I felt the father never accepted responsibility for his actions and the movie forgave that. My point is more that I cannot be good if I am not, in some capacity, bad. That statement too is loaded, and it simply reeks of perversion into rationalization for any number of heinous behaviors, but I feel it is worth the risk to examine the necessity of my own failings. Not the morality or immorality, but necessity. The trick is keeping the two separate and not confusing the one for the other.
A couple of years ago while discussing V for Vendetta my friend came up with the question, "can something be necessary and unethical?" This, along with four other questions, we put to our classes and I reasoned for myself that if something were necessary it must be ethical and if it were unethical that there must be another way. It seemed to me that ethics, being the more malleable of the two, must be the category to shift. I can say it is unethical to kill another person, but if that person is going to kill me then I must kill them to survive. My actions of self-defense there become ethical because they were necessary and so the ethics of killing are more malleable than the necessity of self-defense. All of that is to explain that I think, perhaps, I have shifted my stance. I think, perhaps, that something can be necessary but still unethical. And that's very, very tricky.
This is dangerous, much like saying I need my mistakes, because every time I engage in an unethical or immoral behavior I can claim it is necessary. As in The Philadelphia Story, a husband who cheats on his wife and absolves himself of guilt by saying it was necessary he seek comfort elsewhere so that he can stay with her in the long run. His philandering then, to quote the movie, has nothing to do with her and he is, therefore, absolved. But accepting/recognizing necessity is separate from guilt and I think guilt might be key. If you can see the necessity of your actions and simultaneously recognize their immorality or ethicality then guilt becomes a key signifier of your honesty. How can I not feel bad that I am forced to take an action that isn't right? But there is another dimension there of actual awareness of actions, and justification of actions. To put it simply, how do I know it was actually necessary versus someone arguing it was necessary to absolve him/herself? This is all entirely too circular for a blog.
My point is simply this: in an ongoing awareness of how things relate to each other, I see a necessity for my mistakes that I had previously missed. I am not, however, justifying, rationalizing, or arguing for their rightness in any sort of moral or ethical sense. No doubt someone will only read the first part of that statement and yell at me for justifying my bad behavior. Finally, while I recognize the necessity for my mistakes, I am not at a place yet where I can recognize which mistakes individually are necessary, and which happen through lack of awareness on my part. Sometimes we break our personal moral/ethical code because we must, and sometimes we break it because we can. I cannot state with any assurance (as I'm sure no one else can) that I am at a point where I can tell the difference. But I do, after two years, feel I have a better understanding on necessity and ethicality. At least where V is concerned.
Of course that leaves me with the question, should our ethical and moral codes be reexamined? I'll take that one on after a bottle of wine and let you know how it goes.
On the one hand I wish to discuss The Book (that's actually it's title, I'm not being facetious). On the other hand I'm not entirely sure I have thought through what I just read enough to share those thoughts in any sort of meaningful manner. Compile that with my continued readings of Aristotle and Cicero and you see my current philosophical dilemma.
I think I've settled on the topic of mistakes for this particular musing. I, like most everyone else I would imagine, do my best to never mess up. Sometimes my best is tremendous and sometimes my best seems more like a specific effort to mess up, but none-the-less I try my best to never mess up. Recently, though, I've had a thought about that. I have to mess up. I don't mean have to in the sense that nobody's perfect and thus all will mess up at some point to differing degrees, but that if I don't mess up, then I never have a comparison against which to judge my behavior.
There are other people certainly, and for many mistakes I am more than happy to look at someone else and see that I need never experience a particular mistake or moral/ethical error, but if I am the person I imagine I should be everyday in every way I imagine I should be then I will forget why I should be that person, what it means to be that person, or the value in being that person.
Here now it sounds like I am excusing my mistakes--I'm not. I was recently involved in a spectacular debate over The Philadelphia Story because I felt the father never accepted responsibility for his actions and the movie forgave that. My point is more that I cannot be good if I am not, in some capacity, bad. That statement too is loaded, and it simply reeks of perversion into rationalization for any number of heinous behaviors, but I feel it is worth the risk to examine the necessity of my own failings. Not the morality or immorality, but necessity. The trick is keeping the two separate and not confusing the one for the other.
A couple of years ago while discussing V for Vendetta my friend came up with the question, "can something be necessary and unethical?" This, along with four other questions, we put to our classes and I reasoned for myself that if something were necessary it must be ethical and if it were unethical that there must be another way. It seemed to me that ethics, being the more malleable of the two, must be the category to shift. I can say it is unethical to kill another person, but if that person is going to kill me then I must kill them to survive. My actions of self-defense there become ethical because they were necessary and so the ethics of killing are more malleable than the necessity of self-defense. All of that is to explain that I think, perhaps, I have shifted my stance. I think, perhaps, that something can be necessary but still unethical. And that's very, very tricky.
This is dangerous, much like saying I need my mistakes, because every time I engage in an unethical or immoral behavior I can claim it is necessary. As in The Philadelphia Story, a husband who cheats on his wife and absolves himself of guilt by saying it was necessary he seek comfort elsewhere so that he can stay with her in the long run. His philandering then, to quote the movie, has nothing to do with her and he is, therefore, absolved. But accepting/recognizing necessity is separate from guilt and I think guilt might be key. If you can see the necessity of your actions and simultaneously recognize their immorality or ethicality then guilt becomes a key signifier of your honesty. How can I not feel bad that I am forced to take an action that isn't right? But there is another dimension there of actual awareness of actions, and justification of actions. To put it simply, how do I know it was actually necessary versus someone arguing it was necessary to absolve him/herself? This is all entirely too circular for a blog.
My point is simply this: in an ongoing awareness of how things relate to each other, I see a necessity for my mistakes that I had previously missed. I am not, however, justifying, rationalizing, or arguing for their rightness in any sort of moral or ethical sense. No doubt someone will only read the first part of that statement and yell at me for justifying my bad behavior. Finally, while I recognize the necessity for my mistakes, I am not at a place yet where I can recognize which mistakes individually are necessary, and which happen through lack of awareness on my part. Sometimes we break our personal moral/ethical code because we must, and sometimes we break it because we can. I cannot state with any assurance (as I'm sure no one else can) that I am at a point where I can tell the difference. But I do, after two years, feel I have a better understanding on necessity and ethicality. At least where V is concerned.
Of course that leaves me with the question, should our ethical and moral codes be reexamined? I'll take that one on after a bottle of wine and let you know how it goes.
Monday, January 26, 2009
I'm reading Plato (again) and that means I'm full of ideas I can't quite get a handle on. At times I seriously dislike Plato; I think he simplifies the concept of transcendental truth and uses rhetoric in the exact way he chastises others for doing so. But, as I reread Gorgias, I see value in some of the ideas I was missed when I was younger.
Most specifically, Socrates puts forth the notion that honesty within the self is more important than honesty to the convention. I find myself interpreting that to mean that if one approaches truth--the abstract concept of truth--within her own thoughts and, using all the tools of philosophy cannot disprove the truth discovered, it matters more that she stand by that truth and prove it then it does that she fall in line with social conventions and ideas. Furthermore, regardless of the number of people who bear witness against her truth, it does not make it less true.
Everyone following me here?
Now, on the one hand that is a fairly normal concept in modern society. We are told to "stay true to ourselves" and any other manner of clichés, but as I kept reading I was thinking how often we take our truth, or what we perceive as our truth, and attempt to supplant someone else's ideas with it. This isn't a wrong thing, obviously if I meet someone who believes it's right to kill babies I'm going to attempt to persuade them otherwise, but in lesser instances, all the gray areas that make up morality, when we believe we have attained transcendental truth how often do we believe, either privately or publicly, that we know more about a person than they know themselves?
This whole thing is going to be circular and possibly make no sense by the way. I just want all of you to know that I know that.
I'm thinking about this chiefly in response to a rather exciting weekend where notions of myself were directly challenged--a good thing--but at one point in that challenge the person challenging acknowledge that he was telling me what I felt. On the one hand, if someone believes they know how I feel more than I do, there is no more conversation to be had because he is making meaning for me instead of conversing about what I am saying. But, the possibility exists that the one challenging me sees an aspect of myself I am blind to--hence the purpose of the challenge.
So, I've been thinking on this for two days now. I still (actually) believe I was right about both what I said during this challenge and the reasons for it, but what has me stuck is the idea of educated, insightful people thinking they know more about someone than that person does. I think I know more than people all the time. This blog is proof of that. But I'm stuck on the problem of insight being truthful sometimes and others being incapable of knowing our minds better than ourselves. Obviously there are many that don't know their minds at all--they don't know what they know, they don't know why they think what they do, and their knowledge is surface level at best. In those cases I, perceiving insight into why they are saying what they are saying, assume (almost subconsciously at this point) that I understand them better than they understand themselves. The problem with that, possibly, is that until they have a concrete reason for their thinking there is no understanding what they think and feel beyond recognizing that they don't know what they think and feel. There's a lot of circular reasoning going on here, but I'm struggling through the cases where people did recognize something about me I didn't know myself, and the cases where we see someone in a similar situation to ourselves (current or past) and assume we know their intentions and their outcomes better then they do.
It goes back to wisdom; I, having lived through situation X, see you currently experiencing situation X and assume that what you are feeling is similar enough to what I felt that I can offer advice, understand, or predict the outcome.
Perhaps the answer lies in recognizing ourselves well enough to know why, how, and what we are projecting onto the other person. For example, if I possess as thorough and complete an understanding of situation X as possible, then I can examine someone else's experience with no conscious or subconscious personal agenda. Instead I am hypothesizing that they feel as I did (or however it is I perceive they feel) while remaining completely open to their interpretation of their feelings as valid. That is, of course, a more true representation of communication--I do my best to understand what you are trying to say while offering the meaning I make out of it in return instead of assuming I know more than you.
But it's the part where we trust what the other person says and know ourselves well enough to recognize moments when we promote our own truths so strongly because we don't want, or are unable, to accept another truth as feasible. Wars have been fought over such things so it's almost silly for me to talk about it here I understand. But it's a problem because you--your identity, what you are, etc--are never stagnant and thus we can never know ourselves completely, or at least all of our motivations. But, I do think we can be conscious of the possibility of subconscious motivation in ourselves and so willing and prepared to reexamine situations that challenge what we thought we knew.
I think what I'm getting at here is an ethics of conversation. To postulate that we know someone better than they know themselves would be false I think, and therefore unethical. But, as we can recognize discontinuities is behaviors and arguments we can point out that what someone else is feeling or believing contradicts itself and, therefore, they don't recognize the implications of what they're saying or what it is revealing about their thoughts, emotions, and motivations.
It's a thought. I'm going to read more Plato now so my headache can grow and multiply.
Most specifically, Socrates puts forth the notion that honesty within the self is more important than honesty to the convention. I find myself interpreting that to mean that if one approaches truth--the abstract concept of truth--within her own thoughts and, using all the tools of philosophy cannot disprove the truth discovered, it matters more that she stand by that truth and prove it then it does that she fall in line with social conventions and ideas. Furthermore, regardless of the number of people who bear witness against her truth, it does not make it less true.
Everyone following me here?
Now, on the one hand that is a fairly normal concept in modern society. We are told to "stay true to ourselves" and any other manner of clichés, but as I kept reading I was thinking how often we take our truth, or what we perceive as our truth, and attempt to supplant someone else's ideas with it. This isn't a wrong thing, obviously if I meet someone who believes it's right to kill babies I'm going to attempt to persuade them otherwise, but in lesser instances, all the gray areas that make up morality, when we believe we have attained transcendental truth how often do we believe, either privately or publicly, that we know more about a person than they know themselves?
This whole thing is going to be circular and possibly make no sense by the way. I just want all of you to know that I know that.
I'm thinking about this chiefly in response to a rather exciting weekend where notions of myself were directly challenged--a good thing--but at one point in that challenge the person challenging acknowledge that he was telling me what I felt. On the one hand, if someone believes they know how I feel more than I do, there is no more conversation to be had because he is making meaning for me instead of conversing about what I am saying. But, the possibility exists that the one challenging me sees an aspect of myself I am blind to--hence the purpose of the challenge.
So, I've been thinking on this for two days now. I still (actually) believe I was right about both what I said during this challenge and the reasons for it, but what has me stuck is the idea of educated, insightful people thinking they know more about someone than that person does. I think I know more than people all the time. This blog is proof of that. But I'm stuck on the problem of insight being truthful sometimes and others being incapable of knowing our minds better than ourselves. Obviously there are many that don't know their minds at all--they don't know what they know, they don't know why they think what they do, and their knowledge is surface level at best. In those cases I, perceiving insight into why they are saying what they are saying, assume (almost subconsciously at this point) that I understand them better than they understand themselves. The problem with that, possibly, is that until they have a concrete reason for their thinking there is no understanding what they think and feel beyond recognizing that they don't know what they think and feel. There's a lot of circular reasoning going on here, but I'm struggling through the cases where people did recognize something about me I didn't know myself, and the cases where we see someone in a similar situation to ourselves (current or past) and assume we know their intentions and their outcomes better then they do.
It goes back to wisdom; I, having lived through situation X, see you currently experiencing situation X and assume that what you are feeling is similar enough to what I felt that I can offer advice, understand, or predict the outcome.
Perhaps the answer lies in recognizing ourselves well enough to know why, how, and what we are projecting onto the other person. For example, if I possess as thorough and complete an understanding of situation X as possible, then I can examine someone else's experience with no conscious or subconscious personal agenda. Instead I am hypothesizing that they feel as I did (or however it is I perceive they feel) while remaining completely open to their interpretation of their feelings as valid. That is, of course, a more true representation of communication--I do my best to understand what you are trying to say while offering the meaning I make out of it in return instead of assuming I know more than you.
But it's the part where we trust what the other person says and know ourselves well enough to recognize moments when we promote our own truths so strongly because we don't want, or are unable, to accept another truth as feasible. Wars have been fought over such things so it's almost silly for me to talk about it here I understand. But it's a problem because you--your identity, what you are, etc--are never stagnant and thus we can never know ourselves completely, or at least all of our motivations. But, I do think we can be conscious of the possibility of subconscious motivation in ourselves and so willing and prepared to reexamine situations that challenge what we thought we knew.
I think what I'm getting at here is an ethics of conversation. To postulate that we know someone better than they know themselves would be false I think, and therefore unethical. But, as we can recognize discontinuities is behaviors and arguments we can point out that what someone else is feeling or believing contradicts itself and, therefore, they don't recognize the implications of what they're saying or what it is revealing about their thoughts, emotions, and motivations.
It's a thought. I'm going to read more Plato now so my headache can grow and multiply.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Anonymous asked: Could you offer your definition of love?
Oh lord, a definition of love? First off, my definition only applies to myself as love, like all other abstract ideals such as identity, ethics, and morality can only be defined by the self for the self if it is going to have any true meaning--I say that with complete awareness that most people never define any of these things for themselves. But, as reading other's definitions can help us further individual thought I will offer mine up here and all can make or not make of it what they will.
Succinctly, I would define positive love as that which pushes you to be the best version of yourself.
Now, am I married? No. Have I loved? Absolutely. Have I loved someone I married or wanted to marry? Not exactly. Do I think that makes me wrong or unknowledgeable about what I should look for? No. Here's why:
In my negative experiences of love as have so aptly been recognized, I've learned precisely what will make me happy. I've been asked to give up my identity for someone else to improve their soul and it doesn't work. It doesn't work because I can't improve someone's soul. I can support them; I can comfort them. I can do any myriad of things physical, emotional, and spiritual to make the very difficult process of soul improvement possible and creative. But no matter what I do, I cannot improve their soul for them. To ask it of me is unreasonable and impossible and leads only to unhappiness for both of us.
Now, I think there have been multiple ideas conflated in what has been discussed so far. You can sacrifice your life, you can sacrifice your happiness, you can even sacrifice your lifestyle, job and emotions and sometimes all of those things are necessary for a short period of time. I would put that in the "support the one you love" category. But sacrificing all of those things is not sacrificing your identity. Furthermore, while identity is complicated and redefined with every major experience, especially something so major as making a life with someone else, it isn't conflated with someone else's identity. The reason for this, I would argue, is that no matter how much you love each other you are always still separate. We could get into a metaphysical discussion, but I'm guessing my spiritual beliefs and everyone else's are drastically different so that must be accepted and moved on. Suffice it to say, I am aware of how one's identity shifts when one decides to consider someone else in all of their decisions, but no matter how close the relationship the energy of two people never becomes one--it can combine, invigorate, frustrate, etc, but it is still separate. What happens after the corporeal realm doesn't need to be debated via this text.
So, willingness to sacrifice identity if it improves another's soul is a false sacrifice because what I would define as positive love, would neither demand nor accept such a sacrifice realizing that the sacrifice would improve neither situation.
How does this fit into my definition of love? For me, I am not a god. I don't want someone to ever place the sort of faith in me that would cause them to give up their identity because they decided I deserved it. If, after much thought and contemplation a decision was made to put me first because I matter more than they in a particular moment--that's fantastic, but it's also far, far different then a giving up of everything they are, everything they believe in, and everything, in the end, that makes me love them. If you don't have an identity, then what am I loving? If I could love you at the cost of yourself, then what am I loving?
My definition is not all inclusive, nor is it set in stone. The only part that is solid and will always remain solid is that whomever I love, friend, family, or lover, will only want and encourage me to be the best version of myself even when they sometimes require that I put my needs on hold to help them. Furthermore, they will understand that who I am, at my core, all the things that make me me, are what they love and will accept that accordingly. This is, of course, true love I'm talking about, or the sort of love that happens only through hard work and much conscious decision making. Now, parts of me will change as will parts of those I love and the relationship will have to be malleable enough to evolve with those changes, but even as two people chose to make one life together in any situation I am involved in (being fully aware that it will bring pleasure and pain by the way) we will still be two people. If neither of us is whole, then neither of us can ever solidly support the other.
There are lots of people that make it work in all sorts of different ways. But I know from what my life has taught me that those who demand I sacrifice my identity were never healthy for me. Identity being different then life, lifestyle, or life choices. I also know that every relationship I've ever witnessed when the couple defined themselves primarily through the other person there were aspects of it that I find unacceptable. Ranging from extreme unhappiness to seemingly simple things like a parent refusing to fight another parent on a child's behalf.
My definition of love is not feasible for everyone, nor would I demand it of any except those who chose to love me. But I would still ask, if you could conceive of a situation where you would require someone to sacrifice who they are for you, then what is it about them that you love, regardless if it is ever necessary?
Oh lord, a definition of love? First off, my definition only applies to myself as love, like all other abstract ideals such as identity, ethics, and morality can only be defined by the self for the self if it is going to have any true meaning--I say that with complete awareness that most people never define any of these things for themselves. But, as reading other's definitions can help us further individual thought I will offer mine up here and all can make or not make of it what they will.
Succinctly, I would define positive love as that which pushes you to be the best version of yourself.
Now, am I married? No. Have I loved? Absolutely. Have I loved someone I married or wanted to marry? Not exactly. Do I think that makes me wrong or unknowledgeable about what I should look for? No. Here's why:
In my negative experiences of love as have so aptly been recognized, I've learned precisely what will make me happy. I've been asked to give up my identity for someone else to improve their soul and it doesn't work. It doesn't work because I can't improve someone's soul. I can support them; I can comfort them. I can do any myriad of things physical, emotional, and spiritual to make the very difficult process of soul improvement possible and creative. But no matter what I do, I cannot improve their soul for them. To ask it of me is unreasonable and impossible and leads only to unhappiness for both of us.
Now, I think there have been multiple ideas conflated in what has been discussed so far. You can sacrifice your life, you can sacrifice your happiness, you can even sacrifice your lifestyle, job and emotions and sometimes all of those things are necessary for a short period of time. I would put that in the "support the one you love" category. But sacrificing all of those things is not sacrificing your identity. Furthermore, while identity is complicated and redefined with every major experience, especially something so major as making a life with someone else, it isn't conflated with someone else's identity. The reason for this, I would argue, is that no matter how much you love each other you are always still separate. We could get into a metaphysical discussion, but I'm guessing my spiritual beliefs and everyone else's are drastically different so that must be accepted and moved on. Suffice it to say, I am aware of how one's identity shifts when one decides to consider someone else in all of their decisions, but no matter how close the relationship the energy of two people never becomes one--it can combine, invigorate, frustrate, etc, but it is still separate. What happens after the corporeal realm doesn't need to be debated via this text.
So, willingness to sacrifice identity if it improves another's soul is a false sacrifice because what I would define as positive love, would neither demand nor accept such a sacrifice realizing that the sacrifice would improve neither situation.
How does this fit into my definition of love? For me, I am not a god. I don't want someone to ever place the sort of faith in me that would cause them to give up their identity because they decided I deserved it. If, after much thought and contemplation a decision was made to put me first because I matter more than they in a particular moment--that's fantastic, but it's also far, far different then a giving up of everything they are, everything they believe in, and everything, in the end, that makes me love them. If you don't have an identity, then what am I loving? If I could love you at the cost of yourself, then what am I loving?
My definition is not all inclusive, nor is it set in stone. The only part that is solid and will always remain solid is that whomever I love, friend, family, or lover, will only want and encourage me to be the best version of myself even when they sometimes require that I put my needs on hold to help them. Furthermore, they will understand that who I am, at my core, all the things that make me me, are what they love and will accept that accordingly. This is, of course, true love I'm talking about, or the sort of love that happens only through hard work and much conscious decision making. Now, parts of me will change as will parts of those I love and the relationship will have to be malleable enough to evolve with those changes, but even as two people chose to make one life together in any situation I am involved in (being fully aware that it will bring pleasure and pain by the way) we will still be two people. If neither of us is whole, then neither of us can ever solidly support the other.
There are lots of people that make it work in all sorts of different ways. But I know from what my life has taught me that those who demand I sacrifice my identity were never healthy for me. Identity being different then life, lifestyle, or life choices. I also know that every relationship I've ever witnessed when the couple defined themselves primarily through the other person there were aspects of it that I find unacceptable. Ranging from extreme unhappiness to seemingly simple things like a parent refusing to fight another parent on a child's behalf.
My definition of love is not feasible for everyone, nor would I demand it of any except those who chose to love me. But I would still ask, if you could conceive of a situation where you would require someone to sacrifice who they are for you, then what is it about them that you love, regardless if it is ever necessary?
Friday, January 23, 2009
I thought about this and I debated. To comment on a definition of love or not? First, I have to say I won't be speaking in clichés. It is not my intention to mock or attack those that define love through the paradox or typical cliché, but I do feel that so long as one relies on the cliché as opposed to seeking their own definition--howsoever that definition is found and created--true understanding is lacking.
That being said there is one particular line from the comment on the previous post that I absolutely feel as if I must address:
"To truly love a person must be *willing* to give up everything they own and believe in if it will improve the soul of their partner. This is almost never needed in practice but a person in love would make such a sacrifice if the situation called for it."
I have disagree in the strongest terms I know how. I disagree for a multiplicity of reasons, but first and foremost among them is that I've felt this love, I've been a part of this love, and I've seen others engage in this type of love. It's love; it's a type of love like many, many other things are a type of love but it is not healthy love. When someone loves you in a non-destructive way when you say I'm going to give up everything I AM for you, they look at you and say no. It's one thing to require sacrifice and compromise, but everything you own and believe in? Everything you are? That's not love, that's membership in a cult.
This isn't the same as giving up one's life to save another. This isn't the same as hurting so much when someone dies or leaves you that you aren't sure you can get out of bed; this is losing your identity in someone else. In none of the cases I've witnessed or been a part of (and there have been more than a few) has this resulted in anything remotely approaching a happy ending. Oh sure, maybe the couple puts on a happy face sometimes; maybe they really, really miss each other when the other one is gone. But love isn't always healthy, nor does addiction or need of someone else for sustenance make for a solid or happy relationship.
Finally, anyone that would demand you not be yourself, or give up yourself, so that they can love you doesn't love you. Not really. At least, not the love I was discussing in the previous post or the love Shakespeare is commenting on in Romeo and Juliet. That's a whole other ball park and yes, every couple's relationship is intensely personal and no one knows what goes on or why they stay together sometimes, but every time I've witnessed a love of the type described above neither half of the couple was particularly happy. Perhaps they can't imagine being different, often when stuck in a relationship where loss of identity is prevalent people can't imagine life without the relationship--in part because they would have life without definition, but always, always I've seen people that were tinged with bitterness even while laughing the hardest. People that are excessive in their use of physical affection as if extra kisses and hugs and really long goodbyes mean the other person will come back and things will be better.
What's been described here I would agree is love. But I would agree this love, like many, many other forms of love, destroys those who have it instead of invigorating them; it breaks them instead of pleases them. What little joy people have in these situations seem short and intense as if an addict just got a hit. In my experience that's certainly what kept me coming back for more.
As to one partner not having a full life without the other...I don't know. After you've made a life with someone for ten, twenty, thirty years I might buy it. Maybe. I know my grandma missed my grandpa for some forty odd years until the day she died. But I also know she didn't lose half of herself when he died, and that doesn't mean her love was less. I would take serious issues with anyone that said otherwise. For Romeo and Juliet the problems are twofold. 1) They are simply so young--13 and 14. Never in your life are you going to feel like you could die from love like you can at 13 and 14. Later in your life it's more likely you'll die from love, see above, but when you're first "true love" breaks up with you it's a pain never felt before. But you grow up. And, more importantly, after you grow up you realize that some day, it won't hurt so much. You're perception of time, yourself, and the world changes to a point that you know while the pain might not disappear, you're existence and you're happiness are not one and the same with the person you loved and miss. Teenagers deal in absolutes--adults (should) know better. 2) While loss of a partner is something I am deathly afraid of, hell, I'd pay good money to be able to avoid any more serious heartbreak, I think in Romeo and Juliet's case (as in many real life examples) there is serious and viable evidence that either would have eventually overcome the death of the other. It's romantic to imagine yourself unable to go on without someone. Especially when confounded with the guilt that lurks which says, if you aren't broken forever maybe you never really loved them to begin with. But the human psyche is made to endure. It takes all manner of steps to protect itself and people do heal. And healing doesn't deny the reality of the wound or the memory of the pain. But to wallow in the pain and intentionally keep the wound open (or open wounds up in the case of sacrificing your very being for someone else) is more than melodramatic, it's Byronic and unnecessary.
I can't speak for someone else's life or love. I don't know all the ins and outs for why people do what they do. But I do know that other people can't make you happy. Emotion can be shared, but it always originates from within. That's why identity and self are important; people who give up their identity in order to make others happy in some attempt to find happiness themselves are always just a little off. Their never quite content or calm or fully in love.
And I know, at least in the case of Shakespeare's famous romance, that there's something rotten in the state of Verona. Romeo and Juliet have attractive love, but I'll never be convinced it's solid or long lasting love. They, like so many other couples across time, are addicted to each other; they define each other, ceasing to hold any identity individually. And that's why when one dies the other has to follow.
Others may choose it, but it's so completely and totally not for me.
That being said there is one particular line from the comment on the previous post that I absolutely feel as if I must address:
"To truly love a person must be *willing* to give up everything they own and believe in if it will improve the soul of their partner. This is almost never needed in practice but a person in love would make such a sacrifice if the situation called for it."
I have disagree in the strongest terms I know how. I disagree for a multiplicity of reasons, but first and foremost among them is that I've felt this love, I've been a part of this love, and I've seen others engage in this type of love. It's love; it's a type of love like many, many other things are a type of love but it is not healthy love. When someone loves you in a non-destructive way when you say I'm going to give up everything I AM for you, they look at you and say no. It's one thing to require sacrifice and compromise, but everything you own and believe in? Everything you are? That's not love, that's membership in a cult.
This isn't the same as giving up one's life to save another. This isn't the same as hurting so much when someone dies or leaves you that you aren't sure you can get out of bed; this is losing your identity in someone else. In none of the cases I've witnessed or been a part of (and there have been more than a few) has this resulted in anything remotely approaching a happy ending. Oh sure, maybe the couple puts on a happy face sometimes; maybe they really, really miss each other when the other one is gone. But love isn't always healthy, nor does addiction or need of someone else for sustenance make for a solid or happy relationship.
Finally, anyone that would demand you not be yourself, or give up yourself, so that they can love you doesn't love you. Not really. At least, not the love I was discussing in the previous post or the love Shakespeare is commenting on in Romeo and Juliet. That's a whole other ball park and yes, every couple's relationship is intensely personal and no one knows what goes on or why they stay together sometimes, but every time I've witnessed a love of the type described above neither half of the couple was particularly happy. Perhaps they can't imagine being different, often when stuck in a relationship where loss of identity is prevalent people can't imagine life without the relationship--in part because they would have life without definition, but always, always I've seen people that were tinged with bitterness even while laughing the hardest. People that are excessive in their use of physical affection as if extra kisses and hugs and really long goodbyes mean the other person will come back and things will be better.
What's been described here I would agree is love. But I would agree this love, like many, many other forms of love, destroys those who have it instead of invigorating them; it breaks them instead of pleases them. What little joy people have in these situations seem short and intense as if an addict just got a hit. In my experience that's certainly what kept me coming back for more.
As to one partner not having a full life without the other...I don't know. After you've made a life with someone for ten, twenty, thirty years I might buy it. Maybe. I know my grandma missed my grandpa for some forty odd years until the day she died. But I also know she didn't lose half of herself when he died, and that doesn't mean her love was less. I would take serious issues with anyone that said otherwise. For Romeo and Juliet the problems are twofold. 1) They are simply so young--13 and 14. Never in your life are you going to feel like you could die from love like you can at 13 and 14. Later in your life it's more likely you'll die from love, see above, but when you're first "true love" breaks up with you it's a pain never felt before. But you grow up. And, more importantly, after you grow up you realize that some day, it won't hurt so much. You're perception of time, yourself, and the world changes to a point that you know while the pain might not disappear, you're existence and you're happiness are not one and the same with the person you loved and miss. Teenagers deal in absolutes--adults (should) know better. 2) While loss of a partner is something I am deathly afraid of, hell, I'd pay good money to be able to avoid any more serious heartbreak, I think in Romeo and Juliet's case (as in many real life examples) there is serious and viable evidence that either would have eventually overcome the death of the other. It's romantic to imagine yourself unable to go on without someone. Especially when confounded with the guilt that lurks which says, if you aren't broken forever maybe you never really loved them to begin with. But the human psyche is made to endure. It takes all manner of steps to protect itself and people do heal. And healing doesn't deny the reality of the wound or the memory of the pain. But to wallow in the pain and intentionally keep the wound open (or open wounds up in the case of sacrificing your very being for someone else) is more than melodramatic, it's Byronic and unnecessary.
I can't speak for someone else's life or love. I don't know all the ins and outs for why people do what they do. But I do know that other people can't make you happy. Emotion can be shared, but it always originates from within. That's why identity and self are important; people who give up their identity in order to make others happy in some attempt to find happiness themselves are always just a little off. Their never quite content or calm or fully in love.
And I know, at least in the case of Shakespeare's famous romance, that there's something rotten in the state of Verona. Romeo and Juliet have attractive love, but I'll never be convinced it's solid or long lasting love. They, like so many other couples across time, are addicted to each other; they define each other, ceasing to hold any identity individually. And that's why when one dies the other has to follow.
Others may choose it, but it's so completely and totally not for me.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
I need to hate on Romeo and Juliet for just a second. I just watched the Baz Luhrman movie from the 90's and I was impressed by the quality and sophistication of the film. But I still, despite a greater understanding of the story, Shakespeare, and the characters, hate this play.
A friend of mine has attempted to persuade me that this play is actually worth studying and enjoying; while I may or may not agree with the former, I don't know that I am capable of agreeing with the latter. There are two major issues at work in this play which make my appreciation of it or its themes possible. First, if things were different they would be different. What I mean by that, is that if any number of the final series of events had happened differently the two lovers could have shared a life together. That doesn't make tragedy for me, that makes a really, really bad day. Second, and this is the big one, I'm not sure I buy that Romeo and Juliet have true love.
Now, as I write that I am conscious of a line from Dan in Real Life where Dan scoffs his fourteen year old daughter for claiming she has fallen in love after only three days. Later on he falls in love after only three days and there is a moment there, a heartwarming, touching moment, that when it's right, no matter how melodramatic and seemingly impossible it is, it's right. The question for this great tragic romance I ask then, is this right? If Romeo and Juliet had lived, had babies, been poor (because they both would have been in exile in Mantua) and grown old--would their love have stood the test of time? There's no real way to predict as they both die a very young death, but everything in me as a viewer/reader says no.
I might be persuaded to believe it on Juliet's part. She is surprisingly mature and contained for a teenage girl. But Romeo, dear, dear Romeo, is a freakin' melodramatic horn-bag. First he loves Rosaline, and oh how he loves Rosaline! But then, then he sees Juliet and Rosaline's beauty is nothing compared to Juliet's! You could make a very strong argument that the only reason he really "falls in love" with Juliet is because she, unlike Rosaline, returns his affections. It's amazing how serious a crush can become once there is nookie to be had.
Now, maybe Romeo would shape up in the coming years. Maybe he would become a man that loves his wife and doesn't resent the poverty, the kids, or her waning beauty. Maybe he would never wander or see some new, younger beauty against whom Juliet pales. His decision to follow her into death might be proof of that. But is Romeo's decision a sign of true love or more melodrama from an already emotional and barely controlled character?
This play offers fantastic dialogue on revenge, thinking for yourself, breaking out of what you've been taught or brainwashed into believing. Read alongside The Merchant of Venice especially you see some definite themes of characters judged by what they are as opposed to who they are. These are great themes. I can write papers on these themes and talk at length in a very educated manner about what they mean, why they're important, etc.
But the love crap...I still believe that the "love" in this play serves as a vehicle for bigger themes and only becomes tragic because the kids don't die for true love. They die because they are impetuous teenagers in a horrific situation. If they had been allowed to live, their love would have steered its course and ended much more mundanely. I think we, as readers/viewers subsume the ideas of revenge and self-awareness behind this "love conquers all mentality" because the love theme is easier to relate to, to believe. If Romeo and Juliet are dying for love that might only be hormonal, impetuous, or unsophisticated then what does that mean for modern philosophies of love? If the point isn't that love is worth dying for, that you shouldn't, can't, go on without the one you love, then what is the point?
I think, in part, and this is really just me ranting here, that we continue to focus on the love of Romeo and Juliet because it's easier to feel heartbroken and angry over their deaths than it is to wrestle with questions of bigotry, hyper-emotion, and our own penchant for launching ourselves into relationships because we want so desperately to believe in love at first sight.
If Romeo and Juliet were real people, and if there were evidence that Romeo really did love Juliet in a long-lasting, healthy way there would be proof that love at first sight was a real thing. But what happens if Romeo's love is really just "you're the prettiest girl I've seen so far, and if you let me I'll love you forever. At least until a prettier girl comes along"?
A friend of mine has attempted to persuade me that this play is actually worth studying and enjoying; while I may or may not agree with the former, I don't know that I am capable of agreeing with the latter. There are two major issues at work in this play which make my appreciation of it or its themes possible. First, if things were different they would be different. What I mean by that, is that if any number of the final series of events had happened differently the two lovers could have shared a life together. That doesn't make tragedy for me, that makes a really, really bad day. Second, and this is the big one, I'm not sure I buy that Romeo and Juliet have true love.
Now, as I write that I am conscious of a line from Dan in Real Life where Dan scoffs his fourteen year old daughter for claiming she has fallen in love after only three days. Later on he falls in love after only three days and there is a moment there, a heartwarming, touching moment, that when it's right, no matter how melodramatic and seemingly impossible it is, it's right. The question for this great tragic romance I ask then, is this right? If Romeo and Juliet had lived, had babies, been poor (because they both would have been in exile in Mantua) and grown old--would their love have stood the test of time? There's no real way to predict as they both die a very young death, but everything in me as a viewer/reader says no.
I might be persuaded to believe it on Juliet's part. She is surprisingly mature and contained for a teenage girl. But Romeo, dear, dear Romeo, is a freakin' melodramatic horn-bag. First he loves Rosaline, and oh how he loves Rosaline! But then, then he sees Juliet and Rosaline's beauty is nothing compared to Juliet's! You could make a very strong argument that the only reason he really "falls in love" with Juliet is because she, unlike Rosaline, returns his affections. It's amazing how serious a crush can become once there is nookie to be had.
Now, maybe Romeo would shape up in the coming years. Maybe he would become a man that loves his wife and doesn't resent the poverty, the kids, or her waning beauty. Maybe he would never wander or see some new, younger beauty against whom Juliet pales. His decision to follow her into death might be proof of that. But is Romeo's decision a sign of true love or more melodrama from an already emotional and barely controlled character?
This play offers fantastic dialogue on revenge, thinking for yourself, breaking out of what you've been taught or brainwashed into believing. Read alongside The Merchant of Venice especially you see some definite themes of characters judged by what they are as opposed to who they are. These are great themes. I can write papers on these themes and talk at length in a very educated manner about what they mean, why they're important, etc.
But the love crap...I still believe that the "love" in this play serves as a vehicle for bigger themes and only becomes tragic because the kids don't die for true love. They die because they are impetuous teenagers in a horrific situation. If they had been allowed to live, their love would have steered its course and ended much more mundanely. I think we, as readers/viewers subsume the ideas of revenge and self-awareness behind this "love conquers all mentality" because the love theme is easier to relate to, to believe. If Romeo and Juliet are dying for love that might only be hormonal, impetuous, or unsophisticated then what does that mean for modern philosophies of love? If the point isn't that love is worth dying for, that you shouldn't, can't, go on without the one you love, then what is the point?
I think, in part, and this is really just me ranting here, that we continue to focus on the love of Romeo and Juliet because it's easier to feel heartbroken and angry over their deaths than it is to wrestle with questions of bigotry, hyper-emotion, and our own penchant for launching ourselves into relationships because we want so desperately to believe in love at first sight.
If Romeo and Juliet were real people, and if there were evidence that Romeo really did love Juliet in a long-lasting, healthy way there would be proof that love at first sight was a real thing. But what happens if Romeo's love is really just "you're the prettiest girl I've seen so far, and if you let me I'll love you forever. At least until a prettier girl comes along"?
Monday, January 19, 2009
Today I'm going to write about crazy people. I want to preface this by saying no one reading this who knows me need worry, I promise I'm not writing about you or any one specific person. (I run with a crazy crowd you understand, so a disclaimer is needed.) But there's been a lot of crazy in my life and the lives of those around me, and a question asked by a friend keeps coming back into my mind as I try to read up on the history of rhetoric. Why do we care? When someone vomits insanity all over you, why does it bother you, no matter how little you think of the person or what they say?
When this question of caring was first put forth, I answered sarcastically I think. Perhaps offered something like "crazy hurts." As the question was bandied about more I moved into a belief that some sort of emotional response is inevitable--when someone is horrible to you, regardless of how little the surrounding circumstances matter--you care, at least for a minute. But now I find even that answer isn't enough. My strongest emotion would be frustration. It is frustrating to listen to someone call you all manner of names, to accuse your character of lacking, to label you a bad human being, and know that you can't argue back. If you say anything a fight ensues, which is what they are after, and if you don't say anything it feels like you're conceding the match. But even if you do respond and avoid a fight, they will never understand reality. Cause they crazy.
No one told me "taking the high road" meant I would have to scale friggin' Everest. Stupid.
After frustration, and fueled in part by the frustration, is anger. These are the two most common emotions in any situation like this. Angry that negativity exists in my life. Angry that I have to choose not to fight back. Angry that I'm angry. I can assess these two emotions easily--they're right there on the surface. But recognizing all of this still doesn't answer the question, why do I care? When someone I don't respect and don't want to interact with offers up hate and negativity, why am I unable to avoid being upset?
I'm discussing it because I can't help but feel like there's value in this line of thought. Almost as if I could discover why particular interactions affect me then I could control my thoughts, my emotions, and my person throughout the experience of these interactions. It's easy when dealing with something as unpleasant as a bunny boiler (see Glenn Close's character in Fatal Instinct) to let the anger override all other aspects of humanity. It's easy to hate. I've never been one to hate and that, I think, is what is bothering me the most. When I meet people who are mean, manipulative, and hurtful, if I have enough dealings with them, I first resent them, then begin to hate them. I don't want to hate them.
Ah, and perhaps we come to the crux of it. I'm upset because I'm full of hate and, being unable to recognize that emotion, all I can process is upset and unhappiness which leaves me asking why. All the while everything inside me rails against the hate because I don't like to hate (you could even say I hate to hate, ha ha...ha ha) and the scenario replays over and over in mind with me trying to come to terms with why I am upset. And isn't that interesting? My upset, therefore, has nothing to do with the person inflicting the crazy on me, and everything to do with me. How delightfully selfish, but also honest. Not caring or respecting them it doesn't make sense for me to care what they say, but spending every moment of every day trying to be a person that doesn't feel anger, hate, or resentment when I can help it, their causal of those emotions inside me produces and emotional thunderstorm.
I am upset because the crazy has made me feel something I don't want to feel and there is absolutely nothing I can do about it. Oh that's worse than Ann Coulter discussing social policy.
There is still the question of course, why do I feel anything to begin with and I don't have a complex answer for that one. Perhaps I am unable not to feel bad when being accused of being a bad person? Perhaps because I have spent so much time trying to be the best person I can be? That, of course, means nothing in crazy town, therefore, it only makes sense that the accusations would run along those lines. This is a similar feeling to the one I get when confronted with people who are racist or misogynistic. People that hate a particular ethnicity or women, just because. They have arguments and those arguments usually bandy about some idea of truth, mutated past all recognition to lend credibility, but there is no point in arguing back. When I hear people preaching hate I react in almost the same way.
So, we know it bothers me because it makes me a more hateful version of itself. And now we know why I react in the first place; because people that spew hate mutate truth and attempt to marginalize those around them by cutting them down. It doesn't matter whether they are successful in that attempt or not. It doesn't matter that they are wrong and, in this instance, crazy. It is maddening because as a receiver of the rhetoric I am faced with blatant untruth and left completely immobilized. My existence in their mind is set, and nothing I ever do will change that. That is what upsets me, even as I recognize the inevitability and even, in the long run, harmlessness of it.
Perhaps this could evolve into my own essay on language as violence--people have written about it and I thought I understood, but maybe only now am I realizing that language can cause violence. After all, when you're stabbed it doesn't matter whether you respect the person stabbing you or not, you're still stabbed. Interesting.
When this question of caring was first put forth, I answered sarcastically I think. Perhaps offered something like "crazy hurts." As the question was bandied about more I moved into a belief that some sort of emotional response is inevitable--when someone is horrible to you, regardless of how little the surrounding circumstances matter--you care, at least for a minute. But now I find even that answer isn't enough. My strongest emotion would be frustration. It is frustrating to listen to someone call you all manner of names, to accuse your character of lacking, to label you a bad human being, and know that you can't argue back. If you say anything a fight ensues, which is what they are after, and if you don't say anything it feels like you're conceding the match. But even if you do respond and avoid a fight, they will never understand reality. Cause they crazy.
No one told me "taking the high road" meant I would have to scale friggin' Everest. Stupid.
After frustration, and fueled in part by the frustration, is anger. These are the two most common emotions in any situation like this. Angry that negativity exists in my life. Angry that I have to choose not to fight back. Angry that I'm angry. I can assess these two emotions easily--they're right there on the surface. But recognizing all of this still doesn't answer the question, why do I care? When someone I don't respect and don't want to interact with offers up hate and negativity, why am I unable to avoid being upset?
I'm discussing it because I can't help but feel like there's value in this line of thought. Almost as if I could discover why particular interactions affect me then I could control my thoughts, my emotions, and my person throughout the experience of these interactions. It's easy when dealing with something as unpleasant as a bunny boiler (see Glenn Close's character in Fatal Instinct) to let the anger override all other aspects of humanity. It's easy to hate. I've never been one to hate and that, I think, is what is bothering me the most. When I meet people who are mean, manipulative, and hurtful, if I have enough dealings with them, I first resent them, then begin to hate them. I don't want to hate them.
Ah, and perhaps we come to the crux of it. I'm upset because I'm full of hate and, being unable to recognize that emotion, all I can process is upset and unhappiness which leaves me asking why. All the while everything inside me rails against the hate because I don't like to hate (you could even say I hate to hate, ha ha...ha ha) and the scenario replays over and over in mind with me trying to come to terms with why I am upset. And isn't that interesting? My upset, therefore, has nothing to do with the person inflicting the crazy on me, and everything to do with me. How delightfully selfish, but also honest. Not caring or respecting them it doesn't make sense for me to care what they say, but spending every moment of every day trying to be a person that doesn't feel anger, hate, or resentment when I can help it, their causal of those emotions inside me produces and emotional thunderstorm.
I am upset because the crazy has made me feel something I don't want to feel and there is absolutely nothing I can do about it. Oh that's worse than Ann Coulter discussing social policy.
There is still the question of course, why do I feel anything to begin with and I don't have a complex answer for that one. Perhaps I am unable not to feel bad when being accused of being a bad person? Perhaps because I have spent so much time trying to be the best person I can be? That, of course, means nothing in crazy town, therefore, it only makes sense that the accusations would run along those lines. This is a similar feeling to the one I get when confronted with people who are racist or misogynistic. People that hate a particular ethnicity or women, just because. They have arguments and those arguments usually bandy about some idea of truth, mutated past all recognition to lend credibility, but there is no point in arguing back. When I hear people preaching hate I react in almost the same way.
So, we know it bothers me because it makes me a more hateful version of itself. And now we know why I react in the first place; because people that spew hate mutate truth and attempt to marginalize those around them by cutting them down. It doesn't matter whether they are successful in that attempt or not. It doesn't matter that they are wrong and, in this instance, crazy. It is maddening because as a receiver of the rhetoric I am faced with blatant untruth and left completely immobilized. My existence in their mind is set, and nothing I ever do will change that. That is what upsets me, even as I recognize the inevitability and even, in the long run, harmlessness of it.
Perhaps this could evolve into my own essay on language as violence--people have written about it and I thought I understood, but maybe only now am I realizing that language can cause violence. After all, when you're stabbed it doesn't matter whether you respect the person stabbing you or not, you're still stabbed. Interesting.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
I've decided, as I sit watching great cinema revolving around Jason Behr and werewolves that life has already provided all the key markers to delineate between good guys and bad guys. For years I've been looking to date the bad guys, thinking maybe, deep, deep down inside, they're really looking to save a puppy or two, but actually if someone possesses one or all of the following signs its time to give up the dream.
Top Ten Ways to Tell a Good Guy From a Bad Guy
10. Hotness
From the one liners that make you think "well, maybe" to the heartfelt, emotionally broken longing in their gaze as they tell you they're really, really sorry before they kill you, bad guys are just, in general, hotter. It ranks at #10 because good guys are often very, very hot too, but as we all know the hottest good guys used to be bad guys.
9. Ability to find showdown appropriate buildings
It happens in T2, it happens in Skinwalkers, it happens in almost every bad guy chases good guy into showdown at the end of the movie scenario. No matter where the good guy crashes his/her car, forest, highway, mountain cliff in Alaska, there is a factory, house, building, circle of infinite power within running distance that allows the good guy to have that little extra edge needed to win the day. I figure I'm destined to die since the only thing I can find on short notice is a bookstore.
8. Sexual Reservation
Good guys kiss you all hot like, but then pull away because they can't. It isn't right; they're unsure. They want to *gasp* wait. Bad guys take your pants off, and even though you totally thank them for it later when they kill you for the demonspawn sired in your moment of lust, immediate sexual gratification is always a sign of a bad guy.
7. Fighting Skill
If the good guys were better shots many, many stories would end much quicker with far fewer deaths. In some cases the good guys suffer from lack of numbers, but in a lot of movies the bad guys just seem to get more head shots. Yeah, the good guys win in the end, but how many times do they hit the shoulder, the leg, or the gut before finally killing the bad guy in some massive, elaborate showdown that ends, always slightly anti-climactically, with something like falling on the bad guy, or the bad guy falling off something? Go to the shooting range hero. More of your friends will live that way.
6. Emo-ness a.k.a. Brooding
The bad guy doesn't sit in the corner and sulk. Did Angelus stare longingly into his glass of blood and think about what he had done? No. He went out and killed someone cause he was bored. Maybe, with the really hot bad guys, there's sorrow, regret, or anger, but only the good guys sit and whine about how guilty they are or how much some girl broke their heart. The bad guys just kill the girl. Hot.
5. Facial Hair
You will never, ever, ever see a good guy with a soul patch or goatee. Magnum P.I. had a moustache, but the shorts sort of off-set whatever possible sinisterness the facial hair might have denoted. Good guys are also rarely scruffy for longer than the time it takes them to find their way back to the bathroom after rescuing you.
4. Mode of Transportation
A bad guys isn't stupid, shallow, or tasteless. That's why he doesn't drive a truck plastered with a confederate flag that screams, "my genetic pool is only one foot deep." He will also never ride any motorcycle called "crotch-rocket" unless he is some sort of henchmen destined to die early. Transportation won't tell you if he's good or bad, but it will tell you if he's a douchebag--another important piece of information.
3. Length of Hair
How many heroes do you know that have short hair? How many bad guys are bald or have long hair? That's what I thought.
2. Smoking
In the 1950's the saying went, "if she smokes she pokes." I think that holds true for bad guys too. See #8. If he smokes he pokes and then you're impregnated with demonspawn. Thoroughly unpleasant.
1. Name
Good guys are named Tom, Bob, or something from the Bible like Caleb or Jonas. Bad guys are named Varek, Vlad, or Voldemort. Look for names starting with "V" and anything that seems an impossibility for a mother to actually name a son unless she willingly birthed said demonspawn. Probably you aren't going to meet a bad guy named "John." I'm just saying it's unlikely.
Top Ten Ways to Tell a Good Guy From a Bad Guy
10. Hotness
From the one liners that make you think "well, maybe" to the heartfelt, emotionally broken longing in their gaze as they tell you they're really, really sorry before they kill you, bad guys are just, in general, hotter. It ranks at #10 because good guys are often very, very hot too, but as we all know the hottest good guys used to be bad guys.
9. Ability to find showdown appropriate buildings
It happens in T2, it happens in Skinwalkers, it happens in almost every bad guy chases good guy into showdown at the end of the movie scenario. No matter where the good guy crashes his/her car, forest, highway, mountain cliff in Alaska, there is a factory, house, building, circle of infinite power within running distance that allows the good guy to have that little extra edge needed to win the day. I figure I'm destined to die since the only thing I can find on short notice is a bookstore.
8. Sexual Reservation
Good guys kiss you all hot like, but then pull away because they can't. It isn't right; they're unsure. They want to *gasp* wait. Bad guys take your pants off, and even though you totally thank them for it later when they kill you for the demonspawn sired in your moment of lust, immediate sexual gratification is always a sign of a bad guy.
7. Fighting Skill
If the good guys were better shots many, many stories would end much quicker with far fewer deaths. In some cases the good guys suffer from lack of numbers, but in a lot of movies the bad guys just seem to get more head shots. Yeah, the good guys win in the end, but how many times do they hit the shoulder, the leg, or the gut before finally killing the bad guy in some massive, elaborate showdown that ends, always slightly anti-climactically, with something like falling on the bad guy, or the bad guy falling off something? Go to the shooting range hero. More of your friends will live that way.
6. Emo-ness a.k.a. Brooding
The bad guy doesn't sit in the corner and sulk. Did Angelus stare longingly into his glass of blood and think about what he had done? No. He went out and killed someone cause he was bored. Maybe, with the really hot bad guys, there's sorrow, regret, or anger, but only the good guys sit and whine about how guilty they are or how much some girl broke their heart. The bad guys just kill the girl. Hot.
5. Facial Hair
You will never, ever, ever see a good guy with a soul patch or goatee. Magnum P.I. had a moustache, but the shorts sort of off-set whatever possible sinisterness the facial hair might have denoted. Good guys are also rarely scruffy for longer than the time it takes them to find their way back to the bathroom after rescuing you.
4. Mode of Transportation
A bad guys isn't stupid, shallow, or tasteless. That's why he doesn't drive a truck plastered with a confederate flag that screams, "my genetic pool is only one foot deep." He will also never ride any motorcycle called "crotch-rocket" unless he is some sort of henchmen destined to die early. Transportation won't tell you if he's good or bad, but it will tell you if he's a douchebag--another important piece of information.
3. Length of Hair
How many heroes do you know that have short hair? How many bad guys are bald or have long hair? That's what I thought.
2. Smoking
In the 1950's the saying went, "if she smokes she pokes." I think that holds true for bad guys too. See #8. If he smokes he pokes and then you're impregnated with demonspawn. Thoroughly unpleasant.
1. Name
Good guys are named Tom, Bob, or something from the Bible like Caleb or Jonas. Bad guys are named Varek, Vlad, or Voldemort. Look for names starting with "V" and anything that seems an impossibility for a mother to actually name a son unless she willingly birthed said demonspawn. Probably you aren't going to meet a bad guy named "John." I'm just saying it's unlikely.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
I've fallen for a fallen angel. It's not pretty. I'm not proud of it. But there it is.
I was thinking, as I contemplated my latest inappropriate attraction, that no part of "in league with the devil," especially when taken literally, should be attractive. And yet, here I am.
I've begun watching a show called Hex; it's a British television series and the best description I could use would be, sort of like Charmed, but way, way better. And instead of a half-human, half-demon we have a fallen angel. There's really nothing wrong with that. But I've begun to think back to my obsession with demons, devils, and lords of darkness and I think it all starts with Tim Curry. Frankly, I'm blaming every inappropriate crush I've ever harbored in my life on Legend. As my brilliant friend pointed out, once cloven hooves don't throw you off, you're done for.
Legend, the Ridley Scott movie from the '80's staring a very young Tom Cruise flashing a whole lot of thigh, revolved around the main characters, Jack and Lily, two unicorns, and the classic battle between light and dark. Within this battle, as within every battle between good and evil, the female character, Lily in this case, faces and survives loss of innocence. Here's where everything goes so very, very wrong. When I was but a wee lass, I would watch Legend (it had swords and unicorns: awesome) over and over again. I liked Jack alright, he was the hero, but the Lord of Darkness, played by Tim Curry fascinated me and...well...he made me feel funny.
The first time you see him in the movie he steps out of a mirror and stands glorious with horns, man-beast features, a six pack, and cloven hooves. I kinda liked it.
In all honesty, though, I think it had to do with his attempts to bring out the worst in Lily, certainly a quality I should not find attractive, but in my wee years the idea of a man, beast, whatever, promising to free me, entice me, and whatever me (I couldn't quite comprehend just what all was being promised in my youth) seemed infinitely more cool than Jack, the man who wanted her to behave, maintain the balance of light and dark and generally preserve the goodness in the world. Boring.
Many years and much wisdom later I see the fault in finding the Lord of Darkness hot. Really I do. The problem is, I watch Hex and there is the fallen angel, brooding, smoldering, and just generally hot-ing all over the place. I try to cling to the knowledge I've fought and struggled for throughout my life. I try to remember that dating a devil, demon, or any variation thereof is unacceptable. But he stands in the shadows and yearns so powerfully and then I totally forget. This is why if I ever do meet a vampire I will totally die.
He'll pop out of the alley and give me a come hither look, and instead of fighting him, recognizing him, or otherwise resisting him (which would lead of course to a tension filled courtship followed by his falling in love with me and general redemption through the healing powers of the vagina) I would just walk in to the alley smiling like an idiot and thinking "you're pretty." Then he rips out my throat and I die.
I'm so Lucy and not Mina. Damn you Gary Oldman as Dracula!
If I ever die of a strange "animal attack" and my body is found naked in some woods (or desert) somewhere please remember this post and know I stupidly went to my death willingly. And most probably liked it. At least I know I'm stupid.
Stupid hot fallen angels.
I was thinking, as I contemplated my latest inappropriate attraction, that no part of "in league with the devil," especially when taken literally, should be attractive. And yet, here I am.
I've begun watching a show called Hex; it's a British television series and the best description I could use would be, sort of like Charmed, but way, way better. And instead of a half-human, half-demon we have a fallen angel. There's really nothing wrong with that. But I've begun to think back to my obsession with demons, devils, and lords of darkness and I think it all starts with Tim Curry. Frankly, I'm blaming every inappropriate crush I've ever harbored in my life on Legend. As my brilliant friend pointed out, once cloven hooves don't throw you off, you're done for.
Legend, the Ridley Scott movie from the '80's staring a very young Tom Cruise flashing a whole lot of thigh, revolved around the main characters, Jack and Lily, two unicorns, and the classic battle between light and dark. Within this battle, as within every battle between good and evil, the female character, Lily in this case, faces and survives loss of innocence. Here's where everything goes so very, very wrong. When I was but a wee lass, I would watch Legend (it had swords and unicorns: awesome) over and over again. I liked Jack alright, he was the hero, but the Lord of Darkness, played by Tim Curry fascinated me and...well...he made me feel funny.
The first time you see him in the movie he steps out of a mirror and stands glorious with horns, man-beast features, a six pack, and cloven hooves. I kinda liked it.
In all honesty, though, I think it had to do with his attempts to bring out the worst in Lily, certainly a quality I should not find attractive, but in my wee years the idea of a man, beast, whatever, promising to free me, entice me, and whatever me (I couldn't quite comprehend just what all was being promised in my youth) seemed infinitely more cool than Jack, the man who wanted her to behave, maintain the balance of light and dark and generally preserve the goodness in the world. Boring.
Many years and much wisdom later I see the fault in finding the Lord of Darkness hot. Really I do. The problem is, I watch Hex and there is the fallen angel, brooding, smoldering, and just generally hot-ing all over the place. I try to cling to the knowledge I've fought and struggled for throughout my life. I try to remember that dating a devil, demon, or any variation thereof is unacceptable. But he stands in the shadows and yearns so powerfully and then I totally forget. This is why if I ever do meet a vampire I will totally die.
He'll pop out of the alley and give me a come hither look, and instead of fighting him, recognizing him, or otherwise resisting him (which would lead of course to a tension filled courtship followed by his falling in love with me and general redemption through the healing powers of the vagina) I would just walk in to the alley smiling like an idiot and thinking "you're pretty." Then he rips out my throat and I die.
I'm so Lucy and not Mina. Damn you Gary Oldman as Dracula!
If I ever die of a strange "animal attack" and my body is found naked in some woods (or desert) somewhere please remember this post and know I stupidly went to my death willingly. And most probably liked it. At least I know I'm stupid.
Stupid hot fallen angels.
Monday, January 05, 2009
I'm watching Star Wars Episode 3, the one where Anakin turns bad and the Sith take over, and I was struck by a scene that hadn't moved me before. Anakin and Palpatine are discussing the Jedi council and governmental politics and Palpatine says to Anakin, "the council has asked you to do something that makes you feel dishonest." This is true, of course, the council has asked Anakin to spy on Palpatine and this doesn't sit well with Anakin.
But it occurred to me as I watched this that awareness and wisdom, qualities the Jedi council uses and pursues often require those who seek them to feel "dishonest." It has been my experience that whenever someone realizes the world isn't the way they imagined it to be, seriously different than they ever dreamed, operating as is wise, before they are mentally prepared to do so, causes them to feel dishonest. The reason for this, I think, is because the world exists in shades of gray, black, and white; because gray is the primary operating color, those in politics and/or warfare like the Jedi, are constantly working to protect the balance, not the current operating government. For Anakin, someone who can only see the obvious and is incapable of recognizing the abstract, the Jedi council's request, a request based on the abstract principles the Jedi live by, strikes him as unfathomable and "dishonest."
The reason this seemed worth mentioning was because as I watched Anakin struggle with his lack of faith in the council, a lack that only matters because he is incapable of reasoning abstractly for himself, I was struck by how many people I have met in my life who are exactly like Anakin Skywalker. For the vast majority, their basic morality/system of ethics aligns with the law and they never have to question themselves or their world. Situations where their belief systems are challenged are minor and quickly past, thereby protecting them from the sort of crisis of belief that Anakin faces.
But how many of us, people who have always assumed they would stand strong in the face of the dark side, are Sith material? How many neglect to question their surroundings and their beliefs because the concrete appears to operate separately from the abstract? I was asked recently why it mattered that I was able to name, use my verbal skills to assign words to my surroundings. It matters for many reasons, but in this particular instance, because by being able to use language to describe my experience (life, the universe, everything) I'm also better able to understand the abstract. Concepts like justice, equality, moral, and immoral, are not connected to a particular legal system or man-made system--I've reasoned through for myself what a concept like "democracy" means and so am able to question someone else's wielding of the world instead of accepting blindly or being unnerved without power to comprehend.
The power of the Sith seems to lie in a person's own inability to think for themself. Along with pride, anger, hatred--all the emotions of the dark side, in the end it is Anakin's own inability to understand himself and abstract concepts that brings him down. He hides behind the "Republic" and its laws because they ground him.
And this movie is going to depress me. Again. Stupid Sith lords.
But it occurred to me as I watched this that awareness and wisdom, qualities the Jedi council uses and pursues often require those who seek them to feel "dishonest." It has been my experience that whenever someone realizes the world isn't the way they imagined it to be, seriously different than they ever dreamed, operating as is wise, before they are mentally prepared to do so, causes them to feel dishonest. The reason for this, I think, is because the world exists in shades of gray, black, and white; because gray is the primary operating color, those in politics and/or warfare like the Jedi, are constantly working to protect the balance, not the current operating government. For Anakin, someone who can only see the obvious and is incapable of recognizing the abstract, the Jedi council's request, a request based on the abstract principles the Jedi live by, strikes him as unfathomable and "dishonest."
The reason this seemed worth mentioning was because as I watched Anakin struggle with his lack of faith in the council, a lack that only matters because he is incapable of reasoning abstractly for himself, I was struck by how many people I have met in my life who are exactly like Anakin Skywalker. For the vast majority, their basic morality/system of ethics aligns with the law and they never have to question themselves or their world. Situations where their belief systems are challenged are minor and quickly past, thereby protecting them from the sort of crisis of belief that Anakin faces.
But how many of us, people who have always assumed they would stand strong in the face of the dark side, are Sith material? How many neglect to question their surroundings and their beliefs because the concrete appears to operate separately from the abstract? I was asked recently why it mattered that I was able to name, use my verbal skills to assign words to my surroundings. It matters for many reasons, but in this particular instance, because by being able to use language to describe my experience (life, the universe, everything) I'm also better able to understand the abstract. Concepts like justice, equality, moral, and immoral, are not connected to a particular legal system or man-made system--I've reasoned through for myself what a concept like "democracy" means and so am able to question someone else's wielding of the world instead of accepting blindly or being unnerved without power to comprehend.
The power of the Sith seems to lie in a person's own inability to think for themself. Along with pride, anger, hatred--all the emotions of the dark side, in the end it is Anakin's own inability to understand himself and abstract concepts that brings him down. He hides behind the "Republic" and its laws because they ground him.
And this movie is going to depress me. Again. Stupid Sith lords.
Sunday, January 04, 2009
It's been asked of me a few times over the course of my life, who is my favorite superhero? I never have a satisfactory answer. Sort of like, what's my favorite movie, song, or book--how do I pick one? But I just watched the trailer for Wolverine and I was reminded how much I truly, truly loved Wolverine as a kid; plus, the trailer has Gambit in it and Gambit was more than a little crush through my teen years. I can't give you my favorite superhero, therefore you understand, but I am going to attempt my top ten favorites. These numbers are malleable and, ten years from now, these might not be my favorites anymore, but I'm going to try and offer here, for the first time, a satisfactory answer. There are going to be some big names missing and rather than try to anticipate everyone's thoughts I'll just offer to clarify via comments any questions. Also, I realized as I made this list every name is from either the X-Men, or JLA (except Batgirl and Huntress but they kind of count) and my reasons for that are two: 1) I wanted to keep the list to tights and "super" powers--we'll consider the "Bat" family's dedication super. 2) Those were and are my favorite comic books. It's as simple as that.
Top Ten Favorite Superheroes:
10. Wonder Woman
It seems odd, perhaps, for her to be at #10, but I was never much of a Wonder Woman reader as a kid. Her story was consistently boring through most of the 90's when I was seriously buying comic books, and while I've always liked her character, what it stood for and all that, I was never particularly intrigued by her story. This all changed, however, with the addition of two things. The first, a romantic plot line between her and Batman that never worked out and left me angry and screaming at the comic book. The second, a more comprehensive look at what it means to be the only Amazon out and about in the world, fighting for equality of all things on top of saving people regularly. Wonder Woman has a really, really hard life. Her stories finally reflecting that have made her character and her character's motivations drastically more interesting and thought-provoking.
9. Phoenix/Dark Phoenix
I'm cheating here because Dark Phoenix is definitely not a superhero. She is, however, the biggest, baddest, and meanest superhero gone bad to ever grace the pages of a comic book. I hate Jean Grey. I hate Cyclops. They're both whiny, irritating, boring characters that keep dying and coming back. But, when Jean Grey become Phoenix and then went bad becoming Dark Phoenix? That was the first time in my memory I said "whoa" out loud while reading a comic book. Dark Phoenix ate a star--because she was hungry. Millions of people dead in the blink of an eye after she wipes out a solar system. That's badass people.
8. Huntress
Huntress never gets the love she deserves. She's angry; she's feisty. She doesn't bow down to Batman's sanctimonious attitude. Her character has finally started to receive the development it deserves in Birds of Prey, but prior to that Huntress filled the role of the "bad" child of the Bat family. I connected with that, and also found her willfulness vastly entertaining. She also stood strong in front of an army to keep the Joker from killing babies. What isn't to love about this girl?
7. Gambit
I can't lie to you. Gambit is here because he's hot, and I crushed on him as a teenager. He wanted Rogue and I wanted to be Rogue and I wanted him. I still maintain if Rogue would have trusted him, Gambit could have found a way. The boy was a Cajun pickpocket--you know he knew some kinky stuff.
6. Batgirl
It's hard to put Batgirl at only #6, but from here on out consider the list malleable. My love of Batgirl ties back directly to watching the Adam West Batman t.v. show as a kid. Every time Batgirl was in the opening credits I got excited; my love for her has never waned since.
5. Rogue
Young girl whose constantly isolated by her superpower. Rogue can never touch another person skin to skin. As a teenager how could I not associate with her character? I loved her before Gambit came into the picture, but after Gambit and she started to dance around each other...it was all over. I was a goner. It never occurred to me how much not being able to touch skin to skin would suck at sixteen, but maybe that was because at sixteen, when no one was touching me anyway, anything seemed like an improvement. Rogue is the teenage girl archetype and the part of me that remembers and even, on occasion, still feels that way will always feel a kinship with her.
4. Wolverine
He's the best at what he does. He also perfectly fulfills the role of older crush. Wolverine takes you under his wing, teaches you to be a ninja and stays the same age so that your crush can be returned when you're age appropriate. Many a young fantasy revolved around this character. Probably most of my love of writing started because I had to concoct entire novels around Wolverine and myself as a superhero who fought along side him, got older (me being twelve or so meant I had to grow older--at least I knew that much) and us falling in love. He was sort of like my bad boy immortal before I knew how hot bad boy immortals were. Suddenly my whole life is making more sense...
3. Shadowcat
I wanted to be Shadowcat. It's a toss up if I wanted to be Shadowcat more or Rogue. Shadowcat could walk through walls, but she learns to be a ninja from Wolverine. More importantly, though, when I was reading the older comic books she was fourteen, I was around that, she was from Chicago, I was from Illinois, she had brown hair, I had brown hair...obviously I was Shadowcat. As I rewrote X-Men stories in my mind she was the obvious choice for writing myself into a character. Like every other character on this list, though, Shadowcat was also surprisingly strong. She saves the team; she fights evil when no one else can. She's not the flashiest or the most badass, but she perseveres. I think that's worthy of serious recognition.
2. Batman
Like Gambit, Batman is hot. To say he doesn't rank #2 for his undeniable hotness is like saying...I don't know, but like not saying something obvious. Totally. In any case, Batman is also one of the original brooders. Here's a hero with drive. He's as fallible as he is remarkable. He carries love and hate in equal doses and sometimes he walks a fine line of moral and immoral, ethical and unethical. His stories are fascinating for that reason--his character is fascinating. Batman, maybe more than any other character, makes me ask myself, what would I do?
1. Storm
I never wanted to be Storm. I aspired to be like Storm. Storm is, in my opinion, the most misunderstood and underrated character in comic books--certainly amongst superheroines. The weather responds to her emotions so she has to keep herself under control at all times. She worshiped the Goddess before it was in vogue to do so. She is wise, patient, unbelievably strong, and incredibly caring and compassionate. She can also make necessary tactical decisions which is what makes her a great leader. Without her powers she still defeated Cyclops for control of the team, and she grew up a pickpocket and an orphan alone. Worshiped as a goddess it never went to her head. Storm has never had a satisfactory love interest because no one knows how to write her a lover that stays true to her character. I don't know that I can ever forgive Halle Berry for what she did to her. And Dracula falls in love with Storm. That, if no other reason is good enough, makes her #1. You woo Dracula and you're an automatic rockstar.
Top Ten Favorite Superheroes:
10. Wonder Woman
It seems odd, perhaps, for her to be at #10, but I was never much of a Wonder Woman reader as a kid. Her story was consistently boring through most of the 90's when I was seriously buying comic books, and while I've always liked her character, what it stood for and all that, I was never particularly intrigued by her story. This all changed, however, with the addition of two things. The first, a romantic plot line between her and Batman that never worked out and left me angry and screaming at the comic book. The second, a more comprehensive look at what it means to be the only Amazon out and about in the world, fighting for equality of all things on top of saving people regularly. Wonder Woman has a really, really hard life. Her stories finally reflecting that have made her character and her character's motivations drastically more interesting and thought-provoking.
9. Phoenix/Dark Phoenix
I'm cheating here because Dark Phoenix is definitely not a superhero. She is, however, the biggest, baddest, and meanest superhero gone bad to ever grace the pages of a comic book. I hate Jean Grey. I hate Cyclops. They're both whiny, irritating, boring characters that keep dying and coming back. But, when Jean Grey become Phoenix and then went bad becoming Dark Phoenix? That was the first time in my memory I said "whoa" out loud while reading a comic book. Dark Phoenix ate a star--because she was hungry. Millions of people dead in the blink of an eye after she wipes out a solar system. That's badass people.
8. Huntress
Huntress never gets the love she deserves. She's angry; she's feisty. She doesn't bow down to Batman's sanctimonious attitude. Her character has finally started to receive the development it deserves in Birds of Prey, but prior to that Huntress filled the role of the "bad" child of the Bat family. I connected with that, and also found her willfulness vastly entertaining. She also stood strong in front of an army to keep the Joker from killing babies. What isn't to love about this girl?
7. Gambit
I can't lie to you. Gambit is here because he's hot, and I crushed on him as a teenager. He wanted Rogue and I wanted to be Rogue and I wanted him. I still maintain if Rogue would have trusted him, Gambit could have found a way. The boy was a Cajun pickpocket--you know he knew some kinky stuff.
6. Batgirl
It's hard to put Batgirl at only #6, but from here on out consider the list malleable. My love of Batgirl ties back directly to watching the Adam West Batman t.v. show as a kid. Every time Batgirl was in the opening credits I got excited; my love for her has never waned since.
5. Rogue
Young girl whose constantly isolated by her superpower. Rogue can never touch another person skin to skin. As a teenager how could I not associate with her character? I loved her before Gambit came into the picture, but after Gambit and she started to dance around each other...it was all over. I was a goner. It never occurred to me how much not being able to touch skin to skin would suck at sixteen, but maybe that was because at sixteen, when no one was touching me anyway, anything seemed like an improvement. Rogue is the teenage girl archetype and the part of me that remembers and even, on occasion, still feels that way will always feel a kinship with her.
4. Wolverine
He's the best at what he does. He also perfectly fulfills the role of older crush. Wolverine takes you under his wing, teaches you to be a ninja and stays the same age so that your crush can be returned when you're age appropriate. Many a young fantasy revolved around this character. Probably most of my love of writing started because I had to concoct entire novels around Wolverine and myself as a superhero who fought along side him, got older (me being twelve or so meant I had to grow older--at least I knew that much) and us falling in love. He was sort of like my bad boy immortal before I knew how hot bad boy immortals were. Suddenly my whole life is making more sense...
3. Shadowcat
I wanted to be Shadowcat. It's a toss up if I wanted to be Shadowcat more or Rogue. Shadowcat could walk through walls, but she learns to be a ninja from Wolverine. More importantly, though, when I was reading the older comic books she was fourteen, I was around that, she was from Chicago, I was from Illinois, she had brown hair, I had brown hair...obviously I was Shadowcat. As I rewrote X-Men stories in my mind she was the obvious choice for writing myself into a character. Like every other character on this list, though, Shadowcat was also surprisingly strong. She saves the team; she fights evil when no one else can. She's not the flashiest or the most badass, but she perseveres. I think that's worthy of serious recognition.
2. Batman
Like Gambit, Batman is hot. To say he doesn't rank #2 for his undeniable hotness is like saying...I don't know, but like not saying something obvious. Totally. In any case, Batman is also one of the original brooders. Here's a hero with drive. He's as fallible as he is remarkable. He carries love and hate in equal doses and sometimes he walks a fine line of moral and immoral, ethical and unethical. His stories are fascinating for that reason--his character is fascinating. Batman, maybe more than any other character, makes me ask myself, what would I do?
1. Storm
I never wanted to be Storm. I aspired to be like Storm. Storm is, in my opinion, the most misunderstood and underrated character in comic books--certainly amongst superheroines. The weather responds to her emotions so she has to keep herself under control at all times. She worshiped the Goddess before it was in vogue to do so. She is wise, patient, unbelievably strong, and incredibly caring and compassionate. She can also make necessary tactical decisions which is what makes her a great leader. Without her powers she still defeated Cyclops for control of the team, and she grew up a pickpocket and an orphan alone. Worshiped as a goddess it never went to her head. Storm has never had a satisfactory love interest because no one knows how to write her a lover that stays true to her character. I don't know that I can ever forgive Halle Berry for what she did to her. And Dracula falls in love with Storm. That, if no other reason is good enough, makes her #1. You woo Dracula and you're an automatic rockstar.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Oh Little Women. Stupid, stupid, stupid movie. We spend the first half of the movie seeing Jo and Laurie together being best friends and (this is helped by Laurie being played by Christian Bale) I totally fell in love with Laurie. He's adorable, sensitive, and a musician. He and Jo just seem meant to be. But then, after the oldest sister gets married and Laurie makes his move Jo tells him she just doesn't love him. It's heartbreaking but I'm still there.
Then there's Beth going through the whole thing, the Scarlet fever, the dying...you know how the story goes.
So, long story short, here I am teary-eyed on the couch. First I'm tearing up because of Beth, then I'm tearing up because Beth gets better, then I tear up because Jo doesn't love Laurie, but then...Laurie falls in love with Amy. Amy! How can Laurie fall in love with Amy?!
It isn't that Amy isn't pretty, and it isn't that I don't think Amy deserves happiness, but not with Laurie. The worst of it is, the movie short changes the Laurie-Amy, Jo-Professor relationship so it is hard to buy that Jo and Laurie don't actually love each other. I'm told the book is more clear and better demonstrates the various love stories, but I'm totally not sold.
And, AND! Laurie tells Amy that he knew he was "destined to marry a March." I don't know about you guys, but if some dude tells me he knows he's destined for my family after having the hots for my sister I'm not going to quickly or easily believe his protestations of love. He says "hey I totally fell in love with your sister, but it's cool. I don't love her anymore. Besides, I always knew I was destined to marry into your family. Baby I love you." Me? I say, "Hmm...maybe not." Unless it's Christian Bale and then I just roll with it, but you know how it is.
So the question is: does Jo belong with the Professor or with Laurie? And why, if Laurie isn't her true love, does the first half of the movie spend so much time making it seem like it must be so? Perhaps it is simply that as childhood best friends I've been conditioned by Western literature to expect a romantic ending for the two of them. I am reasonably sure that is part of it. When I watch a movie or read a book I've been trained to recognize appropriate romantic pairings from the beginning. Ms. Alcott's story messes with my expectations in a way I was not properly prepared for. Why don't they ever give you enough screen time with the Professor so that you can bond with him? Why do they give me family tragedy and deny me acceptable true love?! I'm so frustrated by Louise May Alcott and her stupid trueish story.
So now I'm watching The Incredible Hulk because the best way to deal healthy with an overabundance of emotion is to watch crap blow up.
And, on that note, I think I have to add Bruce Banner to my list of men I love that might kill me why I sleep. After all, if you wanna talk about nice guy/bad boy dichotomy the Hulk is pretty much the archetype. Tender, sensitive scientist who turns into a monster of rage and emotion and doesn't mean to hurt you. Truth be told, I was never one to love the Hulk romantically myself, but I did always feel sorry for him. He loves Betty so much but his Hulkiness keeps them apart. It's tragedy worthy of Shakespeare I'm telling you. Not to mention we used to watch the old t.v. show every morning before swim practice--it was, perhaps, the most depressing show ever. It's a wonder I never drowned myself at swimming lessons.
So here I sit on my couch, empathizing with Bruce Banner and torn over my feelings about Jo, Laurie, Amy, and the Professor.
Little Women made me angry. You won't like me when I'm angry.
Then there's Beth going through the whole thing, the Scarlet fever, the dying...you know how the story goes.
So, long story short, here I am teary-eyed on the couch. First I'm tearing up because of Beth, then I'm tearing up because Beth gets better, then I tear up because Jo doesn't love Laurie, but then...Laurie falls in love with Amy. Amy! How can Laurie fall in love with Amy?!
It isn't that Amy isn't pretty, and it isn't that I don't think Amy deserves happiness, but not with Laurie. The worst of it is, the movie short changes the Laurie-Amy, Jo-Professor relationship so it is hard to buy that Jo and Laurie don't actually love each other. I'm told the book is more clear and better demonstrates the various love stories, but I'm totally not sold.
And, AND! Laurie tells Amy that he knew he was "destined to marry a March." I don't know about you guys, but if some dude tells me he knows he's destined for my family after having the hots for my sister I'm not going to quickly or easily believe his protestations of love. He says "hey I totally fell in love with your sister, but it's cool. I don't love her anymore. Besides, I always knew I was destined to marry into your family. Baby I love you." Me? I say, "Hmm...maybe not." Unless it's Christian Bale and then I just roll with it, but you know how it is.
So the question is: does Jo belong with the Professor or with Laurie? And why, if Laurie isn't her true love, does the first half of the movie spend so much time making it seem like it must be so? Perhaps it is simply that as childhood best friends I've been conditioned by Western literature to expect a romantic ending for the two of them. I am reasonably sure that is part of it. When I watch a movie or read a book I've been trained to recognize appropriate romantic pairings from the beginning. Ms. Alcott's story messes with my expectations in a way I was not properly prepared for. Why don't they ever give you enough screen time with the Professor so that you can bond with him? Why do they give me family tragedy and deny me acceptable true love?! I'm so frustrated by Louise May Alcott and her stupid trueish story.
So now I'm watching The Incredible Hulk because the best way to deal healthy with an overabundance of emotion is to watch crap blow up.
And, on that note, I think I have to add Bruce Banner to my list of men I love that might kill me why I sleep. After all, if you wanna talk about nice guy/bad boy dichotomy the Hulk is pretty much the archetype. Tender, sensitive scientist who turns into a monster of rage and emotion and doesn't mean to hurt you. Truth be told, I was never one to love the Hulk romantically myself, but I did always feel sorry for him. He loves Betty so much but his Hulkiness keeps them apart. It's tragedy worthy of Shakespeare I'm telling you. Not to mention we used to watch the old t.v. show every morning before swim practice--it was, perhaps, the most depressing show ever. It's a wonder I never drowned myself at swimming lessons.
So here I sit on my couch, empathizing with Bruce Banner and torn over my feelings about Jo, Laurie, Amy, and the Professor.
Little Women made me angry. You won't like me when I'm angry.
Sunday, December 28, 2008
I just finished my latest trashy romance novel and I'm perplexed. The whole story revolves around the hero's big "secret." This is, of course, how almost all of these books work, but this one I found particularly confusing. His name is Jake and he's a rancher. Jake's father died when Jake was 12 and his mother died when he was 17 so he took over the ranch and raised his 3 younger siblings himself. He also turned the ranch around and made it prosperous. Thus far we've hit all the appropriate ingredients for an alchemic romance. When our heroine, the bright, cultured, college professor rolls into town Jake hates how much he likes her and spends the better part of two hundred pages dreading the inevitability of her leaving because she can never know his "secret." Our heroine, Amanda, even starts to suspect somewhere around page 150 or so and then she too worries about his dreadful "secret."
At this point I'm thinking this dude must have killed a baby or something.
All the thoughts he spends thinking he's a fraud--how she'll learn that he isn't the great, honorable, strong man he pretends to be. She worries and worries that he is strong and proud like her uncle who had the same "secret" and won't let her help thereby trapping him on his ranch and dooming him to loneliness and an early death. My mind is racing considering all the possibilities of secrets that would fulfill the seriousness described and still allow for a happy ending. For instance, if Jake was a secretly a serial killer that's going to make a long term relationship with Amanda difficult vs. he is actually a supernatural denizen that feeds off human blood but doesn't kill humans. Maybe, I thought, he did one horrible thing in his past and still feels horribly guilty about it. I could also accept this as a possibility. If he killed a kid while drunk driving at 16 that could cause Amanda to rethink his character; I'm not sure how I would feel about it as a reader, but perhaps it would be a nice commentary on loving someone with a past who has changed blah, blah blah.
Jake's secret was none of these things. Jake was illiterate.
I'm not knocking the seriousness of adult illiteracy, nor the mental baggage it creates in those who are hiding their illiteracy. As plot lines go I think this is a good one. Jake's dad started pulling him out of school at seven years old to help on the ranch. The dad was illiterate, now Jake was illiterate. It all made reasonable sense. But after Amanda "figures it out" we have this huge insurmountable problem--he's ashamed she knows and won't pursue the education even though he desperately wants it. At this point I'm once again reminded why I'm not a romance heroine.
To me, and I can be a cold, heartless, uncaring person, it's just not that big of a deal. Not that it isn't a big deal, but this is a totally fixable situation. Jake can see. Jake is smart. Jake does not have a learning disability that he is aware of. Jake has money. Learning to read would be frustrating, but when it comes to the illiteracy camp he's definitely way up there. And of course he would be ashamed of it, and of course falling in love with the writer/college professor/world traveler will make him feel inadequate, but it's changeable.
I imagine about the third time Jake flips out because I knew he was illiterate and refused to agree to learn I would probably have had enough. As serious as the situation is it isn't permanent and that's just such a big difference to me. Of course, my feelings of annoyance are exacerbated because the climax of the book revolves around our hero racing away in a truck to a small cabin out in the woods. Little does he know the bridge is washed out and there isn't a road sign only a small cardboard handwritten sign on the side of the road that he won't be able to read. Our hero and Jake's sister race after him and his sister stops him from plunging into the creek bed, but his truck spooks her horse and she falls into the creek bed suffering serious injury. As our hero and heroine sit in the emergency room he decides he can't hide anymore and must deal with this problem that has so ruled his life and nearly cost his sister hers.
Yeah, I was moved too.
A cardboard, hand written sign? Really? And in all the years of that bridge washing out he really has no way of telling? He can recognize the shape and color of road signs. And so the little sister must almost die for his great revelation--it seemed a bit over the top. And yes, I recognize the irony in calling anything in a romance novel over the top. Whatever.
So our question then is, does Jake's secret really fuel the plot? I've gotta go with no. Jake is an excellent hero, the romance aspect is great, but I wouldn't be crying if I found out the man I loved was illiterate. I would be crying if he refused to learn, especially if he couldn't learn, but just stubbornly refusing to do what he wants to do because he imagines it's futile? That's more tragically real, not romantically tragic.
Honestly, I was hoping he was going to be agoraphobic. At least that would be a new plotline.
At this point I'm thinking this dude must have killed a baby or something.
All the thoughts he spends thinking he's a fraud--how she'll learn that he isn't the great, honorable, strong man he pretends to be. She worries and worries that he is strong and proud like her uncle who had the same "secret" and won't let her help thereby trapping him on his ranch and dooming him to loneliness and an early death. My mind is racing considering all the possibilities of secrets that would fulfill the seriousness described and still allow for a happy ending. For instance, if Jake was a secretly a serial killer that's going to make a long term relationship with Amanda difficult vs. he is actually a supernatural denizen that feeds off human blood but doesn't kill humans. Maybe, I thought, he did one horrible thing in his past and still feels horribly guilty about it. I could also accept this as a possibility. If he killed a kid while drunk driving at 16 that could cause Amanda to rethink his character; I'm not sure how I would feel about it as a reader, but perhaps it would be a nice commentary on loving someone with a past who has changed blah, blah blah.
Jake's secret was none of these things. Jake was illiterate.
I'm not knocking the seriousness of adult illiteracy, nor the mental baggage it creates in those who are hiding their illiteracy. As plot lines go I think this is a good one. Jake's dad started pulling him out of school at seven years old to help on the ranch. The dad was illiterate, now Jake was illiterate. It all made reasonable sense. But after Amanda "figures it out" we have this huge insurmountable problem--he's ashamed she knows and won't pursue the education even though he desperately wants it. At this point I'm once again reminded why I'm not a romance heroine.
To me, and I can be a cold, heartless, uncaring person, it's just not that big of a deal. Not that it isn't a big deal, but this is a totally fixable situation. Jake can see. Jake is smart. Jake does not have a learning disability that he is aware of. Jake has money. Learning to read would be frustrating, but when it comes to the illiteracy camp he's definitely way up there. And of course he would be ashamed of it, and of course falling in love with the writer/college professor/world traveler will make him feel inadequate, but it's changeable.
I imagine about the third time Jake flips out because I knew he was illiterate and refused to agree to learn I would probably have had enough. As serious as the situation is it isn't permanent and that's just such a big difference to me. Of course, my feelings of annoyance are exacerbated because the climax of the book revolves around our hero racing away in a truck to a small cabin out in the woods. Little does he know the bridge is washed out and there isn't a road sign only a small cardboard handwritten sign on the side of the road that he won't be able to read. Our hero and Jake's sister race after him and his sister stops him from plunging into the creek bed, but his truck spooks her horse and she falls into the creek bed suffering serious injury. As our hero and heroine sit in the emergency room he decides he can't hide anymore and must deal with this problem that has so ruled his life and nearly cost his sister hers.
Yeah, I was moved too.
A cardboard, hand written sign? Really? And in all the years of that bridge washing out he really has no way of telling? He can recognize the shape and color of road signs. And so the little sister must almost die for his great revelation--it seemed a bit over the top. And yes, I recognize the irony in calling anything in a romance novel over the top. Whatever.
So our question then is, does Jake's secret really fuel the plot? I've gotta go with no. Jake is an excellent hero, the romance aspect is great, but I wouldn't be crying if I found out the man I loved was illiterate. I would be crying if he refused to learn, especially if he couldn't learn, but just stubbornly refusing to do what he wants to do because he imagines it's futile? That's more tragically real, not romantically tragic.
Honestly, I was hoping he was going to be agoraphobic. At least that would be a new plotline.
Saturday, December 27, 2008
It's the holidays, I toyed with several possible topics to share and I've settled on:
The Twelve Days of Christmas
12: I get off the plane from Las Vegas having not slept the night before to see my wonderful, adoring mother practically bouncing up and down in the airport waiting to scoop me into a tearful embrace and welcome me home. I haven't slept, and it's only been a month since I've last seen her so I'm not feeling the emotional reunion thing. What do I, the considerate, understanding, always patient daughter say first? "Mom, don't hug me and cry on me. I'm tired." I know. I hate me too.
11: I bake two pies.
10: I suffer panic attacks because I'm trapped in a house with my parents with no car, no cigarettes and a uterus that is poisoning my body with estrogen and progesterone. I survive panic attacks by stuffing my face with as much food as I can find. And there's a lot.
9: I attend party #1 as we celebrate my dad and my cousin's birthday. Family members shout at each other across the room because "inside" voices are a recessive gene in our genetics, my dad sticks a lighter next to my ear (and hair) and lights it because he's a pyromaniac, Christmas music plays on repeat in the background, while two dogs on the back porch bark and whine over it all.
8: I eat a cookie.
7: I attend party #2 where we celebrate the first family Christmas with one side of the family. We open windows because people on one side of the room are hot, while those in front of the windows freeze. Those who are hot never agree to switch seats with those in front of the windows. We then eat but pass food from the same ends so that those on the other end always get the dregs, but still have to find room for all the empty containers to sit.
6: I eat a piece of cake.
5: I attend party #3 where we celebrate the immediate family Christmas and my stocking includes cough drops. Expectant parents (my siblings) receive a DVD about miscarriage and a marriage that breaks apart. My father is no longer allowed to shop at the Dollar Store and assume responsibility for our stockings.
4: I eat a piece of pie.
3: I attend party #4 where we celebrate Christmas with the other side of the family. After lunch we have "choir rehearsal" and "band rehearsal" where chosen members of the family are given instruments they haven't played in five, fifteen, and twenty-nine years and we put on a bit of a concert for each other. My enthusiasm on the snare drum overrules the single flute and my dad quits after the flugelhorn defeats him. It's not a band until at least one person walks out. I sing soprano in the "choir" which is unfortunate for me, the family, and all passer-bys who travel down our block.
2: I travel through fog that has only been seen previously in The Mist--a horrible movie adaptation of a Stephen King novel. It completely surrounds my hometown blanketing the frozen fields and melts the ice enough so that a layer of water sits atop the remaining four inches. I slip and land on my shin for the first time since traveling home.
1: I eat another cookie.
Merry Christmas kids. It ain't over till you've celebrated it at least three times and gained ten pounds. Someday I will write a movie script off of this and make millions by shamelessly cashing in on all of my family's wonders, oddities, and personality. For now I simply share with you.
The Twelve Days of Christmas
12: I get off the plane from Las Vegas having not slept the night before to see my wonderful, adoring mother practically bouncing up and down in the airport waiting to scoop me into a tearful embrace and welcome me home. I haven't slept, and it's only been a month since I've last seen her so I'm not feeling the emotional reunion thing. What do I, the considerate, understanding, always patient daughter say first? "Mom, don't hug me and cry on me. I'm tired." I know. I hate me too.
11: I bake two pies.
10: I suffer panic attacks because I'm trapped in a house with my parents with no car, no cigarettes and a uterus that is poisoning my body with estrogen and progesterone. I survive panic attacks by stuffing my face with as much food as I can find. And there's a lot.
9: I attend party #1 as we celebrate my dad and my cousin's birthday. Family members shout at each other across the room because "inside" voices are a recessive gene in our genetics, my dad sticks a lighter next to my ear (and hair) and lights it because he's a pyromaniac, Christmas music plays on repeat in the background, while two dogs on the back porch bark and whine over it all.
8: I eat a cookie.
7: I attend party #2 where we celebrate the first family Christmas with one side of the family. We open windows because people on one side of the room are hot, while those in front of the windows freeze. Those who are hot never agree to switch seats with those in front of the windows. We then eat but pass food from the same ends so that those on the other end always get the dregs, but still have to find room for all the empty containers to sit.
6: I eat a piece of cake.
5: I attend party #3 where we celebrate the immediate family Christmas and my stocking includes cough drops. Expectant parents (my siblings) receive a DVD about miscarriage and a marriage that breaks apart. My father is no longer allowed to shop at the Dollar Store and assume responsibility for our stockings.
4: I eat a piece of pie.
3: I attend party #4 where we celebrate Christmas with the other side of the family. After lunch we have "choir rehearsal" and "band rehearsal" where chosen members of the family are given instruments they haven't played in five, fifteen, and twenty-nine years and we put on a bit of a concert for each other. My enthusiasm on the snare drum overrules the single flute and my dad quits after the flugelhorn defeats him. It's not a band until at least one person walks out. I sing soprano in the "choir" which is unfortunate for me, the family, and all passer-bys who travel down our block.
2: I travel through fog that has only been seen previously in The Mist--a horrible movie adaptation of a Stephen King novel. It completely surrounds my hometown blanketing the frozen fields and melts the ice enough so that a layer of water sits atop the remaining four inches. I slip and land on my shin for the first time since traveling home.
1: I eat another cookie.
Merry Christmas kids. It ain't over till you've celebrated it at least three times and gained ten pounds. Someday I will write a movie script off of this and make millions by shamelessly cashing in on all of my family's wonders, oddities, and personality. For now I simply share with you.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
I haven't shared any "from home" stories yet, and I do apologize for that lack. Fortunately (or unfortunately) I haven't been blessed with the opportunity to iron the carpet or be bowled over trying to move the couch again this year. But...that doesn't mean I'm without tales.
My mother, bless her heart, has a tendency to ask questions when she already knows what she wants and what she will do. For instance, when I'm home I tend to travel to various different places seeing friends--this has been a tradition since I moved far away four years ago. Saturday, I believe it was, my mom asked me, "are you going to go see your friends?" I told her yes and she asked, "do you mind if your father and I tag along?" You would think after all this time of being her daughter I could have recognized this question for the statement it was. She wasn't asking what I wanted you see, she was being polite in telling me what was going to happen. In hindsight it all makes so much sense. "I'd rather not," I told her--I gave up indirectness with my parents years ago. "Oh," she said, "well, I have some shopping to do so I thought we would." Uh-huh.
Generally I don't care if my parents travel with me, and I'm long past the age of "I have to be cool with my friends" business, but I get a little claustrophobic in my home town. There's nothing here. Really. And not having a vehicle of my own (what with the flying home and everything) I can't just drive. I can't leave town without first asking to use my parents vehicle, or in this case, with my parents. That means that when I have a particular plan--shop, see friend, see Australia--I have to modify said plan because they have insisted on coming along.
It should also be noted that I'm premenstrual and experiencing nicotine withdrawal since I smoked too much before coming home and not smoking at all. This is not a good combination when dealing with one's mother. Under the circumstances I did my best to perform admirably (I think).
My day starts off with my mom, moments after I awake asking, "do you know what I'm doing today yet?" She had attempted to plan when we would travel since winter weather was supposed to come through and apparently I was supposed to do the planning for all of us. Those of you that know me know I don't wake up well under the best of circumstances--to be awoken with a question requiring I plan a day I don't particularly want to plan...it was almost too much. I decide we should go in the end, so we take off for the great wonderland with a mall and everything is going fairly well. I think perhaps it won't be so bad after all; I'm still feeling claustrophobic and wishing I could have just gotten out of the house by myself, but my parents are good people and it's nice to make them happy. We arrive at the much larger city, though, and it quickly becomes apparent that there is a lot of traffic. My father, whom I share many traits with, does not do well in traffic or in crowds. He starts to grumble excessively and drive just a little crazy because he wants/needs to be out of the crowd. I respect this need since I need to go to the bathroom badly, but I also had a plan for my day and I'm feeling a bit sensitive to my father thwarting that plan because it's crowded.
We make it to the mall, we shop--everyone's a bit short-tempered, but that's Christmas right? We head back to the car and the real fun begins. I want to see Australia. I've wanted to see this movie for almost a month. When I agreed to travel with them it was so that they could take me to said movie. First no one can decide where they want to eat dinner. I'm on the phone with my friend in town who has just gotten out of work and he can't decide when he'll be free, if he'll be free, how he'll be free, or what the esoteric concept of freedom is. Were I by myself I would just go hang out until he was done with all his post-work nonsense, but I wasn't. So we're back in traffic, dad is grumbling, mom is pouting, and I'm on the phone trying to get an answer about where to direct us. An executive decision is made and we head up north--through more traffic, more grumbling--and go to dinner at a place right next to the theatre. The entire time my father is saying he doesn't want to see this movie. We should go see another movie. We won't make the movie in time if we eat at this place. It wasn't so much the pms or the nicotine withdrawal that made me snap. No, really it was my parents love, smothering me like a plastic bag over my face.
I told him no one said he had to come and he invited himself so he could stop complaining. He shot back he never had a choice and had to come. I have sympathy, it's true. Mom probably "asked" him if he wanted to come as well. Mom tearfully asked us to get along. I immediately felt guilty which only made me more angry, but somewhere along the way I decided I should probably repress like any good adult and did my best to even out my temperment. My dad, probably because there's no more room for him to repress after 38 years of marriage, told her we (he and I) were doing just fine and were getting along. The sad thing was, it was true. Regardless he and I cheered up and stopped picking at each other. I told them we could go see another movie--I would always rather see a movie people want to see and the movie I want to see later, then sit through a movie I like with people that don't want to be there. But now we had to go see Australia.
My friend even showed up eventually once he found his freedom and we all went to the movie together. It was a pretty frickin' spectacular movie.
When the movie was over my dad complained again. I yelled at him again. We all piled in the van for the drive home and my friend left for the blissful quiet of his own apartment. So goes another family Christmas.
I love being home. And sometimes home loves me so much I can't breathe. Awesome.
My mother, bless her heart, has a tendency to ask questions when she already knows what she wants and what she will do. For instance, when I'm home I tend to travel to various different places seeing friends--this has been a tradition since I moved far away four years ago. Saturday, I believe it was, my mom asked me, "are you going to go see your friends?" I told her yes and she asked, "do you mind if your father and I tag along?" You would think after all this time of being her daughter I could have recognized this question for the statement it was. She wasn't asking what I wanted you see, she was being polite in telling me what was going to happen. In hindsight it all makes so much sense. "I'd rather not," I told her--I gave up indirectness with my parents years ago. "Oh," she said, "well, I have some shopping to do so I thought we would." Uh-huh.
Generally I don't care if my parents travel with me, and I'm long past the age of "I have to be cool with my friends" business, but I get a little claustrophobic in my home town. There's nothing here. Really. And not having a vehicle of my own (what with the flying home and everything) I can't just drive. I can't leave town without first asking to use my parents vehicle, or in this case, with my parents. That means that when I have a particular plan--shop, see friend, see Australia--I have to modify said plan because they have insisted on coming along.
It should also be noted that I'm premenstrual and experiencing nicotine withdrawal since I smoked too much before coming home and not smoking at all. This is not a good combination when dealing with one's mother. Under the circumstances I did my best to perform admirably (I think).
My day starts off with my mom, moments after I awake asking, "do you know what I'm doing today yet?" She had attempted to plan when we would travel since winter weather was supposed to come through and apparently I was supposed to do the planning for all of us. Those of you that know me know I don't wake up well under the best of circumstances--to be awoken with a question requiring I plan a day I don't particularly want to plan...it was almost too much. I decide we should go in the end, so we take off for the great wonderland with a mall and everything is going fairly well. I think perhaps it won't be so bad after all; I'm still feeling claustrophobic and wishing I could have just gotten out of the house by myself, but my parents are good people and it's nice to make them happy. We arrive at the much larger city, though, and it quickly becomes apparent that there is a lot of traffic. My father, whom I share many traits with, does not do well in traffic or in crowds. He starts to grumble excessively and drive just a little crazy because he wants/needs to be out of the crowd. I respect this need since I need to go to the bathroom badly, but I also had a plan for my day and I'm feeling a bit sensitive to my father thwarting that plan because it's crowded.
We make it to the mall, we shop--everyone's a bit short-tempered, but that's Christmas right? We head back to the car and the real fun begins. I want to see Australia. I've wanted to see this movie for almost a month. When I agreed to travel with them it was so that they could take me to said movie. First no one can decide where they want to eat dinner. I'm on the phone with my friend in town who has just gotten out of work and he can't decide when he'll be free, if he'll be free, how he'll be free, or what the esoteric concept of freedom is. Were I by myself I would just go hang out until he was done with all his post-work nonsense, but I wasn't. So we're back in traffic, dad is grumbling, mom is pouting, and I'm on the phone trying to get an answer about where to direct us. An executive decision is made and we head up north--through more traffic, more grumbling--and go to dinner at a place right next to the theatre. The entire time my father is saying he doesn't want to see this movie. We should go see another movie. We won't make the movie in time if we eat at this place. It wasn't so much the pms or the nicotine withdrawal that made me snap. No, really it was my parents love, smothering me like a plastic bag over my face.
I told him no one said he had to come and he invited himself so he could stop complaining. He shot back he never had a choice and had to come. I have sympathy, it's true. Mom probably "asked" him if he wanted to come as well. Mom tearfully asked us to get along. I immediately felt guilty which only made me more angry, but somewhere along the way I decided I should probably repress like any good adult and did my best to even out my temperment. My dad, probably because there's no more room for him to repress after 38 years of marriage, told her we (he and I) were doing just fine and were getting along. The sad thing was, it was true. Regardless he and I cheered up and stopped picking at each other. I told them we could go see another movie--I would always rather see a movie people want to see and the movie I want to see later, then sit through a movie I like with people that don't want to be there. But now we had to go see Australia.
My friend even showed up eventually once he found his freedom and we all went to the movie together. It was a pretty frickin' spectacular movie.
When the movie was over my dad complained again. I yelled at him again. We all piled in the van for the drive home and my friend left for the blissful quiet of his own apartment. So goes another family Christmas.
I love being home. And sometimes home loves me so much I can't breathe. Awesome.
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