Michael Jackson’s This Is It

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That’s my plug for this movie.

How to Survive a Demon Attack

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

Top Ten Ways to Survive a Demon Attack

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Let’s Talk About Tao

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Samwise the Brave--I finally understand.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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’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.

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.

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.

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.

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.