It turns out that my friend who died in June, Mimi, had a daughter.
The story is unbelievable, or would be if it weren't true. Mimi's daughter was born while Mimi was still unmarried and 18, and the father's parents took the baby from Mimi. I guess in Ethiopia, as in many more traditional societies, the father and his parents have more rights than an unwed mother, because the baby's grandparents kept her from Mimi until they passed away a few years ago.
Mimi had started the process of becoming an American citizen in 2007, after living in Italy and Canada, in order to bring her daughter to the U.S.
Then she died.
Her husband Mohammed is trying to get Blen, her daughter, to the U.S. now. He's looking for help with the process, connections in relevant offices, and advice from people who've done similar things.
Any of you who can help, let me know.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Sunday, November 9, 2008
PSA: It's like in that movie, "Paperclips," except without the Holocaust.
Yesterday in the parking lot at the paper I looked down at my lumberjack-Kurt-Cobain-flannel shirt and saw the absence of a paperclip. It bothered me all day. I felt almost naked.
I put the large paperclip on the hole- (not button-) side of my shirt after English class one day, taking it from my English teacher's desk, slipping it on and just never removing it.
That was twelve years ago.
I left it on through countless washes and days wearing the shirt. It wore down to a dull tin tone over time. I played with it when I was bored or nervous, and refused to lend the shirt for Halloween three years ago because I was worried it would fall off or get lost.
When I went to college, it symbolized what I'd learned in high school; when my English teacher died, it symbolized my memory of him.
I'm not devastated over the loss of a paper clip, but it was something, and my shirt feels heavier without it.
I put the large paperclip on the hole- (not button-) side of my shirt after English class one day, taking it from my English teacher's desk, slipping it on and just never removing it.
That was twelve years ago.
I left it on through countless washes and days wearing the shirt. It wore down to a dull tin tone over time. I played with it when I was bored or nervous, and refused to lend the shirt for Halloween three years ago because I was worried it would fall off or get lost.
When I went to college, it symbolized what I'd learned in high school; when my English teacher died, it symbolized my memory of him.
I'm not devastated over the loss of a paper clip, but it was something, and my shirt feels heavier without it.
Saturday, November 8, 2008
Accusations IX
People who like "Missed the Boat" better than "Parting of the Sensory" or "We've Got Everything" on Modest Mouse's We Were Dead Before the Ship Even Sank. You're just so, so wrong -- morally and aesthetically.
Snow Patrol, for putting out an album with several half-good songs and a 16-minute track at the end that proves they could have done a lot better on all the other tracks.
Winterpills, for showing up at Iron Horse Music Hall before I knew Iron Horse Music Hall existed, for the tour for an album I didn't know existed at the time. (I know that's unfair to them, but think of how it affected me.)
Snow Patrol, for putting out an album with several half-good songs and a 16-minute track at the end that proves they could have done a lot better on all the other tracks.
Winterpills, for showing up at Iron Horse Music Hall before I knew Iron Horse Music Hall existed, for the tour for an album I didn't know existed at the time. (I know that's unfair to them, but think of how it affected me.)
Friday, November 7, 2008
PSA: Matt & Kim & me
I went to see Matt & Kim in Northampton, MA on Wednesday, all by myself.
You are jealous of me now: either for my going to the show, or else for the superior knowledge of music and ineffable coolness that must be ascribed to me for going to a Matt & Kim show.
I will blog about my experience at the concert, which started with a local (Eric) and was opened by the most hilarious punk duo on the planet (Best Fwends), in an three-part series, starting, uh, later. Mostly because I have so much less time to blog these days, and because it's hard to come up with ideas, but also because I have a lot of good stuff to say about (2/3 of) them and want you to pay attention to each separately.
So look forward to that.
You are jealous of me now: either for my going to the show, or else for the superior knowledge of music and ineffable coolness that must be ascribed to me for going to a Matt & Kim show.
I will blog about my experience at the concert, which started with a local (Eric) and was opened by the most hilarious punk duo on the planet (Best Fwends), in an three-part series, starting, uh, later. Mostly because I have so much less time to blog these days, and because it's hard to come up with ideas, but also because I have a lot of good stuff to say about (2/3 of) them and want you to pay attention to each separately.
So look forward to that.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Movie: Hoodwinked
Hoodwinked is one of three films I’ve ever seen for which, as soon as it had finished, I went back to the beginning to listen to the audio commentary. I only ever do this when a movie I expected to be bad turns out to be better or more affecting than my wildest expectations. (The other two are Riding in Cars With Boys and Accepted.)
Actually, with Hoodwinked, I went back to the end to listen to the audio commentary, as the resume feature picked up at the point I’d left off on, in the middle of the credits. I learned there that a sequel was being planned, which made me pretty happy. (It's slated for 2010.) If it’s anything like its predecessor, it will be full of self-referential, clever moments that could only have been crammed into a story as bizarre and familiar as “Little Red Riding Hood” by writers, directors and editors as familiar with the bizarre and familiar gestalt of contemporary culture and pop phenoms as with the preceding decades of film-school features that set the standards they’re “filming” by.
The movie starts in media res, in the “what big eyes you have” climax of the fable. Red Riding Hood shows up to find the wolf in Grandma’s bed, wearing a Grandma mask (which I thought at first might be Grandma’s actual face, somehow removed by the wolf – eww, gross – but which turns out to be plain plastic). Grandma stumbles out of the closet bound and gagged after Red insists the wolf isn’t her granny, and in a brilliantly absurd and unsettling move, just as all three main characters are about to begin what promises to be a knock-down-drag-out fight in the living room, an apparently insane, screaming, axe-wielding woodsman in lederhosen crashes in through the window, wielding his axe, wearing lederhosen and screaming. Insanely.
This was pretty clever, and the sudden cut from this to the blackout title and outside-the-house-cops-milling-everywhere, “steadycam-filming” investigation beginning, made it even more clever – especially since everything is CGI, not steadycam, or any other kind of cam. I like that attention to detail and willingness to go beyond what’s necessary. (Like the outtakes at the end of Toy Story II.) What got me, though, what convinced me that I could settle in in front of this movie with a small bowl of ice cream or a quesadilla – or, to tell the truth, both – was the sudden appearance of the frog special investigator, Nicky Flippers. The suit, the debonair attitude, the shiny froggy skin, the pencil mustache – all references, and obvious ones for those in-the-know (invisible to the uninitiated), to the Thin Man movies.
The commentary admits this, and points out the presence of the court reporter dog as a reference to Asta, a terrier that shows up in all the Thin Man movies. The wolf is patterned after Fletch, and the commentary also refers to Wallace and Gromit’s “The Wrong Trousers,” saying the writers insisted that others involved in creating the movie watch it. Those are my kind of writers.
The story of how the wolf, Red, Grandma and the axe-wielding, lederhosen-wearing, screaming maniac woodsman, end up in Grannie’s living room, gets told four times from each of the characters’ perspectives. Red’s is first, followed by the wolf, the woodsman and finally, Grandma. Yes, it’s like Rashomon.
The in-between moments are stellar, and there are enough of them, and ridiculous enough, that you don’t notice the holes in the plot.
I mean, I assume there are some, but I didn’t notice any.
And who cares if there are.
Each of the character’s stories is entertaining on its own, with Red’s the most straightforward and each subsequent story both less and more practical – less practical in that the characters are involved in increasingly silly situations, and more practical in that the absurdities present and unremarked-on in Red’s story are explained piece by piece.
The mystery lasts awhile, but the pleasure of knowing who the villain is starts during the lederhosen-wearer’s version of the story, at the latest. Around this point, the villain starts going over the evil-genius edge, and by the big reveal, the actor who plays the villain (you can tell I’m trying hard not to spoil it for you here) has made his character into a perfect insane evil character, a great balance of the mad scientist’s attention to the big, crazy picture, and his focus on the details of his insecurity. (He makes one of his henchmen change his name from “Keith” to “Boris,” for instance, mocking Keith for having an unscary name. He stops to consider this in the middle of his big-action ending.)
So you figure out who the bad guy is relatively early on, but it’s all to your good. “We weren’t trying to do Memento,” they said in the commentary. (Good.)
They call themselves the “Napoleon Dynamite of animated films,” thanks to their lower production values and lower budget, but admit there’s no way of thinking so far about independent animated movies.
Well, I look forward to that day if this is the product of that out-of-the-Disney thinking.
Bring it on, honey.
Actually, with Hoodwinked, I went back to the end to listen to the audio commentary, as the resume feature picked up at the point I’d left off on, in the middle of the credits. I learned there that a sequel was being planned, which made me pretty happy. (It's slated for 2010.) If it’s anything like its predecessor, it will be full of self-referential, clever moments that could only have been crammed into a story as bizarre and familiar as “Little Red Riding Hood” by writers, directors and editors as familiar with the bizarre and familiar gestalt of contemporary culture and pop phenoms as with the preceding decades of film-school features that set the standards they’re “filming” by.
The movie starts in media res, in the “what big eyes you have” climax of the fable. Red Riding Hood shows up to find the wolf in Grandma’s bed, wearing a Grandma mask (which I thought at first might be Grandma’s actual face, somehow removed by the wolf – eww, gross – but which turns out to be plain plastic). Grandma stumbles out of the closet bound and gagged after Red insists the wolf isn’t her granny, and in a brilliantly absurd and unsettling move, just as all three main characters are about to begin what promises to be a knock-down-drag-out fight in the living room, an apparently insane, screaming, axe-wielding woodsman in lederhosen crashes in through the window, wielding his axe, wearing lederhosen and screaming. Insanely.
This was pretty clever, and the sudden cut from this to the blackout title and outside-the-house-cops-milling-everywhere, “steadycam-filming” investigation beginning, made it even more clever – especially since everything is CGI, not steadycam, or any other kind of cam. I like that attention to detail and willingness to go beyond what’s necessary. (Like the outtakes at the end of Toy Story II.) What got me, though, what convinced me that I could settle in in front of this movie with a small bowl of ice cream or a quesadilla – or, to tell the truth, both – was the sudden appearance of the frog special investigator, Nicky Flippers. The suit, the debonair attitude, the shiny froggy skin, the pencil mustache – all references, and obvious ones for those in-the-know (invisible to the uninitiated), to the Thin Man movies.
The commentary admits this, and points out the presence of the court reporter dog as a reference to Asta, a terrier that shows up in all the Thin Man movies. The wolf is patterned after Fletch, and the commentary also refers to Wallace and Gromit’s “The Wrong Trousers,” saying the writers insisted that others involved in creating the movie watch it. Those are my kind of writers.
The story of how the wolf, Red, Grandma and the axe-wielding, lederhosen-wearing, screaming maniac woodsman, end up in Grannie’s living room, gets told four times from each of the characters’ perspectives. Red’s is first, followed by the wolf, the woodsman and finally, Grandma. Yes, it’s like Rashomon.
The in-between moments are stellar, and there are enough of them, and ridiculous enough, that you don’t notice the holes in the plot.
I mean, I assume there are some, but I didn’t notice any.
And who cares if there are.
Each of the character’s stories is entertaining on its own, with Red’s the most straightforward and each subsequent story both less and more practical – less practical in that the characters are involved in increasingly silly situations, and more practical in that the absurdities present and unremarked-on in Red’s story are explained piece by piece.
The mystery lasts awhile, but the pleasure of knowing who the villain is starts during the lederhosen-wearer’s version of the story, at the latest. Around this point, the villain starts going over the evil-genius edge, and by the big reveal, the actor who plays the villain (you can tell I’m trying hard not to spoil it for you here) has made his character into a perfect insane evil character, a great balance of the mad scientist’s attention to the big, crazy picture, and his focus on the details of his insecurity. (He makes one of his henchmen change his name from “Keith” to “Boris,” for instance, mocking Keith for having an unscary name. He stops to consider this in the middle of his big-action ending.)
So you figure out who the bad guy is relatively early on, but it’s all to your good. “We weren’t trying to do Memento,” they said in the commentary. (Good.)
They call themselves the “Napoleon Dynamite of animated films,” thanks to their lower production values and lower budget, but admit there’s no way of thinking so far about independent animated movies.
Well, I look forward to that day if this is the product of that out-of-the-Disney thinking.
Bring it on, honey.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
PSA: JFH
I've picked up another Job From Hell for these next few weeks, all. I'm not sure I'll be able to keep up with my blog responsibilities.
If I do, all my posts may be frustrated diatribes against The Man.
Just to warn you.
If I do, all my posts may be frustrated diatribes against The Man.
Just to warn you.
Oh, that strange, high-pitched shrieking? That's the sound of me becoming hopeful.
President Barack Obama.
I have never been prouder (heck, I've never been proud) of America.
I have never been prouder (heck, I've never been proud) of America.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Confessions XXV
I've reverted to Jars of Clay's eponymous album today. (Think "Flood" and whatever you were doing in 1995.)
This is probably a bad sign. I was 15 and horribly depressed when I was listening to this album this loudly and constantly, last.
I suspect it's the result of repressing my feelings, as though I were living with my Mom again, for the last two weeks.
This is probably a bad sign. I was 15 and horribly depressed when I was listening to this album this loudly and constantly, last.
I suspect it's the result of repressing my feelings, as though I were living with my Mom again, for the last two weeks.
Monday, November 3, 2008
PSA: Betty's more miley than Cyrus.
This Saturday around 7:30 a.m. on the way to the NEPCA conference (for the second time), outside of Providence, my hatchback car Betty turned the big 100.
She seems no worse for wear with 100,ooo miles on her engine and after 18 years of long service.
Hurrah for Betty!
I believe that in New England in November, the proper gift is a good winterizing, and possibly new tires.
She seems no worse for wear with 100,ooo miles on her engine and after 18 years of long service.
Hurrah for Betty!
I believe that in New England in November, the proper gift is a good winterizing, and possibly new tires.
Local Trivia: NoAd to the X-treme (I-95, R.I. edition)
Exit 5B off I-95 West in Rhode Island has a big blue sign indicating the amenities available at that exit.
However, instead of the logos of fast food restaurants and gasoline stations, the sign lists generic "Economy"-style amenities -- the logos all in white, with a blue border line and blue lettering, a la Sainsbury's "Economy chicken lunch meat: Contains at least 73% chicken parts" -- including but not limited to "Gas Station," "Family Restaurant" and "Deli Store."
However, instead of the logos of fast food restaurants and gasoline stations, the sign lists generic "Economy"-style amenities -- the logos all in white, with a blue border line and blue lettering, a la Sainsbury's "Economy chicken lunch meat: Contains at least 73% chicken parts" -- including but not limited to "Gas Station," "Family Restaurant" and "Deli Store."
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Mix: Computer Future (edit)
"The sound of telegraphs marching against the castle" -- Good
"How I Could Just Kill A Man" -- Rage Against the Machine
"Computer World...2" -- Kraftwerk
"Machine in the Ghost" -- The Faint
"Computer Rock" -- Beck
"Fitter Happier" -- Radiohead
"Computer Says No! (Hystereo Remix)" -- Hyper & Jhz
"Machine Gun" -- Portishead
"Bone Machine" -- Pixies
"Inside My Soul" -- Pink Computer
"Give Up On Ghosts" -- Computer vs. Banjo
"Computer Camp Love (Villians Remix)" -- Datarock
"Memory Machine" -- The Dismemberment Plan
"I Robot" -- Alan Parsons Project
Bonus Track: "Computer Love" -- Zapp
"How I Could Just Kill A Man" -- Rage Against the Machine
"Computer World...2" -- Kraftwerk
"Machine in the Ghost" -- The Faint
"Computer Rock" -- Beck
"Fitter Happier" -- Radiohead
"Computer Says No! (Hystereo Remix)" -- Hyper & Jhz
"Machine Gun" -- Portishead
"Bone Machine" -- Pixies
"Inside My Soul" -- Pink Computer
"Give Up On Ghosts" -- Computer vs. Banjo
"Computer Camp Love (Villians Remix)" -- Datarock
"Memory Machine" -- The Dismemberment Plan
"I Robot" -- Alan Parsons Project
Bonus Track: "Computer Love" -- Zapp
Local Trivia: "I can see my cell from here!"
Interstate 95, Exit 72: Rocky Neck State Park, one of the few free-and-public beaches on Connecticut's Gold Coast.
One mile later on Interstate 95: "Entering correctional facility area: Do not stop."
One mile later on Interstate 95: "Entering correctional facility area: Do not stop."
Saturday, November 1, 2008
Mix: Free 5 (Disc 1)
All of these songs were downloaded freely and legally, and I rate them all 5/5 stars.
"Walk On The Moon" -- Asobi Seksu
"Buildings & Mountains" -- The Republic Tigers
"Boom" -- Anavan
"Just Impolite" -- Plushgun
"No More Running Away -- Live" -- Air Traffic
"Lost to the Lonesome" -- Pela
"My Russia" -- Wovenhand
"Freeze and Explode" -- Cassettes Won't Listen
"Song For A Sleeping Girl" -- Devics
"Chinese Handcuffs" -- The New Year
"Young Bride" -- Midlake (CWL remix)
"Like I Do" -- Minipop
"Get Us Home" -- The Panics
"Threnody" -- Goldmund
"Broken Arm" -- Winterpills
"Satellite" -- Static Revenger
"Falling Out" -- The Sammies
"Nitrogen Pink" -- Polly Scattergood
"A Forest" -- Bat For Lashes
"Walk On The Moon" -- Asobi Seksu
"Buildings & Mountains" -- The Republic Tigers
"Boom" -- Anavan
"Just Impolite" -- Plushgun
"No More Running Away -- Live" -- Air Traffic
"Lost to the Lonesome" -- Pela
"My Russia" -- Wovenhand
"Freeze and Explode" -- Cassettes Won't Listen
"Song For A Sleeping Girl" -- Devics
"Chinese Handcuffs" -- The New Year
"Young Bride" -- Midlake (CWL remix)
"Like I Do" -- Minipop
"Get Us Home" -- The Panics
"Threnody" -- Goldmund
"Broken Arm" -- Winterpills
"Satellite" -- Static Revenger
"Falling Out" -- The Sammies
"Nitrogen Pink" -- Polly Scattergood
"A Forest" -- Bat For Lashes
Mix: Free 5 (Disc 2)
"Daylight" -- Matt & Kim
"The Mae Shi vs. Miley Cyrus See You Again" -- The Mae Shi
"Pot Kettle Black" -- Tilly and the Wall
"Black Fur" -- Fredrik
"Love During Wartime" -- Little Beirut
"Pale Sun" -- Darker My Love
"Ashley" -- The Dodos
"Is There a Ghost" -- Band of Horses
"Half Eaten Erasers" -- The Good Ideas
"Sun In An Empty Room" -- The Weakerthans
"Handkerchiefs" -- Winterpills
"Make Mine Marvel" -- The Dead Science
"The Mae Shi vs. Miley Cyrus See You Again" -- The Mae Shi
"Pot Kettle Black" -- Tilly and the Wall
"Black Fur" -- Fredrik
"Love During Wartime" -- Little Beirut
"Pale Sun" -- Darker My Love
"Ashley" -- The Dodos
"Is There a Ghost" -- Band of Horses
"Half Eaten Erasers" -- The Good Ideas
"Sun In An Empty Room" -- The Weakerthans
"Handkerchiefs" -- Winterpills
"Make Mine Marvel" -- The Dead Science
Friday, October 31, 2008
Mix: What should I be for Halloween?
"Is There a Ghost" -- Band of Horses
"Little Ghost" -- The White Stripes
"Machine in the Ghost" -- The Faint
"Consider the ghost" -- Good
"Ghost Hardware" -- Burial
"Ghost Train" -- Counting Crows
"Like Ghosts With Steel Shoes" -- The Lights From Here
"The Ghost of You Lingers" -- Spoon
"Grey Ghost" -- Mike Doughty
"Ghost Under Rocks" -- Ra Ra Riot
"Give Up On Ghosts" -- Computer vs. Banjo
"Ghostbusters" -- Ray Parker, Jr.
"Little Ghost" -- The White Stripes
"Machine in the Ghost" -- The Faint
"Consider the ghost" -- Good
"Ghost Hardware" -- Burial
"Ghost Train" -- Counting Crows
"Like Ghosts With Steel Shoes" -- The Lights From Here
"The Ghost of You Lingers" -- Spoon
"Grey Ghost" -- Mike Doughty
"Ghost Under Rocks" -- Ra Ra Riot
"Give Up On Ghosts" -- Computer vs. Banjo
"Ghostbusters" -- Ray Parker, Jr.
PSA: NEPCA
I'm at an academic conference today, or I will be by the time you read this -- probably learning something about women in film, or science fiction and medievalism, or what have you.
I'll probably have something to report by Monday.
In the meantime, enjoy these Mix lists.
I'll probably have something to report by Monday.
In the meantime, enjoy these Mix lists.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Confessions XXIV
If McCain wins the presidency, I am mentally planning at least three escape routes: Canada, England and China.
I as frequently choke on my own spit as on all other items.
I sometimes drop things without provocation or explanation: pens when I'm in the middle of writing, especially.
I as frequently choke on my own spit as on all other items.
I sometimes drop things without provocation or explanation: pens when I'm in the middle of writing, especially.
PSA: Govt. to realize KILLING PEOPLE IS WRONG.
The Army and National Institutes of Mental Health are collaborating in a five-year study on "the causes and risk factors of suicide" among soldiers.
One can only hope that this study includes a true control group: that is, a bunch of soldiers not asked to kill other people in the name of nationalism, oil or presidential hubris -- or for any other reason.
See how many of them with their "killing people is wrong" pansy ways want to off themselves. My bet would be "fewer."
Then deal with the consequences.
But the Army can't deal with results saying "killing people goes against humanity and self-worth." They're in the business of killing. They can't afford to admit that the sacrifice soldiers make for their country starts in their souls, with the first break-'em-down-build-'em-up weeks of boot camp, not on the fields where they fall.
The "ultimate sacrifice" they offer is their lives, but it starts long before their deaths.
The Army is not looking for real answers, here. No one is asking themselves whether we should be in the business of making people into killing machines with compartmentalized views of the world that allow for killing "them" but protecting "us," for loving our families while hating and denying the rights of other families. They don't want to know whether this is good for us -- they want to know how to do it better, how to make the transformation more complete. They want to be able to turn soldiers into un-conscienced killing machines.
Soldiers made completely, unambiguously capable of dealing with killing another human being, in my view, are as lost in all ways that really matter, as ones who commit suicide.
I hope the Army fails.
One can only hope that this study includes a true control group: that is, a bunch of soldiers not asked to kill other people in the name of nationalism, oil or presidential hubris -- or for any other reason.
See how many of them with their "killing people is wrong" pansy ways want to off themselves. My bet would be "fewer."
Then deal with the consequences.
But the Army can't deal with results saying "killing people goes against humanity and self-worth." They're in the business of killing. They can't afford to admit that the sacrifice soldiers make for their country starts in their souls, with the first break-'em-down-build-'em-up weeks of boot camp, not on the fields where they fall.
The "ultimate sacrifice" they offer is their lives, but it starts long before their deaths.
The Army is not looking for real answers, here. No one is asking themselves whether we should be in the business of making people into killing machines with compartmentalized views of the world that allow for killing "them" but protecting "us," for loving our families while hating and denying the rights of other families. They don't want to know whether this is good for us -- they want to know how to do it better, how to make the transformation more complete. They want to be able to turn soldiers into un-conscienced killing machines.
Soldiers made completely, unambiguously capable of dealing with killing another human being, in my view, are as lost in all ways that really matter, as ones who commit suicide.
I hope the Army fails.
PSA: Whaa??? Quin Phoenix quits the biz.
Joaquin Phoenix, in a move that proves he's a born actor, has decided to quit doing movies at 34, to pursue a career in music.
He glommed onto this idea after playing Johnny Cash in Walk the Line.
Apparently unaware that he is not, in fact, Johnny Cash, and unwilling to heed the tepid-reception warnings of Scarlett Johansonn's Tom Waits cover album -- one Amazon reviewer titled the critique "Just buy Tom Waits," and she's so cute, she's hard to nay-say -- Joaquin Phoenix has only one career path end ahead of him, that I can see.
Luckily, it will provide him with the perfect blend of acting, pretending to be a popular musician, and actual mediocre-music-playing:
He will become an Elvis impersonator.
He glommed onto this idea after playing Johnny Cash in Walk the Line.
Apparently unaware that he is not, in fact, Johnny Cash, and unwilling to heed the tepid-reception warnings of Scarlett Johansonn's Tom Waits cover album -- one Amazon reviewer titled the critique "Just buy Tom Waits," and she's so cute, she's hard to nay-say -- Joaquin Phoenix has only one career path end ahead of him, that I can see.
Luckily, it will provide him with the perfect blend of acting, pretending to be a popular musician, and actual mediocre-music-playing:
He will become an Elvis impersonator.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
PSA: I'm brave.
My girl, groaning pitifully: "I'm siiiiiiiiiick."
Me: "I know how you feel, but try to do something. It will make you feel better to be active. Here --" I hand her a tissue from her pile.
My girl: "Thanks -- you're brave!"
Me: "Why?"
My girl: "You touched my tissue. You're brave."
Me, laughing: "Thanks."
Me: "I know how you feel, but try to do something. It will make you feel better to be active. Here --" I hand her a tissue from her pile.
My girl: "Thanks -- you're brave!"
Me: "Why?"
My girl: "You touched my tissue. You're brave."
Me, laughing: "Thanks."
Falling Away
Fall is my favorite season.
I've always had it narrowed down to fall and spring, the two seasons with change and a sense of motion in the atmosphere. I haven't really known why fall seemed better to me; I've mostly chalked it up to a macabre obsession with dying. I've always been closer to the Thanatos of fall than Spring's overzealous Eros.
This morning, a TMNT-green leaf (seriously, it reminded me of a Ninja Turtle) zipped straight at my car and got caught in my windshield wipers for a second before flying off again like it had somewhere to go. I thought about how little I would have cared about a green leaf if it were still attached to its tree, or if the other leaves lining the highway were all still green.
It occurred to me that fall is the only time leaves become unique and independent.
Maybe that's why I like it.
I've always had it narrowed down to fall and spring, the two seasons with change and a sense of motion in the atmosphere. I haven't really known why fall seemed better to me; I've mostly chalked it up to a macabre obsession with dying. I've always been closer to the Thanatos of fall than Spring's overzealous Eros.
This morning, a TMNT-green leaf (seriously, it reminded me of a Ninja Turtle) zipped straight at my car and got caught in my windshield wipers for a second before flying off again like it had somewhere to go. I thought about how little I would have cared about a green leaf if it were still attached to its tree, or if the other leaves lining the highway were all still green.
It occurred to me that fall is the only time leaves become unique and independent.
Maybe that's why I like it.
Chinglish career goals
Tenth-grade Chinese student, asked what he'd like to be when he grew up:
"I want to be a various artists."
"I want to be a various artists."
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Movie Review: Things You Can Tell Just By Looking At Her
Things You Can Tell Just By Looking At Her is a quiet movie. The minimalist piano tones that carry through the five women’s stories are mostly carrying the quiet, not the sound, through the vaguely interlocking women’s lives.
If you know anything about how and why I love movies, you know I love these interlocking, clever ones. But Things You Can Tell isn’t just clever, and isn’t just interlocking. It doesn’t have that semi-claustrophobic feel of Playing By Heart, or the fragmented but same-themed sense of Nine Lives. It doesn’t even have the mysterious sense of the universe at work that Kieslowski’s Three Colors trilogy has. These women are all alike in how alone they are in their own worlds; their separation is their most common element, even when they’re on screen together.
That’s not necessarily a bad thing, though, which is what I love about this movie – that it’s complicated. It’s not a polemic against loneliness or a reassurance that you won’t always be lonely (like romantic comedies inevitably are), and it’s not a celebration of women’s independence, either (like…well, I can’t think of any movies that are. Girly friend movies? That’s still interdependence. Hmm. I’m going to have to think about this for awhile).
The first woman, Dr. Keener (Glenn Close, who is superb) is staying home with an elderly woman who’s more or less unaware of her surroundings. Dr. Keener cares for this woman conscientiously, so we know she’s a good woman, though we don’t really know why – maybe she lives with this woman and gets free board, or maybe this is her mother.
But Dr. Keener is also obsessed with a man from the office, obsessed enough to check the phone every few minutes and to call in a tarot card reader (Calista Flockhart) to see if they have a chance together. Dr. Keener is obviously conflicted about the choice, and dresses herself up – borrows earrings from the old woman – to meet the card reader, then sits enigmatic as the Sphinx or the Mona Lisa when she comes.
Flockhart tells her she’ll meet a man, but not the man at the office. Dr. Keener takes the news with suppressed disappointment.
The whole movie is like this. There are good things in it, but they’re second-good things, not the things the women originally wanted.
The second story, Rebecca’s, is the most honest, un-propaganda-ed account of a woman getting an abortion that I’ve ever seen.
Before we find out she’s pregnant, we see Rebecca (Holly Hunter) naked (cleverly positioned, though, so sorry guys and Knocked Up fans) in bed, being left – though lovingly – by a man we find out later she’s been seeing for three years. Later, she’s in the bank, and after that, she’s approached while smoking next to her car, by a homeless woman who asks for a cigarette.
Since the movie is set in southern California (and this part mainly outside), an airbrushed, espanished land of perfect people, the homeless woman stands out. Her diction is theater-perfect, too, but her presence is anathema.
Based on her appearance, which is tailored and perfect, you’d expect Rebecca to be put off by this woman, but she isn’t. She gives the woman a cigarette, doesn’t back off when the homeless lady comes close for a light, listens to everything she says and responds, even when the homeless woman calls her a whore. Twice.
To compress the story a bit, Rebecca finds out she’s pregnant, schedules an abortion, tells her boyfriend emotionlessly and gets even less emotion in return – she confirms he doesn’t want her to have the child, though it’s probably her last chance (she’s 39) – rebels against him by sleeping with an underling from the bank, then rejects that underling. As she’s sitting in the car with him in the morning before the afternoon abortion, the homeless woman comes up again.
Rebecca seems to take solace in the woman’s recognition of what she really thinks of herself, but it’s a complicated relationship – much more complicated and honest, despite being thirty seconds long, than any of the other relationships we see Rebecca in. The homeless woman calls her a whore again, and when underling tries to stop her, Rebecca says “no, go on” and listens with rapt attention.
The homeless woman concludes, “It’s not that I don’t like you – I like you, princess. I feel sorry for you.”
Dr. Keener performs the abortion. The antiseptic camerawork keeps the angles on close-ups of Rebecca’s face, Dr. Keener’s, the nurse’s. Rebecca gasps in the middle of the procedure and the nurse’s hand enters the frame and pats her hair. This is the only human contact we see at all.
Rebecca’s lied and said she was being picked up by her boyfriend. As she walks out of the clinic, she wobbles and suddenly bursts out sobbing – she stands by a manicured bush for comfort, then a parking meter. Time passes. She continues down the street and sees the homeless woman on the other side.
This is the only comfort she gets; the scene ends.
You don’t get the impression from this movie that abortion is more wrong than other options this woman had, or that she regrets her choice and wishes she had chosen differently (though either of those themes would sit well with my beliefs); you get the impression instead that there are situations in life that are really, really hard. We’re not victims of them – we get to make choices and often choose wrong – but we’re not completely in control of them, either.
Rebecca’s entire life up to this point is to blame for bringing her to this existential crisis and to a point where only a mentally ill homeless woman can understand her, and she’s both responsible for that life and determined by it.
The next section, in which Kathy Baker's character falls in love with a dwarf, is the one that’s stuck with me since I first saw this movie a few years ago. It’s sweet and strange, and I’ll let you see it for yourself.
I’ll let you see the entire rest of the movie for yourself, in fact – as long as you do. It is, above all, thoughtful. You shouldn’t be disappointed.
If you know anything about how and why I love movies, you know I love these interlocking, clever ones. But Things You Can Tell isn’t just clever, and isn’t just interlocking. It doesn’t have that semi-claustrophobic feel of Playing By Heart, or the fragmented but same-themed sense of Nine Lives. It doesn’t even have the mysterious sense of the universe at work that Kieslowski’s Three Colors trilogy has. These women are all alike in how alone they are in their own worlds; their separation is their most common element, even when they’re on screen together.
That’s not necessarily a bad thing, though, which is what I love about this movie – that it’s complicated. It’s not a polemic against loneliness or a reassurance that you won’t always be lonely (like romantic comedies inevitably are), and it’s not a celebration of women’s independence, either (like…well, I can’t think of any movies that are. Girly friend movies? That’s still interdependence. Hmm. I’m going to have to think about this for awhile).
The first woman, Dr. Keener (Glenn Close, who is superb) is staying home with an elderly woman who’s more or less unaware of her surroundings. Dr. Keener cares for this woman conscientiously, so we know she’s a good woman, though we don’t really know why – maybe she lives with this woman and gets free board, or maybe this is her mother.
But Dr. Keener is also obsessed with a man from the office, obsessed enough to check the phone every few minutes and to call in a tarot card reader (Calista Flockhart) to see if they have a chance together. Dr. Keener is obviously conflicted about the choice, and dresses herself up – borrows earrings from the old woman – to meet the card reader, then sits enigmatic as the Sphinx or the Mona Lisa when she comes.
Flockhart tells her she’ll meet a man, but not the man at the office. Dr. Keener takes the news with suppressed disappointment.
The whole movie is like this. There are good things in it, but they’re second-good things, not the things the women originally wanted.
The second story, Rebecca’s, is the most honest, un-propaganda-ed account of a woman getting an abortion that I’ve ever seen.
Before we find out she’s pregnant, we see Rebecca (Holly Hunter) naked (cleverly positioned, though, so sorry guys and Knocked Up fans) in bed, being left – though lovingly – by a man we find out later she’s been seeing for three years. Later, she’s in the bank, and after that, she’s approached while smoking next to her car, by a homeless woman who asks for a cigarette.
Since the movie is set in southern California (and this part mainly outside), an airbrushed, espanished land of perfect people, the homeless woman stands out. Her diction is theater-perfect, too, but her presence is anathema.
Based on her appearance, which is tailored and perfect, you’d expect Rebecca to be put off by this woman, but she isn’t. She gives the woman a cigarette, doesn’t back off when the homeless lady comes close for a light, listens to everything she says and responds, even when the homeless woman calls her a whore. Twice.
To compress the story a bit, Rebecca finds out she’s pregnant, schedules an abortion, tells her boyfriend emotionlessly and gets even less emotion in return – she confirms he doesn’t want her to have the child, though it’s probably her last chance (she’s 39) – rebels against him by sleeping with an underling from the bank, then rejects that underling. As she’s sitting in the car with him in the morning before the afternoon abortion, the homeless woman comes up again.
Rebecca seems to take solace in the woman’s recognition of what she really thinks of herself, but it’s a complicated relationship – much more complicated and honest, despite being thirty seconds long, than any of the other relationships we see Rebecca in. The homeless woman calls her a whore again, and when underling tries to stop her, Rebecca says “no, go on” and listens with rapt attention.
The homeless woman concludes, “It’s not that I don’t like you – I like you, princess. I feel sorry for you.”
Dr. Keener performs the abortion. The antiseptic camerawork keeps the angles on close-ups of Rebecca’s face, Dr. Keener’s, the nurse’s. Rebecca gasps in the middle of the procedure and the nurse’s hand enters the frame and pats her hair. This is the only human contact we see at all.
Rebecca’s lied and said she was being picked up by her boyfriend. As she walks out of the clinic, she wobbles and suddenly bursts out sobbing – she stands by a manicured bush for comfort, then a parking meter. Time passes. She continues down the street and sees the homeless woman on the other side.
This is the only comfort she gets; the scene ends.
You don’t get the impression from this movie that abortion is more wrong than other options this woman had, or that she regrets her choice and wishes she had chosen differently (though either of those themes would sit well with my beliefs); you get the impression instead that there are situations in life that are really, really hard. We’re not victims of them – we get to make choices and often choose wrong – but we’re not completely in control of them, either.
Rebecca’s entire life up to this point is to blame for bringing her to this existential crisis and to a point where only a mentally ill homeless woman can understand her, and she’s both responsible for that life and determined by it.
The next section, in which Kathy Baker's character falls in love with a dwarf, is the one that’s stuck with me since I first saw this movie a few years ago. It’s sweet and strange, and I’ll let you see it for yourself.
I’ll let you see the entire rest of the movie for yourself, in fact – as long as you do. It is, above all, thoughtful. You shouldn’t be disappointed.
PSA: Women's suffrage
A week before the election, let's take a moment to remember cool women's rights people like Elizabeth Cady Stanton, who wrote this "Declaration of Sentiments," which echoes and overwhelms (in its claims of injustice, I feel) the Declaration of Independence.
Right on, E. Cady Stanton. I'm glad you existed.
Right on, E. Cady Stanton. I'm glad you existed.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
PSA: "Oh, I see you've played knifey-spoony before..."
Number of spoons I found in my purse last weekend: 5
Local Trivia: Toss your cookies.
I found out last week that the A Dong Asian supermarket I go to for all my Thai-iced-tea-hot-pot-ingredients-cheap-peanut-oil-and-taro needs, had on its shelves some cookies tainted with melamine.
Good thing Chinese cookies are -- and I say this with all the love in the world -- total crap, or I might have bought some and had something to worry about.
Good thing Chinese cookies are -- and I say this with all the love in the world -- total crap, or I might have bought some and had something to worry about.
Saturday, October 25, 2008
PSA: To Kristina
Hon, I don't know you, which makes it all the more curious that you're emailing me about your quest.
I'm afraid, too, that I can't advise you on "looking for a good men, to love," as the subject line of your email requests. I can tell you that you might want to start singular, and work up to plural once you've got that down.
I can also advise you that good men appreciate proper capitalization, punctuation and article agreement. As a former writing center tutor, I recommend changing your subject line to "I'm looking for a good man to love." They'll know what you mean, and you won't cripple your chances at finding a good man, if you pay attention to these kinds of details.
You may also want to delete the words "bigger PENIS" from the text of your email. I understand that this eliminates all content, but sometimes you've just got to think of something more subtle in your search for a good man. More alarmingly, repeating this phrase with no other content implies either that you, yourself, have a penis -- a turn-off for most hetero men -- or that you are complaining or will complain about the members of the men you are dating or will date, which is no way to win a good man (or men) to love.
Win them over with grammar and a modicum of etiquette, in other words.
Good luck.
Sincerely,
Alicia.
I'm afraid, too, that I can't advise you on "looking for a good men, to love," as the subject line of your email requests. I can tell you that you might want to start singular, and work up to plural once you've got that down.
I can also advise you that good men appreciate proper capitalization, punctuation and article agreement. As a former writing center tutor, I recommend changing your subject line to "I'm looking for a good man to love." They'll know what you mean, and you won't cripple your chances at finding a good man, if you pay attention to these kinds of details.
You may also want to delete the words "bigger PENIS" from the text of your email. I understand that this eliminates all content, but sometimes you've just got to think of something more subtle in your search for a good man. More alarmingly, repeating this phrase with no other content implies either that you, yourself, have a penis -- a turn-off for most hetero men -- or that you are complaining or will complain about the members of the men you are dating or will date, which is no way to win a good man (or men) to love.
Win them over with grammar and a modicum of etiquette, in other words.
Good luck.
Sincerely,
Alicia.
PSA: Sometimes, Christians act like jerks.
Here's an article about a letter from "a Christian in 2012" written by Focus on the Family, enumerating the many disasters that will befall us should Barack Obama win the presidency.
Apparently, Christians in 2012 are allowed to lie, as long as the lies are so mavericking ridiculous that no one would ever believe them, and they're designed to mess up the space-time continuum. Sources are unclear on whether just normal white lies, or lies to people from a concurrent time, are permissible in 2012, or still forbidden.
Among the more baseless and ridiculous claims are that Russia will encroach on Europe because of Obama's "reluctance to send troops overseas" -- as though the man hadn't said we would go into Pakistan, permission or no, to hunt down Al Qaida, a position that frightens me a bit as a pacifist -- and that the Boy Scouts will disband in protest over being forced to sleep in tents with homosexual counselors.
The article says the letter and similar efforts to devil people into voting for McCain (I made up that verb, here, because it seemed ENTIRELY APPROPRIATE) are geared toward young evangelicals.
The article didn't say so, but I'm betting it's because Focus on the Family assumes young people don't know better.
This enrages me. The entire thing enrages me.
And as a young evangelical (recovering), I have a message for Focus on the Family and all similar efforts to scare people, instead of giving them actual facts and letting them decide:
Shame on you. If you had a temple, I don't know what Jesus would do, but I would throw you out of it in anger.
Now go to your rooms and think about what you've done.
Apparently, Christians in 2012 are allowed to lie, as long as the lies are so mavericking ridiculous that no one would ever believe them, and they're designed to mess up the space-time continuum. Sources are unclear on whether just normal white lies, or lies to people from a concurrent time, are permissible in 2012, or still forbidden.
Among the more baseless and ridiculous claims are that Russia will encroach on Europe because of Obama's "reluctance to send troops overseas" -- as though the man hadn't said we would go into Pakistan, permission or no, to hunt down Al Qaida, a position that frightens me a bit as a pacifist -- and that the Boy Scouts will disband in protest over being forced to sleep in tents with homosexual counselors.
The article says the letter and similar efforts to devil people into voting for McCain (I made up that verb, here, because it seemed ENTIRELY APPROPRIATE) are geared toward young evangelicals.
The article didn't say so, but I'm betting it's because Focus on the Family assumes young people don't know better.
This enrages me. The entire thing enrages me.
And as a young evangelical (recovering), I have a message for Focus on the Family and all similar efforts to scare people, instead of giving them actual facts and letting them decide:
Shame on you. If you had a temple, I don't know what Jesus would do, but I would throw you out of it in anger.
Now go to your rooms and think about what you've done.
Friday, October 24, 2008
PSA: Cassettes Won't Listen
This is probably not news to you.
But what might be news is that "Cassettes Won't Listen" is the name of one of those Gorillaz-like bands actually made up of one guy pretending to be several guys – and he's awesome.
You can listen for yourself to his "small answering machine mixtape" track (and others), which is a half-hour-long remix of songs by Midlake, El-P, Asobi Seksu, Pela, Morcheeba, and other CWL tracks. It includes "Paper Float," I believe, and "Freeze and Explode," which is one of those songs you feel unaffected by – until it get stuck in your head for three days and you still don't hate it – which are part of his most recent EP, "Small-Time Machines."
After listening to the mix, I went out on the wild, wild Web looking for the tracks he'd used (except "Flyentology," by El-P, which I already had – yes, I listen to underground rap, suckaz), and expanded from there. I'm still expanding, like CWL was a musical Big Bang.
It's a whole new world of music out there, post-Cassettes. Get into it.
But what might be news is that "Cassettes Won't Listen" is the name of one of those Gorillaz-like bands actually made up of one guy pretending to be several guys – and he's awesome.
You can listen for yourself to his "small answering machine mixtape" track (and others), which is a half-hour-long remix of songs by Midlake, El-P, Asobi Seksu, Pela, Morcheeba, and other CWL tracks. It includes "Paper Float," I believe, and "Freeze and Explode," which is one of those songs you feel unaffected by – until it get stuck in your head for three days and you still don't hate it – which are part of his most recent EP, "Small-Time Machines."
After listening to the mix, I went out on the wild, wild Web looking for the tracks he'd used (except "Flyentology," by El-P, which I already had – yes, I listen to underground rap, suckaz), and expanded from there. I'm still expanding, like CWL was a musical Big Bang.
It's a whole new world of music out there, post-Cassettes. Get into it.
Local Trivia: Great SCOTT.
I got a call from someone campaigning for Scott Saunders today. Thinking it was a political poll, I was glad to hear "it will take less than one minute" -- my opinion gets counted for the good, and is using less than one cell phone unit-of-time, I thought. (Since cell phone "minutes" are actually 58 seconds, at least with Sprint.)
"Are you supportive of your current state representative, Betty Boukus?" the southern-twanged voice asked. (I should have asked him where he was calling from.)
"I'm pretty neutral," I said.
"So you're somewhat supportive or somewhat unsupportive?"
"Somewhat supportive."
He asked if I knew Scott Saunders was running in my state senate district. I said I did. The man's billboards and mailings are everywhere. (EVERYwhere. I'm surprised there aren't stickers on my bathroom mirror when I look at myself in the morning -- or on my face.)
"Would you change your mind if you found out Scott Saunders will create jobs while reducing excess government spending?" the pollster/campaigner asked, and I caught what he was throwing at me. I'd pegged him as an independent poll caller until then.
"I think that's a mischaracterization of his position," I said. (I actually said this.) "I mean, no one's going to argue against more jobs or less government, but I think the issue is actually a lot more complicated than that."
"Okay, thank you," the guy said, wished me a nice day, and hung up.
I have no idea what he would have rated my response on a five-point scale -- but maybe they have some other, N/A answer, like "s/he's onto us."
Scott Saunders' actual position, which I know from the billboards and mailings, is as a gas-tax-cap man. He doesn't seem to have positions on anything else; he just wishes gas was cheaper. (Today I paid $2.69/gallon for gas, so there goes that platform.) If these are his ideas for bringing more jobs and whittling down government, count me out (of the country. Canada, here I come).
"Are you supportive of your current state representative, Betty Boukus?" the southern-twanged voice asked. (I should have asked him where he was calling from.)
"I'm pretty neutral," I said.
"So you're somewhat supportive or somewhat unsupportive?"
"Somewhat supportive."
He asked if I knew Scott Saunders was running in my state senate district. I said I did. The man's billboards and mailings are everywhere. (EVERYwhere. I'm surprised there aren't stickers on my bathroom mirror when I look at myself in the morning -- or on my face.)
"Would you change your mind if you found out Scott Saunders will create jobs while reducing excess government spending?" the pollster/campaigner asked, and I caught what he was throwing at me. I'd pegged him as an independent poll caller until then.
"I think that's a mischaracterization of his position," I said. (I actually said this.) "I mean, no one's going to argue against more jobs or less government, but I think the issue is actually a lot more complicated than that."
"Okay, thank you," the guy said, wished me a nice day, and hung up.
I have no idea what he would have rated my response on a five-point scale -- but maybe they have some other, N/A answer, like "s/he's onto us."
Scott Saunders' actual position, which I know from the billboards and mailings, is as a gas-tax-cap man. He doesn't seem to have positions on anything else; he just wishes gas was cheaper. (Today I paid $2.69/gallon for gas, so there goes that platform.) If these are his ideas for bringing more jobs and whittling down government, count me out (of the country. Canada, here I come).
Thursday, October 23, 2008
PSA: Poll Question, Oct. 23
"Have you ever bought something that didn't was what you think it was?
O yes
O no"
O yes
O no"
Third Dream
I'm not going to tell you about the third dream.
I wrote out a description, which runs about a page, this morning, intending to post it here – then the sense of overexposure began creeping up on me, the idea that I was telling too much. It was set at college, and on a dock with still blue water and several small boats and yachts. It involves a man with a knife, and my friend in Kyrgyzstan, and my high school English teacher; I don't mind telling you about those things.
There's something in this dream that finally relates to me, though – unlike the first or second dreams, which felt like someone else was dreaming them. This dream was more frenetic, more fragmented and generally incoherent than the others, but I think it actually explains a lot more than they do.
The question remaining is why my unconscious is going so far abroad for its material – I’ve been having dreams relating to high school and college more lately than I would expect, and for awhile it made sense, as though these dreams were consolidating things happening to me now and stitching them into my history, but these recent dreams are different. These feel like non sequiturs. Not being able to use my dreams to interpret my emotional state is like suddenly going blind – like I’m an outsider to my own mind.
Now you are, too...again. I'm back inside and leaving you out.
I can tell you that to me this dream made more sense than those did. I’m just not sure I like what it’s telling me.
I wrote out a description, which runs about a page, this morning, intending to post it here – then the sense of overexposure began creeping up on me, the idea that I was telling too much. It was set at college, and on a dock with still blue water and several small boats and yachts. It involves a man with a knife, and my friend in Kyrgyzstan, and my high school English teacher; I don't mind telling you about those things.
There's something in this dream that finally relates to me, though – unlike the first or second dreams, which felt like someone else was dreaming them. This dream was more frenetic, more fragmented and generally incoherent than the others, but I think it actually explains a lot more than they do.
The question remaining is why my unconscious is going so far abroad for its material – I’ve been having dreams relating to high school and college more lately than I would expect, and for awhile it made sense, as though these dreams were consolidating things happening to me now and stitching them into my history, but these recent dreams are different. These feel like non sequiturs. Not being able to use my dreams to interpret my emotional state is like suddenly going blind – like I’m an outsider to my own mind.
Now you are, too...again. I'm back inside and leaving you out.
I can tell you that to me this dream made more sense than those did. I’m just not sure I like what it’s telling me.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
What the Dickens?!?
I learned, googling myself this morning in search of super-dorky old photos of myself as a child, that Charles Dickens has written a story featuring me called "The Magic Fishbone."I'm a princess. (See me in the only non-blond version of myself to the right, performing the "Dance of the Eighteen Cooks" with the other children.)
"The Magic Fishbone" is second in a four-story cycle known as "Holiday Romance" and was, according to Project Gutenberg, originally published in a children's magazine under the assumed identity (Miss Alice Rainbird) of a 7-year-old.
From what I've read, Dickens actually does a pretty good job of copying the vagaries and sudden explanations of storytellers that age: An old woman who wants to speak with the King wasn't recognized by him because "she had been invisible to him," for instance, rather than because he just hadn't looked in that direction or wanted to pay attention to an old poor woman. She turns out to be a Fairy. A particularly hilarious exchange ensues:
“You are right,” said the old lady, answering his thoughts, “I am the Good Fairy Grandmarina. Attend. When you return home to dinner, politely invite the Princess Alicia to have some of the salmon you bought just now.”
“It may disagree with her,” said the King.
The old lady became so very angry at this absurd idea, that the King was quite alarmed, and humbly begged her pardon.
“We hear a great deal too much about this thing disagreeing, and that thing disagreeing,” said the old lady, with the greatest contempt it was possible to express. “Don’t be greedy. I think you want it all yourself.”
The King hung his head under this reproof, and said he wouldn’t talk about things disagreeing, any more.
As you see, Dickens also makes a point of chastising grown-ups -- this goes on for awhile -- adding to the sense that "The Magic Fishbone" may have been written by an actual 7-year-old.
Appropriately, it features me saving the day using a magic fishbone. Just like in real life.
Even more appropriately, it appears to feature me saving the fishbone after dinner, just in case -- exactly like in real life.
After that, the coincidences pile up bizarrely, and I have to say, from my perspective, poignantly:
I mean, my family only has three kids, but you get the picture. The Queen faints away after dinner on the night of the story and Alicia ends up having to care for the kids more than usual:"[The king and queen] had nineteen children, and were always having more. Seventeen of these children took care of the baby; and Alicia, the eldest, took care of them all."
"But that was not the worst of the good Queen’s illness. O, no! She was very ill indeed, for a long time. The Princess Alicia kept the seventeen young Princes and Princesses quiet, and dressed and undressed and danced the baby, and made the kettle boil, and heated the soup, and swept the hearth, and poured out the medicine, and nursed the Queen, and did all that ever she could, and was as busy busy busy, as busy could be."Combined with many of the observations made in Jay Clayton's Charles Dickens in Cyberspace, an excellent reading of postmodernism into nineteenth-century literature (if you believe in that sort of thing), it makes me wonder if Dickens had access to a time machine -- and then how, bizarrely, he came upon my family's story.
It also says I'm beautiful. I'll let you be the judges of that, particularly after I find and post some super-dorky pictures of myself as a kid. I like to think I was pretty cute.
Well, I guess I have to stop hating Charles Dickens now -- too bad. That was my last pure hate left after I had to give up hating Ford Tauruses.
It's worth it, though, to be a princess.
PSA: Essential Oils
Forget what the skin-care-product ads are telling you. These are the only oils you need.
In America:
Extra virgin olive oil
Vegetable oil
Canola oil
Peanut oil
In China:
Rapeseed oil (canola)
Peanut oil
Soybean/salad oil
Sesame oil
La you (hot chili oil)
In America:
Extra virgin olive oil
Vegetable oil
Canola oil
Peanut oil
In China:
Rapeseed oil (canola)
Peanut oil
Soybean/salad oil
Sesame oil
La you (hot chili oil)
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Second dream
I was living in an apartment that took up most of a house, with six other MC people, all women. We had arranged things in a way that pleased me, dividing larger rooms into sections that served as bedrooms and limiting ourselves so that each person had some semblance of privacy. I felt positively about our lives, and mine in particular.
There had been a push from the outside, though, from Aaron and three other MC guys he knew, including David and Luke, to let them live with us. Sharon was Aaron's contact, but she was not able to stop him from pushing his way into our living arrangements.
His pushiness didn't end there. By the time I'd gotten home the day after learning Aaron was moving himself and his friends into our apartment, Aaron had taken over rearranging things in a way that made sense to him. He'd moved all our beds, and some extras he'd brought in, into a long, large room that had originally held partioned areas for four or five of us at a time; there were now nine beds in there, including two bunk bed sets and one bed set across a walking path, skewed in the middle of the room. The partitions and privacy were gone.
I hated the arrangements and tried to point out particular problems with them, including that putting a bed across a walking path in the middle of the room would mean no sleep for the person in that bed, and stepping over it for everyone who wanted to walk through. Aaron didn't listen. David and Luke were around occasionally, but rushed off to attend to more rearrangements whenever I came into the room.
The smaller room off the long, large one held all the books that had once been spread around the house according to their owners. Every wall was covered by bookshelves, but even in that case, our books were being replaced by Aaron's. In the middle of that room was a set of bunk beds.
I pointed out that we didn't need those beds, since we already had a total of 11 in the long room, and were only attempting to house 11 people. Aaron made up some reason for needing bunk beds in addition -- like that he only liked beds as furniture, and this would eliminate the need for couches or chairs -- and ignored the radical ridiculousness of this stance. So did everyone else.
It was at that point, as I saw my life devolving to a point I could barely contemplate, my bed shoved into an unpleasing location, my books being re-boxed, that the identity of the fourth boy about to move in with us was revealed.
It was, inevitably, Matt.
Rather than begin the keening wail of outrage that would have indicated the psychotic break with reality that would have accompanied this news in real life, I reacted to this news with unwarranted relief. Matt walked in the door, and there I was next to him, asking how his day had gone, smiling and being overly attentive. I disgusted myself even in the dream. This reaction was just another thing I couldn't control.
In the dream, this was all happening second semester of our senior year, and we'd already started classes for the term. Still, as Marc picked me up and drove me to some other apartment building (possibly the old apartment the guys had been living in) where we'd find leftover furniture haphazardly strewn about, I contemplated finding a way to move out.
At the other apartment building, we looked around for a bit before David and Luke showed up. They took over a card game we'd been playing, turning the game into their own, and I got up and left in protest. No one seemed to notice.
After that game was over, Marc, who had been friendly toward my new housemates, asked if I wanted to play a new game they'd pulled out. Barely able to speak, I just stared at him.
"You know what I think you want more than that -- to go home." It wasn't really a question, but I nodded in relief. He drove me back.
Before we got into the car, Debbie appeared and I told her how enraged I was by the series of changes that had been forced on us. She emphasized how acceptance was ultimately necessary and good for the soul, and didn't seem to feel the changes were a catastrophe, as I did.
Sharon hitched a ride back to the house with us, and I tried her, describing the worst grievances resulting from Aaron's moving in and taking over. She smiled at me and said she'd been expecting this, that the final semester of school was going to be tough for me, but that it was all part of the cycles I'd been describing in my emotional life.
I was horrified, in the full sense of the word. I felt the horror so overwhelmingly that I began planning to drop out of school, though I knew it would ruin my life: I'd have to finish with difficulty, one class at a time while working, and I'd never get to grad school. I tried to think of places I could go if I moved out, but the only person I could think of outside of the group was Marc, and I didn't want to intrude on his space anymore than I'd wanted others intruding on mine.
I woke up with the resignation to a ruined life still strong in my mind, though not quite sure what the real-life parallels would be.
I'm still not.
There had been a push from the outside, though, from Aaron and three other MC guys he knew, including David and Luke, to let them live with us. Sharon was Aaron's contact, but she was not able to stop him from pushing his way into our living arrangements.
His pushiness didn't end there. By the time I'd gotten home the day after learning Aaron was moving himself and his friends into our apartment, Aaron had taken over rearranging things in a way that made sense to him. He'd moved all our beds, and some extras he'd brought in, into a long, large room that had originally held partioned areas for four or five of us at a time; there were now nine beds in there, including two bunk bed sets and one bed set across a walking path, skewed in the middle of the room. The partitions and privacy were gone.
I hated the arrangements and tried to point out particular problems with them, including that putting a bed across a walking path in the middle of the room would mean no sleep for the person in that bed, and stepping over it for everyone who wanted to walk through. Aaron didn't listen. David and Luke were around occasionally, but rushed off to attend to more rearrangements whenever I came into the room.
The smaller room off the long, large one held all the books that had once been spread around the house according to their owners. Every wall was covered by bookshelves, but even in that case, our books were being replaced by Aaron's. In the middle of that room was a set of bunk beds.
I pointed out that we didn't need those beds, since we already had a total of 11 in the long room, and were only attempting to house 11 people. Aaron made up some reason for needing bunk beds in addition -- like that he only liked beds as furniture, and this would eliminate the need for couches or chairs -- and ignored the radical ridiculousness of this stance. So did everyone else.
It was at that point, as I saw my life devolving to a point I could barely contemplate, my bed shoved into an unpleasing location, my books being re-boxed, that the identity of the fourth boy about to move in with us was revealed.
It was, inevitably, Matt.
Rather than begin the keening wail of outrage that would have indicated the psychotic break with reality that would have accompanied this news in real life, I reacted to this news with unwarranted relief. Matt walked in the door, and there I was next to him, asking how his day had gone, smiling and being overly attentive. I disgusted myself even in the dream. This reaction was just another thing I couldn't control.
In the dream, this was all happening second semester of our senior year, and we'd already started classes for the term. Still, as Marc picked me up and drove me to some other apartment building (possibly the old apartment the guys had been living in) where we'd find leftover furniture haphazardly strewn about, I contemplated finding a way to move out.
At the other apartment building, we looked around for a bit before David and Luke showed up. They took over a card game we'd been playing, turning the game into their own, and I got up and left in protest. No one seemed to notice.
After that game was over, Marc, who had been friendly toward my new housemates, asked if I wanted to play a new game they'd pulled out. Barely able to speak, I just stared at him.
"You know what I think you want more than that -- to go home." It wasn't really a question, but I nodded in relief. He drove me back.
Before we got into the car, Debbie appeared and I told her how enraged I was by the series of changes that had been forced on us. She emphasized how acceptance was ultimately necessary and good for the soul, and didn't seem to feel the changes were a catastrophe, as I did.
Sharon hitched a ride back to the house with us, and I tried her, describing the worst grievances resulting from Aaron's moving in and taking over. She smiled at me and said she'd been expecting this, that the final semester of school was going to be tough for me, but that it was all part of the cycles I'd been describing in my emotional life.
I was horrified, in the full sense of the word. I felt the horror so overwhelmingly that I began planning to drop out of school, though I knew it would ruin my life: I'd have to finish with difficulty, one class at a time while working, and I'd never get to grad school. I tried to think of places I could go if I moved out, but the only person I could think of outside of the group was Marc, and I didn't want to intrude on his space anymore than I'd wanted others intruding on mine.
I woke up with the resignation to a ruined life still strong in my mind, though not quite sure what the real-life parallels would be.
I'm still not.
First dream
I was at church, at once in service in the balcony -- but this was in the old building, and not even that, but a dream-version of it -- and at lunch with my pastor and a woman who was with a Spanish-speaking church or league of some kind. (La Leche League, perhaps? How Freudian, if so.)
My pastor spoke Spanish with the woman; he wasn't very good at it -- his accent was too American -- but I did not correct or augment him. I knew more Spanish than he did, but was unwilling to use it. I had the sense it would have taken too much work for me to really focus, and too much courage for me to really try. And I would never know everything there was to know about Spanish, never be really fluent, so it seemed like something I could never really start.
But the woman spoke English, too, so it wasn't vital to communicate in Spanish.
I wasn't disturbed by being at church, despite my real-life misgivings, and the dream-height of the balcony from the rest of the sanctuary, which was three times the real-life height. A choir sang, and my pastor gave a sermon, though I don't remember any of its content.
I left a note on the balcony for two younger members; they got it as they were coming up the stairs. I don't know what it said.
In a different scene, Tyler had found a loophole for getting a duplicate ID online by claiming you had just come from Mexico. He'd chosen to get his alternate driver's license issued by Virginia, and it was made into a small burlap sachet he wore around his neck with his picture and ID number printed on the front of the cloth. It had something in it, but didn't seem to smell like potpourri the way you might expect. I decided to have mine issued from Pennsylvania and had just started the application process when I woke up.
My pastor spoke Spanish with the woman; he wasn't very good at it -- his accent was too American -- but I did not correct or augment him. I knew more Spanish than he did, but was unwilling to use it. I had the sense it would have taken too much work for me to really focus, and too much courage for me to really try. And I would never know everything there was to know about Spanish, never be really fluent, so it seemed like something I could never really start.
But the woman spoke English, too, so it wasn't vital to communicate in Spanish.
I wasn't disturbed by being at church, despite my real-life misgivings, and the dream-height of the balcony from the rest of the sanctuary, which was three times the real-life height. A choir sang, and my pastor gave a sermon, though I don't remember any of its content.
I left a note on the balcony for two younger members; they got it as they were coming up the stairs. I don't know what it said.
In a different scene, Tyler had found a loophole for getting a duplicate ID online by claiming you had just come from Mexico. He'd chosen to get his alternate driver's license issued by Virginia, and it was made into a small burlap sachet he wore around his neck with his picture and ID number printed on the front of the cloth. It had something in it, but didn't seem to smell like potpourri the way you might expect. I decided to have mine issued from Pennsylvania and had just started the application process when I woke up.
Monday, October 20, 2008
Local Trivia: Don't, uh, mess with us.
Observed: A Toyota pickup, set high on too-large tires, driving 20 miles over the speed limit and with one side completely covered in dried mud, as though it had just come from -- and, one may assume, won -- some kind of dirt-truck rally.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Guest Mix: Apocalypse is Fun!
Thanks to Carl, the other-me, who had exactly the same idea for a mix CD as I had, the Soundtrack-to-the-Apocalypse has become a 2 disc set!
This is especially fortuitous, since the Apocalypse will likely last long enough for all of us to get sick of R.E.M.'s "The End of the World As We Know It."
And ASTONISHINGLY, despite our same-same ideas, there are no duplicate tracks between these two CDs.
Order now while supplies last.
*****
"The Man Comes Around" -- Johnny Cash
"The Clash" -- London Calling
Track 3
"We Will Become Silhouettes" -- The Postal Service
"99 Red Balloons" -- Nena
"And It Rained All Night" -- Thom Yorke
"Let Down" -- Radiohead
"I Will Follow You Into The Dark" -- Death Cab for Cutie
"At the Bottom of Everything" -- Bright Eyes
"Wild Packs of Family Dogs" -- Modest Mouse
"Gong" -- Sigur Ros
"Everybody Here Is a Cloud" -- Cloud Cult
"No Cars Go" -- Arcade Fire
"Rever" -- Larsen
"Death Will Never Conquer" -- Coldplay
This is especially fortuitous, since the Apocalypse will likely last long enough for all of us to get sick of R.E.M.'s "The End of the World As We Know It."
And ASTONISHINGLY, despite our same-same ideas, there are no duplicate tracks between these two CDs.
Order now while supplies last.
*****
"The Man Comes Around" -- Johnny Cash
"The Clash" -- London Calling
Track 3
"We Will Become Silhouettes" -- The Postal Service
"99 Red Balloons" -- Nena
"And It Rained All Night" -- Thom Yorke
"Let Down" -- Radiohead
"I Will Follow You Into The Dark" -- Death Cab for Cutie
"At the Bottom of Everything" -- Bright Eyes
"Wild Packs of Family Dogs" -- Modest Mouse
"Gong" -- Sigur Ros
"Everybody Here Is a Cloud" -- Cloud Cult
"No Cars Go" -- Arcade Fire
"Rever" -- Larsen
"Death Will Never Conquer" -- Coldplay
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