I’m doing schoolwork I promise. But the last few nights as I’ve walked to my apartment door instead of running away from me the roaches have taken to charging (CHARGING) my poor, vulnerable feet. This newest attack on my person has caused me to write poetry--or in this case to parody. They say literature is the music of the soul (I don’t know who “they” are, but I’m sure they said something like this sometime) so here’s my soul; my battle weary, cockroach assaulted soul laid bare for all the world to see.
Charge of the Roach Brigade
1.
Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Sin
Rode the six hundred.
“Forward, the Roach Brigade!
“Charge for the house!” they said:
Into the valley of Sin
Came the six hundred.
2.
“Forward the Roach Brigade!”
Was there a bug dismay’d?
Kakkerlak couldn’t know
Someone had poisoned.
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die:
Into the valley of Sin
Came the six hundred.
3.
Motel to the right of them,
Motel to the left of them,
Motel in front of them
Waiting with poison;
Tempted with bait and smell
Boldly they ate and fell
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the house of Hell
Came the six hundred.
4.
Discovered and hated
They fell as were baited
But retaliated
Claiming the Hell-house while
The occupants slumbered:
Cloaked in the dark and smoke
Right thro’ the wall they broke;
Black, brown and giant
Reel’d from the poisoned stroke
Creeping and crawling.
Then they came out, but not
Not the six hundred.
5.
Motel to the right of them,
Motel to the left of them,
Motel behind them
Waiting with poison;
Tempted with bait and smell
Crawling and flying fell,
They that had ate so well
Came thro’ the jaws of Death
Storming the house of Hell,
More than came in with them,
More than six hundred.
6.
When can their ranks decrease?
When can their species cease!
The occupants slumbered.
Can’t stop the charge they made,
Can’t stop the Roach Brigade
Now there’s six million.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
I’m about to throw myself into some medieval and tudor drama, but before I do I thought I should take this opportunity to talk about Streetfighter: Legend of Chun Li. In fact, I think this movie is worthy of a top ten list; we haven’t had one of those in awhile!
Top Ten Most Awesome(ly BAD) Moments of Streetfighter: Legend of Chun Li
10. The Gratuitous Use of Voice Over
I try to be understanding of an action movie’s use of voice over to move the plot along. After all, we’re watching this to watch people bleed, not to have our soul moved. To that end a little voice over that says the following is acceptable: “I was once a happy child, and then my family suffered horrible tragedy. I proceeded to learn the art of Kung fu and now beat the crap out of sinister looking men” Done and done. With this movie, however, we have more voice over than dialogue or fighting and it all seems to revolve around the line “I stand up when standing up isn’t easy.” Yeah--it gave me indigestion too.
9. The sudden connection and understanding of Chun Li and the international police force
Don’t know about you, but generally when a cop watches me kill someone, even if that someone is a bad guy, and then I run away from him he usually isn’t willing to “back me up” when I set out on a rampant course of vigilantism. Of course I don’t look like Kristin Kreuk. Maybe that’s the key...
8. Moon Bloodgood’s apparent worthlessness to the plot outside of being hot
Moon Bloodgood is a GORGEOUS woman. We’re talking stupid beautiful here. But aside from her walking out of her bedroom in jeans and a bra fresh out of the shower I don’t exactly know what her purpose was for this movie. And the bra was wet--who does that? Have you ever tried to put on a wet bra? It is ridiculously difficult to do. I spent a solid five minutes of the movie perplexed by this wet-bra conundrum instead of watching people get beat up. Lame.
7. The lack of awesomely choreographed ass-kicking
There was a distinct dearth of fighting in this movie. It’s called StreetFIGHTER. Seems like people should fight little bit. That’s all I’m saying.
6. The lack of sexy time
Chun Li never gets any. Since I was eight or however old I was when this video game came out I have waited patiently for some gorgeous male character (like Ryu for example) to wise up to the hotness and coolness of Chun Li. I thought surely in 2009 there would finally be some sexy time for Chun Li! I was wrong. Who wants to learn Kung Fu if you don’t even get to make out with Ryu? Stupid movie.
5. Gen’s Douche-stache
Robin Shou, oh what are you doing to me? He was in Mortal Kombat and a fairly good looking guy I have to say. But in this movie he has this graying, oddly Velcro looking mustache that is neither grown in, nor scruff. It’s like they were aiming for Mr. Miagi and landed at Mr. Miapornstar. Every time he was on screen I found myself screaming out loud from the horror.
4. Chris Klein’s Hair
Rule of Life #578: If, as a man, you find your hair thinning cut it short. Please. It doesn’t look good long. It being long doesn’t hide that it’s thinning. In fact, the excessive length accentuates the thinning hair and/or pronounced widows peak. Who was the stylist that looked at Chris Klein and said, “you’re not a very good actor, but you could be a good-looking guy. I think I will give you BAD hair so that your looks cannot mask your bad acting.” I think they probably said it with a Russian accent. And I think they were probably part of the Russian mafia. We should deport them.
3. A fully Chinese little girl growing up to be half-Chinese Kristin Kreuk
Kristin Kreuk is Dutch-Chinese according to imdb and in the movie her father was Chinese and her mother non-descript Caucasian. Okay, not exactly faithful to the game, but whatever; I would have forgiven this. Except the picked what was obviously a Chinese little girl to play her at a young age who somehow morphed into a Dutch-Chinese girl when puberty came. Because we all change ethnicity as we get older...wait a minute...
2. Bison transforming from a Thai mob boss to an albino Irishman (who has an Irish accent despite growing up in Thailand...)
Again, I would have accepted the change in origins--they did still have Bison having grown up in Thailand--but if he grew up in the slums of Thailand how did he learn to speak English with an Irish accent? And not a thick one either. But, when the moral of your movie is to stand up when standing isn’t easy, probably you don’t the critical thinking skills necessary to contemplate why this might be a problem for the viewer.
1. That another Streetfighter movie manages to suck more than Mortal Kombat--14 years later
Streetfighter was a vastly superior game to Mortal Kombat. (It’s my blog I get to say what I want.) And yet we have now had TWO Streetfighter movies and they are both so incredibly bad that I’m almost ashamed to love Streetfighter like I do. Why is Mortal Kombat better? 1) They fight. A LOT. 2) There’s an appropriate amount of sexy time possibility. 3) They fight. A LOT. Why is this so hard for Streetfighter to understand? You know what would make me relate more to Chun Li’s character? If she kicked a lot of ass. You know what would make me want to see a sequel? If she kicked a lot of ass. You know what would make me buy the dvd? If she got to have some sexy time or least if the possibility of sexy time existed following the end of the movie. I do not feel my demands are extreme.
So be warned: if you want some awesome martial arts action Streetfighter has failed us once again. Just watch Jacki Chan; he’s always a good time.
Top Ten Most Awesome(ly BAD) Moments of Streetfighter: Legend of Chun Li
10. The Gratuitous Use of Voice Over
I try to be understanding of an action movie’s use of voice over to move the plot along. After all, we’re watching this to watch people bleed, not to have our soul moved. To that end a little voice over that says the following is acceptable: “I was once a happy child, and then my family suffered horrible tragedy. I proceeded to learn the art of Kung fu and now beat the crap out of sinister looking men” Done and done. With this movie, however, we have more voice over than dialogue or fighting and it all seems to revolve around the line “I stand up when standing up isn’t easy.” Yeah--it gave me indigestion too.
9. The sudden connection and understanding of Chun Li and the international police force
Don’t know about you, but generally when a cop watches me kill someone, even if that someone is a bad guy, and then I run away from him he usually isn’t willing to “back me up” when I set out on a rampant course of vigilantism. Of course I don’t look like Kristin Kreuk. Maybe that’s the key...
8. Moon Bloodgood’s apparent worthlessness to the plot outside of being hot
Moon Bloodgood is a GORGEOUS woman. We’re talking stupid beautiful here. But aside from her walking out of her bedroom in jeans and a bra fresh out of the shower I don’t exactly know what her purpose was for this movie. And the bra was wet--who does that? Have you ever tried to put on a wet bra? It is ridiculously difficult to do. I spent a solid five minutes of the movie perplexed by this wet-bra conundrum instead of watching people get beat up. Lame.
7. The lack of awesomely choreographed ass-kicking
There was a distinct dearth of fighting in this movie. It’s called StreetFIGHTER. Seems like people should fight little bit. That’s all I’m saying.
6. The lack of sexy time
Chun Li never gets any. Since I was eight or however old I was when this video game came out I have waited patiently for some gorgeous male character (like Ryu for example) to wise up to the hotness and coolness of Chun Li. I thought surely in 2009 there would finally be some sexy time for Chun Li! I was wrong. Who wants to learn Kung Fu if you don’t even get to make out with Ryu? Stupid movie.
5. Gen’s Douche-stache
Robin Shou, oh what are you doing to me? He was in Mortal Kombat and a fairly good looking guy I have to say. But in this movie he has this graying, oddly Velcro looking mustache that is neither grown in, nor scruff. It’s like they were aiming for Mr. Miagi and landed at Mr. Miapornstar. Every time he was on screen I found myself screaming out loud from the horror.
4. Chris Klein’s Hair
Rule of Life #578: If, as a man, you find your hair thinning cut it short. Please. It doesn’t look good long. It being long doesn’t hide that it’s thinning. In fact, the excessive length accentuates the thinning hair and/or pronounced widows peak. Who was the stylist that looked at Chris Klein and said, “you’re not a very good actor, but you could be a good-looking guy. I think I will give you BAD hair so that your looks cannot mask your bad acting.” I think they probably said it with a Russian accent. And I think they were probably part of the Russian mafia. We should deport them.
3. A fully Chinese little girl growing up to be half-Chinese Kristin Kreuk
Kristin Kreuk is Dutch-Chinese according to imdb and in the movie her father was Chinese and her mother non-descript Caucasian. Okay, not exactly faithful to the game, but whatever; I would have forgiven this. Except the picked what was obviously a Chinese little girl to play her at a young age who somehow morphed into a Dutch-Chinese girl when puberty came. Because we all change ethnicity as we get older...wait a minute...
2. Bison transforming from a Thai mob boss to an albino Irishman (who has an Irish accent despite growing up in Thailand...)
Again, I would have accepted the change in origins--they did still have Bison having grown up in Thailand--but if he grew up in the slums of Thailand how did he learn to speak English with an Irish accent? And not a thick one either. But, when the moral of your movie is to stand up when standing isn’t easy, probably you don’t the critical thinking skills necessary to contemplate why this might be a problem for the viewer.
1. That another Streetfighter movie manages to suck more than Mortal Kombat--14 years later
Streetfighter was a vastly superior game to Mortal Kombat. (It’s my blog I get to say what I want.) And yet we have now had TWO Streetfighter movies and they are both so incredibly bad that I’m almost ashamed to love Streetfighter like I do. Why is Mortal Kombat better? 1) They fight. A LOT. 2) There’s an appropriate amount of sexy time possibility. 3) They fight. A LOT. Why is this so hard for Streetfighter to understand? You know what would make me relate more to Chun Li’s character? If she kicked a lot of ass. You know what would make me want to see a sequel? If she kicked a lot of ass. You know what would make me buy the dvd? If she got to have some sexy time or least if the possibility of sexy time existed following the end of the movie. I do not feel my demands are extreme.
So be warned: if you want some awesome martial arts action Streetfighter has failed us once again. Just watch Jacki Chan; he’s always a good time.
Monday, August 24, 2009
A Little Fall of Rain or How to be Maudlin in the Desert and Emotionally Cut Yourself
It’s been a long time comin’ really. If this were a country song I’m pretty sure Dolly Parton would have written it, someone like Whitney Houston would sing it, and we all be in tears by the end wondering when Kevin Costner became a viable romantic interest. I’ve been reading for my big tests you see and this causes stress, but also (and more importantly) takes a significant emotional toll.
The problem is that everything I have to read is sad. And not Nicholas Sparks sad either where you can’t help but feel a little depressed but you’re as likely to control your reaction as not, while simultaneously feeling pissed because you’ve been emotionally manipulated. No, we’re talking indie-film sad where it’s all you can do not to ball like an infant in the theatre and embarrass yourself. But that alone wouldn’t be enough to get me down normally; books generally don’t move me like movies do-at least not in the same ways. But the sheer volume I’ve had to read and due to time constraints the necessity of immersing myself in these stories has removed whatever small flecks of joy once sparkled in my slightly smoggy atmosphere. On top of that pile back-to-school blues and various personal tragedies and we have the makings of a first class sulk.
So I do what I always do; I overdose on tragedy. First I drove out into the desert and parked. There was a storm rolling in and it was something to behold. The sheer ability to breathe in air with moisture here is so rare that some part of my soul un-shrivels when it happens. Feeling particularly melodramatic I took full advantage and stood in the rain letting a mixture of water and sand pelt me. It always seems like a silly thing to do at first, even more silly to admit to doing, but I can honestly say you can’t beat it. If I weren’t worried about things like, oh, death, I would wander off into the desert for the full experience. But my plan is to feel relieved--not inadvertently bring myself to some Shakespearean end removing the story of my life from the comedy section and placing it amongst the tragedies.
But I wasn’t wholly better yet so I went for the M.K.O. (movie knock out) I started with Mysterious Skin, a movie about two boys who are sexually abused when they are eight. One blocks it from the memory and the other becomes a male prostitute. It wouldn’t be described as an upper. I followed it up with (wait for it) Wit. The movie where and English professor dies of cancer. That’s right. When I take a razor to my emotions I don’t slice the wrong way; oh no, I cut long and deep--I think this time I severed a tendon.
But--I have a plan and it worked! To put it into Star Trekian terms everyone knows the best way to escape a black hole is to eject your warp core and detonate it. The resulting explosion (theoretically) pushes you out past the gravitational pull, thereby allowing you to escape. Or, for those of you not cool enough to watch Star Trek, I smoked a whole carton of cigarettes in five hours today to kick the habit.
Now, this emotional regimen does come with a warning: if there is any chance you are genuinely unstable as opposed to melodramatic, maudlin, or melancholy do not, I repeat DO NOT, try any of this at home. Possible side effects are blacking out, uncontrollable sobbing, or complete mental breakdown. If you can survive two movies like the ones I just watched, however (pick movies that eerily mimic your life for full dramatic effect) you will come out on the other side feeling better. Even if it is only because you couldn’t actually feel any worse.
Take that Nicholas Sparks. I’ll show you a message in a bottle written in a notebook on a walk to remember. Loser.
Gerard Butler’s new movie needs to come out soon. I seriously need to watch beautiful men blow things up while saving civil liberties and their wives. I LOVE it when they do that.
It’s been a long time comin’ really. If this were a country song I’m pretty sure Dolly Parton would have written it, someone like Whitney Houston would sing it, and we all be in tears by the end wondering when Kevin Costner became a viable romantic interest. I’ve been reading for my big tests you see and this causes stress, but also (and more importantly) takes a significant emotional toll.
The problem is that everything I have to read is sad. And not Nicholas Sparks sad either where you can’t help but feel a little depressed but you’re as likely to control your reaction as not, while simultaneously feeling pissed because you’ve been emotionally manipulated. No, we’re talking indie-film sad where it’s all you can do not to ball like an infant in the theatre and embarrass yourself. But that alone wouldn’t be enough to get me down normally; books generally don’t move me like movies do-at least not in the same ways. But the sheer volume I’ve had to read and due to time constraints the necessity of immersing myself in these stories has removed whatever small flecks of joy once sparkled in my slightly smoggy atmosphere. On top of that pile back-to-school blues and various personal tragedies and we have the makings of a first class sulk.
So I do what I always do; I overdose on tragedy. First I drove out into the desert and parked. There was a storm rolling in and it was something to behold. The sheer ability to breathe in air with moisture here is so rare that some part of my soul un-shrivels when it happens. Feeling particularly melodramatic I took full advantage and stood in the rain letting a mixture of water and sand pelt me. It always seems like a silly thing to do at first, even more silly to admit to doing, but I can honestly say you can’t beat it. If I weren’t worried about things like, oh, death, I would wander off into the desert for the full experience. But my plan is to feel relieved--not inadvertently bring myself to some Shakespearean end removing the story of my life from the comedy section and placing it amongst the tragedies.
But I wasn’t wholly better yet so I went for the M.K.O. (movie knock out) I started with Mysterious Skin, a movie about two boys who are sexually abused when they are eight. One blocks it from the memory and the other becomes a male prostitute. It wouldn’t be described as an upper. I followed it up with (wait for it) Wit. The movie where and English professor dies of cancer. That’s right. When I take a razor to my emotions I don’t slice the wrong way; oh no, I cut long and deep--I think this time I severed a tendon.
But--I have a plan and it worked! To put it into Star Trekian terms everyone knows the best way to escape a black hole is to eject your warp core and detonate it. The resulting explosion (theoretically) pushes you out past the gravitational pull, thereby allowing you to escape. Or, for those of you not cool enough to watch Star Trek, I smoked a whole carton of cigarettes in five hours today to kick the habit.
Now, this emotional regimen does come with a warning: if there is any chance you are genuinely unstable as opposed to melodramatic, maudlin, or melancholy do not, I repeat DO NOT, try any of this at home. Possible side effects are blacking out, uncontrollable sobbing, or complete mental breakdown. If you can survive two movies like the ones I just watched, however (pick movies that eerily mimic your life for full dramatic effect) you will come out on the other side feeling better. Even if it is only because you couldn’t actually feel any worse.
Take that Nicholas Sparks. I’ll show you a message in a bottle written in a notebook on a walk to remember. Loser.
Gerard Butler’s new movie needs to come out soon. I seriously need to watch beautiful men blow things up while saving civil liberties and their wives. I LOVE it when they do that.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
G.I. Joe. A Real American Blowout.
I'm going to try and make this different than simply a "G.I. Joe" is bad commentary because let's face it: we all know G.I. Joe is bad. We all knew G.I. Joe was going to be bad. You can't go see this movie and act surprised when it's bad.
So all the female Joes walk around the base with their uniform unzipped to somewhere mid-breast. So Scarlet is some sort of super smart chick whose body armor requires DD cups built in. So Ripcord has to teach Scarlet what it means to love. All of these things might be forgivable under the "I knew what I was getting into" heading.
But then there was the Baroness. I can't forgive the Baroness. First of all Sienna Miller is not an athletic woman. She's pretty, and in some shots she's even beautiful, but watching her run is downright painful. Also, she is no one's definition of legitimate. With black hair at least she's stunning, but with blond hair she blends in with every other thin, beautiful blond in the world. But looks aren't everything; perhaps with a better script she could have acted the part of the Baroness in such a way you believed she was a voluptuous viper who preyed on those around her. But she wasn't voluptuous. And apparently (watch out spoilers) she was only a viper because the evil mind control made her that way.
I mean SERIOUSLY?!
Here's the thing: G.I. Joe was an awesome cartoon because all the females kicked serious ass. The good girls, the bad girls, the in-between girls--every single one of those characters was the equal of any male and was also completely unique from the others. This movie turns the Baroness into some sort of heartbroken, mind-controlled former lover of Duke that completely removes all the coolness from the character! The Baroness rocked because she was EVIL. She kissed you, killed you, then ran away laughing that evil laugh of hers. She didn't feel bad about it in the morning. If she had any past lovers that were still alive it was probably just because she hadn't had the chance to kill them yet. That was what made her so very awesome. Why can't we have a ridiculously evil female character? Why is that a plot point that needs to be messed with? Why does the Baroness need to be sympathetic and saved? I know I'm on gender role alert most of the time, but you can't tell me Joe fans across the country aren't upset by this.
Plus--Destro is a scrawny Scottish man? Does Destro look like a scrawny Scottish man to anyone? How does a deep, Barry White made a deal with Satan voice turn into a tenor complete with Scottish accent? Who made that decision? And by all that's holy why?!
These are the things that I couldn't forgive. Keep in mind I walked into this movie thinking it was going to be Street Fighter bad--that's like cream of the crop bad people. And for the first half or so I was pleasantly surprised. For a moment I was even afraid I was actually going to like it. I thought maybe something would happen and Destro would have to get a new voice. I thought Sienna Miller was going to pull off the Baroness. I thought Scarlet would have a scene that wasn't overshadowed by her gianormous cleavage.
I just don't understand.
Oh yeah, and Paris gets decimated. I mean...I haven't seen that sort of property destruction since the action movies of the 80's when entire Central American towns were carpet bombed while the hero fought the drug lord.
It wasn't Street Fighter bad. I guess it had that going for it. But honestly, what's a girl to do when she has no awesomely evil female villains to look up to? Maleficent can't go on carrying the torch forever.
I'm going to try and make this different than simply a "G.I. Joe" is bad commentary because let's face it: we all know G.I. Joe is bad. We all knew G.I. Joe was going to be bad. You can't go see this movie and act surprised when it's bad.
So all the female Joes walk around the base with their uniform unzipped to somewhere mid-breast. So Scarlet is some sort of super smart chick whose body armor requires DD cups built in. So Ripcord has to teach Scarlet what it means to love. All of these things might be forgivable under the "I knew what I was getting into" heading.
But then there was the Baroness. I can't forgive the Baroness. First of all Sienna Miller is not an athletic woman. She's pretty, and in some shots she's even beautiful, but watching her run is downright painful. Also, she is no one's definition of legitimate. With black hair at least she's stunning, but with blond hair she blends in with every other thin, beautiful blond in the world. But looks aren't everything; perhaps with a better script she could have acted the part of the Baroness in such a way you believed she was a voluptuous viper who preyed on those around her. But she wasn't voluptuous. And apparently (watch out spoilers) she was only a viper because the evil mind control made her that way.
I mean SERIOUSLY?!
Here's the thing: G.I. Joe was an awesome cartoon because all the females kicked serious ass. The good girls, the bad girls, the in-between girls--every single one of those characters was the equal of any male and was also completely unique from the others. This movie turns the Baroness into some sort of heartbroken, mind-controlled former lover of Duke that completely removes all the coolness from the character! The Baroness rocked because she was EVIL. She kissed you, killed you, then ran away laughing that evil laugh of hers. She didn't feel bad about it in the morning. If she had any past lovers that were still alive it was probably just because she hadn't had the chance to kill them yet. That was what made her so very awesome. Why can't we have a ridiculously evil female character? Why is that a plot point that needs to be messed with? Why does the Baroness need to be sympathetic and saved? I know I'm on gender role alert most of the time, but you can't tell me Joe fans across the country aren't upset by this.
Plus--Destro is a scrawny Scottish man? Does Destro look like a scrawny Scottish man to anyone? How does a deep, Barry White made a deal with Satan voice turn into a tenor complete with Scottish accent? Who made that decision? And by all that's holy why?!
These are the things that I couldn't forgive. Keep in mind I walked into this movie thinking it was going to be Street Fighter bad--that's like cream of the crop bad people. And for the first half or so I was pleasantly surprised. For a moment I was even afraid I was actually going to like it. I thought maybe something would happen and Destro would have to get a new voice. I thought Sienna Miller was going to pull off the Baroness. I thought Scarlet would have a scene that wasn't overshadowed by her gianormous cleavage.
I just don't understand.
Oh yeah, and Paris gets decimated. I mean...I haven't seen that sort of property destruction since the action movies of the 80's when entire Central American towns were carpet bombed while the hero fought the drug lord.
It wasn't Street Fighter bad. I guess it had that going for it. But honestly, what's a girl to do when she has no awesomely evil female villains to look up to? Maleficent can't go on carrying the torch forever.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
My Trip to the Eye Doctor
I go to my eye doctor today. It irritates me off the bat because I don't want to have all the tests run that they require; I just want my eye exam so that I can renew my contact lens prescription. But I get to see the same eye doctor I grew up with today so I'm feeling more jovial than I might otherwise. The exam is unextraordinary--nothing of note happened. But then I was dropped off with one of the opticians? Nurses? Ladies who work up front to order my contacts and pay.
She sits down slowly and sort of looks through the folder. Her pace isn't what one might describe as quick. After a minute or two she says she'll be right back; she needs to ask the doctor something. She walks away and a couple with two kids walk up to another lady. All four are dirty, dressed in various stages of camouflage, and wearing footwear that's seen better days. The woman says she would like for her kids to have an eye exam. The nurse/optician/lady replies that there are no walk-ins today. At this point the little girl starts screaming something insensible about wanting her mother. The mother is standing no more than five feet from her. The lady asks if the mother wants an appointment and the mother steps closer to make one. The little boy joins the little girl in screaming now and the father is something beyond ineffectual. Eventually the little girl is removed from the cart and given to her mother. This sets the little boy off into a full fledged tantrum, complete with kicking and screaming the likes of which haven't been heard since the fat lady broke the glass in the Memorex commercial. Finally the woman taking care of me comes back.
Now, there are a couple of rules when it comes to getting a PhD in Las Vegas. Rule #1) Never tell people you are getting a PhD. They think you're a snob and try to make lame "I don't know English" jokes. Rule #2) (and this one is by far more important) Never tell people you live in Las Vegas. Every time--EVERY TIME--they will want to know all about it and you PLUS tell you how much they want to go there/enjoyed being there/will go back again and all the details of their trip including family or friends that have also gone there/lived there/want to go there. I forgot this rule. I knew better, but I still forgot the rule. That is why my trip went from unextraordinary to so very much worse.
She started to badger me about making an appointment for a year from now and I just wanted to make it stop. "I'm from Las Vegas" I blurted and immediately regretted it as soon as I saw the glint in her eye. From that point on I learned about her uncle that used to live out there whom her mother thinks was part of the mafia. This uncle paid for a cousin who is in jail for drug use to fly on a special plane with four guards to her grandfather's funeral. I learned about her and her husband's TWO honeymoons and how much they love Niagra Falls, but that I shouldn't do my hair if I visit because you're just wet all the time. I learned how their other honeymoon was to San Diego, which she also loves, but there were gay couples kissing on the beach and she didn't think straight couples should do that either because there were families out there.
At this point I really, REALLY, wanted to interject and ask if the gay couples were sodomizing each other in public since kissing has yet to aversely affect a child, but I was still clinging to basic rules of etiquette.
I learned that another nurse saw two girls kissing in Walmart and wasn't in a shame her husband wasn't there to see it. I learned that on the Niagra Falls honeymoon they drove up? down? Superior Road and stopped at every waterfall along the way. Maybe that was the trip to Canada. I learned about their trip to Canada too.
Eventually--a solid twenty minutes later--I knew drastic measures needed to be taken before the last vestiges of my control slipped away. I texted my mother blatantly and openly in front of the talking lady opting for minor rudeness versus extreme rudeness in an effort to extract myself from the situation. I might have felt bad about it, but the other option was me screaming, much like the little boy and little girl of twenty minutes prior, "I don't care about you and your life!" at the top of my lungs. Under the circumstances a text message seemed the way to go.
That was my trip to the eye doctor. The moral of this story: whenever you feel the need to share details about yourself with a stranger don't. Always remember--nobody cares.
I thank you.
I go to my eye doctor today. It irritates me off the bat because I don't want to have all the tests run that they require; I just want my eye exam so that I can renew my contact lens prescription. But I get to see the same eye doctor I grew up with today so I'm feeling more jovial than I might otherwise. The exam is unextraordinary--nothing of note happened. But then I was dropped off with one of the opticians? Nurses? Ladies who work up front to order my contacts and pay.
She sits down slowly and sort of looks through the folder. Her pace isn't what one might describe as quick. After a minute or two she says she'll be right back; she needs to ask the doctor something. She walks away and a couple with two kids walk up to another lady. All four are dirty, dressed in various stages of camouflage, and wearing footwear that's seen better days. The woman says she would like for her kids to have an eye exam. The nurse/optician/lady replies that there are no walk-ins today. At this point the little girl starts screaming something insensible about wanting her mother. The mother is standing no more than five feet from her. The lady asks if the mother wants an appointment and the mother steps closer to make one. The little boy joins the little girl in screaming now and the father is something beyond ineffectual. Eventually the little girl is removed from the cart and given to her mother. This sets the little boy off into a full fledged tantrum, complete with kicking and screaming the likes of which haven't been heard since the fat lady broke the glass in the Memorex commercial. Finally the woman taking care of me comes back.
Now, there are a couple of rules when it comes to getting a PhD in Las Vegas. Rule #1) Never tell people you are getting a PhD. They think you're a snob and try to make lame "I don't know English" jokes. Rule #2) (and this one is by far more important) Never tell people you live in Las Vegas. Every time--EVERY TIME--they will want to know all about it and you PLUS tell you how much they want to go there/enjoyed being there/will go back again and all the details of their trip including family or friends that have also gone there/lived there/want to go there. I forgot this rule. I knew better, but I still forgot the rule. That is why my trip went from unextraordinary to so very much worse.
She started to badger me about making an appointment for a year from now and I just wanted to make it stop. "I'm from Las Vegas" I blurted and immediately regretted it as soon as I saw the glint in her eye. From that point on I learned about her uncle that used to live out there whom her mother thinks was part of the mafia. This uncle paid for a cousin who is in jail for drug use to fly on a special plane with four guards to her grandfather's funeral. I learned about her and her husband's TWO honeymoons and how much they love Niagra Falls, but that I shouldn't do my hair if I visit because you're just wet all the time. I learned how their other honeymoon was to San Diego, which she also loves, but there were gay couples kissing on the beach and she didn't think straight couples should do that either because there were families out there.
At this point I really, REALLY, wanted to interject and ask if the gay couples were sodomizing each other in public since kissing has yet to aversely affect a child, but I was still clinging to basic rules of etiquette.
I learned that another nurse saw two girls kissing in Walmart and wasn't in a shame her husband wasn't there to see it. I learned that on the Niagra Falls honeymoon they drove up? down? Superior Road and stopped at every waterfall along the way. Maybe that was the trip to Canada. I learned about their trip to Canada too.
Eventually--a solid twenty minutes later--I knew drastic measures needed to be taken before the last vestiges of my control slipped away. I texted my mother blatantly and openly in front of the talking lady opting for minor rudeness versus extreme rudeness in an effort to extract myself from the situation. I might have felt bad about it, but the other option was me screaming, much like the little boy and little girl of twenty minutes prior, "I don't care about you and your life!" at the top of my lungs. Under the circumstances a text message seemed the way to go.
That was my trip to the eye doctor. The moral of this story: whenever you feel the need to share details about yourself with a stranger don't. Always remember--nobody cares.
I thank you.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Ooooohhhhh my gosh. I just read Taming of the Shrew. You wanna know why I've never read it before? Because I knew I would have this reaction. I knew I would HATE it. Yes. I used all caps. I used all caps because my rage cannot be contained. And why should it? There is nothing about this play that is sexy or romantic. Let's break down the action shall we?
Our romantic leads:
Woman who is a complete and utter bitch for seemingly no reason.
Man who is a complete and utter douche-bag because he wants said woman's dowry.
(We're off to a great start already. I know these are the makings of my ideal romance.)
The "Courtship:"
Man starves, freezes, sleep-deprives, and imprisons woman until she agrees to obey him without question.
Man instigates a "cat-fight" to show off how much more awesome his woman is than his fellows.
Man parades woman around room like prized animal.
The Ending:
Man and woman live happily ever after...wait, what?
And really, none of this would be worth mentioning because it's all been said and done except then I read one of the scholarly excerpts from the back of my Signet edition. An excerpt by Germaine Greer who says:
Kate courts ruin in a different way, but she has the uncommon good fortune to find Petruchio, who is man enough to know what he wants and how to get it. He wants her spirit and her energy because he wants a wife worth keeping. He tames her as he might a hawk or a high-mettled horse, and she rewards him with strong sexual love and fierce loyalty. Lucentio finds himself saddled with a cold, disloyal woman, who has no objection to humiliating him in public (145-6).
I would like to say maybe it's the editors fault and he excerpted badly. I would like to say maybe the argument is misrepresented. But that final sentence is so wholly unsupportable (we have no idea what Bianca is like in the bedroom, nor any real proof that she is cold or disloyal) that I am led to believe the previous part is intended seriously as well. Kate has the "uncommon good fortune" and Petruchio is "man enough to know what he wants and how to get it"?!?!?! Is this 1955? I can barely control my punctuation I'm so irate!
And I think this is what has me so upset. We can all agree this is a "problem play" in that the gender roles represented are difficult to interpret. We can make movies reimagining the play and its outcome that make this story more politically correct and we can even (though after reading the play I really don't understand how people swing this one) argue that Kate is being ironic and isn't actually broken. But deep down inside where no one else can see--the place where feminists that say they hate Twilight are actually just angry because they love it, but don't want to admit it--a lot of women secretly wish for a Petruchio. A lot of women secretly want a man who is "man enough to know what he wants and how to get it" and they want him to want them. They want him to push past their "resistance" and dominate them in his awesome manly way. Why? Because it's really sweet to be broken like a horse? Because it's so much fun to have a husband that treats you simultaneously like a child and a sex slave? In what universe is that romantic?!
I have heartburn I'm so upset. At least in McClintok there's enough else going on right that a person can just close her eyes during the spanking scene and still love the movie. Honestly I think this play should only ever be taught in conjunction with one of the better re-tellings like Shakespeare Retold or 10 Things I Hate About You. This is written proof of why Shakespeare is not a man for all time.
And that right there is why Harold Bloom will never hire me. Oh my blood pressure can't take this abuse.
Our romantic leads:
Woman who is a complete and utter bitch for seemingly no reason.
Man who is a complete and utter douche-bag because he wants said woman's dowry.
(We're off to a great start already. I know these are the makings of my ideal romance.)
The "Courtship:"
Man starves, freezes, sleep-deprives, and imprisons woman until she agrees to obey him without question.
Man instigates a "cat-fight" to show off how much more awesome his woman is than his fellows.
Man parades woman around room like prized animal.
The Ending:
Man and woman live happily ever after...wait, what?
And really, none of this would be worth mentioning because it's all been said and done except then I read one of the scholarly excerpts from the back of my Signet edition. An excerpt by Germaine Greer who says:
Kate courts ruin in a different way, but she has the uncommon good fortune to find Petruchio, who is man enough to know what he wants and how to get it. He wants her spirit and her energy because he wants a wife worth keeping. He tames her as he might a hawk or a high-mettled horse, and she rewards him with strong sexual love and fierce loyalty. Lucentio finds himself saddled with a cold, disloyal woman, who has no objection to humiliating him in public (145-6).
I would like to say maybe it's the editors fault and he excerpted badly. I would like to say maybe the argument is misrepresented. But that final sentence is so wholly unsupportable (we have no idea what Bianca is like in the bedroom, nor any real proof that she is cold or disloyal) that I am led to believe the previous part is intended seriously as well. Kate has the "uncommon good fortune" and Petruchio is "man enough to know what he wants and how to get it"?!?!?! Is this 1955? I can barely control my punctuation I'm so irate!
And I think this is what has me so upset. We can all agree this is a "problem play" in that the gender roles represented are difficult to interpret. We can make movies reimagining the play and its outcome that make this story more politically correct and we can even (though after reading the play I really don't understand how people swing this one) argue that Kate is being ironic and isn't actually broken. But deep down inside where no one else can see--the place where feminists that say they hate Twilight are actually just angry because they love it, but don't want to admit it--a lot of women secretly wish for a Petruchio. A lot of women secretly want a man who is "man enough to know what he wants and how to get it" and they want him to want them. They want him to push past their "resistance" and dominate them in his awesome manly way. Why? Because it's really sweet to be broken like a horse? Because it's so much fun to have a husband that treats you simultaneously like a child and a sex slave? In what universe is that romantic?!
I have heartburn I'm so upset. At least in McClintok there's enough else going on right that a person can just close her eyes during the spanking scene and still love the movie. Honestly I think this play should only ever be taught in conjunction with one of the better re-tellings like Shakespeare Retold or 10 Things I Hate About You. This is written proof of why Shakespeare is not a man for all time.
And that right there is why Harold Bloom will never hire me. Oh my blood pressure can't take this abuse.
Monday, July 13, 2009
We must needs discuss Star Trek: The Next Generation. Specifically, William Riker (pictured above hopefully). Do you see that little shoulder cock? I HATE that should cock. Why does he do it? Imagine looking at that oddly "debonair" slump which falls somewhere short of debonair and lands round about the "douchey" marker. And I like Riker! I do! I'm in the minority it's true. But I've always found him slightly endearing and good looking. At least for a Star Trek crewmember. But as I continue on my process of watching all The Next Generation's (TNG's) in order I find my continued exposure to his refusal to stand up straight slowly robbing me of sanity and control required to function in society.
And...we have a new winner for worst line of dialogue ever. Or best, depending on how you look at it. Captain Picard says, "Is there any hope of penetration?" I'm not making this up. It's Patrick Stewart and everyone knows how much I love Patrick Stewart, but no one, especially a man, can say the line, "is there any hope of penetration" and not expect a slight giggle out of the crowd. Did the script writers do it on purpose? Did Patrick Stewart have to fight to deliver that line seriously? These are questions I find burning deep, deep inside my blackened little soul.
An educated man, or even an uneducated wise man, might say to me, "it's time to stop watching Judge Judy and TNG." And he wouldn't be wrong. But you see I've been reading a lot (A LOT) of Shakespeare and other tragic plays lately and I find my general demeanor to be a dour one of late. As I am also lacking in trashy romance to provide me with some other means of recuperation I've turned to my TV on DVD friends and bad cable access to get me through. But when you're reading things like Richard III and Othello your expectations for entertainment simultaneously go up alongside the requirement that little is demanded of one mentally. This is a hard shoe to fill. Or, if you're Captain Picard, to penetrate. TNG fulfills these requirements admirably and I can even look myself in the mirror in the morning unlike previous obsessions such as--oh, I don't know, Beauty and the Beast staring Linda Hamilton and Ron Perlman--but I just want to reach into the screen and force Riker to stand straight! If this PhD thing doesn't work out I'm totally writing a metatheatrical play where just such an occurrence takes place. It would look something like this:
[LIGHTS UP] A young woman sits center stage, perpendicular to the audience on a couch. A diet soda rests perspiring on the end table next to her and a forgotten bag of chips sits on the floor. She is slowly eating popcorn, while nursing a box of oreos to her left. A television set is in front of her, hollow with its "actors" performing her show on the other half of the stage. It quickly becomes apparent she is watching Star Trek: The Next Generation.
Picard: Is there any chance of penetration?
Riker, standing with his right should cocked down giving him a slanted appearance: I believe so sir.
Picard: Engage.
The young woman jumps up from the couch, knocking over her oreos and discarding her popcorn haphazardly behind her on the seat cushions. She steps INTO the T.V., walks up to Riker, grabs him by each shoulder and forcefully straightens out his stance until he stands tall--his shoulders now parallel with the ground. That done the woman steps back out of the T.V. into her "living room," resumes her seat on the couch, takes a large drink of the diet soda and belches loudly, but contentedly.
[BLACK OUT]
It would be the best play EVER.
Wednesday, July 08, 2009
I'm watching Judge Judy (because that's what I do) and I become so incensed over her treatment of this last case that I felt the world should know.
The plaintiff who is 50+ years old, allowed the defendant who is 30-something to move into his house without paying rent or utilities because she needed help and...he had feelings for her. He had an email from her where she stated she was sorry, but didn't feel anything for him because she had already lost her heart to "Dwayne." The defendant stands in court now engaged to some other guy who isn't Dwayne, and Judge Judy stops the case to take a moment to lecture to the fiancé that this woman would break his heart too.
It is established that the defendant took advantage of the plaintiff because the plaintiff allowed her to and the defendant, literally, is never allowed to speak. She is allowed one "yes" and when she doesn't offer it up dutifully, Judge Judy talks over her lecturing her and her fiancé about "good form" and "bad women." She then rules on the side of the plaintiff in the amount of $1500.00.
Now here's the thing: old dude is suing this woman because she took advantage of him. If she had slept with him for some amount of time he probably wouldn't have sued her, or if he had, it would recognized as the spurned lover suit that it is. As it stands, he allowed her to stay at his house with no payment agreement and no understanding as to what she would pay him, if she would ever pay him anything. But once she brought another guy home he pulls her into court for back rent and utilities.
Should you take advantage of men? No. Should men who are stupid enough to let pretty girls stay in their houses be allowed to sue them because said pretty girl was tasteless? No! I don't know if I can go on watching Judge Judy; basically she uses her show as an opportunity to preach at the people in her courtroom and she seems to pass judgment based more on who was more "morally" upright opposed to who was actually cheated and deserved the money.
This is crap! Judy what are you doing to me? When someone asks, actually ASKS, another person to take advantage of them can't some form of social darwinism reign here? Old dude was dumb enough to let the chick move in with him without any form of written agreement, and he's pissed that his abundant niceness didn't land her in his bed. To this I say you're being a schmoe shouldn't mean you get money! I'm irate with Judy's moralizing. It's a good thing the show is only a half hour long or I would be in cardiac arrest by now.
This is what happens you have bad cable and are avoiding reading depressing plays. Your day is reduced to Judge Judy and heartburn. I think people that are dumb enough to let those they want to sleep with move in with them should have to pay the rest of us for tolerating their stupidity. Case closed.
The plaintiff who is 50+ years old, allowed the defendant who is 30-something to move into his house without paying rent or utilities because she needed help and...he had feelings for her. He had an email from her where she stated she was sorry, but didn't feel anything for him because she had already lost her heart to "Dwayne." The defendant stands in court now engaged to some other guy who isn't Dwayne, and Judge Judy stops the case to take a moment to lecture to the fiancé that this woman would break his heart too.
It is established that the defendant took advantage of the plaintiff because the plaintiff allowed her to and the defendant, literally, is never allowed to speak. She is allowed one "yes" and when she doesn't offer it up dutifully, Judge Judy talks over her lecturing her and her fiancé about "good form" and "bad women." She then rules on the side of the plaintiff in the amount of $1500.00.
Now here's the thing: old dude is suing this woman because she took advantage of him. If she had slept with him for some amount of time he probably wouldn't have sued her, or if he had, it would recognized as the spurned lover suit that it is. As it stands, he allowed her to stay at his house with no payment agreement and no understanding as to what she would pay him, if she would ever pay him anything. But once she brought another guy home he pulls her into court for back rent and utilities.
Should you take advantage of men? No. Should men who are stupid enough to let pretty girls stay in their houses be allowed to sue them because said pretty girl was tasteless? No! I don't know if I can go on watching Judge Judy; basically she uses her show as an opportunity to preach at the people in her courtroom and she seems to pass judgment based more on who was more "morally" upright opposed to who was actually cheated and deserved the money.
This is crap! Judy what are you doing to me? When someone asks, actually ASKS, another person to take advantage of them can't some form of social darwinism reign here? Old dude was dumb enough to let the chick move in with him without any form of written agreement, and he's pissed that his abundant niceness didn't land her in his bed. To this I say you're being a schmoe shouldn't mean you get money! I'm irate with Judy's moralizing. It's a good thing the show is only a half hour long or I would be in cardiac arrest by now.
This is what happens you have bad cable and are avoiding reading depressing plays. Your day is reduced to Judge Judy and heartburn. I think people that are dumb enough to let those they want to sleep with move in with them should have to pay the rest of us for tolerating their stupidity. Case closed.
Wednesday, July 01, 2009
Why do I read books? I mean honestly; all a girl asks for is some supernatural love with a little mystery thrown in--perhaps a battle or two for an immortal soul--and this is, apparently, a difficult order to fill. Mostly I feel this is the universe punishing me for not focusing solely on my comps list like I'm should be at the moment. "You dare not read Othello straight through!" it accuses me. "I punish you!" I hate you too universe.
And this most recent foray into young adult fiction wasn't an unpleasant one. I did enjoy the book. The mythology was unique and engaging; the characters were easily sympathetic and moving. But when your villain is a vampire that makes other people vampires against their will in some sort of weird vampire-rape scenario you can't expect me to have sympathy for him. You can't just end the book with the heroine still torn over whether or not she loves him. When you create an entire world and spend 300+ pages teaching me to hate vampires you can't suddenly drop a vampire on me who has literally stolen people's souls and expect me to think he's sexy. Even I'm not that screwed up and we all know how sketchy my love of the undead can be.
Plus, there is a strange werewolf romance going on. In fact, the book is billed as a bit of a werewolf romance but the boy doesn't even kiss the girl until five pages from the end and the book ends abruptly with some implication that said boy runs off an joins a wolf pack never to be seen or heard from again. How is that a romance?! If I wanted this sort of dissatisfaction from reading I would have kept reading Othello and maybe thrown a little Romeo & Juliet in for good measure!
I'm seeing a trend in young adult fiction, and I'm not sure how I feel about it. Books are marketed as romances, or at least as romance being a major plot point, that are decidedly lacking in the romance department. I understand with the Twilight phenomena you want to sell your books to teenage girls and immature adults like myself by claiming "this book too has supernatural love!" But it seems unfair that a book can be marketed as a love story when it's actually a strange five act play about emotionally distant teenage werewolves, evil vampires, and strange vampire-raping of one's soul. No part of that spells l-o-v-e to me.
And it wasn't that it wasn't a good book--it was a pretty decent book (other than the ending which seemed to reek of the author being tired of writing) but it wasn't a teenage love story. Fiction should not be allowed to marketed as a genre it isn't. I, the consumer, purchase this book in good faith expecting some werewolf love action; the book should be required to make good on its promises.
So I guess I'll go finish Othello, but the thing is if I only read love Shakespearean-tragedy style what little hope I have for happiness and light in the world will be squelched and my soul will live in darkness forever. That's why I count on, NEED, my young adult fiction and trashy romance to perform as expected. Otherwise I really am going to become the bitter old feminist who every time she meets a man greets him with, "Don't talk to me. You're just going to try to break me with your patriarchy and I won't be held down by your misogynistic discourse."
And, really, none of us needs that.
And this most recent foray into young adult fiction wasn't an unpleasant one. I did enjoy the book. The mythology was unique and engaging; the characters were easily sympathetic and moving. But when your villain is a vampire that makes other people vampires against their will in some sort of weird vampire-rape scenario you can't expect me to have sympathy for him. You can't just end the book with the heroine still torn over whether or not she loves him. When you create an entire world and spend 300+ pages teaching me to hate vampires you can't suddenly drop a vampire on me who has literally stolen people's souls and expect me to think he's sexy. Even I'm not that screwed up and we all know how sketchy my love of the undead can be.
Plus, there is a strange werewolf romance going on. In fact, the book is billed as a bit of a werewolf romance but the boy doesn't even kiss the girl until five pages from the end and the book ends abruptly with some implication that said boy runs off an joins a wolf pack never to be seen or heard from again. How is that a romance?! If I wanted this sort of dissatisfaction from reading I would have kept reading Othello and maybe thrown a little Romeo & Juliet in for good measure!
I'm seeing a trend in young adult fiction, and I'm not sure how I feel about it. Books are marketed as romances, or at least as romance being a major plot point, that are decidedly lacking in the romance department. I understand with the Twilight phenomena you want to sell your books to teenage girls and immature adults like myself by claiming "this book too has supernatural love!" But it seems unfair that a book can be marketed as a love story when it's actually a strange five act play about emotionally distant teenage werewolves, evil vampires, and strange vampire-raping of one's soul. No part of that spells l-o-v-e to me.
And it wasn't that it wasn't a good book--it was a pretty decent book (other than the ending which seemed to reek of the author being tired of writing) but it wasn't a teenage love story. Fiction should not be allowed to marketed as a genre it isn't. I, the consumer, purchase this book in good faith expecting some werewolf love action; the book should be required to make good on its promises.
So I guess I'll go finish Othello, but the thing is if I only read love Shakespearean-tragedy style what little hope I have for happiness and light in the world will be squelched and my soul will live in darkness forever. That's why I count on, NEED, my young adult fiction and trashy romance to perform as expected. Otherwise I really am going to become the bitter old feminist who every time she meets a man greets him with, "Don't talk to me. You're just going to try to break me with your patriarchy and I won't be held down by your misogynistic discourse."
And, really, none of us needs that.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Elevator Etiquette: Part 2
It's true. I can, on occasion, be grumpy in the morning. Those of you that know me have experienced this first hand (though I still maintain I do a fairly good job of being pleasant when required) but the more tired I am and the less I want to engage in the early activity required, the more grumpy I get.
I woke up this morning pounding on my alarm to shut it off. After a weekend of shenanigans, flying across the country, and grading papers where my young male students thought a wife cheating was justification for female genocide I really, with every quark in my body, did not want to get up and teach Hamlet at 8:00 am. Hamlet and I don't get along under the best of circumstances--see the "Ophelia" rant. But a person can't cancel class just because they hate everything and everyone.
I over slept a little bit, but I still made it to school on time. Coffee in one hand and bottled water in the other, I walked to the elevator sweating profusely and silently debating the suffocating humidity of my home state vs. the blast furnace weather of my current state. I could feel my backpack pushing my shirt against my perspiring back and my mood was less than elevated as I also considered how professional sweat stains are when discussing Hamlet. In the grand scheme of things, however, I hadn't peed on my skirt so I was still a step ahead of this time last year.
I hear the door down the hallway open and who comes around the corner but a young undergraduate fellow. His demeanor oozes disinterest and a smirk seems to be fairly plastered on his features. He eyes me as if I were a member of the ugly sorority and I felt my grumpiness toward the world intensify and zero in on his face. First off, the kid wasn't nearly good looking enough for the attitude he was sporting; this is not "the guy" that all the girls run after. This wasn't even a guy that most girls would notice. I wouldn't have noticed him if his raging case of I'm-nineteen-and-so-cool-it-hurts-itis hadn't more or less assaulted me when he came around the corner. Secondly I never to my knowledge look that unpleasant in public. In fact, I'm reasonably certain my unpleasant face is my most charming since every time I wear it random strangers want to talk to me.
The elevator arrives. This is the slowest elevator on campus by the by. We enter and I push 3. Two + floors is a perfectly acceptable elevator ride. He looked at me and I looked at him. Theme music from The Good, The Bad, & The Ugly whistled in the background. I said with my eyes, "Don't do it! I can tell you're a douchebag, but don't push 2! Don't be that guy!" I stood in a slightly aggressive posture blocking the number pad in such a way as to telepathically communicate my complete and total judgment of his character should he reach across on push 2. With a sneer on his lips and a vapidness in his eyes he reached over...and pushed 2.
I hate perfectly healthy people that ride the elevator only one floor.
Now, it's possible this young man had reasons for his behavior (the attitude, not the elevator). Maybe he woke up that morning, realized he was Oedipus, and was understandably befuddled by the new knowledge that he had killed his father and was sleeping with his mother. Maybe he was actually living a Quentin Tarantino movie and was on his way at that precise moment to assassinate someone. Maybe his mother never hugged him enough. I try to take these things into account, and to remind myself that not everyone knows the basic rules of polite society; you know the ones, don't belch in public, don't kick babies, don't ride the elevator one floor.
Here's the thing: nobody likes a whiner, and this kid was the archetype of a whiner. But despite all of that I never would have noticed or remembered him if hadn't ridden the elevator only one floor. It's a tough lesson, but one that I feel is worth learning.
It's true. I can, on occasion, be grumpy in the morning. Those of you that know me have experienced this first hand (though I still maintain I do a fairly good job of being pleasant when required) but the more tired I am and the less I want to engage in the early activity required, the more grumpy I get.
I woke up this morning pounding on my alarm to shut it off. After a weekend of shenanigans, flying across the country, and grading papers where my young male students thought a wife cheating was justification for female genocide I really, with every quark in my body, did not want to get up and teach Hamlet at 8:00 am. Hamlet and I don't get along under the best of circumstances--see the "Ophelia" rant. But a person can't cancel class just because they hate everything and everyone.
I over slept a little bit, but I still made it to school on time. Coffee in one hand and bottled water in the other, I walked to the elevator sweating profusely and silently debating the suffocating humidity of my home state vs. the blast furnace weather of my current state. I could feel my backpack pushing my shirt against my perspiring back and my mood was less than elevated as I also considered how professional sweat stains are when discussing Hamlet. In the grand scheme of things, however, I hadn't peed on my skirt so I was still a step ahead of this time last year.
I hear the door down the hallway open and who comes around the corner but a young undergraduate fellow. His demeanor oozes disinterest and a smirk seems to be fairly plastered on his features. He eyes me as if I were a member of the ugly sorority and I felt my grumpiness toward the world intensify and zero in on his face. First off, the kid wasn't nearly good looking enough for the attitude he was sporting; this is not "the guy" that all the girls run after. This wasn't even a guy that most girls would notice. I wouldn't have noticed him if his raging case of I'm-nineteen-and-so-cool-it-hurts-itis hadn't more or less assaulted me when he came around the corner. Secondly I never to my knowledge look that unpleasant in public. In fact, I'm reasonably certain my unpleasant face is my most charming since every time I wear it random strangers want to talk to me.
The elevator arrives. This is the slowest elevator on campus by the by. We enter and I push 3. Two + floors is a perfectly acceptable elevator ride. He looked at me and I looked at him. Theme music from The Good, The Bad, & The Ugly whistled in the background. I said with my eyes, "Don't do it! I can tell you're a douchebag, but don't push 2! Don't be that guy!" I stood in a slightly aggressive posture blocking the number pad in such a way as to telepathically communicate my complete and total judgment of his character should he reach across on push 2. With a sneer on his lips and a vapidness in his eyes he reached over...and pushed 2.
I hate perfectly healthy people that ride the elevator only one floor.
Now, it's possible this young man had reasons for his behavior (the attitude, not the elevator). Maybe he woke up that morning, realized he was Oedipus, and was understandably befuddled by the new knowledge that he had killed his father and was sleeping with his mother. Maybe he was actually living a Quentin Tarantino movie and was on his way at that precise moment to assassinate someone. Maybe his mother never hugged him enough. I try to take these things into account, and to remind myself that not everyone knows the basic rules of polite society; you know the ones, don't belch in public, don't kick babies, don't ride the elevator one floor.
Here's the thing: nobody likes a whiner, and this kid was the archetype of a whiner. But despite all of that I never would have noticed or remembered him if hadn't ridden the elevator only one floor. It's a tough lesson, but one that I feel is worth learning.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Top Ten Reunion Moments
I went to my 10 year high school reunion this weekend. It was, I have to admit, surprisingly fun. I shouldn't say "surprisingly" as if I didn't expect to have a good time; I wouldn't have flown home if I didn't expect to have a good time. But I was surprised at myself--how much I enjoyed seeing and talking to people again; how nice it was to learn that people were happy and healthy; and last, but certainly not least, how totally sweet it is when a non-watered-down cocktail only costs $3.50. That last one possibly got me in trouble, but it wouldn't have been "just like the old days" unless I was stupidly ill in my parents' bathroom at least once.
It was requested, however, and I always answer my requests, that I offer up a top ten list for the weekend. It's okay, I know you want it. So here we go!
Top Ten Moments From Ye Olde 10 Year Reunion
10. Cockroaches in IL are blacker and jucier than cockroaches in NV.
So this one isn't technically "about" the reunion, but since you've all been with me in my recent cock-a-roach escapades I felt it worth putting on the list. I get home Thursday. Thursday night a friend and I watch Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves (Alan Rickman, you know you love him). I get up for a drink and there on the floor if a GIANT black cockroach. I pick up my flip flop and kill him until he is dead. I return to the kitchen a little while later and there are TWO GIANT black cockroaches. I kill them, my martial-arts style technique impressive for even a prodigy of Bruce Lee, but before I can recover a THIRD GIANT black cockroach attacks from the side! The kitchen is now littered with carcasses, all oozing some stinky, yellowish-white substance and I suddenly remember why I hated killing cockroaches when I lived in that state. They're just so...juicy. At least out here they're dehydrated like everything else.
The crowning moment to this story is that the following morning when I told my dad he seriously needed to invest in some roach motel real estate he replied with, "if you walk hard enough you never see them." Thanks Dad. As always your logic is impeccable.
9. Narrowly avoided face-plants, trips, and other classy kung-fu moves on my part.
I'm feeling good; I'm feeling pretty. And then I missed the last step at the bar housing our official "reunion" and nearly face planted in front of several former classmates. It's hard to contain awesomeness such as this. Nothing says "I'm a fully grown classy lady" like breaking a fall with your face.
8. Some random dude from the bar I used to go to thinks we're friends.
Many (many) years ago I frequented a bar in my hometown. I frequented said bar almost every night of the week for two years because my roommate and I were what a professional might describe as "alcoholic" but what I like to simply term "fun." Many (many) other people frequented this bar because it was a popular place amongst the college students. A year or two ago I was sitting in a different bar in my hometown, over Christmas break I think, having a beer dressed nothing like the ho I once was and a fellow tapped me on the shoulder and asked if I used to attend this previously described bar awhile ago. I said yes and we chatted amicably for a second and then his friend hauled him away. I had a brief seizure as I attempted to remember what acts I committed in that bar that made me memorable six years later from all the other college girls that went there. This would make a find story in and of itself. But Saturday night, one or two years after our last encounter, he was at the bar the reunion was being held and tapped me on the shoulder. He said hi and we chatted amicably some more before I boogied out of there. I'm perplexed by this. It didn't seem like he wanted to sleep with me (it's been awhile, the radar could be off) and it didn't seem like he wanted to get to know me so what the hell? Like the homeless man who kissed me or the other homeless guy that asked me if the street we were walking on was the "road to nowhere" I feel my pheromones mock me by only attracting unfathomable situations and wildly inappropriate men. This doesn't actually have anything to do with the reunion either, but the story was too inconceivable not to share.
And really...if there are pictures of me somewhere doing something in that bar please burn them. I learned the lesson about no cameras while drinking WAY too late.
7. Once a geek, always a geek.
I feel I have the best high school senior prom date story ever. Only time I was asked to dance was by a friend and it was for the senior prom. My friend said, "Would you like to go to the prom? I thought about it and I figured you would be the most fun girl I could go with." And it was a great night. Fast forward ten years, this friend was at the reunion which was fantastic, and we fell into a conversation about the Watchmen, Transformers, and various other geeky endeavors. Those around us politely excused themselves and I thought this is why we always had such a good time together. Deep down inside, no matter how serious our jobs, or how grown up we have to be, some of us will always enjoy ourselves most while debating comic books and philosophy. T'was awesome.
6. I got to say where I lived.
It's shallow and it doesn't matter. It's not like I live anywhere more special than anywhere else (trust me I know, I live here) but I'm not married and I don't have kids and while I'm not any fatter than I ever was I'm also not any skinnier than I ever was. Getting to say I lived in a big city known for being a good time at least let me play the "I can carry alcohol on the street as I walk from penny slot to penny slot" card. It's not something that would make my mother proud and isn't like I saved a baby to get here, but it was something.
5. If you have a wedgie any attempt to fix it will be caught by someone turning the corner at the exact wrong time.
I wore the wrong underwear. Sort of like nearly face-planting this was my other crowning achievement. I'd like to think it's the universe's way of keeping me humble, but more likely I'm just a dumbass. So you step into a dark corner; you look left, right, and left again. You reach back for the quick tug and...someone walks around the corner and you're totally caught. Bastion of class. Right here.
4. If you didn't have anything to talk about in high school chances are, no matter how well meaning you both are, you will have nothing to talk about ten years later either.
Everyone is adult, or at least mostly adult. We all know how to carry on pleasant conversations. But once you say hi and run through what you're doing now there really isn't anywhere to go. And a couple of times as I stood awkwardly with my awkward smile pasted on my face I thought, "why can't I talk to this person?" I can talk to homeless guys, and carnie guys...I have even talked pleasantly with people that believe the Earth is 6,000 years old. But perfectly nice, sane people I shared four years of my life with...I've got nothing. A few of us lamented our social ineptitude together, but what could be done? If we aren't talking books, movies, the undead, or music I'm out. I got nothing.
3. A videocassette is still in existence that would make my mother cry.
New Years Eve 1999. Never EVER imbibe something illegal and then say yes when someone asks if you want to stand in front of the video camera. Ten years later it will come up. Seriously. Never. Ever.
2. The Breakfast Club was alive and well.
It was like the lunch room in high school. All of one type of kid on one side of the bar. All of another type of kid on the other side of the bar. I stood back in amazement as everyone gravitated towards their respective social hierarchy and I was amazed. I don't think it happened because anyone intended for it to happen--see #4.
As an addendum, an even better example of this happened as I stood in the bathroom waiting for my friend and three stall doors opened up, and three gorgeous women walked out. All in satin, mid-calf, black cocktail dresses. All with (almost) the same shade of blond hair. All with (almost) the same tan. All with fantastic shoes. I almost ducked into a stall, but it was too late. There was no way to avoid being rude. And again, I thought, why is this so uncomfortable? I think it's cause pretty people scare me.
My friend took forever getting out of the stall because she was laughing at me and didn't want to come out.
1. Everyone (apparently) was surprised I engaged in activities that are unhealthy.
Sometimes I engage in activities that come with the Surgeon General's warning on the box. Multiple people were shocked by this. All I gots to say is the only reason I wasn't breaking the law in high school is because no one showed me where the parties were. For everyone that really knows me, every time I do something that is unhealthy, stupid, or just plain dangerous my name is said with a sense of resignation that said activity was always inevitable. Did I really come off as that much of a good girl in high school? Lame.
I went to my 10 year high school reunion this weekend. It was, I have to admit, surprisingly fun. I shouldn't say "surprisingly" as if I didn't expect to have a good time; I wouldn't have flown home if I didn't expect to have a good time. But I was surprised at myself--how much I enjoyed seeing and talking to people again; how nice it was to learn that people were happy and healthy; and last, but certainly not least, how totally sweet it is when a non-watered-down cocktail only costs $3.50. That last one possibly got me in trouble, but it wouldn't have been "just like the old days" unless I was stupidly ill in my parents' bathroom at least once.
It was requested, however, and I always answer my requests, that I offer up a top ten list for the weekend. It's okay, I know you want it. So here we go!
Top Ten Moments From Ye Olde 10 Year Reunion
10. Cockroaches in IL are blacker and jucier than cockroaches in NV.
So this one isn't technically "about" the reunion, but since you've all been with me in my recent cock-a-roach escapades I felt it worth putting on the list. I get home Thursday. Thursday night a friend and I watch Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves (Alan Rickman, you know you love him). I get up for a drink and there on the floor if a GIANT black cockroach. I pick up my flip flop and kill him until he is dead. I return to the kitchen a little while later and there are TWO GIANT black cockroaches. I kill them, my martial-arts style technique impressive for even a prodigy of Bruce Lee, but before I can recover a THIRD GIANT black cockroach attacks from the side! The kitchen is now littered with carcasses, all oozing some stinky, yellowish-white substance and I suddenly remember why I hated killing cockroaches when I lived in that state. They're just so...juicy. At least out here they're dehydrated like everything else.
The crowning moment to this story is that the following morning when I told my dad he seriously needed to invest in some roach motel real estate he replied with, "if you walk hard enough you never see them." Thanks Dad. As always your logic is impeccable.
9. Narrowly avoided face-plants, trips, and other classy kung-fu moves on my part.
I'm feeling good; I'm feeling pretty. And then I missed the last step at the bar housing our official "reunion" and nearly face planted in front of several former classmates. It's hard to contain awesomeness such as this. Nothing says "I'm a fully grown classy lady" like breaking a fall with your face.
8. Some random dude from the bar I used to go to thinks we're friends.
Many (many) years ago I frequented a bar in my hometown. I frequented said bar almost every night of the week for two years because my roommate and I were what a professional might describe as "alcoholic" but what I like to simply term "fun." Many (many) other people frequented this bar because it was a popular place amongst the college students. A year or two ago I was sitting in a different bar in my hometown, over Christmas break I think, having a beer dressed nothing like the ho I once was and a fellow tapped me on the shoulder and asked if I used to attend this previously described bar awhile ago. I said yes and we chatted amicably for a second and then his friend hauled him away. I had a brief seizure as I attempted to remember what acts I committed in that bar that made me memorable six years later from all the other college girls that went there. This would make a find story in and of itself. But Saturday night, one or two years after our last encounter, he was at the bar the reunion was being held and tapped me on the shoulder. He said hi and we chatted amicably some more before I boogied out of there. I'm perplexed by this. It didn't seem like he wanted to sleep with me (it's been awhile, the radar could be off) and it didn't seem like he wanted to get to know me so what the hell? Like the homeless man who kissed me or the other homeless guy that asked me if the street we were walking on was the "road to nowhere" I feel my pheromones mock me by only attracting unfathomable situations and wildly inappropriate men. This doesn't actually have anything to do with the reunion either, but the story was too inconceivable not to share.
And really...if there are pictures of me somewhere doing something in that bar please burn them. I learned the lesson about no cameras while drinking WAY too late.
7. Once a geek, always a geek.
I feel I have the best high school senior prom date story ever. Only time I was asked to dance was by a friend and it was for the senior prom. My friend said, "Would you like to go to the prom? I thought about it and I figured you would be the most fun girl I could go with." And it was a great night. Fast forward ten years, this friend was at the reunion which was fantastic, and we fell into a conversation about the Watchmen, Transformers, and various other geeky endeavors. Those around us politely excused themselves and I thought this is why we always had such a good time together. Deep down inside, no matter how serious our jobs, or how grown up we have to be, some of us will always enjoy ourselves most while debating comic books and philosophy. T'was awesome.
6. I got to say where I lived.
It's shallow and it doesn't matter. It's not like I live anywhere more special than anywhere else (trust me I know, I live here) but I'm not married and I don't have kids and while I'm not any fatter than I ever was I'm also not any skinnier than I ever was. Getting to say I lived in a big city known for being a good time at least let me play the "I can carry alcohol on the street as I walk from penny slot to penny slot" card. It's not something that would make my mother proud and isn't like I saved a baby to get here, but it was something.
5. If you have a wedgie any attempt to fix it will be caught by someone turning the corner at the exact wrong time.
I wore the wrong underwear. Sort of like nearly face-planting this was my other crowning achievement. I'd like to think it's the universe's way of keeping me humble, but more likely I'm just a dumbass. So you step into a dark corner; you look left, right, and left again. You reach back for the quick tug and...someone walks around the corner and you're totally caught. Bastion of class. Right here.
4. If you didn't have anything to talk about in high school chances are, no matter how well meaning you both are, you will have nothing to talk about ten years later either.
Everyone is adult, or at least mostly adult. We all know how to carry on pleasant conversations. But once you say hi and run through what you're doing now there really isn't anywhere to go. And a couple of times as I stood awkwardly with my awkward smile pasted on my face I thought, "why can't I talk to this person?" I can talk to homeless guys, and carnie guys...I have even talked pleasantly with people that believe the Earth is 6,000 years old. But perfectly nice, sane people I shared four years of my life with...I've got nothing. A few of us lamented our social ineptitude together, but what could be done? If we aren't talking books, movies, the undead, or music I'm out. I got nothing.
3. A videocassette is still in existence that would make my mother cry.
New Years Eve 1999. Never EVER imbibe something illegal and then say yes when someone asks if you want to stand in front of the video camera. Ten years later it will come up. Seriously. Never. Ever.
2. The Breakfast Club was alive and well.
It was like the lunch room in high school. All of one type of kid on one side of the bar. All of another type of kid on the other side of the bar. I stood back in amazement as everyone gravitated towards their respective social hierarchy and I was amazed. I don't think it happened because anyone intended for it to happen--see #4.
As an addendum, an even better example of this happened as I stood in the bathroom waiting for my friend and three stall doors opened up, and three gorgeous women walked out. All in satin, mid-calf, black cocktail dresses. All with (almost) the same shade of blond hair. All with (almost) the same tan. All with fantastic shoes. I almost ducked into a stall, but it was too late. There was no way to avoid being rude. And again, I thought, why is this so uncomfortable? I think it's cause pretty people scare me.
My friend took forever getting out of the stall because she was laughing at me and didn't want to come out.
1. Everyone (apparently) was surprised I engaged in activities that are unhealthy.
Sometimes I engage in activities that come with the Surgeon General's warning on the box. Multiple people were shocked by this. All I gots to say is the only reason I wasn't breaking the law in high school is because no one showed me where the parties were. For everyone that really knows me, every time I do something that is unhealthy, stupid, or just plain dangerous my name is said with a sense of resignation that said activity was always inevitable. Did I really come off as that much of a good girl in high school? Lame.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
I took a facebook quiz because I wanted to better understand the hidden depths of my soul. The quiz was, "What Shakespeare Character Would You Be?" And my answer was:
"Ophelia. Young and vulnerable, you are in love, but are obedient to the thoughtless powers who command your life. You must play the parts demanded of you, but cannot understand how your complicity can so quickly turn your lover's tenderness to hatred and contempt. Where to turn? Whom to trust? Can you even keep your grasp on reality? Surely the love in that tormented heart can be returned...but will it be too, too late? Shakespearean kindred spirits: Hero, Desdemona, Cordelia, Imogen, Hermione, Hermia, Lady MacDuff, Banquo, Troilus."
Now--this is worth writing about for a couple of reasons. First, I am, perhaps, the least Ophelia-like person I have ever heard of. Second, the "kindred spirits" are not all like Ophelia...at all. The simple fact that these other characters are mostly females from Shakespeare's plays do not make them kindred spirits to Ophelia. Hero and Desdemona are true women wrongly accused. Cordelia has daddy issues. Imogen outsmarts everyone; Lady MacDuff gets sliced and diced at home when her husband more or less abandons her. Banquo's a slightly sketchy "friend" who may or may not support regicide.
So who wrote this stupid thing? Shouldn't a person have to understand Shakespeare to make up a quiz about Shakespeare? And, considering how many Shakespearean characters there are, shouldn't there be some sort of sorting quiz to get you in the right genre and character type? For example, do you 1) crave power; 2) crave abusive love; 3) want your usurped position back; 4) like to hurt people; 5) enjoy wearing clown make-up; 6) just want to love and be loved in return? We have to narrow the pool a little bit here I think.
And, AND--one of the questions on this silly quiz was, "what book are you most likely to read next?" My answer: A Vindication of the Rights of Women. Do you know what book Ophelia would read? Names and Household Uses for Wildflowers. So the next step in narrowing down your (gianormous) pool of Shakespearean characters is establishment of reaction to life changing and/or threatening occurrences. If someone tries to rob you of your freedom, agency, or life do you: 1) kill yourself; 2) attempt to kill them; 3) cry a lot and wait for someone else to kill them; 3) take charge and prove your innocence/independence; 4) wander around incessantly and debate the meaning of life, the universe, everything; 5) take your bat and ball and go home?
I'm incensed (INCENSED) that someone could equate me with Ophelia--even a facebook quiz. That's like being equated with some homicidal dictator responsible for genocide but without even the coolness of being a homicidal dictator responsible for genocide. At least if you kill (or are capable of killing) hundreds, thousands, or millions of people are fascinated by your evil. That's tremendous, fascinating, addictive in its horror. But if you're just a girl who likes indecisive, emotionally abusive men, can't stand up to Daddy, and prone to self-mutilation and/or suicide to escape the soap opera drama your life has become nobody cares about you. They feel sorry for you. They try to imagine a world or a perspective where you're not quite such a loser, but they have to make it up cause pretty much all you do is wander around and be pathetic.
Do I wander around and act pathetic? Am I devoid of identity and voice? Am I incapable of kicking Hamlet in the balls when he tells me to "get thee to a nunnery?" Does my dad speak in bad clichés and suck up to those of higher social status? Am I even capable of falling in love with a guy like Hamlet to begin with? Do I find extreme moodiness and indecisiveness attractive?!
I'm having an identity crisis here. I go to facebook quizzes for relaxing fun because obviously 10 questions made up by a random stranger reveals an unknown truth about my existence. But I don't like the truth revealed to me this day. I think I'm going to go find a man to marry and talk him into murdering someone. At least then when I go crazy it'll be because I DID something.
"Ophelia. Young and vulnerable, you are in love, but are obedient to the thoughtless powers who command your life. You must play the parts demanded of you, but cannot understand how your complicity can so quickly turn your lover's tenderness to hatred and contempt. Where to turn? Whom to trust? Can you even keep your grasp on reality? Surely the love in that tormented heart can be returned...but will it be too, too late? Shakespearean kindred spirits: Hero, Desdemona, Cordelia, Imogen, Hermione, Hermia, Lady MacDuff, Banquo, Troilus."
Now--this is worth writing about for a couple of reasons. First, I am, perhaps, the least Ophelia-like person I have ever heard of. Second, the "kindred spirits" are not all like Ophelia...at all. The simple fact that these other characters are mostly females from Shakespeare's plays do not make them kindred spirits to Ophelia. Hero and Desdemona are true women wrongly accused. Cordelia has daddy issues. Imogen outsmarts everyone; Lady MacDuff gets sliced and diced at home when her husband more or less abandons her. Banquo's a slightly sketchy "friend" who may or may not support regicide.
So who wrote this stupid thing? Shouldn't a person have to understand Shakespeare to make up a quiz about Shakespeare? And, considering how many Shakespearean characters there are, shouldn't there be some sort of sorting quiz to get you in the right genre and character type? For example, do you 1) crave power; 2) crave abusive love; 3) want your usurped position back; 4) like to hurt people; 5) enjoy wearing clown make-up; 6) just want to love and be loved in return? We have to narrow the pool a little bit here I think.
And, AND--one of the questions on this silly quiz was, "what book are you most likely to read next?" My answer: A Vindication of the Rights of Women. Do you know what book Ophelia would read? Names and Household Uses for Wildflowers. So the next step in narrowing down your (gianormous) pool of Shakespearean characters is establishment of reaction to life changing and/or threatening occurrences. If someone tries to rob you of your freedom, agency, or life do you: 1) kill yourself; 2) attempt to kill them; 3) cry a lot and wait for someone else to kill them; 3) take charge and prove your innocence/independence; 4) wander around incessantly and debate the meaning of life, the universe, everything; 5) take your bat and ball and go home?
I'm incensed (INCENSED) that someone could equate me with Ophelia--even a facebook quiz. That's like being equated with some homicidal dictator responsible for genocide but without even the coolness of being a homicidal dictator responsible for genocide. At least if you kill (or are capable of killing) hundreds, thousands, or millions of people are fascinated by your evil. That's tremendous, fascinating, addictive in its horror. But if you're just a girl who likes indecisive, emotionally abusive men, can't stand up to Daddy, and prone to self-mutilation and/or suicide to escape the soap opera drama your life has become nobody cares about you. They feel sorry for you. They try to imagine a world or a perspective where you're not quite such a loser, but they have to make it up cause pretty much all you do is wander around and be pathetic.
Do I wander around and act pathetic? Am I devoid of identity and voice? Am I incapable of kicking Hamlet in the balls when he tells me to "get thee to a nunnery?" Does my dad speak in bad clichés and suck up to those of higher social status? Am I even capable of falling in love with a guy like Hamlet to begin with? Do I find extreme moodiness and indecisiveness attractive?!
I'm having an identity crisis here. I go to facebook quizzes for relaxing fun because obviously 10 questions made up by a random stranger reveals an unknown truth about my existence. But I don't like the truth revealed to me this day. I think I'm going to go find a man to marry and talk him into murdering someone. At least then when I go crazy it'll be because I DID something.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
You know what's not hot? What is never, ever attractive in any way, under any circumstance, or fantasy? Besides the mullet or fanny-pack? Rape. Here I am, reading the latest trashy romance, and I'm stopped, flabbergasted, confounded by the two most offensive sentences ever published in one book. And you know I've read some offensive books. Sentence one: "A husband can't rape his wife." Sentence two: "Rape or seduction, he would take either."
NOT HOT!
The worst part is, I kind of liked this book. It's about shape-shifting dragons; the heroine is strong and the hero is Alpha (oh yeah, she describes him as Alpha. Probably that should have tipped me off to the caliber or writing I had gotten myself into, but I cut a lot of slack when it comes to these books). But when the "hero" (notice the ironic scare quotes) says he's going to marry you and RAPE you, but it won't be rape because you really want it--in what twisted, Nora Ephron world is this romance? This is like some freakish woman's fantasy who grew up on James Bond films and never actually tried to live one of those scenarios out.
It looks really good when the man is all uber-masculine and fighting his need to ravish her immediately; it adds to the sensuality of the moment if we are all very aware of how the only reason she isn't naked and panting is because he has so magnanimously chosen not to use his superior strength against her. And nothing tops of a sex scene quite like the knowledge that if she weren't into it he still wouldn't stop. Cause that's exactly what I want from my husband/hero/super spy. I want to know that if I'm weeping or silent or stiff or protesting or trying to get away he'll push ahead because he knows that's what I really want.
It's a good thing we have stories like this to remind us that real men will "take care of us." That's right. I used the scare quotes again. You know why? Cause it's scary.
I'm flummoxed. What editor let's this get published? What writer imagines it heightens the sexual tension of the scene for the reader to know her hero is capable of raping her heroine? HELLO?! You know what it is? This is a woman that watches Sleepless in Seattle and says "that's romantic." This is a woman who imagines that any manner of behavior is excusable so long as genuine "love" provides the motivations. This is a woman who gets smacked across the face and when her man says he's sorry and he only did it because he loved her believes him and cooks him dinner so he won't feel so bad.
Sometimes I try not to judge, but I'm judging now. There is a very big difference between I want you so much I can't slow myself down and I want you so much I'm gonna rape you. One of those is hot. The other is only sexy if you're a hot mess of a human being who is so broken she can't even conceive of fantasy as different than reality.
Why is it so hard to find a good love story any more? Why can't I, just once, get a sexy, dark, brooding hero who isn't emotionally abusive or fighting an inner-struggle against his own rape tendencies? I mean for craps sake here people. Is the literary bar for genre fiction really set this low or do I just have to worst luck picking out easy reading?
Stupid, stupid book. I'm totally going to burn it and use it's flaming pages to kill roaches. Then at least it would be good for something.
NOT HOT!
The worst part is, I kind of liked this book. It's about shape-shifting dragons; the heroine is strong and the hero is Alpha (oh yeah, she describes him as Alpha. Probably that should have tipped me off to the caliber or writing I had gotten myself into, but I cut a lot of slack when it comes to these books). But when the "hero" (notice the ironic scare quotes) says he's going to marry you and RAPE you, but it won't be rape because you really want it--in what twisted, Nora Ephron world is this romance? This is like some freakish woman's fantasy who grew up on James Bond films and never actually tried to live one of those scenarios out.
It looks really good when the man is all uber-masculine and fighting his need to ravish her immediately; it adds to the sensuality of the moment if we are all very aware of how the only reason she isn't naked and panting is because he has so magnanimously chosen not to use his superior strength against her. And nothing tops of a sex scene quite like the knowledge that if she weren't into it he still wouldn't stop. Cause that's exactly what I want from my husband/hero/super spy. I want to know that if I'm weeping or silent or stiff or protesting or trying to get away he'll push ahead because he knows that's what I really want.
It's a good thing we have stories like this to remind us that real men will "take care of us." That's right. I used the scare quotes again. You know why? Cause it's scary.
I'm flummoxed. What editor let's this get published? What writer imagines it heightens the sexual tension of the scene for the reader to know her hero is capable of raping her heroine? HELLO?! You know what it is? This is a woman that watches Sleepless in Seattle and says "that's romantic." This is a woman who imagines that any manner of behavior is excusable so long as genuine "love" provides the motivations. This is a woman who gets smacked across the face and when her man says he's sorry and he only did it because he loved her believes him and cooks him dinner so he won't feel so bad.
Sometimes I try not to judge, but I'm judging now. There is a very big difference between I want you so much I can't slow myself down and I want you so much I'm gonna rape you. One of those is hot. The other is only sexy if you're a hot mess of a human being who is so broken she can't even conceive of fantasy as different than reality.
Why is it so hard to find a good love story any more? Why can't I, just once, get a sexy, dark, brooding hero who isn't emotionally abusive or fighting an inner-struggle against his own rape tendencies? I mean for craps sake here people. Is the literary bar for genre fiction really set this low or do I just have to worst luck picking out easy reading?
Stupid, stupid book. I'm totally going to burn it and use it's flaming pages to kill roaches. Then at least it would be good for something.
Tuesday, June 09, 2009
I am under attack from the GFRS--Giant Flying Roach Squad. You remember last spring don't you? When I declared war on the roaches? It was a hard season for the war, but I was ultimately victorious. But the roaches are back...and this time they brought the big guns.
It all started a week or so ago when I came home and went into my bathroom late one night. There on the floor playing dead was a member of the GFRS. I wasn't fooled. I knew he lay there on his back to offer the illusion of death so that I would lean in close providing the perfect opportunity to spring into flight and dive bomb my head. I walked into my closet, picked up a large shoe, returned to the bathroom and smashed the shit out of the fucker.
I had been right. He wasn't dead. But he was when I was done with him.
Apparently he had only been a scout. War was declared at midnight on June 5th, 2009. My roommate, quiet and unsuspecting turned to see what she thought was a moth flying around her bedroom. It was not a moth; it was, in fact, a bomber from the GFRS. Understandably upset at this mutated monster circling her room she killed him dead, but no sooner was he gone and another took his place. It's been three days now and the fighting has been rough. Their side bears many casualties, but our side is not unscathed.
Earlier this evening while watching Quarentine, a movie I didn't expect to scare me half as bad as it did, I heard (HEARD) Red Leader push his massive frame through our air conditioning vent and launch his attack. Petrified from the movie, unprepared for so bold a maneuver, we screamed in surprise and I barely jumped off the futon before vile spawn of Satan landed right where my head had been. Measuring a solid four inches in length, the antennae extended another two, twitching as it attempted to discern my whereabouts. Assessing the situation I decided such an unwarranted attack on my person could not be ignored and I picked up a tennis shoe and screamed my bloodthirsty screech of anger as I beat the life out of it.
Their trying to wear us down. Haranguing us day and night we are offered no quarter, no rest as we never know from which direction the next attack will come. I have heartburn from the stress of trying to keep my spirits up as I attempt to snatch a victory from the jaws of their vastly superior numbers. Right now I estimate they have us outnumbered approximately 1,000 to 1. It will be a close battle, but I'm still hopeful we can persevere.
I write this war journal now in case we lose the front. If my body is lost under the swarm of the GFRS I want there to be record of my existence and the bravery that took place in this small, modest apartment. Courage has been seen here and true heroism. The human spirit has been tested and proven its worth. We are an apartment of English majors and we bleed text. We won't go down easy, but if we can't find a way to get rest--just a few moments here and there--they might overcome. If that happens don't mourn. Cheer for all the evil we destroyed in our battles and pick up where we left off. Don't let them take the apartment. Promise you won't let them win. More than just our home is at stake here, the very values by which we live could be threatened.
Good night and God bless.
It all started a week or so ago when I came home and went into my bathroom late one night. There on the floor playing dead was a member of the GFRS. I wasn't fooled. I knew he lay there on his back to offer the illusion of death so that I would lean in close providing the perfect opportunity to spring into flight and dive bomb my head. I walked into my closet, picked up a large shoe, returned to the bathroom and smashed the shit out of the fucker.
I had been right. He wasn't dead. But he was when I was done with him.
Apparently he had only been a scout. War was declared at midnight on June 5th, 2009. My roommate, quiet and unsuspecting turned to see what she thought was a moth flying around her bedroom. It was not a moth; it was, in fact, a bomber from the GFRS. Understandably upset at this mutated monster circling her room she killed him dead, but no sooner was he gone and another took his place. It's been three days now and the fighting has been rough. Their side bears many casualties, but our side is not unscathed.
Earlier this evening while watching Quarentine, a movie I didn't expect to scare me half as bad as it did, I heard (HEARD) Red Leader push his massive frame through our air conditioning vent and launch his attack. Petrified from the movie, unprepared for so bold a maneuver, we screamed in surprise and I barely jumped off the futon before vile spawn of Satan landed right where my head had been. Measuring a solid four inches in length, the antennae extended another two, twitching as it attempted to discern my whereabouts. Assessing the situation I decided such an unwarranted attack on my person could not be ignored and I picked up a tennis shoe and screamed my bloodthirsty screech of anger as I beat the life out of it.
Their trying to wear us down. Haranguing us day and night we are offered no quarter, no rest as we never know from which direction the next attack will come. I have heartburn from the stress of trying to keep my spirits up as I attempt to snatch a victory from the jaws of their vastly superior numbers. Right now I estimate they have us outnumbered approximately 1,000 to 1. It will be a close battle, but I'm still hopeful we can persevere.
I write this war journal now in case we lose the front. If my body is lost under the swarm of the GFRS I want there to be record of my existence and the bravery that took place in this small, modest apartment. Courage has been seen here and true heroism. The human spirit has been tested and proven its worth. We are an apartment of English majors and we bleed text. We won't go down easy, but if we can't find a way to get rest--just a few moments here and there--they might overcome. If that happens don't mourn. Cheer for all the evil we destroyed in our battles and pick up where we left off. Don't let them take the apartment. Promise you won't let them win. More than just our home is at stake here, the very values by which we live could be threatened.
Good night and God bless.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
I'm procrastinating...still. I've been procrastinating for two weeks now, but I actually have the document opened on my computer screen right now! And minimized so I can procrastinate by writing this blog.
I decided it was time to come clean. This isn't an easy process for me; I'm not proud of what I've done, but I feel I owe it to myself, my family, and my friends to admit to having a problem. I'm addicted to Star Trek. How addicted are you? you ask. I'm reading fanfiction--lots and lots of fanfiction. In alcohol terms, I just drank the bottle of rubbing alcohol because I was all out of scotch. I've sat on my loveseat with my computer on my lap and read score upon score of Spock/Uhura love stories and even a little Spock/Kirk. And this obsession has grown past Mr. Spock. I've fallen in obsession with the crew of The Next Generation; I've watched episodes of The Original Series and enjoyed them on an unhealthy level. I've watched the first SEVEN Star Trek movies and am currently contemplating doing it again.
This is like Twilight-quality pathetic here people. I'm going to walk into class on Monday and have to explain I have no syllabus and no lesson plan because I couldn't focus on anything except my own depraved Vulcan fantasies. I'm like an X-rated version of someone off Trekkies.
And there's nothing for it. Nothing I can do to make this better; no safety mechanism that can bring me back from the brink. Like any unhealthy relationship I just have to ride this one out; help has been offered but until I am in a place I can accept it, it does me no good. I've thrown myself into my obsession, the Star Trek equivalent of smoking an entire carton of cigarettes at once, in an attempt to kill this overwhelming fascination that roots me to my loveseat. But nothing is working. That's why I'm making this plea to the world.
I don't want to be one of those people on Trekkies, dangerously angry because my custom made Starfleet uniform has stripes that are two inches too thick. I don't want to be one of those people who can ONLY talk about Star Trek, and actually feels aggression towards those that dislike it. I don't want to be one of those people who speaks in Klingon because it's cool.
But I feel my humanity slipping away more and more each day. I find myself surfing the net for hot pictures of Leonard Nimoy (some actually do exist) and comparing the possibilities of new movies with the reality of the old ones. I speak of Spock and Uhura as if they were real people, and I become jealous of Nurse Chappel because I hate her. She doesn't deserve Spock. Her character is useless and offensive! See? That was an explosion of emotion that no sane, healthy person would experience.
I felt betrayed when I realized just how racist and sexist The Original Series was even though it did wonderful things for 1966; I've even gone on Amazon to see if there are any books out there I might want to read. So this is my plea for help. This is my cry to those around me to save my soul from the black-geek-hole that is Star Trek.
Or you can just come over and watch the movies with me. I'm really open to anything.
I decided it was time to come clean. This isn't an easy process for me; I'm not proud of what I've done, but I feel I owe it to myself, my family, and my friends to admit to having a problem. I'm addicted to Star Trek. How addicted are you? you ask. I'm reading fanfiction--lots and lots of fanfiction. In alcohol terms, I just drank the bottle of rubbing alcohol because I was all out of scotch. I've sat on my loveseat with my computer on my lap and read score upon score of Spock/Uhura love stories and even a little Spock/Kirk. And this obsession has grown past Mr. Spock. I've fallen in obsession with the crew of The Next Generation; I've watched episodes of The Original Series and enjoyed them on an unhealthy level. I've watched the first SEVEN Star Trek movies and am currently contemplating doing it again.
This is like Twilight-quality pathetic here people. I'm going to walk into class on Monday and have to explain I have no syllabus and no lesson plan because I couldn't focus on anything except my own depraved Vulcan fantasies. I'm like an X-rated version of someone off Trekkies.
And there's nothing for it. Nothing I can do to make this better; no safety mechanism that can bring me back from the brink. Like any unhealthy relationship I just have to ride this one out; help has been offered but until I am in a place I can accept it, it does me no good. I've thrown myself into my obsession, the Star Trek equivalent of smoking an entire carton of cigarettes at once, in an attempt to kill this overwhelming fascination that roots me to my loveseat. But nothing is working. That's why I'm making this plea to the world.
I don't want to be one of those people on Trekkies, dangerously angry because my custom made Starfleet uniform has stripes that are two inches too thick. I don't want to be one of those people who can ONLY talk about Star Trek, and actually feels aggression towards those that dislike it. I don't want to be one of those people who speaks in Klingon because it's cool.
But I feel my humanity slipping away more and more each day. I find myself surfing the net for hot pictures of Leonard Nimoy (some actually do exist) and comparing the possibilities of new movies with the reality of the old ones. I speak of Spock and Uhura as if they were real people, and I become jealous of Nurse Chappel because I hate her. She doesn't deserve Spock. Her character is useless and offensive! See? That was an explosion of emotion that no sane, healthy person would experience.
I felt betrayed when I realized just how racist and sexist The Original Series was even though it did wonderful things for 1966; I've even gone on Amazon to see if there are any books out there I might want to read. So this is my plea for help. This is my cry to those around me to save my soul from the black-geek-hole that is Star Trek.
Or you can just come over and watch the movies with me. I'm really open to anything.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
I want to write about the Devil. I haven't talked about my friend Satan in awhile, so it seems about time. I was watching Storm of the Century, a made for tv based on a Stephen King book or short story or something, and it got me thinking. As with all (ALL) Stephen King there is a demonic figure who terrorizes a small town in Maine (don't live in small town Maine) and the townsfolk have to deal with it as their strengths allow.
But as I sat and thought about this idea, and as anyone who has watched King's made for tv movies you know there is a lot of time to think because nothing happens for the first two and a half hours, I realized facing the Devil holds a decided lack of fear for me. Perhaps that sounds like an inane thing to say and I grant you it might be; after all, who am I to imagine what facing the Devil might be like? But here's the thing: first, I can only be so scared before I just get angry--it's a delightful tactic of self preservation. Second, what's the Devil going to do except kill me, torture me, or otherwise torment me? I understand the second point might need more clarification.
The fact of the matter is I can't fight the Devil. What am I gonna do, pull out my rosary and pretend to be Catholic? Make a cross with my fingers and recite the Lord's prayer? Either the powers of light save me or the Devil torments me. I have very little power in the situation. I know I wouldn't make any deals, and would, in fact, not listen to him at all. When the Devil speaks it's best to put your fingers in your ears and say "la la la!" over and over again. That saves my soul as best I know how and after that, what can you do? I have no great celestial powers; I know no special prayers for banishment. I don't even know an old priest, let alone a young one. You want to throw demons at me, shadowy evil, or old fashioned ghosts and we got a fight on our hands. Even whatever IT is I would be willing to throw down with. But the Devil, Satan, Lucifer himself? I got nothing but resignation and no fear. Either he has his way or he doesn't, but all I can do put on some Star Trek and hope he leaves me alone.
And this is why the Devil as the primary bad guy doesn't work in a scary story for me. What's to be scared of? It's the mother *&^#*$^& Devil kids. Fear is a little wasted at that point, don't you think? Once you're face to face with the bastard well...not a whole lot you can do at that point except studiously avoid answering any questions lest you inadvertently barter your immortal soul.
Speaking of which...why do people talk to the Devil?! Especially when they know he's the Devil?! Why do that? You KNOW he's the Devil; you KNOW he only wants to hurt you. Why listen when he says, "I just want to talk for a moment." Seriously people. It's the Devil. Just walk away.
And living in Sin City I feel it's possible I can take this stance because I've met him a couple of times on Fremont Street. And he was a frat boy.
But as I sat and thought about this idea, and as anyone who has watched King's made for tv movies you know there is a lot of time to think because nothing happens for the first two and a half hours, I realized facing the Devil holds a decided lack of fear for me. Perhaps that sounds like an inane thing to say and I grant you it might be; after all, who am I to imagine what facing the Devil might be like? But here's the thing: first, I can only be so scared before I just get angry--it's a delightful tactic of self preservation. Second, what's the Devil going to do except kill me, torture me, or otherwise torment me? I understand the second point might need more clarification.
The fact of the matter is I can't fight the Devil. What am I gonna do, pull out my rosary and pretend to be Catholic? Make a cross with my fingers and recite the Lord's prayer? Either the powers of light save me or the Devil torments me. I have very little power in the situation. I know I wouldn't make any deals, and would, in fact, not listen to him at all. When the Devil speaks it's best to put your fingers in your ears and say "la la la!" over and over again. That saves my soul as best I know how and after that, what can you do? I have no great celestial powers; I know no special prayers for banishment. I don't even know an old priest, let alone a young one. You want to throw demons at me, shadowy evil, or old fashioned ghosts and we got a fight on our hands. Even whatever IT is I would be willing to throw down with. But the Devil, Satan, Lucifer himself? I got nothing but resignation and no fear. Either he has his way or he doesn't, but all I can do put on some Star Trek and hope he leaves me alone.
And this is why the Devil as the primary bad guy doesn't work in a scary story for me. What's to be scared of? It's the mother *&^#*$^& Devil kids. Fear is a little wasted at that point, don't you think? Once you're face to face with the bastard well...not a whole lot you can do at that point except studiously avoid answering any questions lest you inadvertently barter your immortal soul.
Speaking of which...why do people talk to the Devil?! Especially when they know he's the Devil?! Why do that? You KNOW he's the Devil; you KNOW he only wants to hurt you. Why listen when he says, "I just want to talk for a moment." Seriously people. It's the Devil. Just walk away.
And living in Sin City I feel it's possible I can take this stance because I've met him a couple of times on Fremont Street. And he was a frat boy.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Why everyone should watch Friday Night Lights
I love football. That sounds strange because I've never been driven to watch it all the time or learn anyone's name or follow stats, but I love football. It's kind of like the way I love super-volcanoes; their both hella fun to watch on television, but not quite so much fun up close and in person.
Enter Friday Night Lights. It's like a mecca of awesomeness:
Gratuitous violence? Check
High school drama? Check
Hotness of all ages (a few of which I'm going to hell for noticing)? Check
Wounded bad boy? Check
The handling of serious plot points? Check
And then the bad boy bonded with a small child while greasy from working on his truck. Best. Show. Ever.
The other fun thing about any show like this happens when I watch it with friends that didn't grow up on sports families. Inevitably they see a scene where the coach is yelling at a player and say, "Oh, that's mean!" That always makes me smile.
So this is my plug for Friday Night Lights. I'm still on the first season, but if you love football--and especially football pants--I highly suggest you pick up a copy of the first season.
I love football. That sounds strange because I've never been driven to watch it all the time or learn anyone's name or follow stats, but I love football. It's kind of like the way I love super-volcanoes; their both hella fun to watch on television, but not quite so much fun up close and in person.
Enter Friday Night Lights. It's like a mecca of awesomeness:
Gratuitous violence? Check
High school drama? Check
Hotness of all ages (a few of which I'm going to hell for noticing)? Check
Wounded bad boy? Check
The handling of serious plot points? Check
And then the bad boy bonded with a small child while greasy from working on his truck. Best. Show. Ever.
The other fun thing about any show like this happens when I watch it with friends that didn't grow up on sports families. Inevitably they see a scene where the coach is yelling at a player and say, "Oh, that's mean!" That always makes me smile.
So this is my plug for Friday Night Lights. I'm still on the first season, but if you love football--and especially football pants--I highly suggest you pick up a copy of the first season.
Monday, May 11, 2009
A friend asked me yestereve how I was different now from ten years ago. I had told him that my ten year high school reunion was coming up and he asked what had changed most about me. I was flummoxed by the question (always a sign of a good question) and at first I thought, of course I've changed--I've changed so much! But then I didn't have an answer for him. I drink more now; I certainly know my way around the bedroom more aptly than I once did. I'm more likely to mouth off, or get in a fight. But the thing is all of those things were there in high school, I just never found a place to let them out.
I was--what you might call--a goody-two shoes. But I never wanted to be, you must understand. I wanted to do all manner of unhealthy and probably unsafe things, but I couldn't find the kids to help me do it. I fell in with wonderful friends who were all very well behaved, and that saved me from any high school shenanigans to speak of. Going to college I found people more than willing to school me in the arts of the party, but I wouldn't say that was something that changed about me exactly. It was more that I became myself if that makes sense.
And yet, I suppose I am different as we all are. The hormones have faded and we've settled into the people we're going to be (more or less) but I am still flummoxed by the problem of naming these differences. Sometimes I succeed admirably at standing my ground, but sometimes I still fail. I am more vocal and aggressive in protecting my private space (inappropriate touching at the bar is much more likely to provoke a violent response) but I would almost always strike out if pushed to far even back then. I'm significantly more tactful now and aware of the people around me, but I'm still likely to say highly inappropriate things at uncomfortable moments.
Maybe you could say I am more confident now, but I wasn't ever exactly lacking confidence. For sure I had my teenage crazy with the best of them, and I worried mightily over my body, but it never occurred to me until after high school that someone could actually not find me attractive. For most of my teenage years I simply assumed if you didn't want me it was because you weren't seeing the "inner" me. I know--but we've all been there so shut up. As one grows older one realizes that sometimes people just aren't attracted to you and that's okay. It's not a good or bad thing; it simply is. But concurrently, as I accepted that, people who treat me poorly or rudely because they aren't attracted to me are significantly more likely to be confronted.
But all the things that I might say most define me I've always had. I've always been reasonably confident; I've always liked myself. I've never particularly cared if I looked like an idiot as long as I was having a good time. I've always been self-reflexive; I do have significantly more complex ideas than I did in high school, but is that me changing or only the product of more education? I've always been a crazy liberal, and I am both simultaneously more likely to argue about politics and less likely now; that sentences appears to say nothing, I know. What I mean is, I will defend my beliefs until I pass out--that hasn't changed. But, when I realize there is a difference in ideology or I am arguing with someone that isn't going to seriously consider what I am saying I stop arguing--that has changed. Maybe I'm just more streamlined in my use of energy now?
Perhaps if forced to answer this question I would say this: my awareness of my self, my thoughts, my world, and how all three interact is exponentially more evolved and complex now than it was then. It sounds academiceze even to me, but I don't know how else I would say it. I know my limits now, and I know what makes me push past them. I know the insignificance of my thoughts, and I know my egoism depends on them. I know that a small part of me will always wish the ridiculously hot spartan in itty-bitty-teeny-weeny-little-leather-panties will save me from imminent doom and fall madly in love with me. I know a larger part of myself will always hate the small part of me that wants to be saved rather than go through the work of creating myself. I know an even larger part of myself will just read trashy romance novels to soothe the fires of war between those two halves. I know utterly that even if the Spartan did show up I would never accept him unless we were emotional equals in the relationship and it was abundantly clear I would never allow him to save me from myself, even if I did need him to kill the occasional monster bearing down.
Ah, I revise my earlier statement. I know what has changed the most about me: I am now aware, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that no one can make me happy but myself, and that I am not responsible for anyone else's happiness so long as I live every day attempting to fulfill my moral and ethical duties as I have laid them out. As an addendum I would add I am of the complete belief that high school is significant only in its insignificance. It never occurred to me ten years ago that I wouldn't change; I think that's why I've never kept close track of the changes that were made.
That's the big one I was trying to explain last night, and that's a pretty darn sweet one if I do say so myself.
My ego's still the same.
I was--what you might call--a goody-two shoes. But I never wanted to be, you must understand. I wanted to do all manner of unhealthy and probably unsafe things, but I couldn't find the kids to help me do it. I fell in with wonderful friends who were all very well behaved, and that saved me from any high school shenanigans to speak of. Going to college I found people more than willing to school me in the arts of the party, but I wouldn't say that was something that changed about me exactly. It was more that I became myself if that makes sense.
And yet, I suppose I am different as we all are. The hormones have faded and we've settled into the people we're going to be (more or less) but I am still flummoxed by the problem of naming these differences. Sometimes I succeed admirably at standing my ground, but sometimes I still fail. I am more vocal and aggressive in protecting my private space (inappropriate touching at the bar is much more likely to provoke a violent response) but I would almost always strike out if pushed to far even back then. I'm significantly more tactful now and aware of the people around me, but I'm still likely to say highly inappropriate things at uncomfortable moments.
Maybe you could say I am more confident now, but I wasn't ever exactly lacking confidence. For sure I had my teenage crazy with the best of them, and I worried mightily over my body, but it never occurred to me until after high school that someone could actually not find me attractive. For most of my teenage years I simply assumed if you didn't want me it was because you weren't seeing the "inner" me. I know--but we've all been there so shut up. As one grows older one realizes that sometimes people just aren't attracted to you and that's okay. It's not a good or bad thing; it simply is. But concurrently, as I accepted that, people who treat me poorly or rudely because they aren't attracted to me are significantly more likely to be confronted.
But all the things that I might say most define me I've always had. I've always been reasonably confident; I've always liked myself. I've never particularly cared if I looked like an idiot as long as I was having a good time. I've always been self-reflexive; I do have significantly more complex ideas than I did in high school, but is that me changing or only the product of more education? I've always been a crazy liberal, and I am both simultaneously more likely to argue about politics and less likely now; that sentences appears to say nothing, I know. What I mean is, I will defend my beliefs until I pass out--that hasn't changed. But, when I realize there is a difference in ideology or I am arguing with someone that isn't going to seriously consider what I am saying I stop arguing--that has changed. Maybe I'm just more streamlined in my use of energy now?
Perhaps if forced to answer this question I would say this: my awareness of my self, my thoughts, my world, and how all three interact is exponentially more evolved and complex now than it was then. It sounds academiceze even to me, but I don't know how else I would say it. I know my limits now, and I know what makes me push past them. I know the insignificance of my thoughts, and I know my egoism depends on them. I know that a small part of me will always wish the ridiculously hot spartan in itty-bitty-teeny-weeny-little-leather-panties will save me from imminent doom and fall madly in love with me. I know a larger part of myself will always hate the small part of me that wants to be saved rather than go through the work of creating myself. I know an even larger part of myself will just read trashy romance novels to soothe the fires of war between those two halves. I know utterly that even if the Spartan did show up I would never accept him unless we were emotional equals in the relationship and it was abundantly clear I would never allow him to save me from myself, even if I did need him to kill the occasional monster bearing down.
Ah, I revise my earlier statement. I know what has changed the most about me: I am now aware, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that no one can make me happy but myself, and that I am not responsible for anyone else's happiness so long as I live every day attempting to fulfill my moral and ethical duties as I have laid them out. As an addendum I would add I am of the complete belief that high school is significant only in its insignificance. It never occurred to me ten years ago that I wouldn't change; I think that's why I've never kept close track of the changes that were made.
That's the big one I was trying to explain last night, and that's a pretty darn sweet one if I do say so myself.
My ego's still the same.
Monday, May 04, 2009
There have been a number of things I've wanted to write about in the last few days, but despite my best intentions none of them have made it to here.
A quick run down:
My nephew was born and that was friggin' awesome.
Hugh Jackman vs. Liev Schreiber, a.k.a. Wolverine has now been renamed One More Movie Where I Question My Attraction To Bestial Characteristics In Men.
I watched all three Pirates of the Carribean movies and feel I need to state once again that 1 day ashore, no matter how good the sex with Orlando Bloom's piratey self, does not justify 10 years raising a kid by yourself with no means.
The above mentioned statement illustrates better than a dissertation that graduate school has beaten the fun out of me.
But hey, my nephew was born and that's friggin' awesome.
So this got me thinking about the top ten characters I would most like my nephew to grow up to be like, and the top ten characters I would least like him to be like. It seems like a worthwhile procrastination of my time as I put off sleeping, writing, and all other manner of things that would allow me to graduate and join the work force.
Top Ten Characters That Would Be Most Awesome for My Nephew to Grow Up To Be Like:
10. Will Turner
This one's tough. On the one hand if he grows up like Will Turner his dad's a pirate, he has an over developed sensed of morality and nobility, and he gets his heart cut out when he's assigned the eternal duty of ferrying souls across to the underworld. On the other hand, his dad's a pirate, he has an over developed sense of morality and nobility, and he's immortal. The ambiguity lands this one at #10.
9. Luke Skywalker
Again with the daddy troubles. My nephew could grow up to save the galaxy and restore balance to the force. However, for that to happen my brother has to turn evil and commit genocide which is why this one ranks in at #9.
8. Gambit
I thought long and hard with this one. Batman's unstable; Superman's alone. Cyclops is a douchebag, Professor X is in a wheelchair, and Wolverine has rage issues. With choices like this Gambit was the only real choice--he's suave, debonair, strong, and has a rockin' accent. The kid could do worse.
7. Tom Selleck
Perhaps you didn't realize Tom Selleck qualified as a character, but you should have. If any relative of mine can rock the 'stache that awesomely with masculinity fairly pouring from his pores I feel his life will be easier. If he's not Tom Selleck, though, I want everyone to rest assured that I will do my auntly duty and nicely remind him to shave. Immediately.
6. Jed Bartlett
He's a good President. He's brilliant. He loves his wife. And he can speak Latin--sweet.
5. Captain Kirk
The real explanation needed here is why #5? It's a good question, a valid question. Captain Kirk does save the planet; he makes it with tons of sexy alien chicks. But sometimes, just sometimes, he's in really bad movies. I'm sorry, but that has to count against him just a little.
4. Robin Hood
Robs from the rich and gives to the poor. I'm a crazy liberal who wants nothing more than to bring down the man. Self explanatory really.
3. Gandalf
It's not an obvious choice perhaps; why Gandalf? Why not Aragorn or Frodo? Well, two reasons really: 1) Gandalf is wicked smart and 2) he can come back from the dead. Those are two traits I would sleep easier knowing my nephew had.
2 . He-Man
Dude. He's a Master of the Universe. And he rocks the fur speedo like nobody's business.
1. Po, the Kung Fu Panda
Po comes in at #1 for one main reason: with our family genetics the truth is my nephew is most likely to resemble a panda and not so much a tiger, grizzly bear, or any other fearsome animal. But Po loves Kung Fu, and Po doesn't let others define "panda" for him. Some day I want to write the legendary tale of the legend of my nephew. Skadoosh!
A quick run down:
My nephew was born and that was friggin' awesome.
Hugh Jackman vs. Liev Schreiber, a.k.a. Wolverine has now been renamed One More Movie Where I Question My Attraction To Bestial Characteristics In Men.
I watched all three Pirates of the Carribean movies and feel I need to state once again that 1 day ashore, no matter how good the sex with Orlando Bloom's piratey self, does not justify 10 years raising a kid by yourself with no means.
The above mentioned statement illustrates better than a dissertation that graduate school has beaten the fun out of me.
But hey, my nephew was born and that's friggin' awesome.
So this got me thinking about the top ten characters I would most like my nephew to grow up to be like, and the top ten characters I would least like him to be like. It seems like a worthwhile procrastination of my time as I put off sleeping, writing, and all other manner of things that would allow me to graduate and join the work force.
Top Ten Characters That Would Be Most Awesome for My Nephew to Grow Up To Be Like:
10. Will Turner
This one's tough. On the one hand if he grows up like Will Turner his dad's a pirate, he has an over developed sensed of morality and nobility, and he gets his heart cut out when he's assigned the eternal duty of ferrying souls across to the underworld. On the other hand, his dad's a pirate, he has an over developed sense of morality and nobility, and he's immortal. The ambiguity lands this one at #10.
9. Luke Skywalker
Again with the daddy troubles. My nephew could grow up to save the galaxy and restore balance to the force. However, for that to happen my brother has to turn evil and commit genocide which is why this one ranks in at #9.
8. Gambit
I thought long and hard with this one. Batman's unstable; Superman's alone. Cyclops is a douchebag, Professor X is in a wheelchair, and Wolverine has rage issues. With choices like this Gambit was the only real choice--he's suave, debonair, strong, and has a rockin' accent. The kid could do worse.
7. Tom Selleck
Perhaps you didn't realize Tom Selleck qualified as a character, but you should have. If any relative of mine can rock the 'stache that awesomely with masculinity fairly pouring from his pores I feel his life will be easier. If he's not Tom Selleck, though, I want everyone to rest assured that I will do my auntly duty and nicely remind him to shave. Immediately.
6. Jed Bartlett
He's a good President. He's brilliant. He loves his wife. And he can speak Latin--sweet.
5. Captain Kirk
The real explanation needed here is why #5? It's a good question, a valid question. Captain Kirk does save the planet; he makes it with tons of sexy alien chicks. But sometimes, just sometimes, he's in really bad movies. I'm sorry, but that has to count against him just a little.
4. Robin Hood
Robs from the rich and gives to the poor. I'm a crazy liberal who wants nothing more than to bring down the man. Self explanatory really.
3. Gandalf
It's not an obvious choice perhaps; why Gandalf? Why not Aragorn or Frodo? Well, two reasons really: 1) Gandalf is wicked smart and 2) he can come back from the dead. Those are two traits I would sleep easier knowing my nephew had.
2 . He-Man
Dude. He's a Master of the Universe. And he rocks the fur speedo like nobody's business.
1. Po, the Kung Fu Panda
Po comes in at #1 for one main reason: with our family genetics the truth is my nephew is most likely to resemble a panda and not so much a tiger, grizzly bear, or any other fearsome animal. But Po loves Kung Fu, and Po doesn't let others define "panda" for him. Some day I want to write the legendary tale of the legend of my nephew. Skadoosh!
Monday, April 20, 2009
I’m watching Roadhouse. I start this entry with that information so we can all understand just what’s going on here. This movie...this movie has me irate and I feel the best way to handle it is a top ten list.
The Top Ten Most Outrageous Moments in Roadhouse
10. The sheriff accepts the death of the bad guy and all his henchmen without investigation
We know the “law enforcement” has been paid off by the bad guy, but still. The police show up LITERALLY SECONDS after the last shot is fired. There are dead bodies everywhere. Dalton stands bloody and panting and the sheriff just puts his hands on his hips and says, “Alright, what happened?” The townsfolk, finally sick of what’s happening all say, “I didn’t see anything” and this passes. The law enforcement shrug and as if to say, “Whatever. He was a mob boss and we’re in a bad 80’s movie.”
9. Doc follows Dalton into the Boss’ lair for some unknown reason
Doc doesn’t like the bad guy. She’s pissed at Dalton for some unknown reason. But still, as he fights to the death storming the proverbial castle she runs in to distract him at the end. I swear the only real purpose of women’s roles in 80’s action movies is to distract heroes at key moments.
8. Nobody in town shoots the bad guy
Someone blows up your friend’s store, has been forcing you to pay them for x amount of time, and then rolls up with a monster truck at your car lot with intent to destroy all your cars--what do you do? You pull out a shotgun and shoot the asshole. That’s all I’m saying.
7. The Eagle Claw is the finishing move
I respect the awesomeness of the Eagle Claw. But Patrick Swayze a.k.a. Dalton a.k.a. Johnny Castle dance instructor extraordinaire just isn’t scary while panting heavily and holding his hand up in Eagle Claw fashion. It is, possibly, not the most intimidating stance ever held on-screen.
6. It takes FOUR shotgun blasts for Bad Guy to go down
Close range shotgun blasts. Four of them. Old dude is not the Hulk. Outrageous.
5. Dalton has a B.A. In Philosophy from NYU (and it qualifies him for something)
At one point when the doctor asks Dalton about himself he reveals that he received a degree in Philosophy from NYU. Maybe in ‘89 a bachelors in Philosophy counted for something, but I kinda doubt it. Mostly that says “I want to give off a wounded-dangerous-hurt-deep-down sort of personality.”
4. Dalton leaves Wade alone instead of calling Doc (Kelly Lynch)
The bad guy says I’m gonna kill one of your friends. Friend 1 stumbles in hurt and beat up. So you leave him alone to “go get doc”?! This is not 1889--there are phones! Even in 1889 you could pay a starving orphan on the street to run the message to the doc for you thereby allowing you to protect both friends at once. Ridiculous.
3. People in town never call the FBI
A mob boss in small town (Missouri maybe?) is running the place; you can’t go to the sheriff for help because he’s on the take. It never occurs to anyone to approach the FBI or outside law enforcement? Seriously?
2. Doc flips out because Dalton kills someone in self-defense
Imagine this scenario: douche bag tries to kill you, your friend, and your boyfriend. Your boyfriend fights DB (douche bag) but the fight stalls when DB pulls out a gun. Your boyfriend knocks the gun away and kills DB. What do you do? Do you flip out and yell at your boyfriend? Or do you say, thank you for killing that DB who was going to kill you, our friend, and possibly me after he rapes me?
1. The Doc mysteriously gets over her upset at Dalton’s killing DB after the bad guy’s dead
Your righteous anger mysteriously evaporates after your boyfriend goes on a killing spree wiping out DB’s employer bad guy and all his henchmen. Perhaps the problem was simply that he only killed once person before? More likely it was the Eagle Claw--if I had seen my boyfriend kill with the Eagle Claw I might have needed a killing spree to remind me of his awesomeness too.
The Top Ten Most Outrageous Moments in Roadhouse
10. The sheriff accepts the death of the bad guy and all his henchmen without investigation
We know the “law enforcement” has been paid off by the bad guy, but still. The police show up LITERALLY SECONDS after the last shot is fired. There are dead bodies everywhere. Dalton stands bloody and panting and the sheriff just puts his hands on his hips and says, “Alright, what happened?” The townsfolk, finally sick of what’s happening all say, “I didn’t see anything” and this passes. The law enforcement shrug and as if to say, “Whatever. He was a mob boss and we’re in a bad 80’s movie.”
9. Doc follows Dalton into the Boss’ lair for some unknown reason
Doc doesn’t like the bad guy. She’s pissed at Dalton for some unknown reason. But still, as he fights to the death storming the proverbial castle she runs in to distract him at the end. I swear the only real purpose of women’s roles in 80’s action movies is to distract heroes at key moments.
8. Nobody in town shoots the bad guy
Someone blows up your friend’s store, has been forcing you to pay them for x amount of time, and then rolls up with a monster truck at your car lot with intent to destroy all your cars--what do you do? You pull out a shotgun and shoot the asshole. That’s all I’m saying.
7. The Eagle Claw is the finishing move
I respect the awesomeness of the Eagle Claw. But Patrick Swayze a.k.a. Dalton a.k.a. Johnny Castle dance instructor extraordinaire just isn’t scary while panting heavily and holding his hand up in Eagle Claw fashion. It is, possibly, not the most intimidating stance ever held on-screen.
6. It takes FOUR shotgun blasts for Bad Guy to go down
Close range shotgun blasts. Four of them. Old dude is not the Hulk. Outrageous.
5. Dalton has a B.A. In Philosophy from NYU (and it qualifies him for something)
At one point when the doctor asks Dalton about himself he reveals that he received a degree in Philosophy from NYU. Maybe in ‘89 a bachelors in Philosophy counted for something, but I kinda doubt it. Mostly that says “I want to give off a wounded-dangerous-hurt-deep-down sort of personality.”
4. Dalton leaves Wade alone instead of calling Doc (Kelly Lynch)
The bad guy says I’m gonna kill one of your friends. Friend 1 stumbles in hurt and beat up. So you leave him alone to “go get doc”?! This is not 1889--there are phones! Even in 1889 you could pay a starving orphan on the street to run the message to the doc for you thereby allowing you to protect both friends at once. Ridiculous.
3. People in town never call the FBI
A mob boss in small town (Missouri maybe?) is running the place; you can’t go to the sheriff for help because he’s on the take. It never occurs to anyone to approach the FBI or outside law enforcement? Seriously?
2. Doc flips out because Dalton kills someone in self-defense
Imagine this scenario: douche bag tries to kill you, your friend, and your boyfriend. Your boyfriend fights DB (douche bag) but the fight stalls when DB pulls out a gun. Your boyfriend knocks the gun away and kills DB. What do you do? Do you flip out and yell at your boyfriend? Or do you say, thank you for killing that DB who was going to kill you, our friend, and possibly me after he rapes me?
1. The Doc mysteriously gets over her upset at Dalton’s killing DB after the bad guy’s dead
Your righteous anger mysteriously evaporates after your boyfriend goes on a killing spree wiping out DB’s employer bad guy and all his henchmen. Perhaps the problem was simply that he only killed once person before? More likely it was the Eagle Claw--if I had seen my boyfriend kill with the Eagle Claw I might have needed a killing spree to remind me of his awesomeness too.
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