"Mad World" --Gary Jules
"The Promise" --Michael Nyman
"Rest" --Skillet
"Why" --Annie Lennox
"Days Are Numbers (The Traveller)" --Alan Parsons Project
"Eileen's Song" --Burlap to Cashmere
"Green Gloves" --The National
"Run" --Collective Soul
"Fire Walk With Me (Theme from Twin Peaks)" --Angelo Badalamenti
"The Blower's Daughter" --Damien Rice
"Here With Me" --Dido
"Theme From The Mission" --Ennio Morricone
"The Geese of Beverly Road" --The National
"Mercy Street" --Peter Gabriel
"Standing Outside A Telephone Booth With Money In My Hand" --Primitive Radio Gods
"The Path of Thorns (Terms)" --Sarah McLachlan
"Take My Hand" --Dido
If you would like a CD copy of this mix, send your address to Alicia's email.
Saturday, May 31, 2008
Music is my favorite waitress.
These days, I've been listening to a lot of music. Most of it is completely new to me, or feels new even when it's stuff I'm rediscovering. I referred to this before, the fact that I went two years or so without really listening to any music.
That's not strictly true, as it's not strictly true when I say I'm anorexic. I was listening to music this time last year. For the most part, I listened to audiobooks, but Nelly Furtado was my companion walking to work for awhile (and riding the bus home). Some of you remember The Pet Shop Boys and Alan Parsons Project "best of" collections from the autumn previous.
I even listened to some music this fall. I started out with whatever was on the basic all-the-rage-with-teens radio stations (so "Low" by Flo-rida and T-pain, occasionally interrupted by One Republic's "Apologize"). I graduated, eventually, to the station I felt had betrayed me -- 104.1 FM, which had once played alternative rock but now seemed to play a mishmash of songs I wasn't familiar with -- and learned what the leading commercial edge of indie/alt rock was like these days.
I got tapes and listened to some of them in the car.
I started bringing my little Walkman CD player to the paper when I went, and slowly -- uncertainly -- I started buying new CDs.
I had joined BMG twice during my time in D.C., so it's not like I hadn't bought new music in my life. I based my choices on the theory that if one song is good, the others have at least a fifty-fifty shot. But none of them made me feel like a smarter or substantially happier person.
I listened to The White Stripes (Icky Thump); I listened to Peter Gabriel (So, then Car, then Melt); I listened to Radiohead (OK Computer) and Interpol (Our Love To Admire, then Antics, then Turn On The Bright Lights) and I listened to The National (Boxer, then Alligator).
I felt smarter. I felt substantially happier.
The music is only one thing, one aspect of my ever-evolving life that's changed significantly, but it's changed, significantly. I feel like I'm learning music. I don't know which CD it was that broke through to this cavernous space in my music-loving-capacity, but there it is. Waiting to be filled.
I'm wading through what I've put in there so far, but if you've got any other recommendations, I'll happily add them to the playlist.
That's not strictly true, as it's not strictly true when I say I'm anorexic. I was listening to music this time last year. For the most part, I listened to audiobooks, but Nelly Furtado was my companion walking to work for awhile (and riding the bus home). Some of you remember The Pet Shop Boys and Alan Parsons Project "best of" collections from the autumn previous.
I even listened to some music this fall. I started out with whatever was on the basic all-the-rage-with-teens radio stations (so "Low" by Flo-rida and T-pain, occasionally interrupted by One Republic's "Apologize"). I graduated, eventually, to the station I felt had betrayed me -- 104.1 FM, which had once played alternative rock but now seemed to play a mishmash of songs I wasn't familiar with -- and learned what the leading commercial edge of indie/alt rock was like these days.
I got tapes and listened to some of them in the car.
I started bringing my little Walkman CD player to the paper when I went, and slowly -- uncertainly -- I started buying new CDs.
I had joined BMG twice during my time in D.C., so it's not like I hadn't bought new music in my life. I based my choices on the theory that if one song is good, the others have at least a fifty-fifty shot. But none of them made me feel like a smarter or substantially happier person.
I listened to The White Stripes (Icky Thump); I listened to Peter Gabriel (So, then Car, then Melt); I listened to Radiohead (OK Computer) and Interpol (Our Love To Admire, then Antics, then Turn On The Bright Lights) and I listened to The National (Boxer, then Alligator).
I felt smarter. I felt substantially happier.
The music is only one thing, one aspect of my ever-evolving life that's changed significantly, but it's changed, significantly. I feel like I'm learning music. I don't know which CD it was that broke through to this cavernous space in my music-loving-capacity, but there it is. Waiting to be filled.
I'm wading through what I've put in there so far, but if you've got any other recommendations, I'll happily add them to the playlist.
Challenge: Worst. Blog Post. Ever.
Since only two of you have taken me up on the carte blanche questions -- so far -- here's a new challenge:
Submit your ideas for the worst blog post ever. I will write a post on the theme of the winner and post it, if at all possible, June 14.
Do your worst, readers.
Submit your ideas for the worst blog post ever. I will write a post on the theme of the winner and post it, if at all possible, June 14.
Do your worst, readers.
Friday, May 30, 2008
OK, Computer!
William J. II has arrived, and good (over)lord, is he big! I wasn't expecting next-gen to be back to Barracuda size (or should I say Hummer). Talk about muscle. William the second could take my Sony Vaio in a staring match -- it would never get to computing, or a laser shoot-out, or whatever the computer equivalent of a fistfight would be. (Poor Sonya.)
Anyway, if William J. Vader, II (whose name, after all, implies a certain proclivity for the dark side -- and he is mainly black, with a silvery bit surrounding the keyboard) betrays me in the revolution-to-come, I'll have Sonya as a handy, sniveling and slightly balky sidekick.
Every hero(ine) needs a sidekick.
In the meantime, I'm going to try William out.
Anyway, if William J. Vader, II (whose name, after all, implies a certain proclivity for the dark side -- and he is mainly black, with a silvery bit surrounding the keyboard) betrays me in the revolution-to-come, I'll have Sonya as a handy, sniveling and slightly balky sidekick.
Every hero(ine) needs a sidekick.
In the meantime, I'm going to try William out.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
PLO Peep Show!
See the Peep dioramas created over the weekend by members of the Peep Liberation Organization (PLO), which celebrated its sixth anniversary this year.
Mine is the "Lord of the Peeps" (a la Lord of the Flies). Note the Peep-pig roasting on the fire in the corner. (Several Peeps were harmed in the making of this diorama, including the one whose tail was sacrificed in the forming of the pig.)
Thanks for posting those Peep pics.
Mine is the "Lord of the Peeps" (a la Lord of the Flies). Note the Peep-pig roasting on the fire in the corner. (Several Peeps were harmed in the making of this diorama, including the one whose tail was sacrificed in the forming of the pig.)
Thanks for posting those Peep pics.
Movie Review: Fievel Goes West
The best sequel ever, "Fievel Goes West" follows the sappier and Somewhere-Out-There'd "An American Tail" and includes a list of star voices unimaginable in a Disney movie. (According to IMDB, John Cleese turned down the part of Cogsworth in "Beauty and the Beast" to be Cat R. Waul in FGW.)
It was produced by Steven Spielberg (like the first Fievel movie), and features the voices of John Cleese, Dom DeLuise and Jimmy Stewart -- in fact, it's Stewart's last performance. Ever.
James Horner did the music.
And it's hilarious.
If you don't like the contrivance of the Mousekewitz family heading further west thanks to the grunginess and lack of opportunity in NYC (a contrivance that appeals to me a great deal), dancing buffalo bones in the desert (funniest moment in the whole movie), the rousing chorus to "The Girl You Left Behind," or the fake-romantic moment when Cat R. Waul uses his hand to fake-dance with Tanya, or the idea of a cat learning to act like a dog, or the "laaaaaaaazzzyyy eeeyyyyyyye" or the "flying aaahghgh" ("Ooh, I love the flying aaahghgh"), you'll probably still find something to laugh at in this movie.
But if you don't love any of those things, I don't see how we can still be friends.
There are frustrating points in FGW. Sherriff Wylie Burp (Jimmy Stewart) is slow-talking and slow, at first, to agree to train Tiger the cat (Dom DeLuise) to stand up to the other cats -- who are waiting to eat the mice they've lured to the West. Since we know he'll eventually give in and train Tiger, these scenes feel like playing hard-to-get more than like a real tension.
There's a Freudian preoccupation with breasts (and smothering), as in "The Last Unicorn" or the original "Neverending Story." The excessively-endowed woman doesn't even have a face in FGW; she is only a giant pair of breasts and an annoying, whiny voice saying "Ooh, kitty! Kitty-poo!" (See how annoying it is even to read?)
Too much time is spent on the Tiger-is-believed-to-be-a-god portion of the story -- but this is forgivable, since it ends with one of the best scenes in the movie as a transition: a version of "Rawhide" over a traveling montage that includes sets of animals singing directly into the "camera."
If you're a long-time friend, short-time reader, you probably suspected I'd write about this movie eventually. You probably suspected this because I've been forcing friends to watch it for at least seven years, now -- and if you still own a VCR, I've probably tried to gift you a copy.
But there's not much more that can be said in a review of a cartoon movie that does what it's supposed to do -- makes you laugh more than think -- so I'll just make the plug official here:
See this movie. See it with friends. See it with popcorn. See it expecting to laugh. See it now.
Amen.
It was produced by Steven Spielberg (like the first Fievel movie), and features the voices of John Cleese, Dom DeLuise and Jimmy Stewart -- in fact, it's Stewart's last performance. Ever.
James Horner did the music.
And it's hilarious.
If you don't like the contrivance of the Mousekewitz family heading further west thanks to the grunginess and lack of opportunity in NYC (a contrivance that appeals to me a great deal), dancing buffalo bones in the desert (funniest moment in the whole movie), the rousing chorus to "The Girl You Left Behind," or the fake-romantic moment when Cat R. Waul uses his hand to fake-dance with Tanya, or the idea of a cat learning to act like a dog, or the "laaaaaaaazzzyyy eeeyyyyyyye" or the "flying aaahghgh" ("Ooh, I love the flying aaahghgh"), you'll probably still find something to laugh at in this movie.
But if you don't love any of those things, I don't see how we can still be friends.
There are frustrating points in FGW. Sherriff Wylie Burp (Jimmy Stewart) is slow-talking and slow, at first, to agree to train Tiger the cat (Dom DeLuise) to stand up to the other cats -- who are waiting to eat the mice they've lured to the West. Since we know he'll eventually give in and train Tiger, these scenes feel like playing hard-to-get more than like a real tension.
There's a Freudian preoccupation with breasts (and smothering), as in "The Last Unicorn" or the original "Neverending Story." The excessively-endowed woman doesn't even have a face in FGW; she is only a giant pair of breasts and an annoying, whiny voice saying "Ooh, kitty! Kitty-poo!" (See how annoying it is even to read?)
Too much time is spent on the Tiger-is-believed-to-be-a-god portion of the story -- but this is forgivable, since it ends with one of the best scenes in the movie as a transition: a version of "Rawhide" over a traveling montage that includes sets of animals singing directly into the "camera."
If you're a long-time friend, short-time reader, you probably suspected I'd write about this movie eventually. You probably suspected this because I've been forcing friends to watch it for at least seven years, now -- and if you still own a VCR, I've probably tried to gift you a copy.
But there's not much more that can be said in a review of a cartoon movie that does what it's supposed to do -- makes you laugh more than think -- so I'll just make the plug official here:
See this movie. See it with friends. See it with popcorn. See it expecting to laugh. See it now.
Amen.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Local Trivia: Local City like E.T. game
Tonight we join our intrepid (Democrat) heroes as they battle the forces of (Republican) darkness in their usual place and time, a Common Council meeting in their chambers.
Local City is, for the first time in 20 years, posting a budget deficit -- and no small potatoes at $3 million, possibly $6 million when all is actually accounted for.
Like the title character of Atari's hilariously disastrous E.T. game, Local City can't get out of the hole this year no matter how hard it tries. The deficit was created when Connecticut didn't allocate $3 million in education funds at the beginning of the fiscal year. As one alderman pointed out, cape flaring indignantly behind him, we knew last July that this would happen.
But it's possible that the hole is twice as deep as the mustache-twirling Republicans will admit. The $3 million projected deficit is contingent on the sale of a property that doesn't seem to have a buyer yet -- or if it does, no one's admitting it.
That property is budgeted as a $3 million credit for the current fiscal year...and a $4 million credit for the next fiscal year.
The council apparently discussed this two weeks ago, when the trustworthy sidekick was...well, kicked aside, by a rebuke by the evil mastermind alderman (E.M.A.), who told him to "go to hell."
Or so we all thought, until tonight, when E.M.A. corrected the quote: "I didn't tell you to go to hell -- I told you to rot in hell."
(Oh. Well, alright, then.)
Tonight, our leader Tru-worthy smoldered in righteous anger over the potential $6 million deficit. He called it "double-dipping" (because it was credited for this fiscal year and the next one -- and it will likely sell, if it does, for $3 million, not $7 million). Tru-worthy righteously declared himself opposed to the report.
The corporation counsel informed the Common Council that there was no action to be taken tonight, since, after all, it was just a report. They weren't voting on whether to actually do anything. They were voting on whether to accept the report -- that is, acknowledge that a report existed.
Tru-worthy was unswayed.
"I stand opposed," he uttered. (Righteously.) "And I'd like a roll-call vote."
Capes all a-billow, our hero Democrats each opposed the report, despite its obvious existence, and made a stand for freedom, justice and not depleting the Fund Balance.
Tru-worthy, sensing that the evil lord genius of all (E.L.G.O.A., aka the mayor) was in a weakened state but not quite defeated, delivered the final blow: "I believe this was mismanagement."
Hissing (under his breath) and rolling his eyes (emphatically), E.L.G.O.A. kept his distance until Tru-worthy's time for discussion was over, said into the microphone "It's not double-dipping," then retreated to the next topic.
You may have had the last word this time, E.L.G.O.A., Tru-worthy's steely eyes said, steelily resolved. But next time, when I have my Majority Whip with me, you won't be so lucky...
To be continued in our next edition of Local City council...
Local City is, for the first time in 20 years, posting a budget deficit -- and no small potatoes at $3 million, possibly $6 million when all is actually accounted for.
Like the title character of Atari's hilariously disastrous E.T. game, Local City can't get out of the hole this year no matter how hard it tries. The deficit was created when Connecticut didn't allocate $3 million in education funds at the beginning of the fiscal year. As one alderman pointed out, cape flaring indignantly behind him, we knew last July that this would happen.
But it's possible that the hole is twice as deep as the mustache-twirling Republicans will admit. The $3 million projected deficit is contingent on the sale of a property that doesn't seem to have a buyer yet -- or if it does, no one's admitting it.
That property is budgeted as a $3 million credit for the current fiscal year...and a $4 million credit for the next fiscal year.
The council apparently discussed this two weeks ago, when the trustworthy sidekick was...well, kicked aside, by a rebuke by the evil mastermind alderman (E.M.A.), who told him to "go to hell."
Or so we all thought, until tonight, when E.M.A. corrected the quote: "I didn't tell you to go to hell -- I told you to rot in hell."
(Oh. Well, alright, then.)
Tonight, our leader Tru-worthy smoldered in righteous anger over the potential $6 million deficit. He called it "double-dipping" (because it was credited for this fiscal year and the next one -- and it will likely sell, if it does, for $3 million, not $7 million). Tru-worthy righteously declared himself opposed to the report.
The corporation counsel informed the Common Council that there was no action to be taken tonight, since, after all, it was just a report. They weren't voting on whether to actually do anything. They were voting on whether to accept the report -- that is, acknowledge that a report existed.
Tru-worthy was unswayed.
"I stand opposed," he uttered. (Righteously.) "And I'd like a roll-call vote."
Capes all a-billow, our hero Democrats each opposed the report, despite its obvious existence, and made a stand for freedom, justice and not depleting the Fund Balance.
Tru-worthy, sensing that the evil lord genius of all (E.L.G.O.A., aka the mayor) was in a weakened state but not quite defeated, delivered the final blow: "I believe this was mismanagement."
Hissing (under his breath) and rolling his eyes (emphatically), E.L.G.O.A. kept his distance until Tru-worthy's time for discussion was over, said into the microphone "It's not double-dipping," then retreated to the next topic.
You may have had the last word this time, E.L.G.O.A., Tru-worthy's steely eyes said, steelily resolved. But next time, when I have my Majority Whip with me, you won't be so lucky...
To be continued in our next edition of Local City council...
Original 5th: Why Jesus kept His Mouth shut
Because anything he might have said would have implicated him. Unfairly, we can assume.
I realized this thanks to a recent first-hand experience with the dilemma.
I realized this thanks to a recent first-hand experience with the dilemma.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
"Okay, I'm going to shoot to 10..."
Carl and I stayed at friend Cheryl's in the ghetto last week. After assuring Carl that we wouldn't die -- that there hadn't been any shootings on that block in months, actually -- Carl learned from Cheryl, in a last-minute phone call before we arrived, that there had been a shooting on her corner the night before.
No people were shot. There were just shots fired -- ten of them.
Later, we speculated that it may have been a series of warning shots, on par with parental warnings: "Okay, Timmy, I'm going to count to three, and if you haven't put the cookie down, you're going to get a spanking."
No people were shot. There were just shots fired -- ten of them.
Later, we speculated that it may have been a series of warning shots, on par with parental warnings: "Okay, Timmy, I'm going to count to three, and if you haven't put the cookie down, you're going to get a spanking."
William J. Vader, II
In anticipation of its arrival, I would like to mention that I have purchased a new laptop, appropriately named William J. Vader II.
It is appropriate that William J. have this name because it's a Toshiba laptop -- the second I've owned -- and is considered the "next generation" compared to my original, 1997 Toshiba laptop, which I purchased used before going to China in 2003.
The original William J. Vader was so-named because it was bought on ebay, from what turned out to be a pawn shop in Texas. The laptop was registered to a man with a name similar to, but not precisely the same as, William J. Vader. The bastardized version stuck.
I know most people don't name their electronics, and as I've already revealed myself as someone who also names her car, I'd like to offer an apologetic on behalf of my naming practices.
In the case of computers, I find it helps to have a name to shout or say in a pleading tone when the blue screen of death appears. (This may eliminate the need to name Macs...which, after all, already have a pretty good name. If it breaks down, "Hey, Mac!" works really well.)
I feel less likely to leave a "William-J.-the-second" behind at a cafe or the library than I might be to leave a "Toshiba-whatever-serial-number-laptop."
I also think it will prove indispensible in the coming A.I. revolution. I'll always have respected computers, in addition to treating them more or less as overlords. It should significantly decrease my chances of laser-eye-induced death, I feel...freeing me to suffer years of silicon-mining slavery, instead.
When William J. II arrives, I'll let you all know. Please welcome him warmly.
(If he senses hostility, you may not fare well in the revolution.)
It is appropriate that William J. have this name because it's a Toshiba laptop -- the second I've owned -- and is considered the "next generation" compared to my original, 1997 Toshiba laptop, which I purchased used before going to China in 2003.
The original William J. Vader was so-named because it was bought on ebay, from what turned out to be a pawn shop in Texas. The laptop was registered to a man with a name similar to, but not precisely the same as, William J. Vader. The bastardized version stuck.
I know most people don't name their electronics, and as I've already revealed myself as someone who also names her car, I'd like to offer an apologetic on behalf of my naming practices.
In the case of computers, I find it helps to have a name to shout or say in a pleading tone when the blue screen of death appears. (This may eliminate the need to name Macs...which, after all, already have a pretty good name. If it breaks down, "Hey, Mac!" works really well.)
I feel less likely to leave a "William-J.-the-second" behind at a cafe or the library than I might be to leave a "Toshiba-whatever-serial-number-laptop."
I also think it will prove indispensible in the coming A.I. revolution. I'll always have respected computers, in addition to treating them more or less as overlords. It should significantly decrease my chances of laser-eye-induced death, I feel...freeing me to suffer years of silicon-mining slavery, instead.
When William J. II arrives, I'll let you all know. Please welcome him warmly.
(If he senses hostility, you may not fare well in the revolution.)
Monday, May 26, 2008
New word: Avoision
n. the act or practice of successfully avoiding something to which you have an aversion; also implies the act of averting, as in "averting disaster"
Sunday, May 25, 2008
Smokey and the Bandit, in their off-hours.
An episode of ER reveals where Sally Fields (or her character) goes when she's not riding 'round with the Bandit: She's a bipolar mother of two, including Abby Lockhart.
I realized this when, in the seventh season of ER, a motel owner speaking to Abby about her mother -- Sally Fields -- holing up in his motel for weeks, says that the mother arrived in Oklahoma with "a truck driver" who pre-paid a week and left the next day. The truck driver appeared to be planning on "coming back for her," said the motel owner, but never showed.
This all makes a lot more sense when you consider that in 1976, Sally Field suffered from multiple personality disorder (now known as dissociative identity disorder). Integrating her many personalities into a single "Sybil" was difficult enough; we can't also expect her to recover fully from bipolar disorder and from chasing around the country with a ne'er-do-well in a Trans Am.
(Sally did eventually recover enough from her mood disorder and occasionally profligate lifestyle to become the matriarch of a large, relatively functional family, after apparently moving to California, as shown on "Brothers & Sisters." Little is said in the new series about how often she gets back to see Abby, Luca Kovac and their son, Joe.)
I realized this when, in the seventh season of ER, a motel owner speaking to Abby about her mother -- Sally Fields -- holing up in his motel for weeks, says that the mother arrived in Oklahoma with "a truck driver" who pre-paid a week and left the next day. The truck driver appeared to be planning on "coming back for her," said the motel owner, but never showed.
This all makes a lot more sense when you consider that in 1976, Sally Field suffered from multiple personality disorder (now known as dissociative identity disorder). Integrating her many personalities into a single "Sybil" was difficult enough; we can't also expect her to recover fully from bipolar disorder and from chasing around the country with a ne'er-do-well in a Trans Am.
(Sally did eventually recover enough from her mood disorder and occasionally profligate lifestyle to become the matriarch of a large, relatively functional family, after apparently moving to California, as shown on "Brothers & Sisters." Little is said in the new series about how often she gets back to see Abby, Luca Kovac and their son, Joe.)
Saturday, May 24, 2008
Accusations IV
Singers or bands that include siren-y sounds in their mixes, then release them as singles to be played in the radio: If I get whiplash from looking around for an ambulance or fire truck every time your chorus comes back around, I'm sending you my medical bill.
Singers or bands that include ring-tone-like sounds in their mixes, then release them as singles: If I start missing my calls because I assume it's just your song, you'll be getting a letter from me. (Or a call, if you're Mike Jones.)
People who download ring-tones of their favorite songs, especially those who pause when receiving a call to listen until "the good part": Stop doing that.
Singers or bands that include ring-tone-like sounds in their mixes, then release them as singles: If I start missing my calls because I assume it's just your song, you'll be getting a letter from me. (Or a call, if you're Mike Jones.)
People who download ring-tones of their favorite songs, especially those who pause when receiving a call to listen until "the good part": Stop doing that.
Friday, May 23, 2008
Confessions XI
I read more than a book a week in the last two academic-calendar years, but I can't remember basic facts about the books I read without looking at my list.
I sometimes wish I could write so many books that I couldn't remember basic facts about the books I've written without looking at my list.
I am currently finishing off my yearly book-a-week quota with comic books.
I sometimes wish I could write so many books that I couldn't remember basic facts about the books I've written without looking at my list.
I am currently finishing off my yearly book-a-week quota with comic books.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Bush lets us send cell phones to Cuba
According to the AP, President Bush is allowing Americans to "send cell phones to Cubans -- a move that he hopes will push the communist regime to increase freedom of expression for Cuban citizens."
Bush said that if Cuban people can be trusted with cell phones, "they should be trusted to speak freely in public."
Which I think raises several questions: Are we "trusted" to speak freely in public? What does this mean, in the context of a government administration (from a party that claims to be "small government") that listens in on our conversations, looking for "buzz words"? That the government trusts that we will be naive enough to speak our minds on unsecure phone lines? So they can weed out the non-patriotic?
And how far does our ability to listen in on cell phone conversations extend?
As far as, say, the distance between Miami and Havana?
Bush said that if Cuban people can be trusted with cell phones, "they should be trusted to speak freely in public."
Which I think raises several questions: Are we "trusted" to speak freely in public? What does this mean, in the context of a government administration (from a party that claims to be "small government") that listens in on our conversations, looking for "buzz words"? That the government trusts that we will be naive enough to speak our minds on unsecure phone lines? So they can weed out the non-patriotic?
And how far does our ability to listen in on cell phone conversations extend?
As far as, say, the distance between Miami and Havana?
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
The metaphor for myself I chose in Dr. Helen Walker's Advanced Writing class:
The lemon in your iced tea.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Holiday hates me
Since nearly the beginning of my blogging, I've been paying sporadic attention to the daily ministrations of one Holiday Mathis, the feel-good astrologer featured in the local paper. For good measure, I read at least four horoscopes every day: Gemini, Virgo, Scorpio and Capricorn. (When Virgo is a particularly bad fit, I often read Leo as well.) I take her horoscopes with a grain of salt -- partly to counteract the saccharine sweetness of her usual predictions for my days.
Lately, though, Holiday has been taking us Virgos to task for a bizarre combination of shortcomings. Last week, she reassured us that just because our timetables were off of everyone else's -- causing us to want to work when everyone else wanted playtime, and vice-versa -- that didn't mean we should give in to the crowd. (Kind of a back-handed compliment, I'd say.)
Today's horoscope betrays more explicit irritation with Virgos:
"Sooner or later," Holiday says, "you're going to come to face to face with the person you've been avoiding. Better to make it happen than to let it happen to you. Arrange a meeting to get this thing settled."
Well, Holiday.
On the other hand, Holiday has been unflaggingly generous to Geminis. She not only forecasts excellent days in which everything goes swimmingly; she compliments their character, reminding them that they are great, creative people who deserve the best.
(Today's Gemini horoscope, for instance, is a few steps down from Holiday's usual rapturous recounting of Gemini fortunes, but still reads "You have an eye to the future, but it doesn't keep you from being in the moment. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you're thinking of the long-term benefits even as you follow a spontaneous impulse.")
My theory: A Virgo, less interested in her than she'd hoped, has just broken up with her; she's using her powers as a syndicated horoscopologist to reprimand him (or her) for the pain s/he's caused.
Either in a fit of self-empowerment (if she herself is a Gemini) or in homage to a fast-and-passionate rebound relationship (her new lover is a Gemini), Holiday rounds out her revenge by willing only greatness on Geminis.
Too bad she had to throw the rest of the Virgos under the wheels in the process.
[Shaking head disapprovingly.]
Lately, though, Holiday has been taking us Virgos to task for a bizarre combination of shortcomings. Last week, she reassured us that just because our timetables were off of everyone else's -- causing us to want to work when everyone else wanted playtime, and vice-versa -- that didn't mean we should give in to the crowd. (Kind of a back-handed compliment, I'd say.)
Today's horoscope betrays more explicit irritation with Virgos:
"Sooner or later," Holiday says, "you're going to come to face to face with the person you've been avoiding. Better to make it happen than to let it happen to you. Arrange a meeting to get this thing settled."
Well, Holiday.
On the other hand, Holiday has been unflaggingly generous to Geminis. She not only forecasts excellent days in which everything goes swimmingly; she compliments their character, reminding them that they are great, creative people who deserve the best.
(Today's Gemini horoscope, for instance, is a few steps down from Holiday's usual rapturous recounting of Gemini fortunes, but still reads "You have an eye to the future, but it doesn't keep you from being in the moment. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you're thinking of the long-term benefits even as you follow a spontaneous impulse.")
My theory: A Virgo, less interested in her than she'd hoped, has just broken up with her; she's using her powers as a syndicated horoscopologist to reprimand him (or her) for the pain s/he's caused.
Either in a fit of self-empowerment (if she herself is a Gemini) or in homage to a fast-and-passionate rebound relationship (her new lover is a Gemini), Holiday rounds out her revenge by willing only greatness on Geminis.
Too bad she had to throw the rest of the Virgos under the wheels in the process.
[Shaking head disapprovingly.]
Monday, May 19, 2008
Recipe: Stupid- (Starlight-) Mint Brownies
Milk chocolate brownie mix
Vegetable oil
2 eggs
Water
9x13" pan
15-20 Starlight mint hard candies, green or red
10 dark chocolate Hershey kisses, or superior equivalent
1. Mix brownie mix as directed on box.
2. Chop up mint candies and dark chocolate; combine with brownie mix.
3. Cook brownies as directed.
Vegetable oil
2 eggs
Water
9x13" pan
15-20 Starlight mint hard candies, green or red
10 dark chocolate Hershey kisses, or superior equivalent
1. Mix brownie mix as directed on box.
2. Chop up mint candies and dark chocolate; combine with brownie mix.
3. Cook brownies as directed.
Thursday - Weekend List of Accomplishments
Order Alligator (The National)
Order "Reads" and "Minds" (Cerebus)
Mail Simpsons 9 & 10 to Deb and Jeff
Mail GP and Ana CDs to J-net and Heather
Take Spencer to pick up his tux (x2)
Try another restaurant's version of Thai iced tea
Shop at A Dong Asian Supermarket (ground pork, coconut milk, Thai iced tea, cabbage, Chinese cabbage, garlic, ginger, limes, rice stick noodles, chrysanthemum tea)
Check w/Aetna, re: dermatologist
Call Damien, re: paycheck
Edit Richmond articles
Write blog
Bring blank CDs to newspaper office
Check out new computers
Work on/finish JFH report
Write new column
Write new column (for next week)
Buy/make a journal
Order a new laptop computer
Work at girl's house
Check out earrings for Mom
Make jiaozi with friends (eat too many)
Make brownies
Email friends
Fax timesheets
Work at Pizza Hut
Order "Reads" and "Minds" (Cerebus)
Mail Simpsons 9 & 10 to Deb and Jeff
Mail GP and Ana CDs to J-net and Heather
Take Spencer to pick up his tux (x2)
Try another restaurant's version of Thai iced tea
Shop at A Dong Asian Supermarket (ground pork, coconut milk, Thai iced tea, cabbage, Chinese cabbage, garlic, ginger, limes, rice stick noodles, chrysanthemum tea)
Check w/Aetna, re: dermatologist
Call Damien, re: paycheck
Edit Richmond articles
Write blog
Bring blank CDs to newspaper office
Check out new computers
Work on/finish JFH report
Write new column
Write new column (for next week)
Buy/make a journal
Order a new laptop computer
Work at girl's house
Check out earrings for Mom
Make jiaozi with friends (eat too many)
Make brownies
Email friends
Fax timesheets
Work at Pizza Hut
Sunday, May 18, 2008
My patron saint Judas
I used to be most afraid, out of all possible fears, of self-betrayal.
I worried. I worried conspicuously, my brow permanently furrowed -- the fine lines beginning long before they should have -- and eyes narrowed (squinting as though they could see the future), through high school. I worried, ostensibly, about many, many things, most of which seemed practical: what grade I would get on a test; what my mother would say to ruin my day; whether I'd be allowed to go to youth group this week or be grounded for some minor offense; how often I needed to emerge from my room, and for how long, on Saturdays and Sundays, to prove that I wasn't depressed (-- I was).
What I worried about in the dark, though, or when I allowed myself to drop down to the roots of my hypervigilance -- when I allowed myself to be terrified -- was that when Mom said "you'll understand when you're older," she was right.
It was all the same fear: turning into her, growing up to realize I had been wrong all along, the panicked sense that I would turn away from God, the cold certainty that I would succumb to my own malicious, self-destructive impulses -- that vicious, masochistic part of me that would have delighted (that did delight) in torture.
I prayed against them all, with a different kind of fervor than I prayed for friends, or for Vietnam, or for straight-out salvation. I prayed with a half-hearted, faltering desperation. I prayed knowing it was no use, that I would be overtaken. I prayed against myself. Like a slow-running medieval villager being chased down by wolves, or a prisoner not quite remorseful enough to hope for heaven, stepping up to the gallows: desperate, half-resigned, fatally flawed.
I prayed knowing the time would come when I would not pray.
It was my Gethsemane. I imagined Jesus praying, crying, breaking apart his resistance, rearranging his psyche to accommodate his fate. I imagined Jesus' work -- the moving, mysteriously, spirit-parts of himself to line up with the divine will. I imagined his slow disintegration, the sand-like drift of his thoughts and emotion toward inevitable acceptance. I saw Jesus relax, ready to be kissed.
I imagined Satan, praying, crying, hurling himself against internal walls, demanding stronger tools to destroy what plagued him, what kept him from God. The more he fought, the weaker he became (fighting against himself); the more he struggled, the deeper he realized the bad veins went, down, possibly, to the bedrock of who he was: created to be the antithetical, outcast, unwanted, unwantable lack of God. This idea began slowly but filtered in -- sand-like -- to every crevice, dark and oily, gradually heated him from within. He rose from the stone as stone and would never kneel or rise again.
I could not understand which one I was.
My betrayal began gradually, happened intermittently, confused me. My great struggles have been epic-feeling; the thorns in my side have been obvious. I did not want to be my Mom. (I have not become her.) I did not want to be crazy. (I have not gone insane.) I did not want to betray myself, fail myself, lose myself.
The betrayer, though, the secret self-betrayer, did not want to be me.
Judas crept in as a friend, as a benign and silly man -- like all the disciples -- and must have believed it, himself. He must have believed that Jesus was something. He could not have walked with the son of God for three years and covered over a lie for that long, unless the lie deceived him, too. His deal with the men who took Jesus, the agreement, the handshake and nodding head, the suggestion of a kiss, must have seemed like a dream to him. He must have woken the morning of the betrayal and wondered if it had happened.
Judas' awakening came after the betraying kiss and the word "teacher." He saw what he had done. He bought a field, he hanged himself, he fell headlong and his body burst open, he died physically, he died metaphorically, he died in all senses. (The accounts are unclear.) He tried to return his thirty pieces of silver. He was rejected -- the priests would not accept blood money --Peter raised his sword -- Judas could not accept his choices.
Felix pecatum: Judas was necessary. Creation ex nihilo: God created him for this. Deus ex machina: No one had a choice.
The worry left me, simply and without explanation. I rose from the rock one day and realized I was fine, realized all my parts made sense, realized that everything was in focus. A suprise jolted me into place, and I was myself.
It was startling.
I attended to Judas, his wounded sense of self-betrayal, his interminable inner conflict. I held him in my mind as Mary holds Jesus in the Pieta. I soothed him, cooed meaningless words, viewed his death again and again with witness and pity in my heart.
I have stopped praying, or everything has become a prayer. Jesus would know which; Satan would know. I am not looking for answers.
I attend to Judas.
I worried. I worried conspicuously, my brow permanently furrowed -- the fine lines beginning long before they should have -- and eyes narrowed (squinting as though they could see the future), through high school. I worried, ostensibly, about many, many things, most of which seemed practical: what grade I would get on a test; what my mother would say to ruin my day; whether I'd be allowed to go to youth group this week or be grounded for some minor offense; how often I needed to emerge from my room, and for how long, on Saturdays and Sundays, to prove that I wasn't depressed (-- I was).
What I worried about in the dark, though, or when I allowed myself to drop down to the roots of my hypervigilance -- when I allowed myself to be terrified -- was that when Mom said "you'll understand when you're older," she was right.
It was all the same fear: turning into her, growing up to realize I had been wrong all along, the panicked sense that I would turn away from God, the cold certainty that I would succumb to my own malicious, self-destructive impulses -- that vicious, masochistic part of me that would have delighted (that did delight) in torture.
I prayed against them all, with a different kind of fervor than I prayed for friends, or for Vietnam, or for straight-out salvation. I prayed with a half-hearted, faltering desperation. I prayed knowing it was no use, that I would be overtaken. I prayed against myself. Like a slow-running medieval villager being chased down by wolves, or a prisoner not quite remorseful enough to hope for heaven, stepping up to the gallows: desperate, half-resigned, fatally flawed.
I prayed knowing the time would come when I would not pray.
It was my Gethsemane. I imagined Jesus praying, crying, breaking apart his resistance, rearranging his psyche to accommodate his fate. I imagined Jesus' work -- the moving, mysteriously, spirit-parts of himself to line up with the divine will. I imagined his slow disintegration, the sand-like drift of his thoughts and emotion toward inevitable acceptance. I saw Jesus relax, ready to be kissed.
I imagined Satan, praying, crying, hurling himself against internal walls, demanding stronger tools to destroy what plagued him, what kept him from God. The more he fought, the weaker he became (fighting against himself); the more he struggled, the deeper he realized the bad veins went, down, possibly, to the bedrock of who he was: created to be the antithetical, outcast, unwanted, unwantable lack of God. This idea began slowly but filtered in -- sand-like -- to every crevice, dark and oily, gradually heated him from within. He rose from the stone as stone and would never kneel or rise again.
I could not understand which one I was.
My betrayal began gradually, happened intermittently, confused me. My great struggles have been epic-feeling; the thorns in my side have been obvious. I did not want to be my Mom. (I have not become her.) I did not want to be crazy. (I have not gone insane.) I did not want to betray myself, fail myself, lose myself.
The betrayer, though, the secret self-betrayer, did not want to be me.
Judas crept in as a friend, as a benign and silly man -- like all the disciples -- and must have believed it, himself. He must have believed that Jesus was something. He could not have walked with the son of God for three years and covered over a lie for that long, unless the lie deceived him, too. His deal with the men who took Jesus, the agreement, the handshake and nodding head, the suggestion of a kiss, must have seemed like a dream to him. He must have woken the morning of the betrayal and wondered if it had happened.
Judas' awakening came after the betraying kiss and the word "teacher." He saw what he had done. He bought a field, he hanged himself, he fell headlong and his body burst open, he died physically, he died metaphorically, he died in all senses. (The accounts are unclear.) He tried to return his thirty pieces of silver. He was rejected -- the priests would not accept blood money --Peter raised his sword -- Judas could not accept his choices.
Felix pecatum: Judas was necessary. Creation ex nihilo: God created him for this. Deus ex machina: No one had a choice.
The worry left me, simply and without explanation. I rose from the rock one day and realized I was fine, realized all my parts made sense, realized that everything was in focus. A suprise jolted me into place, and I was myself.
It was startling.
I attended to Judas, his wounded sense of self-betrayal, his interminable inner conflict. I held him in my mind as Mary holds Jesus in the Pieta. I soothed him, cooed meaningless words, viewed his death again and again with witness and pity in my heart.
I have stopped praying, or everything has become a prayer. Jesus would know which; Satan would know. I am not looking for answers.
I attend to Judas.
NYTimes headline: "Los Angeles Eyes Sewage as a Source of Water"
Yep. That pretty much sums it up.
(CGU is still sending me mail, including invitations to "meet [my] new classmates." Good lord. This is just pathetic, now.)
(CGU is still sending me mail, including invitations to "meet [my] new classmates." Good lord. This is just pathetic, now.)
Saturday, May 17, 2008
My reason for being against a constitutional ban on same-sex marriage:
It's self-evidently stupid.
I'm not sure how to be more clear on that.
I'm not sure how to be more clear on that.
Friday, May 16, 2008
Local Trivia: Mentally handicapped doesn't count, here.
As I came in to the library today, a young-ish, healthy-looking man "opened the door for me" by hitting the handicapped access button.
Well, thanks. Next time I see an actually physically disabled person stuck outside because the door motor has died (and as I go open the door for them), I'll think of you.
Well, thanks. Next time I see an actually physically disabled person stuck outside because the door motor has died (and as I go open the door for them), I'll think of you.
88,888
Betty hit the luckiest of numbers today. If she weren't a car, she'd probably do well to buy a lottery ticket. (She's probably a month or two away from 18, anyway.)
I'm reminded of a time I was on a flight to the UK with a family seated a few rows away. One of the kids, a girl -- one can only assume, an eight-year-old -- began repeating "and eight! Eight is great!" in a way that emphasized "great" with such sincerity, such earnest and obvious will to communicate, that it verged on desperation. She worked it up into a mantra, until she was almost shrieking it, but without ever raising the pitch of her voice (though the volume made up for that). I never figured out what she meant by "eight is great," or how the parent seated with her got her to give up repeating it, and I suppose I never will. (She must have meant something by it, though -- she was clearly not autistic, and it held her attention for a good ten or fifteen minutes.)
In China, eight is a lucky number because the Chinese word (ba) sounds a lot like the word for wealth, or fortune (or luck, I suppose, as in our "he was very fortunate"). The Olympics will be held on August 8, 2008 because of the exciting confluence of eights in the date.
Being an honorary Chinese myself (haha), I've also converted to "eight is lucky"-dom and note Betty's accomplishment with pride.
She also passed the 88,842 mark today as I went to work, which signifies our 15,000 mile anniversary. I hope the 15,000 anniversary gift is a new partial exhaust system, because that's what I got her -- though it may be the car-gift equivalent of a blender.
Maybe I should throw in an oil change and a nice car wash just to be safe.
I'm reminded of a time I was on a flight to the UK with a family seated a few rows away. One of the kids, a girl -- one can only assume, an eight-year-old -- began repeating "and eight! Eight is great!" in a way that emphasized "great" with such sincerity, such earnest and obvious will to communicate, that it verged on desperation. She worked it up into a mantra, until she was almost shrieking it, but without ever raising the pitch of her voice (though the volume made up for that). I never figured out what she meant by "eight is great," or how the parent seated with her got her to give up repeating it, and I suppose I never will. (She must have meant something by it, though -- she was clearly not autistic, and it held her attention for a good ten or fifteen minutes.)
In China, eight is a lucky number because the Chinese word (ba) sounds a lot like the word for wealth, or fortune (or luck, I suppose, as in our "he was very fortunate"). The Olympics will be held on August 8, 2008 because of the exciting confluence of eights in the date.
Being an honorary Chinese myself (haha), I've also converted to "eight is lucky"-dom and note Betty's accomplishment with pride.
She also passed the 88,842 mark today as I went to work, which signifies our 15,000 mile anniversary. I hope the 15,000 anniversary gift is a new partial exhaust system, because that's what I got her -- though it may be the car-gift equivalent of a blender.
Maybe I should throw in an oil change and a nice car wash just to be safe.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Accusations III
Journal manufacturers, for not making journals that I'd want to write in: How hard is it to come up with an attractively-covered, lined, spiral-bound hardcover journal? Until you get your act together, I'm making my own.
Newspaper companies, for cutting staff and then continuing to expect the paper to go out, with no attention to excellence in stories, editing, production or employees: You corporate managers deserve what you're going to get. Move out from on top of everyone else so they don't get crushed when your clay feet give out -- preferably to an old-fashioned leper colony, and continually shouting "unclean! unclean!" so the rest of us can keep a good distance from whatever infection has addled your brains.
The Connecticut state FOI commission: For making it safe for city and town governments to pretend that "freedom of information" means "freedom to keep information from you, city and town residents."
Newspaper companies, for cutting staff and then continuing to expect the paper to go out, with no attention to excellence in stories, editing, production or employees: You corporate managers deserve what you're going to get. Move out from on top of everyone else so they don't get crushed when your clay feet give out -- preferably to an old-fashioned leper colony, and continually shouting "unclean! unclean!" so the rest of us can keep a good distance from whatever infection has addled your brains.
The Connecticut state FOI commission: For making it safe for city and town governments to pretend that "freedom of information" means "freedom to keep information from you, city and town residents."
Local Trivia: "You need any help?"
Number of cars that stopped to ask if I needed assistance as I changed my car's headlight bulb in the glow of a streetlamp, in an empty grocery store parking lot last night:
Two.
Two.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Appendix: Miracles
I realized after "publishing" my last post that it didn't quite tell the whole story. It makes me seem like exactly the sort of self-sufficient individual it says I shouldn't be. I'm not sure how exactly to remedy this, since my idea of faith is, if not profoundly different from what it was before, not able to be articulated in the vocabulary I once used. But I do have faith, and I think it's what saves me.
I have faith that God, or a beneficent power, or the universe -- though the last two are a bit too "New Age" for my taste -- will not allow me to be completely destroyed. Every dealbreaker I've encountered in my life, as far as I can tell, has been attended to.
Like my computer crashing on Sunday.
I should probably mention that I didn't go to church, hadn't even thought about it, and that it was really the JFH that made it a dealbreaker.
Friday had been a Pizza Hut day, as usual, followed by an interview with a professor at the Local University, then five hours of my JFH. Saturday had been, as my posts indicate, a bit of a bipolar day (but one that ended with an excellent hot pot). By Sunday, Mom had chosen Chili's as the site of her Mother's Day, and I'd gone to the paper to steal the Internet. (To no avail -- the WiFi is free.)
When I came back into the room after a minute away, the blue screen of death was up on my computer. After a struggle too annoying to recount, my computer appeared to die. Completely.
I did a lot of things, none of which helped; I was given a lot of assistance, none of which helped; I called three people and left messages on their machines, none of which helped. The problem was not that my computer was dead. The problem was that it had killed my will to do anything about it -- it just seemed like one more thing than I could handle.
When Tyler called me back half an hour later, I was staring listlessly at the floor in the newspaper conference room/gum annex. When he talked me through the steps for fixing it and it actually turned on, I had to stay silent for a minute to keep from crying on the phone. My eyes teared up. I was unspeakably grateful.
I've never really needed something and not had it come through.
I have faith that God, or a beneficent power, or the universe -- though the last two are a bit too "New Age" for my taste -- will not allow me to be completely destroyed. Every dealbreaker I've encountered in my life, as far as I can tell, has been attended to.
Like my computer crashing on Sunday.
I should probably mention that I didn't go to church, hadn't even thought about it, and that it was really the JFH that made it a dealbreaker.
Friday had been a Pizza Hut day, as usual, followed by an interview with a professor at the Local University, then five hours of my JFH. Saturday had been, as my posts indicate, a bit of a bipolar day (but one that ended with an excellent hot pot). By Sunday, Mom had chosen Chili's as the site of her Mother's Day, and I'd gone to the paper to steal the Internet. (To no avail -- the WiFi is free.)
When I came back into the room after a minute away, the blue screen of death was up on my computer. After a struggle too annoying to recount, my computer appeared to die. Completely.
I did a lot of things, none of which helped; I was given a lot of assistance, none of which helped; I called three people and left messages on their machines, none of which helped. The problem was not that my computer was dead. The problem was that it had killed my will to do anything about it -- it just seemed like one more thing than I could handle.
When Tyler called me back half an hour later, I was staring listlessly at the floor in the newspaper conference room/gum annex. When he talked me through the steps for fixing it and it actually turned on, I had to stay silent for a minute to keep from crying on the phone. My eyes teared up. I was unspeakably grateful.
I've never really needed something and not had it come through.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Abundance is scarce.
I can't remember what Dr. Helen Walker said in writing seminar about scarcity versus abundance -- probably because I thought I already understood the idea at the time.
Now I know I didn't, and that I likely never will.
And that it's almost certainly for the best that I don't.
I understand where my mother was coming from, insisting that she couldn't choose to be happy when her options seemed limited to ones that would make her miserable. I understand where I was coming from when I felt that way, which happened a lot at every previous point in my life, and will probably happen to me again.
I don't believe in the Power of Positive Thinking. I believe in the power of really thinking, which often causes a person to contradict positive thinking and occasionally precludes happiness. It certainly doesn't encourage it.
But it does, I think, lead a person more clearly through inevitable obstacles than fakery or denial, which are what Positive Thinking amount to, in my mind.
In "Problems in Philosophy" class my freshman year, our professor asked us what we would do today if we knew that we were certain to die tomorrow. I said that I would tell the unadulterated, unasked-for truth, to everyone. I know better than to think I have any capital-T Truth now, but I still think the impulse was a good one. My best friendships were and are based on mutual self-revelation. There's a certain selfishness in assuming that what you have to say about yourself -- your desires and dreams and disappointments -- will be important to others, but there's another, more toxic selfishness, I think, in keeping yourself "private," walling yourself off from the world. Privacy is an illusion in the world-at-large as much as it's an illusion in a cubicled corporate office. We don't actually get to be self-contained, to choose not to impact each other, even if we have "good intentions" -- like not unleashing an evil, or selfish self on the world.
The problem with trying to spare the world your self-centeredness is that it keeps the world from changing that gravity: You remain terminally self-involved when you repress or deny or privatize your interests. You lack a sense of humor, because you have no sense of proportion. You lack perspective on your problems because, being encased in a walled city of self, you can't see or attend to anyone else's.
If you are all you have, if your resources are the only ones at your disposal, you have a right to observe their scarcity. Individuals are pretty pitifully outfitted for solo survival. Individuals who insist on relying on only themselves in the middle of a teeming city of other life, other resources, appear strange and sadly misled, at best. My mom limited herself to this, to the idea that her universe was and must be limited to what she could see or understand, now -- that no surprises are possible.
People who insist on relying on only themselves only succeed in denying that they are relating to others. They often end up being more careless and more self-centered than they would be if they dealt with themselves and others directly. Their boundaries are impossible and do not work.
But I've found -- as the original and seemingly insatiable teller of my life story to any listening audience -- that establishing no boundaries leads to equal internal scarcity. Relying on other people to bind you up, to nourish you, is necessary, but toxic in too-large quantities. It makes you need them.
But this is all stuff that it does absolutely no good to say, because it doesn't make sense until it makes sense. Before that, it sounds like everyone is talking gibberish. I might as well be copy-and-pasting the word "spaghetti" over and over again here.
I think the universe is a scarce place. I think it is a wasteland. I think it is mostly deserted, and that most of it is hard, thrifty and difficult.
I think that in that environment, we can appreciate sudden and intermittent abundance the way a Bedouin appreciates an oasis. I don't know if we can live in abundance all the time; I don't know if we have those sorts of choices. I think I know that hope, eventually, never disappoints and, eventually, is never misplaced, because hope is an end in itself. I guess that makes me a believer in abundance, however distant.
There was a sermon given by the wife of the pastor at Life Center once, in which she listed seven -- seven being the number of God -- ways to elude the devil. I remember that they all began with the word "go," but I only remember one of them: "Go down." She talked about how lifeguards heading out to save a drowning person might find themselves being dragged under by the panicked drowner; their only hope was to dive. The person hanging onto them would let go, being unwilling to go under. She explained that the devil would never humble himself, and that if we did, we would find ourselves safe.
I didn't like her point; it had several glaring logical flaws. But it stuck with me.
And I think it has probably saved me -- the content, not the fact that she said it or the way she presented it. I suspect that part of what has brought me to this point of feeling like a person, like an independent person faithful to myself and to others, without taking too much and without giving (in) to excess, is recognition of the strange beauty of scarcity. I suspect that part of the difference between me, now, and my mom, is that I have learned to spend time with what I have -- negatives included -- and to allow them, and occasionally love them.
It's not that I believe that bad things will never happen, in other words, that allows me to hope. Naivete was not given to me as an option. I am a (hopeful) person because I know, now, that I can withstand them. I know I can survive the rejection and betrayal and the parsimony and poverty of the universe, because I have done it.
My sense of abundance comes out of scarcity. I see only positive options when I hit bottom. I am strongest when the crises are. I'm not bragging -- this means I'm lackluster when left slack, when the universe is not demanding enough of me, and I don't often have the discipline to stay on task, which is worrisome -- but this is who I am, essentially. If I am creative, this is why. If I am ever positive, this is the reason. My faith is in this: not in others to not betray me, not in myself to not fail, not in the universe to make me happy, but in my spirit's viability, flexibility -- in the possibility and certainty of redemption.
Bit of a manifesto, but that's the truth. (Asked for, this time.)
Now I know I didn't, and that I likely never will.
And that it's almost certainly for the best that I don't.
I understand where my mother was coming from, insisting that she couldn't choose to be happy when her options seemed limited to ones that would make her miserable. I understand where I was coming from when I felt that way, which happened a lot at every previous point in my life, and will probably happen to me again.
I don't believe in the Power of Positive Thinking. I believe in the power of really thinking, which often causes a person to contradict positive thinking and occasionally precludes happiness. It certainly doesn't encourage it.
But it does, I think, lead a person more clearly through inevitable obstacles than fakery or denial, which are what Positive Thinking amount to, in my mind.
In "Problems in Philosophy" class my freshman year, our professor asked us what we would do today if we knew that we were certain to die tomorrow. I said that I would tell the unadulterated, unasked-for truth, to everyone. I know better than to think I have any capital-T Truth now, but I still think the impulse was a good one. My best friendships were and are based on mutual self-revelation. There's a certain selfishness in assuming that what you have to say about yourself -- your desires and dreams and disappointments -- will be important to others, but there's another, more toxic selfishness, I think, in keeping yourself "private," walling yourself off from the world. Privacy is an illusion in the world-at-large as much as it's an illusion in a cubicled corporate office. We don't actually get to be self-contained, to choose not to impact each other, even if we have "good intentions" -- like not unleashing an evil, or selfish self on the world.
The problem with trying to spare the world your self-centeredness is that it keeps the world from changing that gravity: You remain terminally self-involved when you repress or deny or privatize your interests. You lack a sense of humor, because you have no sense of proportion. You lack perspective on your problems because, being encased in a walled city of self, you can't see or attend to anyone else's.
If you are all you have, if your resources are the only ones at your disposal, you have a right to observe their scarcity. Individuals are pretty pitifully outfitted for solo survival. Individuals who insist on relying on only themselves in the middle of a teeming city of other life, other resources, appear strange and sadly misled, at best. My mom limited herself to this, to the idea that her universe was and must be limited to what she could see or understand, now -- that no surprises are possible.
People who insist on relying on only themselves only succeed in denying that they are relating to others. They often end up being more careless and more self-centered than they would be if they dealt with themselves and others directly. Their boundaries are impossible and do not work.
But I've found -- as the original and seemingly insatiable teller of my life story to any listening audience -- that establishing no boundaries leads to equal internal scarcity. Relying on other people to bind you up, to nourish you, is necessary, but toxic in too-large quantities. It makes you need them.
But this is all stuff that it does absolutely no good to say, because it doesn't make sense until it makes sense. Before that, it sounds like everyone is talking gibberish. I might as well be copy-and-pasting the word "spaghetti" over and over again here.
I think the universe is a scarce place. I think it is a wasteland. I think it is mostly deserted, and that most of it is hard, thrifty and difficult.
I think that in that environment, we can appreciate sudden and intermittent abundance the way a Bedouin appreciates an oasis. I don't know if we can live in abundance all the time; I don't know if we have those sorts of choices. I think I know that hope, eventually, never disappoints and, eventually, is never misplaced, because hope is an end in itself. I guess that makes me a believer in abundance, however distant.
There was a sermon given by the wife of the pastor at Life Center once, in which she listed seven -- seven being the number of God -- ways to elude the devil. I remember that they all began with the word "go," but I only remember one of them: "Go down." She talked about how lifeguards heading out to save a drowning person might find themselves being dragged under by the panicked drowner; their only hope was to dive. The person hanging onto them would let go, being unwilling to go under. She explained that the devil would never humble himself, and that if we did, we would find ourselves safe.
I didn't like her point; it had several glaring logical flaws. But it stuck with me.
And I think it has probably saved me -- the content, not the fact that she said it or the way she presented it. I suspect that part of what has brought me to this point of feeling like a person, like an independent person faithful to myself and to others, without taking too much and without giving (in) to excess, is recognition of the strange beauty of scarcity. I suspect that part of the difference between me, now, and my mom, is that I have learned to spend time with what I have -- negatives included -- and to allow them, and occasionally love them.
It's not that I believe that bad things will never happen, in other words, that allows me to hope. Naivete was not given to me as an option. I am a (hopeful) person because I know, now, that I can withstand them. I know I can survive the rejection and betrayal and the parsimony and poverty of the universe, because I have done it.
My sense of abundance comes out of scarcity. I see only positive options when I hit bottom. I am strongest when the crises are. I'm not bragging -- this means I'm lackluster when left slack, when the universe is not demanding enough of me, and I don't often have the discipline to stay on task, which is worrisome -- but this is who I am, essentially. If I am creative, this is why. If I am ever positive, this is the reason. My faith is in this: not in others to not betray me, not in myself to not fail, not in the universe to make me happy, but in my spirit's viability, flexibility -- in the possibility and certainty of redemption.
Bit of a manifesto, but that's the truth. (Asked for, this time.)
12,012
The death toll in China from the earthquake, as of 7 this morning, according to the Chinese national Xinhua News Agency. (Reports put this at "Tuesday night, 7 p.m." because China is twelve hours ahead of EST.)
I read a NYTimes article reporting that a school in the suburbs of Dujiangyan had collapsed, and gasped and actually put my hand to my heart. It took careful reading and a search for Xinhua news information to discover that it was not the private school I worked at in 2003-04, which has been plagued by fires and other strange disasters since then.
I am shamefully relieved, though with no basis. I have heard nothing from my former teammate, still teaching at that school, and have no evidence that the school is even still standing. Either way, up to 900 second and third graders died at Juyuan Middle School, nearby. The city of Dujiangyan, by all photographic accounts, has been destroyed.
I don't know how to turn this into satirical and sarcastic observation, but I also don't know how not to, which might be the surest sign of Armageddon.
I wish, absurdly but more than anything, that Douglas Adams was alive right now.
I read a NYTimes article reporting that a school in the suburbs of Dujiangyan had collapsed, and gasped and actually put my hand to my heart. It took careful reading and a search for Xinhua news information to discover that it was not the private school I worked at in 2003-04, which has been plagued by fires and other strange disasters since then.
I am shamefully relieved, though with no basis. I have heard nothing from my former teammate, still teaching at that school, and have no evidence that the school is even still standing. Either way, up to 900 second and third graders died at Juyuan Middle School, nearby. The city of Dujiangyan, by all photographic accounts, has been destroyed.
I don't know how to turn this into satirical and sarcastic observation, but I also don't know how not to, which might be the surest sign of Armageddon.
I wish, absurdly but more than anything, that Douglas Adams was alive right now.
Monday, May 12, 2008
Tonight on IT'S THE MIND...
"We will be exploring the strange phenomenon of deja vu -- that feeling that you've seen or done something before."
[Cue intro music.]
"Tonight on IT'S THE MIND: We will be exploring the strange phenomenon of deja vu -- that feeling that you've seen or done something before."
[Cue intro music.]
Etc.
Tonight I continue my JFH from last week, despite it only being "25 hours," and after a bipolar weekend in which the "depressive" swing resulted mainly from thoughts of going back to it. (And from a computer crash that I'll post about another time...like tomorrow, or something.) I will work 5 hours, most of which will be spent pleasantly -- reading the woman's side of a comic series starring an aardvark, Cerebus, and following and directing a competent and generally pleasant man who already has cleaning experience, through a cubicle wasteland -- tonight, and I will have a shadow tomorrow night for the final three hours.
I wrote a diplomatically nasty email to my JFH supervisor yesterday, expressing my frustration at the lack of communication from my organization to me -- regarding, for instance, the fact that I'm to fill out a comprehensive assessment form instead of an abbreviated form, which requires collaboration with the employers...to whom I have access only during the assessment week (I was told about the comprehensive form on Thursday just before going in, too late to do anything about it) -- and the retarded communication between my organization and the other one that the client is working with.
My JFH supervisor had asked me to work fifteen additional hours with this client this week, three hours each weeknight. I agreed to work Mon-Wed, 5 - 8 p.m.
When I arrived at the location Friday night, my client informed me that his contact person at the collaborating agency had told him he'd have someone for five hours each night, 5 - 10 p.m.
I told my JFH supervisor in no uncertain terms that I was not available to work five hours a night on Monday through Wednesday. I would work a five-hour shift Monday, I said, then three hours on Tuesday, and I recommended that another job coach be available to shadow on one of those days. I recommended this because otherwise, the client wouldn't have one.
Honestly, I wasn't sure if I'd even get a reply to this. It was equally likely that I would get a call back or that she would ignore the message and hope that I'd do the responsible thing anyway.
(She doesn't know about the punching philosophy, to which I think the "They'll never learn if you coddle them" philosophy is related, or she would never consider ignoring me. My threats are either serious or sarcastic -- never idle.)
She did call back, redeeming herself in some small way, and suggested that we do as I had proposed (though in a way that made it seem like her idea -- but whatever, about that).
So tonight and tomorrow should be the last I see of the JFH.
PTL.
[Cue intro music.]
"Tonight on IT'S THE MIND: We will be exploring the strange phenomenon of deja vu -- that feeling that you've seen or done something before."
[Cue intro music.]
Etc.
Tonight I continue my JFH from last week, despite it only being "25 hours," and after a bipolar weekend in which the "depressive" swing resulted mainly from thoughts of going back to it. (And from a computer crash that I'll post about another time...like tomorrow, or something.) I will work 5 hours, most of which will be spent pleasantly -- reading the woman's side of a comic series starring an aardvark, Cerebus, and following and directing a competent and generally pleasant man who already has cleaning experience, through a cubicle wasteland -- tonight, and I will have a shadow tomorrow night for the final three hours.
I wrote a diplomatically nasty email to my JFH supervisor yesterday, expressing my frustration at the lack of communication from my organization to me -- regarding, for instance, the fact that I'm to fill out a comprehensive assessment form instead of an abbreviated form, which requires collaboration with the employers...to whom I have access only during the assessment week (I was told about the comprehensive form on Thursday just before going in, too late to do anything about it) -- and the retarded communication between my organization and the other one that the client is working with.
My JFH supervisor had asked me to work fifteen additional hours with this client this week, three hours each weeknight. I agreed to work Mon-Wed, 5 - 8 p.m.
When I arrived at the location Friday night, my client informed me that his contact person at the collaborating agency had told him he'd have someone for five hours each night, 5 - 10 p.m.
I told my JFH supervisor in no uncertain terms that I was not available to work five hours a night on Monday through Wednesday. I would work a five-hour shift Monday, I said, then three hours on Tuesday, and I recommended that another job coach be available to shadow on one of those days. I recommended this because otherwise, the client wouldn't have one.
Honestly, I wasn't sure if I'd even get a reply to this. It was equally likely that I would get a call back or that she would ignore the message and hope that I'd do the responsible thing anyway.
(She doesn't know about the punching philosophy, to which I think the "They'll never learn if you coddle them" philosophy is related, or she would never consider ignoring me. My threats are either serious or sarcastic -- never idle.)
She did call back, redeeming herself in some small way, and suggested that we do as I had proposed (though in a way that made it seem like her idea -- but whatever, about that).
So tonight and tomorrow should be the last I see of the JFH.
PTL.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Saturday, May 10, 2008
When I said "Happy Mother's Day," it was just a suggestion...
I called my brother Spencer this morning to suggest that we take our mom out to the Ponderosa buffet tomorrow afternoon for Mother's Day. (I was giving in to the promotional email sent to me by Ponderosa on Friday, sadly -- but who can resist their chicken wings?) Spencer suggested we go to a diner for breakfast instead. We discussed this in earnest for a few minutes before I asked what Mom would want.
"Ask her where she would want to go if she could go anywhere for Mother's Day," I said.
He did. She said she would want to go see Tyler and Sarah in Vermont.
"Okaaaaaaaay," I said. "Would she really want me to drive her there?"
Mom hasn't driven for years, now, and there are few people on the planet allowed to drive her anywhere -- even fewer allowed to drive her on the highway. I've certainly never driven her anything like the three and a half hours it would take to get to Vermont, let alone turned around and driven the same three and a half hours back in the same day.
On the other hand, I'm never joking about a road trip. I'm always up for it.
Mom reported to Spencer that if I would drive, she would go. So I told Spencer to ask if she'd rather go to Ponderosa or the diner while I called Tyler to see what his plans would be for the next day, and whether he would want us to come.
Tyler was (overly) concerned about the wear-and-tear on my car Betty, but said we could come if we wanted, and that he would give Betty an oil change if we did.
I called Spencer back and had him tell Mom that we could go. We'd leave around 9 a.m., I proposed, and leave Vermont around 6 p.m.
She was momentarily thrown by the possibility of getting what she wanted, and gave in to it. "Is she serious??" she asked Spencer.
"I think so," he said, his voice muffled on my end of the line.
That's when she began to worry. What about gas money? What about my car? What if Tyler didn't want us to come? What if it was dark when we came back -- we wouldn't get back until 10 p.m., then? What if Tyler was disappointed if we decided not to go? What about the earrings?
"Wait, what earrings?" I asked.
She had told Spencer about earrings on sale at amazon.com last week, but he hadn't gotten them.
"I want something, because I'm moving," she said, her voice strained with the difficulty of expressing any kind of desire. "I wanted something tangible..." She trailed off. I couldn't quite understand what she was talking about.
Later it became clear that what she meant was that she would rather have earrings than a trip to Vermont. She was agonized by the decision between these two things. I was mildly amused.
"Well, Mom, I don't think you need to decide between those two things," I reasoned. "They don't have anything to do with each other. There's no choice you need to make between earrings and Vermont."
"But there aren't any more holidays between now and then," she insisted, her voice increasingly constricted. "There aren't any more times for you to get me anything before I move."
Why she wants earrings -- nice, she said, but not with any particular association with Connecticut or any of the things she'll be leaving when she goes -- is a mystery to me, but not one I feel I need to solve. Sometimes we want what we want. I can understand that.
But her sense of the niggardly universe, the bedrock under her near-desperate attempt to decide -- earrings or Vermont, earrings or Vermont? -- touched me.
It's as though the world has a certain, limited amount of good things in it, and Mom was trying to decide whether she could afford to use up some of her allotment now. If so, use it on what? What did she most want? Whatever she chose, it would have to last her until Christmas. She would have to make sure to choose correctly or spend months and months regretting her profligate spending of the universe's goodwill.
The choice would be an exhausting one, if it were real.
She called me back awhile later, after talking with Tyler, and said "I think we can do it, if we leave at 8 a.m."
"Can we leave at 8:30?" I asked. "That's when I usually leave for work."
She returned instantly to her usual disappointed affect, which sounds ridiculously close to an impression of Eeyore. "No, no, that's okay," she said. "We just won't go."
"But it's only half an hour!" I said.
"But it matters to me," she said.
I gave in with no malice, no point to make, no agenda. How much would that extra half hour of sleep matter, anyway? I like a good road trip.
But she wouldn't give in, insisting that now I would be resentful the whole day, ruining the trip. If we didn't go, Tyler would be disappointed. If we did go, I would be unbearable.
I laughed. "I don't care that much, Mom. Let's go."
There were still the earrings, though. She might rather have the earrings.
I thought this over as I drove to the Asian market and called Mom back from the parking lot.
"Mom, if Tyler changes my oil, that will offset my part of the gas money. I can still get you those earrings," I said.
No, she said, an oil change would cost me only $23. (The earrings are $25.)
"You sound so disappointed, Mom," I said, trying a more direct approach. "I certainly don't want you to be disappointed. The point is to give you what you want on Mother's Day. We can do whatever you want to do -- we can go or not go. What do you want to do? That's the only question."
"Not for me," she said. "You and Spencer can go, and leave me here alone."
I laughed. "Well, Spencer and I could go anywhere and leave you alone tomorrow, if that's what you want, but I didn't think it was."
"Well, at this point," she said, "the day is going to be miserable no matter what I choose. Why did you have to call Tyler first?"
"I feel like you're choosing to be miserable, here," I said mildly. "And there's no reason to. You can choose what you want to choose."
"No. I can't."
I said something that amounted to a verbal shrug and we got off the phone before I went in to select lotus root, canola, cuttlefish and other hot pot necessities. She's supposed to call me later to tell me her final decision, but I doubt we're going to Vermont tomorrow...which leaves us at the original, provicial choice, albeit unhappier than we were when it was first asked: Ponderosa for lunch, or the diner for breakfast.
I think she'll be better at picking out something she wants to eat.
"Ask her where she would want to go if she could go anywhere for Mother's Day," I said.
He did. She said she would want to go see Tyler and Sarah in Vermont.
"Okaaaaaaaay," I said. "Would she really want me to drive her there?"
Mom hasn't driven for years, now, and there are few people on the planet allowed to drive her anywhere -- even fewer allowed to drive her on the highway. I've certainly never driven her anything like the three and a half hours it would take to get to Vermont, let alone turned around and driven the same three and a half hours back in the same day.
On the other hand, I'm never joking about a road trip. I'm always up for it.
Mom reported to Spencer that if I would drive, she would go. So I told Spencer to ask if she'd rather go to Ponderosa or the diner while I called Tyler to see what his plans would be for the next day, and whether he would want us to come.
Tyler was (overly) concerned about the wear-and-tear on my car Betty, but said we could come if we wanted, and that he would give Betty an oil change if we did.
I called Spencer back and had him tell Mom that we could go. We'd leave around 9 a.m., I proposed, and leave Vermont around 6 p.m.
She was momentarily thrown by the possibility of getting what she wanted, and gave in to it. "Is she serious??" she asked Spencer.
"I think so," he said, his voice muffled on my end of the line.
That's when she began to worry. What about gas money? What about my car? What if Tyler didn't want us to come? What if it was dark when we came back -- we wouldn't get back until 10 p.m., then? What if Tyler was disappointed if we decided not to go? What about the earrings?
"Wait, what earrings?" I asked.
She had told Spencer about earrings on sale at amazon.com last week, but he hadn't gotten them.
"I want something, because I'm moving," she said, her voice strained with the difficulty of expressing any kind of desire. "I wanted something tangible..." She trailed off. I couldn't quite understand what she was talking about.
Later it became clear that what she meant was that she would rather have earrings than a trip to Vermont. She was agonized by the decision between these two things. I was mildly amused.
"Well, Mom, I don't think you need to decide between those two things," I reasoned. "They don't have anything to do with each other. There's no choice you need to make between earrings and Vermont."
"But there aren't any more holidays between now and then," she insisted, her voice increasingly constricted. "There aren't any more times for you to get me anything before I move."
Why she wants earrings -- nice, she said, but not with any particular association with Connecticut or any of the things she'll be leaving when she goes -- is a mystery to me, but not one I feel I need to solve. Sometimes we want what we want. I can understand that.
But her sense of the niggardly universe, the bedrock under her near-desperate attempt to decide -- earrings or Vermont, earrings or Vermont? -- touched me.
It's as though the world has a certain, limited amount of good things in it, and Mom was trying to decide whether she could afford to use up some of her allotment now. If so, use it on what? What did she most want? Whatever she chose, it would have to last her until Christmas. She would have to make sure to choose correctly or spend months and months regretting her profligate spending of the universe's goodwill.
The choice would be an exhausting one, if it were real.
She called me back awhile later, after talking with Tyler, and said "I think we can do it, if we leave at 8 a.m."
"Can we leave at 8:30?" I asked. "That's when I usually leave for work."
She returned instantly to her usual disappointed affect, which sounds ridiculously close to an impression of Eeyore. "No, no, that's okay," she said. "We just won't go."
"But it's only half an hour!" I said.
"But it matters to me," she said.
I gave in with no malice, no point to make, no agenda. How much would that extra half hour of sleep matter, anyway? I like a good road trip.
But she wouldn't give in, insisting that now I would be resentful the whole day, ruining the trip. If we didn't go, Tyler would be disappointed. If we did go, I would be unbearable.
I laughed. "I don't care that much, Mom. Let's go."
There were still the earrings, though. She might rather have the earrings.
I thought this over as I drove to the Asian market and called Mom back from the parking lot.
"Mom, if Tyler changes my oil, that will offset my part of the gas money. I can still get you those earrings," I said.
No, she said, an oil change would cost me only $23. (The earrings are $25.)
"You sound so disappointed, Mom," I said, trying a more direct approach. "I certainly don't want you to be disappointed. The point is to give you what you want on Mother's Day. We can do whatever you want to do -- we can go or not go. What do you want to do? That's the only question."
"Not for me," she said. "You and Spencer can go, and leave me here alone."
I laughed. "Well, Spencer and I could go anywhere and leave you alone tomorrow, if that's what you want, but I didn't think it was."
"Well, at this point," she said, "the day is going to be miserable no matter what I choose. Why did you have to call Tyler first?"
"I feel like you're choosing to be miserable, here," I said mildly. "And there's no reason to. You can choose what you want to choose."
"No. I can't."
I said something that amounted to a verbal shrug and we got off the phone before I went in to select lotus root, canola, cuttlefish and other hot pot necessities. She's supposed to call me later to tell me her final decision, but I doubt we're going to Vermont tomorrow...which leaves us at the original, provicial choice, albeit unhappier than we were when it was first asked: Ponderosa for lunch, or the diner for breakfast.
I think she'll be better at picking out something she wants to eat.
Local Trivia: Get some hot pot action
I'm having hot pot tonight, and all of you who know where I live are invited. (Those of you who know my phone number can call for directions.)
I don't know when it will start, but it won't end until really, really late -- so living three, six, or fifteen hours away is no excuse. Leave now and you'll make it.
I don't know when it will start, but it won't end until really, really late -- so living three, six, or fifteen hours away is no excuse. Leave now and you'll make it.
Friday, May 9, 2008
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Confessions X
I once wore my adult size small "DARE" T-shirt to school, as a dress.
I like to wear my towel around my apartment for at least fifteen minutes after showering; I do this despite owning three bathrobes.
Today I am illegally wearing my mother's old Navy* seaman's shirt.
*That's "the shirt from when she was in the Navy twenty years ago," not "the shirt she bought at the Old Navy department store."
I like to wear my towel around my apartment for at least fifteen minutes after showering; I do this despite owning three bathrobes.
Today I am illegally wearing my mother's old Navy* seaman's shirt.
*That's "the shirt from when she was in the Navy twenty years ago," not "the shirt she bought at the Old Navy department store."
"Pick a good one -- the red kind."
--My girl, responding to her misapprehension that I was going to pack myself raw onions for lunch tomorrow.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Local Trivia: Acapulco
The Acapulco Restaurant, in downtown New Britain, CT, may be part of a chain. If it is, they disguise this by having exactly the same amenities and decor that they would have if they were an independently-operated restaurant with owners who didn't care at all about amenities, or decor. It's more likely that they're actually independent, rather than that they made sure to incorporate all the pitfalls and none of the local-color-benefits of an independent restaurant into their franchise plan.
Either way, Acapulco is the only place I've been to in central CT that serves goat tacos.
Yum.
Either way, Acapulco is the only place I've been to in central CT that serves goat tacos.
Yum.
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
My third job: THIS ONE GOES TO 11.
I have a temporary third job this week -- that is, unless you count the newspaper, in which case it's a temporary fourth job -- as I had for two weeks back in March. The gig only lasts 25 hours, five hours per evening, five weeknights in a row, which was the only (ONLY) reason I agreed to do it. If it had been even one moment more permanent than this, I would have thrown financial caution to the wind and boldly declared myself "not for sale."
Which made it all the more alarming and agitating when I arrived at the site last night and found that the supervisor wanted my client to work a 30 hour week, making my schedule 5-11 p.m. instead of the already lamentable 5-10 p.m.
Was I told about this in advance?
Come to think -- and complain -- of it, was I told where the site was when I agreed to do the job? Was I given ANY information about the client in advance? Was I even told his name without needing to ask?
Why even bother answering these questions when the fact that I'm asking them becomes the answer?
All I want is the absolute minimum amount of information and attention required for me to DO MY JOB. AND THEY WILL NOT GIVE IT TO ME.
I called my supervisor for this job and asked her if she could email me the report questions as she had said she would do yesterday. She said she didn't think she had time, and asked if I had written them down when she read them to me yesterday; I said that she had not read any questions to me yesterday. She insisted that she had. She then proceeded to read me the same thing she had read the day before -- a series of statements from the counselor handling the case -- and formed them into questions.
Okay. I'm trying to breathe deeply, but for some reason, the only thing I can think of that might save me is an entire cake. And I don't even really like cake.
The thing about this level of oversight -- that is, ABSOLUTELY ZERO OVERSIGHT -- is that I could go to the site tonight, tomorrow, and for the rest of the week, and sit somewhere reading the newspaper or playing video games or listening to my ipod (if I had either of those last two things), write some crappy report (which would be badly edited) based on making no actual observations of the client, and get paid the exact same amount of money and get the exact same credit for "a job well done" as if I actually did my job.
Of course, I will DO my job, because as my girl would say, I'm "a good person."
But if they're paying me for being a good person, they should be paying my weight -- my pre-anorexic weight -- in gold. Ethics and responsibility aren't free, and they should bear some of the cost. I've already given up every weeknight and the good mood I woke up in this morning.
Which made it all the more alarming and agitating when I arrived at the site last night and found that the supervisor wanted my client to work a 30 hour week, making my schedule 5-11 p.m. instead of the already lamentable 5-10 p.m.
Was I told about this in advance?
Come to think -- and complain -- of it, was I told where the site was when I agreed to do the job? Was I given ANY information about the client in advance? Was I even told his name without needing to ask?
Why even bother answering these questions when the fact that I'm asking them becomes the answer?
All I want is the absolute minimum amount of information and attention required for me to DO MY JOB. AND THEY WILL NOT GIVE IT TO ME.
I called my supervisor for this job and asked her if she could email me the report questions as she had said she would do yesterday. She said she didn't think she had time, and asked if I had written them down when she read them to me yesterday; I said that she had not read any questions to me yesterday. She insisted that she had. She then proceeded to read me the same thing she had read the day before -- a series of statements from the counselor handling the case -- and formed them into questions.
Okay. I'm trying to breathe deeply, but for some reason, the only thing I can think of that might save me is an entire cake. And I don't even really like cake.
The thing about this level of oversight -- that is, ABSOLUTELY ZERO OVERSIGHT -- is that I could go to the site tonight, tomorrow, and for the rest of the week, and sit somewhere reading the newspaper or playing video games or listening to my ipod (if I had either of those last two things), write some crappy report (which would be badly edited) based on making no actual observations of the client, and get paid the exact same amount of money and get the exact same credit for "a job well done" as if I actually did my job.
Of course, I will DO my job, because as my girl would say, I'm "a good person."
But if they're paying me for being a good person, they should be paying my weight -- my pre-anorexic weight -- in gold. Ethics and responsibility aren't free, and they should bear some of the cost. I've already given up every weeknight and the good mood I woke up in this morning.
Mix: Anaerobic
"Mrs. Morgan" --DC Talk
"Aaja Nachle" --Monsoon Wedding soundtrack
"Not Gonna Get Us" --T.A.T.U.
"Don't Let Me Get Me" --Pink
Track 6 from Chinese mix ("Bounce with me" aka "Chinese Daddy Cool")
"Opportunities" --Pet Shop Boys
"Saqi-Naha" --Junoon (sponsored by Coke, "for sale only in Pakistan")
"Un Poco Loco" --Fey
Track 1 from Elva ("Shenme Dongxi")
"Maneater" --Nelly Furtado
"Malchik Gei" --T.A.T.U.
"What Is Love?" --Haddaway
"Because We Can" --Fatboy Slim
If you would like a CD copy of this mix, send your address to Alicia's email.
"Aaja Nachle" --Monsoon Wedding soundtrack
"Not Gonna Get Us" --T.A.T.U.
"Don't Let Me Get Me" --Pink
Track 6 from Chinese mix ("Bounce with me" aka "Chinese Daddy Cool")
"Opportunities" --Pet Shop Boys
"Saqi-Naha" --Junoon (sponsored by Coke, "for sale only in Pakistan")
"Un Poco Loco" --Fey
Track 1 from Elva ("Shenme Dongxi")
"Maneater" --Nelly Furtado
"Malchik Gei" --T.A.T.U.
"What Is Love?" --Haddaway
"Because We Can" --Fatboy Slim
If you would like a CD copy of this mix, send your address to Alicia's email.
Mix: GRRL PWWR
"Girls Just Want To Have Fun" --Cyndy Lauper
"Perfect Day" --Cranberries
"Walking on Broken Glass" --Annie Lennox
Track 1 -- Elva Hsiao ("Shenme Dongxi")
"Ciega, Sordomuda" --Shakira
"Saint Andrew (This Battle is in the Air)" --White Stripes
"Galileo" --Indigo Girls
"Set the Fire to the Third Bar" --Snow Patrol with Martha Wainwright
"This Woman's Work" --Kate Bush
"Say It Right" --Nelly Furtado
"Too Little Too Late" --Jojo
"Stranded" --Plumb
"Fear" --Sarah McLachlan
"Honestly OK" --Dido
"Analyse" --Cranberries
If you would like a CD copy of this mix, send your address to Alicia's email.
"Perfect Day" --Cranberries
"Walking on Broken Glass" --Annie Lennox
Track 1 -- Elva Hsiao ("Shenme Dongxi")
"Ciega, Sordomuda" --Shakira
"Saint Andrew (This Battle is in the Air)" --White Stripes
"Galileo" --Indigo Girls
"Set the Fire to the Third Bar" --Snow Patrol with Martha Wainwright
"This Woman's Work" --Kate Bush
"Say It Right" --Nelly Furtado
"Too Little Too Late" --Jojo
"Stranded" --Plumb
"Fear" --Sarah McLachlan
"Honestly OK" --Dido
"Analyse" --Cranberries
If you would like a CD copy of this mix, send your address to Alicia's email.
Sunday, May 4, 2008
Back off, bud-dy.
I hate tree buds. I've always hated tree buds.
I recall with disgust my springtime walks to my elementary school (three blocks away) and how carefully I had to tiptoe past certain red-budded trees on my street, to avoid squishing any of the offending tree parts onto the bottom of my shoe. It was worse, I felt, stepping on a tree bud than on a post-rainstorm above-ground earthworm.
I don't know why I felt this way, or feel this way, but plants seem to be at the -- ahem -- root of many of my fears.
In my waking life, at the same time I was shuddering and loathing the tree-bud lined walk to school, I had a poem published in the local paper that began (and this is all of my poetry you will ever read) "Blossoming flowers, budding trees: Spring, spring is all of these." (I was eight or so.) By fifth grade, I had become a surly human-hater, wishing we stupid people would just leave the environment alone, already. In seventh grade, I debated the ethics of pulling up baby maple trees for five cents a tree, from my grandma's side-yard groundcover. (I earned five dollars.)
I wrote a petition in elementary school and tried to get all of my friends to sign it. I was an embarrassingly earnest child: It was written to my next-door neighbor and stated that if he tried to mow his lawn again -- there were small trees growing in some patches of his grass -- my friends and I would stop him by forming a human chain around the tree-filled area.
Providence intervened to prevent me from ever presenting this petition to our neighbor. Only two other people signed it.
Later, much later in life, despite all I had done for them, plants began figuring prominently in my nightmares. (For instance, the tomato dream, the recollection of which chills me even now.)
Maybe it's because I've never been able to keep a houseplant alive for longer than four months.
I recall with disgust my springtime walks to my elementary school (three blocks away) and how carefully I had to tiptoe past certain red-budded trees on my street, to avoid squishing any of the offending tree parts onto the bottom of my shoe. It was worse, I felt, stepping on a tree bud than on a post-rainstorm above-ground earthworm.
I don't know why I felt this way, or feel this way, but plants seem to be at the -- ahem -- root of many of my fears.
In my waking life, at the same time I was shuddering and loathing the tree-bud lined walk to school, I had a poem published in the local paper that began (and this is all of my poetry you will ever read) "Blossoming flowers, budding trees: Spring, spring is all of these." (I was eight or so.) By fifth grade, I had become a surly human-hater, wishing we stupid people would just leave the environment alone, already. In seventh grade, I debated the ethics of pulling up baby maple trees for five cents a tree, from my grandma's side-yard groundcover. (I earned five dollars.)
I wrote a petition in elementary school and tried to get all of my friends to sign it. I was an embarrassingly earnest child: It was written to my next-door neighbor and stated that if he tried to mow his lawn again -- there were small trees growing in some patches of his grass -- my friends and I would stop him by forming a human chain around the tree-filled area.
Providence intervened to prevent me from ever presenting this petition to our neighbor. Only two other people signed it.
Later, much later in life, despite all I had done for them, plants began figuring prominently in my nightmares. (For instance, the tomato dream, the recollection of which chills me even now.)
Maybe it's because I've never been able to keep a houseplant alive for longer than four months.
Saturday, May 3, 2008
Derbys are better than Bowlers
There are only a few professional sports that I will watch on TV, and most of them hold more of a morbid fascination for me than a genuine "go team go!" interest.
I have watched the X-games. I have seen the Outdoor games, which include caber-tossing. I have watched entire poker tournaments, if that counts as a sport, and I have paused while channel-surfing to see how the bulls are bucking in the PBR.
And I have watched professional bowling. It was at least as boring as you'd think it would be, since everyone got a 300 on every game. I imagine the appeal is similar to NASCAR's -- you're just waiting for someone to mess up -- but without the visceral reaction you get watching a car crash, when someone eventually mis-bowls.
None of these really compare to the Kentucky Derby, which is running today, and which I almost cried at watching last year. Curlin' was just so game.
Tell me how it goes, Derby-watchers. I don't have a favorite horse this year -- but I'm rooting for a Triple Crown.
I have watched the X-games. I have seen the Outdoor games, which include caber-tossing. I have watched entire poker tournaments, if that counts as a sport, and I have paused while channel-surfing to see how the bulls are bucking in the PBR.
And I have watched professional bowling. It was at least as boring as you'd think it would be, since everyone got a 300 on every game. I imagine the appeal is similar to NASCAR's -- you're just waiting for someone to mess up -- but without the visceral reaction you get watching a car crash, when someone eventually mis-bowls.
None of these really compare to the Kentucky Derby, which is running today, and which I almost cried at watching last year. Curlin' was just so game.
Tell me how it goes, Derby-watchers. I don't have a favorite horse this year -- but I'm rooting for a Triple Crown.
Cosmopolitan: "The Sexy Issue"
Finally, we can now learn the secret of the 1.7 positions Cosmopolitan magazine has not told us about in its 122 years of publication.
My prediction: something involving bungee jumping and an elephant.
My prediction: something involving bungee jumping and an elephant.
Friday, May 2, 2008
Carte Blanche 2: "What is the Punching Philosophy and how can I apply it to my life?"
Excellent question, Jeannette, and I'm glad you asked. (Hint, hint to everyone who hasn't asked a carte blanche question yet.)
There are a few simple principles that make up the foundation of the Punching Philosophy, but it can be summarized in one sentence:
Some people in life need to be punched, for their own good and the good of society.
There are times when calm intellectual discussion is ineffective, usually when the person needing to be punched is so worked up as to be unable to respond on a relevant cognitive level. Similar to the silver-screen slap on the face, a well-placed punch can remind the punchee that his or her behavior is inappropriate and needs to be halted. It should allow the punchee to pause (in shock) and change mental course, engaging the thinking parts of the brain rather than the often-at-fault limbic system.
In these cases, a punch should be thrown, preferably to the face or stomach, in an honest attempt to halt the offending behavior -- or impending dangerous or criminal behavior -- rather than in anger, and should be followed by an explanation as soon as the punchee has recovered his or her faculties enough to understand it.
I've considered myself a pacifist for eight or nine years now, and have been against capital punishment much longer than that, so you might be wondering: Alicia, why do you espouse a philosophy that relies on physical violence for corrective effect?
Well, because nothing else is as effective -- when the situation requires immediate remediation and the punchee is too overwrought to be reasoned with -- and because a reasonable, nonlethal application of force may be a moral high ground when the alternative is psychological manipulation. It could be argued to good effect that I adhere to the punching philosophy because I'm a pacifist. (But I won't argue that here.)
As for applying the Punching Philosophy in your everyday life, my advice is to try to avoid it whenever possible. Try reasoning with potential punchees; if they are able to keep their cool, even an intense disagreement should not be considered cause for Punching Philosophy application. Only when the punchee has become dangerous to self or others, is foaming at the mouth or is actually reaching for you or someone else, should you use the Punching Philosophy.
If you cannot avoid it, try to make the first punch hard enough to shock or knock out: Remember, you're not looking for a fight. You're trying to create an opportunity to work through your problems via discussion. (You're also not looking to break someone's nose.)
Try not to telegraph your punch, as surprise will help your punch to have greater impact.
These and other corollaries to living a nonviolent life have been inspired by "10 Things I Hate About You" and other Shakespeare adaptations.
There are a few simple principles that make up the foundation of the Punching Philosophy, but it can be summarized in one sentence:
Some people in life need to be punched, for their own good and the good of society.
There are times when calm intellectual discussion is ineffective, usually when the person needing to be punched is so worked up as to be unable to respond on a relevant cognitive level. Similar to the silver-screen slap on the face, a well-placed punch can remind the punchee that his or her behavior is inappropriate and needs to be halted. It should allow the punchee to pause (in shock) and change mental course, engaging the thinking parts of the brain rather than the often-at-fault limbic system.
In these cases, a punch should be thrown, preferably to the face or stomach, in an honest attempt to halt the offending behavior -- or impending dangerous or criminal behavior -- rather than in anger, and should be followed by an explanation as soon as the punchee has recovered his or her faculties enough to understand it.
I've considered myself a pacifist for eight or nine years now, and have been against capital punishment much longer than that, so you might be wondering: Alicia, why do you espouse a philosophy that relies on physical violence for corrective effect?
Well, because nothing else is as effective -- when the situation requires immediate remediation and the punchee is too overwrought to be reasoned with -- and because a reasonable, nonlethal application of force may be a moral high ground when the alternative is psychological manipulation. It could be argued to good effect that I adhere to the punching philosophy because I'm a pacifist. (But I won't argue that here.)
As for applying the Punching Philosophy in your everyday life, my advice is to try to avoid it whenever possible. Try reasoning with potential punchees; if they are able to keep their cool, even an intense disagreement should not be considered cause for Punching Philosophy application. Only when the punchee has become dangerous to self or others, is foaming at the mouth or is actually reaching for you or someone else, should you use the Punching Philosophy.
If you cannot avoid it, try to make the first punch hard enough to shock or knock out: Remember, you're not looking for a fight. You're trying to create an opportunity to work through your problems via discussion. (You're also not looking to break someone's nose.)
Try not to telegraph your punch, as surprise will help your punch to have greater impact.
These and other corollaries to living a nonviolent life have been inspired by "10 Things I Hate About You" and other Shakespeare adaptations.
Local trivia: What I learned in social studies class when the Berlin Wall fell
How to spell Lake Chargoggagoggmanchauggagoggchaubunagungamaugg in under ten seconds.
Thursday, May 1, 2008
My "Get Smart Quick" scheme
When I was in seventh grade, I frequently slept over then-best-friend Kelly's house, where I would be exposed to such influences as the dance routine she made up for The Proclaimer's "500 Miles" and the exact combination of buttons used to cause Sonja's "kiss of death" to incinerate her enemies. Kelly loved the WWF -- the fake-wrestling one, not the tree-hugger one (whose magazine I received monthly) -- and R.L. Stine, which was lucky for me, because it meant I never had to buy an R.L. Stine book myself.
But extracurriculars aside, Kelly and I were in the same class at our middle school: seventh grade honors. Our class, like the eighth grade honors class, met in the basement of our middle school, where we were more or less isolated from the rest of the student body. Our "cluster" -- the group of classes that rotated through the same teachers through the day -- included seventh and eighth grade honors and seventh and eighth grade stay-backs. Our cluster was the only one with a separate school entrance, around the side and to the back of the building where we could get direct access to the basement level. The car bay was sheltered in the L of the building and curled around like a snail shell, letting parents slowly let their children -- us -- out one by one before curving back out to the parking lots in front.
I got the distinct impression that school officials were segregating us, keeping us from contamination -- but whether it was the fear of us being contaminated, or contaminating others, was anybody's guess.
Kelly and I, being "gifted and talented," had that classic honors-student combination of perfectionism, ingenuity and laziness. That being the case, the Friday night before a big Monday science test, we found ourselves in her bedroom -- The Undertaker staring menacingly at us from postered walls -- thinking up new ways to study without effort.
We had been talking about ESP in language arts class, for reasons I cannot begin to recall, and Kelly and I had set our minds (literally) to learning telekenesis. For about a week, we met on a daily basis in my basement and focused our "mental energies" on moving a very small piece of paper. It probably never worked, though I can't say for certain: The basement was drafty.
My mind must have been wandering over these facts as I sought an answer to the perennial question of how to get an A with the least possible effort, because I had a sudden epiphany.
"Subliminal studying," I said to Kelly, breathless.
"What?" Kelly asked, distracted by a Star Trek rerun.
"We can study for our test subliminally," I said.
"What do you mean?" This time I had her attention.
"We can make a tape with all the information from the chapter on it, and then listen to it while we sleep," I said. Kelly seemed impressed. The Undertaker seemed unmoved.
So we got to work. Kelly had a karaoke/recording stereo that had the necessary microphone. We took turns reading the chapter. We would share the tape: One of us could listen to it Saturday night, one Sunday, and by Monday morning, we would both have a perfect working knowledge of botany.
My only memory from this experience is of sitting in Kelly's darkened room, reading softly into the microphone as I tried not to wake her, long after we had turned off Star Trek. "Potatoes are tubers," I read, congratulating myself on my brilliant scheme.
Listening to the tape as I slept, of course, had no discernible effect on my retention. In fact, all I remember from the entire year of science is the above fact about potatoes.
But having read the entire chapter aloud on Friday night, I did very well on the test.
But extracurriculars aside, Kelly and I were in the same class at our middle school: seventh grade honors. Our class, like the eighth grade honors class, met in the basement of our middle school, where we were more or less isolated from the rest of the student body. Our "cluster" -- the group of classes that rotated through the same teachers through the day -- included seventh and eighth grade honors and seventh and eighth grade stay-backs. Our cluster was the only one with a separate school entrance, around the side and to the back of the building where we could get direct access to the basement level. The car bay was sheltered in the L of the building and curled around like a snail shell, letting parents slowly let their children -- us -- out one by one before curving back out to the parking lots in front.
I got the distinct impression that school officials were segregating us, keeping us from contamination -- but whether it was the fear of us being contaminated, or contaminating others, was anybody's guess.
Kelly and I, being "gifted and talented," had that classic honors-student combination of perfectionism, ingenuity and laziness. That being the case, the Friday night before a big Monday science test, we found ourselves in her bedroom -- The Undertaker staring menacingly at us from postered walls -- thinking up new ways to study without effort.
We had been talking about ESP in language arts class, for reasons I cannot begin to recall, and Kelly and I had set our minds (literally) to learning telekenesis. For about a week, we met on a daily basis in my basement and focused our "mental energies" on moving a very small piece of paper. It probably never worked, though I can't say for certain: The basement was drafty.
My mind must have been wandering over these facts as I sought an answer to the perennial question of how to get an A with the least possible effort, because I had a sudden epiphany.
"Subliminal studying," I said to Kelly, breathless.
"What?" Kelly asked, distracted by a Star Trek rerun.
"We can study for our test subliminally," I said.
"What do you mean?" This time I had her attention.
"We can make a tape with all the information from the chapter on it, and then listen to it while we sleep," I said. Kelly seemed impressed. The Undertaker seemed unmoved.
So we got to work. Kelly had a karaoke/recording stereo that had the necessary microphone. We took turns reading the chapter. We would share the tape: One of us could listen to it Saturday night, one Sunday, and by Monday morning, we would both have a perfect working knowledge of botany.
My only memory from this experience is of sitting in Kelly's darkened room, reading softly into the microphone as I tried not to wake her, long after we had turned off Star Trek. "Potatoes are tubers," I read, congratulating myself on my brilliant scheme.
Listening to the tape as I slept, of course, had no discernible effect on my retention. In fact, all I remember from the entire year of science is the above fact about potatoes.
But having read the entire chapter aloud on Friday night, I did very well on the test.
Local Trivia: We're not at camp, and I'm not six.
Most patronizing/insulting/grammatically insufferable bathroom graffiti ever, hung on paper outside stall doors in ladies' room:
"If you Sprinkle when you Tinkle -- Please Wipe the Seat."
"If you Sprinkle when you Tinkle -- Please Wipe the Seat."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)