"I Am A Man Of Constant Sorrows" -- Alison Krauss and Union Station
"Make Me" -- Heart
"In The House of Tom Bombadil" -- Nickel Creek
"At the Bottom of Everything" -- Bright Eyes
"Looking for Astronauts" -- The National
"Lazy Eye (Bluegrass Tribute to Silversun Pickups)" -- Radical Re-interpretations
"Simple Man" -- Lynyrd Skynyrd
"Can't Hurry Love" -- Dixie Chicks
"Down To The River to Pray" -- Alison Krauss and Union Station
"Coyotes" -- Don Edwards
Bonus track: "Twist Of The Magi" -- Shedaisy
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Saturday, August 30, 2008
PSA: Unpheromones
Yesterday at Pizza Hut, I made a male employee I'd never seen drop a bucket lid he was holding. I was just standing there.
"I'm clumsy sometimes," he said, and smiled at me goofily.
Another male employee I'd never seen stopped in the middle of his work in the walk-in fridge when I went to put some dishes away, and asked me with a note of sincerity in his voice, "so how are you today?"
"Fine," I said, and left the freezing room.
Well. I'm not quite sure what to make of it all, frankly. I seem to have developed some kind of superpowers over the last who-knows-how-long. Which begs the question: Is it finally time to write to my celebrity crush and ask him if he'll marry me?
I'll let you know what James Spader says.
"I'm clumsy sometimes," he said, and smiled at me goofily.
Another male employee I'd never seen stopped in the middle of his work in the walk-in fridge when I went to put some dishes away, and asked me with a note of sincerity in his voice, "so how are you today?"
"Fine," I said, and left the freezing room.
Well. I'm not quite sure what to make of it all, frankly. I seem to have developed some kind of superpowers over the last who-knows-how-long. Which begs the question: Is it finally time to write to my celebrity crush and ask him if he'll marry me?
I'll let you know what James Spader says.
Friday, August 29, 2008
Local Trivia: Oh, those summer nights of our youths.
In the paper's parking lot last night as we left, near the overpass at the back, were some youths, obviously conspiring. After a minute or so of paying half-hearted attention, we saw three of them take off across the parking lot toward the street, and one of them yelled "you didn't see nothin'!"
A few seconds later, a moped-dirtbike type thing rode off with another youth on it, and a fifth youth eventually followed, running.
A pickup truck pulled up to the light at the corner where the overpass is a minute later, and the last running youth was called by his cohort in the truck -- when he heard them shouting at him, he reversed direction to run toward the truck and catapulted himself into the pickup bed -- it was like watching a pole vault, minus the pole: graceful and probably painful.
Approaching the spot at which they'd been committing whatever hijinks they were up to, we climbed onto these giant cement slabs that hold a giant piece of plywood up to a hole in a fence there.
"Oh," I said as it hit me. "This is the impound lot, isn't it?"
The police station is just beyond the overpass and their impound lot is housed directly underneath.
They got their dirtbike back.
A few seconds later, a moped-dirtbike type thing rode off with another youth on it, and a fifth youth eventually followed, running.
A pickup truck pulled up to the light at the corner where the overpass is a minute later, and the last running youth was called by his cohort in the truck -- when he heard them shouting at him, he reversed direction to run toward the truck and catapulted himself into the pickup bed -- it was like watching a pole vault, minus the pole: graceful and probably painful.
Approaching the spot at which they'd been committing whatever hijinks they were up to, we climbed onto these giant cement slabs that hold a giant piece of plywood up to a hole in a fence there.
"Oh," I said as it hit me. "This is the impound lot, isn't it?"
The police station is just beyond the overpass and their impound lot is housed directly underneath.
They got their dirtbike back.
Local Trivia: Hot wax women.
Yesterday, I went to the Mashantucket Pequot Museum and Research Center, where I saw the most lifelike human figures I've ever seen. I don't know whether they were made of wax or some other material -- despite my fixing my gaze on one Pequot man in a canoe for two minutes to see if he would take a breath.
Thanks in part to my recent weight loss as well as the intrinsic interest in seeing topless women whatever your gender or sexual preference, I spent much of my time staring at the breasts of the half-naked, historically accurate fake Pequot women. This activity led me to draw two conclusions, either of which would explain the almost preternatural perfection of these women:
Thanks in part to my recent weight loss as well as the intrinsic interest in seeing topless women whatever your gender or sexual preference, I spent much of my time staring at the breasts of the half-naked, historically accurate fake Pequot women. This activity led me to draw two conclusions, either of which would explain the almost preternatural perfection of these women:
1. The same model posed for all the Pequot women's bodies, and the sculptor, who had never seen a National Geographic in his (it had to be a man) life, made some allowance for age -- but not much.
2. Had they lived today, Pequot women with their indomitable genes would be to a woman shopping for C/C+ intimate apparel and remain gravity-defyingly "perky" well past motherhood, even into their Tribal Elder Council years.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
PSA: What more people need to see
"More people need to see how STUPID they are."
-Debbie Rich, comments
Mashantucket Pequot Museum and Research Center
Race exhibit, August 2008
-Debbie Rich, comments
Mashantucket Pequot Museum and Research Center
Race exhibit, August 2008
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
PSA: Birthday media breakdown
..................... TV on DVD...........CDs...........books
Family ................3.....................2..................0
Friends................1.....................0..................5
Family ................3.....................2..................0
Friends................1.....................0..................5
Local Trivia: No joke.
Observed: An elderly man, white beard, in black pants, wearing a black jean jacket over a Heath-Ledger-Joker T-shirt, with a Heath-Ledger-Joker's head decal baseball cap.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Local Trivia: She's like a tiger in the bathroom.
The Plainville Public Library's women's room toilet flushes so loudly that it sounds like a mountain lion roaring before it pounces, every time.
PSA: Things that surprised Sharon at my family birthday party
The laying on of hands for the "birthday prayer"
The persistence of my aunt in trying to convince me to go on a blind date
The interrogation of my church-going practices: "Were you in church on Sunday? When was the last time you were in church? This year, sometime?"
Joking about gambling, particularly the discussion of the buffet at the casino
That my aunt -- the one asking when I'd last been in church, and trying to set me up with a church boy -- thinks the Jewish tradition of bar mitzvahs are "beautiful and deep"
That the same aunt spent about a minute trying to remember my last name, and also asked when Tyler's wedding would be (it happened in April)
The persistence of my aunt in trying to convince me to go on a blind date
The interrogation of my church-going practices: "Were you in church on Sunday? When was the last time you were in church? This year, sometime?"
Joking about gambling, particularly the discussion of the buffet at the casino
That my aunt -- the one asking when I'd last been in church, and trying to set me up with a church boy -- thinks the Jewish tradition of bar mitzvahs are "beautiful and deep"
That the same aunt spent about a minute trying to remember my last name, and also asked when Tyler's wedding would be (it happened in April)
Monday, August 25, 2008
PSA: Author able to make "gulag" funny needed, ASAP
I did not know until today, but Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn died this month.
I've never read a book quite like Gulag Archipelago for making enforced captivity seem life-affirming and even hilarious at times. We clearly have a niche in need of a writer, here.
I've never read a book quite like Gulag Archipelago for making enforced captivity seem life-affirming and even hilarious at times. We clearly have a niche in need of a writer, here.
Local Trivia: There must be something in the water...or the pavement.
The number of men "on the street" who've hit on me in the last week:
5.
5.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Accusations VII
The regional manager of the Pizza Hut, who threw out my blue plastic sheepdog cup Friday morning when I left it sitting where I always do in the back room. (I had to fish it out of the trash.)
Celine Dion, for covering Heart's "Alone." And somehow, unimaginably, making it whinier -- and not in a good way.
Whoever left all those rubber bands on the sidewalk in Cambridge, MA last week -- not for littering, no, but for giving false hope to rubber band shooters who then found those bands brittle and ready to snap at the slightest provocation. For shame, sir. For shame.
Celine Dion, for covering Heart's "Alone." And somehow, unimaginably, making it whinier -- and not in a good way.
Whoever left all those rubber bands on the sidewalk in Cambridge, MA last week -- not for littering, no, but for giving false hope to rubber band shooters who then found those bands brittle and ready to snap at the slightest provocation. For shame, sir. For shame.
Yearbook Quotes: "What a long, strange trip it's been..." (deep thoughts)
“Someday, people might just survive off of batteries that they tested on their tongues! I know that made like, no sense, but hey! That’s life.”
“Isn’t Millhouse great? That blue hair, coke-bottle glasses…he’s just dreamy.”
“I can’t believe we’re almost seniors. PART II: I can’t believe we’re…oh, wait, I already said that.”
“Besides, shoes that are pointed are better than shoes that are rounded.”
“You need to go. So I’ll write very fast and not give this any thought. I’ll be smudging up a storm but who cares. (It gives character.) Well now that I’m rushed and can’t think of what to put. You need to go. So bye.”
“Have a great summer and stay away from the communists.”
“Isn’t Millhouse great? That blue hair, coke-bottle glasses…he’s just dreamy.”
“I can’t believe we’re almost seniors. PART II: I can’t believe we’re…oh, wait, I already said that.”
“Besides, shoes that are pointed are better than shoes that are rounded.”
“You need to go. So I’ll write very fast and not give this any thought. I’ll be smudging up a storm but who cares. (It gives character.) Well now that I’m rushed and can’t think of what to put. You need to go. So bye.”
“Have a great summer and stay away from the communists.”
Saturday, August 23, 2008
PSA: Birthtimes
So everybody in the world has one of 366 birthdates, and with 6 billion people alive just now, that's a lot of people per day. I guess the Leap day babies are exceptional, but other than them, we're all in pretty much the same very crowded boat.
I've always remembered birth times, though, and I think that might be the way to separate us all.
I was born at 12:48 p.m. on a Sunday. I always liked that 12 went into 48 perfectly, four times. Although "four" in Chinese sounds like "death," I associate it with nature -- as in, the four seasons. And in China, the four seasons are also associated with different personality characteristics, flowers and ideas, so there's a good Chinese side.
Tyler was born at 3:34 p.m. on a Tuesday, I believe. He was born in 19 minutes, is how the story goes, though I believe that was 19 minutes after Mom arrived at the hospital, and they used forceps, which may or may not have affected the shape of his head. Still, if I ever end up having a kid or kids, these are the genes I hope have been passed on.
Spencer was born at 2:44 p.m. on a Wednesday, though I doubt the accuracy of the doctor's watch in this instance, simply because I'd prayed for him to be born at 2:47 p.m. (And if God gets you within three minutes, why wouldn't God make it precisely what you asked for?) When I prayed this during evening prayers the night before Mom went in to be induced (at 9 a.m.), she asked why I had prayed it; I said I didn't know. I still don't.
I've always remembered birth times, though, and I think that might be the way to separate us all.
I was born at 12:48 p.m. on a Sunday. I always liked that 12 went into 48 perfectly, four times. Although "four" in Chinese sounds like "death," I associate it with nature -- as in, the four seasons. And in China, the four seasons are also associated with different personality characteristics, flowers and ideas, so there's a good Chinese side.
Tyler was born at 3:34 p.m. on a Tuesday, I believe. He was born in 19 minutes, is how the story goes, though I believe that was 19 minutes after Mom arrived at the hospital, and they used forceps, which may or may not have affected the shape of his head. Still, if I ever end up having a kid or kids, these are the genes I hope have been passed on.
Spencer was born at 2:44 p.m. on a Wednesday, though I doubt the accuracy of the doctor's watch in this instance, simply because I'd prayed for him to be born at 2:47 p.m. (And if God gets you within three minutes, why wouldn't God make it precisely what you asked for?) When I prayed this during evening prayers the night before Mom went in to be induced (at 9 a.m.), she asked why I had prayed it; I said I didn't know. I still don't.
Friday, August 22, 2008
PSA: What is it about Goats??
In what we have to assume is a bizarre phrasing error, Holiday Mathis today told Capricorns they could have sex with anyone they wanted:
She could've at least put "them" at the end.
(No one likes to be thought of as an "it," Holiday.)
Your attitude is so winning, people want you to get closer to them, join their teams and be a partner in revelry. It's as easy as thinking about the whom and what you want to do, and then doing it.
She could've at least put "them" at the end.
(No one likes to be thought of as an "it," Holiday.)
Confessions XIX
Today I tried on the "Today's My Day" t-shirt I got from the Ground Round when I had my birthday party there, just to see.
It fit.
That Ground Round party was for my fifth birthday.
Yearbook Quotes: "Never change" (compliments)
“Hey psycho!”
“Bite me you freak!!”
“I believe that, despite what anyone else says, your life will get better.”
“Hi, See ya next year.” [In my senior yearbook]
“Keep playing trumpet or whatever you play.”
“I don’t really know you…”
“I don’t know how I’d be able to do my work without your senseless babbling…”
“YOU ARE A PARTY ANIMAL. WHERE DID YOU GET THAT WHIPPED CREAM & HOW ON EARTH DID YOU DO THAT THING WITH YOUR LEG. BAND WAS OK.”
“Bite me you freak!!”
“I believe that, despite what anyone else says, your life will get better.”
“Hi, See ya next year.” [In my senior yearbook]
“Keep playing trumpet or whatever you play.”
“I don’t really know you…”
“I don’t know how I’d be able to do my work without your senseless babbling…”
“YOU ARE A PARTY ANIMAL. WHERE DID YOU GET THAT WHIPPED CREAM & HOW ON EARTH DID YOU DO THAT THING WITH YOUR LEG. BAND WAS OK.”
PSA: I an t ear ou, y u re br k ng up
I ordered a new phone yesterday -- exactly the same phone, but a new one.
I figure if it's survived a year of the kind of abuse I inflict on electronics, my LG deserves another chance. Maybe this time I'll get some sort of protective sleeve, though: $184 is no joke.
But it will be worth it if you're all able to hear me loud and clear 2-4 business days from now.
I figure if it's survived a year of the kind of abuse I inflict on electronics, my LG deserves another chance. Maybe this time I'll get some sort of protective sleeve, though: $184 is no joke.
But it will be worth it if you're all able to hear me loud and clear 2-4 business days from now.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Horrorscopes
The Biblical injunction against reading horoscopes, and consulting Tarot cards and holding seances and the like, doesn't make sense until you try them. There is a certain horror that builds over time and exposure to these predestining forces, the creeping sensation that you are being controlled by external means, and impersonal ones.
"Oh," you find yourself thinking, almost accidentally, in response to a prediction that your weekend will be difficult. "I have to prepare."
Of course it starts with predictions you want to believe -- good ones, proving you're lovely or loving or loved. But they turn, even the best ones, to control. They promise structure and predictability and a certain kind of safety, by robbing you of your freedom.
It's similar to Calvinist predestination, to being a "sinner in the hands of an angry God," but with only the swirls of dust, gases and chemicals that make up stars and constellations as Fates. There is no way to win their favor or assuage their wrath. They have none of the hot temper of (the desert God) YHWH.
They're colder, in other words. Horoscopes lead into a cold hell.
"Oh," you find yourself thinking, almost accidentally, in response to a prediction that your weekend will be difficult. "I have to prepare."
Of course it starts with predictions you want to believe -- good ones, proving you're lovely or loving or loved. But they turn, even the best ones, to control. They promise structure and predictability and a certain kind of safety, by robbing you of your freedom.
It's similar to Calvinist predestination, to being a "sinner in the hands of an angry God," but with only the swirls of dust, gases and chemicals that make up stars and constellations as Fates. There is no way to win their favor or assuage their wrath. They have none of the hot temper of (the desert God) YHWH.
They're colder, in other words. Horoscopes lead into a cold hell.
PSA: What I Want for my Birthday.
A key lime pie. (Check.)
The Office, season 4. (Check.)
Friends -- the people, not the sitcom. (Check -- unless you're all faking. [Or a sitcom.])
World peace.
I guess there's only one thing left on my list, for those of you who were thinking of getting me something. Better rush out and get it before Saturday.
And don't worry. I won't mind if I get duplicates of that one.
The Office, season 4. (Check.)
Friends -- the people, not the sitcom. (Check -- unless you're all faking. [Or a sitcom.])
World peace.
I guess there's only one thing left on my list, for those of you who were thinking of getting me something. Better rush out and get it before Saturday.
And don't worry. I won't mind if I get duplicates of that one.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Yearbook Quotes: "SSS" (regrets)
“Our double suicide (out the window) would have been a good conversation piece.”
“Oh dear God, what a dumb year.”
“Sorry, this is all I have to write with.” [In red colored pencil]
“Too bad you won’t see me overcome my flutiness.”
“Our phone conversations (sorry about that one in particular – you know and remember, I’m sure)…”
“Alisha – Nooooo!! Sorry, Alicia.”
“Those calculators are invading my life.”
“P.S. I’m still an agnostic. Better luck converting me next year.”
“P.S. (Sorry I have no P.S.)”
“Jeff knows I’m really not that stupid – doesn’t he?”
“Sorry I didn’t kill you with that plastic bag, but there is always next year.”
“Oh dear God, what a dumb year.”
“Sorry, this is all I have to write with.” [In red colored pencil]
“Too bad you won’t see me overcome my flutiness.”
“Our phone conversations (sorry about that one in particular – you know and remember, I’m sure)…”
“Alisha – Nooooo!! Sorry, Alicia.”
“Those calculators are invading my life.”
“P.S. I’m still an agnostic. Better luck converting me next year.”
“P.S. (Sorry I have no P.S.)”
“Jeff knows I’m really not that stupid – doesn’t he?”
“Sorry I didn’t kill you with that plastic bag, but there is always next year.”
Confessions XVIII
I used to skip gym class on Fridays of my senior year in high school – to go to music theory class in the band room.
I got one of the music theory students (also known around my school as “one of the potheads”) to walk me down the aisle at graduation because he’d failed to beat up the friend I didn’t want to walk with before said friend had asked.
The guys from music theory were kind and thoughtful, worked hard at what they cared about (music), always welcomed me to their class (even in my gym clothes), and wrote some of the most thoughtful and interesting messages in my yearbook at the end of the year. (The confession is that I should’ve been a pothead.)
I got one of the music theory students (also known around my school as “one of the potheads”) to walk me down the aisle at graduation because he’d failed to beat up the friend I didn’t want to walk with before said friend had asked.
The guys from music theory were kind and thoughtful, worked hard at what they cared about (music), always welcomed me to their class (even in my gym clothes), and wrote some of the most thoughtful and interesting messages in my yearbook at the end of the year. (The confession is that I should’ve been a pothead.)
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
We've come a long way, Betty.
One year ago today, I was down inside the D.C. beltway, pulling Betty out onto the open road of Mount Ranier, MD for the first time, and heading north.
What a great car.
What a great car.
PSA: Dear Ygykaw Ticazamulycy:
I don't know how you got my email address, or how your message got past the spam filter, but what I'm most interested in is what made you think of me when you decided to advertise a "dating site for kinky people."
Then it occurred to me that you must have read my blog, and confused the words "idiosyncratic" and "kinky."
Please look them up ASAP.
And when you create a "dating site for idiosyncratic people," feel free to contact me again.
Thanks and sincerely,
Alicia.
Then it occurred to me that you must have read my blog, and confused the words "idiosyncratic" and "kinky."
Please look them up ASAP.
And when you create a "dating site for idiosyncratic people," feel free to contact me again.
Thanks and sincerely,
Alicia.
Monday, August 18, 2008
The year is 28 A.F.Z.
Inspired in part by my email account's constant insistence that I'm sending my emails four hours later, and in part by a half-viewing of what is now the weirdest movie I've ever seen half of (yes, weirder even than the Institut Benjamenta from writing seminar), I propose a set of entirely new, personal calendars.
Our Gregorian calendar, though popular, is not the only game out there. Thailand, for instance, is in the year 25xx something, counted from the year the country began (according, I suppose, to popular history). And we're postmodernists. So why not change it up a little?
And why not count from whenever we want -- especially since most experts agree that Jesus was born around 4 or 6 A.D., not the year 0 as we suppose -- no matter how ridiculous?
My new calendar will count from the first showing of the 1980 movie The Forbidden Zone, and will accordingly be abbreviated A.F.Z.
I'll let you know when I've figured out what day our New Year's falls on.
Our Gregorian calendar, though popular, is not the only game out there. Thailand, for instance, is in the year 25xx something, counted from the year the country began (according, I suppose, to popular history). And we're postmodernists. So why not change it up a little?
And why not count from whenever we want -- especially since most experts agree that Jesus was born around 4 or 6 A.D., not the year 0 as we suppose -- no matter how ridiculous?
My new calendar will count from the first showing of the 1980 movie The Forbidden Zone, and will accordingly be abbreviated A.F.Z.
I'll let you know when I've figured out what day our New Year's falls on.
New word: Calendarsthenics
n. 1. Mental exercise involving figuring dates or times, including adding or subtracting hours and figuring the weekday on which a certain date falls (past, present or future); 2. Scheduling a meeting or other get-together with others who have busy schedules; 3. Attempting to revise common concepts of time or historical milestones to conform to new or different values, i.e. counting years in other-than-C.M.E. or A.D. time.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Another urgent question.
Umberto Eco says in number nine of his characteristics of Ur-Fascism that "since enemies have to be defeated, there must be a final battle, after which the movement will have control of the world. But such a 'final solution' implies a further era of peace, a Golden Age, which contradicts the principle of permanent war. No fascist leader has ever succeeded in solving this predicament."
Of course, we know Orwell's society in 1984 solved the predicament by faking permanent war. (Or were they faking?)
But what struck me was the phrase "since enemies have to be defeated."
Is this a fascist way of thinking, that enemies have to be defeated?
If so, how can we get out of it? While still admitting that we have enemies in the world?
If enemies are defeated, will we be safer or in more peril?
Were we all safer during the Cold War than we are now?
Of course, we know Orwell's society in 1984 solved the predicament by faking permanent war. (Or were they faking?)
But what struck me was the phrase "since enemies have to be defeated."
Is this a fascist way of thinking, that enemies have to be defeated?
If so, how can we get out of it? While still admitting that we have enemies in the world?
If enemies are defeated, will we be safer or in more peril?
Were we all safer during the Cold War than we are now?
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Urgent question.
Are we fascist?
Umberto Eco, in the November/December 1995 issue of the Utne Reader, explains fourteen elements of "Ur-fascism," which he defines as "eternal fascism."
Eight says the followers of Ur-Fascism feel humiliated by their enemies, but also "must be convincd that they can overwhelm the enemies. Thus, by a continuous shifting of rhetorical focus, the enemies are at the same time too strong and too weak. Fascist governments are condemned to lose wars because they are consitutionally incapable of objectively evaluating the force of the enemy."
This doesn't seem quite like what's happening in Iraq -- except that we were humiliated, from an imperialist (fascist?) point of view, by our not completely obliterating them in the Gulf War.
But we do seem to have a "constitutional" inability to accurately evaluate the situation.
What do you think?
Umberto Eco, in the November/December 1995 issue of the Utne Reader, explains fourteen elements of "Ur-fascism," which he defines as "eternal fascism."
Eight says the followers of Ur-Fascism feel humiliated by their enemies, but also "must be convincd that they can overwhelm the enemies. Thus, by a continuous shifting of rhetorical focus, the enemies are at the same time too strong and too weak. Fascist governments are condemned to lose wars because they are consitutionally incapable of objectively evaluating the force of the enemy."
This doesn't seem quite like what's happening in Iraq -- except that we were humiliated, from an imperialist (fascist?) point of view, by our not completely obliterating them in the Gulf War.
But we do seem to have a "constitutional" inability to accurately evaluate the situation.
What do you think?
Friday, August 15, 2008
In Defense of Poppery, III: "Handlebars"
Pop example: Flobots, "Handlebars"
What redeems it: This defense of poppery is a bit of a departure from past defenses, in that I've chosen for my subject a song that needs absolutely no defense at all.
Anyone who's heard the Flobots' "Handlebars" on the radio for the first time, surrounded by White Stripes and One Republic, knows the chilling genius of this song -- and I mean "chilling" in its original, running-down-your-spine sense, not as in "we wuz all chillin' in my crib."
But let me expound on its perfection, anyway.
"Handlebars" starts out with a simple plucked guitar intro, followed by a canned voice singing "I can ride my bike with no handlebars, no handlebars, no handlebars." A light drum comes in before the rapping begins.
I laughed aloud the first time I heard this intro. It was so childlike that I just about forgave the surely false stipulation that the bike literally had no handlebars. (What the singer meant, I figured, was "look Ma, no hands!" but saying "I can ride my bike with no hands" would have been much worse.) The apparent mistake added to the childishness, and the distance of the through-an-old-radio mixing makes it seem somehow quaint, but also ironic.
The first verse follows, which in its entirety reads:
This verse, though, relates almost entirely to the singer's status as a "famous rapper," and where it diverts attention from that, it's clearly intending to show devolution on the part of the mind of the narrator -- again, childishness takes control, to the point where the things the rapper brags about are increasingly unrelated to any actual accomplishments: "Me and my friend saw a platypus" is charmingly irrelevant, and the exact type of thing a child would brag about. (Having not yet had the chance to do anything substantial in life, kids focus on what they've seen.)
"Guess how long it took" implies that the singer is seeking approval -- but the pace of the verse is frantic enough (though very controlled, and this is important) that there's no chance for any adult to answer. (This is also important.)
The overexcited, childish narrator goes on to point out that he can "keep rhythm with no metronome" and "see your face on the telephone" in the second chorus.
The second verse builds more frenetically than the first, which was all more or less the same pace -- where before you might imagine a child who'd just eaten too much cake, now you're picturing an adult who's begun to experience mild delusions:
This was when I stopped laughing. The danger of someone who has a "look at me! Look at me!" attitude and either is capable or believes himself capable of inventing and wielding this kind of technology is obvious.
Obvious to the listener, but also obvious to the singer. From the first line, the irony of the song's lyrics has been obvious. At first, the danger of a childish approach to life isn't clear, since the stakes are so low -- so you know the words to "De Colores" and can tell me about Leif Ericson, eh? Well, isn't that cute.
There's an element of cute in the second verse as well (why a thrift store? And isn't it funny that he's claiming to do all this stuff he obviously can't do?), but by the time he claims that "me and my friends understand the future" and that he can "see the strings that control the system," and that he doesn't need "assistance," that's scary.
A trumpet comes in at this point and gets a pretty sweet interlude. Go trumpets in popular music. I'm sure it was a practical consideration -- the group might have a trumpeter, or might just like trumpets -- but I also think there's something to be said for references to trumpets throughout the books of the Apocalypse, and angels often being depicted with trumpets, particularly when the final judgment is at hand.
The second verse's chorus has the singer claiming he can lead the nation with a microphone and split the atoms of a molecule -- what seems to me an obvious reference to a nuclear bomb, especially considering the final verse.
The third verse, the loudest of all, is the scariest:
Here's where I'd like to remind us all of the first verse, where it said "I'm proud to be an American."
If you haven't been thinking about it all along, start now: This song seems to be commenting not only on personal hubris -- of a kind particular to individual Americans -- but also on American foreign policy. With a Unabomber-like perspective on the world, the narrator of the third verse indicts our country, for making unilateral decisions regarding other countries' status as our enemies ("with no permission"), for detaining prisoners (at Gitmo and elsewhere: "I can make anybody go to prison / Just because I don't like 'em") without trial or charge, for not insisting on vaccinations going to countries whose people can't afford them because profit margins are more important.
I also read into the song an indictment of the Bush administration, under which we've seen all these things happen. (Minus, perhaps, the reluctance to hand out vaccinations, which was around before the current president.)
The final chorus is extended and increasingly frantic, though the singer never loses control -- making the effect even more chilling (because he's not just plain crazy):
The ambiguity works perfectly. Either answer is unconscionable. We can't let this happen.
The line "in a holocaust" is shouted every time, amplified as though by a microphone into a fascist crowd. We're reminded of Hitler, of course, and the memory of the Third Reich is now imposed on the vision of current-world America we got from the second and third verses.
The song ends the way it began: "I can ride my bike with no handlbars," piped in as though through an old-tyme stereo, and childlike -- as though to remind us that horrible, nuclear ends like the climax of the song, start with the individual personal hubris of bragging about riding bikes.
If we don't grow up as a country, in other words, we'll end up destroying the world, or ending up responsible for something far beyond what we thought ourselves capable of (our "power is pure").
The personal interests of each enlightened, individualistic citizen of the U.S. (or the world) may add up to mayhem.
Or derive your own moral.
What a relief that there are pop artists out there concerned enough about the world situation and talented enough to not resort to didacticism, to create this song. I've only briefly touched on the several layers of political and ethical statements going on in this song, and it changes -- and changes me -- every time I hear it. (And there are layers -- for instance, think of "I can take apart the remote control" in the context of setting off missiles, or in how it relates to the claims for mastery of technology in the second verse. It's packed with this stuff.)
The only way to "get it" is to listen; so do.
10 stars on the Richter scale.
What redeems it: This defense of poppery is a bit of a departure from past defenses, in that I've chosen for my subject a song that needs absolutely no defense at all.
Anyone who's heard the Flobots' "Handlebars" on the radio for the first time, surrounded by White Stripes and One Republic, knows the chilling genius of this song -- and I mean "chilling" in its original, running-down-your-spine sense, not as in "we wuz all chillin' in my crib."
But let me expound on its perfection, anyway.
"Handlebars" starts out with a simple plucked guitar intro, followed by a canned voice singing "I can ride my bike with no handlebars, no handlebars, no handlebars." A light drum comes in before the rapping begins.
I laughed aloud the first time I heard this intro. It was so childlike that I just about forgave the surely false stipulation that the bike literally had no handlebars. (What the singer meant, I figured, was "look Ma, no hands!" but saying "I can ride my bike with no hands" would have been much worse.) The apparent mistake added to the childishness, and the distance of the through-an-old-radio mixing makes it seem somehow quaint, but also ironic.
The first verse follows, which in its entirety reads:
Look at me, look at meAgain, I laughed aloud. Imagine any small child you know saying "Me and my friend..." and you'll likely start laughing, too.
hands in the air like it's good to be
ALIVE
and I'm a famous rapper
even when the paths are all crookedy
I can show you how to do-si-do
I can show you how to scratch a record
I can take apart the remote control
And I can almost put it back together
I can tie a knot in a cherry stem
I can tell you about Leif Ericson
I know all the words to "De Colores"
And I'm proud to be an American
Me and my friend saw a platypus
Me and my friend made a comic book
And guess how long it took
I can do anything that I want cuz, look:
This verse, though, relates almost entirely to the singer's status as a "famous rapper," and where it diverts attention from that, it's clearly intending to show devolution on the part of the mind of the narrator -- again, childishness takes control, to the point where the things the rapper brags about are increasingly unrelated to any actual accomplishments: "Me and my friend saw a platypus" is charmingly irrelevant, and the exact type of thing a child would brag about. (Having not yet had the chance to do anything substantial in life, kids focus on what they've seen.)
"Guess how long it took" implies that the singer is seeking approval -- but the pace of the verse is frantic enough (though very controlled, and this is important) that there's no chance for any adult to answer. (This is also important.)
The overexcited, childish narrator goes on to point out that he can "keep rhythm with no metronome" and "see your face on the telephone" in the second chorus.
The second verse builds more frenetically than the first, which was all more or less the same pace -- where before you might imagine a child who'd just eaten too much cake, now you're picturing an adult who's begun to experience mild delusions:
Look at meThe content is different, as the tension ratchets up thanks to a faster pace and higher tone of voice on the part of the rapper -- this verse is about technology and business, building a better engine or medicine, or marketing something so that everyone will want to buy it -- but there's still something disturbingly childlike in the way the content is expressed.
Look at me
Just called to say that it's good to be
ALIVE
In such a small world
All curled up with a book to read
I can make money open up a thrift store
I can make a living off a magazine
I can design an engine sixty four
Miles to a gallon of gasoline
I can make new antibiotics
I can make computers survive aquatic conditions
I know how to run a business
And I can make you wanna buy a product
Movers shakers and producers
Me and my friends understand the future
I see the strings that control the systems
I can do anything with no assistance
This was when I stopped laughing. The danger of someone who has a "look at me! Look at me!" attitude and either is capable or believes himself capable of inventing and wielding this kind of technology is obvious.
Obvious to the listener, but also obvious to the singer. From the first line, the irony of the song's lyrics has been obvious. At first, the danger of a childish approach to life isn't clear, since the stakes are so low -- so you know the words to "De Colores" and can tell me about Leif Ericson, eh? Well, isn't that cute.
There's an element of cute in the second verse as well (why a thrift store? And isn't it funny that he's claiming to do all this stuff he obviously can't do?), but by the time he claims that "me and my friends understand the future" and that he can "see the strings that control the system," and that he doesn't need "assistance," that's scary.
A trumpet comes in at this point and gets a pretty sweet interlude. Go trumpets in popular music. I'm sure it was a practical consideration -- the group might have a trumpeter, or might just like trumpets -- but I also think there's something to be said for references to trumpets throughout the books of the Apocalypse, and angels often being depicted with trumpets, particularly when the final judgment is at hand.
The second verse's chorus has the singer claiming he can lead the nation with a microphone and split the atoms of a molecule -- what seems to me an obvious reference to a nuclear bomb, especially considering the final verse.
The third verse, the loudest of all, is the scariest:
Look at meThe forced slow-down of the four-word lines emphasizes them -- and the horror of the next stanza negates them. Handing out a million vaccinations would be a great thing to do, sure -- but it seems equally likely that the narrator might choose to "let 'em all die in exasperation." Power is the point, not healing or helping. The childishness falls away to reveal a lunatic.
Look at me
Driving and I won't stop
And it feels so good to be
Alive and on top
My reach is global
My tower secure
My cause is noble
My power is pure
I can hand out a million vaccinations
Or let 'em all die in exasperation
Have 'em all healed of their lacerations
Have 'em all killed by assassination
I can make anybody go to prison
Just because I don't like 'em and
I can do anything with no permission
I have it all under my command
Here's where I'd like to remind us all of the first verse, where it said "I'm proud to be an American."
If you haven't been thinking about it all along, start now: This song seems to be commenting not only on personal hubris -- of a kind particular to individual Americans -- but also on American foreign policy. With a Unabomber-like perspective on the world, the narrator of the third verse indicts our country, for making unilateral decisions regarding other countries' status as our enemies ("with no permission"), for detaining prisoners (at Gitmo and elsewhere: "I can make anybody go to prison / Just because I don't like 'em") without trial or charge, for not insisting on vaccinations going to countries whose people can't afford them because profit margins are more important.
I also read into the song an indictment of the Bush administration, under which we've seen all these things happen. (Minus, perhaps, the reluctance to hand out vaccinations, which was around before the current president.)
The final chorus is extended and increasingly frantic, though the singer never loses control -- making the effect even more chilling (because he's not just plain crazy):
I can guide a missile by satelliteHeightening the tension further, the climactic "I can end the planet in a holocaust" line is finished by the sound of a roar, as if from a crowd. The word "holocaust" is followed by this roar each time, but it begs the question: Is the crowd cheering for the holocaust to come, or is it screaming in agony because of it?
By satellite
By satellite
And I can hit a target through a telescope
Through a telescope
Through a telescope
And I can end the planet in a holocaust
In a holocaust
In a holocaust
In a holocaust
In a holocaust
In a holocaust
The ambiguity works perfectly. Either answer is unconscionable. We can't let this happen.
The line "in a holocaust" is shouted every time, amplified as though by a microphone into a fascist crowd. We're reminded of Hitler, of course, and the memory of the Third Reich is now imposed on the vision of current-world America we got from the second and third verses.
The song ends the way it began: "I can ride my bike with no handlbars," piped in as though through an old-tyme stereo, and childlike -- as though to remind us that horrible, nuclear ends like the climax of the song, start with the individual personal hubris of bragging about riding bikes.
If we don't grow up as a country, in other words, we'll end up destroying the world, or ending up responsible for something far beyond what we thought ourselves capable of (our "power is pure").
The personal interests of each enlightened, individualistic citizen of the U.S. (or the world) may add up to mayhem.
Or derive your own moral.
What a relief that there are pop artists out there concerned enough about the world situation and talented enough to not resort to didacticism, to create this song. I've only briefly touched on the several layers of political and ethical statements going on in this song, and it changes -- and changes me -- every time I hear it. (And there are layers -- for instance, think of "I can take apart the remote control" in the context of setting off missiles, or in how it relates to the claims for mastery of technology in the second verse. It's packed with this stuff.)
The only way to "get it" is to listen; so do.
10 stars on the Richter scale.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Confessions XVII
Today I dropped my glass bottle off the windowsill in the women's restroom at the paper, and it shattered. I had to sweep it up with a broom that was locked in a closet in advertising. (My face is red just thinking about it.)
If I were to ever start drinking, I think I'd start with vodka.
I could very well be the type of person who would carry vodka around in a water bottle, so no one would know.
If I were to ever start drinking, I think I'd start with vodka.
I could very well be the type of person who would carry vodka around in a water bottle, so no one would know.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
PSA: The Office
I pre-ordered the fourth season of The Office yesterday.
I did this because in re-watching seasons 1-3 over the past few weeks, repeatedly, I built up a sense of gratitude for this show so intense that it seemed paying it money was the only way to show how I feel.
I mean, what a show. It never disappoints and gets funnier and more interesting the more you see it -- kind of like old friends.
Your checks are in the mail.
I did this because in re-watching seasons 1-3 over the past few weeks, repeatedly, I built up a sense of gratitude for this show so intense that it seemed paying it money was the only way to show how I feel.
I mean, what a show. It never disappoints and gets funnier and more interesting the more you see it -- kind of like old friends.
Your checks are in the mail.
So do I report myself?
In the course of my day yesterday, I had occasion to count the number of bruises around and on my knees: seven on the left, five on the right.
I have no explanation for these, but that's nothing new.
My employer required me to read a DDS report on abuse and neglect today, since one of my clients has been newly designated a DDS client. Any suspected abuse must be reported, or it may incur a $500 fine when discovered. I read the information and was interested to find a list of places on the body where bruising could indicate abuse; knees were not one of them.
Inner thigh, however, was. I suppose this makes sense, but it confuses me: my bruise count there is three.
I have no explanation for these, but that's nothing new.
My employer required me to read a DDS report on abuse and neglect today, since one of my clients has been newly designated a DDS client. Any suspected abuse must be reported, or it may incur a $500 fine when discovered. I read the information and was interested to find a list of places on the body where bruising could indicate abuse; knees were not one of them.
Inner thigh, however, was. I suppose this makes sense, but it confuses me: my bruise count there is three.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
PSA: "Bush administration to relax parts of Endangered Species Act"
Liberals with a creative, constructive determination to effect positive change can now be shot on sight.
New Word: Nouveau Liche
n. someone who realizes there are new posts on Alicia's blog and feels a sudden sense of gain at the discovery, especially a newcomer to said blog.
Monday, August 11, 2008
Challenge: Letter-blogging
You've seen "Cat Blogging" and the recent "Midway to Love" -- a letter to a carnie.
Now's your chance to suggest another faux letter.
Feel free to recommend a writer, recipient, and/or topic, either real or imagined (person or situation). I'll see what I can do.
Note: I happen to know that there exists another blog dedicated entirely to letters. I don't want to encroach on this territory; instead, my "letters" are meant to explore the boundaries of satire and identification.
You know, if you think about them in an English-majory way.
Otherwise, their point is to be funny.
Now get suggesting!
Now's your chance to suggest another faux letter.
Feel free to recommend a writer, recipient, and/or topic, either real or imagined (person or situation). I'll see what I can do.
Note: I happen to know that there exists another blog dedicated entirely to letters. I don't want to encroach on this territory; instead, my "letters" are meant to explore the boundaries of satire and identification.
You know, if you think about them in an English-majory way.
Otherwise, their point is to be funny.
Now get suggesting!
Sunday, August 10, 2008
PSA: I Heart Carnival.
For whatever reason, I love carnivals -- or rather, I love the idea of carnivals.
I love the freakishness of a carnival, the way they seem almost supernatural because they make the abnormal seem routine. I don't even mean the lobster-girl or two-headed-calf or freak show elements of some carnivals: I mean the routine of pulling down and setting up giant metal contraptions that people pay to ride on, week in and week out.
I mean the bizarre games that travel with carnivals. I mean the fact that you'll pay five dollars to try to win a stuffed toy that wouldn't be worth half that in a toy store. Carnivals are practically by definition places where normal rules don't apply.
And we go to them at night.
The show Carnivale does a pretty good job of capturing the eerie feel of a carnival, and it avoids becoming a comedy or a satire of itself -- as happens to most carnival-themed shows or movies set in contemporary times -- by being a part of Dustbowl mythos, by casting Michael J. Anderson, the most serious little person I know of, as the head of the group, and by brilliantly enlisting Ronald Moore as producer (or maybe he enlisted everybody else).
But nothing has the freakish appeal of an actual visit to an actual carnival.
Maybe one day I'll get around to doing that photo-study of carnival rides -- maybe not. But for now, consider today's posts my ode to carnivals.
I love the freakishness of a carnival, the way they seem almost supernatural because they make the abnormal seem routine. I don't even mean the lobster-girl or two-headed-calf or freak show elements of some carnivals: I mean the routine of pulling down and setting up giant metal contraptions that people pay to ride on, week in and week out.
I mean the bizarre games that travel with carnivals. I mean the fact that you'll pay five dollars to try to win a stuffed toy that wouldn't be worth half that in a toy store. Carnivals are practically by definition places where normal rules don't apply.
And we go to them at night.
The show Carnivale does a pretty good job of capturing the eerie feel of a carnival, and it avoids becoming a comedy or a satire of itself -- as happens to most carnival-themed shows or movies set in contemporary times -- by being a part of Dustbowl mythos, by casting Michael J. Anderson, the most serious little person I know of, as the head of the group, and by brilliantly enlisting Ronald Moore as producer (or maybe he enlisted everybody else).
But nothing has the freakish appeal of an actual visit to an actual carnival.
Maybe one day I'll get around to doing that photo-study of carnival rides -- maybe not. But for now, consider today's posts my ode to carnivals.
Carnivals
She’s always loved carnivals. She loved the whirling, twirling ferocity of them – the faltering through crowded rows of tented crafts or watergun games, the dirt, the trek through adult legs and elbows and the treacherous craning of her neck to see the top of the Ferris wheel. She loved the carnival and the circus.
There were days now when she wished she hadn’t run off to one, though.
As a girl, she had thought the fun would be in the magical nights with the visitors (always visitors, never permanent) and the cool breezes and night skies (over Dallas, Minneapolis -- over Gatlinburg, as silly as that was) and the cotton candy sights and buttered popcorn smells, but now she hated the nights. Now she hated the nights.
During the day, at least she could see what she was doing. At least she knew where she was headed. But night came, and the crowds came, and she became another version of herself – a version that cried at children when she should have been capering (she was a clown), or busted up her own fixed game (she was a game-runner) or soaked in gin and pretend drunkenness (she was supposed to take tickets at the gate).
The whirling never stopped at night. The stars, fixed like the games, turned. The trucks clanked and roused her the mornings they left – her favorite times – out of what felt like a deep, dreamless and essential sleep. She was basically dead.
Basically, but not completely. Tremors of surprise ran under the surfaces of her routines; she felt sometimes that she was almost feeling them – almost, but not quite.
She had considered running off and becoming an acolyte of some eastern-guru religion – some cult, she told herself – and wearing only natural fibers in loose, billowy styles, moving to India, cleansing lepers or walking barefoot in a particularly holy ashram or sitting with crossed legs watching the Guru as he transcended earthly things. It just wasn’t violent enough.
Leave the carnival and she would explode into violence, she saw. Left without the peculiar restrictions of permanent travel and exhibitionism and the forward-forward motion of carnival life, she would have to march herself straight into jail before she could axe anybody dead.
“I haven’t yet,” she would tell the police, “but I will. I think about it all the time. I’m thinking about it right now, with you.”
They would let her go and she would eat herself alive, instead. Her courage, coiled like a snake around her heart, would have left her, would have been used up by the trip to the police station. By the time they had released her from the interrogation room, if they even took her in, she would have felt it slither off. She would be staring at the crinkled white paper in the wastebasket, staring at it even when the drug-induced mania of a wild-eyed man from a street raid climaxed in his smearing black ink all over the walls near fingerprinting. She would not have looked up. She would have been silent.
So she had decided to start a war. Nothing more pro-active than starting a war, she told herself.
She would do it at the carnival. She would start it with a bomb and a fire. She would blow up the Himalayan – it never went anywhere, anyway, always circling, pushing passengers to the outside, always sent them clutching the far end of the bar gasping for breath, trying not to crush the friend who had sat on the right. (The Himalayan always went counter-clockwise, and never backward.) Teenage boys sat gloriously, painfully happy as their dates squeezed into them, hands flailing and grasping smooth metal bars, hips pressing into each other. The girls laughed, nervously at first and then shrieking their joy with an embarrassing abandon. When they stepped off the Himalayan, the pairs looked away from each other, one of each couple pointing to an over-priced carnival booth they both knew neither of them wanted to play, and both feigned intense interest. (Mooches.) After one or two games (if the boys became competitive), they wandered away, never looking back at the Himalayan.
She would start by burning the Himalayan.
It would have to be a first move, though, followed by aggressive act after act until everything came to a head. It would not be a war, otherwise – it would be a standoff. It would be a hostage situation. It would be a “crisis.”
War. She wants to start a war.
Because fuck peace, and fuck sanity.
And fuck carnivals.
There were days now when she wished she hadn’t run off to one, though.
As a girl, she had thought the fun would be in the magical nights with the visitors (always visitors, never permanent) and the cool breezes and night skies (over Dallas, Minneapolis -- over Gatlinburg, as silly as that was) and the cotton candy sights and buttered popcorn smells, but now she hated the nights. Now she hated the nights.
During the day, at least she could see what she was doing. At least she knew where she was headed. But night came, and the crowds came, and she became another version of herself – a version that cried at children when she should have been capering (she was a clown), or busted up her own fixed game (she was a game-runner) or soaked in gin and pretend drunkenness (she was supposed to take tickets at the gate).
The whirling never stopped at night. The stars, fixed like the games, turned. The trucks clanked and roused her the mornings they left – her favorite times – out of what felt like a deep, dreamless and essential sleep. She was basically dead.
Basically, but not completely. Tremors of surprise ran under the surfaces of her routines; she felt sometimes that she was almost feeling them – almost, but not quite.
She had considered running off and becoming an acolyte of some eastern-guru religion – some cult, she told herself – and wearing only natural fibers in loose, billowy styles, moving to India, cleansing lepers or walking barefoot in a particularly holy ashram or sitting with crossed legs watching the Guru as he transcended earthly things. It just wasn’t violent enough.
Leave the carnival and she would explode into violence, she saw. Left without the peculiar restrictions of permanent travel and exhibitionism and the forward-forward motion of carnival life, she would have to march herself straight into jail before she could axe anybody dead.
“I haven’t yet,” she would tell the police, “but I will. I think about it all the time. I’m thinking about it right now, with you.”
They would let her go and she would eat herself alive, instead. Her courage, coiled like a snake around her heart, would have left her, would have been used up by the trip to the police station. By the time they had released her from the interrogation room, if they even took her in, she would have felt it slither off. She would be staring at the crinkled white paper in the wastebasket, staring at it even when the drug-induced mania of a wild-eyed man from a street raid climaxed in his smearing black ink all over the walls near fingerprinting. She would not have looked up. She would have been silent.
So she had decided to start a war. Nothing more pro-active than starting a war, she told herself.
She would do it at the carnival. She would start it with a bomb and a fire. She would blow up the Himalayan – it never went anywhere, anyway, always circling, pushing passengers to the outside, always sent them clutching the far end of the bar gasping for breath, trying not to crush the friend who had sat on the right. (The Himalayan always went counter-clockwise, and never backward.) Teenage boys sat gloriously, painfully happy as their dates squeezed into them, hands flailing and grasping smooth metal bars, hips pressing into each other. The girls laughed, nervously at first and then shrieking their joy with an embarrassing abandon. When they stepped off the Himalayan, the pairs looked away from each other, one of each couple pointing to an over-priced carnival booth they both knew neither of them wanted to play, and both feigned intense interest. (Mooches.) After one or two games (if the boys became competitive), they wandered away, never looking back at the Himalayan.
She would start by burning the Himalayan.
It would have to be a first move, though, followed by aggressive act after act until everything came to a head. It would not be a war, otherwise – it would be a standoff. It would be a hostage situation. It would be a “crisis.”
War. She wants to start a war.
Because fuck peace, and fuck sanity.
And fuck carnivals.
Midway to Love
Joe R.
Water balloon game
Third booth from the right
Dear Joe,
There was something about Sunday night at the carnival that hit me right in the center, in that perfect sweet spot – just, I don’t know, life. It’s sitting in my heart and sweetening even now. Soon I won’t be able to think about it without crying.
Maybe it was the cotton-candy smell of your hair or the way you offered me that corndog. Maybe it was the glint in your eye when you said you’d fixed the water balloons so seat seven always won, or the pained frown on your face as you recounted your stint in the dunking pool.
I could relate to that. Most of my life has been pretty terrible, you know. Most of it has been pain and deprivation and finding the good in the bad and ugly, and most of the time I haven’t even noticed. What’s happened to me has dug trenches in my spirit, and I’ve learned to live with these wells of suffering.
My capacity may be larger than others’. I’ve become, or have always been, sensitive.
But I didn’t need to attend to those on Sunday with you, didn’t need to allot myself joy or surprise or happiness. I didn’t need to save up against an uncertain future. I didn’t need to tamp down trust or love or kindness, Carnie Joe, and that was a marvel.
You’ll be surprised to find that you’ve helped me – who skipped church for a ride on the Tilt-A-Whirl – relate again to God. You’d be surprised, except that the path between me and God is the measure of my health, of my willingness to accept good things.
I am willing now. God as my witness, I am willing to take pleasure in life, maybe for the first time.
It’s like a miracle.
When we came back out from behind the bearded lady’s tent, I didn’t know how to say it without really saying it, and I was afraid to try and fail, so I sabotaged the chance. I turned around and walked away and felt worse with each step because I wasn’t being honest – and that’s what I promised to do. I promised myself, and I promised you, I thought, implicitly, that there would be no secrets between us.
I understand that some things can’t be touched directly, that they’re too sensitive. I understand that’s why you haven’t written yet – you’re savoring the memory, too.
We had one glorious night. I don’t expect any more. And I’m not saying anything, anything at all, except thank you.
But if you’re ever in town again, Carnie Joe, look me up.
I’m in the phone book.
Yours sincerely,
Dolores
Water balloon game
Third booth from the right
Dear Joe,
There was something about Sunday night at the carnival that hit me right in the center, in that perfect sweet spot – just, I don’t know, life. It’s sitting in my heart and sweetening even now. Soon I won’t be able to think about it without crying.
Maybe it was the cotton-candy smell of your hair or the way you offered me that corndog. Maybe it was the glint in your eye when you said you’d fixed the water balloons so seat seven always won, or the pained frown on your face as you recounted your stint in the dunking pool.
I could relate to that. Most of my life has been pretty terrible, you know. Most of it has been pain and deprivation and finding the good in the bad and ugly, and most of the time I haven’t even noticed. What’s happened to me has dug trenches in my spirit, and I’ve learned to live with these wells of suffering.
My capacity may be larger than others’. I’ve become, or have always been, sensitive.
But I didn’t need to attend to those on Sunday with you, didn’t need to allot myself joy or surprise or happiness. I didn’t need to save up against an uncertain future. I didn’t need to tamp down trust or love or kindness, Carnie Joe, and that was a marvel.
You’ll be surprised to find that you’ve helped me – who skipped church for a ride on the Tilt-A-Whirl – relate again to God. You’d be surprised, except that the path between me and God is the measure of my health, of my willingness to accept good things.
I am willing now. God as my witness, I am willing to take pleasure in life, maybe for the first time.
It’s like a miracle.
When we came back out from behind the bearded lady’s tent, I didn’t know how to say it without really saying it, and I was afraid to try and fail, so I sabotaged the chance. I turned around and walked away and felt worse with each step because I wasn’t being honest – and that’s what I promised to do. I promised myself, and I promised you, I thought, implicitly, that there would be no secrets between us.
I understand that some things can’t be touched directly, that they’re too sensitive. I understand that’s why you haven’t written yet – you’re savoring the memory, too.
We had one glorious night. I don’t expect any more. And I’m not saying anything, anything at all, except thank you.
But if you’re ever in town again, Carnie Joe, look me up.
I’m in the phone book.
Yours sincerely,
Dolores
Saturday, August 9, 2008
Unsolicited Advice V
You will keep hating the people who control you until you stop letting them.
So stop it.
So stop it.
Absolute Zeros
It was in high school chemistry, thanks to one of Newton's laws, that I came up with my black hole theory. Newton's law explained that any gas at absolute zero would have a volume of zero, which could not happen in a friction-filled atmosphere.
But maybe it could happen in space, I said.
Maybe the center of a black hole was absolutely cold, instead of super-dense and hot as scientists propose.
Gas and space debris could get sucked into the hole; the closer it got, the colder it would become, until at the center of the hole it reached absolute zero and ceased to have volume. It would be the perfect vacuum, new objects and air always rushing in to fill the space and never being able to, never making contact with the center.
Well, maybe, my chemistry teacher said. But that's a physics question.
Maybe, said my physics teacher the next year, but we're working on vectors.
I've never bothered to ask a research scientist about my black hole theory, for which I created graphs and charts, drawn on a giant sheet of paper covering my bedroom wall. I'm less invested in astrophysics than I once was, and I'd rather not find out officially that I'm wrong.
But the theory holds true, I think, for emotional vacuums.
But maybe it could happen in space, I said.
Maybe the center of a black hole was absolutely cold, instead of super-dense and hot as scientists propose.
Gas and space debris could get sucked into the hole; the closer it got, the colder it would become, until at the center of the hole it reached absolute zero and ceased to have volume. It would be the perfect vacuum, new objects and air always rushing in to fill the space and never being able to, never making contact with the center.
Well, maybe, my chemistry teacher said. But that's a physics question.
Maybe, said my physics teacher the next year, but we're working on vectors.
I've never bothered to ask a research scientist about my black hole theory, for which I created graphs and charts, drawn on a giant sheet of paper covering my bedroom wall. I'm less invested in astrophysics than I once was, and I'd rather not find out officially that I'm wrong.
But the theory holds true, I think, for emotional vacuums.
Friday, August 8, 2008
PSA: Hulkamania Fund for Compensating the Bereft
The Hulkamania Fund for Compensating the Bereft, an all-for-profit organization founded in 2002 with a long history of helping those most in need of "quality roommate time," is founded on two basic principles:
1. that men like to pay for stuff.
2. that roommates deprived of each others' company should be properly compensated for said deprivation.
Ever since the Hulkamania stein with Mr. Yuck sticker first graced the entrance to Mellinger C101, roommates everywhere have found solace in its promise: that should a boy ever take out one of her roommates, she could look forward to the quality time later spent with that roommate, on the boy's dime.
The rates for one-on-one time with any of the roommates of Mellinger C101 are extremely reasonable and have not changed since the institution of HFCB.
The five cents per hour that boys are privileged to pay into the Hulkamania stein (now defunct, RIS) go directly toward financing the "quality time" spent together -- toward meals, movies or other roommate-bonding activities such as laser tag. One hundred percent of monies paid into the fund go directly toward roommate quality time!
For more information, join our mailing list by submitting your information below.
1. that men like to pay for stuff.
2. that roommates deprived of each others' company should be properly compensated for said deprivation.
Ever since the Hulkamania stein with Mr. Yuck sticker first graced the entrance to Mellinger C101, roommates everywhere have found solace in its promise: that should a boy ever take out one of her roommates, she could look forward to the quality time later spent with that roommate, on the boy's dime.
The rates for one-on-one time with any of the roommates of Mellinger C101 are extremely reasonable and have not changed since the institution of HFCB.
The five cents per hour that boys are privileged to pay into the Hulkamania stein (now defunct, RIS) go directly toward financing the "quality time" spent together -- toward meals, movies or other roommate-bonding activities such as laser tag. One hundred percent of monies paid into the fund go directly toward roommate quality time!
For more information, join our mailing list by submitting your information below.
Oh, happy day!
Go out and buy your Chinese lottery tickets -- it's 8/8/08! The luckiest day in a thousand years!
(Or a hundred years. I can't really figure that out.)
I'm not gonna, though. I've already won the Chinese lottery.
(You might think it's a metaphor, but no. I was asking for the check after a meal, before I had any command of Mandarin. 5 yuan. Awesome.)
(Or a hundred years. I can't really figure that out.)
I'm not gonna, though. I've already won the Chinese lottery.
(You might think it's a metaphor, but no. I was asking for the check after a meal, before I had any command of Mandarin. 5 yuan. Awesome.)
Thursday, August 7, 2008
So He Thought He Could Dance
JOSHUA.
The others were ranked in the following order:
2. Twitch
3. Katee
4. Courtney
The curse of being a girl on a show with an all-girl fan base is the only explanation for Katee being third. Last year, Nigel recognized the disparity and asked America to vote for a girl to win; last night, he didn't repeat his plea. However, behind-the-scenes decision-makers tacitly recognized the advantage boys have on this show by awarding $50K to the top girl as well as the top guy, making Katee a kind of secondary winner.
The others were ranked in the following order:
2. Twitch
3. Katee
4. Courtney
The curse of being a girl on a show with an all-girl fan base is the only explanation for Katee being third. Last year, Nigel recognized the disparity and asked America to vote for a girl to win; last night, he didn't repeat his plea. However, behind-the-scenes decision-makers tacitly recognized the advantage boys have on this show by awarding $50K to the top girl as well as the top guy, making Katee a kind of secondary winner.
So You Thought You Could Dance: Finale Edition
On last night's SYD, everyone danced with everyone else, and then they all danced together. And they all danced solos. It was an exhausting two hours.
First, Twitch and Courtney danced hip-hop to a T-pain song with choreography by Tabitha and Napoleon, in which Courtney was a "crazy girlfriend" -- it was cute, and featured Twitch spinning Courtney around on his head (her stomach as the contact spot).
About Courtney, judge Mandy Moore (not that one) said "You got a little Jersey coming out of you, huh Courtney?"
About Twitch, Nigel said "Twitch, what is it with you that choreographers look to give you a crazy and deranged girl?"
It was a good start to a crazy night, and Twitch's costume -- a church outfit with suspenders down, to correlate with T-pain's "I'm gonna take you to church" -- made the whole thing that much funnier and interesting to think about.
The Courtney did her solo, after an interview with Cat. Courtney said “In my house, nobody talks, everyone yells. I know I’m not the best dancer. I don’t think that this show is about being the best dancer. I don’t think you have to be in love with someone to have chemistry with them. That jazz that I did with Sonja was my favorite.”
In front of the judges, Courtney wept with joy at their accolades -- earning her possibly a higher spot in America's voting than she'd have had otherwise, I suspect. Nigel said "You’re always the bright spirit that says ‘good morning, how are you’ and I would love to see you become a teacher as well, because you just energize everyone around you.”
Katee and Joshua were next -- the only regret I had is that they came so early in the show -- with a Wade Robson contemporary routine. As the camera rolled on their rehearsal, they discussed the theme of the dance: “Love is hard work but it’s the best thing that you’ll work for in your life,” Wade said.
Joshua: “We have a good chemistry onstage, and a good chemistry offstage.”
Katee: “Josh is my boo.”
Oh, you win, Katee, you win. (You know how I love people using the word "boo.")
Bizarrely, Joshua got to wear regular clothes for this routine, while Katee appeared to be in a nighty. The look of the dance called up all the previous contemporary routines I'd seen Joshua and Katee do, and struck me overall as a beautiful "Thriller" -- the movements were jerky and strange as in the Thriller dance, but there was a finesse to the way they were executed and in the emotion Katee and Joshua portrayed that brought it together beautifully.
Nigel said "This for me, particularly great because everything show-bizzy was taken out of it. Here she is now, almost in tears before the routine begins – and didn’t she dance it brilliantly. With Joshua, what Joshua has is uncontrolled control, so this is not a normal dancer. This is a brilliant dancer. Between the pair of them, they’re two of the best dancers we’ve ever had on this show."
This was my second-favorite routine of the night...followed by one of the most terrible routines I've ever seen on this show.
Katee and Courtney danced a Tyce Diorio Broadway routine (already, ick to Broadway) in which they were two girls on the town, trying to catch the train.
First of all, if we hadn't been told they were trying to get the train, the cavorting across the stage they did through the whole routine would have seen like...well, meaningless cavorting across the stage. Since we knew they were going to the train, it seemed like...meaningless cavorting across the stage. What can I say.
Secondly, their costumes were hideous. They looked like Powerpuff girls dipped in cake frosting. The atrocity of these costumes surpassed even the "Push It" costumes of last year, and even the Cat Dealy horror show "tuxedo" dress of earlier this season.
The first thing Mandy Moore said, of course, was “Well, it was so cute. You look adorable. Those costumes are beautiful.” I stopped listening to her at this point.
Mary said the kindest things that could be said of this routine: "“Who wouldn’ tlike seeing the two of you dance together? You know, dancing with an umbrella as a prop is very dangerous, and you guys pulled it off."
Nigel followed: "It really is tough. Gene Kelly showed that in singing in the rain. I agree with Kelly, it’s so nice to see girls dancing with girls.” (Ha ha!)
Next was Twitch's solo, before which he was interviewed: “[My desire to dance] comes from a number of things. I would dance all the time in the most inappropriate places. There is not a lot to do [in Twitch's hometown], so you have to use your imagination and make the place work for you. The Viennese waltz that Jean-Marc did (was his favorite routine). The reason why I danced all the time to me it’s the least that I can give back to the art form, because it’s given so much back to me already.”
Jean-Marc's routine was dedicated to his disabled daughter, and clips showed Kherington and Twitch backstage with Jean-Marc after the performance, crying. A tearful Jean-Marc clutched one of each of their hands and squeaked out a French-accented "she's going to love it."
This interview could win Twitch the competiton, I thought.
Twitch and Joshua danced together next, the video of their practice playing up the rivalry between them.
Twitch: “The rivalry between Josh and I started way back when.
“Twitch, are you ready for that? Are you ready for those?” Joshua shows his biceps. “Of course, my tricks are so dynamic.”
Twich: “He’s just a pansy. I have already taken it, Josh.”
They had insisted that the dance, the Russian trepak, was "testosterone-driven" -- making me laugh aloud when music from The Nutcracker came on.
I have to say, I didn't really understand this routine, which was a lot of back-and-forth, high-jumping for Josh and going around on his knees for Twitch, but it was pretty fun to watch -- or would have been if the camerawork had been less frenetic.
Nigel had obviously been wanting this routine for awhile, comparing everything to the trepak since Bollywood: "I was expecting you to be good at that. That was street dancing – Russian street dancing. Now how tough is that on your thighs??”
Twitch: "Very!"
Joshua: "What thighs?"
“It’ll be something that is spoken about for many years to come," continued Nigel. "And we’ll remember you two for doing the trepak on this show, fo’ sho.”
Katee's solo was next, and was improved from the usual desperate-contemporary by the requirements of the music -- Imogen Heap's "Hide and Seek" -- which stopped and started in a way that allowed Katee to break up her movements and show her technical proficiency (rather than her ability to run across the stage a lot in smooth, flowing motions).
Sadly, her interview and the judges' comments weren't very memorable, which I suspect will hurt her in the final vote.
Katee and Twitch danced a foxtrot, which was beautiful and jazzy despite being ballroom. Afterward, the judges asked Twitch to introduce himself as James Bond. Twitch played it up, asking Nigel to do the impression first, and then copying admirably.
Joshua did his solo. The interview with Cat was actually pretty funny, showing more of Cat's personality than we've typically seen: Joshua said “I’ve had a lot of struggles coming up. We didn’t have a lot of money to take a lot of classes. If I did go to classes, they let me do chores. I just never would have thought that I could have done it. I’m normally not a crier, at all.”
Cat stopped him: "You are the biggest blubberer on this show!" And she fake-cries.
Joshua finishes: "I’d rather be here, dead [from fatigue at practicing] than be at home doing nothing. Because everything here is a blessing.”
Excellent interview, Joshua -- could be enough to win you the competition. When he performed his solo, Josh went up onto the judges' stand and spent about half his thirty seconds dancing there.
The jive with Joshua and Courtney was probably the technically worst dance of the night, coming as it was at the end of the competition, and being a very quick step.
Nigel didn't pull any punches, though: "It didn’t have the great feel that the jive should have. [People began to boo, and Nigel spoke directly to the audience.] I really like people to learn and to get better. [Back to the dancers.] It isn’t to knock you because you are superb dancers and you’re exhausted superb dancers. It wasn’t brilliant, it was tired. It was tough on you. Tough. That’s a dancer’s life. Be better. Every single time, be better.”
Finally, all four dancers performed a Mia Michaels contemporary routine to the Vitamin String Quartet's "Hallelujah." They all wore Scottish kilts, possibly explaining my reaction to this dance.
They didn't dance as well as they had earlier in the night, when they were fresher. They didn't dance as though they were a company that had been together for years. The camerawork was shite.
But I loved. This. Routine.
When I was in China, we foreigners would sometimes be treated to performances of Chinese minority dances -- a bunch of Chinese girls in variously complicated traditional costumes, performing a series of subtle moves that could be basically mastered by anyone (even, I suppose, me) -- and I struggled not to cry every time.
This Scottish routine made me feel the same elation I felt watching the ancient dances of the Tibetans or the Yi. There's something about the history and collective-ness of this kind of choreographed, concerted movement that gets me every time.
Lovely, lovely end to the best season of competition I've seen so far on SYD.
I can't wait to see who wins, but I almost don't care. They really have all earned it.
First, Twitch and Courtney danced hip-hop to a T-pain song with choreography by Tabitha and Napoleon, in which Courtney was a "crazy girlfriend" -- it was cute, and featured Twitch spinning Courtney around on his head (her stomach as the contact spot).
About Courtney, judge Mandy Moore (not that one) said "You got a little Jersey coming out of you, huh Courtney?"
About Twitch, Nigel said "Twitch, what is it with you that choreographers look to give you a crazy and deranged girl?"
It was a good start to a crazy night, and Twitch's costume -- a church outfit with suspenders down, to correlate with T-pain's "I'm gonna take you to church" -- made the whole thing that much funnier and interesting to think about.
The Courtney did her solo, after an interview with Cat. Courtney said “In my house, nobody talks, everyone yells. I know I’m not the best dancer. I don’t think that this show is about being the best dancer. I don’t think you have to be in love with someone to have chemistry with them. That jazz that I did with Sonja was my favorite.”
In front of the judges, Courtney wept with joy at their accolades -- earning her possibly a higher spot in America's voting than she'd have had otherwise, I suspect. Nigel said "You’re always the bright spirit that says ‘good morning, how are you’ and I would love to see you become a teacher as well, because you just energize everyone around you.”
Katee and Joshua were next -- the only regret I had is that they came so early in the show -- with a Wade Robson contemporary routine. As the camera rolled on their rehearsal, they discussed the theme of the dance: “Love is hard work but it’s the best thing that you’ll work for in your life,” Wade said.
Joshua: “We have a good chemistry onstage, and a good chemistry offstage.”
Katee: “Josh is my boo.”
Oh, you win, Katee, you win. (You know how I love people using the word "boo.")
Bizarrely, Joshua got to wear regular clothes for this routine, while Katee appeared to be in a nighty. The look of the dance called up all the previous contemporary routines I'd seen Joshua and Katee do, and struck me overall as a beautiful "Thriller" -- the movements were jerky and strange as in the Thriller dance, but there was a finesse to the way they were executed and in the emotion Katee and Joshua portrayed that brought it together beautifully.
Nigel said "This for me, particularly great because everything show-bizzy was taken out of it. Here she is now, almost in tears before the routine begins – and didn’t she dance it brilliantly. With Joshua, what Joshua has is uncontrolled control, so this is not a normal dancer. This is a brilliant dancer. Between the pair of them, they’re two of the best dancers we’ve ever had on this show."
This was my second-favorite routine of the night...followed by one of the most terrible routines I've ever seen on this show.
Katee and Courtney danced a Tyce Diorio Broadway routine (already, ick to Broadway) in which they were two girls on the town, trying to catch the train.
First of all, if we hadn't been told they were trying to get the train, the cavorting across the stage they did through the whole routine would have seen like...well, meaningless cavorting across the stage. Since we knew they were going to the train, it seemed like...meaningless cavorting across the stage. What can I say.
Secondly, their costumes were hideous. They looked like Powerpuff girls dipped in cake frosting. The atrocity of these costumes surpassed even the "Push It" costumes of last year, and even the Cat Dealy horror show "tuxedo" dress of earlier this season.
The first thing Mandy Moore said, of course, was “Well, it was so cute. You look adorable. Those costumes are beautiful.” I stopped listening to her at this point.
Mary said the kindest things that could be said of this routine: "“Who wouldn’ tlike seeing the two of you dance together? You know, dancing with an umbrella as a prop is very dangerous, and you guys pulled it off."
Nigel followed: "It really is tough. Gene Kelly showed that in singing in the rain. I agree with Kelly, it’s so nice to see girls dancing with girls.” (Ha ha!)
Next was Twitch's solo, before which he was interviewed: “[My desire to dance] comes from a number of things. I would dance all the time in the most inappropriate places. There is not a lot to do [in Twitch's hometown], so you have to use your imagination and make the place work for you. The Viennese waltz that Jean-Marc did (was his favorite routine). The reason why I danced all the time to me it’s the least that I can give back to the art form, because it’s given so much back to me already.”
Jean-Marc's routine was dedicated to his disabled daughter, and clips showed Kherington and Twitch backstage with Jean-Marc after the performance, crying. A tearful Jean-Marc clutched one of each of their hands and squeaked out a French-accented "she's going to love it."
This interview could win Twitch the competiton, I thought.
Twitch and Joshua danced together next, the video of their practice playing up the rivalry between them.
Twitch: “The rivalry between Josh and I started way back when.
“Twitch, are you ready for that? Are you ready for those?” Joshua shows his biceps. “Of course, my tricks are so dynamic.”
Twich: “He’s just a pansy. I have already taken it, Josh.”
They had insisted that the dance, the Russian trepak, was "testosterone-driven" -- making me laugh aloud when music from The Nutcracker came on.
I have to say, I didn't really understand this routine, which was a lot of back-and-forth, high-jumping for Josh and going around on his knees for Twitch, but it was pretty fun to watch -- or would have been if the camerawork had been less frenetic.
Nigel had obviously been wanting this routine for awhile, comparing everything to the trepak since Bollywood: "I was expecting you to be good at that. That was street dancing – Russian street dancing. Now how tough is that on your thighs??”
Twitch: "Very!"
Joshua: "What thighs?"
“It’ll be something that is spoken about for many years to come," continued Nigel. "And we’ll remember you two for doing the trepak on this show, fo’ sho.”
Katee's solo was next, and was improved from the usual desperate-contemporary by the requirements of the music -- Imogen Heap's "Hide and Seek" -- which stopped and started in a way that allowed Katee to break up her movements and show her technical proficiency (rather than her ability to run across the stage a lot in smooth, flowing motions).
Sadly, her interview and the judges' comments weren't very memorable, which I suspect will hurt her in the final vote.
Katee and Twitch danced a foxtrot, which was beautiful and jazzy despite being ballroom. Afterward, the judges asked Twitch to introduce himself as James Bond. Twitch played it up, asking Nigel to do the impression first, and then copying admirably.
Joshua did his solo. The interview with Cat was actually pretty funny, showing more of Cat's personality than we've typically seen: Joshua said “I’ve had a lot of struggles coming up. We didn’t have a lot of money to take a lot of classes. If I did go to classes, they let me do chores. I just never would have thought that I could have done it. I’m normally not a crier, at all.”
Cat stopped him: "You are the biggest blubberer on this show!" And she fake-cries.
Joshua finishes: "I’d rather be here, dead [from fatigue at practicing] than be at home doing nothing. Because everything here is a blessing.”
Excellent interview, Joshua -- could be enough to win you the competition. When he performed his solo, Josh went up onto the judges' stand and spent about half his thirty seconds dancing there.
The jive with Joshua and Courtney was probably the technically worst dance of the night, coming as it was at the end of the competition, and being a very quick step.
Nigel didn't pull any punches, though: "It didn’t have the great feel that the jive should have. [People began to boo, and Nigel spoke directly to the audience.] I really like people to learn and to get better. [Back to the dancers.] It isn’t to knock you because you are superb dancers and you’re exhausted superb dancers. It wasn’t brilliant, it was tired. It was tough on you. Tough. That’s a dancer’s life. Be better. Every single time, be better.”
Finally, all four dancers performed a Mia Michaels contemporary routine to the Vitamin String Quartet's "Hallelujah." They all wore Scottish kilts, possibly explaining my reaction to this dance.
They didn't dance as well as they had earlier in the night, when they were fresher. They didn't dance as though they were a company that had been together for years. The camerawork was shite.
But I loved. This. Routine.
When I was in China, we foreigners would sometimes be treated to performances of Chinese minority dances -- a bunch of Chinese girls in variously complicated traditional costumes, performing a series of subtle moves that could be basically mastered by anyone (even, I suppose, me) -- and I struggled not to cry every time.
This Scottish routine made me feel the same elation I felt watching the ancient dances of the Tibetans or the Yi. There's something about the history and collective-ness of this kind of choreographed, concerted movement that gets me every time.
Lovely, lovely end to the best season of competition I've seen so far on SYD.
I can't wait to see who wins, but I almost don't care. They really have all earned it.
PSA: Roomie Reunion 2008!
Tomorrow, the luckiest of days (8/8/08), is the beginning of Roomie Reunion 2008, hosted this year at my house!
Hurrah! Come, roomies, come!
Hurrah! Come, roomies, come!
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
PSA: I'm here for you. (ONLY you.)
My horoscope today indicates that one of you needs more of my attention than the others.
So? Which one of you is it?
So? Which one of you is it?
SYD tonight!
The final competition of "So You Think You Can Dance" is tonight...mere hours from now.
Huzzah!
Huzzah!
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
PSA: Funeral
Mimi's funeral was yesterday. Her body is being sent back to Ethiopia, where she can be buried with family.
New every morning
When I wake up this morning, I immediately roll over and try to go back to sleep, but I can't get comfortable again.
And then I know that I will never get comfortable again. I roll over.
Love changes, and we change in a way that tracks love. I think each time I meet someone new about how he relates to the ones before -- not quite a comparison, not quite a checklist of qualities, but an evaluation of myself. Have I chosen better this time? Does he have the same troubles, the same sensitivities as the last, as the one before that? Can I work through more, this time, than I was able to last time? What kind of person am I, judging by him?
Depression is always a novelty, always a surprise, always starts you from square one and always stops you dead like a brick wall materialized seconds before you hit it. However familiar it became those years when I lived under it every day, the soul-sick feeling hits me like a new flu. I forget, not that I lived through this before, but how I lived through it. I forget how to stay together, how to not unravel.
I forget that unraveling is alright, the secret cure.
I am infantilized. I learn to walk again, reinvent the wheel, berate myself for this again, again, again.
I remember with my brain that I have survived this before; my body grieves, unheeding.
I remind myself that it cleanses, this kind of grief, that it will clean out what I have hidden -- that it will distill the honor and care that I had for my friend, for all life -- but it is as Job's friends speaking nonsense. What is there to cherish. What is there to look forward to when everything is weight, weight, weight all around me, like water, like an ocean.
I used to go to swimming lessons at the YMCA, where one of our swimming instructors watched us during free swim. He bet us money for every minute we could stay in the "dead man's float." It would be good practice, he said, if we were ever stranded at sea. Our bodies would remember what to do.
I stopped at 4 minutes, 35 seconds. I remember it as difficult; we could have stopped anytime. The difficulty came from the decision -- to stay, voluntarily, or to stop.
He's wrong. My body doesn't remember what to do, can only remember the choice -- and now I have none. There is no practicing for this.
I can't stop this, but like a drowning person I forget and struggle against it. As though there would be a lifeguard to save me, I clutch at anything, at busywork, at logic, at talking and listening, at jokes and small talk. I forget to lie still, face-down and wait, to breathe as little as possible, to allow my senses to leave me. I forget to stare down into the water's space-like darkness and drift.
And then I remember: mei you banfa.
I am not able to save even myself.
This is not difficult. There are no decisions to make.
This is just hard.
And then I know that I will never get comfortable again. I roll over.
Love changes, and we change in a way that tracks love. I think each time I meet someone new about how he relates to the ones before -- not quite a comparison, not quite a checklist of qualities, but an evaluation of myself. Have I chosen better this time? Does he have the same troubles, the same sensitivities as the last, as the one before that? Can I work through more, this time, than I was able to last time? What kind of person am I, judging by him?
Depression is always a novelty, always a surprise, always starts you from square one and always stops you dead like a brick wall materialized seconds before you hit it. However familiar it became those years when I lived under it every day, the soul-sick feeling hits me like a new flu. I forget, not that I lived through this before, but how I lived through it. I forget how to stay together, how to not unravel.
I forget that unraveling is alright, the secret cure.
I am infantilized. I learn to walk again, reinvent the wheel, berate myself for this again, again, again.
I remember with my brain that I have survived this before; my body grieves, unheeding.
I remind myself that it cleanses, this kind of grief, that it will clean out what I have hidden -- that it will distill the honor and care that I had for my friend, for all life -- but it is as Job's friends speaking nonsense. What is there to cherish. What is there to look forward to when everything is weight, weight, weight all around me, like water, like an ocean.
I used to go to swimming lessons at the YMCA, where one of our swimming instructors watched us during free swim. He bet us money for every minute we could stay in the "dead man's float." It would be good practice, he said, if we were ever stranded at sea. Our bodies would remember what to do.
I stopped at 4 minutes, 35 seconds. I remember it as difficult; we could have stopped anytime. The difficulty came from the decision -- to stay, voluntarily, or to stop.
He's wrong. My body doesn't remember what to do, can only remember the choice -- and now I have none. There is no practicing for this.
I can't stop this, but like a drowning person I forget and struggle against it. As though there would be a lifeguard to save me, I clutch at anything, at busywork, at logic, at talking and listening, at jokes and small talk. I forget to lie still, face-down and wait, to breathe as little as possible, to allow my senses to leave me. I forget to stare down into the water's space-like darkness and drift.
And then I remember: mei you banfa.
I am not able to save even myself.
This is not difficult. There are no decisions to make.
This is just hard.
Monday, August 4, 2008
PSA: Happy Halfiversary!
Continue Unprotected, the blog, has been up on the web for six months, as of today.
Also, happy anniversary Debbie and Jeff.
Also, happy anniversary Debbie and Jeff.
Sunday, August 3, 2008
Confessions XVI
My favorite colors, in chronological order: purple, (chicory) blue, orange
My Halloween costumes, in chronological order: a tiger, Rainbow Brite, an Indian (paper bag costume), a babushka
My nature-and-natural-disaster-related phobias, in chronological order: thunderstorms, killer bees, venemous snakes, venemous spiders, tornadoes, lightning
My Halloween costumes, in chronological order: a tiger, Rainbow Brite, an Indian (paper bag costume), a babushka
My nature-and-natural-disaster-related phobias, in chronological order: thunderstorms, killer bees, venemous snakes, venemous spiders, tornadoes, lightning
Accusations VI
I accuse "Olay Ribbons Body Butter with jojoba" of having a stupid name. Body butter? Am I bathing, or basting?
I accuse it also of being purple for no reason.
Finally, I accuse it of squirting me directly in the eye with its non-tear-free ingredients whenever I open the cap; when I squeeze some onto my pink squishy bath sponge; when I squish it into said bath sponge; when I close the cap. Invariably (unless I avert my eyes).
I accuse it also of being purple for no reason.
Finally, I accuse it of squirting me directly in the eye with its non-tear-free ingredients whenever I open the cap; when I squeeze some onto my pink squishy bath sponge; when I squish it into said bath sponge; when I close the cap. Invariably (unless I avert my eyes).
Saturday, August 2, 2008
Accusations V
I accuse my elbow -- specifically my right elbow's funny bone -- of slamming itself against my car door. Twice. This afternoon.
I accuse James Taylor. (Of being himself, and singing.)
I accuse all shirts with the "built-in bra" feature. I don't consider myself a hyperbolic person, so I'm serious when I say these never work.
I accuse James Taylor. (Of being himself, and singing.)
I accuse all shirts with the "built-in bra" feature. I don't consider myself a hyperbolic person, so I'm serious when I say these never work.
My email is ahead of me.
My emails get written four hours into the future. No matter what I do.
The embarrassing yahoo address I've had since college, which I even more embarrassingly pay for, doesn't have this problem. It also doesn't have advertisements at the top of the inbox, to annoy me anew at every click -- apparently $9.99 per year is all you have to pay for the much less annoying version of yahoomail.
Alas, my more professional, free email address does have sponsored ads at the top of the screen. More importantly, and much-of-the-time more annoyingly, it insists that every email I get has come from four hours in the future -- and that every email I send is also what I will-be-writing rather than what I have written.
I've tried changing the calendar time to reflect the four-hour #$%^-up, but it never works. It always, no matter what I do, changes the time to another more-wrong time, also usually in the future.
You may be doubting me right now -- thinking but Alicia, there's got to be some way to get it right -- but if you are, stop it. There's no way to get it right and there's no explanation for why it insists on being this way.
My only guess at this point is that the 9,999 other people accessing my email like it better on GMT.
The embarrassing yahoo address I've had since college, which I even more embarrassingly pay for, doesn't have this problem. It also doesn't have advertisements at the top of the inbox, to annoy me anew at every click -- apparently $9.99 per year is all you have to pay for the much less annoying version of yahoomail.
Alas, my more professional, free email address does have sponsored ads at the top of the screen. More importantly, and much-of-the-time more annoyingly, it insists that every email I get has come from four hours in the future -- and that every email I send is also what I will-be-writing rather than what I have written.
I've tried changing the calendar time to reflect the four-hour #$%^-up, but it never works. It always, no matter what I do, changes the time to another more-wrong time, also usually in the future.
You may be doubting me right now -- thinking but Alicia, there's got to be some way to get it right -- but if you are, stop it. There's no way to get it right and there's no explanation for why it insists on being this way.
My only guess at this point is that the 9,999 other people accessing my email like it better on GMT.
Friday, August 1, 2008
Unsolicited Advice, cameo by Phil Gramm: It's all in your head, whiners!
John McCain's campaign advisor Phil Gramm said awhile back that we're only experiencing a "mental recession."
(I'm glad he said this now, as I wondered prior to this statement whether John McCain was a neocon (or just a regular old con). Out of that closet he comes -- though he's distanced himself from this statement, in much the same way he's distanced himself from every previous position he's held on government, the economy, the war...you know. Whatever.)
It's telling that Gramm thinks this should make us feel better.
It's true, perhaps, that the recession is all in our minds -- maybe there are no fewer goods being produced or purchased now than there were ten years ago? -- but it's also true that everything else is, too.
The value of money, for instance. Or faith in credit cards to pay our bills. Or the belief that we should pay bills. The value of gold.
Or, you know, the belief that other people exist.
I, for one, find it hard to believe that people like Phil Gramm exist.
Maybe if I quit whining and ignore him, he'll disappear.
(I'm glad he said this now, as I wondered prior to this statement whether John McCain was a neocon (or just a regular old con). Out of that closet he comes -- though he's distanced himself from this statement, in much the same way he's distanced himself from every previous position he's held on government, the economy, the war...you know. Whatever.)
It's telling that Gramm thinks this should make us feel better.
It's true, perhaps, that the recession is all in our minds -- maybe there are no fewer goods being produced or purchased now than there were ten years ago? -- but it's also true that everything else is, too.
The value of money, for instance. Or faith in credit cards to pay our bills. Or the belief that we should pay bills. The value of gold.
Or, you know, the belief that other people exist.
I, for one, find it hard to believe that people like Phil Gramm exist.
Maybe if I quit whining and ignore him, he'll disappear.
New word: Texublican
n. A conservative who considers "down-home" behavior appropriate and preferable, i.e. President George W. Bush attempting to give a backrub to German Chancellor Angela Merkel.
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