I’ve been thinking about the phone awkwardness I sometimes experience, and ways that I might ameliorate the problem. Two solutions come to mind: the telegraph, and the carrier pigeon.
I might have to check out a few library books to figure out whether learning Morse code and installing telegraph machines, or caring for a coop of pigeons, would be easier.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Making Your Marx
Yesterday I went to the Goodwill on my typical semi-annual search for clothes I don’t hate, and, as always, I rewarded my diligent trying-on of sweaters with a trip to the back of the store—where they keep the electronic and kitchen-gadget castoffs of generations, the books about the threat of a Soviet Africa, the goldenrod-orange-and-olive velvet loveseats, etc.
There were more board games back there than I had ever seen in this Goodwill before, including “Cranium,” which is award-winning but harder than you’d expect; three sets of “Candyland,” but the most recent version of it, and so not nostalgia-inducing; four versions of “Trivial Pursuit”; and, in the back, sandwiched between two panoramic puzzles, a board game called “Class Struggle.” I immediately pulled it off the shelf, hoping for greatness. I was not disappointed.
The cover displays, against a black background, a cut-out photo of a man smiling at the camera and arm wrestling another man, whose head has been replaced by a photo of the head of a grandfatherly and earnest Karl Marx. This was enough to get me to buy the game (for $2.99). I learned the following after opening the still-sealed box upon my return home.
“Class Struggle” was manufactured by a small organization (appropriately named “Class Struggle, Inc.”) in 1978. The game is meant to simulate the real-life struggle between “capitalists” and “workers.” It features two kinds of money— “credit money” and “debit money” (how this relates to real life in 1978 is a mystery; would "debit money" be like an I-bond?)—and two kinds of “growth/asset cards,” which can be used to incite or to quell rebellion, depending on your loyalties. At the beginning of the game, the “genetic die” is rolled, assigning each person to a class; the game’s instructions point out that this is just like real life, in which people do not get to choose the circumstances into which they are born.
The board itself is a spectacular grid of alternating cerulean blue and fuchsia squares so bright that they appear to vibrate (probably with suppressed working class rage). No frilly paths through wooded glens or over bridges a la “The Game of Life” (in which you are assumed to be a capitalist pig); no tasteful, minimalist black-and-white as in “Othello” (modernist aesthetics are for the bourgeouisie); none of the absurd whimsy of the ridiculously complicated “Mousetrap” will distract you from the purpose of playing “Class Struggle.” Marxism is a serious business, and this is a serious (Marxist) board game.
“Class Struggle” emphasizes this point with a “nuclear war” square only two tiles from the finish line (if a giant square in the center of the board could be called a “finish line”). For reasons best left to tournament-level players to know, if the workers land on “nuclear war” first, disaster is averted; if the capitalists land there first, the game ends automatically, presumably because the world has exploded. The rules are unclear on whether the workers win by default in this case, or whether everyone is simply dead. If everyone manages to avoid the nuclear war square, or if the workers land there first, the winners arrive in the center of the board, achieving either “Barbarism (Capitalists win)” or “Socialism (Workers win).” The rules do not explain what is meant by “Barbarism,” exactly; I think we can all assume it can’t be anything good.
But “rules” here refers to the first set, or “beginner’s rules,” which are one of three sets: the beginner’s, the full set, and the tournament rules, each of which are detailed in their own manual. The beginner’s manual includes what amounts to a Marxist history of the world (and predictions for its future), but for those who simply want to play, the rules are summarized all IN CAPS. At the end of this rulebook is a note from the creator of the game that begins by earnestly requesting that you wait until after you’ve played the game to continue reading.
Of course, having paid almost three dollars for this game, I felt entitled to ignore the plea, and read the note immediately. Here is the note in its entirety:
If anyone would like to borrow my copy of the board game to show to your local magazine store, just let me know.
There were more board games back there than I had ever seen in this Goodwill before, including “Cranium,” which is award-winning but harder than you’d expect; three sets of “Candyland,” but the most recent version of it, and so not nostalgia-inducing; four versions of “Trivial Pursuit”; and, in the back, sandwiched between two panoramic puzzles, a board game called “Class Struggle.” I immediately pulled it off the shelf, hoping for greatness. I was not disappointed.
The cover displays, against a black background, a cut-out photo of a man smiling at the camera and arm wrestling another man, whose head has been replaced by a photo of the head of a grandfatherly and earnest Karl Marx. This was enough to get me to buy the game (for $2.99). I learned the following after opening the still-sealed box upon my return home.
“Class Struggle” was manufactured by a small organization (appropriately named “Class Struggle, Inc.”) in 1978. The game is meant to simulate the real-life struggle between “capitalists” and “workers.” It features two kinds of money— “credit money” and “debit money” (how this relates to real life in 1978 is a mystery; would "debit money" be like an I-bond?)—and two kinds of “growth/asset cards,” which can be used to incite or to quell rebellion, depending on your loyalties. At the beginning of the game, the “genetic die” is rolled, assigning each person to a class; the game’s instructions point out that this is just like real life, in which people do not get to choose the circumstances into which they are born.
The board itself is a spectacular grid of alternating cerulean blue and fuchsia squares so bright that they appear to vibrate (probably with suppressed working class rage). No frilly paths through wooded glens or over bridges a la “The Game of Life” (in which you are assumed to be a capitalist pig); no tasteful, minimalist black-and-white as in “Othello” (modernist aesthetics are for the bourgeouisie); none of the absurd whimsy of the ridiculously complicated “Mousetrap” will distract you from the purpose of playing “Class Struggle.” Marxism is a serious business, and this is a serious (Marxist) board game.
“Class Struggle” emphasizes this point with a “nuclear war” square only two tiles from the finish line (if a giant square in the center of the board could be called a “finish line”). For reasons best left to tournament-level players to know, if the workers land on “nuclear war” first, disaster is averted; if the capitalists land there first, the game ends automatically, presumably because the world has exploded. The rules are unclear on whether the workers win by default in this case, or whether everyone is simply dead. If everyone manages to avoid the nuclear war square, or if the workers land there first, the winners arrive in the center of the board, achieving either “Barbarism (Capitalists win)” or “Socialism (Workers win).” The rules do not explain what is meant by “Barbarism,” exactly; I think we can all assume it can’t be anything good.
But “rules” here refers to the first set, or “beginner’s rules,” which are one of three sets: the beginner’s, the full set, and the tournament rules, each of which are detailed in their own manual. The beginner’s manual includes what amounts to a Marxist history of the world (and predictions for its future), but for those who simply want to play, the rules are summarized all IN CAPS. At the end of this rulebook is a note from the creator of the game that begins by earnestly requesting that you wait until after you’ve played the game to continue reading.
Of course, having paid almost three dollars for this game, I felt entitled to ignore the plea, and read the note immediately. Here is the note in its entirety:
Well I, for one, think that about says it all. And I feel I’ve done my part by letting you all know that “Class Struggle: the Game” is out there, ready to do its part for the coming revolution.“Dear Friend,
Please do not read the rest of this letter until you have
played the game…
Now that you have played “Class Struggle’ (and if you have enjoyed it), you may be asking ‘What can I do to get “Class Struggle” into the hands of more people?’. The answer is that you can do a lot that is beyond the power of our limited distribution network. You can, for example, show your copy of the game to local book, toy, game, stationary, gift, department, and magazine stores, and encourage them to order. The back cover of the box tells most of the story.With you allied to us, we cannot lose…nor can you.
Yours In Struggle,
Bertell Ollman
(For Class Struggle, Inc.)”
If anyone would like to borrow my copy of the board game to show to your local magazine store, just let me know.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Tinkerhell
Why has Tinkerbell suddenly become the patron saint of teenage girls? And since when did she get to be so “naughty”?
Putting Tinkerbell on accessories meant for fifteen year olds reminds me of that era when sucking on a pacifier was cool (for high schoolers). Did Disney simply not have enough of the teen market share and also lack the muscle to create new characters? Retooling Tink into a tiny, pouty vixen with a skirt that embodies the principle of “show, don’t tell,” and then marketing that to high school students…eew. Whatever happened to Mary Martin and the mirror-reflection fairy?
I thought the purses, T-shirts and other paraphernalia were bad enough--and then I saw a window decal stuck onto the rear window of a pick-up truck that depicted Tinkerbell sitting, legs splayed, in front of a Confederate flag background.
What???
Putting Tinkerbell on accessories meant for fifteen year olds reminds me of that era when sucking on a pacifier was cool (for high schoolers). Did Disney simply not have enough of the teen market share and also lack the muscle to create new characters? Retooling Tink into a tiny, pouty vixen with a skirt that embodies the principle of “show, don’t tell,” and then marketing that to high school students…eew. Whatever happened to Mary Martin and the mirror-reflection fairy?
I thought the purses, T-shirts and other paraphernalia were bad enough--and then I saw a window decal stuck onto the rear window of a pick-up truck that depicted Tinkerbell sitting, legs splayed, in front of a Confederate flag background.
What???
Monday, February 11, 2008
An Immodest Proposal: Government to Enforce New DDA Policy
Due to the failure of both law enforcement in the inner city and rehabilitation efforts for prisoners, the federal government has proposed a new plan for the public welfare that will be enacted in approximately two months. The plan entails the castration of all non-imprisoned men and promises to eliminate violent crimes, gender and race-based prejudice, teen pregnancy, abortion and divorce.
After an increase in violent crimes in the last year, and in the midst of the ongoing investigation into the racial profiling of suspects by police, the recently convened Department of Domestic Affairs (DDA) issued this statement: “All other efforts having failed, as Americans we must now turn to our last resort. We see clearly in the demographics collected from many of our urban centers that the vast majority of those perpetrating violent crimes are males, and that the majority of those currently imprisoned are persons of minority. In order to right the wrongs that we have done to minorities, the miscarriage of justice and our subsequent failure to incarcerate those truly responsible for these violent acts, we see no alternative but to castrate all unimprisoned men over the age of thirteen.”
The Secretary of Domestic Affairs, Robin Eisenhower, explained the department’s rationale to the media. “This is a matter of public health, not only for victims, but for perpetrators of violent crimes as well. The scientific link between the hormone testosterone and violent behavior is no longer possible to ignore. The elimination of testosterone would decrease all instances of violent behaviors in men; scientists now consider its presence a guarantee of aggression, and have categorized the hormone as a mind-altering narcotic. We must act against this drug now, before another generation of men grows up to become child abusers, murderers, and rapists.”
Eisenhower emphasized the plan as a deterrent to future crimes, concluding with a statement from a convicted man currently serving 25 years to life in the Virginia State Penitentiary: “If I had known the government could do that, I never would have stolen that car. But now I’m glad I’m in prison.”
While the plan states that men in the general society should be castrated between January 1st and March 1st, 2003, it makes special provision for those currently serving time in federal prisons. The warden at the Virginia State Penitentiary, Ed Gardener, explained. “In order to propagate the human race, we need some men with the ability to reproduce. Those in prison are already behind bars for crimes that they have committed against the people, some for the rest of their lives. This means that they are already being watched closely by the government. Allowing them to retain their procreative abilities would ensure that they could give back to the society. This would improve their self-esteem and be better for their rehabilitation than anything we could have come up with here on our own.” In response to objections from the National Organization for Women (NOW), he assured the press that the incarcerated men would not be allowed near women who desired to procreate. Instead, modern technology would be used in much the same way it is for infertile couples today. “There’s no reason to do things the old-fashioned way,” Gardener said.
To objections that keeping any men in their naturally aggressive state was cruel and unusual punishment, Gardener said, “You have to make sacrifices for the good of the whole society sometimes. And these men will be given a choice. The program is completely voluntary; they can decide to make the sacrifice of providing for their country or else be released from the bonds of their aggression and eventually sent back into American society as outstanding citizens.”
The government claims that the plan will also eliminate racism. Because the majority of male prisoners are persons of minority, the birth rate of minorities would quickly surpass that of majority Caucasians. “We will be forced to give up the racism that has pervaded our society,” commented Kyle Masters, the leader of the NAACP, at a national rally in support of the plan.
The social action plan also provides for the long-term propagation of the species. After current prisoners have died off and all other American men are castrated, federal prisons will be converted into safehouses for future volunteers for procreation. New, smaller prisons will be built for future convicts, since behavioral scientists predict a drastic decrease in crime following the New Year. Pre-pubescent boys will be given the option of retaining procreative abilities and remaining in custody for the remainder of their lives, or else following their emasculated “fathers” and living in society at large. They will be expected to make this decision by the age of thirteen, before they have become addicted to testosterone, say scientists. This long-term provision is patterned after the practices of some African societies that use circumcision as a rite of initiation for young boys, resulting in their full socialization. A team of elite anthropologists has been assembled for consultation on the specifics of this plan.
The main critics of the government’s plan admit that it would prevent crime, but object to the government’s attempts to legislate the lives of American citizens. A statement released by the Michigan Militia group has been endorsed by The American Communist Party and Young Americans for America (YAA). It states that “the American government shouldn’t be ruling our lives. Sure the crime would go down, but we won’t give up our guns. They can legislate all they want in Washington, but they can’t take our anarchy.” The Militia later augmented its statement by adding “so there” to the end.
In the initial press release, the president extended an invitation to other countries in the United Nations and the developing world to solve their problems of crime, the breakdown of the family, and overpopulation, “the American way.” It is expected that with current research supporting the view of testosterone as a harmful drug, the UN will soon add “forced retention of naturally degenerate anatomy” to its list of human rights violations. Countries that do not have the funds required to offer free and sanitary castration facilities may apply to the UN for financial support. If other nations refuse to comply with UN regulations, they may face severe sanctions in the future. “It’s time for us all to be released from the tyranny of our biology,” the president said. “It’s time for us to put down the sword and pick up the knife, to fight for American freedoms.”
The government plans to offer a grace period of approximately two months to men who would like to continue to live in their natural mental and physical conditions. Those men who prefer to retain their procreative abilities are being offered asylum in France, which according to the statement of the DDA is “a country that continues, even in this late-modern era, to flaunt and wallow in its own sensuality.”
Vacation Prices Up: Paris, Nice
The prices of airfare to France have risen 5000% in the last three weeks, making the European country the most expensive place to vacation in 2003. The U.S. embassy has agreed to expedite the visa process in order to meet the demands of the public, giving priority to the approximately 75 million men who have requested refugee status.
Federal Crime Rates Increase
In the last month, federal crime rates have risen 200%. According to the FBI, almost all perpetrators are Caucasian males. Most crimes are non-violent and do not pose a threat to citizens, the bureau reported, although most are punishable by imprisonment.
“The really strange thing is that they’ve been calling themselves in,” said one agent, who asked to remain anonymous. “Everyone from crooked CEOs and tax evaders, to people who read their neighbor’s mail. The phone hasn’t stopped ringing. We’ve had to install more public lines to handle the demand.” Continued on A6
Saturday, February 9, 2008
I don't want your X-K for now
In the early 90s, the "rap" group DC Talk came out with their "Free At Last" album, which included the song "I Don't Want It (Your Sex for Now)." The lyrics to this song include the lines "S-E-X is a test when I'm pressed / So back up off with less of that zest" and "I don't want your sex."
Apparently the singer (or writer) of this song had been having trouble with one or more women who insisted on piling on top of him, hoping for an orgy, and prepared this song for such occasions. The woman (or women) testing him with s-e-x seemed to need some reminding that he, the target of her X-rated feminine wiles, cannot be had until he "ties the knot."
"Back up off, ladies! Less of that zest, please! I don't want your sex--for now."
The intention behind the song--meant to be inspiration for teenage boys who want desperately to be sexually active but have moral (or practical) considerations preventing them, to keep them from straying onto a path they may regret--is not without merit, especially considering teen pregnancy rates, STDs, etc. etc.
But even if one allows, a priori, the rule "teens shouldn't be having sex," the focus in these lyrics is disturbing. The women that this all-male band is speaking to are cast as the source of the men's problem: it's not "I have difficulty controlling myself when I'm with you, so maybe we should pause and collect ourselves," it's "back up off with less of that zest." It's not "I want to wait until I'm married before having this experience," it's "I don't want your sex."
"Your sex"? What does that even mean? And where are the "I" messages? Where are the communication skills that we all learned in Com101? When did these men abdicate personal responsibility for their actions and begin to blame the women who tempt them?
The whole idea of sex here seems to be flawed. Besides the grammatical offense of "I don't want your sex for now," which is an awkward construction at best, there's the just-as-weird implication that "sex" is a commodity that women possess and can give to men. It might make sense if the phrase "your sex" were exchanged for "your virginity" or even "you to be in my personal space"--but it makes no sense as it is. (And even those options--the idea of virginity as a woman's state-of-being and yet also something that can be handed over to a man, in the first, or the bizarrely impersonal attitude of the second--have their own issues.)
It's the particular combination of the virgin and the whore, here, that interests me. The song assumes the presence of a woman or women who are waiting to prey on men (the singer, or, vicariously, the teen boy listening to the song)--your stereotypical "femme fatale," who will lure the unsuspecting male into a sexually compromising position and then defeat him--and admits the desirability of these women (saying their s-e-x is a "test") but champions the desirability of the virgin over these. This seems typical, medieval-morality-play-type stuff. The difference is that these women who are being cast as the whore are actually, according to the song, also the virgins.
The song implores the women in question to consider the consequences of giving in to their lust ("the innocence that's lost is gonna hurt you") and to find alternative ways to attract the singer ("Impress this brother with a life of virtue") rather than to continue to "test" him. "Respect is what we need to find the cure / For this disease (of lust)," the singer says, and relates that "Girl, it's gonna take a little time / For us to see (the truth) / That love is simply more than / Fulfilling the need (for S-E-X)."
The singer seems to be concerned that he and his potential partner are objectifying, rather than respecting, one another, which may be a valid critique; but this is the only point in the song where the objectification is admittedly mutual. The rest of the song implies that the (male) singer is being objectified by his (female) partner, who must be encouraged to wait "a little time" to see "that love is simply more" and not give in to lust.
Ultimately, the song offers no practical description of what advantage waiting until marriage will have. How, exactly, would abstaining until marriage rid the couple of the objectification inherent in their current relationship? How would waiting a little time temper the "lust" of dating into the "love" of marriage? Why is marriage a panacea for these concerns? The song is written for those who already adhere to the "wait until marriage" standard, so perhaps it doesn't need to include answers to these questions--the band is, literally, preaching to the choir--but the assumption that waiting until marriage is the only, or only good, option obscures the question of what these women are being accused of.
Essentially, they're being accused of two things: trying to lead the singer/men down an unrighteous path (femme fatale), and trying to give up their virginity, the one thing that these men want from them (the virgin wantonly becoming the whore). On both counts, they're destroying the image that these men have of the women they want to settle down with--and by destroying this, they're destroying the image these men have of themselves, as the chivalrous Galahadian knights who can overcome temptation in favor of the pure, entowered damsel.
So how would one define "objectification" here? If "using another person for one's own purposes" is a decent definition, then wouldn't this be another type of objectification? And would this kind of objectification--could it possibly--be something that could be overcome by waiting until marriage, or would it only be exacerbated by successful abstinence? Would the wedding-day virgin ever cease to be the object of this particular desire, the supplier of virtue to her chaste husband? Once you've waited, you've waited, right? Just like once you've given it up, it's gone.
Both of these choices define us, and it may be silly to talk about the differences in terms of giving in to objectification ("lust") versus respecting the other, when the true competition lies between one lust (for a particular self-image) and another (typical, old-fashioned lust). It may be silly to talk about the differences in most of the terms we apply. It is certainly silly to focus a song meant to keep men out of the sack on importuning women to remain virgins; if men want to fortify their self-images, they need to look to themselves.
I work in a residential program with a young woman who has just recently been allowed to watch R-rated movies. She's a bit overenthusiastic about choosing R ratings, perceiving herself and her choices as more adult when she chooses the "most adult" option. (She's long refused to watch any cartoons, though most of them would probably interest her more than what she ultimately decides on.) She can't stand anything "scary" (and this is liberally defined to mean anything even the least bit thrilling), which eliminates more than half of the R movies out there, and recently she also requested that I pick a movie rated R, but with "no X-K!"
Of course I understood what her code meant. And her honest reaction to a question of personal taste makes sense to me--in a way that "I Don't Want It" does not.
Apparently the singer (or writer) of this song had been having trouble with one or more women who insisted on piling on top of him, hoping for an orgy, and prepared this song for such occasions. The woman (or women) testing him with s-e-x seemed to need some reminding that he, the target of her X-rated feminine wiles, cannot be had until he "ties the knot."
"Back up off, ladies! Less of that zest, please! I don't want your sex--for now."
The intention behind the song--meant to be inspiration for teenage boys who want desperately to be sexually active but have moral (or practical) considerations preventing them, to keep them from straying onto a path they may regret--is not without merit, especially considering teen pregnancy rates, STDs, etc. etc.
But even if one allows, a priori, the rule "teens shouldn't be having sex," the focus in these lyrics is disturbing. The women that this all-male band is speaking to are cast as the source of the men's problem: it's not "I have difficulty controlling myself when I'm with you, so maybe we should pause and collect ourselves," it's "back up off with less of that zest." It's not "I want to wait until I'm married before having this experience," it's "I don't want your sex."
"Your sex"? What does that even mean? And where are the "I" messages? Where are the communication skills that we all learned in Com101? When did these men abdicate personal responsibility for their actions and begin to blame the women who tempt them?
The whole idea of sex here seems to be flawed. Besides the grammatical offense of "I don't want your sex for now," which is an awkward construction at best, there's the just-as-weird implication that "sex" is a commodity that women possess and can give to men. It might make sense if the phrase "your sex" were exchanged for "your virginity" or even "you to be in my personal space"--but it makes no sense as it is. (And even those options--the idea of virginity as a woman's state-of-being and yet also something that can be handed over to a man, in the first, or the bizarrely impersonal attitude of the second--have their own issues.)
It's the particular combination of the virgin and the whore, here, that interests me. The song assumes the presence of a woman or women who are waiting to prey on men (the singer, or, vicariously, the teen boy listening to the song)--your stereotypical "femme fatale," who will lure the unsuspecting male into a sexually compromising position and then defeat him--and admits the desirability of these women (saying their s-e-x is a "test") but champions the desirability of the virgin over these. This seems typical, medieval-morality-play-type stuff. The difference is that these women who are being cast as the whore are actually, according to the song, also the virgins.
The song implores the women in question to consider the consequences of giving in to their lust ("the innocence that's lost is gonna hurt you") and to find alternative ways to attract the singer ("Impress this brother with a life of virtue") rather than to continue to "test" him. "Respect is what we need to find the cure / For this disease (of lust)," the singer says, and relates that "Girl, it's gonna take a little time / For us to see (the truth) / That love is simply more than / Fulfilling the need (for S-E-X)."
The singer seems to be concerned that he and his potential partner are objectifying, rather than respecting, one another, which may be a valid critique; but this is the only point in the song where the objectification is admittedly mutual. The rest of the song implies that the (male) singer is being objectified by his (female) partner, who must be encouraged to wait "a little time" to see "that love is simply more" and not give in to lust.
Ultimately, the song offers no practical description of what advantage waiting until marriage will have. How, exactly, would abstaining until marriage rid the couple of the objectification inherent in their current relationship? How would waiting a little time temper the "lust" of dating into the "love" of marriage? Why is marriage a panacea for these concerns? The song is written for those who already adhere to the "wait until marriage" standard, so perhaps it doesn't need to include answers to these questions--the band is, literally, preaching to the choir--but the assumption that waiting until marriage is the only, or only good, option obscures the question of what these women are being accused of.
Essentially, they're being accused of two things: trying to lead the singer/men down an unrighteous path (femme fatale), and trying to give up their virginity, the one thing that these men want from them (the virgin wantonly becoming the whore). On both counts, they're destroying the image that these men have of the women they want to settle down with--and by destroying this, they're destroying the image these men have of themselves, as the chivalrous Galahadian knights who can overcome temptation in favor of the pure, entowered damsel.
So how would one define "objectification" here? If "using another person for one's own purposes" is a decent definition, then wouldn't this be another type of objectification? And would this kind of objectification--could it possibly--be something that could be overcome by waiting until marriage, or would it only be exacerbated by successful abstinence? Would the wedding-day virgin ever cease to be the object of this particular desire, the supplier of virtue to her chaste husband? Once you've waited, you've waited, right? Just like once you've given it up, it's gone.
Both of these choices define us, and it may be silly to talk about the differences in terms of giving in to objectification ("lust") versus respecting the other, when the true competition lies between one lust (for a particular self-image) and another (typical, old-fashioned lust). It may be silly to talk about the differences in most of the terms we apply. It is certainly silly to focus a song meant to keep men out of the sack on importuning women to remain virgins; if men want to fortify their self-images, they need to look to themselves.
I work in a residential program with a young woman who has just recently been allowed to watch R-rated movies. She's a bit overenthusiastic about choosing R ratings, perceiving herself and her choices as more adult when she chooses the "most adult" option. (She's long refused to watch any cartoons, though most of them would probably interest her more than what she ultimately decides on.) She can't stand anything "scary" (and this is liberally defined to mean anything even the least bit thrilling), which eliminates more than half of the R movies out there, and recently she also requested that I pick a movie rated R, but with "no X-K!"
Of course I understood what her code meant. And her honest reaction to a question of personal taste makes sense to me--in a way that "I Don't Want It" does not.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Oprahma
So Obama won my state, which I suppose entitles me to gloat (what with having voted for him and all)--but the truth is that I would support Clinton if she won the nomination, with little reservation.
I only wish this war would end AND that we would get universal health care. It's hard to decide between these apples and oranges, and frankly, I'll be glad to have a chance to support whomever and then lobby her or him for a change on whichever views I don't like.
I wonder how much Oprah's endorsement helped Obama's cause. She is, after all, the most powerful person in the world. If he gets the nomination and then the presidency, he'll be starting out with a global streed cred we haven't seen since (President Bill) Clinton, and I suspect that Oprah's coming out on Obama's side will have played a large part in that.
I only wish this war would end AND that we would get universal health care. It's hard to decide between these apples and oranges, and frankly, I'll be glad to have a chance to support whomever and then lobby her or him for a change on whichever views I don't like.
I wonder how much Oprah's endorsement helped Obama's cause. She is, after all, the most powerful person in the world. If he gets the nomination and then the presidency, he'll be starting out with a global streed cred we haven't seen since (President Bill) Clinton, and I suspect that Oprah's coming out on Obama's side will have played a large part in that.
Monday, February 4, 2008
Apoplectic, anorectic
I haven’t been eating much lately. Like an idiot, I put off eating when I’m hungry and then forget about it when the feeling eventually evaporates, my body deciding that it had better not waste its available energy if it isn’t going to be getting any more anytime soon. I say “like an idiot” because I don’t believe I’m an actual idiot; I’m just stressed. Apparently.
Graduating from high school was also apparently stressful for me: I forgot to eat for three days. After a morning final on the second day, I was hungry, but mystified; why was I so hungry? Hadn’t I eaten breakf…well, but I had eaten dinner at least, on the night—or lunch, or breakfast on the previous day…right? Except that no, I hadn’t, and so I went out to breakfast.
Then I forgot to eat lunch, since breakfast was so late, and then I was busy getting ready for the baccalaureate ceremony and didn’t eat dinner, and was again mystified when the cookie I had at the ceremony’s reception was the best I’d ever eaten, despite being store-bought, and a sugar cookie. I may have actually struck my own forehead at this point, in cartoon-like shock—but not hard enough, because when the reception was over, I still forgot to eat dinner, and went to bed with a single sugar cookie in my stomach.
Until 3 a.m., when I woke up with a growling stomach and got up to pour myself a bowl of Fruit Loops.
And that was only day two.
I can’t remember a time since that has been as extreme, but there was also a month during my first year in China—November—when I lost about as much weight as a person can healthily manage, by eating nothing but saltines and margarine. It is, I agree, a gross diet, and not actually meant to help a person lose weight, so I don’t recommend it. I suspect that, in addition to typical culture shock, I was experiencing a dairy deficiency, since cow’s milk is hardly the staple in China that it is here. I know PETA might not agree, and I acquiesce that people don’t necessarily need dairy products to live healthful, osteoporosis-free lives, but my body was used to it—and I love milk, so it was used to a lot of it.
It was also beginning to get cold there in November, and since we were south of the river and thus had no indoor heating, when it got cold, it got bone-chillingly, frighteningly cold. It was actually colder inside the house than out. Other than when we jumped into bed with our electric blankets at night, the wet chill was unrelenting and inescapable; I'm not sure we would have survived without those blankets. Even then, they only kept our lungs from freezing solid—not our toes. Not much seemed appetizing under these circumstances.
And now, I’m in a similar mode: not eating regular meals, regularly. I always eat breakfast, but after that things get to be touch-and-go. Lunch is usually some combination of carrots, soy nuts, and some kind of trail mix, or crackers and marmalade. This fare is typical for me. What’s not is the way I look at these things now and think “Why bother?” and then can’t answer the question of what I’d rather have.
Not that anyone wants or needs to know my eating habits, of course.
It’s just that I’ve never heard anyone else complain that they had forgotten why to eat, and that this bothered them enough to stop. I have not forgotten the process: assemble delicious foods, set them on a plate, stab/scoop/pick up, chew and swallow. And I’ve not forgotten which foods I like or how to procure them. It’s as if the whole telos of eating has suddenly become a mystery for me, and I can’t start again until I’ve solved it. I’ve forgotten the fundamental drive to eat. It’s been temporarily wiped clean, become inaccessible.
It’s like a instinctual reboot, and it’s a strange feeling. Aren’t the lizard-brain drives that run us at the most basic levels supposed to be the last to go? If I were in the wilderness being confronted by a dangerous predator, I’d like to think that fight or flight would kick in, not my knowledge of pi to ten digits. If I were busily installing Linux onto my home computer, I wouldn’t expect to be able to run Word at the same time. (Although if any OS could do it, it’d be Linux.) How is it that I’m functioning on a cognitive level, but not on a basic one?
I don’t find it worrisome (which would probably also be lizard-brain level stuff), just interesting. And at least I know, from my own experience, that it will pass.
Graduating from high school was also apparently stressful for me: I forgot to eat for three days. After a morning final on the second day, I was hungry, but mystified; why was I so hungry? Hadn’t I eaten breakf…well, but I had eaten dinner at least, on the night—or lunch, or breakfast on the previous day…right? Except that no, I hadn’t, and so I went out to breakfast.
Then I forgot to eat lunch, since breakfast was so late, and then I was busy getting ready for the baccalaureate ceremony and didn’t eat dinner, and was again mystified when the cookie I had at the ceremony’s reception was the best I’d ever eaten, despite being store-bought, and a sugar cookie. I may have actually struck my own forehead at this point, in cartoon-like shock—but not hard enough, because when the reception was over, I still forgot to eat dinner, and went to bed with a single sugar cookie in my stomach.
Until 3 a.m., when I woke up with a growling stomach and got up to pour myself a bowl of Fruit Loops.
And that was only day two.
I can’t remember a time since that has been as extreme, but there was also a month during my first year in China—November—when I lost about as much weight as a person can healthily manage, by eating nothing but saltines and margarine. It is, I agree, a gross diet, and not actually meant to help a person lose weight, so I don’t recommend it. I suspect that, in addition to typical culture shock, I was experiencing a dairy deficiency, since cow’s milk is hardly the staple in China that it is here. I know PETA might not agree, and I acquiesce that people don’t necessarily need dairy products to live healthful, osteoporosis-free lives, but my body was used to it—and I love milk, so it was used to a lot of it.
It was also beginning to get cold there in November, and since we were south of the river and thus had no indoor heating, when it got cold, it got bone-chillingly, frighteningly cold. It was actually colder inside the house than out. Other than when we jumped into bed with our electric blankets at night, the wet chill was unrelenting and inescapable; I'm not sure we would have survived without those blankets. Even then, they only kept our lungs from freezing solid—not our toes. Not much seemed appetizing under these circumstances.
And now, I’m in a similar mode: not eating regular meals, regularly. I always eat breakfast, but after that things get to be touch-and-go. Lunch is usually some combination of carrots, soy nuts, and some kind of trail mix, or crackers and marmalade. This fare is typical for me. What’s not is the way I look at these things now and think “Why bother?” and then can’t answer the question of what I’d rather have.
Not that anyone wants or needs to know my eating habits, of course.
It’s just that I’ve never heard anyone else complain that they had forgotten why to eat, and that this bothered them enough to stop. I have not forgotten the process: assemble delicious foods, set them on a plate, stab/scoop/pick up, chew and swallow. And I’ve not forgotten which foods I like or how to procure them. It’s as if the whole telos of eating has suddenly become a mystery for me, and I can’t start again until I’ve solved it. I’ve forgotten the fundamental drive to eat. It’s been temporarily wiped clean, become inaccessible.
It’s like a instinctual reboot, and it’s a strange feeling. Aren’t the lizard-brain drives that run us at the most basic levels supposed to be the last to go? If I were in the wilderness being confronted by a dangerous predator, I’d like to think that fight or flight would kick in, not my knowledge of pi to ten digits. If I were busily installing Linux onto my home computer, I wouldn’t expect to be able to run Word at the same time. (Although if any OS could do it, it’d be Linux.) How is it that I’m functioning on a cognitive level, but not on a basic one?
I don’t find it worrisome (which would probably also be lizard-brain level stuff), just interesting. And at least I know, from my own experience, that it will pass.
Unfit
Long, long ago, when I was in high school, like most girls, I went with friends to look at prom dresses at the local JCPenny. The difference was that we went exclusively to mock them rather than to buy them.
One dress in particular boggled the mind. It had a dark blue denim bodice, strapless, with a sort of internal-wire effect that would hold it on/up, instead of the usual elastic-at-the-top approach. The skirt appeared to be no fewer than four different layers, of volume-enhancing under-tulle, a silver metallic fabric, and what I believe was blue tulle, and black tulle, on top. (If I can ever find a picture of it, I'll post it here.) The effect was astounding. It looked like exactly the wrong dress--like the kind of dress a cheerleader might have a dream about wearing to prom, then wake up screaming. We called it the Nightmare dress.
The Nightmare dress became a sort of icon. Over the next few weeks, we visited it each time we went to the mall (and what else was there there to do?): we talked about it, anticipated seeing it, searched for it, touched it and laughed at it. We made the pilgrimage probably three times before someone (let's face it; it was probably me) suggested that we try it on. It was a smallish-middle size, and we were one very tall, one very skinny, and one relatively average (that's me, again) sized girl. Still, we decided that all of us should try it on, whatever difficulties it might entail...like the teen-girl equivalent of "blood brothers."
So we did. It didn't fit any of us perfectly, but somehow it worked. In fact, it looked great-but-different on each of us, accentuating the various attributes that one might be pleased to accentuate and minimizing those that one would not. It was, actually, perfect.
(Except that it was something like $180, and despite its perfection, we were there to mock the prom, not to join in.)
This is the most simple-to-illustrate instance of my compatibility-related blindness. I have always had a disappointing inability to choose clothes/accessories that "work" for me. I have an aggravating tendency to want to write tragedy--which in my hands becomes as maudlin and depressing (on so, so many levels) as your typical goth high schooler's chapbook--rather than comedy, which I'm actually pretty good at. I try to think of grand, long-lasting ways that I could contribute to society through years of toil, like writing the great American novel, or pioneering a new art form, or proving the grand unification theory or solving the four colors problem, or at least inventing the internet. But none of these ideas are original, and I'm not very good at them.
(I know, I know--you're thinking "Besides, why write the great American novel when, if you include all the British novels, it would still only be like ten billionth greatest overall?" To that I can only say: Touche, my friend. Touche.)
So I'm trying some different things: seeking out reds and browns and square necklines; letting go of the tendency to strip every character of all hope when I want to write something "serious"; and checking out the newspaper business. (Because if anything is both practical and ephemeral--stymieing grandiosity and longevity in one fell swoop--it's the newspaper.)
Take that, Alicia's beliefs.
One dress in particular boggled the mind. It had a dark blue denim bodice, strapless, with a sort of internal-wire effect that would hold it on/up, instead of the usual elastic-at-the-top approach. The skirt appeared to be no fewer than four different layers, of volume-enhancing under-tulle, a silver metallic fabric, and what I believe was blue tulle, and black tulle, on top. (If I can ever find a picture of it, I'll post it here.) The effect was astounding. It looked like exactly the wrong dress--like the kind of dress a cheerleader might have a dream about wearing to prom, then wake up screaming. We called it the Nightmare dress.
The Nightmare dress became a sort of icon. Over the next few weeks, we visited it each time we went to the mall (and what else was there there to do?): we talked about it, anticipated seeing it, searched for it, touched it and laughed at it. We made the pilgrimage probably three times before someone (let's face it; it was probably me) suggested that we try it on. It was a smallish-middle size, and we were one very tall, one very skinny, and one relatively average (that's me, again) sized girl. Still, we decided that all of us should try it on, whatever difficulties it might entail...like the teen-girl equivalent of "blood brothers."
So we did. It didn't fit any of us perfectly, but somehow it worked. In fact, it looked great-but-different on each of us, accentuating the various attributes that one might be pleased to accentuate and minimizing those that one would not. It was, actually, perfect.
(Except that it was something like $180, and despite its perfection, we were there to mock the prom, not to join in.)
This is the most simple-to-illustrate instance of my compatibility-related blindness. I have always had a disappointing inability to choose clothes/accessories that "work" for me. I have an aggravating tendency to want to write tragedy--which in my hands becomes as maudlin and depressing (on so, so many levels) as your typical goth high schooler's chapbook--rather than comedy, which I'm actually pretty good at. I try to think of grand, long-lasting ways that I could contribute to society through years of toil, like writing the great American novel, or pioneering a new art form, or proving the grand unification theory or solving the four colors problem, or at least inventing the internet. But none of these ideas are original, and I'm not very good at them.
(I know, I know--you're thinking "Besides, why write the great American novel when, if you include all the British novels, it would still only be like ten billionth greatest overall?" To that I can only say: Touche, my friend. Touche.)
So I'm trying some different things: seeking out reds and browns and square necklines; letting go of the tendency to strip every character of all hope when I want to write something "serious"; and checking out the newspaper business. (Because if anything is both practical and ephemeral--stymieing grandiosity and longevity in one fell swoop--it's the newspaper.)
Take that, Alicia's beliefs.
In a Minima
Clearly, Minima is the best choice of blog template. That's all I'll say on the matter.
Any second now, a pop-up box is going to spring into view (for me, writing this, not for you reading it) that will indicate that the Spyware on this computer is stealing my email passwords, credit card numbers, identity and possibly soul, but that I can prevent this from happening by way of purchasing a year's subscription to some anti-Spyware protection company's product (presumably using the credit card numbers that may have already been sucked from the hard drive, or wherever they suppose I am storing them). This company's product had been previously installed on the computer on a free-trial basis, and the trial period has now expired; as a result, the software will inform anyone present upon turning on the computer that it can scan for viruses...but that it cannot delete them, or do whatever it does to get rid of them, unless you purchase the subscription.
The danger is obvious to anyone who is not colorblind (especially red-green colorblindness would limit understanding of this color scale): as with our national colorific terror alerts, the level of freak-out that should be inspired by each of the viruses found and named--though not eliminated--never gets below a bright orange.
Of course, it urges you as a decent human being to act now before your computer (and subsequently, your life) is completely destroyed. After all, it's sick! Your computer needs serious, immediate attention! You knew you were taking on this responsibility when you GOT the computer, and now you won't take necessary steps to prevent its untimely death--for shame. It's like letting your dog die of cancer because you just wouldn't spring for the operation.
In order to get past this Spyware notice, which takes up about fifty percent of the screen, directly in front of whatever you're doing, you can choose one of two options: "Get Full Version of S-S now!" or "Continue Unprotected." That's right; it's a shame tactic, meant to allow only the most belligerent of computer users through to freedom (to lose money, self, and soul).
Guess which one I chose.
Any second now, a pop-up box is going to spring into view (for me, writing this, not for you reading it) that will indicate that the Spyware on this computer is stealing my email passwords, credit card numbers, identity and possibly soul, but that I can prevent this from happening by way of purchasing a year's subscription to some anti-Spyware protection company's product (presumably using the credit card numbers that may have already been sucked from the hard drive, or wherever they suppose I am storing them). This company's product had been previously installed on the computer on a free-trial basis, and the trial period has now expired; as a result, the software will inform anyone present upon turning on the computer that it can scan for viruses...but that it cannot delete them, or do whatever it does to get rid of them, unless you purchase the subscription.
The danger is obvious to anyone who is not colorblind (especially red-green colorblindness would limit understanding of this color scale): as with our national colorific terror alerts, the level of freak-out that should be inspired by each of the viruses found and named--though not eliminated--never gets below a bright orange.
Of course, it urges you as a decent human being to act now before your computer (and subsequently, your life) is completely destroyed. After all, it's sick! Your computer needs serious, immediate attention! You knew you were taking on this responsibility when you GOT the computer, and now you won't take necessary steps to prevent its untimely death--for shame. It's like letting your dog die of cancer because you just wouldn't spring for the operation.
In order to get past this Spyware notice, which takes up about fifty percent of the screen, directly in front of whatever you're doing, you can choose one of two options: "Get Full Version of S-S now!" or "Continue Unprotected." That's right; it's a shame tactic, meant to allow only the most belligerent of computer users through to freedom (to lose money, self, and soul).
Guess which one I chose.
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