Friday, September 29, 2006

I walk the line

It’s Friday. A denim Friday, mind you. A rare occurrence in this office only granted to those who make charitable contributions to a national umbrella nonprofit. This reminds me of my brief attendance at a private school that gave “free dress day” to those who volunteered on a regular basis. Why should we have to coerce people to give back to society with incentives? Doesn’t this defy the intrinsic value of giving?

But this is beside the point. Because of my early introduction into the workplace, I only own two pairs of functioning jeans (gasp). I bought my second pair a couple of weekends ago at a department store, a place I hope to visit twice a year. I adore some of the new trends, i.e. the dark, skinny jeans, pea coats, and fabric headbands. I hold my breath when I walk by displays of leggings and short jackets. Why must we bring back the Blossom and the Debbie Gibson? Holy Jebus, I don’t want to be reminded of my awkward phase, my daily middle school battle with side ponytails and skyscraper bangs.

The skinny jean, though nice, is a stretch for me. My badonkadonk disagrees with the sizing. I look like a finalist for an “In Living Color” Fly Girl dance off. This is not right. While my arse was engaged in a battle with these jeans in the juniors’ dressing room, I overheard some sighs in the room next to me. A red-headed girl, probably 15 years old, was helping her friend pick out a new outfit. Said friend was wearing said skinny jeans, black high-tops intentionally untied, and layers of derelict candy coated in flannel. Her friend just nodded her head, “Man, Emily, you look so emo.”

tractus derelictus located here

Emo. Emo is a look? The music started in the mid 90s. By 2000, it was manufactured and shifted into mainstream music. Somehow, we’ve moved from Sunny Day Real Estate to My Chemical Romance in a span of ten years. And the kiddies are eating it up, metaphorically speaking. Because adults like me should not mix up emotion like excitement with their emotion that is apathy, a detached hipness and smug. It’s the same type of excitement I had when I latched on to Nirvana and Mudhoney, listening to Pearl Jam in the dark and relishing in every single lyric. How I could trace the lyrics to “Black” in the darkness on my bedroom wall that I wished was painted black but my parents just don’t understand motives such as this because they are against me and the world is against me. And Pearl Jam understands this. That type of excitement - the kind that wears Doc Martens and ripped jeans, which evidently is making a comeback.

I can’t hold that much against the whole emo resurgence. At least Nirvana’s Lovebuzz gets radio play now. When this album was released, all that was played on the radio was Michael Jackson’s “Black or White.” For this, my little emo kiddies, I thank you.

Related Links:

The Great Grunge Hoax: Wikipedia blurb about the Grunge Speak article featured in the NYT and debunked by Thomas Frank in "The Baffler." Another example of an adult's attempt at breaking youth's cultural code and its backfiring.

Also, I'm eagerly awaiting the release of American Hardcore. See this trailer now.

Wednesday, September 27, 2006

doo ba dee

About eight years ago, you would have found me in Mrs. Carroll’s computer lab playing You Don’t Know Jack with the dork squad during Friday afternoon pep rallies. It wasn’t that I lacked school spirit; it’s that my high school didn’t understand my particular flair for school spirit. My bathroom tissue throwing during the cheerleading squad’s Cotton Eyed Joe routine was quickly dampened (per se). For some reason, the GHS administration thought it was distasteful. But if you go to a Jenks Trojans rally, TP throwing is the bomb. It’s the pinnacle of school spirit. And they won football state championship like three hundred times in a row. So who wants to argue with that?

Somehow, Indianapolis has chipped through my icy shell that has despised, nay vomited on, football all these years. It might have something to do with the fact that this town is an island…an island with temperatures below freezing for about eight months of the year. The only way to survive on this island is with gas heating, fried cheese, cognac, and NFL football.

I scare myself with my newfound passion for football. Especially, when I start insulting a referee's mother during a ridiculous overlooked pass interference last weekend and led my section in booing him off the field at halftime. Shouldn’t I be at home reading Chomsky or Sontag? Yes, I should.
But my real test is WWHSTD or What Would Hunter S. Thompson Do? And he would totally support this, so I don’t question it too much.

At press time on Monday, however, the refs were not th
e center of attention. Neither was the fact that Peyton ran his own second touchdown ever. Or the fact that Reggie Wayne’s brother was killed in a car accident over the weekend. No - the most important thing was every god-fearing football fan’s concern was Ice Cube’s “Go to Church.”

You see, most of our NFL players warm up to music that moves the spirit. And generally this music is hip hop, which occasionally has questionable lyrics filled with (shhh) curse words and sexual innuendos. So, when the dome played Ice Cube’s song,
they replaced “motherfucker” with “mothermother.” But the audience, in their chastened state of upset, thought they heard the vulgar version. Granted, this is a family venue and they probably shouldn’t have played it all (and now won’t ever). If Peyton could play his own inspirational music, we would be subjected to Toby Keith and Faith Hill. So, let’s please not get all Tipper Gore by putting chastity belts on our ears, shall we?

To my horror, the one overlooked crime against humanity is credited to the new mascot, Blue. He’s innocent enough and entertaining. But his introduction music is Eiffel 65’s “I’m Blue,” a song that I sold to hundreds of acne pocked, brace wearing kids on NOW Hits Volume 423 in 2000. A song whose haunting refrain of “doo ba dee doo bad dah” echoed throughout thou hallowed walls of Barnes & Noble and still sends shivers along my spine...next to the Macarena. Do we really want to subject another generation of children to a “musical” group that looks like this:



I think not.

Friday, September 22, 2006

What do you do if you sneeze whilst driving a cab?

Last night, our group hosted a dinner for visiting Italian academics. The Hoosier meal primarily consisting of pork and corn (a meal I don’t eat because of the pork). But one detail that I couldn’t skimp over was the wine. I’ll be damned if I serve Italians some coastal wine aged with formaldehyde. You know, because if you're going to eat pork before Ramadan and Rosh Hashanah, you might as well make sure the red wine is the next best thing to the blood of our saviour...er something. Plus, the last thing I need is to be sleeping with the fishes in a pair of concrete boots. Especially when the group of people we're hosting looks like they could put the Sopranos to shame.

The wine eventually became the focus of the conversation. Not so much the wine, but Americans focus on alcohol - the binge drinking and the high school keggers and what not. A regal woman in turquoise silk stated, this is not a problem for Europe. I was ornery, she continued, but we do not care about obliterating ourselves like Americans care about obliterating themselves.

I’ve never been to Europe, so I can’t vouch for this claim. But I do know that it becomes an issue when people drive under the influence, which is not a frequent occurrence in Europe since autos are considered a luxury. It could very well be that they are becoming just as obliterated, but walking home and not causing the physical damage that becomes headlines in the states (see Paris Hilton and Mel Gibson). I'm just saying that we have measurable statistics.


Speaking of obliterating oneself with alcohol, Toombsday and I saw Bent Hamer’s film adaptation of Bukowski’s Factotum last weekend. We arrived early, expecting the lobby to be swarming with Bukowski fans. Luckily, this only includes five people, so finding a seat was easier than expected.

The film did Bukowski justice -- reeking of alcohol and teeming with dysfunction. I want to say that the protagonist Hank Chinaski’s addiction was a slow descent into hell, to be captive to alcohol and love. But it wasn’t. It depicted the issue of alcoholism better than that. What I realized after leaving this film is that Bukowski’s opinion of the alcoholic would prefer to keep everything the same, which both defies and embodies the term factotum.

According to the film’s introduction, Factotum is a person who changes jobs frequently. To Chinaski, this means finding the next paycheck to get drunk. From chipping and delivering ice to boxing brake pads to dusting a newspaper’s two-story statue, all of these employs are symbolic. Though a shifting means of income for Chinaski, they represent the static status of alcoholism that Chinaski is addicted to - to keep himself desensitized from reality and any personal development. Symbolically -- ice, brakes, and a statue -- represent the frozen condition that Chinaski aspires to through alcohol.

What I found even more disturbing about this film is its lack of movement. There were barely any extras or any set design. Racing to the horse track to place bets, there is hardly any traffic. Running to the newspaper for his last paycheck, there are hardly any people on the streets. Everyone seems to be trying to run very hard to stay very still. At least until they get fired. Though unnerving, this sparse background complemented the nothingness that Factotum is about.

The synergy between Chinaski (Matt Dillon) and Jan (Lili Taylor) also represents this insular dysfunction. Of course, this work is inspired by Bukowski, so there is plenty of drinking and fucking. And both for the same end result -- to obliterate oneself. The interaction between the two is like watching two crabs in a bucket -- one tries to crawl out while the other tries to pull it back in, expending all their energy just to stay in the same isolated situation.

If my description of this film sounds dreary, it’s because it is. I would only recommend this film to people who read and enjoy Bukowski. That is unless you want to see Marisa Tomei’s tahtahs. Because you do get to see those for a few seconds. And that's a selling point (points?)in itself.

Tuesday, September 19, 2006

Happy Day

I’ve been perfecting my backstroke in the stacks of paper that have suddenly surrounded my desk. They (the papers) are taking me hostage. And once I find their ransom letter, I will let you know what their demands are.

Oh, wait a minute, here it is. They say they will let me go for one fully-paid air ticket to Iceland to see Björk reunite with the Sugarcubes on November 17, which happens to be my birthday. They’ve been threatening to paper cut me all week. I don’t think I can hold them off any longer. Please, help me. Before they make me purchase another remastered box set in a desperate attempt to keep Björk's musical career alive so she may continue to build vaseline sculptures with Matthew Barney.


Announcements: Here and here. Bonus: An imaginary conversation betwixt Barney and Björk about aluminum igloos via McSweeney's.

Tuesday, September 12, 2006

Cowboys and Indians

People often ask me where I’m from. It’s not that I have a foreign accent or wear lederhosen. The undertone I always interpret is “Why are you brown?” Ask yourself, would you ask a Caucasian this? Or an African American? Not unless they’re wearing overalls and chewing chaw, I reckon. Considering today’s political issues, you probably would ask the same question of someone of Latino, Asian, or Middle Eastern heritage. But this is beside the point. Internally, my first response is “Why does it matter?” But the answer is Cherokee, American Indian. Not because I happen to carry a CDIB card (Certificate of Degree of Indian Blood, natch), but also because of where I was raised and what I associate myself with*. To me, it’s a matter of Indianness, not only Indian blood. But I prattle on, here is really what I am:

Anyhow, that was just a lead into some of the exciting news from Indian Country that I thought I should share with you.

Hey, did you know the writer of Wizard of Oz hated Indians? It’s true. L. Frank Baum, author of Wizard of Oz, wrote a pre-Wizard, racist article in a South Dakota newspaper The Aberdeen Saturday Pioneer before his novel was published. His articles were so incensing that a doctoral student believes that his call for the “extermination” of Native Americans in order “to protect civilization” from “savages” were also influential. This article was published just two days before the U.S. 7th Cavalry led an attack on Lakota Sioux during which 150 people died, otherwise known as the Battle at Wounded Knee.

But that’s not the important part. The important part is that upon learning that their grandfather may have catalyzed such an attack, the Baum family made a public apology to the Lakota Sioux. To some, this “gross violation of lives” was reconciled with the hope that sharing “food, stories, and tears” is a major step toward healing. Incidences such as these are often glossed over or whitewashed. But it’s important that we acknowledge some of the other terrorist acts have happened in our nation. I’m amazed at how a simple act such as a public apology from one family to another says a great deal about acknowledging human dignity, an important step toward racial equality. But don’t take my word for it, take NPR’s.

Also, Indians create awesome art. And art that’s not necessarily sold from New Mexico or traveling crafts fairs in the summer. It’s true. Tulsa writer and director Sterlin Harjo is working on a coming-of-age film in Tulsa. According to Harjo, Four Sheets to the Wind will focus on “human beings who happen to be Native Americans.” The New York Times article brings up two important points.

One, it’s difficult to make Indian cinema. Often times it’s passed over for financing because it doesn’t thrill like Hollywood blockbusters. There aren’t famous Indians that captivate the audience (whoa, that sentence totally happened and I’m not editing it), unless you count Gary Farmer or Wes Studi. Production costs are always a major challenge for Indian cinema, but it may be possible that with the help of community and local artists, it may turn out to be a better and more representational film. So this film won’t be your Dancing with Wolves or Last of the Mohicans romanticized Tonto bullshit.

Second, the article brings up the point of oral tradition and how some critics argue that Indian cinema is set in an unalterable format that goes against the basic principles of our art. To this, I concede that interpretation is always malleable, especially in film. Though temporal in medium, it’s in dynamic form. Every observer brings his own personal knowledge and experience to the table whenever they experience art…so there. I hope that Four Sheets, if and when it’s released, will challenge non-Indians to think outside of any stereotypes they may have about Indians.

Speaking of stereotypes, I noticed that the Indian mascot issue has come up in the media again and most heatedly with the Fighting Illini in Chicago. To the NCAA President’s credit, Myles Brand has approached this issue in the best manner possible. The commission has been thoughtful in its decision and respectful of learning the involved tribal issues. Despite the ruling, some Illini alumni and a majority of the general public just don't get it.

In their favor, I did not get it at first. These mascots are just portraying Indians right? What’s the big deal? We have the Fighting Irish and the Vikings on the field. Why should it matter about Indians? Again, it all comes back to interpretation and stereotypes. (I know people are going to get pissed with me here. Feel free to vent in the comments. It’s okay.) It would be a big deal if the Irishman came out on the field with a bottle of Irish whiskey and started fighting with his best friend, accusing him of cheating with his wife. It would be a big deal if the Vikings came out…with their blonde hair and statuesque presence and their nice, woolen sweaters and their whole discovery of new continents. Okay, so I can’t diss on the Vikings.

But my point is that the Indian mascot is built on a stereotype that doesn’t exist anymore with feather warbonnets and tomahawk chops. We don’t do that. We hardly ever did that. Not many tribes don headdresses, at least none east of the Mississippi, the part that was removed to the west of the Mississippi and then forced into a tiny area about the size of…well, Oklahoma. The Sioux are actually the only tribe that I’m aware of that wore a warbonnet. And most of the tomahawk chops were performed on us rather than the reverse. It’s true. More scalping was committed against Indians rather than by Indians. But this imagery works in a team’s favor. The stereotype of the Indian is savagery, used to intimidate other teams and create a sense of pride within the people who can afford to buy season tickets. It’s your heart of darkness at our expense.

And to incense you further, if you happen to call your team the Killer Bees that has a mascot in blackface and danced a jig with Aunt Jemima, you would have a very different reaction than what you would have with Indians. But the insult and injury is the same. And most people don’t seem to realize this. So the next time you complain that it’s not fair that you can’t wear face paint, beat on plastic drums and dance like an idiot…well, wait a minute, you can. It is football after all. Just don’t do it in our name or our “image,” an image that was impressed upon us without honor**.


* Yes, I know I’m ending a lot of sentences with prepositions. Probably some split infinitives, too. And comma splices. No, I don’t really care. However, I am using a number of collective pronouns (us, we, everyone, anyone). This is not to imply that I am responding on behalf of one tribe or Indians in general. This is my opinion about the issue, not to be confused with the entire Indian nation.

** One stereotype that is true is that we are proud, brave and loyal to our tribes. We also throw kick ass parties and will bust you in football and basketball. It’s a shame that not many of us make it to college to actually prove it.

Monday, September 11, 2006

A list of matronly things for a 26 year old to do in a week

  1. Asked our graduate assistant to stop wearing perfume to work. This is an academic institution, not a meat market. The only thing you will attract here is more research and a bad case of scoliosis.
  2. Asked the blonde stranger next to me to stop using her cell phone in the gym because “can’t you see the posted signs?” From twenty open machines, you happened to pick the elliptical next to the only person in the world who does not own a celly. For reals, I got a call from a co-worker on a cell in Mara National Park, Kenya. While he was watching wildebeests. Is this right?
  3. Inadvertently walked into a drug deal just to ask a neighborhood resident to stop letting her dog poop in my yard. Seriously, you can sling all the crack you want in this hood, just keep your dog’s ringworms to itself.

And, finally, I should close this list with one example of “Reasons why you shouldn’t watch football with an English major.”


People pay beaucoup money for ad placements such as this one last night. You would think they could afford a copyeditor.

First one to notice the mistake and post it in the comments gets a free copy of T-Roy’s latest CD. T-Roy being someone in my neighborhood who thinks I would like gangsta rap.

Tuesday, September 05, 2006

Grody

Guess what? I have athlete’s foot in my belly button. Whose athlete's foot, you ask? I’m thinking Vanderjagt. Why Vanderjagt, you wonder? Because he has a misguided sense of direction. Athlete’s foot should not involve the navel, but the foot.

There’s so much to consider when one has an issue with her navel, such as psychosomatic disorders involving her mother. But that’s a topic for another entry. I do, however, have a cavernous belly button. I could probably store my keys or sneak a buffet muffin into it. This is only my second misadventure with my navel. The first being when I was a kid. The traumatic incident involved a tick, hydrogen peroxide and tweezers.

I know, I know. I probably shouldn’t share such bodily issues with you and rather hate on Paris Hilton or write some snobby review of something I think is great. But one day you may have athlete’s foot of the belly button, and I shall spare you any embarrassment.

Friday, September 01, 2006

16 blue ponies, 21 airplanes, and 12 spinning midgets

Things I’ve learned recently. When going to the drive-in theatre with imported beer, it might be a good idea to bring a bottle opener.

Scratch that. It might be better to bring mini-bottles of wine with twist-off caps so you can laugh at your boyfriend as he struggles to pop the caps off of beer with old house keys and random latches found in the car, rendering it warm and revolting.

Even better. Read Boing Boing for random links to DIY bottle opener origami from paper. (Doi…this was after the fact, of course.)

So, you’re asking yourself, what should I see this summer before I have to start wearing leggings under my skirt*? Well, might I suggest the following…

Neil Marshall’s The Descent. I have learned to like horror flicks over the years, and know a handful of people who appreciate this genre. My sister’s husband, however, is a connoisseur. He recounted a story of The Exorcist in 1973 and how every audience member was asked to sign a release form before entering the movie theatre. There were cases of vomiting and hysteria. Part of which may have been the result of all of the head-spinning and the cross-humping in the movie. But also maybe the cause of having the preconceived notion that the movie would cause harm due to the fact that they had to sign a form. Oy, dizzy from all the circular reasoning.

When I left Descent, however, I was nauseous. A very bad nauseous that lasted the extent of the evening. And it wasn’t because of any disclaimer or horrific scenes of swimming in six-foot pools of blood and dismembered body parts. Descent’s success is primarily due to its camera direction. As an example, one reason why directors use high or bird’s eye angles is to give a sense of disorientation. Without bearing, this angle forces the audience to think about what they’re seeing - familiar objects become unfamiliar (it also gives a sense of omniscience). The Descent’s setting is a cave, giving Marshall every opportunity to use this angle from a low point-of-view. The effect overpowers the senses, giving the subject a sense of insignificance and disorientation. Add spinning blood and screaming to this factor and you have an overwhelming sense of nausea.

Another factor that Marshall has going for him is that the film is, ahem, SHOT IN A CAVE. He takes every chance to feed on fears associated with caves, especially claustrophobia with extremely tight and close angles and a sense of misguided, unfamiliar direction that lead characters into an unknown and pants-peeing place.

Additionally, this film is a fine example of everything that could go right for women in horror movies. All of the characters are empowered, both physically and mentally. Not one expression of Captain Save-a-Ho or acts of heroic masculinity. Not one scene of a woman running through the woods in stiletto heels and falling to the mercy of some masked monster. There is only one man, and I think it could be safe to say, who dies in the first two minutes. The only downside is that this film was written by a man. The fact that a woman hasn’t written or directed a horror film along the same lines of female empowerment is disappointing.

Woody Allen’s Scoop (for Woody Allen fans). Some haiku writers, on occasion, switch to alternative and humorous forms of senryu. Reason being that a person can write so much about cherry blossoms or snow flakes before needing a release, hence, senryu -- a relaxed form of self-awareness that focuses on human satire and wit. So how does this relate to Woody, you ask? My review on Woody’s Matchpoint focused on the concepts of luck and fate. Woody asks us, When the ball hits the net, which direction will it go? Will fate favor or thwart us? Matchpoint was a dark spin into tragedy. Scoop is Woody’s senryu, his comic release.

Pransky (Johansson) persuades Waterman (Allen) to help her pursue her first journalistic scoop on a high-profile murder. Allen initially resists, claiming that he is only a magician. She counters with acuity, “Exactly. Your whole life is built around deceit.” Allen as auteur works the same magic on film. As a director, he sometimes gives the audience what it wants to see, like Matchpoint’s antagonist clawing through social class struggles like a dove flying out of a handkerchief. Or he literally saws a person in half like Scoop’s privileged aristocrat’s fall into depravity.

While neither the same characters or plot is introduced in Scoop, we see Johansson reintroduced as an ambitious Pransky. And gladly so - especially for her audience who didn’t see her full range in Matchpoint. (I concede that this was intentional - her character had Captain Save-a-Ho mentality, hence, her superficial qualities). Woody redeems her in Scoop, providing a humorous outlet for her to show her talents. He also returns himself to the screen as the Woody we all know and love: a self-doubting, darling neurotic. And thank God - because Johansson completely brought Woody out of his decade funk. We all need our muses, our cherry blossoms and snowflakes, and methinks Woody found himself another Annie Hall in Ms. Scarlett.

Read more about the Allen-Johansson working relationship in the New York Magazine.

Read about Allen’s latest metamorphosis in the New York Observer.

*Please note that I’m not advising for you to wear leggings - this is a god awful fashion experiment spooned down our throats from people such as Sienna Miller and Mischa Barton, both of whom should be shipped to an island of fugly and deserted.
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