Friday, April 28, 2006

Interesting points of conversation from this week

The hippie neighbors flagrantly disregarded the “no fly” zones on the lawn again this week, and I was going to have to get all UN on them. Again, they did not answer their door. But before fuming and throwing bags of grass into the street, I spotted our neighbor casually walking her dog Startle with Sky (her daughter) tucked into a papoose.

I asked her about the yard, and she apologized for the weirdness. The landlord actually took it upon himself to leave bamboo type stuff on the front lawn. The rest of the conversation went like this:

Neighbor: I hope I didn’t bother you over Christmas when I went into labor.

WR: I was in Oklahoma, so no worries.

Neighbor: I wanted to give birth in the house but I delivered in a birth pool.

WR: Really. I was supposed to be born in a birth pool, too! My mom didn’t make it in time though.

Then we moved on to the subject of cloth diapers and how using them will save the world from diaper rash and unnecessary waste. So all is now right with the universe. And I have further evidence of my theory of the similarities between Indians and hippies.

Speaking of Indians, I had another interesting conversation this week. I met with a young philanthropist who wants to learn how to raise money for a small Indian school in Montana. When I introduced myself, his mother said, “Strange. Your name doesn’t sound Indian.” To which, I didn’t know how to respond. Would you prefer that I change my name to Squanto, or Powahatan? Or should I have responded with, “Strange, your name doesn’t sound Norwegian.”

See, lady, there is this societal expectation that women take on men’s names when they marry. My mom married a Filipino and my name sounds Portuguese. So whodathunk that my name might not sound Indian. I did always want to keep the family name Shotpouch. So you can call me Shotpouch from now on. Instead, I just smiled with an uncomfortable chuckle and we talked about how we could use examples of poverty to persuade people to make donations.

Wednesday, April 26, 2006

Happy Anniversary, Chernobyl

"Ghost Town," Filatove Elena Vladimirovna:

"The sarcophagus will remain radioactive for at least 100.000 years. The age for the pyramids of Egypt is 5,000 to 6,000 years. Each cultural epoch left something to humanity, something immortal, like Judaic epoch left us [the] Bible, Greek culture- philosophy, Romans contributed law and we are leaving Sarcophagus, the construction that [is] going to outlive all other signs of our epoch and may last longer then pyramids."

Time permitting, check out the Ghost Town photo essay of Filatova Elena Vladimirovna a.k.a. “Gamma Girl.” Armed with only a motorcycle and a geiger counter, she travels through the time-locked destruction that is Chernobyl. Her essay documents “the dead zone,” a place rarely seen by anyone outside of the government.

In OKC, I had a Ukrainian acquaintance who lived near Chernobyl during the time of the meltdown. He looked fine -- no mutant appendages or super powers. One evening, he offered me a shot glass of Vodka Kurant, a liquor made of crushed black currant. He explained that the liquor is thought to have medicinal properties to counteract the effects of radiation and cancer. Needless to say, it tasted horrible. But if the currant doesn’t work on the radiation, maybe the alcohol helps with the not thinking about your body as a living time bomb at such a young age.

Friday, April 21, 2006

Team Marvelous 1, Hippies 0

Mentioned in passing, Toombsday and I had more than a challenge to locate a roomy apartment for cheap in Indianapolis. After months of scouring classifieds and beating the pavement, we finally found a place in between downtown and Broad Ripple with a monthly rent that is scandalous, especially since this particular lease doesn’t include gang beat-ins or prostitute baby mamas.

A new place was necessary because Toombsday’s computer is a living, wheezing organism that fills a room easily. The new place wasn’t charming when we first saw it -- climbing ivy overtook the siding, blue tarps covered missing awnings, eerie spiders cackled at us from the corners of the walls. But it had a basement and a second room to house our demon a.k.a. the computer.

We met our neighbors the second evening -- when they decided to have every single punk rock kid in the neighborhood come over, drink P.B.R., listen to Dead Kennedys, vomit on the front lawn and climb on cars. One day Toombsday came home from work when they were trying to kill insects with a lighter and an aerosol. Eventually they left their burnt couches on the curb and abandoned the place. For some reason their shenanigans didn’t bother me.

But then the hippies moved in. With their patchouli and midwifery. And their dreadlocks. And the basic lazy I-don’t-need-to-work-screw-the-man type behavior. It's not that I scorn hippies. I concur with Sherman Alexie’s quote: “all hippies [are] trying to be Indians.” I, too, eat barley, salute the sun and buy locally. This is all fine and good. They can fight the corporate system all they want until the bastards mow a line down my lawn.

I have this thing, you see, with spinning metal objects. This quirk comes from my fifth grade nemesis Kelly who accidentally cut off his toes with a lawnmower. It didn’t help when Megatron recounted an incident involving a nest of baby bunnies and a lawnmower either. I don’t mow and I have literally lost friendships over the subject. It doesn’t have anything to do with outdoors stuff -- I have hauled wood, built fences and routed irrigation systems for hippies. But I don’t mow. That’s the point of renting -- to have someone mow for you. Because home ownership is complicated and there are more things to deal with on a daily basis.

Then I came home the other night. The hippies decided that the lawn needed a cut. But only particular parts of the lawn. And those parts were disproportionate to who actually occupied the lawn. I felt like the disadvantaged Brady kid, sulking because my sibling divided our room with an indivisible line -- except my part of the line only had a closet and my self-centered sibiling had the side with the front door and the bathroom.

Do you see the irony? The hippies “fuck the corporate” using boundaries to claim ownership on my front lawn? This is a socialist system we have running on this corner lot, which translates into: we pay the landlord to do this for us; let him mow the lawn. I don’t care if your baby gets lost in the dandelions while we wait for him. You will not cut the grass (but pick up your dog’s poop…that’s gross).

So I got angry. I knocked on the door with full intentions of confronting them, or at least handcuffing them to the stair railing and shearing off their dreads like a good Indian. They weren’t there. I was still angry when I woke up yesterday and composed a Lincoln-Douglas value analysis to present to our landlord. And before I could hit the send button, Toombsday called to say, "Don’t worry about it. Dave (the landlord) came by and finished the job."

And to that I say, justice is served. So put that in your ear candle and smoke it. Hippie bitches.

Thursday, April 13, 2006

No relief in sight

john
Originally uploaded by Megatron

Preface: For those who came here to find existential proof of God or a critical perspective of culture, please return next week. This post will be an entire bitch fest about my eyes and why they are incredibly uncomfortable this week.

Near blindness is an inherent trait in my family. Until the age of eight, I didn’t realize that trees had individual leaves. They were gigantic blobs of shifting green. Same with grass. And street signs. And Mrs. Grace’s quadratic functions on the chalk board. At least I didn’t get my mom’s funky eye tic that goes awry, especially during heated debates about how to load a dishwasher or what skillet to buy.

A fellow myopic sufferer clued me in on a brand of contacts and a particular contact solution. The contact solution was wonderful. I didn’t have to rub them to get them clean anymore, which sometimes led to torn contacts. After a late night of drinking or studying, I would often question whether I placed the correct contact in its corresponding left-right container, if they made them to the container at all. Plus this new solution made bubbles! I may be over dramatizing. (Moi?) But whenever driving without vision enhancement is akin to giving a small child a pair of scissors on a Slip N Slide of baby oil, then you care about small conveniences such as my contact solution.

I finished my last bottle of solution in February. I added it to my grocery list. But when I went to the store, there was no solution in sight (per say). Strange. Oh well, I can squeeze by for a little while with the remaining ounces of former bottles. I checked the next week. Still no solution. This time I was searching with two other ladies who were saying, “Maybe they changed the box? I swear they had some here last time.” Crap, this has become a dire situation. I tricked Toombsday into thinking that some did exist, he just wasn’t looking closely enough. He came back to the house empty-handed.

This week, I became desperate. I hit four pharmacies and two grocery stores in one day. No luck. Then I saw the sign at CVS, “Due to a recent demand and a shortage in production, the makers temporarily
discontinued this product…” Well, shizz. What’s a girl gotsa do to get clean eyeballs? I bought an imitator that also bubbles and makes the solution pink. But it also makes my eyes pink with irritation and kind of foggy--everyone looks like Joan Collins with soft lighting and Vaseline lenses.

I bought another solution from a reputable company. On my commute home last night, NPR announced that the company released a
statement about fungal issues with its contact solution. They assured everyone that it’s okay, it’s easily cured and not that many cases have arisen…but it’s a fungus that could go in my eye and the last thing I want to do is end up in an abortion clinic.

So the saga of my search continues until either I find the Excalibur of contact solutions or production of my favorite solution continues. Until then, I am happy to take suggestions (or some shopping tips on where to find it…even if it involves passwords in dark hallways…I am not particular). Otherwise you might find me plucking out my eyes in some Greek tragic fashion.

Wednesday, April 12, 2006

R.I.P. Shirley, or thanks for the eight years of reliable crappiness with an occasional expensive breakdown and all I have to show for it is $50

I can’t believe it’s been nine long years. Remember when I picked you out at the age of 17? We hired an auctioneer and at the end of the day, I found you: my V-4 Japanese compact car named for a Thrill Kill Kult song, Shirley “Temple of the Expanded Mind.” Little did I know that you were an easy auction item -- they discontinued making you guys in 1993. Most of my friends bought new cars after college, but we stuck through the last four years despite all of the hardships. Here is an abridged list of everything that I remember (and will forget selectively) about you.

  • You were broken into twice. The first time, they were unsuccessful. The second time, they broke your chastity with my windshield scraper and retrieved your precious stereo. And they took my bamboo stick*. Bastards.
  • Though I replaced the broken glass, the window motor didn’t work quite the same. The pane slips into the door every time your motor violently shakes, which is all the time. I taped the window up with bright blue painter’s tape (which, for some reason, works much better than duct tape).
  • Did I mention that my car was parked outside of a police officer’s apartment both times? No, I’m not resentful. Not. one. bit. Especially since police officers get discounted rates to protect residential apartments. And I’m not happy that Toby bit his fingers. Not. one. bit.
  • Speaking of windows, did I mention that your previous owner tried to tint them? The result was a bubbly mess that would drive any OCD scab picker or nail biter insane.
  • Your previous owner did leave a kick ass “Rifle Marksman” pin, which I proudly pawn off as my own.
  • The tar flung on your side that eventually ate your paint. The tar was a result of a crisis, my senior high school project and road construction. Laws were violated. ‘Nuff said.
  • The numerous dings from parallel parking at the university. Probably a result of the bitches who drove cars with vanity plates and bumper stickers that said, “Daddy bought it, but look who got it."
  • The cigarette burns, especially the one right under me bum. The one I tried to find but didn't until it kindly greeting my backside.
  • The tub of baked beans that spilled in your backseat when I volunteered to pick up food for an entire film crew.
  • The mouse that chewed through the floor and died inside of you.
  • All of my friends hated you.

I’m thankful for the states that you’ve carried me through that include Oklahoma, Texas, Indiana, New Mexico, Colorado, Kansas, Missouri, Illinois, and Arkansas. I wouldn’t have been able to see all the beautiful sunsets or climb mountains without you.

I was going to donate you to charity. Before I could choose a nonprofit to burden, the hippies next door reported you. So I had to call a man with an accent who knew a man with a potbelly who could make you disappear. And all I have to show for it is a measly $50. This, I hear, can buy me one tank of gas in my shiny V-6 Japanese compact sedan. May you caress the highways of heaven forever.

*Notice that the bamboo stick includes a hologram that “turn[s] your competition into a dazzling display of forms and light.” Sweet.

Tuesday, April 11, 2006

Skate or die

One reality television show (and I swear I don’t watch that many…okay, maybe I do…which I haven’t learned to accept yet so don’t make it a pointed observation) that I really enjoy is Roller girls. I also secretly want to join and even considered it when one of their recruits invited me to a meeting in Indianapolis.

One reason I wanted to join is partly due to my competitive nature. Another reason is because I can’t seem to drive in traffic, go to the grocery store, or open a stubborn door in our house without wanting to injure someone. As we get older, the opportunities to make physical contact with another person dwindle (and I’m not talking about physical contact in that sense, perv). There is some Chuck Palahniuk/Fight Club logic wrapped into this urge -- we’re not pretty snowflakes; we are products of consumerism and one way to strip the façade may just be to slam each other into walls. Plus, they get to wear fishnet garters and heavy eyeliner, which is pretty damned cool. Also perhaps there is some residual angst from my elementary school crush choosing Tonya instead of me during the couples’ only roller rink song, Def Leppard’s “Love Bites.”

When I told Toombsday about Indy’s roller derby, he tried to be the voice of reason while remaining supportive: “You only weigh 100 pounds. You might be really fast and could shimmy through women the size of defensive lineman. But you only weigh 100 pounds.” It’s more like 115 pounds, but I get his logic. I tried to skateboard when I was in high school. After a couple of months with a bruised bum and a bruised ego, I couldn’t understand the logic. I conferred with my peers regarding the progression of learning how to skate, which is easily summated:

1. Pick a trick that you want to master.
2. Slam into concrete numerous times until you master the trick. This may involve slings and
concussions.
3. Once mastered, repeat steps one and two.

It didn’t make sense; therefore, I abandoned it -- which would probably be the same with roller derby. I'm probably better off with yoga and Pilates. Alas, I won’t be buying any new wheels any time soon…or tattoos, or hair extensions, or Manic Panic (an Indian in GothWhite doesn’t look that great anyway). But still remain supportive of the roller derby movement in the Midwest, which brings one question to mind: If an activity’s roots claim to be alternative or anti-commercial, but gains notoriety and a following due to commercial promotion, what does this say about the intrinsic value of that activity? I know, I know…you’re asking, “Does it really matter?” And you’re right, especially when the activity includes women in plaid skirts beating the tarnation out of each other while skating backwards at twenty miles an hour.

Friday, April 07, 2006

Goats! For a limited time only.

As you may recall, I left a link to an area newspaper regarding an emu that escaped a farm. The farmer said that the emu was open game for any hunter. Unfortunately, my parents didn’t find the emu and there are no updates. And though I am tempted, there are no puns about the Vice President and his shooting abilities with birds.

The link is now defunct, primarily because the newspaper doesn't use permalinks or archives. They also forbid the use of their articles “by any means not yet known or yet to be invented.” So I am going to go the route that this invention is known of and therefore exempt from its warning. Plus the public deserves to know the truth…especially if it involves goats, tranquilizers, duct tape, and the local authority. Personally, my favorite part is where the policeman admired the goats simultaneous jumping, stating that “[i]t was almost poetic.”

“Goat escapees lead officers on merry chase”

Two escaped “jumping” goats managed to elude authorities for a few days until officers were able to subdue them.


[The police] reported the goats had jumped out of a drop-in cattle pen while being transported in a pickup truck from the sale barn to their would-be home…on Saturday.

Concerned that the goats had not been caught by Monday and fearful that a hapless motorist might hit one of them, the police here mounted an all out effort to corral the animals.

The goats led the major and nine others on a merry chase all over town Monday until the animals were subdued three hours later.

[A detective] even used tranquilizer darts on the animals, shooting them from the back of a four-wheeler while in hot pursuit. However, [the police] reported it did little to slow them down.

[The police] said he finally decided to call in the experts, and it wasn’t long before Grove resident and cattleman [local farmer]and his helper…were on the scene with lassos in hand to help close the case of the rogue goats.

Using all resources, the goats were finally cornered but jumped away from their would-be captors. “I’ve never seen anything like it,” said [the police]. “They both jumped at the same time. It was almost poetic.”

As the goats jumped, [the farmer] managed to grab one of the animals in mid-air and the officers helped wrestle the fighting captive to the ground where they duct taped its legs so it couldn’t get away.

The other goat bought itself another hour of freedom before finally being caught at the Village.

Both animals were returned, unharmed, to their owner.

Source: "Goat escapees lead officers on merry chase." The Grove Sun Daily. 3 April 2006 <http://www.grovesun.com/story3.html>

Wednesday, April 05, 2006

nefarious rabbit

Deep down I yearn to be Juliette Binoche, or at least the characters that she plays in movies. I, too, would like to abandon my country’s military in order to take care of one withering, enigmatic patient, especially if this means holing up in an abandoned church in the Italian countryside with landmine disarmers and a year’s worth of opium. At some point, I would like to admire lost architectural beauty by light of flare while hoisted from the disarmer’s harness (The English Patient). I, too, would like to fall in love with a French street artist and cruise the Canal St. Martin with fireworks on a speedboat (The Lovers on the Bridge). I, too, would like to induce enamor through my food in a quaint village and feed Johnny Depp chocolate wonders (Chocolat).

I would even like to be the character that she played in the film Caché, which I saw over the weekend. Sure, it wouldn’t be too bad to live in a modest French flat surrounded by books and films and to host dinner parties with my publisher and my successful television personality husband. Even if on occasion a voyeur leaves video recordings of my flat on my front doorstep enveloped in charcoal drawings of young boys and chickens covered in blood. Even the prank phone calls. I am already bothered by telemarketers on Saturday morning, so it wouldn’t bother me too much.

That’s why, after sitting in the theatre for two hours, I wasn’t thrilled at all with Caché. So she and her husband are stalked by someone who knows something about his past. What’s so bad about that? But what is bad about the past, especially for this film, is that it isn’t concrete and the threat is anything but imminent. Overall, the film is anti-climatic and eventually trails into a whimpering denouement. After her calls to the police and trouble with her pre-pubescent son, I at least deserved a chase scene in bare feet on a Parisian sidewalk. But, no, not even that.

The direct translation for cache is “hidden.” And this title probably best sums up the film. Everything in this film is hidden -- the plot, the tension, the motives, ad nauseam. In fact, the whole point of the film is so well hidden that the audience leaves the theatre empty. At one point, I felt the great divide between international and American film as best described by Eddie Izzard where characters run through hallways, opening doors, saying “Quoi?”. I yearned for explosions, or a chase scene in Paris in a Mini Cooper around the Eiffel Tower…but I was left with nothing except a hint of conspiracy during the closing credits, which most people would not understand because they probably left before the credits rolled. And if they stayed, they would have to search for this connection.

To the film’s credit, the one element that I did enjoy was the stationary camera that would blankly capture nothing on film but perhaps a breeze in a tree or passing cars. The blank canvas that this perspective created gave the audience an opportunity to participate -- whether it was to think about the direction of the film, silently fume at the lack thereof, or meditate on ordinary life.

After thinking about Caché, I came to the conclusion that the tension created by what is hidden is important, especially in today’s world (did I forget to mention that there was a conflict between Binoche’s husband, an upper-class Frenchman, and his former childhood friend who happened to be Algerian). Often we are dealing with an invisible enemy, whether this exists internally or ideologically. Our ultimate inclination is to define it -- to give it a face or a name or a social class or political affiliation or racial profile. By defining our source of fear (read: terror), it can then be silenced or eradicated. In the end, it doesn’t matter what is done to oust the conflict, but how we handle it -- as rational human beings dealing with reality or as tyrants lashing out at what is imagined, usually the manifestation of our own fears.

Overall, I probably wouldn’t recommend this film to the average filmgoer -- it isn’t too extraordinary by means of directing, acting, or writing. It is thought provoking if you allow it, but by no means does it invoke thoughts other than frustration.

Tuesday, April 04, 2006

Annoyances

Some words of precaution in dealing with anyone in business:

1. Beware of anyone who refers to his e-mail as an epistle. I haven’t used that word since writing an Italian sonnet for college. And it wasn’t clever then either.

2. Beware of anyone who wears a bowtie to distinguish himself from all others who wear ties. It’s not cute. Really. The bolo, however, means business. I can trust a man in a bolo.

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