80’s Cartoons and Restraining Orders
I’m laying on the couch recovering from a bout of cholera (it was actually the flu, but it sure felt like cholera there for a moment) and because I can’t sleep, can’t move, and can’t think I’m watching Jem and the Holograms. It’s a classic cartoon from the 80’s that revolves around the good girl rock band, Jem and the Holograms and the bad girl rock band, The Misfits. Jem and Holograms represent everything Mouskateers in Rock and Roll--good wholesome girl rockers who run a charity house for foster girls; their boyfriends sleep on the couch; they dress nice, have good manners, and make nice music. The Misfits on the other hand are more like the Sex Pistols--they engage in massive property destruction; dress in “alternative fashions;” and make mean music.
As I lay on the couch watching this classic entertainment I’m struck by two things: 1) how could I idolize Jem and the Holograms so much as a child and grow up so much like the Misfits? and 2) why didn’t Jem and the Holograms ever take out a restraining order on the Misfits?
Let’s consider #2 because that’s the more interesting point here. Consider this scenario: you and your new band perform in your first ever public appearance, a battle of the bands. After appearing and winning by a landslide a rival band STEALS your instruments, DESTROYS your instruments by throwing them out of a moving vehicle at you, and nearly RUNS YOU OFF A CLIFF in the process. So maybe you don’t press charges because that silly other band is just like that. But then, 1-2 days later after your house burns down and you perform again, the same rival band tails you, wrecks the house of a millionaire you’re attempting to court for a free mansion and NEARLY KILLS YOU AGAIN with runaway construction equipment.
At what point is one justified in taking out a restraining order?
Good girl band or not, when you’re life is literally in danger because of the antics of the other band is it not acceptable to say enough is enough?
And not that this is the only logistical problem with this show’s plotline; the daughter of a music company owner and her friends are fortunately rock band material over night (literally) and said daughter’s boyfriend is also (fortunately) band manager material. I suppose we could chalk all of that up to fate.
And, I just noticed something else while laying here in my sickbed, despite Jem’s role as a superstar mogul saintly type, she is also the consummate damsel in distress. She runs a foster house for girls and does the plumbing herself working side by side with her boyfriend Rio who does the electrical work. What a sharing partnership. Then, as Jerica becomes Jem and gains in popularity and power she is nearly run over by runaway construction equipment, thrown off a yacht at top speed, and burned to death in a freak soundstage equipment. Rio is thankfully there for each situation to save her, thereby solidifying his place as her man.
So does Rio not push Jerica to take out a restraining order because he has savior syndrome? Deep down inside he feels inadequate and he knows so long as the Misfits run free Jerica/Jem will constantly be in mortal danger? Perhaps I have found a solution to my quandary.
Perhaps the crux of Jem and the Holograms is that Jerica and Rio have an emotionally destructive relationship that manifests itself in her attempts to seduce him with her alter ego (Jem) and his refusal to urge her away from physically dangerous situations. I think we’re on to quite the psychoanalytic reading here.
And as an addendum: the bad guy named “Zipper” puts his mask on before robbing the casino while wearing a leather jacket with “Zipper” written in giant lettering across the back. Sneaky bad guys in this cartoon. Very sneaky.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Thursday, September 24, 2009
When Did Fat People Turn Into Sith Lords?
I was reading an article on Newsweek http://blog.newsweek.com/blogs/thehumancondition/archive/2009/09/16/cleveland-clinic-ceo-apologizes-to-overweight-staffers.aspx and apparently a CEO in Cleveland said that if he could legally avoid hiring fat people he would. He sounded shocked in his apology that any of his fat employees were offended and stated that he didn’t mean to hurt their feelings. Apparently he made it clear that he hates obesity but not obese people.
We’ve had a long and illustrious history of “hate the sin, love the sinner” in this country. In the early 20th century we thoughtfully told ethnicities that we didn’t hate them because they were Black, Asian, or Hispanic, we just couldn’t love them because they weren’t white. In the latter part of the 20th century we told homosexuals that if they would just stop being what they are, or at the very least have the decency to be celibate their whole lives, we could all get along happily. Now we tell fat people we don’t hate them because their fat, but we have to hate them for their own good until their skinny.
I just feel like everyone in this world loves the skinny girl inside me so much they can’t help but do their best to support her.
So when did obesity become a headline? When did being fat become akin to killing a baby or two? Have I massacred the Jedi while I was sleeping?
Let’s think about this logically for a second; even if we accept some of the stereotypes as true, fat people are lazy, fat people are dirty, fat people are worthless--we still haven’t touched on a great many problems that (I feel at least) could use our attention. Pedophilia, not tied to weight. Rape, not tied to weight. Murder, not tied to weight. Torture (and/or invading other countries on false pretences) not tied to weight. But let’s really focus on diabetes and obesity because that is OBVIOUSLY the world’s biggest problem.
And it isn’t that I don’t see the point of educating people about the health risks of eating cookies (and cake and ice cream) or smoking, but charging those members of society that have “avoidable” problems has yet to lead us down a good path. First of all, our definition of avoidable has included everything from homosexuality to bi-racial marriage. Glad no one’s ruining society with those anymore. Secondly, when people are forced or punished for their failure to live as they will within reason the part where we’re supposed to be living in a republic gets iffy. Now, we could argue over the “within reason”; what is within reason? It’s a good question.
Perhaps within reason would include your basic behaviors like non-violence, non-thievery, not committing genocide, and basic considerations like not spitting on each other, cleaning up after pets, and not running down pedestrians who cross when they aren’t supposed to. Let’s consider adding on to this now: every member of society should contribute as much as their potential allows; they should be healthy; they should create as little of a stir as possible in the economy while serving as the perfect consumer. Wow, that really does sound like a utopia doesn’t it? To never be annoyed be a fat person next to you on a plane; to never have to consider why someone on welfare should or should not receive it. To never have to accept that a lifestyle you abhor could make someone happy. It would so simple; it would so perfect. We would be a society of perfect beings each making each other perfectly happy. Wait a minute...didn’t they try that once before? In Germany? Say, oh, about 1930’s or so?
Maybe you think I’m being too extreme. After all, fat people DO cost society money. And what right do the obese have to health care? If no one needed health care then all of our premiums would go down and our preventative costs would be so low. And it’s a good argument; why should we pay out for health care costs that could be avoided? Why should we allow people to exist in a state that is unbeneficial to society? Why should we consider health care a right instead of a business?
Then again, why don’t we carry this argument to its logical conclusion: if we are upset that particular groups cost the health care industry unnecessary money that in turn drives up the cost for everyone else, then all specific groups that are known money drains should be terminated from the health care plan. This includes but is not limited to:
1) The elderly--come on, once you hit seventy you’re health is only going to get worse. It only makes sense to deny them health care as their days of productivity are long gone and there is no economical gain for keeping them alive.
2) The premature--sure there’s a chance a premature baby will survive, but the more premature it is the lesser that chance and the greater amount it will cost. Healthcare should not be afforded until the child has proven itself viable and not a drain on society’s resources.
3) The mentally disabled--why should counseling, Special Olympics, or any other myriad of programs be supported? And why should any mentally disabled person be provided healthcare? They drain society’s resources, even when supported by family.
4) Anyone who has ever attended a rehab facility of any sort--whatever you did to land yourself in that rehab facility could have been avoided. You now, therefore, have a pre-existing condition that should disqualify you from affordable health care. Perhaps, given enough time if you can prove yourself a healthy, stable individual who will not take out more than you pay in, you could be granted health care sometime in the future. Unless of course your years of abuse have caused chronic health issues. Then you’re on your own.
What’s wrong with this plan? Why wouldn’t people like this? It’s a plan based solely on economic growth that completely and totally reduces people to numbers: how much they put in versus how much they take out. There is no “right to life” or “freedom” in the economy. You don’t have a right to live poorly or waste your life or (heaven forbid) be unattractive. This plan is feasible through methods like public shaming and not so subtle hints that particular groups are hated not, exactly, for what they are, but certainly for what they’re not.
Arguing that all obesity isn’t controllable isn’t the way to get things done either; that is a kinder, gentler way of saying “You can’t help but be the fat slob that you are and while I never want to have sex with you, I wish you all the best.” No, the only solution here is to force gastric by-pass surgery on the obese; a one time cost that would thoughtfully and considerately mutilate their body into something more economically viable.
Because this is a SERIOUS issue in the world today. Your role as a citizen and an American depends on your ability to be healthy, attractive, and productive. Our economy is failing not because CEO’s ran their companies into the ground, or banks engaged in predatory lending, but because YOU, Mr. And Mrs. Fat Person, have type 2 diabetes. Our world is a mess not because various nuclear warheads are unaccounted for or terrorists like to blow people up, but because YOU, you big fat slob, dared to have joint trouble. The size of YOUR ASS is directly related to the war in Iraq.
It’s not funny cause it’s true. That last sentence was logic actually used by an eighteen-year-old.
How does our news shape our perception of morality?
I was reading an article on Newsweek http://blog.newsweek.com/blogs/thehumancondition/archive/2009/09/16/cleveland-clinic-ceo-apologizes-to-overweight-staffers.aspx and apparently a CEO in Cleveland said that if he could legally avoid hiring fat people he would. He sounded shocked in his apology that any of his fat employees were offended and stated that he didn’t mean to hurt their feelings. Apparently he made it clear that he hates obesity but not obese people.
We’ve had a long and illustrious history of “hate the sin, love the sinner” in this country. In the early 20th century we thoughtfully told ethnicities that we didn’t hate them because they were Black, Asian, or Hispanic, we just couldn’t love them because they weren’t white. In the latter part of the 20th century we told homosexuals that if they would just stop being what they are, or at the very least have the decency to be celibate their whole lives, we could all get along happily. Now we tell fat people we don’t hate them because their fat, but we have to hate them for their own good until their skinny.
I just feel like everyone in this world loves the skinny girl inside me so much they can’t help but do their best to support her.
So when did obesity become a headline? When did being fat become akin to killing a baby or two? Have I massacred the Jedi while I was sleeping?
Let’s think about this logically for a second; even if we accept some of the stereotypes as true, fat people are lazy, fat people are dirty, fat people are worthless--we still haven’t touched on a great many problems that (I feel at least) could use our attention. Pedophilia, not tied to weight. Rape, not tied to weight. Murder, not tied to weight. Torture (and/or invading other countries on false pretences) not tied to weight. But let’s really focus on diabetes and obesity because that is OBVIOUSLY the world’s biggest problem.
And it isn’t that I don’t see the point of educating people about the health risks of eating cookies (and cake and ice cream) or smoking, but charging those members of society that have “avoidable” problems has yet to lead us down a good path. First of all, our definition of avoidable has included everything from homosexuality to bi-racial marriage. Glad no one’s ruining society with those anymore. Secondly, when people are forced or punished for their failure to live as they will within reason the part where we’re supposed to be living in a republic gets iffy. Now, we could argue over the “within reason”; what is within reason? It’s a good question.
Perhaps within reason would include your basic behaviors like non-violence, non-thievery, not committing genocide, and basic considerations like not spitting on each other, cleaning up after pets, and not running down pedestrians who cross when they aren’t supposed to. Let’s consider adding on to this now: every member of society should contribute as much as their potential allows; they should be healthy; they should create as little of a stir as possible in the economy while serving as the perfect consumer. Wow, that really does sound like a utopia doesn’t it? To never be annoyed be a fat person next to you on a plane; to never have to consider why someone on welfare should or should not receive it. To never have to accept that a lifestyle you abhor could make someone happy. It would so simple; it would so perfect. We would be a society of perfect beings each making each other perfectly happy. Wait a minute...didn’t they try that once before? In Germany? Say, oh, about 1930’s or so?
Maybe you think I’m being too extreme. After all, fat people DO cost society money. And what right do the obese have to health care? If no one needed health care then all of our premiums would go down and our preventative costs would be so low. And it’s a good argument; why should we pay out for health care costs that could be avoided? Why should we allow people to exist in a state that is unbeneficial to society? Why should we consider health care a right instead of a business?
Then again, why don’t we carry this argument to its logical conclusion: if we are upset that particular groups cost the health care industry unnecessary money that in turn drives up the cost for everyone else, then all specific groups that are known money drains should be terminated from the health care plan. This includes but is not limited to:
1) The elderly--come on, once you hit seventy you’re health is only going to get worse. It only makes sense to deny them health care as their days of productivity are long gone and there is no economical gain for keeping them alive.
2) The premature--sure there’s a chance a premature baby will survive, but the more premature it is the lesser that chance and the greater amount it will cost. Healthcare should not be afforded until the child has proven itself viable and not a drain on society’s resources.
3) The mentally disabled--why should counseling, Special Olympics, or any other myriad of programs be supported? And why should any mentally disabled person be provided healthcare? They drain society’s resources, even when supported by family.
4) Anyone who has ever attended a rehab facility of any sort--whatever you did to land yourself in that rehab facility could have been avoided. You now, therefore, have a pre-existing condition that should disqualify you from affordable health care. Perhaps, given enough time if you can prove yourself a healthy, stable individual who will not take out more than you pay in, you could be granted health care sometime in the future. Unless of course your years of abuse have caused chronic health issues. Then you’re on your own.
What’s wrong with this plan? Why wouldn’t people like this? It’s a plan based solely on economic growth that completely and totally reduces people to numbers: how much they put in versus how much they take out. There is no “right to life” or “freedom” in the economy. You don’t have a right to live poorly or waste your life or (heaven forbid) be unattractive. This plan is feasible through methods like public shaming and not so subtle hints that particular groups are hated not, exactly, for what they are, but certainly for what they’re not.
Arguing that all obesity isn’t controllable isn’t the way to get things done either; that is a kinder, gentler way of saying “You can’t help but be the fat slob that you are and while I never want to have sex with you, I wish you all the best.” No, the only solution here is to force gastric by-pass surgery on the obese; a one time cost that would thoughtfully and considerately mutilate their body into something more economically viable.
Because this is a SERIOUS issue in the world today. Your role as a citizen and an American depends on your ability to be healthy, attractive, and productive. Our economy is failing not because CEO’s ran their companies into the ground, or banks engaged in predatory lending, but because YOU, Mr. And Mrs. Fat Person, have type 2 diabetes. Our world is a mess not because various nuclear warheads are unaccounted for or terrorists like to blow people up, but because YOU, you big fat slob, dared to have joint trouble. The size of YOUR ASS is directly related to the war in Iraq.
It’s not funny cause it’s true. That last sentence was logic actually used by an eighteen-year-old.
How does our news shape our perception of morality?
Monday, September 21, 2009
Summer’s Eve
I recently viewed a Summer’s Eve bottle and I thought some serious deconstruction needed to happen. On the back of the bottle it lists the purposes:
~Sensitive skin formula
~Gently washes away odor causing bacteria from the external vaginal area
~Soap-free
~Fragrance-free
And directly underneath all of that in big bold letters was the tag line:
“enjoy being a woman”
Well, of course, this got me thinking. When one has an excess of odor causing bacteria does one not enjoy being a woman? That is the reasonable conclusion implied by their statement. Furthermore, this implication seems to put forth that odor causing bacteria is a particularly female problem and that should there be odor for those not females (males for instance) it wouldn’t be nearly such an issue. If you can’t enjoy being a woman it might be because of odor; odor is only such a strenuous hurdle for women as stated by the gender specific use of “woman” at the end of the catch phrase instead of person. If odor were an issue for both sexes the phrase would read “enjoy being a human” or “enjoy being alive” but instead it is targeted specifically at females with the message we alone need to worry about odor and if we don’t take proper care of said odor we will not be able to enjoy being a woman.
I am reasonably sure I am not a fan of odor causing bacteria, but I am also reasonably sure that I am not a fan of odor causing bacteria on men or women, be it in the genitals, the underarms, or behind the left nostril. My point here is that odor causing bacteria is more an unpleasant situation for all concerned regardless of where it occurs. What’s more, I have never, up to this point in my life, considered my enjoyment in being a woman dependent on the existence or non-existence of said bacteria. Firstly, I don’t really have much choice. No one ever asked if I wanted to be something other than a woman, and while transgender surgery exists it isn’t a viable option for me. It seems slightly pointless, therefore, to not enjoy being a woman because that would be like not enjoying existing. Both are possible, but neither is preferable. Secondly, the notion put forth here that one needs to engage in specific activities to enjoy being a woman ties my happiness to the cleanliness of my vagina in specifically destructive ways--in my opinion. If one were attacked and overcome by odor causing bacteria one should be annoyed, perplexed, perhaps even embarrassed (if people held their noses when you walked by that could be mortifying) but should one stop enjoying their existence? That’s a fairly severe reaction. Is it not more plausible that one would be annoyed at the health issue and take care of it, but still happy to be alive? Do we stop enjoying being alive when we have the flu, a cold, or a herpes outbreak?
There have been multiple times in my life I have not been able to enjoy my day because I felt ill, tired, or beaten down by life. But my ability to enjoy life has never been called into question because of those slight hardships. Everyone understands such hardships are passing and inevitable. Why is it with Summer’s Eve and other feminine cleansing products the message is put forth that you could avoid it, should avoid it, and won’t enjoy living if you don’t avoid it? You can no more avoid at least one yeast infection in your life than you can avoid at least one cold. There is a complex eco-system down there and many pools, detergents, and climates are not user friendly. But it isn’t viewed as an inevitable annoyance, rather we treat it as a slight outbreak of the plague. I hear the Black Death was fairly unpleasant for all, not to mention highly contagious. I’m pretty sure if you don’t use Summer’s Eve you won’t cause the death of thousands.
No doubt some think I am once again reading too much into things, and I won’t tell you you’re wrong. But reading too much into things is what I do. And I ask you this: does my reference to vaginal odor make you uncomfortable? More so than body odor would? Does reading the word vagina cause a twinge or giggle? Why is that? It seems more daring, shocking, or offensive to write about Summer’s Eve than it would be to write about deodorant or even jock itch deodorizer, and it is that very simple reality that proves my point. How many women even know what jock itch is? We put different emphasis on different health requirements and that is what I’m attempting to illuminate here; in the case of odor causing bacteria we emphasize first that it is a specifically female problem and second that you cannot be a real woman, a happy woman, or a pleasant, sociable woman unless you are vigilant in your addressing of the problem. Finally, the occurrence of severe odor causing bacteria is not as rare as some might think, nor does its existence ever become known except in particular cases. There is a whole lot of life outside of those particular cases where one can still enjoy being a woman.
I don’t like the idea that I can only enjoy my existence if I do what Summer’s Eve tells me. That’s all I’m saying. Why can’t the Summer’s Eve bottle just sit quietly awaiting its use (and appreciated use) without passing judgment on what it means to be female? I don’t think that’s too much to ask.
I recently viewed a Summer’s Eve bottle and I thought some serious deconstruction needed to happen. On the back of the bottle it lists the purposes:
~Sensitive skin formula
~Gently washes away odor causing bacteria from the external vaginal area
~Soap-free
~Fragrance-free
And directly underneath all of that in big bold letters was the tag line:
“enjoy being a woman”
Well, of course, this got me thinking. When one has an excess of odor causing bacteria does one not enjoy being a woman? That is the reasonable conclusion implied by their statement. Furthermore, this implication seems to put forth that odor causing bacteria is a particularly female problem and that should there be odor for those not females (males for instance) it wouldn’t be nearly such an issue. If you can’t enjoy being a woman it might be because of odor; odor is only such a strenuous hurdle for women as stated by the gender specific use of “woman” at the end of the catch phrase instead of person. If odor were an issue for both sexes the phrase would read “enjoy being a human” or “enjoy being alive” but instead it is targeted specifically at females with the message we alone need to worry about odor and if we don’t take proper care of said odor we will not be able to enjoy being a woman.
I am reasonably sure I am not a fan of odor causing bacteria, but I am also reasonably sure that I am not a fan of odor causing bacteria on men or women, be it in the genitals, the underarms, or behind the left nostril. My point here is that odor causing bacteria is more an unpleasant situation for all concerned regardless of where it occurs. What’s more, I have never, up to this point in my life, considered my enjoyment in being a woman dependent on the existence or non-existence of said bacteria. Firstly, I don’t really have much choice. No one ever asked if I wanted to be something other than a woman, and while transgender surgery exists it isn’t a viable option for me. It seems slightly pointless, therefore, to not enjoy being a woman because that would be like not enjoying existing. Both are possible, but neither is preferable. Secondly, the notion put forth here that one needs to engage in specific activities to enjoy being a woman ties my happiness to the cleanliness of my vagina in specifically destructive ways--in my opinion. If one were attacked and overcome by odor causing bacteria one should be annoyed, perplexed, perhaps even embarrassed (if people held their noses when you walked by that could be mortifying) but should one stop enjoying their existence? That’s a fairly severe reaction. Is it not more plausible that one would be annoyed at the health issue and take care of it, but still happy to be alive? Do we stop enjoying being alive when we have the flu, a cold, or a herpes outbreak?
There have been multiple times in my life I have not been able to enjoy my day because I felt ill, tired, or beaten down by life. But my ability to enjoy life has never been called into question because of those slight hardships. Everyone understands such hardships are passing and inevitable. Why is it with Summer’s Eve and other feminine cleansing products the message is put forth that you could avoid it, should avoid it, and won’t enjoy living if you don’t avoid it? You can no more avoid at least one yeast infection in your life than you can avoid at least one cold. There is a complex eco-system down there and many pools, detergents, and climates are not user friendly. But it isn’t viewed as an inevitable annoyance, rather we treat it as a slight outbreak of the plague. I hear the Black Death was fairly unpleasant for all, not to mention highly contagious. I’m pretty sure if you don’t use Summer’s Eve you won’t cause the death of thousands.
No doubt some think I am once again reading too much into things, and I won’t tell you you’re wrong. But reading too much into things is what I do. And I ask you this: does my reference to vaginal odor make you uncomfortable? More so than body odor would? Does reading the word vagina cause a twinge or giggle? Why is that? It seems more daring, shocking, or offensive to write about Summer’s Eve than it would be to write about deodorant or even jock itch deodorizer, and it is that very simple reality that proves my point. How many women even know what jock itch is? We put different emphasis on different health requirements and that is what I’m attempting to illuminate here; in the case of odor causing bacteria we emphasize first that it is a specifically female problem and second that you cannot be a real woman, a happy woman, or a pleasant, sociable woman unless you are vigilant in your addressing of the problem. Finally, the occurrence of severe odor causing bacteria is not as rare as some might think, nor does its existence ever become known except in particular cases. There is a whole lot of life outside of those particular cases where one can still enjoy being a woman.
I don’t like the idea that I can only enjoy my existence if I do what Summer’s Eve tells me. That’s all I’m saying. Why can’t the Summer’s Eve bottle just sit quietly awaiting its use (and appreciated use) without passing judgment on what it means to be female? I don’t think that’s too much to ask.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Douchasaurus Rex Sighting or How I Met an A-Hole
How do people go on blind dates? How do you find the courage to keep going after everything is so awful every time? Not that I’ve had a ton of experience or even that all my experience has been bad, but as I attempt to do this “dating” thing I’ve made a brilliant discovery about why I never dated before: I don’t like people.
My mother, she would be sad to hear me say such a thing. But here’s the deal, when you go on a date (and you don’t get drunk) you realize within ten minutes whether you are attracted or not attracted and whether you want to talk to them further or not. Perhaps that seems like too short a time to some, but in my admittedly short experience I have found this rule to be true. The only time it isn’t true is when I ingest approximately a Ball Jar full of rum in that ten minutes.
Dating is hard when you’re grown up! It’s not about cute boy/cute girl, hey do you want to play doctor? It’s not about he likes me and no one else does so I guess I’ll say yes. Once you cross 25 it isn’t enough that you are or are not attracted to them (and honestly when the attraction isn’t there you find yourself going down the rest of your list anyway just in case) but you think, would I like to talk to this person for a significant length of time? Would I want to call this person with news? Do I want to tell this person all my most embarrassing stories? Would I ever want them to meet my family? How would they interact with my family? Would they be able to survive my family? These are not questions that bothered me when I was 16. When I was 16 it was all about “Sweet. We totally just made out. Let’s do it again.” Life was simpler back then.
But within a reasonable amount of time a person can assess both the physical attraction and the mental and then you’re stuck. Not because you don’t like them (though sometimes you don’t) but because you promised some hours to this person and you must make good on that. Never mind that it is an undefined amount of hours so unlike an unpleasant business meeting you have no idea when it will end; no, with a date you must continue conversation, listen when you don’t want to, try not to show your mind wandering, and maintain a polite veneer.
An earlier date wasn’t like this, it was pleasant from start to finish and I really appreciated the experience. But most recently I found myself across from someone with no recourse for escape. I’ve never felt so unneeded at an activity which was supposed to include me in my life. He didn’t care what I had to say. He didn’t really care about my face either--unless he just “zones out” in the general direction of my chest. I wanted to slap my hand down on the table and scream “Really?!” but that wouldn’t be polite.
He wasn’t wholly unpleasant, and I’m sure he’s a nice guy. But I discovered some things about attraction that I had previously only theorized about:
1) You can’t force it. Either there is a twitching in your loins that signals interest or there is a very real feeling of revulsion.
2) While I don’t need super muscled men I do need a man that is comfortable with himself. This was a big realization for me. There is a difference between a person that isn’t particularly in shape or svelte, but is comfortable with their body and moving their body, and someone who is not only unathletic, but moves and holds him/herself as if they aren’t quite sure how their limbs are supposed to move. I don’t need someone who can protect me, but I really can’t stand the idea of dating someone who it is obvious couldn’t protect himself. I’m not looking for the Karate Kid here, mind, but at least the ability to run away without falling down. And I run exceptionally slow so he doesn’t even have to be able to run fast. I don’t think my standards are set at the Olympic athlete level.
3) When someone looks at you while you talk as if they are looking for a reason to argue just walk away. What I don’t need is some A-hole that thinks he can mentally dominate me and make up for getting made fun of in high school by proving his manly intelligence by destroying me.
4) There is no substitute for general peace of mind. It doesn’t matter how smart you are. It doesn’t matter how good looking you are. It doesn’t matter how rich you are. If you are bitter, unhappy, argumentative, or hoping no one realizes that you don’t actually like yourself that comes through in everything (EVERYTHING) you do and say. Those around you will be uncomfortable and unsure how to handle what appears to be a nuclear warhead.
So this is my proposal for an internet dating website. The following questions will sort people into groups from which they will then choose possible dates:
1) Are you thin if you’re a woman and muscular if you are a man?
2) Will you not date someone who answered no to the above question?
3) Were you picked on in high school and do you still think about that (however rarely)?
4) Have you had a tendency to date “crazy” people? And, has this made you bitter or aggressive in your mannerisms?
5) Have you ever, for any reason, had the cops called on you?
With this system we can sort the pretty people from the rest of us, the snobs from the losers, and the crazies and those that love them from the lame and mundane like myself. Where are those questions internet dating? We, the people, need them.
There are good reasons I’m a hater not a dater.
How do people go on blind dates? How do you find the courage to keep going after everything is so awful every time? Not that I’ve had a ton of experience or even that all my experience has been bad, but as I attempt to do this “dating” thing I’ve made a brilliant discovery about why I never dated before: I don’t like people.
My mother, she would be sad to hear me say such a thing. But here’s the deal, when you go on a date (and you don’t get drunk) you realize within ten minutes whether you are attracted or not attracted and whether you want to talk to them further or not. Perhaps that seems like too short a time to some, but in my admittedly short experience I have found this rule to be true. The only time it isn’t true is when I ingest approximately a Ball Jar full of rum in that ten minutes.
Dating is hard when you’re grown up! It’s not about cute boy/cute girl, hey do you want to play doctor? It’s not about he likes me and no one else does so I guess I’ll say yes. Once you cross 25 it isn’t enough that you are or are not attracted to them (and honestly when the attraction isn’t there you find yourself going down the rest of your list anyway just in case) but you think, would I like to talk to this person for a significant length of time? Would I want to call this person with news? Do I want to tell this person all my most embarrassing stories? Would I ever want them to meet my family? How would they interact with my family? Would they be able to survive my family? These are not questions that bothered me when I was 16. When I was 16 it was all about “Sweet. We totally just made out. Let’s do it again.” Life was simpler back then.
But within a reasonable amount of time a person can assess both the physical attraction and the mental and then you’re stuck. Not because you don’t like them (though sometimes you don’t) but because you promised some hours to this person and you must make good on that. Never mind that it is an undefined amount of hours so unlike an unpleasant business meeting you have no idea when it will end; no, with a date you must continue conversation, listen when you don’t want to, try not to show your mind wandering, and maintain a polite veneer.
An earlier date wasn’t like this, it was pleasant from start to finish and I really appreciated the experience. But most recently I found myself across from someone with no recourse for escape. I’ve never felt so unneeded at an activity which was supposed to include me in my life. He didn’t care what I had to say. He didn’t really care about my face either--unless he just “zones out” in the general direction of my chest. I wanted to slap my hand down on the table and scream “Really?!” but that wouldn’t be polite.
He wasn’t wholly unpleasant, and I’m sure he’s a nice guy. But I discovered some things about attraction that I had previously only theorized about:
1) You can’t force it. Either there is a twitching in your loins that signals interest or there is a very real feeling of revulsion.
2) While I don’t need super muscled men I do need a man that is comfortable with himself. This was a big realization for me. There is a difference between a person that isn’t particularly in shape or svelte, but is comfortable with their body and moving their body, and someone who is not only unathletic, but moves and holds him/herself as if they aren’t quite sure how their limbs are supposed to move. I don’t need someone who can protect me, but I really can’t stand the idea of dating someone who it is obvious couldn’t protect himself. I’m not looking for the Karate Kid here, mind, but at least the ability to run away without falling down. And I run exceptionally slow so he doesn’t even have to be able to run fast. I don’t think my standards are set at the Olympic athlete level.
3) When someone looks at you while you talk as if they are looking for a reason to argue just walk away. What I don’t need is some A-hole that thinks he can mentally dominate me and make up for getting made fun of in high school by proving his manly intelligence by destroying me.
4) There is no substitute for general peace of mind. It doesn’t matter how smart you are. It doesn’t matter how good looking you are. It doesn’t matter how rich you are. If you are bitter, unhappy, argumentative, or hoping no one realizes that you don’t actually like yourself that comes through in everything (EVERYTHING) you do and say. Those around you will be uncomfortable and unsure how to handle what appears to be a nuclear warhead.
So this is my proposal for an internet dating website. The following questions will sort people into groups from which they will then choose possible dates:
1) Are you thin if you’re a woman and muscular if you are a man?
2) Will you not date someone who answered no to the above question?
3) Were you picked on in high school and do you still think about that (however rarely)?
4) Have you had a tendency to date “crazy” people? And, has this made you bitter or aggressive in your mannerisms?
5) Have you ever, for any reason, had the cops called on you?
With this system we can sort the pretty people from the rest of us, the snobs from the losers, and the crazies and those that love them from the lame and mundane like myself. Where are those questions internet dating? We, the people, need them.
There are good reasons I’m a hater not a dater.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
I am about to attend my first football game in three years. This is only remarkable in that my grandfather recently passed away and I think he would like that his passing somehow results in more football in my life.
We take football very seriously in my family.
Football and my attitudes about it weren’t something I ever consciously thought about growing up; I knew that when Dad was watching football you left him alone, and that when I went to a game I could watch the marching band. I also learned fairly early that football was an out I didn’t have; I didn’t get out of chores because I was tired at football practice or anything else. Despite how that sentence sounds, however, I don’t carry any bitterness about that. And this is sort of the crux of my football musings here: football is, and always has been, another member of our family. I would say it was like a religion, but that implies some level of deification or worship and that’s not how we approach it at all. Football merely is to us; you do what needs to be done to get to the game, and you support the people who are involved in it whether they be coaching, playing, or part of the marching band.
We are not football snobs.
I muse over the role football has played, though, because I’ve discovered since leaving home there is no way to explain how I feel or what I expect to someone who wasn’t there every day. We don’t obsess over names of players and stats; we don’t watch the games avidly, and while we care no one would call us rabid fans. But, for me at least, unlike someone who likes football or has discovered they like football it has, quite simply, always been there. I never questioned it; I never felt bad about it. I never wondered why football got more attention than other activities. I never doubted my Dad loved me even though I couldn’t play football. You don’t harbor bitterness towards the member of your family that requires so much attention; you do what you can to fulfill that need and enjoy your time outside of it.
And I have decided talk about football now (I have decided that anyone cares about the role football plays for myself and others) because my grandfather really loved football. I don’t think I ever fully understood how much until I recently read some of his writings. It wasn’t just a game for him; his players were like family and the institution offered the chance for kids to learn something meaningful. What’s more, you could learn whether you played or not—if you knew how to listen anyway. Football was a lens through which he viewed life, and he wanted the us to see life through that lens as well.
Football is the only game where eleven bodies slam into eleven bodies with enough kinetic energy to kill someone; the ball is inconsequential to the physical aspect of it unless you are a quarterback or wide receiver. For the lineman and the defense especially the difficulty lies in finding a way to overpower one or two people as big or bigger than you are, running yourself into them as hard as you possibly can. But when it’s all over, when the game is done, and the score decided what matters isn’t whether you won or lost; what matters is whether you won or lost correctly. I know, sort of a weird concept isn’t it?
But the important part here is the struggle. The fight to move the ball and protect your team--the fight to obliterate the other team. That you have literally fought as hard as you could, as fairly as you could, and learned to accept either outcome. I don’t know of anything in life where that attitude does not serve one well. As think back over the discussions I've listend to between my grandfather, my dad, and my brother--and any discussion concerning our approach to extra curicular activities--I realize how embedded this idea is in our familial philosophy. You learn to fight through pain, physical and mental, to do what needs to be done, and you learn to deal with that pain when the job is over, not ignore it or repress it or boast about it, but to quietly heal so that you are prepared and healthy to fight another day. That’s what football, or in my case living with football, has taught me. As I think back over the conversations of recent years I think this is the concept Grandpa was really trying to emphasize. It doesn't only matter that you win, but that you struggle always the most ethically and nobly that you can.
I haven't learned that lesson fully yet; how can you? But my mind has been recycling these ideas over and over again for the past few days and this is an idea, a concept, that is important to revisit. This idea of ethical struggle is worth understanding. If football were a religion then only those of us who have played could follow it truly. But because it's a member of our family it is simply one more personality that shapes the family dynamic. That is why I can think about all of this in terms of football even though I haven't played a sanctioned game in my life. I think Grandpa would appreciate that.
Added on 9-14-09: This post arose as much out of a conversation with my brother as out of my own philosophical musings. I wanted to make sure I added that so that everyone would know that in this case, my ideas were not formulated in a vaccuum, but owe as much to him as to myself.
We take football very seriously in my family.
Football and my attitudes about it weren’t something I ever consciously thought about growing up; I knew that when Dad was watching football you left him alone, and that when I went to a game I could watch the marching band. I also learned fairly early that football was an out I didn’t have; I didn’t get out of chores because I was tired at football practice or anything else. Despite how that sentence sounds, however, I don’t carry any bitterness about that. And this is sort of the crux of my football musings here: football is, and always has been, another member of our family. I would say it was like a religion, but that implies some level of deification or worship and that’s not how we approach it at all. Football merely is to us; you do what needs to be done to get to the game, and you support the people who are involved in it whether they be coaching, playing, or part of the marching band.
We are not football snobs.
I muse over the role football has played, though, because I’ve discovered since leaving home there is no way to explain how I feel or what I expect to someone who wasn’t there every day. We don’t obsess over names of players and stats; we don’t watch the games avidly, and while we care no one would call us rabid fans. But, for me at least, unlike someone who likes football or has discovered they like football it has, quite simply, always been there. I never questioned it; I never felt bad about it. I never wondered why football got more attention than other activities. I never doubted my Dad loved me even though I couldn’t play football. You don’t harbor bitterness towards the member of your family that requires so much attention; you do what you can to fulfill that need and enjoy your time outside of it.
And I have decided talk about football now (I have decided that anyone cares about the role football plays for myself and others) because my grandfather really loved football. I don’t think I ever fully understood how much until I recently read some of his writings. It wasn’t just a game for him; his players were like family and the institution offered the chance for kids to learn something meaningful. What’s more, you could learn whether you played or not—if you knew how to listen anyway. Football was a lens through which he viewed life, and he wanted the us to see life through that lens as well.
Football is the only game where eleven bodies slam into eleven bodies with enough kinetic energy to kill someone; the ball is inconsequential to the physical aspect of it unless you are a quarterback or wide receiver. For the lineman and the defense especially the difficulty lies in finding a way to overpower one or two people as big or bigger than you are, running yourself into them as hard as you possibly can. But when it’s all over, when the game is done, and the score decided what matters isn’t whether you won or lost; what matters is whether you won or lost correctly. I know, sort of a weird concept isn’t it?
But the important part here is the struggle. The fight to move the ball and protect your team--the fight to obliterate the other team. That you have literally fought as hard as you could, as fairly as you could, and learned to accept either outcome. I don’t know of anything in life where that attitude does not serve one well. As think back over the discussions I've listend to between my grandfather, my dad, and my brother--and any discussion concerning our approach to extra curicular activities--I realize how embedded this idea is in our familial philosophy. You learn to fight through pain, physical and mental, to do what needs to be done, and you learn to deal with that pain when the job is over, not ignore it or repress it or boast about it, but to quietly heal so that you are prepared and healthy to fight another day. That’s what football, or in my case living with football, has taught me. As I think back over the conversations of recent years I think this is the concept Grandpa was really trying to emphasize. It doesn't only matter that you win, but that you struggle always the most ethically and nobly that you can.
I haven't learned that lesson fully yet; how can you? But my mind has been recycling these ideas over and over again for the past few days and this is an idea, a concept, that is important to revisit. This idea of ethical struggle is worth understanding. If football were a religion then only those of us who have played could follow it truly. But because it's a member of our family it is simply one more personality that shapes the family dynamic. That is why I can think about all of this in terms of football even though I haven't played a sanctioned game in my life. I think Grandpa would appreciate that.
Added on 9-14-09: This post arose as much out of a conversation with my brother as out of my own philosophical musings. I wanted to make sure I added that so that everyone would know that in this case, my ideas were not formulated in a vaccuum, but owe as much to him as to myself.
Tuesday, September 08, 2009
I’ve been doing some self-evaluation. I even busted out ye old Codependent No More to see what gems of knowledge the only self help book I’ve ever read and not laughed at had to offer me. After pondering codependency, my life, and my relationships I have a question of the world: what do you do if you’re a recovering codependent who seeks other codependents to be codependent with? Or: what do you do if you’re a recovering codependent and feel there are particular behaviors you must cut out of your life and those around you for your own sanity and happiness? Ms. Beattie doesn’t address these questions in her book.
I keep in mind that this book isn’t exactly meant for the me now; it was more applicable to the me of four years ago, but, regardless of the ways I’ve changed, old knowledge is always worth reevaluation for worth and possible reapplication. But I can’t help but wonder what is ethical and moral in relationships when it comes to helping and supporting friends, and walking away from friends you feel are bad for you. Let me see if I can clarify--if you’re friend has a rough day, week, even month, you are a crappy friend (I pass judgment here, it’s true) if you abandon them because they aren’t “fun” or it is too difficult to stand by them when their mood is down. But if you’re friend is having a bad life punctuated by the occasional good day, week, even month, then when is it ethical to walk away and save yourself while leaving them to figure it out? When it is unethical and selfish? This is the crux of my immediate questioning.
And I think it’s an important question. We tell people they need to be aware of themselves and their needs; they need to protect themselves from abusive relationships and destructive choices. We have Lifetime movies and ABC Family movies where the boyfriend/girlfriend is so obviously awful and the hero/heroine is so desperately drowning. But real life is rarely, if ever, that simple. While it’s hard to walk away from a destructive relationship--sometimes impossible--once you manage to extract yourself there is a definiteness there. When the story is told everyone will quickly and clearly understand that the alcoholic, drug user, emotionally abusive bastard treated you poorly, and that while s/he might not be a bad person there was nothing you could have done. It was both right and good that you walked away and congratulations on pulling yourself out of an awful situation. But...when it’s someone who makes you tired, stressed, or generally unhappy without exactly hurting you when are you at liberty to walk away? When is your decision to let that person figure it out ethical, and when is it abandonment? And (though I don’t think I can begin to evaluate this idea here) when and/or how do you tell them that you are walking away?
I know. Not even JCVD can get me through this one.
It is precisely this gray area that I find myself subsisting in presently, however; not all of a sudden (does anything that promotes self-evaluation ever really happen all of a sudden?) but over the course of the last four years. I’ve worked past the self-help book. I know how to take time for myself (you might call me selfish and you wouldn’t be wrong) and I know how to stand by my friends (I would go to jail for those I love). But when I discover that someone isn’t good for me, that beyond simply not making me happy they make anxious, stressed, irritable, judgmental, short tempered, mean--the list goes on--when or how do I proceed from there? My modus operandi heretofore has been to pull back, gain distance, disappear. But is that the better choice? Is it better to simply give them room to grow or not grow as their own life journey dictates or am I ethically bound as a friend to tell them why I’m pulling back?
I think I feel that space in this cases is the best decision; it is no more fair to me to be miserable because of unpleasant company than it is that the unpleasant company is miserable in the first place. But with my assertion of autonomy--this is my space and my mind and you aren’t allowed to manipulate it--must I reveal, explain, and/or justify that assertion? If the answer is sometimes, when do those sometimes occur and how does one recognize and navigate them?
It doesn’t feel right to me to simply pull away from those I’ve established relationships with, but I am codependent so of course it doesn’t feel right. It doesn’t feel right for me to be brutally honest about how someone’s behavior makes me feel and affects me, but I come from a family that would sooner admit to venereal disease than own up to feeling sad or wounded. I’ve been raised to believe that if someone affects me it is because at some very basic level I have allowed it to affect me; if I were tougher/stronger/smarter whoever it is that ruined my day wouldn’t have ruined it. I recognize now that is a patently false idea. Simultaneously, however, you aren’t always a complete victim; often in life we have some degree of power and wielding that power responsibly is as important as surviving someone wielding theirs irresponsibly at us. If I get robbed we can all agree there was nothing I could do, but if I get manipulated and feel used...should I have been tougher/stronger/smarter? If that feeling of use and manipulation makes me angry, depressed, and/or unsympathetic am I being over sensitive?
I understand that things aren’t easy; it no longer surprises me that they aren’t, but knowing a thing to be true and knowing what to do about that true thing are two very different skill sets. The last four years of graduate school have required a particular level of selfishness from me I do not feel bad about--I needed to learn and to learn one needs to spend time with/on one’s self--but I also know I have not held the line of necessary selfishness and convenient selfishness as strongly as I should. But hell, even knowing all of that I still have no answer to the problem of what constitutes ethical behavior when you recognize destructive behavior in another. I guess we all do the best we can, but that idea is a copout and too often used to excuse our failure to do what we should.
This would all be so much more awesome if I could fix it with a roundhouse kick to the head. Granted I can’t roundhouse kick, but I could learn man. I could so totally learn.
I keep in mind that this book isn’t exactly meant for the me now; it was more applicable to the me of four years ago, but, regardless of the ways I’ve changed, old knowledge is always worth reevaluation for worth and possible reapplication. But I can’t help but wonder what is ethical and moral in relationships when it comes to helping and supporting friends, and walking away from friends you feel are bad for you. Let me see if I can clarify--if you’re friend has a rough day, week, even month, you are a crappy friend (I pass judgment here, it’s true) if you abandon them because they aren’t “fun” or it is too difficult to stand by them when their mood is down. But if you’re friend is having a bad life punctuated by the occasional good day, week, even month, then when is it ethical to walk away and save yourself while leaving them to figure it out? When it is unethical and selfish? This is the crux of my immediate questioning.
And I think it’s an important question. We tell people they need to be aware of themselves and their needs; they need to protect themselves from abusive relationships and destructive choices. We have Lifetime movies and ABC Family movies where the boyfriend/girlfriend is so obviously awful and the hero/heroine is so desperately drowning. But real life is rarely, if ever, that simple. While it’s hard to walk away from a destructive relationship--sometimes impossible--once you manage to extract yourself there is a definiteness there. When the story is told everyone will quickly and clearly understand that the alcoholic, drug user, emotionally abusive bastard treated you poorly, and that while s/he might not be a bad person there was nothing you could have done. It was both right and good that you walked away and congratulations on pulling yourself out of an awful situation. But...when it’s someone who makes you tired, stressed, or generally unhappy without exactly hurting you when are you at liberty to walk away? When is your decision to let that person figure it out ethical, and when is it abandonment? And (though I don’t think I can begin to evaluate this idea here) when and/or how do you tell them that you are walking away?
I know. Not even JCVD can get me through this one.
It is precisely this gray area that I find myself subsisting in presently, however; not all of a sudden (does anything that promotes self-evaluation ever really happen all of a sudden?) but over the course of the last four years. I’ve worked past the self-help book. I know how to take time for myself (you might call me selfish and you wouldn’t be wrong) and I know how to stand by my friends (I would go to jail for those I love). But when I discover that someone isn’t good for me, that beyond simply not making me happy they make anxious, stressed, irritable, judgmental, short tempered, mean--the list goes on--when or how do I proceed from there? My modus operandi heretofore has been to pull back, gain distance, disappear. But is that the better choice? Is it better to simply give them room to grow or not grow as their own life journey dictates or am I ethically bound as a friend to tell them why I’m pulling back?
I think I feel that space in this cases is the best decision; it is no more fair to me to be miserable because of unpleasant company than it is that the unpleasant company is miserable in the first place. But with my assertion of autonomy--this is my space and my mind and you aren’t allowed to manipulate it--must I reveal, explain, and/or justify that assertion? If the answer is sometimes, when do those sometimes occur and how does one recognize and navigate them?
It doesn’t feel right to me to simply pull away from those I’ve established relationships with, but I am codependent so of course it doesn’t feel right. It doesn’t feel right for me to be brutally honest about how someone’s behavior makes me feel and affects me, but I come from a family that would sooner admit to venereal disease than own up to feeling sad or wounded. I’ve been raised to believe that if someone affects me it is because at some very basic level I have allowed it to affect me; if I were tougher/stronger/smarter whoever it is that ruined my day wouldn’t have ruined it. I recognize now that is a patently false idea. Simultaneously, however, you aren’t always a complete victim; often in life we have some degree of power and wielding that power responsibly is as important as surviving someone wielding theirs irresponsibly at us. If I get robbed we can all agree there was nothing I could do, but if I get manipulated and feel used...should I have been tougher/stronger/smarter? If that feeling of use and manipulation makes me angry, depressed, and/or unsympathetic am I being over sensitive?
I understand that things aren’t easy; it no longer surprises me that they aren’t, but knowing a thing to be true and knowing what to do about that true thing are two very different skill sets. The last four years of graduate school have required a particular level of selfishness from me I do not feel bad about--I needed to learn and to learn one needs to spend time with/on one’s self--but I also know I have not held the line of necessary selfishness and convenient selfishness as strongly as I should. But hell, even knowing all of that I still have no answer to the problem of what constitutes ethical behavior when you recognize destructive behavior in another. I guess we all do the best we can, but that idea is a copout and too often used to excuse our failure to do what we should.
This would all be so much more awesome if I could fix it with a roundhouse kick to the head. Granted I can’t roundhouse kick, but I could learn man. I could so totally learn.
The JCVD Project
I’ve embarked upon a new adventure with my fellow partner in JCVD love. We have set, as a goal for ourselves, the task of watching every movie with JCVD in the credits. We will document this journey on our new blog, “The JCVD Project” which I have thoughtfully included a link to on the right. You will find there our Mission Statement, an explanation of our ratings system--the VD rating--and a breakdown of the movies watched as we watch them.
Mayhap it’s my natural response to studying so very hard these last few months. Maybe I’ve been building towards this moment that fateful summer I watched every movie Family Video had starring JCVD. Maybe this is why fate gave me an English degree. I don’t know the whys. I only know I must do it. This is the quest destiny demands of me, and I will deliver.
I’ve embarked upon a new adventure with my fellow partner in JCVD love. We have set, as a goal for ourselves, the task of watching every movie with JCVD in the credits. We will document this journey on our new blog, “The JCVD Project” which I have thoughtfully included a link to on the right. You will find there our Mission Statement, an explanation of our ratings system--the VD rating--and a breakdown of the movies watched as we watch them.
Mayhap it’s my natural response to studying so very hard these last few months. Maybe I’ve been building towards this moment that fateful summer I watched every movie Family Video had starring JCVD. Maybe this is why fate gave me an English degree. I don’t know the whys. I only know I must do it. This is the quest destiny demands of me, and I will deliver.
Monday, September 07, 2009
I want to tell the world about JCVD! No, it’s not Jess Carries Venereal Disease but Jean Claude Van Damme!
I recently watched JCVD (twice if you must know) and was blown away by its awesomeness. Now, perhaps because this is text and many markers of communication are missing, you might think I’m being sarcastic or employing hyperbole. But I simply must inform you with all seriousness that JCVD is one seriously impressive movie. After watching this movie I discovered something: JCVD can actually act--I know; my shock was significant as well. I also rediscovered something: I have inappropriate (you have no idea how inappropriate) love for JCVD in all his incarnations.
I admit I feel better about my JCVD love than, say, Steven Segall (it just happened okay? One day I was watching Under Siege and before I knew it I found him attractive. It wasn’t my fault; the devil comes at us in moments of weakness) but I’ve never owned my VD love as I have other obsessions. In all honesty, however, there was a summer when I rented every movie our video store had, but that isn’t a story I’ve shared freely until recently.
Spurred on by my re-ignited love for Mr. JCVD I happily dove into my Netflix watch instantly and discovered to my thrilling delight a classic known as Double Impact awaiting me. After finishing it I find myself giggly and nostalgic for the action movies of yesteryear. Double Impact (hereafter referred to as DI in keeping with my egregious abbreviations abuse) has everything a great action movie from the 80’s and early 90’s ought to have: there’s martial arts, there’s gratuitous boob shots, there’s a purposeless sex scene, there’s unlikely explosions, there’s ripping of the action hero’s shirt for proper exposure of pectoral muscles, and there’s such a painfully juvenile attempt at a story that as a viewer you can’t help but cringe every time something like genuine emotion comes on the screen. In short, it has everything I love and miss about action movies.
Sure it’s sexist. Dear lord is it sexist. At one point the heroine, who didn’t bother me overmuch until she started talking in the second half of the movie and it become painfully apparent that she couldn’t act, dropped the blanket she was wearing while her clothes dried (because she got wet...obviously) and we saw her chest. You know...like ya do. And there was the “bad girl” who had to have been a professional body builder cause the girl was stacked. Naturally she had to “search” the “good girl” at one point in what was a clumsy attempt at 1992 heterosexual male fantasy of lesbian domination. Oddly enough the “bad girl” wore leather and black and had dark hair while the “good girl” wore pastels with flowers and had blond hair. You just can’t get gender roles and sexism like that anymore. And I simply must mention the sex scene; you see there was no reason, even in this hastily thrown together plot for there to be a sex scene but they got around that by Alex (played by JCVD) getting drunk and hallucinating that his brother Chad (played by JCVD) was having sex with his girlfriend--the blond girl. Brilliant!
And the final fight scene was glorious, stupendous, beautiful! JCVD, wearing a rather dull turtleneck, loses said turtleneck when the bad guy rips it off of him. You only wish I was making this up. And then (AND THEN) bad guy, played by Bobo for those of you that know who I’m talking about, takes his shirt off so they can have some short of martial arts throw down and assert their dominant masculinity over each other. ‘Twas awesome.
And I sat here and ate this shit up. Seriously, we don’t have action movies like this anymore. You could call it senseless violence and say it’s a good thing, but as I enjoyed the dubious pleasure that was DI I couldn’t help but miss the time when gratuitous violence was SO gratuitous that it had absolutely no chance of warping a child’s mind. You watch classics like Kickboxer or American Ninja or Under Siege and you know you aren’t bettering yourself. You are, in fact, treating the lowest part of yourself. I, the person that rails against the concepts of “high art” and “low art” gladly concede that this stuff is low art. But it does what it does well. Things blow up in exciting ways. Heroes are sexy and action stars can actually do the moves you see on the screen. Bad guys die overly complicated deaths, usually through helicopter blades or a thoughtfully exposed electrical box. If ever there is a scene with things marked “flammable” you know there will eventually be an explosion even if there has been no HINT of an incendiary device on screen; sometimes I think the hero is so cool that all he has to do is look at a barrel marked “flammable” and it will explode. But the neat part, the reason why I think I like it so much, is that no one watches a movie like DI and walks away worse because of it. The gender roles are crap, but there is less chance of danger for a young girl watching the chick in this be weak all the way through then there is in watching something like G.I. Joe where she learns she can be tough like Scarlett--as long as her uniform is thoughtfully unzipped all the time. There’s less danger in watching the violence of JCVD’s sweet martial arts moves than there is in watching any number of revenge movies where the thrill isn’t in the fighting but in the gore.
I’m not saying you should run out and watch DI (really, I promise I’m not saying that) but I offer this slightly embarrassing testimonial of JCVD love to helpfully bring back whatever fond memories you too might have of a time when action movies were simple and action movie stars didn’t shave their body hair.
Sometimes you just want to watch stuff blow up, and I know that JCVD will always be there for me when I do.
I recently watched JCVD (twice if you must know) and was blown away by its awesomeness. Now, perhaps because this is text and many markers of communication are missing, you might think I’m being sarcastic or employing hyperbole. But I simply must inform you with all seriousness that JCVD is one seriously impressive movie. After watching this movie I discovered something: JCVD can actually act--I know; my shock was significant as well. I also rediscovered something: I have inappropriate (you have no idea how inappropriate) love for JCVD in all his incarnations.
I admit I feel better about my JCVD love than, say, Steven Segall (it just happened okay? One day I was watching Under Siege and before I knew it I found him attractive. It wasn’t my fault; the devil comes at us in moments of weakness) but I’ve never owned my VD love as I have other obsessions. In all honesty, however, there was a summer when I rented every movie our video store had, but that isn’t a story I’ve shared freely until recently.
Spurred on by my re-ignited love for Mr. JCVD I happily dove into my Netflix watch instantly and discovered to my thrilling delight a classic known as Double Impact awaiting me. After finishing it I find myself giggly and nostalgic for the action movies of yesteryear. Double Impact (hereafter referred to as DI in keeping with my egregious abbreviations abuse) has everything a great action movie from the 80’s and early 90’s ought to have: there’s martial arts, there’s gratuitous boob shots, there’s a purposeless sex scene, there’s unlikely explosions, there’s ripping of the action hero’s shirt for proper exposure of pectoral muscles, and there’s such a painfully juvenile attempt at a story that as a viewer you can’t help but cringe every time something like genuine emotion comes on the screen. In short, it has everything I love and miss about action movies.
Sure it’s sexist. Dear lord is it sexist. At one point the heroine, who didn’t bother me overmuch until she started talking in the second half of the movie and it become painfully apparent that she couldn’t act, dropped the blanket she was wearing while her clothes dried (because she got wet...obviously) and we saw her chest. You know...like ya do. And there was the “bad girl” who had to have been a professional body builder cause the girl was stacked. Naturally she had to “search” the “good girl” at one point in what was a clumsy attempt at 1992 heterosexual male fantasy of lesbian domination. Oddly enough the “bad girl” wore leather and black and had dark hair while the “good girl” wore pastels with flowers and had blond hair. You just can’t get gender roles and sexism like that anymore. And I simply must mention the sex scene; you see there was no reason, even in this hastily thrown together plot for there to be a sex scene but they got around that by Alex (played by JCVD) getting drunk and hallucinating that his brother Chad (played by JCVD) was having sex with his girlfriend--the blond girl. Brilliant!
And the final fight scene was glorious, stupendous, beautiful! JCVD, wearing a rather dull turtleneck, loses said turtleneck when the bad guy rips it off of him. You only wish I was making this up. And then (AND THEN) bad guy, played by Bobo for those of you that know who I’m talking about, takes his shirt off so they can have some short of martial arts throw down and assert their dominant masculinity over each other. ‘Twas awesome.
And I sat here and ate this shit up. Seriously, we don’t have action movies like this anymore. You could call it senseless violence and say it’s a good thing, but as I enjoyed the dubious pleasure that was DI I couldn’t help but miss the time when gratuitous violence was SO gratuitous that it had absolutely no chance of warping a child’s mind. You watch classics like Kickboxer or American Ninja or Under Siege and you know you aren’t bettering yourself. You are, in fact, treating the lowest part of yourself. I, the person that rails against the concepts of “high art” and “low art” gladly concede that this stuff is low art. But it does what it does well. Things blow up in exciting ways. Heroes are sexy and action stars can actually do the moves you see on the screen. Bad guys die overly complicated deaths, usually through helicopter blades or a thoughtfully exposed electrical box. If ever there is a scene with things marked “flammable” you know there will eventually be an explosion even if there has been no HINT of an incendiary device on screen; sometimes I think the hero is so cool that all he has to do is look at a barrel marked “flammable” and it will explode. But the neat part, the reason why I think I like it so much, is that no one watches a movie like DI and walks away worse because of it. The gender roles are crap, but there is less chance of danger for a young girl watching the chick in this be weak all the way through then there is in watching something like G.I. Joe where she learns she can be tough like Scarlett--as long as her uniform is thoughtfully unzipped all the time. There’s less danger in watching the violence of JCVD’s sweet martial arts moves than there is in watching any number of revenge movies where the thrill isn’t in the fighting but in the gore.
I’m not saying you should run out and watch DI (really, I promise I’m not saying that) but I offer this slightly embarrassing testimonial of JCVD love to helpfully bring back whatever fond memories you too might have of a time when action movies were simple and action movie stars didn’t shave their body hair.
Sometimes you just want to watch stuff blow up, and I know that JCVD will always be there for me when I do.
Wednesday, September 02, 2009
Working out, Cowboys in my Kitchen, and the Douchasaur
I just lifted weights for the first time in *mumble mumble* years. I feel a little bit like my arms have been stretched out by the rack and then flogged by little people placed at two-inch intervals each wielding a variation of a cat-o-nine-tails. But, I can sit down without my thighs giving out so that’s a plus. We’ll see if that’s still the case tomorrow after doing legs.
I came home and was standing in the kitchen heating up my leftovers from Bucca di Beppo (because nothing accentuates a good work out like family style Italian food) and I looked to my right at our “Studs ‘n Spurs” calendar. It was a joke (sort of) but some days when I’m feeling particularly sad I find my spirits buoyed by the shirtless cowboy on my kitchen wall with his too, too tight jeans. As I gazed at Mr. September I was excited at first; July, my birthday month, had a model who if he was a day over eighteen I’m a super model. Other months have been pleasant, but for a calendar dedicated to studs wearing spurs we haven’t always been guaranteed studliness.
All of this is to say that when I gazed at Mr. September, shirtless and appropriately misted so as to appear wet and tired after a hard day’s cowboying I became aware of something ruining my delightful objectification. There was something nagging at the back of my head that this picture just wasn’t as hot as it ought to be, and that bothered me. Gleaming six pack abs? Check. Wet? Check. Pleasant face? Sort of. I narrowed my search and realized it was, in fact, his eyes that were ruining our little moment.
I know. Have a laugh. Mock me. Who looks at a “Studs ‘n Spurs” calendar and feels bereft because the EYES aren’t right? It’s sort of like anyone on the planet actually knowing what color Pamela Anderson’s eyes are. But here’s the thing--or at least, here’s what I’ve decided the thing to be. There is a certain amount of badassery that exists metaphysically. Part of it is attitude; a man walks into the room and thinks, subconsciously even, I can take anyone here. Not because his self worth is dependent upon his ability to take anyone there, and not even because it’s true. More, it’s the knowledge that if he had to he could protect himself, but he won’t have to because no one there is worth his time to fight with. No matter how assy they get he’ll just buy them a drink and go on about his business. Unless they piss him off.
Furthermore, that attitude needs to exude from every pore of his being. Some call it confidence or assurance of self, but I don’t think that quite captures the self possession I’m attempting to describe. More it’s the complete inability of this man to conceive that even if he gets his ass kicked, even if he gets laughed at, even if no one in the room is aware of what he could do to them, he won’t be beat. That’s badassery my friends.
Bringing this back around to Mr. Sept. I want, when I look at a picture of a shirtless, wet cowboy on my kitchen wall the knowledge that the character portrayed for that photograph (and it is a character, you don’t shave your chest if you’re a real cowboy) has the sort of badassery that makes genitals weep. I want John Wayne with a James Bond attitude. I don’t want some dude with a six pack in a pair of tight jeans that looks like the only thought he’s contemplated for longer than a moment was how awesome he is.
I hate it when my fantasies are so rudely destroyed by life’s refusal to be objectified.
But that brings us to the discovery of a new species known as the douchasaur. There will be a list of all the various types of douchasaurs, but I’m sorry to say my hot cowboy fantasy has been destroyed in no small part to the undeniable knowledge that Mr. Sept. is a douchasaurus. And yes, I know this because of the eyes.
I just lifted weights for the first time in *mumble mumble* years. I feel a little bit like my arms have been stretched out by the rack and then flogged by little people placed at two-inch intervals each wielding a variation of a cat-o-nine-tails. But, I can sit down without my thighs giving out so that’s a plus. We’ll see if that’s still the case tomorrow after doing legs.
I came home and was standing in the kitchen heating up my leftovers from Bucca di Beppo (because nothing accentuates a good work out like family style Italian food) and I looked to my right at our “Studs ‘n Spurs” calendar. It was a joke (sort of) but some days when I’m feeling particularly sad I find my spirits buoyed by the shirtless cowboy on my kitchen wall with his too, too tight jeans. As I gazed at Mr. September I was excited at first; July, my birthday month, had a model who if he was a day over eighteen I’m a super model. Other months have been pleasant, but for a calendar dedicated to studs wearing spurs we haven’t always been guaranteed studliness.
All of this is to say that when I gazed at Mr. September, shirtless and appropriately misted so as to appear wet and tired after a hard day’s cowboying I became aware of something ruining my delightful objectification. There was something nagging at the back of my head that this picture just wasn’t as hot as it ought to be, and that bothered me. Gleaming six pack abs? Check. Wet? Check. Pleasant face? Sort of. I narrowed my search and realized it was, in fact, his eyes that were ruining our little moment.
I know. Have a laugh. Mock me. Who looks at a “Studs ‘n Spurs” calendar and feels bereft because the EYES aren’t right? It’s sort of like anyone on the planet actually knowing what color Pamela Anderson’s eyes are. But here’s the thing--or at least, here’s what I’ve decided the thing to be. There is a certain amount of badassery that exists metaphysically. Part of it is attitude; a man walks into the room and thinks, subconsciously even, I can take anyone here. Not because his self worth is dependent upon his ability to take anyone there, and not even because it’s true. More, it’s the knowledge that if he had to he could protect himself, but he won’t have to because no one there is worth his time to fight with. No matter how assy they get he’ll just buy them a drink and go on about his business. Unless they piss him off.
Furthermore, that attitude needs to exude from every pore of his being. Some call it confidence or assurance of self, but I don’t think that quite captures the self possession I’m attempting to describe. More it’s the complete inability of this man to conceive that even if he gets his ass kicked, even if he gets laughed at, even if no one in the room is aware of what he could do to them, he won’t be beat. That’s badassery my friends.
Bringing this back around to Mr. Sept. I want, when I look at a picture of a shirtless, wet cowboy on my kitchen wall the knowledge that the character portrayed for that photograph (and it is a character, you don’t shave your chest if you’re a real cowboy) has the sort of badassery that makes genitals weep. I want John Wayne with a James Bond attitude. I don’t want some dude with a six pack in a pair of tight jeans that looks like the only thought he’s contemplated for longer than a moment was how awesome he is.
I hate it when my fantasies are so rudely destroyed by life’s refusal to be objectified.
But that brings us to the discovery of a new species known as the douchasaur. There will be a list of all the various types of douchasaurs, but I’m sorry to say my hot cowboy fantasy has been destroyed in no small part to the undeniable knowledge that Mr. Sept. is a douchasaurus. And yes, I know this because of the eyes.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
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.
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.
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.
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