I just finished my latest trashy romance, the third in a trilogy and it was so good it left me yearning for true love. Irritated, I paced around the apartment and grumbled about how much I hate everything. Then, as luck would have it, I stumbled across a book that I have with me purely by accident; a book I loaned to a friend two years ago and he happened to remember to give it back to me, Stephen Hawking's The Theory of Everything. Here, I thought, was the perfect solution to stupid trashy romances and their manipulating you into wanting true love.

As I was reading just the very beginning of it I began to remember how much I love Stephen Hawking and, furthermore, how much fun it is to contemplate the mysteries of the universe. More than that, though, I thought back on my childhood and how much easier it was to accept certain ideas, like infinity. When I was a wee little girl someone, probably my dad, told me that the universe was everything. It was simple and it made sense. I thought to myself, okay--I can accept that. Then, probably around high school, maybe earlier, it was brought up that the universe was expanding. This here was a problem. If the universe was everything it couldn't expand, seeing how it was, well, everything. And so my tumultuous relationship with infinity, space, and time began.

I tried to read A Brief History of Time in high school and that didn't work out so well, but a while after graduating college I got through it and, more than that, enjoyed it. I'm a bit of an armchair theoretical physicist--I hate the math and refuse to learn how to do it myself, but I love the theories and thinking about them. This is what happens when English majors read Hawking and Greene. I started to read about black holes and found them incredibly exciting when suddenly I realized I had hit upon a snag; I have an irrational fear of falling into a black hole. As irrational fears go I think that's a pretty good one.

So now, my contemplations of the universe are hampered by a couple of things: 1) irrational fear of falling into a black hole 2) inability to fully comprehend the size of the universe since it isn't infinity 3) annoyance with the relationship between space, time, and gravity.

I bring all this up as a background to remark on the humor of my young mind's willingness to accept and even, to some degree, understand infinity. When the universe was everything I never thought twice about it--it was everything. But when the universe stopped being everything and just became really, really big well, that was another matter entirely. And I think that's something. I suppose there are many examples of a child's mind willing to accept concepts adults have trouble with from religion to physics, but reading this particular book right now sparked my particular memory and made me want to muse about it.

There is certainly the point that children see things more simply and so conceive of a concept in terms small enough to understand; adults try to grasp all the ins and outs as it were. But thinking on human nature and our self-centeredness, I wonder if part of it isn't also an adult's need to feel like s/he matters. Descartes said, "I think, therefore, I am" and whole philosophies have worked to deal with that. What's more, when you start to conceive the universe as really, really big and, more importantly, finite, you begin to realize how little you matter in the grand scheme of things. I matter to me, obviously, and we all matter to each other (people that know each other I mean) but long after we're dead the universe keeps on kicking until one day it stops regardless of our continued existence or not. That's a pretty crazy concept to contemplate.

I should also point out that I've been in houses with cable the last few days and so have watched The History Channel and The Discovery Channel; there was a very nice program on the evolution of the Earth yesterday.

Anyway, I know physicists are still fighting over the existence of a "theory of everything" but it occurs to me that the universe functions just fine in conjunction with itself. That says to me that there has to be a theory of everything, we just may not be able to comprehend it yet. I mean, how can there not be? But, on the flip side, there isn't necessarily a theory that can be applied to every human being because we're such capricious characters and then, if there isn't a theory of everything for the universe doesn't that raise an interesting question about the nature of its existence? Not necessarily talking sentience here, but perhaps a little chaos theory.

I have no greater point with all of this, but musing over my irrational fear of falling into a black hole and suffering a horrible, painful death stretched out over infinity served its purpose marvelously in no longer wishing I had true love. See? Science really does solve everything.

I'm sitting in the Chicago O'Hare airport, waiting for my delayed flight. A middle-aged man somewhere between his mid-forties and early fifties walks by wearing a hooded, zip up sweatshirt. On the back in large, bright, pink lettering is:

Love Me
Hate Me
Fuck Me

I'm in a bit of a quandary over this. On the one hand I don't believe in censorship--I would never want there to be a law or any fine imposed on people for their speech. However, I do believe (very strongly) in manners and taste. There are several adolescent girls hanging out in our concourse alone, not to mention all the children he walked by to get here. My question is this: Is this sweatshirt really necessary sir? Really? What is it you are saying that demands to be said across Chicago International Airport in such a way?

I want to take a break and let you all know I know how much I sound like my mother right now.

But here's the thing; I've always found shirts with curse words written on them tacky. I'm obviously not one who is afraid to curse, nor do I think it makes a moral or ethical difference to say freak instead of fuck if the meaning behind it is the same. Language carries the meaning you attach to it and all that. But, knowing all of these things, there is also the knowledge that language you put into the world--through speech, shirts, or what have you--gains half its meaning from what those listening or reading attach to it. So, what is it about this guys sweatshirt that demands it be said in public in this way?

At least if it were a political statement I could understand. If it were some sort of obvious personal statement that seemed fairly necessary to his existence in this world as a person I would also understand.. And, AND! What the hell is his sweatshirt saying anyway? I mean, it's bad enough that I find it rude and inappropriate in the airport context, but what is being said here? No matter how you feel about him sleep with him? Love me, hate me, but don't subject me to inane attempts at individuality.

Okay...I have to interrupt this rant to explain something very important I've discovered. This man is in Ted Nugent's band. In fact, Ted Nugent is flying on the puddle-jumper airplane with me out of Chicago. Wow. I mean, I don't particularly like Ted Nugent, but it's still really freaking cool (I think freaking works better in this context don't you?) that I'm sharing a plane with him and his band. Who knew?

Cut to later when we've landed and are finally at our destination. It was a thoroughly annoying flight complete with delays, gate changes, and waiting on the tarmac for take off for almost an hour . Then, because of all the delays instead of landing before the thunderstorm we flew through it. That means I almost died with Ted Nugent too. I'm not nearly as excited about that. Finally, I had to sit behind sweatshirt man while he chatted up the pretty, young girl next to him--this guy is an old rockstar with hair that's thinning still worn long and the aforementioned writing on the back of his clothing. It was entirely possible I was going to do a lot more than hate him before this flight was over.

Thankfully we landed, though, and as my friend and I walked out the airport I looked behind to make sure the coast was clear and said quite loudly, "I just flew with Ted Nugent! That's so cool!" I then turned around. Ted Nugent was on his cell phone ten feet ahead giving me the eye as he continued his conversation. Sometimes I'm so cool even I don't know how I resist me. On the plus side, he's crazy conservative so I don't have to feel that bad that I didn't wow him with my coolness.

I flew with Ted Nugent. That's so cool.

Allow me to share the story of the crazy old people in Rhode Island. Apparently, when one grows old in this state, one also becomes bitter, mean, and sometimes stupid. Let's begin with example A, codename: Grandma.

We were at Journey to the Center of the Earth: 3D (yeah, 3D--it was awesome) and Grandma and her grandson sit down a few seats away from us. As the movie begins and plays it becomes very apparent, very early on, that Grandma's a talker. You know the type; the type that talks at movies, loudly enough to annoy, but quietly enough that not everyone in the theatre hears it. Furthermore, she talks pretty much through the whole thing. Apparently, so I was told as I wasn't sitting next to her, Grandma did something more stupendous than not turn off her cell phone. She missed the phone call, checked her voice mail, and then called the person back to discuss the missed phone call. This is the sort of talker Grandma is. At one point I thought my friend was going to kick some Granny butt, but she restrained herself like a champ. Frankly, though, I would have helped her. Granny was in very serious danger of going down.

Next there was example B, codename: Grumpy.

There we sat in the theatre watching Mama Mia! (I watch a lot of movies on vacation) and old people start to pile in all around us. Now, when I say pile in I mean exactly that. The theatre filled up, but before that happened an old couple sat in front and to the left of us, while another old couple walked by making myself and another old lady move our purses since they simply had to sit in the two empty seats between us instead of anywhere else in the theatre--but that's another story. Grumpy gave me and my friend the eye as he sat down and eyed my feet, perched on the bar in front of me warily. I eyed back since I was there first, I didn't have my feet on the back of a seat and he was choosing to sit next to my obviously perched feet in a still very empty theatre. As far as I was concerned he could eat me.

My mother raised me with manners, however, so I was determined not to put my feet anywhere that might ruin his movie experience, but as the movie got going and the music picked up I sort of lost myself in the moment. My foot is now on my knee as my legs are crossed, far, far away from him, but he turns around and starts to say something to me. After a minute I realize he's talking to me and it sounds something like "you kicked me." I'm horribly embarrassed both because I had no memory or recollection of my foot connecting with his head and he's speaking loudly. I think perhaps he's worried I will kick him--a big difference I'm sure you'll agree. So I respond "Oh, I did kick you?" The whole encounter has me thrown for a loop. But then he did something that never works out well for me. He told me what to do.

"Put your foot down," he orders me. I really, really, really...really don't take well to being told what to do. It's a flaw. I need to work on it. I know this. But right now we're at a movie theatre, Grumpy just ordered me around before I even understood what was going on enough to apologize, and there was no more possibility of a peaceful resolution. I responded simply and firmly, "I won't kick you again." He told me to put my foot down again, I told him I wouldn't kick him again. He turned around in a huff and I seriously considered kicking his head very hard, very many times. Furthermore, the words he said at the beginning that I missed (which I think was due to fate) were "Hey lady! You kicked me." All I say to that is really? Hey lady? What are you twenty and is this 1954? If the answer to either of those questions is no OR you were raised with an iota of proper behavior I say perhaps you should never hey lady someone unless you want them to kick you in the head on purpose. The universe protected Grumpy from my dangerously flip-flop clad foot teaching him how to properly inform someone of their obvious mistake in a movie theatre. I know; I kicked him (allegedly). But he was assy. I reserve the right to want to kick him.

Meanwhile, the old lady and her husband who decided they absolutely had to have the two empty seats between me and the other group are singing along to the songs, off-key of course, the lady behind us can't figure out how to shut her phone off, the power goes out due to horrendous thunderstorms, and watersprout oddly enough, we lose sound at the romantic and emotional climax of the movie, and then same lady--whom my friend thought was mentally disabled--begins to clap sort of in time when the sound comes back on and the final song kicks in. All-in-all it was a good movie, but really exhausting to watch.

So after all of this I've come to two conclusions: 1) old people in Rhode Island are insane and 2) old, handicapped, or dying from a disease I reserve the right to kick you in the head--on purpose this time--if you talk during a movie.

This has been a public service announcement.

I was totally going to write about Jem and the Holograms because they are truly, truly, truly outrageous, but I feel it is more important, nay, imperative, that I inform the masses of an imminent world take over--by seagulls.

This is going to come as a surprise to some of you. After all, it wasn't too long ago that world take over seemed afoot due to the penguins and with the influx of pro-penguin propaganda in the last five years I felt the penguin world take over would happen any moment, but today I saw something that chilled me to the bone. Today I saw something so horrible, so frightening, that I'm not sure it can be captured in the written word. Today I saw the truth. Today I came face to face with the seagulls.

It was a day that started much like any other. I woke up; I drank my coffee. I watched cartoons (hence the forthcoming discussion about Jem) and eventually decided upon going to the beach. I'm visiting the east coast you see and it seemed a shame to waste a beautiful afternoon doing anything other than reading on the beach. So we packed up, we bought some fig newtons, some cheez its, some water, and headed to the beach.

The water was beautiful, the waves were crashing, and I blissfully trounced off into the ocean gasping only a little at the chill temperature. Despite the complaints of California that the Pacific is cold the northern Atlantic is much, much colder.

But I was not to be deterred! Soon my friend had joined me and we were happily bouncing about in the growing waves, cold but happy. And then, as is so often the case in these stories, tragedy struck. A moment of sweet innocence was ruined thoughtlessly, heartlessly, by the evil that roams this earth. The seagulls had struck.

My friend asked me if the giant mass of seagulls were swarming around our blanket. They were. She then asked if they could get into our sealed, bagged food. They could. Squinting against the sun that only moments ago had brought me such joy I stepped towards the shore and saw what I thought looked like a fig newton bag being dragged across the beach, caught between the bills of three different seagulls.

I took off, fueled by rage and raced back to the shore; the waves pounded me from behind and the current pulled at my feet, but I wouldn't be slowed. Sloshing without any thought but saving my delicious fruit and cake I ran up on the beach seeing clearly now that it was my fig newton bag the seagulls were molesting and, what's more, they weren't scattering as I raced towards them. I also saw, positioned not twenty feet from our blanket two older gentlemen casually half-sleeping in their beach chairs watching the seagulls rape and pillage our blanket and food with nary a half-cocked eyebrow let alone a minor Shoo! to chase them off. You would think the peoples of the world could be united against this heinous yellow billed force, but no, our ranks are divided. How do we stand a chance when there are those among us who would stand by while innocent fig newtons are plundered not ten feet away?

Thankfully we saved half the bag. One row was gone, but my adrenaline fueled race back to the shore saved the other row. But now the seagulls had got a taste. And they liked it. We laid down on our blanket, books in hand ready to protect our food and blanket. The seagulls formed a perimeter around us, landing approximately ten feet away on all sides. Their leader, an old grizzled fellow with brown feathers amid his white stood in the middle. He had a habit of keeping his head down so that he seemed thicker, more menacing then the others. As I read my book he would inch closer, one step at a time, step, step towards the rescued newtons.

I looked up and we made eye contact--it was like looking into the eyes of death. He wasn't frightened of me. Not even after I explained things to him. I'm bigger, I told him, I'll eat you. He didn't care. Looking down I assessed the size of my trashy romance and decided it would make a pretty good club. Don't make me beat you with Nora Roberts, I threatened him again. This seemed to throw him a little bit. He took a step back. Not to be thwarted, however, he started to move forward again. I half sat up, ready to do battle; I'd take on the whole squadron if I had to!

But then fate intervened. A new mark, an easier mark had been sighted by the scouts. The rest of the squad took off, squawking and flapping their way down the beach. But the commander stayed. His beady black eyes bored into my brown ones. Nora Roberts I threatened again. He didn't say anything, but I knew if he had a mouth instead of his grotesque beak he would have said, I'm not scared. With one last look he let out a squawk and flew after his squad. And so our stand-off ended.

The seagulls have no respect for human life, nor any decent fear of what we're willing to do to them. It's because of this I feel they may supplant the penguins in the race for world domination. If you see a movie promoting cute seagulls don't believe it; don't believe it for a minute. They'll wait till your gone...and then they'll steal your fig newtons. Fight for you lives people. Fight for your freedom.

I just came home from a discussion about love. We were all very aware of the foolishness such a discussion contains by its very nature, but this is a topic that has been on my mind quite a bit lately. I know people often muse amongst themselves concerning the nature of "the one," how do I know who it is? How do I know if this particular person is really it, etc, but I found myself asking the question, how do I know if I'm in love?

This question in turn made me ask myself, how do I define love? Can it be defined? Is love purely emotion and as such, does it defy the naming process of being put into language? I acknowledge all the poetry, music, art, and teenage love notes that have already attempted this, but I don't think their existence answers my question. After all, even with all of these things, we all still question the concept of love on a porch at four o'clock in the morning.

The problem, a commonly accepted one amongst most self-aware, reasonably intelligent people is that there is no "happily ever after." The "I love yous," heartfelt as they may be, are always followed by the morning after--bad breath, unfortunate bed head, and maybe a grumpy demeanor. The days after that are followed by fights, food poisoning, the flu, and any number of other situations and ailments not conducive to tender emotions. And so people deal with this any number of ways; the one I hear most often is that everyone falls in and out of love constantly, hanging on until they fall back in love with the person they've committed to. I don't deny that this is the case for many people, but I question if that is real love or, more importantly, if that is what I want.

Imagine, for a minute, that full disclosure is possible. Imagine that you could be aware of those times your partner isn't in love with you. What would that be like? Knowing that fights, irritation, and disappointment are fairly inevitable, do I want to be with someone that, at times, doesn't actually love me? Is it possible to avoid? To some degree I'm hopelessly naive in this area as I haven't had a serious, long term relationship. Friendships, but not romantic involvements where you see someone on a daily basis. I acknowledge this even as I continue to write as if I know what I'm talking about anyway.

I think love for me is defined the same way I define the one. Specifically, that it isn't an end. What I mean by that is that there is no happily ever after. It doesn't ever stop. Being in love doesn't cease the roller-coaster of emotion anymore than finding the person I want to spend the rest of my life with means they were the only person of all the people in the world I could have felt that way about, and being with them guarantees happiness. If it's an ongoing process, something that has to be worked on every day, a constant evolution that never ceases to need my attention, even if it is easier some days than others, then not only does it become a whole lot less romantic, it also becomes a whole lot more scary. It means that happiness is not guaranteed and my happiness is not assured. It means that all the annoyances I have regarding my lack of a relationship don't go away, but are only replaced with new ones. That idea is absolutely opposite what society has formed and defined as "love."

More importantly, though, it means that entering into any sort of romantic relationship carries significantly more weight than it did before. It means I can't just meet someone, work it out, and then sit back and enjoy the ride. It means that being in love requires an active, conscious role from me every day. That's exhausting to ponder. The thrill of love is that it is supposed to be an end; once you love and someone loves you, you're supposed to be generally happy and content. The love is supposed to be the end.

But I don't think it is. And, I think it is knowledge of this, conscious or not, that oftentimes causes fear of marriage or the idea of "the old ball and chain" as it were. When we're not blissfully happy, all the time, we assume it isn't love or that there's something wrong with us, or whatever. We never question if this "love" we have isn't actually love, but only what we were taught to believe is love. This is also why I think so many single, divorced, and/or cynical people doubt other people's love. They see couples that are working on loving each other every day and see only that it is different than what love is supposed to be, not the possibility that that is actually what love is. The two seem irreconcilable.

But how many people have the maturity, self awareness, or mental fortitude to be conscious of their own evolution, needs, and feelings every day, let alone someone else's? That's exhausting--even just to think about. There's nothing sexy, or spontaneous, or fun about that. That's too much like real life, like an obligation.

But what if that isn't the case? Ignorance is definitely bliss, but what if the cost of knowledge, high though it may be is worth it? What if the added pain and inconvenience brings with it greater happiness and self fulfillment? I like my definition of love--I find it more real, inconvenient though it may be.

But it still doesn't answer the question how do I know if I'm in love or that someone is even worth the pain of true love? But that's something to ponder some other morning at four o'clock on the porch.

I think it’s time I shared my thoughts on George Lucas. I was reading an article on msn about the biggest winners and losers of the summer and (not unexpectedly) they labeled Indiana Jones a loser (the latest one). What I love about this article, and the people that wrote in to argue, is that critics predicted exactly as both Lucas and Spielberg said they would, but acted as if their reactions were a surprise. The majority of movie-goers accepted the change in tone and enjoyed the movie. Both the article and the people that replied represent these two extremes beautifully.

But this got me thinking, I’ve spent a lot of time defending Episode 3 and qualifying Episodes 1 & 2, but I’ve never done so here (I don’t think). I think it’s time.

First let’s get the obvious weakness out of the way so we can all be on the same page:

1. George Lucas, bless his heart, had a hard-on for special effects. They were overused in the first two movies and he forgot to keep it simple. It’s understandable when one considers that he’s spent his life making movies that weren’t quite capable of looking like he imagined, but still a poor choice artistically.

2. We could have forgiven the abuse of special effects if the writing had been better. The dialogue was just plain painful in places and while I personally think there were reasons for that at times, it doesn’t change the need for a little revision.

These were the major complaints made at the time of the release and, I think, what most people still complain about when discussing the movie.

This is why I think the movie was doomed to failure regardless of how good it was:

1. We all wanted Episodes 4-6 the way we had them when we were four. We wanted to believe, we wanted to be blown away, and, most of all, we wanted to escape into the fantasy. However, we’ve all grown more cynical and unforgiving in our old age and forgot that when we watch episodes 4-6 we laugh about how cheesy they are…but we forgive them because we love them. Unable to be a child, unwilling to acknowledge we are adults everyone sat in the theatre and complained.

2. We all had a preconceived notion about Darth Vader’s origin story. The books, the fanfiction, the graphic novels, the conversations with friends at three in the morning over coffee—no one wanted to accept a story that was different from what was imagined. No one wanted to reimagine a world that wasn’t technically theirs to begin with. The story, by dent of being mostly original, would never be accepted. I acknowledge that the plotting could and should have been done better, but I still maintain nothing would have been enough.

3. This one is most important: Well adjusted teenagers don’t turn into cosmic serial killers. Everybody loves Darth Vader because he’s the biggest badass on the market. Everybody wanted to see Darth Vader be a badass prelava. What we got was a whiny, overdramatic teenager that couldn’t accept reality or deal with the pressures of life. Could Episode 2 have been better written? Absolutely. Could Anakin Skywalker, realistically, been an ass-kicking James Bond like teenager? Of course not. Darth Vader is, was, always has been inherently weak. His emotions were his doom. That means when he was fifteen, in love, and his mom dies he whines and goes crazy. Nothing else works.

Very few people wanted to accept these things about the story Lucas was telling. Furthermore, because Episode 2 was pretty bad (even I cringe when Anakin compares Padme’s skin to sand) everyone writes off Episode 3. Episode 3 was a masterpiece of tragedy—honestly, I don’t know how you could argue against that, even if personally you don’t like it. The only real weakness I saw was that Anakin shifted from good to evil too quickly. There needed to be a little more attention paid to his fanaticism and how the Emperor played into that. But overall, his passion as his undoing, the slaughtering of the jedi, the Emperor and Yoda fighting, Obi-Won and Anakin fighting…it was all heartbreaking. Oh, there was the “NO!” at the end which was a bad choice—I know what Lucas was going for there, but a show of silent fury would have been a much better option I think.

Going back to Episode 2 for a minute, has anyone ever spent any time with a teenage boy? Have you ever heard a teenage boy try to hit on a girl? It’s painful people. There are bad comparisons, cheesy pick-up lines, and a whole lot of awkward longing looks that translate to “I really wanna touch your boob.” Real life doesn’t always translate to writing well and Lucas erred on the side of too realistic here, but the failure wasn’t because it wouldn’t really be like that. People cringed because how does an intergalactic badass tell a girl he likes her skin because it’s so smooth, not coarse like sand? People forget that even intergalactic badasses are 15 once with too many hormones and not enough game.

And that brings me to my final point—Vader wasn’t evil, not wholly, he was weak. He was too weak to resist the dark side, and he was too weak to embrace evil all the way. That’s why he chooses the Emperor in Episode 3 and is saved by Luke in 6. He loved his family more than anything and that allows for the Rebellion to win before it’s all said and done, but it also means that Darth Vader won’t ever be the biggest, the baddest, or the most evil. It also means that, like all other passionate, out of control teenagers, seeing him in his teen years makes you die a little inside.

And as for Episode 1, it tried to be too much like Jedi. It was fun, it was easy, it was everything it was supposed to be. I was really excited after I saw it in the theatre. But then everyone started hating on it because, frankly, it’s cooler to hate than to love. Us silly cretins just didn’t realize how bad it was. It wasn’t perfect, none of them were, but it was better than a crapload of other movies people say are great (think Titanic) and no worse then many more.

Most importantly, though, they were all Star Wars, and for better or worse that’s all they ever aspired to be. You can love ‘em or hate ‘em, but you can’t deny them their place in the world George Lucas created.

I saw Wanted last night, and there really, seriously, needs to be a discussion about the wisdom of taking your orders from a Loom of Fate. I mean our hero (don’t worry, no spoilers here really) waffles over the decision to do what’s he told for a second, but eventually he decides the Loom knows more than he.

This is simply further proof of why I wouldn’t make a good assassin of fate. You show me the Loom of Fate and I say, “Really? Where do you get the thread? How do you make sure it’s weaving the cloth of fate, or does the cloth not really matter? How do you know you’re interpreting it correctly? What if the first interpreters got it wrong? Is there a Rosetta Loom somewhere you want to tell me about? How do I know this is a good Loom of Fate and not a bad one? Can fate be evil and good?”

I feel like these are all perfectly valid questions and it isn’t too much to expect that one might ask them before following the Loom’s orders. Obviously, the movie progresses, things are more complicated than they seem, but I couldn’t help remarking as the proverbial feces hit the proverbial fan that this is what happens when you take orders from a loom.

And then we have the problems of fate—I like fate, we get along pretty well, but once you start preemptively killing people because fate deems it so we’re into some pretty murky area. For example, let’s say that the person I take orders from goes evil—now fate is going to think that I’m evil because so long as everything stays as it is I will be. But what if I figure it out? Can I not change my destiny? People can be tricked, can they not? So how do we know how savvy fate is? Is it my lack of awareness that has caused me to slip into evil and a danger to mankind, or is it my association with that specific person at that specific time? If it’s the second…well, that’s very malleable and I’ll thank fate not to judge me because of what I might do.

But if names of people only come up after they have committed their first atrocious act (or thirteenth) then I could accept that easier. I see you killed a baby, now I kill you. This is a very simply one-to-one relationship. But I kill you because you might kill the baby—the Loom and I disagree there. Though it does raise that excellent question of would you kill [insert evil dictator’s name here] as a child if you could? And if (very big if) said Loom of Fate really were a Loom of Fate and I could accept its Fateyness, I might be able to. But in order for that to happen we’re back to the earlier situation of proving the merits of taking orders from a Loom of Fate.

The Loom weaves in circles.

(ah! I’m funny)

I've held off for awhile, but it's time to roll back into the political arena. The news on Obama today revolves around James Dobson who has accused Obama of "distorting the Bible and offering a fruitcake interpretation of the constitution." Now, I'm really excited about this on a number of levels. First there's the idea of a "fruitcake interpretation" which is an incredibly bigoted comment. Why? Because fruitcake is a commonly known slang for homosexual and when you start using it as an insult we're back to the equivalent of "nigger-rigged" for fixing something on the fly. People might disagree with that, but just because you don't realize something is offensive, it doesn't mean it is. And, on a side note, we gripe because some (like myself, for example) read too much into things i.e. "fruitcake interpretation." After all, in this context it just means crazy, another vernacular meaning for the word so why am I being so sensitive? Because it is precisely the people who are sensitive that decide what is offensive. If you're goal is to not be offensive in a bigoted way then you don't get to pick and choose what someone finds bigoted. Just wanted to get that one out there.

Now on to the big stuff. Obama pointed out that Bible scriptures are, shall we say, a bit inconsistent. His point seemed to consist of two ideas 1) that there are multiple Christianities at work in our country so even if we are a "Christian" country that doesn't narrow down what moral/ethical code we should be running on and 2) literal interpretations of the Bible aren't helpful to the running of the government--think Leviticus. Now, I'm biased. There is no question about my bias and, furthermore, that I'm a crazy NON-Christian. In my perfect world our government would run on a set of ethics that owed nothing to religion. I want to clarify that I am completely aware of where I stand on this issue. That being said, I find this comments absolutely delightful--a politician that recognizes the logical fallacies undermining much of our political discussions today and says it out loud? How many times have these almost exact words been spoken between friends? And here is a man who is willing to say it out loud. I find that incredibly exciting. Furthermore, no where in these comments, this article, or anything else I've read has Obama even hinted at being anti-religion. He isn't going to stop people from going to church or their right to go to church, but is willing to stop people from forcing others to go to church. See the difference? As an avid non-churchgoer I'm thrilled by that. I'll fight to the death for your right to worship in whatever harmless way you desire, but I'll also fight to the death for my right not to.

Being a liberal isn't nearly so simple as those who curse us would have you believe.

I'm seeing more and more in Obama a man who might be too smart to be President. What I mean by that, is that he will say out loud things that are true. For example, you can't outlaw abortion because of the Bible. It's true. The government can't base laws on religion (or, rather, shouldn't). That means that the law itself must come from another ethical background. But for someone that does base ethics and morality on religion and cannot conceive of not using religion as a basis for those things that sounds like crazy talk. Plus, if you believe you are right--as anyone who actually believes in their faith does--then you don't want to have a law that allows for beliefs disagreeing with your own. It's a tricky, sticky situation and saying we can't base laws on your religion because other's don't believe it doesn't get through to these people. Their religion is fact and so it doesn't matter whether others believe it or not.

And that is, perhaps, the crux of the problem. We, as a society, have no interest in living our lives in a solitary fashion. We want to save those in need; we want to help each other. That means for the big issues, like abortion, we can't agree to let someone kill a baby (if indeed that's what we want to call it) we want to stop the atrocity. For the smaller stuff, like gay marriage, we don't want to stand by and silently condone an act that is repulsive. I speak of "we" here as society. And to some degree, there is no resolution to that situation. Those that believe abortion is murder will never allow it to continue unmolested and those that despise homosexuality will never support their equality. But quite frankly, I'm not interested in those people. Maybe I'll teach their kids some day and I'll deal with it then, but I'm not going to change any minds in that quarter, and neither is Obama. Those are the lost cause.

But, if every time they speak loudly against rationality (and yes, I am judging here) those who deny their monologic world view speak loudly in protest the damage might be controlled. Those that believe single-mindedly are powerful in their speech because they believe. The masses react to that. But if all of us who believe passionately for freedom of/from/to belief/believe then those that are not fanatical will have something else to consider. We will never all agree, but we might some day discuss. That's worth working towards.

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/25343812?GT1=43001

Pool parties are the bane of the chubby girl's existence.

I'm going to a pool party this afternoon, and it will doubtless be fun. But I am completely, wholly, and utterly terrified. Why? Because I'll be the only fat girl there. Now before I lose you, this isn't about woe is me or anything as trite as that. And this isn't me hating what I am; I say fat because that's what it is. I believe in naming the thing, not renaming it in hopes it will be different; there's more power and happiness in truth than there is in imagination. But I digress.

These people are my friends, some of them friends I like quite a bit. I trust most all of them not to look cross-eyed at me, or make a rude remark. I wouldn't go if there was a chance of that happening, obviously. But here's the thing about being the only friend that's different--you're different. And when it's because you're fat, as I'm sure it is with most anything, there is the added stigma of guilt. You're different because you aren't good enough to be the same, yadda, yadda, yadda. Same old song and dance, different state, different year.

And that's the crappy part. This isn't a new feeling. This is the feeling I've had since I was ten and we swam in gym class for the first time. This is the feeling I get every time I walk out in a bathing suit by myself. Granted, I walk out anyway because nobody tells me what to do (something that's actually been a negative thing at times) but the feeling is still there. That damn sense of "Oh no, they're all gonna laugh at me!"

And it's silly. Nobody doesn't know what I look like. It isn't as if I put on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt and I'm suddenly mistaken for a size 6. Oh my god! You're in a bathing suit and you're HUGE! But our culture is permeated not only with revulsion at unattractive things (and I'm using unattractive here in the most societal sense) but also with guilt at being unattractive. Think of all the times we close our eyes and say, "I don't want to see that!" or "A little consideration please!" Sometimes these thoughts are justifiable, such as in the case of spandex or mullets, but often it's just because it's a fat person in clothes we don't like.

So all of this is a long-winded way of saying: this isn't a new feeling, nobody is going to stop being my friend because I'm fat, yes I love who I am, go me. But it's also a way of acknowledging the stigma. We're back to that truth thing. It would be more pleasant for everyone, myself included, if we could all pretend that it's what's on the inside that matters (think Care Bears) and nobody looks at you differently when you aren't classically beautiful, but that would be a lie. If I put on a bathing suit today and actually was a size 6 (think selling soul to devil for new body) not only would everyone be shocked, but they would compliment me, they would congratulate me, and, probably, some of the guys would hit on me. This is simply a fact of life, and I know it to be true because it's happened before.

Because the fact of the matter is, nobody wants to sleep with an ugly person. I say that plainly and, perhaps, harshly, because it is true. The catch is what we define as ugly. Often times, what we think of as ugly changes with age, friendships, and personalities, but when we sketch our fantasy in our mind nine times out of ten we sketch something society considers beautiful. And it is that impulse towards societal beauty that makes the pool party so difficult. That causes this feeling I'm discussing right now. Because even though all my friends will still be my friends after this afternoon there will be the moment when their eyes register that I'm not physically what I'm supposed to be. And then they'll flinch. Just a little; just a slight twitching of the eye. But it will happen because it always happens. And then I have to pretend like I didn't notice and that no, it doesn't bother me at all. I really hate that part.

And I do it to. I love Jack Black, but when I fantasize I'm imagining a Spartan. I get it. I get the mindset because I'm aware of the times I too have the mindset; the times my eyes do the half-flinch when I see someone that is startling in their difference from the norm. And that's what it really boils down to. Being different. Oh the cliché, it makes me weep for it's Hallmark predictability. I like being different. I want to be different. I actually wouldn't be anyone else if given the option. But sometimes, just sometimes I get tired of standing there and smiling while someone quickly deals with my difference; sometimes I just want to be one of the group instead of making a stand, in a very literal sense, and fighting the good fight for my difference to exist.

So that's why pool parties are the bane of the chubby girl's existence. And that's while I go, walk slowly and purposefully to the pool, get in and have a great time.

I've finally begun watching season five of Angel. It is everything Joss Whedon always is, which is fantastic. It's also so much better than season four as to be ridiculous. However, as I sat watching the show I was struck again and again by how much of a brooder Angel is. I mean, seriously, that vampire broods. Everything is serious; everything is cause for more guilt. After two or three episodes I realized that if I ever actually hung out with Angel...I would kill him. Or at least make him cry.

In honor of Angel's magnificent brooding I've decided it's time for another top ten list. I respectfully acknowledge the prevalence of vampires on this list, but what're ya gonna do? Apparently eternal life turns men into brooders. Who knew?

The Top Ten Brooders

10. Mr. Darcy

It seems like an odd choice I'll grant you, and unlike most of the others on this list he is neither insane, undead, or evil. But Mr. Darcy does brood. Think of all the staring he does at Elizabeth; the man seriously stares a hole through her and the A&E version really plays this up. Plus, I wanted at least one brooder who wasn't a bad boyfriend on this list.

9. Nathaniel (Last of the Mohicans, movie version)

What happens when you take Cooper's fairly weak character, unfortunately named "Natty Bumpo," rename it Nathaniel and cast Daniel Day-Lewis to play him? Hotness my friends. Pure, brooding hotness. This movie isn't nearly as good as I think it is; I know that, and yet I still like it. But Mr. Lewis, long before there was blood brooded like a champ, in the woods, in buckskin. I see nothing wrong with this.

8. Dracula

Yes he's evil. Yes he may or may not be the devil, or the servant of the devil, or just misunderstood. But be that as it may, Dracula fairly defines brooding. The man discovers eternal life he broods so much. And, when his true love happens to be born again what does he do? He goes to find her and broods some more. Serious brooding here people.

7. Heathcliffe (Wuthering Heights)

I hate Heathcliffe. Detest him with the fiery passion of a thousand suns. But he is a brooder. I find his character evil and not at all sympathetic--it doesn't help that I hate Catherine too and they pretty much just destroy each other. Two crazies don't make a right people. However, Emily Bronte's character sort of defined the brooding, windswept, wild man before anyone else knew what to call it. Therefore I acknowledge his place on this list. I still hate him though.

6. Edward (Twilight)

I've only read part of this book, but it was enough to know that Edward was a serious brooder. He's a vampire. And he's been in high school for nigh on, what, one hundred years? That's brood worthy, I'll grant you, but when you combine brooding with high school...high schoolness? I'm out.

5. Lance (Voltron, Red Lion)

Going back and watching this show as an adult I'm struck by how much of Lance's brooding might be attributed to his obviously homosexual nature. I mean, really. When I was little I loved the guy because he was always so angry (why is anger so hot to little girls?) and his passion was exciting. He and the Princess never got together, though, and I'm pretty sure it's because he's gay. Just goes to show brooding doesn't have a sexual orientation.

4. Cowboys (In General)

We all know how I feel about cowboys. And I should say I'm not talking about cowboys as people here, but more specifically how they are portrayed in movies and books. Hell, even in Lonesome Dove the cowboys brood. Maybe it's all that time on the plains. Alone. Probably it's because they've all lost a love somewhere in their past and betrayed by another. It's a hard life being a cowboy. So you go on a brood with your harmonica. There's no judgment here.

3. Jazz Musicians/Poets

This seems to me self-explanatory. Have you ever met a jazz musician or poet? Ever? That's what I thought.

2. Batman

These last two are hard. Batman comes in at number two only because of time; what I mean by that is, Batman only gets to brood for the span of one human lifetime. Now, he does brood more than any other character created most of the time, but eventually his brooding will be thwarted by age. But we know how I feel about Batman and his broody-self.

1. Angel

Angel gets to be number one for the same reason Batman is number two. We're talking centuries of brooding here people, and by all appearances he won't ever stop. Plus, Angel hasn't only failed to save innocents, he's killed some of those innocents. That's pretty intense. It's not that I don't understand his motivations for brooding, you see, it's just that eventually I don't care.

And this is why I'll never make it with a brooder. Oh well.

I have another great horrible day story. It goes a little something like this:

I wake up. That's always one of the worst parts in these stories. I try to get ready quickly but inevitably run behind, and, also inevitably, it's a day where I have a lot to get done before a certain time. Somehow I manage to get dressed and mostly get what I need to get done done--still with me? Now here's the good part. I run to the restroom, late for class and needing to hurry across campus to the building the class is in. I'm wearing a very cute white skirt with what I would say is an attractive red and white tank-top. I'm feeling cute. I'm feeling flirty. I stand up from going to the bathroom and there is the bottom of my white skirt...in the toilet.

Oh yes, I peed on my skirt. But wait, there's more.

I run out of the bathroom, still late for class mind you, and proceed to throw the bottom of the skirt under the faucet in a desperate attempt to rinse whatever may or may not have been soaked into the skirt off. Looking around I see only bath and body works soaps and have no idea what one might use to eliminate a pee stain. Furthermore, I'm standing there with the skirt around my knees as I lift the vast majority of it under the faucet. All I can do is pray as I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, effectively without bottoms on rinsing a pee stain out of my clothing. I begin to repeat over and over again, "Please no one come in, please no one come in." As a mantra, I think it's a pretty good one.

Thankfully the slightly dubious color in my white skirt rinses away quickly and I think I might have made a narrow escape when I suddenly realize, I'm wearing a white skirt. And I just got a significant part of it wet. To make things the best they could possibly be, as I have this thought a stream of water makes like the Mississippi and runs down (or up) the cloth of my skirt leaving a delightful wet trail in its wake. I now have a lot of wet white skirt. And I'm late for class.

So there I am, racing across campus to teach in my wet white skirt that may or may not have been peed on and, incidentally, still have a pee stain on it. For the first time ever I was actually glad I was in a desert because I figured any wetness would evaporate in under five minutes as I walked and maybe I wouldn't be caught teaching in a wet skirt with a tinge of yellow.

I am happy to report that it looks like I didn't actually pee on my skirt, or if I did it all rinsed away. No one in the classroom said anything, but then they're mostly college freshman and their skills of perception are, shall we say, lacking?

Speaking of which, I have another story to share.

Last evening I attended a pub quiz at a fine establishment here in the greater desert region. There are prizes for first and second place and also something for most creative team name. In general it seems that the best sexual innuendo wins, but last night our team went with Old Cancery Patrick Swayze. I really felt like this was a classic since I thought it up. Well, as I turned in one round of answers I heard the man reading the questions talking to the man scoring about team names and as he handed one answer sheet over he said, "she's kinda hot." I realized in that moment that creativity didn't have nearly so much to do with "most creative team name" as a great rack.

The team that won last night wasn't bad, but it's the principle of the situation that bothers me. I've faced a lot of gruff in my life for not looking like Pamela Anderson, but I absolutely must draw the line somewhere. I've decided to draw my line in the sand. I'm making my stand and not even a Persian army is gonna move me. You can ignore me, you can disrespect me, you can even judge me. But nobody gets to claim creativity because the judge wants to screw them. That's just un-American people. Our name it had it all: insensitivity, originality, tactlessness and it had them all without referencing sex. How many people can make such a boast? Do you know how hard it is to be tactless AND original without making a sexual joke? Trust me, that takes some doing.

But I did it gosh darn it. I was the most insensitive I could be while keeping it PG--hey, that sounds like a poem one of my students would write--and I'm not going to accept lack of recognition because the judge was looking to get busy. So screw the war, or your civil rights, or the election. Grab a marker, make a sign, and meet on the corner to protest. We're gonna take on biased pub quiz judges. Oh yeah, that's right.

I wonder if peeing on my skirt was karma for thinking up our team name? Crap!

I’ve had several moments I’ve wanted to write about and share, but unfortunately I’ve found neither the time nor the motivation. They were brilliant moments, though; you have my word on that.

But I recently saw both Kung Fu Panda and The Hulk, so obviously we should have a discussion about both. First off, I enjoyed each immensely—what is a movie if not entertaining? I ask this because I also saw The Strangers recently and while it was excellently done, cinematography, music, acting, everything was superb, but I didn’t enjoy myself. Why make a movie that neither educates, nor entertains? Some tragedies are not entertaining (I’m thinking here of Schindler’s List which I still haven’t seen or the ever controversial The Passion of Christ) but teach you something, either about history or yourself. And some movies are pure entertainment without teaching anything. But a movie that doesn’t entertain and doesn’t educate…what’s the point?

I know there are people that no doubt loved The Strangers, but I wasn’t one of them. I have nothing bad to say about it artistically, my dislike is purely a matter of taste. I find porn boring and I find two hours of mental torture needless. Giving me something flashy, fun, and shiny. Or at least dark with purpose.

The Hulk on the other hand, oh my. It has been percolating in me ever since last night and I’m still not sure how I feel exactly, but I know I like it the more and more I think about it. It was fun; it was heart breaking. It was everything The Hulk was for me as a child. I have an inappropriate attraction to monsters, we all know this, but as I watched this movie last night I realized that The Hulk has probably played as much a role in that part of my psyche as Godzilla, King Kong, and The Beast. For much of my life I have truly adored the story of King Kong—not in some sketchy bestiality way that we all might expect of me, but in the way of someone that is moved by a tale of humankind’s inability to appreciate nature, life. King Kong is the great misunderstood monster, and we all have a little bit of that inside of us, right? I certainly do, and I can relate to those stories of one understanding and accepting the monstrosity.

As I watched The Hulk last night, I finally realized it was much the same. Yes Bruce Banner is a man most of the time, but the monster is always within. And he is in a constant struggle to control that monster lest he hurt those around him. How horrific is that? You won’t hurt yourself, in fact, you are almost guaranteed to survive, but you might kill or seriously injure everyone else around you. Those are some serious consequences to your temper there. And Besty Ross, with her 50’s good looks and her soft voice is almost the epitome of feminine softness in contrast to the monster. We all want to be that girl, at least a little bit, the beauty that tames the beast.

But I had another realization, you see (I’m just full of realizations right now) and while I’m not saying I wouldn’t play Beauty if given the chance, I’m not so sure it’s a sexual thing for me. Allow me to explain, when you’re young and female you grow up with the hope of taming the bad boy (at least I did) and that somehow your vagina would heal is broken heart. Don’t ask me to explain where the idea comes from, but most of us girls get it somehow. This means that when I was younger and I wanted to be Besty Ross it was because I wanted to be the one the monster loved; I wanted to be the “special” girl. That’s an intrinsically selfish desire. I’m not passing judgment on it, but it’s a desire that arises from what I want, hence the selfishness.

As I revisit the concept of The Hulk, and all other “monsters” with it, I realize that I don’t want to be the “special” girl, I just want to be a friend so that Bruce Banner, or whomever it is that is battling the demon/monster inside, isn’t alone. Yeah, I just threw up in my mouth a little bit too. But it’s true. I feel worse about the obscene loneliness of the monster than I do my own. Either I’m growing up, or my desire for unhealthy relationships has just gotten more dangerous.

Some day I’m totally gonna fall for The Phantom of the Opera or The Hulk and he is so totally going to kill me. Just so that you all know that I know that I’m not right.

Let's have a conversation about trashy romance novels. Specifically why is it, in almost all of them, at some point the hero in a fit of rage is so much an ass to the heroine as to be almost unforgivable? When did completely awful treatment of another human being become sexy? This is what I want to know.

It's always the same pattern. She, in desperate need, concocts a story of half-truths to lure him into helping her. He, falling for her, finds out she lied and is furious. Inevitably they have slept together prior to the great reveal and now, arguing furiously, he accuses her of using her "womanly wiles" to seduce/control him. Usually it is implied she is some sort of succubus and, in the really classy books, maybe even a trollop. Boy, nothing says I love you like calling me a whore.

Now, I know that angry sex is supposed to be fantastic and you want sparks to fly between your main characters, but how does a guy come back from calling you a whore? Even if you did lie and were a total fake doesn't that seem a little extreme? Unless you slept with his best friend for money, or even just slept with his best friend, I'm having a hard time conceiving of justification for that sort of slander. And if you slept with his best friend I'm really anti that as a premise for a trashy romance novel; though Lordy knows there is probably a book on the shelves somewhere with that exact plot line. It's so depressing when you buy a romance and get XXX Jerry Springer instead--I can't even express how much I hate it when that happens.

Back to my point. What is the thrill of a hero that is (almost) abusive to the heroine? Is it the bad boy thing? The thrill of the conquer? He's a horrible person, but he just can't fight his love for her? Except he does fight his love, is usually justifiably angry, and ends up verbally smacking her, locking her in a tower, and sometimes border-line raping her. Just what are we teaching each other with romance novels? And why is the guy that may or may not hit you always sexy?

He's usually just this side of slapping her, some delightful bit about "trembling with rage" and "clenched fists at his side" makes an appearance but we forgive him because he never actually raises his hand to her. And his horrible behavior--read verbal abuse, treating her like a slave, locking her in a towers (I always come back to that one)--is so out of character for him. The author always goes to great lengths to describe how shocked he is at his inability to control himself or treat the heroine appropriately, but something about her pushes him over the edge. Oooh, sexy. But I have to ask myself, if my pushing you over the edge results in you calling me a whore/treating me like a slave/abandoning me while pregnant for months to a year, is that really what I'm after in life? I mean, as hot as you're loss of control could conceivably be, wouldn't it be hotter if you didn't constantly berate and belittle me? I'm just throwing that out there as a possibility.

And I'm kind of bummed about this. There has been a decided lack of good romance novels lately; I've been forced to read real literature just to pass the time. The one I'm reading now had all the makings of a mind-numbing piece of pure entertainment but then she lied and he got mad and he treated her much, much worse than any rational human being with an ounce of morality ever would and I thought--this isn't hot. I'll accept my punishment when I'm a crappy person, but this whole melodramatic, guilt-ridden, you've betrayed me with your lies you dirty whore soliloquy is just silly. Even more disturbing is the idea that this depiction isn't far from the truth. Maybe fights like this happen all the time and I'm the freak in society who doesn't take pleasure in making someone else cry. Or, I take pleasure in it very rarely.

I don't know. Now that I'm devoting the dissertation (at least in part) to an examination of what western civilization finds attractive and why I can't even read a good ol' fashioned trashy romance without getting irritated. What's a girl to do when she can't fantasize about a really hot man that loves her so much he hits her when she deserves it? And how am I ever going to find someone to love me when I absolutely insist on saving myself when possible? I mean honestly. There was a time when I accepted the message of the romance novel unequivocally: one should be a strong, independent woman, but when she finds her soul mate he will be able to relieve her of the burden of her independence and that defines happily ever after.

What's the world coming to when I question such an innocuous message as that?

I am attempting to work my way through thoughts that have been percolating for a few days now. I had what I thought was a breakthrough in the shower, but now I'm not so sure. It's the old men and women problem again. Specifically, the whys and wheretofores of feminism and the patriarchy.

My hang up is this: men don't need to rediscover a community of men because everything, being geared as it is towards masculinity and the perpetuation of masculinity, is already geared towards the community of men. There is no large social silencing of men going on. However, men as individuals are under pressure to conform to societal ideals of masculinity the same as women are under pressure to conform to societal ideals of femininity. To some degree, recently, the objectification of men has grown exponentially. This means that why men aren't as abused and silenced as women as a whole, men as individuals still suffer from the objectification and pressures placed on them that many individual women do.

There isn't a "men's studies" department alongside women's studies for good reason--just about everything is men's studies. But men are people too. I'm not saying that to sound patronizing (haha) but because I'm caught between the disconnect of understanding women and minorities and what is/has happening/happened to them and not forgetting the humanity of the straight white male while we're at it. Obviously the answer is not to do away with multi-cultural studies any more than it is to place an obscene amount of guilt on young straight, white, males, but how do we account for the individual pressures withstood, even as we acknowledge a larger lack of societal pressures or bigotry?

At the risk of sounding existentialist I want to say something hippish like "we all just need to know ourselves" but that doesn't do anyone any good. Men are denied their emotions, pressured to change their bodies, and marked by their gender for particular activities. Forgetting for a minute how much these things happen to women I'm more concerned with how much the damage that is done to men is forgotten in an effort to discuss women. Of course, the solution might very well be found in women's studies--in the best classes I've taken it isn't about a male versus female situation but looking at how the patriarchy affects all genders indiscriminately. Which leads me to another thought.

Is this evaluation of women to the exclusion of men a reality or the spin placed on women's studies to devalue it and make it appear like feminists exist in an either/or reality? There can be little argument that feminist is a dirty word; in my classes many of my freshman girls, sweet church-going freshman girls, would rather be called sluts than feminists. What does that tell us? I wonder if real women's studies, the kind I have been exposed to honestly, doesn't look more at both genders and the effects of society on both genders more honestly and realistically than any portrayal outside the classroom offers. We only see on tv and in movies the angry man-hating dyke feminists. Chasing Amy presents a really fantastic representation of that.

So maybe this discomfort I'm dealing with isn't about the silencing of men in order to empower women at all, but some unvocalized awareness of further silencing of women and men, through the accusation that men are being silenced. After all, in order to really look at men the way women's studies have begun to look at women we would need new theory and new language. That theory and language isn't going to come from the traditional classes, but may very well be available in feminist theory.

Is it possible then that men are continuously silencing themselves in order to attack feminists? Isn't there an old cliché somewhere about cutting off your own arm to spite your enemy or something? It wouldn't surprise me at all if that were what was going on because society, patriarchal as it is, doesn't look at its members as individuals and so causing men to suffer would be as inconsequential as the suffering of anyone else. Perpetuating in-fighting between the members would, however, ensure that our demands for individual recognition continue to go unheard.

Obviously this isn't something that's going to be figured out in a few thousand words written by an armchair philosopher, but it's interesting and, I think, worth considering. How often do we suffer what we think we suffer, and how often is our suffering created specifically to manipulate us into ignoring what is actually causing the pain?

Benadryl is legalized crack. Is everyone aware of this? I took two capsules the other day and spent the afternoon in a haze previously felt only while engaging in activities that will not be admitted to. I took one tonight and am still alternately giggling and yawning. I have to sign my life away for a bottle of Robitussin but I can buy all the Benadryl I want. I honestly feel this is further proof of our government's hard fought success with the war on drugs. Well done Washington, well done.

Now, obviously I'm not going to discuss Atlas Shrugged while living in my Benadryl high even though it is done, but I did want to take a minute to ask an important question: when did I become that old spinster that sits in her parents' house and watches t.v. with them? I mean, I know the answer is tonight, but what I'm trying to ask is actually how did this happen. Two weeks ago I was living in Las Vegas, living the really unexciting life of homework and grading, but on occasion I did things like drink beer and go to male strip shows. How I'm in the middle of a corn field somewhere watching hours of t.v. on dvd with my parents getting high on Benadryl. Someone explain to me where all the cool in my life has gone.

Now, my parents are very cool people, I love them a lot, but they're a little bit like Abbot and Costello. Take, for example, a conversation they had my first night home:

Scene: Mom and Dad sit in the living room watching an old musical from the 50's. The actress dances across the screen and Dad wonders about her identity. They television is loud enough to make conversation difficult and Mom and Dad are seated just far enough apart that they can't hear each other clearly.

Dad: Is she in Showboat?
Mom: She was in Showboat.
Dad: I don't know if she was in Showboat.
Mom: She was in Showboat.
Dad (a little harshly) : I don't know if she was in Showboat.
Mom (patiently, but louder): She was in Showboat.
Dad (obviously irritated): I don't know if she was in Showboat!:
Mom (screaming back now): She was in Showboat!
(offstage in the other room I am heard laughing loudly)

This is what I come home to people.

I wouldn't have it any other way, of course. The sort of entertainment my parents provide would sell an arena full of tickets in Vegas, but tonight as we finished up our fourth or fifth episode of The Closer I looked at the time, just past midnight, and thought to myself "Self, you used to be cool."

And that notion has me wondering. Am I no longer cool because I don't go out and play broken, addicted child movie star every night or am I no longer cool because I don't want to go out and play? Even when I try and find my inner trollop she only lasts about an hour before she has to dive back inside and recuperate. Am I just getting old or is it perfectly acceptable to slip away into spinsterdom as long as you are happy doing it and still go see Thunder Down Under on occasion? These are important things to figure out because I need to know if I can live with myself before I commit to being myself.

Oh, yes, I left out one important detail. In between episodes of The Closer we took a break to pop popcorn, take Benadryl, and (wait for it) Prilosec. Not only do I wile away my evening watching tv on dvd with my parents, but we take heartburn medication together too. That's right, you didn't think this story could get better until you got to that part did you.

This is why I don't fear the Children of the Corn. I've lived here all my life (until recently). The worst thing they can do to me is throw a deer in front of my car and consign me to a life of heartburn and hanging out with my parents. Of course, were I forced to spend the rest of my life with my parents I would also have to play dvd goalie with my dad every night. He has a list of five to ten dvd's, you understand, that he cycles through. Despite his collection that extends across multiple shelves he only wants to watch the same five to ten dvds every night. And the worst part is, if you turn your back, even for a second, even to save a baby from the middle of the intersection, he will slip one in. And once the dvd is playing it's too late; there is no changing the movie once it's playing. Should the cornfields seize my soul I'm not sure I could exist playing dvd goalie for eternity.

Obviously I need to sleep off this Benadryl and see about securing my passage back to the desert. It is kind of fun watching them with each other. Hollywood might paint true love with an orchestral score and sweeping landscape cinematography, but I'm going with something closer to Abbot and Costello for sure.

Let's have a conversation about words. Words can have enormous or negligible effect depending on the speaker and the listener. Ignoring the instances when they have no effect, how do you deal with the situations where they have enormous effect? Imagine this: you're sitting in a car with a boy and you two discuss a wedding where you were a bridesmaid and hung out with him most of the night. Then he says "girl A was beautiful at the wedding. Oh, were you there?" Now, you know full well this wasn't said with the intention of being mean and you also know, realistically, that your presence hasn't been completely forgettable. But the words have been said and they indicate a lack of awareness of you that you hadn't conceived possible up to that point. My question, having to do specifically with thoughtless words, is how do we move past them?

People make throw away comments every day to family and friends that stick with us our entire lives. Sometimes we say things with absolutely no awareness of their power or intention to harm, but they do nonetheless. How does one, as a friend, forgive another friend? Often we just brush it off and while we never forget it was said, we move past it. But can you forgive someone for a thoughtless comment or is the only closure found in verbalizing how it hurt you and hashing it out?

This particular trip home for me has sort of been the motherload of thoughtless comments and this is on my mind, but because of the prevalence I've found myself thinking back to all the times I can remember other thoughtless comments or fights with friends over comments I made that hurt them. And I've never put any thought into the reality of TC's (thoughtless comments) existence beyond doing my best not to make them (since I am at a higher likelihood than most of letting one slip out). But language is what I hope to make my living studying and I hope to write some day, or at least better understand, the ways we create our individual perceptions of reality through language (though I won't write exactly on that because Derrida already did it and I'm so not Derrida). So today, the part of language I am choosing to examine is the TC--thoughtless comment.

The most obvious response to a TC is to verbalize that it hurt you. No doubt in a workplace seminar or couple's counseling this is exactly what they would tell you to do; however, on occasion you have a friend (and don't pretend you don't because we all have at least one) who makes a TC, but if you point out that it hurt they will become so guilt-ridden over hurting you that you will end up comforting them in the end. So you, having received the TC are now in the position of not only having to deal with the TC, but also not letting your friend know you were affected by the TC and are even then, while the conversation progresses, in the process of forgiving them. I would hazard this is a common occurrence.

What I want to know is how do you let that go? Depending on the type and severity of TC you can find yourself questioning any number of things: your appearance, your intelligence, your value as a human being, or even if your presence has been noticed for the past three to five years. These are all fairly happiness-threatening issues that have to be dealt with or they come back up two years later over a pitcher of beer in some dive bar. Not to mention, when that happens (discussing these things over alcohol) and everyone is so very sad it was ever said somewhere in the back of your brain, swimming in the alcohol is the question are they sorry they implied something they didn't mean, or are they sorry I found out about it?

This is the insidiousness of the TC you understand. It gets inside your brain and festers there. Then you, trying valiantly and failing to deal with the TC in some quiet, unnoticed way begin to focus on it and the inability to talk about it only makes it absorb that much more of your concentration. Eventually you do become incredibly uninteresting and a bit of whiner and everyone stops listening to you. Looking in the mirror one day and realizing you've begun to sicken even yourself you suppress the TC like a champ where it lies in wait for the fortifications of your will to weaken with beer and cheap shots. This is the whole sick and pathetic cycle of the TC.

So how do you skip all of that? How do you skip on by to the part where you don't even care? Is it possible? I haven't discovered a process yet, hence my analysis of the evil mind parasite that is the TC. G.I. Joe says knowing is the half the battle, but in this case I'm going to have to say that knowing isn't more than a third, maybe even a fourth. Recognizing the presence of a TC in your brain doesn't do you much good, in fact, it might make you even more crazy because you know it was only a TC and that you should be able to get over it.

I suppose one solution would be to get better friends, but even if that were feasible a) we can't change our family and this happens most often with them (especially mothers) and b) I wouldn't have any friends because I constantly made the TC in my youth.

I've got nothing. One year down towards a PhD and I still can't answer questions like this. Higher education is obviously of no aid in helping you figure out how not to feel like a crazy person. I bet if I wrote a self-help book on dealing with the TC I could make a lot of money though. At least then my crazy would be a rich crazy and I could be promoted to "eccentric." This is a good plan. I'm going to go with it. Let me know what you come up with so I can steal it for the book.

I have been beat with a rollercoaster--repeatedly. I spent the weekend at Cedar Point amusement park and it was a fun-filled adventure, but I feel as if a train (a small train I'll grant you) has spent the last two days running back and forth over my body, just to make sure I'm dead. I have recaptured my love of rollercoasters, however.

Therefore, in honor of such a jarring, heart-stopping weekend I offer you this newest list. It's not exactly a top ten list, but it is a listing of the top ten times this weekend I thought I might die.

The Top Ten Most Intense Moments of Fear at Cedar Point:

10. Power Lunge Stairs

It was a water-slide that was more vertical than slide. I climbed a lot of wooden, shaky stairs to get to the top and while the ride itself wasn't so bad, standing on the stairs in cold weather, wet, watching the wood shake under my feet was terrifying. Things did not help when my friend pointed out that the bolts appeared sub-standard, but were actually okay. What I don't want to hear as I'm suspended hundreds of feet in the air is that the construction even appears suspect for a moment. After those stairs, how could any ride be scary?

9. Maverick

It was the first ride of the day and my first rollercoaster in years. It also has an inverted drop. Things I need to know before I ride. As we climbed up the rail I saw the first drop off and I thought where is the track? How was I to know it curled back underneath itself? How was I to know it would hold? I plunged upside down and backwards and lost my courage somewhere along the first five feet of track.

8. Snake in the Water

We stood atop the Preying Mantis waiting to board when one of the guys gleefully pointed out the water snake in the water below us. Do I have to elaborate why this is unacceptable? Now I had to worry that if the rollercoaster broke and I plunged straight down at sixty miles an hour if I did survive the fall I would also have to survive the snake. I can't plan ahead for that.

7. Raptor

The seat locked down; the man checked it. I dangled in the air climbing the track to the first plunge with my fear that the seat hadn't locked down and the concurrent fear that if I pushed to hard to check I might unlock my harness and so doom myself on accident. Granted, if my pushing on it unlocked it I was screwed anyway, but in my fear befuddled mind I couldn't think that far in advance. That's why they call such fear irrational.

6. Magnum

It didn't occur to me that climbing a very long hill, very slowly without anything on the side (no catwalk) would make the ride more frightening. Oddly enough, even though you know you are in a car on a track when you can't see said track your mind plays a horrible trick on you. It's a trick that requires all your concentration to fight lest you wet your pants.

5. Mean Streak

It's kinda mean, but very wooden. What worried me was that with as much as we shook there was no way to tell if the coaster was supposed to shake that much, or if the wood was giving out from underneath us. And, as we zoomed around and around there were wooden overhangs that looked like they were waiting to decapitate you. You know what's really mean? Wooden rollercoasters that do anything more than go up and down.

4. Demon Drop

All it does is go up and drop you. That's it. Seemed fun. Easy. Non-threatening. People in front of us were screaming as they were raised up and I mocked them. What's to scream about when you're only going up? Then we got in. The cage was grabbed by the ride and yanked upward at an alarming rate. Surprised I stifled my scream, but we kept going up, higher and higher. About that I time I realized we were going to drop most of the way back down free fall. With very little self control I started saying over and over again, "Bad idea. This was a bad idea. Bad, bad idea." It was fun, but that doesn't mean I was wrong.

3. Water Raft Slide

This ride marks the only moment actual death seemed eminent. The four of us rode one tube down the water slide and we got a lot of height on the turns. A lot of height. So much height, in fact, that it seemed as if one of our members was going to be launched either over the edge of the slide or across the tube onto another one of us. By the end of the slide we were all shaking, and one person was in the fetal position on the bottom of the tube. Truly memorable.

2. Vomit-tron

It was nicknamed the vomit-tron by those who came before me. It is an apt nickname and for awhile it was really, really fun. We swung up; we swung back. No big deal. Then we went higher than just parallel to the ground. It felt like we were going to go upside down but I knew the ride wasn't made to go upside down. All the while we were spinning to the side so your eyes told your body you were flying towards the steel supports. My senses were enraged; my heart was thudding. All signs pointed to death.

1. Seagull

How can a seagull be the most fear-inducing you ask? Simple: it dropped a five-mile stretch of seagull poop right in front of us as we were walking. There is no warning; no missile-lock to let you know you're in trouble. No sound to alert you to the danger that flies towards your head. Instead you simply see your life flash before your eyes as pounds of white bird poo fall from the sky, barely missing you to land on the pavement.

Tell me that doesn't scare you.

I'm really tired of not being understood, so I'm going to use this post as my personal sounding board. It's unexpected I'm sure--I rarely speak my personal beliefs here. There is even a chance this won't get posted, but it's 1:30 in the morning and that's just the time for things like this to be make it onto the internet.

I appear to communicate in a violent, irritating fashion. I state my opinions forcefully and it seems that I am constantly misunderstood because of that. When I'm lucky, someone asks me politely for clarification and ascertains that I didn't actually mean what I said; when I'm unlucky someone attacks back working from what they thought I said, regardless of what words I actually used.

This is a ongoing situation in my life. When I was an undergraduate a professor awarded me an A because she "knew I had potential" not for the work I completed in her class. In a very long, very personal letter she informed me that I did not deserve the A but was being gifted it. When I was a masters student a professor sent me a very long, very personal email where I was accused of not caring about my career as a graduate student and was wasting everyone's time. He went ahead and finished my letters of recommendation, but wished I would just go away and not return until I was serious. Now, as a doctoral student I've been accused of plagiarism and awarded an A in the class even though my work was apparently sub par for most of the semester.

When I've attempted to broach the subject with almost anyone, they look at me as if I'm either overreacting or kidding. The reason I'm sharing this is because I've found it incredibly frustrating to be unable to communicate. Furthermore, the silencing I've experienced at almost every turn has been almost as frustrating as the experiences themselves.

Where am I going with this? I've never been a particularly serious student, and I've never been incapable of completing that which I attempt. What's more, I think most people conceive of me as generally unaware of my surroundings and tactless in my interactions. It then becomes that when I attempt to discuss any frustrations it is assumed that it isn't that big of a deal, or it was avoidable because it was instigated/caused by me in the first place. Oddly enough I've noticed two very gender specific reactions--women tend to brush me off and casually change the subject; men tend to engage me and then talk over me insisting that I said what they think I said and refusing to listen to me as I offer clarification. Both reactions have tripped my temper and it wasn't until this moment that I figured out why I'm writing all of this down.

Nobody likes it when someone else is unhappy. In fact, we would prefer that those who are generally happy stay happy all the time. When they aren't it unnerves us, makes us uncomfortable and we silently wish they would shut up (at worse) or crack a joke and try to cheer them up so things can return to normal (at best). But rarely do we just let them talk. I've experienced this in my own friendships and this semester with other students and even with my awareness of my discomfort it wasn't until this exact moment that I realized this is what I've been doing to people and what is being done to me. I'm not talking in absolutes here; not everyone does this to everyone all the time, but it happens enough.

I'm not trying to write an accusatory, whining diatribe here, but am attempting to speak, to make noise, about how much silencing occurs every day. I didn't realize until this moment how often we silence each other because we just don't want to be bothered with honesty. We don't want to be bothered with the burden of understanding. I'm as guilty as most, certainly more than some; like most everything in my life, though, I didn't become aware of it until it happened to me.

My point then is not that I am frustrated that I am a bad communicator, but that I am frustrated because so many times I am not allowed to communicate. Meaning is half made (at least) by the listener, but I think when a listener refuses to allow the other half to be made by the speaker, they are silencing--once that happens, once you tell someone what they've said instead of allowing them to explain it you've removed their voice. You've silenced them.

So this is me, speaking out. I can recognize my aggressive and threatening tendencies, especially when I'm riled. My question, then, is can anyone name them for me, or am I just supposed to accept my silencing and play the game? Be what is expected of me without challenging those expectations? Because that is really, really, not going to happen.

-1We have a winner. Here I thought there weren't any exciting news stories to get me going today. Who am I kidding? This article is titled "If Not Now, When Can a Woman Be President? Women face letdown of seeing Clinton's shot at presidency fall short" and it is found at http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/24685257

I have several problems with this article; the first, and most prominent, is one I've been asked about and have explained several times already to friends and family. Why is it expected that because a minority happens to share status with a public official, all are supposed to vote for that candidate? All black people are expected to vote for Barak and all women for Hillary. Furthermore, as Hillary's chances (finally) wane, this article presents it in a light of women lose again--if Hillary can't win what woman possibly could? Will a woman ever be president?

My problem here is that the article appears to be operating in a vacuum. Hillary Clinton isn't losing to John McCain, she's losing to Barak Obama. That is a huge difference. Furthermore, Hillary Clinton is a phenomenally aggressive and talented woman, but she is not women's only chance. If Hillary doesn't get elected that does not signal the end of all women everywhere in the U.S. of ever successfully running for President.

Every time a woman comes along she is singled out as a "special woman;" some sort of messiah for the women of the world. Isn't it more a sign of equality if Hillary gets elected, not because she is or isn't a woman, but because the majority of the people in this country think she is the best person for the job? Isn't it more a sign of equality when we stop asking ourselves if a "man" or a "woman" would be better as President and instead say, what sort of person do I want to run my country?

This campaign has been a particularly emotional one for me. The same as most everyone else I would guess, but because I'm an outspoken feminist (and I hang around with feminists) a lot of people have wanted to talk to me about Hillary Clinton. I am an unabashed Barak Obama supporter, but I've found that I've had to qualify myself. Not because anyone was interested in why I've chosen to support him, but because as a woman, and a feminist, I am expected to vote for Hillary Clinton.

It is, to some degree, a case of reverse stereotyping. What's more, I think the unexamined allowance of Hillary Clinton to be presented as women's "only" chance is as damaging as never having a woman seriously run for president. Hillary Clinton has accomplished some amazing things (good and bad) and while I'm sure she has overcome any number of difficulties, so long as women accept her as our only possibility we are still letting those who dislike women set the rules of the game. This whole time I've been thinking about Virgina Woolf's A Room of One's Own and the section where she discusses the special woman, the token woman, the one exception to the rule of women. For all the parts of that book I both agree and disagree with, that one rang very true with me. If every time achievement is had we look on it as an exception instead of expected, what are we saying? Wow, there's a [fill in the blank] who can actually do something. I wouldn't mind voting for [whomever] because s/he's not like all the others. If [name] can't do it, who can?

I don't know all the places I'm going with this other than a general outcry to the expectations the media seems to be placing on Barak Obama and Hillary Clinton. You are expected to vote for the candidate that looks like you, but if John McCain said anything remotely like that we would label him a racist.

My good friend and I were discussing feminism the other day and she said something I found incredibly poignant and true on so many levels; she said that it seemed we had more physical liberty than mental liberty. We aren't prepared for the equality that laws are giving us (hopefully I'm not butchering this in the retelling). I found that very true of women in particular, but as I think about our presidential nominees I think it might be true on a grand scale as well. We have the freedom and the choice to vote for any number of people now-a-days, but we aren't prepared to. We still want either a) the guy that looks like all the other guys before him or b) the guy/gal that looks like us. It still isn't about having knowledge of their beliefs or whether you think they'll do a good job.

At least we have the choice--that's something any way.

I planned to write a brilliant piece on Atlas Shrugged. I am currently ten pages in to the sixty page speech. You know, the big one? A is A and all that? I should finish it before I talk about it, but I thought this was an excellent sounding ground for my thoughts on objectivism. However, as I began to type it up and put all my (not so) brilliant thoughts into writing I realized that I haven't actually slept in thirty-six hours or some such silliness, and, finally, it is starting to catch up with me. I hate not to write, though, because I'm back in Illinois and there's nothing better to do.

Well, I guess I could sleep but whatever.

So many things to talk about, but this semester has seriously sucked my soul. It has been like a sixteen week bootcamp but instead of push ups we read Derrida. I've done push ups, and I've run sprints. I've even had to run a mile on occasion. I'm not going to say that Derrida is worse, but I will say it makes you hurt about as much.

But nobody reads this to hear about my day! You come here for life altering prose! Words of wisdom! Insights no one else will give you!

Yeah, I don't actually buy it either. And if that is actually why you come here, well, I'm sorry because tonight I'm just going to talk about hot Australian men that take their clothes off. That's right. They are the Thunder from Down Under. I finally say my first male strip show.

Before you begin to label me a hypocrite allow me to clarify a few things: there is no tipping at this show, it is no more (or less) than a burlesque. That means once you buy the ticket (in this case it was free) you are simply watching a show—yes it is a show that includes men who are attractive selling their sexiness, but there is no shoving money in wastebands or full nudity. There are g-strings, but I can't get on my high horse about that. I should also clarify that my problems with the female equivalents of these establishments has very little to do with women choosing to sell their body (though, in general, I think it is a negative thing they are brought to that since few really want to make the choice) and everything to do with the sexual objectification. That being said were the men I watched last night objectified? Absolutely. Probably even by me at different points, though, I had a really hard time falling into the fantasy exactly. But my point here is that I think there is a difference between selling sex as a concept and your body. Last night was selling sex as a concept—that's something we do all over the place. The places I take issue with are selling bodies...it's a fine line and no one need agree with me, but that's the difference. I won't go see Chippendales, at least I have no plans to. Take that for what it's worth.

Okay, that took a lot out of me and I really just wanted to remark on the surprising dance skills at this particular show. They were all good looking, but not exceptionally so. However, while their dancing in unison was often cheesy, the individual performances were at times truly impressive. And that's when they became really hot. And then I had the realization—here I am, at a male strip show, and I'm only see the dancers as attractive when they show genuine talent dancing; I am such a bad objectifier. I apologize to you all. I love 300 because they're brave. I love Thunder Down Under because some of them can actually dance. It's a sad state of affairs when I insist on seeing people as people, even in Vegas a strip show. I am, actually, ashamed of myself.

There was one other thing they did at this show, however, that I found incredibly sweet. At different parts of the show a lady is brought on stage for a pseudo-lap dance, but really all you do is sit there while they do interpretive dance moves around you (I'm so not joking). During one audience contest thing they pulled up a cute bachelorette, a beautifully large black woman, and a punk rocker chick. The black lady won and it was cool to see they didn't only pull up twiggy, blond girls. Later on in the show they pulled up a lady that was at least in her sixties, possibly in her seventies—she was a bachelorette too. It was one of the funniest, and coolest, things I have ever seen. But seeing them interact equally with all different types of women, not for tips but just because that was the show, made it a more enjoyable experience—hence the selling of sex as a concept. They were, for the hour those men danced around on stage, selling a fantasy. A twisted Flashdance fantasy I'll grant you, but something different from the norm.

Look at me—who theorizes on Thunder from Down Under? I apologize immediately to you all. There are only three important things to take away from this tale:
1)They were hot
2)They danced good
3)They wore itty-bitty teeny-weeny little leather panties.

Does anything else about this story matter? No. It really doesn't.

p.s. I started with the intention of writing about Atlas Shrugged and wrote about male dancers instead—my vegetative summer is off to a fantastic start.