writing restraint

Happy Holidaze

2006-12-19T16:20:00.000-05:00

I don’t mean to point any fingers, but ever since the addition of a certain employee, rather odd accents of freedom have been sighted in the office.

The first being an American flag coffee mug, which wasn’t strange initially. But it started making rather bold appearances at the front of the cupboard at eye level. Then a calendar honoring our troops was hung above our copier. Again, not too strange…I’m all about protecting our freedom and all. But pictures of soldiers hugging small children before raiding their parents’ homes in Iraq? Hmmm.

So to demonstrate my freedom toward this individual, I plan on giving her a National Geographic magazine on Evolution for our company festivus celebration. While dropkicking a baby down the hall to exercise my freedom of choice. Glory to the Flying Spaghetti Monster on the highest.

On Synesthesia, Nabokov

2006-12-05T21:15:00.000-05:00

On top of all this I present a fine case of colored hearing. Perhaps "hearing" is not quite accurate, since the color sensation seems to be produced by the very act of my orally forming a given letter...The long a of the English alphabet...has for me the tint of weathered wood, but a French a evokes polished ebony. This black group also includes hard g (vulcanized rubber) and r (a sooty rag being ripped). Oatmeal n, noodle-limp l and the ivory-backed hand mirror of o take care of the whites. I am puzzled by my French on which I see as the brimming tension-surface of alcohol in a small glass. Passing on to the blue group, there is steely x, thundercloud z, and huckleberry k...The confessions of a synesthete must sound tedious and pretentious to those who are protected from such leakings and drafts by more solid walls than mine are.

Speak, Memory. Nabokov, Vladimir.

My entire life I have read only one autobiography. Even with an English degree. Yet recently that's all I have read. Before you know it, I will have invested in a leather barcolounger to watch the History Channel all day.

Dear Readers

2006-11-16T13:43:00.000-05:00

Like the millions of blog writers who post pathetic apologies for their lack of writing, I hereby give my half-assed attempt of an apology for not writing a more timely entry. My excuse is real life (I know! What a drag!). In the last month, I have been preoccupied by the non-Internet life of the following:

Celebrating Toombsday’s birthday.
Traveling to Portland, Oregon to plan my next phase for world domination. It involves mariachi music and dwarf waiters. You’re going to love it.
Organizing piles of correspondence into origami kites and sailboats.
Fulfilling every 12-year-old boy’s fantasy and dressing up as an X-Men character at the fantabulous 2006 Halloween extravaganza courtesy of Megatron.
Oh, and it’s November. The busiest month in my line of work wherein the thin line between living in the moment and living on the edge is erased. So if it looks as if I might pierce your soul with an envelope opener, pay no heed and avert your eyes.

I could go further, but rest assured, half-assed attempts at writing will resume once life is normal and I complain about not having enough work to do. To my four readers, my sincere apologies. Here are some linky-links to stuff that makes me happy:

This music video is beyond words. Combined mustachio and science fiction kung fu westerns? And a unicorn? It’s a trifecta of interestingness (via goldenfiddle).
There are many reasons why I love Dave Eggers. But really, check out this nonprofit community writing center disguised as a store for superhero supplies. Fo real, is there any difference between a teacher/writer and a superhero? I think not.
Does anyone get excited when reading Homer and think, Damn! With computer graphics this could be adapted into a film of magnificent proportions! Only to watch Troy and have your hopes dashed. But at least seeing Brad Pitt’s arse makes up for a lack of director’s imagination. Okay, maybe not. But I am understatedly excited about Frank Miller’s 300.

Smooches.

Leaving the Frady Hole

2006-11-08T18:53:00.000-05:00

Illustration by Don Woods

Last night, I was revisited by that childhood anticipation of Santa Claus visiting for Christmas. Instead of sending him a letter with my wish list, I cast my ballot. Instead of watching the weather to check on Santa’s flight pattern across the nation*, I watched the incoming poll percentages. I went to bed last night thinking, it’s really going to happen. We’re going to take back the House, in childlike giddiness.

And then when I woke up. Instead of a carton of cigarettes and a Louis L’amour book underneath the tree, the Dems swept the House. To make matters even better, Donald Rumsfeld resigned. It was like getting everything I asked for only to have my rich, beautiful auntie visit for dinner and give me a Barbie Fashion Fever Grow N Style Styling Head. Jeezie Chreezie, can it get any better?

* For anyone who grew up in Green Country during the 1980s, the forecaster who did this the best was Don Woods with his illustrated character named Gusty. Gusty rocked the hizzie every night as Don would give the forecast while sketching this kickass little dude. So much cooler than the Doppler 6008 with 4D mapping systems.

Meh

2006-10-09T14:54:00.000-04:00

Can't swallow or breathe. Only eating broth and crackers. I'm officially sick. And I'm totally blaming Christopher Columbus. You sneaky bastard. I never even saw you coming.

Well, it looks like it's me, DayQuil and the first season of Twin Peaks.

I walk the line

2006-09-29T10:33:00.000-04:00

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.

doo ba dee

2006-09-27T15:55:00.000-04:00

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 the 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.

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

2006-09-22T10:05:00.000-04:00

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.

Happy Day

2006-09-19T11:14:00.000-04:00

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.

Cowboys and Indians

2006-09-12T09:00:00.000-04:00

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.

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

2006-09-11T09:41:00.000-04:00

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.
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?
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.

Grody

2006-09-05T09:19:00.000-04:00

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.

16 blue ponies, 21 airplanes, and 12 spinning midgets

2006-09-01T09:12:00.000-04:00

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.

Kinetic Beauty

2006-08-22T20:55:00.000-04:00

Leave it to David Foster Wallace to describe my fascination with athletes in a paragraph:

The human beauty we're talking about here is beauty of a particular type; it might be called kinetic beauty. Its power and appeal are universal. It has nothing to do with sex or cultural norms. What it seems to have to do with, really, is human beings' reconciliation with the fact of having a body*.

Thank God it didn't take him 1,088 pages to do it. But, of course, what would Wallace be without a footnote?:

*There's a great deal that's bad about having a body. If this is not so obviously true that no one needs examples, we can just quickly mention pain, sores, odors, nausea, aging, gravity, sepsis, clumsiness, illness, limits -- every last schism between our physical wills and our actual capacities. Can anyone doubt that we need help being reconciled? Crave it? It's your body that dies, after all...great athletes seem to catalyze our awareness of how glorious it is to touch and perceive, move through space, interact with matter. Granted, what great athletes can do with their bodies are things that the rest of us can only dream of. But these dreams are important -- they make up for a lot.

(Source: Wallace, David Foster. "Federer as Religious Experience." The New York Times Sports Magazine. September 2006, 47-51.)

Dog Wrangler

2006-08-18T14:36:00.000-04:00

One additional item to add to the lost and found list -- one German Sheppard.

Last weekend was gorgeous; the sky was ever so blue with no humidity or equatorial temperatures. To rejoice, I grabbed the little Tobyrino for a walk in the hood before scheduling a picnic of delectable proportions with Toombsday.

Note: Toby doesn’t realize he’s a dog. His kennel papers list him as part Jim Henson’s Muppet. So when he’s approached by other dogs, he responds with a “Pardonez-moi,” flops his furry stumps around, and then sneezes to show his frustration.

This particular day, a moody German Sheppard was on the loose. I see the dog regularly because he barks incessantly when we walk by his house. And, of course, Toby looks like a delicious treat on a leash to him. The Nazi approaches Toby; Toby huffs and tries to avoid him. The Nazi proceeds to try to find Toby’s Star of David or his nonexistent testicles. I try my best Cesar Millan stance to dominate the situation with a badassitude, but it’s not helping.

So fuck Cesar’s advice. I revert to my Southern technique, inherited by my Ma. It consists of saying “Git!” while standing akimbo. And you have to add the country accent or else it will not work. So I’m standing in a primarily middle-class Midwestern vanilla neighborhood screaming Git! like a crazed barefoot Southern woman with a cast iron frying pan at this Nazi dog who is trying to eat my muppet. And it works. Tried and true. Unfortunately, it works so well that the Nazi runs the opposite direction and barely misses a speeding car. By this point, I’m attracting all the Lance Armstrong wannabes who practice on the trail in their sponsor endorsed spandex jerseys. And I realize that if the Nazi doesn’t find his concentration camp, then he will get hit by a car, picked up by dog fighters and/or pound and be destroyed and/or euthanized and all will go horribly wrong for this misplaced dog.

It’s a long story thus far so the following bullet points are a summation of the tedious details:

Turning your dog’s leash into a rigged collar/leash combo for an unmarked dog. This means trying to restrain an adult Sheppard while holding a squirmy 13 pound Muppet on my hip like a baby infant dangling from Britney Spears.
Cutting across yards and inspecting fence lines for other scalawag dogs only to discover that some citizens prefer the version of tying a dog to a chain to scare the hell and tarnation out of any passersby and/or innocent do-gooders trying to return your dog.
After trying four houses, finally locating the Nazi’s Hitler, who rather than expressing appreciation, scolds his dog who runs in tucktailed before the door is promptly slammed. And, really, could I have expected anything more from this Nazi’s owner?

So what’s the moral of this story? Don’t expect people to thank you for general acts of kindness. Act with sincerity rather than ego. And remember your goddamned insect repellant because a nice Saturday afternoon stroll may turn to a hellacious hour of trespassing and dog maul escaping.

Golden Books

2006-08-16T11:14:00.000-04:00

In reference to my earlier post about learning to read at age three, please note the cover of that heralded first book:

I just realized the gravity of this title to a young girl who was deathly allergic to cats. So not only did I learn to put a sentence together, I learned that God secretly hates me and delivered furry balls of evil to make me miserable. Really brings into question the whole all-knowing, all-powerful, all-good dilemma with divinity. Thanks, ma!

National Threat Level Mood Ring: Miffed

2006-08-15T10:03:00.000-04:00

Pearl Jam was on to something in 1994 with the Ticketmaster debacle. I didn’t follow the issue at the time. I was too busy rummaging through my dad’s retired Harley Davidson shirts and rebelling against the school’s headmaster. Evidently PJ’s complaints were valid. In 1994 Ticketmaster was a pimp, raiding our weekly allowances with $2.35 surcharges and service fees. What’s the big deal, Pearl Jam? Stop complaining like an “elderly woman behind the counter in a small town.” So what if you can’t keep ticket prices under $20. Well, Toombsday and I paid $20 just in service fees to Ticketmaster this week to see Tom Waits. Paying TM’s surcharge is like getting a “Girls Gone Wild” trucker hat after letting Joe Francis manhandle you. But I digress…

Tom Waits put a major kibosh on any audience participation and any potential for scalping. I admire his efforts and hope that venues use the same methods in preventing slimy scalpers of taking advantage of well-meaning fans, which is outlined below:

1. Ticket limit was 2 - no exceptions.
2. They did not mail the tickets before the show. The purchaser had to appear in person within two hours before the concert to pick them up with his/her guest present.
3. You can not leave the theatre after picking up the tickets.

Inside this contributed to a sold out show of true fans. It may have been a bum deal for smokers who could not escape outside for a cigarette - but the show was exceptional. There were no major disruptions of people leaving the theatre for a smoke or a drink (he requested that the bar close at the start of the show). The demands seemed superlative, but they worked. I could enjoy Waits’s ranting in peace.

Speaking of restrictions, I’m sure you have all heard about the London Heathrow-US airline issues. No gel, ketchup packets or souls can enter airplane cabins. I’m still not sure how to react to this type of restriction. My first response was, “Wow, I’m living in a military state” instead of feeling secure in our democracy of freedom as our leaders purport. Thankfully, I work in a place that has only two conservatives. This contrasts considerably from Oklahoma where I thought I would be defending myself against Southern Baptist Republicans all of my life.

But here, when I mentioned my discomfort, I could see the smile breaking out on a conservative colleague’s face, “but we are taking these measures for your freedom.” This is the sort of reaction I saw all day from the media - these are signs of progress, signs that we are winning this ideological war of terrorism as witnessed in men walking around with guns in airports to protect our freedom. Of course, I forgot that terrorists hate it when we have freak out, airport mayhem. God bless the U.S.A.

Memorandum of Understanding

2006-08-09T10:48:00.000-04:00

Dear Mr. Chode with the Buttcut:

Thank you for choosing to sit behind me instead of in front of me with your horrific haircut and monster of a six-year-old. Speaking of six-year-olds, do you realize that this is a R-rated horror movie that would scar most children his age? This isn’t a typical horror movie wherein large werewolves jump through windows to attack innocent victims for 1.5 seconds before cutting away to someone screaming. This is a horror movie where strange creatures hide in darkness and feast on brains for two minutes before slipping away in gigantic pools of blood. So probably not a good idea to bring your six-year-old.

On another note, this is a MOVIE THEATRE. Not your living room equipped with a La-Z-Boy and a T.V. dinner tray. In the latter environment, it may be okay to take a few moments away from ridiculing your wife and son in order to make funny little quips about the characters on T.V. But not in a movie theatre where people are, get this, trying to WATCH the movie. Granted, the only penalty is my loud sighs and clearing of my throat. During serious infringements, I may turn around and give you my stink eye. But please for the love of Jebus remember that people are in the theatre. People who care about whether or not plunging out another’s eyes is a fatal wound, or merely a minor Aristotelian type wound that temporarily hinders a future brutal vengeful act.

Thank you for your understanding and compliance.

Heart,

WR

CC:

The bitch who gasps in adoration at the costumes in Phantom of the Opera.

The nimwit who makes loud interpretations of Inherit the Wind to his wife.

The cunt who talks on her cell phone during the ballet

"I never told the truth so I can never tell a lie."

2006-08-08T15:29:00.000-04:00

I have never reached for a Tom Waits album in good spirits. I never thought, “Hey, I feel like getting funky. Put on that “Waltzing Matilda” so I can wag my pointed finger in the air.

Nope. Tom Waits is something to listen to whenever my soul is more funk than funky. When my hopes have been snagged by a three-pronged fish hook - it hurts when I bite it; it hurts even worse when I try to dislodge it. This is when I listen to Tom Waits - when I’m dragging myself along some river bed.

And there he was - Tom’s shadow personifying this fear against the theatre curtain. Stark in its light. Grief articulated in the gravel road of his larynx. His mannerisms are ravenesque. Legs kicking, scratching the stage floor. The angle of his head, the crook of his widespread arms - listening and searching for life underground.

His humor is disarming. He’s like the uncle your family doesn’t approve of…I want to sit on his lap, listen to stories of wigs and bums and pizzle dog treats. Maybe he will bring out some of his crazy toys, his bull horns and optical novelties. He drinks coffee (Or is it whiskey? Or motor oil?) between sets. Witnessing his show that comes around as often as some comet was “like giving a cigar to a five-year old. I turned blue, and I cried.”

Read the Louisville Courier-Journal review here.

Lost and Found

2006-08-07T11:11:00.000-04:00

Items I have found (and returned!) in the course of one week:

Turquoise ring

Entry access badge to the natural gas building

Pink Razr phone

I wonder if this is an untapped hidden talent of mine - finding lost items and returning them. Let me know if there is anything you would like me to find. We may have to negotiate if you’re seeking Jimmy Hoffa’s body, Paris Hilton’s talent, or the real reason we are at war (excuse me, I mean peacekeeping) -- all of which may prove to be a smidge difficult. Unless you know how to organize a bureau drawer. I somehow haven’t learned to manage that and would certainly consider bartering.

Special back powernet panel

2006-08-03T09:40:00.000-04:00

FADE IN:

INT. DOWNTOWN SHOPPING MALL DAY

WR rushes through the mall corridor in an attempt to avoid the men with ponytails, asking to see her jagged cuticles and pushing their Dead Sea lotion skincare line.

Before WR dashes to the second floor escalator, she spots the Victoria’s Secret storefront display of headless mannequins in fishnets and corsets. Above the entryway is the SEMI-ANNUAL SALE sign.

WR
(aside)
Ohh…the semi-annual panty sale.

Enter SALESWOMAN who smells of stripper perfume -- combination of cupcakes, cotton candy and freesia. She also wears a black suit as if she is going to a “meeting” with executive clientele and wears stiletto heels. For eight hours this woman is going to wear stiletto heels. She presents to me a bra.

SALESWOMAN
This is very sexy.

WR
Huh? What…yes, I guess it is very sexy.

SALESWOMAN
No, it’s Very Sexy™, our new bra.

WR
Oh, okay…whatever. It’s very sexy. Are you hitting on me? Is this appropriate?

SALESWOMAN
(flips hair)
No, it’s our new line.

WR
(studdering)
I’m just browsing. But, yes, it’s very sexy. You’re very sexy. It’s all very sexy. Can I just sort through these bins of incredibly uncomfortable panties now?

FADE OUT

It’s at this point that purchasing a 4-pack of cotton panties seems more prudent than searching through boxes of bedazzled dental floss. Old-fashioned nudity is sexier than deceiving support panels that hoist and smooth. There are enough pulley systems and fly panels in their signature line to make the whole naughty bit coverage more theatrical than it should be. Then again, headless mannequins are pretty damned sexy.

Bad Idea jeans

2006-08-01T15:54:00.000-04:00

Q: When is it a bad idea to tell your assistant you're allergic to mosquitoes?

A: Three days before you leave to South Africa.

Hope you packed your DEET!

Kiss a little longer

2006-07-28T16:21:00.000-04:00

As a child, I did some pretty inexplicable stuff. I blame this mostly on my parents who allowed me to test my freedom of expression through any medium. This included dance routines for my sister’s friends to Solid Gold (complete with costume changes during commercials), wearing a bathing suit and tutu to my kindergarten class (they thought I rocked BTW), and combining a red Coca-Cola Classic t-shirt and pink shorts, which my snobby neighbor Candace told me was a big fashion no-no (this doesn’t hurt my feelings anymore since I learned that she’s now a snobby fashion designer in New York).

While reading McSweeney’s food reviews today, I remembered the oddity of my first consumer relations call at the young age of four (I could read at the age of three). My sister was very punk rock (like real punk rock because it was the 80s). She had bangle earrings, rhinestone jackets, lace gloves and Aquanet. She was my hero.

This time period, as I remember, was sexually charged. Madonna and Cyndi Lauper were breaking out in taffeta and top 40 hits. Big Red chewing gum enabled people to kiss for extended periods of time. It was crazy for a four-year-old girl. Anyhow, my sister used a certain Close-up Toothpaste that also fit this sexually charged era. This toothpaste enabled people to kiss for a very long time - just like Big Red! So I picked up a box of the stuff and started reading the ingredients. What ingredient allowed people to kiss for so long? I wondered. Was it the sorbitol? Maybe it’s this PEG-32? But then a flag the color of the gel contents inside was raised. There’s no ADA label of approval on this tube! As a dentist’s daughter, this was serious. Serious, indeed.

In an effort to sort this obvious confusion, I decided to call the consumer hotline. This was the 80s mind you - so I had to sneak the rotary phone and hide next to our living room sofa so my parents wouldn’t find me. When the operator answered, I had prepared in my professional phone voice, my question: “I really like your toothpaste. But is this ADA approved?” There was a long silence. Was my gig up? Did she realize I was a child? After all these years, I don’t remember her response. I think I was so overwhelmed that I was making contact with the outside work world that I clammed up and hung up the phone.

After reading McSweeney’s, I decided to call again. Sure, it is 22 years later, but certainly they have an explanation for this absurdity. So I called the consumer line today with my same question. The same silence. And her response, in confidence, was this: Honestly, the ADA approval is too expensive. I thanked her for her time.

Expensive, indeed. Purchasing that label could have bought the confidence of a four-year-old girl. They can afford to have commercials wherein teenagers kiss for a very long time. And they can afford college tours to feature make out challenges. They can afford a website that features scary looking women who remind me of my first strip club experience. They can afford to have Tom Selleck! C’mon, Close-up, put your money where your mouth is (cue commercial).

Close-Up Toothpaste (cir. late-1970's)

And in less jaded news...

2006-07-27T12:35:00.000-04:00

...another reason to expand your book collection.

Aargh!

2006-07-27T09:43:00.000-04:00

I am a little thinned out right now. Sleep and cubicle life are slowly seeping into each other, leaving my three-cup coffee morning a lucid experience of overwhelming frustration. Something has to give. My mood changes from sweet molasses to pickle juice in about two seconds, accentuated by either screaming or crying.

Can I tell you how excited I was to meet a Potawatomie from Oklahoma last week? On the same day I spilled mayonnaise down the front of my blouse. And, ooh…wow, they’re working on a conference on Indian education, a neglected area in this very vanilla city. I was so excited to work on this project (“was” being the operative word). Until I found out how unprepared they were in less than 1 ½ months away. Honestly, I don’t expect a whole lot of preparation. But when project managers would rather tell parabolic stories of their bad inner-city relationships than strategically plan a wonderful, awesome conference…I lose all tact. And as much as I want to be on this project, I’m just going to have to let it go. Because I’m tired of being on sinking ships. I’m tired of my name being attached to failed projects just because people don’t listen to me and worship my every piece of advice. (because they should!)

But the truth is that I have my homies back in Tahlequah. I grew up in an area that was supportive of my future and my education. Even when I wanted to leave, an elder told me that it’s important to continue building myself, to gain skills that can help our people even if I don’t come back anytime soon. And I took that to heart. And I’m not about to let fuckers take that away from me; I don’t care if they are Indians in Indiana. If you’re not happy with this state’s approach to Indian education, change it. I hate to be so evil about this. But if you’re going to play a victim, then only plan on being victimized.

There is all this talk about victimization. About city representatives that don’t care. About being an overlooked minority. About casino money being split between WASPS instead of reservations. I AM TIRED OF BEING CONSIDERED A VICTIM OF SOCIETY. Respect yo’self. If we think we have a right to education, land and money, then claim it. Stop acting like a victim and act with entitlement and privilege. Even if we don’t have a dime to spare to our cousin for gasoline, we can at least pretend like we’re entitled to what we are owed.

Be a coyote. Be a trickster. Learn the system and beat it from the inside out.

So, no, I am not going to be a part of your conference. And, no, I’m not going to act like the world owes me something. I’m going to claim it. Asquadvhi, golagi nigesvna!

Lesson One

2006-07-25T10:25:00.000-04:00

Here is a list of items that I recently learned in hope that I can prevent the same faux pas for others. I share because I care. You’re welcome.

1. Gary Busey and Nick Nolte are not the same person.

2. I don’t know if you have this in your city or not - but on all the Indianapolis fast food chains there is a soundtrack of evil, cackly birds. For the longest time I thought this was some strange bird native to Indiana that lost its fruit loops. Turns out, it’s an Amazon bird call that is supposed to scare the bejesus out of tiny pestlike birds that hover and paint fast food joints with their poo.

3. The smell of jizz in the early summer is actually the blossoming of the ginkgo biloba tree. I would ask people about it, but they would look at me all crazylike and say, “I don’t know about the smell of jizz.” Bullshit, yes you do.

Which makes wikipedia's comparison of the ginkgo smell to "rancid butter" even funnier.

occupational hazards

2006-07-21T13:10:00.000-04:00

One enjoyable aspect of my job is its connection to academics. It’s like a window into a world of what could have been if I had not been denied admittance into the top tier schools I so haphazardly selected to apply to after college.

Earlier this week, we were visited by one of our scholars. He arrived wearing black dress shoes, navy dress socks, khaki camping shorts and a Pittsburgh Steelers t-shirt. I don’t know if he was just sending some sort of covert message like “Ha ha, Indianapolis lost their ticket to the Super Bowl last year to the Steelers” type of jab. Or “98% of my brain is used to research international ethical leadership, so the other 2% is left fighting over whether or not it is socially acceptable to pick my nose and wipe it on your cubicle.”

This disconnect between reality and intellectualism is what I really hoped for in a postgraduate world of academics -- to be so smart that students would have to overlook the bucket of tobacco chew on my floor to be in my presence. That they would have to dismiss the smell of stinky cheese and bourbon emanating from my office.

On the other hand, there are the strange, disturbing mannerisms. We have one student who doesn’t swing her arms when she walks and sometimes eats other peoples’ lunches in the break room. I witnessed her devouring two of my raviolis and put the rest back in the refrigerator (dear god). Also, I’ve been trying to figure out our most recent graduate assistant. Every time she walks by my desk, she breaks no cadence in her walk -- so it looks like a giant head gliding by my desk. Plus, let’s just say she rips some good ones in her cubicle next to mine and doesn’t acknowledge them. Not one “excuse me” or uncomfortable giggle. Just a loud, continuous fart and then typing.

So maybe losing my ticket to postgraduate literature was really a blessing. But then again, I'm walking around with a huge mayonnaise stain on my blouse. So who am I to judge?

Botox and Bonnevilles

2006-07-11T11:24:00.000-04:00

Happy or sad?

Toombsday and I engaged in an uncomfortable activity that falls somewhere in between job interview and gynecologist exam -- the realm of car shopping. It was during this experience that I had a revelation: there is a purpose for Botox.

Since my brief observation of the plastic robot serum in celebrities such as Posh Spice and Nicole Kidman (whom I adore), I thought Botox was primarily a chemical of narcissism for people harboring some Peter Pan complex or unhealthy obsession in the Fountain of Youth.

Nay, I tell you, there is a real and useful purpose for Botox. Car salesmen and aspiring poker champions. Hear me out. Have you ever sat across the table from either of these types? I’m always looking for some facial expression of anger, empathy or humanity from them. Searching for some entree into negotiation or strategy because Lord knows that their words are misleading.

Enter Botox. There is no emotion from them at all. The golf tan forehead betrays no weakness. The whole exchange is like negotiating with a slippery electric eel. Nothing says balls of steel other than “I inject deadly neuromuscle toxin into my forehead twice a year.” I think there may be a market here.

In case you’re wondering, Toombsday plays poker. And he bluffed them into oblivion. Team Marvelous 2, Minions of Doom 0.

The third circle of hell

2006-07-10T14:07:00.000-04:00

Wal-Mart Shopping Tip #1: Take your iPod*. And never ever take the headset off--even if a five-year-old slams his cart into your heel. Because then I will only be able to see you beat your child for picking up a box of cereal as opposed to both the beating and the ear-bleeding shrieking across the store.

Wal-Mart Shopping Tip #2: Don’t shop at Wal-Mart.

*Please note that the iPod is incapable of blocking all ambient noise, especially when a fellow shopper squeals in excitement for Taco Bell taco seasoning, exclaiming, “Hey, Clarence, come down here! They’ve got Taco Bell! Now we’re cooking!”

"It's like synchronized swimming, but with fire."

2006-07-05T23:22:00.000-04:00

Bringing a whole new meaning to Red, White and Crue, our 2006 routine was set to "Shout at the Devil." If that doesn't stand for freedom, I don't know what does.

My bum and ego are a little tender today

2006-06-28T08:39:00.000-04:00

You may recall that I considered joining the local roller derby team. I couldn’t resist when one of their team members asked me to check them out. So for the last two weeks, I have rented those hideous skates, the kind that smell of rotten vegetables and veer in opposite directions, and joined the derby girls around the rink (at a considerably slower pace).

The women don’t have their own rink, so they practice at least once a week at a local venue, preferably on a night with low skater traffic. What type of night is this, you ask? Well, it’s Soul Gospel night. A Soul Gospel night so loud that it shakes the stuffed animals in the claw machine with the spirit. A Soul Gospel night that steals the beats from gangster rap/hip hop artists and covers them with lines about the importance of faith and funky soul grooves in the name of Jesus. An interesting juxtaposition.

I quickly learned two things:

1) Even if you were a skating queen in middle school, it may take a few practice sessions before reclaiming that title.
2) Those who actually come for Soul Gospel night have not stopped skating since Solid Gold .
a. I can tell this because they are doing the Hustle.
b. They wear towels in their back pockets.
c. They’re synchronized in a dance routine that would make the Macerena blush.

During my first session, I looked like a mobile windmill, flapping my arms to gain some sort of balance. Seven-year-old boys lapped me, skating backwards, imitating my quixotic arm flailing. By the second session, I gained some momentum. Michelle felt comfortable enough to lend me her speed skates, which rock the hell out of the rented skates that smell of cauliflower. I was so excited at one point that I forgot I was skating among those who holy roll for Jesus and threw up the sign of the devil. I was overtaken with the spirit, what can I say?

But then the inevitable happened. The inevitable I was waiting for…my ass collided with the rink. I was hoping it would be a graceful fall, one in which I would recover with a triple lutz and a curtsy. Rather my fall was a thunderous collapse directly upon my tailbone. A collapse that drew the attention of most of the skaters, who pulled my crumpled body off the floor and offered advice given from the best coaches around the world: “Walk it off, girl. Walk it off.” The pain brought a whole new meaning to the music’s exclamation, “God Almighty Lord of Glory.” Except my version included many expletives and wincing.

Your enthusiasm is showing.

2006-06-26T13:52:00.000-04:00

Do you know how to make me fall in love with an entire room of people at one time? The gym this weekend looked a little more spectacular than normal. Have they started a black market steroid ring in the back, I wondered? People were hurdling and running fartleks, all while looking fabulous. No, they haven't. The USA Track and Field Championship descended upon Indianapolis last week. And my gym gave the 2008 Olympic hopefuls access to our equipment. I haven’t been this elated since I stood next to Wayne Coyne in the Green Door, silently trying not to freak out. To attack him with gushing admiration and golly-gees, you are so wonderful, will you squirt me with some fake blood, please?

And there’s this whole room of hopefuls, outfitted in their university sweats and tattooed with Olympic rings. Summons back to a story from a college professor, who professed a sensation of great patriotism when he witnessed an Olympic event. So excited he was when an American crossed the finish line that he broke through the security lines to embrace the runner. So excited he was that he started to pat him on the back with gusto. So excited he was that he didn’t realize he had a very sharp pencil in his hand, so it looked as if he was painfully stabbing the athlete in the back with a writing utensil. This was at least until security pounced him, dragged him out of the stadium. He was also the same professor who burned down his dorm room at a state university. Recollecting this story, my college career sounds somewhat dull with all the binge drinking and all-night clubbing.

But I’m in love with these people. These people who choose to make a career out of running. Running is so different from other sports. It’s a singular sport -- sure, there are competitors on the course and trainers barking at everyone, but you’re running against yourself. You’re running against the voice in your head that says your legs are going to give in. The countless meets, the injuries, the training. All against yourself. The runners rarely talk to each other as they wait for the rain to stop. Even while waiting, they’re isolated, listening on headphones, stretching their legs against the wall. All of this takes a certain amount of passion. A considerable amount of insanity.

Because I like to beat dead horses

2006-06-20T14:00:00.000-04:00

Before sending off Toombsday and his BFF Nathan on an Appalachian Trail Hike, we happened to notice Britney Spears giving her interview to Matt Lauer. It wasn’t like we decided to watch…it just happened…honestly.

Anyhow, I’m compelled to watch the Hollywood star downward tailspin into hell type stories. I secretly hope that some celebrities, like Paris Hilton, will have an affair with a political type who, afraid that it will turn into a media frenzy before a major campaign, happen to “erase” her and cover it up with an accidental drug overdose. A girl can dream, can't she?

So when Britney’s face is streaming in tears, faux eyelashes hanging on for dear life like a winky doll, her shattered image somehow transfixes me. I’m evil. I know. I revel in her sugarcoated reality of a devastating life. That is until she glossed over her incident of letting her son Sean Preston sit on her lap while driving, using the excuse, “I did it with my dad. I'd sit on his lap and I drive. We're country.”

Tsk, tsk. We’re country. Are you now? If you were country, would you be driving a Bentley? No, you would be driving a Chevy Dualie Diesel with mud flaps of either Yosemite Sam or silhouettes of naked women. You would also have a sticker of Calvin (from Calvin & Hobbes) urinating on a competing American truck dealer, probably Ford or Dodge. You may have purchased a WP sticker because you thought it was “White Power” instead of “Walden Pond” (and I can say that because I’m brown). It’s either this or a Confederate flag. You would also outfit your dualie with a glass pack muffler so as to create a noise similar to your .22 rifle backfiring. Oh, and we shouldn’t forget the rifle rack on the back window. Now, if you were country, I would like to see some paparazzi mess with you when you drive a tricked out Chevy like this.

And for the record, none of our parents would have let us sit on their lap while they were driving. Not unless they had already had a fifth of whiskey. So let that be a learnin’ for you.

Overheard in Pilates Class, Part 2

2006-06-14T13:13:00.000-04:00

In the middle of a Pilates 100, the last thing that you want to hear from your 7-month pregnant teacher is “My belly button just popped.” I guess that is the next to the last thing because I really don’t want to deliver a child with a handful of arm bands and balance balls. Don't worry...I'm not medically trained to deliver. I am barely capable of delivering anything significant beyond sundries or disjointed punchlines. But if she breaks water in the middle of class, I will positively freak.

Click to enlarge. Warning: Pilates 100 is capable of popping belly buttons.

She also told us that her dog Pierre, the one that we imitate in our leg segment, is dead. I find this very motivating after holding Plank (instructions and image below) for 90 seconds.

holy jebus

2006-06-08T11:20:00.000-04:00

When I decided to live with a Kentuckian, there were a few things that I was not prepared for. This includes bourbon (who knew that mixing vault Evan Williams with classic Coke was sacrilege?), horseracing, UK basketball (and the subsequent throwing of objects), a sweet little drawl that compels me to chew on his cheeks and the slowest pace of walking or eating that I have ever known. During our first road trip to Kentucky, the first thing I noticed was their license plates, the scorn of a lot of Kentuckians. Not only does a sun beam from amidst the plate number, it dons a smiley face along with the slogan, “Kentucky. It’s that friendly.” Really? I wondered, are Kentuckians really that friendly?

Shh…yes, they are. They also have smashing taste and are quite beautiful. But despite this, some try to eclipse this claimed pleasantry with a variety of sun-shaped stickers. Of these include a similar-shaped sun with a frowny face. This past year, however, the sun has been squashed for a more agreeable plate that proclaims their “Unbridled Spirit.” The spirit that becomes unbridled after many mint juleps, Maker’s Mark and their signature bluegrass.

I didn’t realize that Indiana had a similar issue with their plates until just recently when I spotted a plate with deliberate duct tape covering the state website address. Then I noticed that people have license plate covers that are specially designed to cover the address. When I first moved here, people also told me that they didn’t like the agricultural depiction of wheat and a farmhouse. “We’re more metropolitan than that,” they proclaim. Yeah…uh, sure.

I’m certain that this is just the surface of a marketing strategy gone awry. Once states develop an objectionable plate, the specialty plates emerge -- the breast cancer awareness, the alma mater pride, the sports fanatics, the children are wonderful so let’s fund their education and health plates abound. In Indiana, I have noticed that a lot of SUV drivers will purchase the Environmental Awareness plate, which is ironic. I know that they think they can remove the taint of their greed with the plates, but let’s get real. You can’t wash away the blood of the puppies you slaughtered when you bought your Escalade.

Where was I? Oh, yes, so it recently came to my attention that the Indiana BMV approved pro-life plates. PRO-LIFE PLATES! Until now, specialty plates contribute to the awareness of mostly benevolent causes, i.e. supporting health, environment and education. But now this state has decided to drift into issues concerning women’s rights. Doesn't this smack of special interest? PRO-LIFE PLATES, people!

Bravo. Very metropolitan, mind you. Aren’t bumper stickers with fetuses solving quadratic formulas emblazoned with “Choose Life” enough? I guess not. At least these plates will serve as a visual aide, a precautionary mark that the people driving those cars are slow, pay no attention to their actions, and put pedestrians in danger (read: old white men a.k.a. incapable of carrying a child or driving for that matter).

Please note that the author neither condones nor denies your right to do anything to uterus. It's your uterus; it's your business.

Additionally note that the author does not discriminate against her elders. That is, if her elders practice wisdom, tell good stories, and/or cook her food.

parental control

2006-06-06T23:03:00.000-04:00

When I visit my sisters, they are always commenting about how they are turning into our mother. I can not vouch for this metamorphosis. Don’t get me wrong. My mother is the epitome of sweetness and conscientiousness. Always concerned about doing the “right thing,” and being there for her family. While there is an ounce of this within me, it’s mainly collecting dust on a shelf, crowded out by the black tar heart inside me.

But I’m sure my sisters are referring to the funny quirks, like the strange habit of starting a conversation with someone and then that person tells her, “I have to meet someone at 9:00.” And she goes on and on with her story even though there’s no one in the room. It’s as if the discussion wasn’t directed at any particular person but a very captivating conversation with herself.

There’s also the cute habit of her saying all things British, like advertisement, aluminum, and herbs (Because it’s got a fucking “h” in it. Thanks, Eddie Izzard). My brother and I used to make fun of her for this and then later realized she picked up on it from watching copious amounts of Masterpiece Theatre. She isn’t being pretentious either; she honestly thinks it’s the only way to enunciate.

But really the weird habits I’ve picked up have been through my father. It’s lately becoming more evident as time wears on, and I both have to laugh at and strangle myself at the same time.

Like most kids, I helped out with the family business in the summers. While for some kids this meant waiting tables or filing papers, this meant helping my dad as an assistant hygienist in his dental office. This was equally amusing and disgusting. The amusing end of the spectrum is discovering the different levels of gagging that people have when an instrument is put in their mouths. Like ticklelishness, there are different ranges. There are those who gag as soon as it is past their teeth and others that can be jabbed in the little ball-hangy thing (a.k.a. the uvula) throats without reacting. The disgusting end of the spectrum is discovering deathfog pockets of chewing tobacco and pus that smell like opossum roadkill.

At the end of the day, after instruments were sterilized and the floors were vacuumed, I would wait for my father in the car. The routine was the same everyday: He would lock the door and then go to the back of the building to turn off and lock up the nitrous oxide (I’m embarrassed to say that I never took advantage of the NO2). Then he would go back to the front door and check the locks. He would enter the car and then look at the front door, “Did I lock those doors?” I would always assure him that yes he did. Then he would get out of the car, check the locks and then return to the car. Sometimes he would leave and sometimes he would question himself and return to the door to check the locks a third or fourth time.

Though annoying, I’m starting this same habit myself with doors. Cars are generally left unlocked in the country -- we never had to worry about our neighbors and strangers breaking into our cars. But it’s a general concern of mine since my car was broken into twice in OKC. The routine is the same: I lock my doors every time I get out of the car. But I check it once, maybe twice. And then, from inside the house, I press the security button just to make sure it’s locked. Sometimes Toombsday and I have driven all the way to Louisville from Indianapolis with me thinking that my doors are unlocked. “You checked them,” he says. But what if I didn’t? “You’re crazy,” he confirms.

Little does he know about the front door routine that I’ve developed. I lock the door every time I leave, and then I start the car and get ready to drive away, then I wonder to myself, “Did I lock the door?” Then I stop the car and check the doors again. Yes, maybe I am crazy.

The second habit, which I’m finding very amusing, is my habit of talking to the television or movie screens. Growing up, whenever my family had the opportunity of being in the same room together without starting an argument or mapping out life plans for each other, our family would occasionally watch movies. This is where I get my fond interest in swashbuckling and kung fu films. But on occasion when my mother chose mystery and suspense films, my father would start asking the television questions during pivotal scenes: “Wait a minute. What’s going on here?” or “No! Why are you going to do that?” He’s always demanding to know the characters’ motives or jeering at the bad guys. It was all very annoying. I would always look back at him and snort, “We’re watching the same movie, aren’t we Dad? We don’t know more about the film than you do.” And then in my angst-riddled adolescence, I would roll my eyes and sigh.

But now it’s becoming a strange habit of mine as well. I was watching “The Hills” this week (yes, the continuation of LC’s OC adventures). When Heidi called LC to sneak her into the Teen Vogue party, I was pleading with L.C., “Don’t do it, L. She’s not you’re friend. No friend would ask you to jeopardize your internship like that.” And I sat there legs curled up, chewing my nails, completely mesmerized by the spiraling downward fall of debutantes, I demanded from her, “No! Why are you going to do that?” Toombsday looked at me again, secretly contemplating his escape.

Like my sisters, I could loathe these strange traits. I could learn to let go of the nagging frustration of my obsessive compulsive locking of doors and refrain myself from demanding plot constructs from Lake Placid. But it’s the two things that I have gained from being my father’s daughter. And I’m much more grateful for these quirks, than say, my dad’s snoring during ballets or my mom’s ass-swishing walk.

June 2006: Nonrequired Miscellany

2006-06-02T13:13:00.000-04:00

Web site: fartparty.org. If you inked the real me and put her in comic form, she would look like this. Seriously, I laughed so hard in my cubicle that I had to run to the bathroom and cry from tears of joy.

Music: The Mysterious Production of Eggs by Andrew Bird otherwise known as the most underrated album of 2005. While you were all combing your sideswept bangs and color coordinating your leg warmers to Sufjan Stevens’ Illinoise, Andrew Bird was recording some gorgeous stuff. His songs are subtle with lots of texture and a wide range of instruments. He also manages to interweave non-dreary lyrics about death. He recorded all the instruments on this album and is currently on tour. Stream his entire album at his website. Then buy it, cheap skate.

Book: Wake up, Sir! by Jonathan Ames. He’s considered the “edgier David Sedaris.” I like to think of him as the Henry Miller with a sense of humor. Though all of his works are fantastic, this one has an interesting circular/repetitious plot of self-destruction. The protagonist is the epitome of an anti-hero who fancies the subterranean life of alcohol and women (like Hemingway) but finds himself in compromising situations. This novel is a bittersweet exploration of alcoholism, the Great American Novel and a trust fund. Sounds like all my friends.

UPDATE: He has a new collection of essays entitled I Love You More Than You Know. Excellent so far, but I haven’t finished it. All interested individuals who would like to take me to New York to see his show, please apply herein.

EXCERPT

I saw this psychic rearrangement happen to a girl I knew in high school. She was a blonde with a good figure, but she had an enormous, catastrophic nose. She was ostracized and had no friends. Then one summer her parents sprang for plastic surgery. When we all returned to school, no one knew what to make of her. Then a football player asked her out. Suddenly she had friends. She became “cool.” She was considered beautiful, pretty, but I could see that in her eyes there was still the look of the ugly girl she had once been, a hint of fear that it would all be taken away from her. By the end of the year that look in her eyes was almost extinguished, but a trace was left. Still, her psyche must have felt a lot better. With a short nose to go with her other attributes, she was destined to be courted often and eventually married and impregnated, which was the goal of most of the girls from my middle-class New Jersey high school. But then her children would have big noses. No escaping one’s self. Her husband would wonder where his children’s noses had come from. Perhaps the marriage would dissolve. He might suspect infidelity. She wouldn’t be able to tell him the truth -- I’m ugly.

Film: Tommy Lee Jones’s The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada. It took me a long time to see this movie because I expected a film about minutemen, crazed human hunters slinking along the Texas-Mexico border. Jones’s directorial debut is breathtaking, embodying the physical struggle of pursuing the American Dream while also navigating the boundaries of friendship and morality. We are so adjusted to Hollywood’s special effects that it’s easy to forget about the special effects of Mexican sunsets, southwestern terrain and Tommy Lee Jones’s gritty expressions. I’m sure the Director of Photography wanted to kill Jones in the end. Think Don Quixote meets Faulkner’s As I Lay Dying.

Enjoy!

Questions I often fielded while working at a chain bookstore:

2006-06-01T10:27:00.000-04:00

“I’m looking for this book that was reviewed on Good Morning America. I think it has a green cover.”

“I’m looking for this song that was featured on NPR. It kind of sounded like this: laa, la la la, lo lou.”

My favorite response to the music question was to scratch my head and ask the customer to repeat the song. Then after a couple of feigned off-key interpretations of Carmen’s Bizet or some botched rendition by castrati Josh Groban, I would look at him quizzically and then direct him to my co-workers, which can be understood as “If you have to ask me such a ridiculous question before checking the NPR website, perhaps you would like to entertain my colleagues with Irish lullabies?” This would provide at least five minutes of amusement before directing him to the Muze, a black hole of an online music directory that freezes while trying to locate a customer’s request.

Karma has evidently returned the favor for all of my tomfoolery. I went to the same chain this past Memorial Day for a new selection. (I am fresh out of anything interesting to read and rerun episodes of The Dog Whisperer just will not suffice.) I forgot my New York Times list of the Best American Fiction of the Last 25 Years at home. Pretentious, yes, but I haven’t read any Phillip Roth or John Updike yet. I do disagree with their #1 ranking of Toni Morrison’s Beloved...entirely overrated. (But DeLillo gets three honorable mentions. Woot!)

I forgot that the store’s hands are tied when it comes to lists since they mostly fabricate their own lists. When I asked the Yanni-looking bookseller about it, he said that he was off last Sunday and couldn’t recall seeing it. This he told me after discussing the emotional realism of the latest John Grisham novel. Silly me to think they were in the business of selling books.

Unwilling to dive headfirst into the abyss of popular fiction, Toombsday suggested some Hunter S. Thompson. But alas, we couldn’t find him in the fiction section. After a few minutes in fiction, I slapped myself on the forehead, “Why would HST be in the fiction section? After all, he is the godfather of gonzo journalism.” There wasn’t a nonfiction section in sight. So I approached another bookseller… but I should digress at this point.

During my three year jaunt at B&N, I learned that there are similar traits and/or stereotypes that can be found in any book or music seller. There’s the jaded “writer,” the failed community theatre actor, the cutesy pie with thick glasses and baby doll shoes, the S&M dominatrix, the pill popper, the president of the local Critical Mass, the list continues. Where was I on the list? Probably somewhere in between jaded “writer” and thick glasses. But this isn’t the point. The point is that I stumbled upon the failed community theatre actor when I asked about nonfiction.

“Nonfiction?” he stammered. “Everything but fiction is nonfiction. That’s pretty much the whole store.”

I wasn’t in the mood to tangle…like, listen here King Lear…don’t tell me that New Age Transcendentalism is nonfiction. Or redecorating with feng shui is nonfiction. And explain to me why Sherman Alexie and Louise Erdrich are abandoned in the Native American section next to books about finding your spirit animal? Why are they excluded from the same fiction section that Toni Morrison is located in? Nonfiction my ass.

But it’s Memorial Day and these guys are subject to the retail hell of assisting people who don’t have to work on federal holidays. So take it from me, instead of getting all snippety when a customer asks you a legitimate question about a book, do what I used to do. Look it up in the computer and then frown at the screen. Say, “It looks like we might have one in stock. Let me go check storage.” Go back to storage and talk to Chris for a bit while he is inventorying books. Then go to the customer and say, “That’s really odd. It’s not back there either. Maybe it is on hold for a customer.” Then go to cash wrap and look through the books. Snicker a bit at someone’s request for Harry Potter. Then say, “I’m not sure where it is. Can I call the other store or order it for you?”

By this time the customer is so annoyed that the book does not exist but so grateful that you took all that time to look for it that she may accept your John Grisham recommendation instead. But I doubt it, King Lear. I sincerely doubt it.

a little ditty

2006-05-23T10:15:00.000-04:00

Hi, Indiana Music. Can we talk? Seriously, please set aside your harmonica headset for one second so we can discuss your direction with music. I’m a bit confused…first, you’re just a honky tonk man tooling around with your accordion and glockenspiel, then you’re a disenfranchised southern man dwelling in your loss via blues guitar and slide. Then you ask me to wag my pointed finger in the air and somehow get groovy to this musical monstrosity like I’ve finally been set free from my restrained high school life of authoritarian Southern Baptist systems who forbid me getting footloose.

Please hear me out. You must release yourself from your preconceived notions of what Hoosier music is. How much rehashed John Mellencamp must we be forced to listen to? Or is it John Cougar Mellencamp now? I am not sure but all this Hoosier music is corny (pun intended). And I want my $5 back until either you straighten your act or at least attract decent bands to this area. Thank you for your attention, and please leave your suggestions at the door.

Originally uploaded by Briantology via source

God Shed His Grace On Thee

2006-05-17T14:42:00.000-04:00

Since I can’t gather the time or the muse to wax poetical about horse races and bourbon, can I tell you how much I love (read: loathe) my work at the moment? I have every airport code in the nation memorized…unintentionally because I am not a flight attendant.

I’m working on the international list at the moment, but I’m restricted to those that operate on a regular schedule. That is unless you know of an airport in South Africa that requires mandatory anal cavity searches for drugs…because I would really like to send my boss there. During my travel research, I came across this information. Do you know what the actual name of Bangkok, Thailand is? Do you?

Well, duh. Bangkok is the City of Angels, Great City and Residence of the Emerald Buddha, Impregnable City of God Indra, Grand Capital of the World, Endowed with Nine Precious Gems, Abounding in Enormous Royal Palaces which Resemble the Heavenly Abode where Reigns the Reincarnated God, a City given by Indra and Built by Vishnukarm.

Since my muse is muddled in paper trails, I have taken this opportunity to read the Complete Bushisms* (collected by Jacob Weisberg on Slate magazine) and compiled a similar sobriquet for the grand U.S. of A. as stated by our fantastic president. (Because, for reals, when you don’t have anything to write about, why not ridicule the president. It’s easy enough nowadays.)

USA = Country of Repetitive Truths, Land of the Enchanted, the Great Competitive Nation of Catapulted Propaganda, Abounding in 250 Million Years of Coal, Ooching Along Hispanically with Compassionate Spirit, a Processed World that Encourages Consumption where Human Beings and Fish Coexist Peacefully and Built by Explorationists and Courageous Spacial Entrepreneurs.

Amen.

*I tried to include permanent links to all. If one isn’t included, rest assured that you can find it on the complete list.

Just exclaimed from the MA admissions meeting down the hall

2006-05-09T13:30:00.000-04:00

Professor L: "How do you get a F in Aerobic Dancing?"

Professor D: "At least she has an A in Scuba."

Interesting points of conversation from this week

2006-04-28T14:37:00.000-04:00

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.

Happy Anniversary, Chernobyl

2006-04-26T10:31:00.000-04:00

"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.

Team Marvelous 1, Hippies 0

2006-04-21T12:37:00.000-04:00

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.

No relief in sight

2006-04-13T09:52:00.000-04:00

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.

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

2006-04-12T16:09:00.000-04:00

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.

Skate or die

2006-04-11T10:10:00.001-04:00

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.

Goats! For a limited time only.

2006-04-07T09:45:00.000-04:00

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>

nefarious rabbit

2006-04-05T10:38:00.000-04:00

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.

Annoyances

2006-04-04T10:57:00.000-04:00

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.

"April is the cruelest month."

2006-03-31T16:14:00.000-05:00

IMG_0580
Originally uploaded by toombsday.

In celebration of temperatures above zero degrees celsius, I rolled my windows down and blasted M.I.A.'s Arular yesterday. In the process, I may have busted my speakers (again). Oy, I think the last time I did that was in the Nissan "co"Stanza with Beastie Boys Ill Communication.

Speaking of M.I.A., Toombsday made an astute observation that Arular is an album that can only be listened to while blasting. Otherwise, it sounds likes School House Rock on crack with all that clapping and overzealous chanting.

Remember Y2K

2006-03-30T16:36:00.000-05:00

I fantasized about bank alarms failed and student records lost. The world was going to turn into a riotous evening of Clockwork Orange and apocalyptic glory because some coders reasoned that surely the human race wouldn’t exist past the twentieth century and hence their technological toys might need four instead of two digits to mark our years.

In anticipation of molotov cocktails and nuclear warfare, I thought about what I would do on my last day on earth. So I got in my car, drove to New Mexico, climbed a mountain, watched the sunset, drove back to OKC and kissed a gorgeous Indian boy at midnight. I believe there might have been some vomiting as well. And some passing out in the back seat while someone drove my car home. But I wouldn’t have it any other way.

So in regard to daylight savings, I want to say to my fellow Hoosiers, “It’s going to be okay.” Take a hint from L. Lo’s wrist and just breathe. This is not the end of the world. I know you haven’t observed daylight savings since 1970. (And I really love you for that…in fact, I think it’s the only reason why I like you.) But it’s really simple, it goes kind of like this:

On Sunday morning when you wake up, change your clock forward one hour. This can be done either electronically or manually, depending on your clock. Probably the worst that will happen is re-establishing your computer settings to the Eastern Standard Time zone rather than Indiana Time Zone. (Remember to check the daylight savings box in your Settings!)

Also, for you blackberry assholes that practically sideswipe me on the road, screw you. I was going to send a link for PDA users whom might be affected. But I hope you rot in hell for your inconsiderate use of “convenience” that distracts you from ordering a double-shot decaf wet soy cap with a dash of cocoa.

Additional Tip: There is no need to wake up at 2 a.m. to reset your clocks. And though our state officials think that adhering to shifting daylight savings time zones will help the economy, I can tell you that people at bars will lose one hour of drinking on Saturday/Sunday night, which will really damper some spirits over the NCAA weekend.

As of this afternoon, I have received at least three memos from my company about all the catastrophic changes that may possibly occur. One even recommended sending maintenance a request with an account number so they can send people to help us change our clocks. Our website has a header that warns people of the change. Four staff members have consulted me because I grew up in another state and know where my ass is. Holy bejesus people, it’s one tiny little hour. Welcome to the twenty-first century.

UPDATE: Since posting on 3/30, the governor has passed a reprieve for bars so they can garner additional profit from the NCAA crowd during the daylight savings fiasco.

eye of the tiger

2006-03-24T10:59:00.000-05:00

L.A. Marathon

Originally uploaded by Scarekroe

Can you smell it? No, not that. Pay attention to the odiferous undertones concealed under bus exhaust, the downtown sewer steam, and the bottomless sidewalk grate cum homeless urinal. That’s the smell of Spring, my darlings.

Although some may associate the season with transition and new beginnings, I associate it with marathons*. The smell of sweat, Gatorade and Icy Hot. And while some may be gearing up for the mental and physical challenge of completing a 13-mile run without losing control of their scatological functions, some are devising ways to veer you off course. For some reason, I think that this would be a very effective tool of diversion in the Midwest. Dare you resist the temptations of pastries and hamburgers finished with a beer and a lap dance? Dare you?!?

*I don’t run anymore as recommended by physicians, due to my additional spinal lumbar. I’m laboratory trained indoors on shock reducing equipment. Though strange, I sort of get nostalgic for the opportunity to twist my ankle on exposed tree roots and soak in Epsom salts for three days.

madness

2006-03-21T13:28:00.000-05:00

Last week I posted a general poke in the eye entry about Oklahoma. Embedded in said entry was an aside about some of the reasons why Oklahoma is an ever-changing enigma to me. Included in said rant was a link to Byrneunit, a snarky Tulsa/OKC couple who I would probably hunt down and befriend if I still lived in Oklahoma. We would wax poetical about 90210 at the High Low. It would be wonderful.

Well, their link is now defunct and they mention this in passing in yesterday’s entry. Which brings me to another reason why I no longer live in Oklahoma -- the censorship of all things that authorities think is immoral or blasphemous to minds of the poor citizens who don’t have the ability to think for themselves. So, since byrneunit is not allowed or would rather not be pulled into the public arena about this topic, I am leaving a link authored by the Associated Press on a website that most likely won’t be yanked or threatened by the state or agents thereof. There are some other sources, here and here.

Now, since I’m on my soapbox, is a little writing restraint philosophy. This is a little bit of a winding road, so bear with me. These thoughts are derived from French critic and philosopher Michel Foucault and Palestinian American theorist Edward Said*. These paragraphs barely scratch the surface of what these critics dedicated their lives to.

Said laid down this theory called Orientalism and contributed to the term, “the Other.” This is a long tradition that started with Eurocentric ambitions in colonialism and imperialism. Orientalism is a form of western logic that eroticizes false concepts about eastern and middle eastern cultures. This, in turn, creates a gap and an us/them mentality. When a group then perceives itself dominant to other groups, they then have an opportunity to dehumanize the “inferior” and then act upon their beliefs, often in forms of sexual degradation, cultural genocide, etc.

Foucault talks about the physical separation that society creates when they don’t understand or refuse to understand another group. This theory is fleshed out in his essay, Madness and Civilization. He used a former French society as an example who did not like living with or working with the mentally ill. They are considered unfit to live with civilized society and then are placed in an asylum, generally tucked away from the rest of the world. A civil/mad paradigm (also referred to doctor/patient) is then created and group dominance can then be applied, then dehumanization, such as shock therapy or heavy medication. Essentially, there is a direct relation between power and knowledge.

I see this legislation playing out the same way in the libraries of Oklahoma. The Commission would like to see the books placed in a special adult section, which I later learned will also house books on child and drug abuse. This response may be a fear of a child wondering about his or her sexual preference. It also may be an attempt to “protect” children from alternative lifestyles. What they actually may be doing is widening this gap of understanding between two cultures based on sexuality, rather than bridging it with knowledge. In my eyes, this separation is a form of bigotry, especially within a public institution.

I mean, what would I have done if I could not have read Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret. Or Everyone Poops. Because I know there is some confusion about this pooping business. And, really, it’s okay. Everyone poops, even if it mostly comes out of some legislators’ mouths.

*I once gave a presentation on Edward Said and Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice. Throughout, I kept referring to his last name as the way I read it: Said. After I ended the talk and opened up for Q&A, one of the members raised her hand and said, “You mean ‘Sa-yeed’.” Awkward moment.

Erin Go Bragh

2006-03-17T13:10:00.000-05:00

So I got the low down from a Catholic colleague about the complexities of Lent and St. Patrick’s Day. Some churches argue that Lent is forty days while others concede that Lent is a six-week time period between Ash Wednesday and Easter. Forty, by the way, is a significant number in the Bible -- Jesus fasted for forty days, lost in the desert for forty days, yada yada.

Therefore, most Catholics figure that a difference of six days exists in this gap, so there are six free days of imbibing in prohibited Lenten items and all immoral substances, such as meat and alcohol. St. Patrick’s day (a holy day) can then be exchanged for another Lenten day in the week, like Tuesday instead of Friday. So it is religiously sound to partake in the Irish Catholic baptismal mediums of Guinness and corned beef today.

Just in case you were wondering. Most bishops have granted a special dispensation today, bit it doesn’t really matter. You’re all going to burn in hell anyway. Have fun!

What do you call two gay bobs?

2006-03-16T13:41:00.000-05:00

Ned Flanders' alma mater
Originally uploaded by unsure shot.

Oral Roberts.

I was watching the Colbert Report over a delicious reheated dish of veggie enchiladas when it was reported that Oral Roberts University (of Tulsa, Oklahoma) was going to this national basketball tournament thingy. Not only that, but as a #16 seed against #1 Memphis. Colbert lovingly told Memphis that they were going to have to bring it against a 900 foot Jesus.

Yes, just another religious fanatical concept that reminds me why I left Oklahoma. Along with Southern Baptists, drought, poor educational reform and state representative Sally Kern and Senator Tom Coburn. It is good to know that the ORU Golden Eagles will be served as a sacrificial lamb to the basketball gods (who, I discovered, reside in Mount Olympus otherwise known as Indianapolis).

ORU are like the Hadist Jews of Oklahoma. We don’t know that much about them, so we’re scared of them. And that fear results in unconfirmed stories of embellishment. For example, I heard that female freshman have strict curfews. But their counterparts are allowed to paint Tulsa scandalous with scalawag activities cloaked by night. I was unable to confirm these activities and, hence, protect the journalistic integrity of my blog.

However, I was able to find their code of honor, which outlines their commitment to attend required chapel, develop their bodies in the “required aerobics program,” and avoid “unscriptual Sexual Acts” with anyone outside of ceremonial marriage. I like that they capitalized Sexual Acts. It just adds more flair to it, no? Plus their campus looks like the Jetsons reside on the 23rd floor in the skyscraper that Jesus built. And you can’t get more freaky than that, right?

Oklahoma, I kid because I love. Plus I have to live in this city a little while longer and I don’t want them to ride me out of town. Just yet.

P.S. I promise not to write about sports any longer because I was raised better than this. The only sports that were broadcast in my home were the Wimbledon and the Grand Prix if that tells you what pseudo-European my parents were about sports. I know nothing about American sports, and I would like to keep it that way. Except for the Colts. I will always love the Colts.
P.P.S. I take the original postscript back…Indy 500 is in May. Y’all have to know how absolutely ridiculous that month is in Indianapolis.

P.S. Kruderand, if you’re reading this, don’t think I didn’t notice that you committed MySpace suicide. Give me a shout out at anarchic1 at yahoo dot com if you have the chance. Please?

adjourned

2006-03-13T13:21:00.000-05:00

Sigh…the week of administration hell is finally finished. Should I really be conflicted over whether the tables should be arranged in a hollow square or U-shape? Whether registration is down the hall next to the continental breakfast or next to the meeting location? Should the doors to the lunch discussion be opened with the possibility of outside distractions or closed to catalyze the melting of makeup and bad body odor? I was a cubicle diva last week. And for that, I apologize.

Most memorable quote from a board member: “Is there a Jenny Craig convention this week?” in reference to the Hoosier descent downtown for the Big 10 tournament. Classy.

Get R Done

2006-03-07T12:40:00.000-05:00

My friend Michelle and I have this running game about which brother is most redneck. Yes, it’s cruel. But my brother knows that I love him even if I rage about his hunting deer and tipping cows. That established, the game sort of sounds like this (And I wish I was kidding about the following dialogue):

WR: My brother has a tattoo of a scarab around his belly button.

M: My brother has a tattoo of a confederate flag on his arm.

WR: My brother gave his wife a tattoo of a topless mermaid on her arm for Christmas.

M: My brother gave his wife new teeth for Christmas.

I can’t win, people. But I got a call from said brother last night. His wife is divorcing him after eight months of marriage. This may put him in the same redneck ranks of speedy marriages, such as Britney Spears and Lisa Presley. But I’m not certain if this qualifies, gaining from my brother’s misery and all. As sad as he is, he will benefit, being able to move out of his double-wide and back with our parents for the time being. Moving on up, EW. Moving on up.

That said, I just e-mailed my parents an article informing them that an emu is on the loose in our county. And, according to the owner, it’s fair game because the neighbors have “expressed concern for smaller animals.” The loss of the emu, however, will not be “in vain as ‘Emu meat is not only nutritious, but very delicious if cooked properly’.” Source

Side note: I used to work for a local paper and miss the highlights of my day, which include overhearing the local sheriff track my friends over the newsroom CB radio. Not to mention perks, such as covering stock car and speed boat racing. Those were the days.

Rough

2006-03-02T09:24:00.000-05:00

Hi. My name is Toby and my mom asked me to write this because she is really busy with important meetings wherein a bunch of old, white men sit around a table and make organizational decisions and then do nothing about them. So she’s busy monkey dancing for them right now and doesn’t have time to pay attention to how cute I am or write to the Internet. She said it should be over in a week or so, but has temporarily delegated me as the author of this site.

So, that said, SAVE ME NOW! I mean, this is the life. I really like sleeping in a crate at night and only walking on a leash during designated times of the day and not being able to eat poop and sniff other dogs’ butts all day. I tried something new last week to get their attention, like using Guantanamo tactics of refusing to drink my water and only eating food out of uniquely designed plates in the living room on cushy rugs instead of my dog bowl in the kitchen. She called it an “episode” and did this to me.

Photos and design courtesy of Toombsday.

I am so demasculinized. I really enjoy smelling like earthworms and disposed diapers. Plus, it’s like 20 degrees outside. God help me, she even mentioned use of a “sweater.”

So, on behalf of writing restraint, I apologize for the erratic use of the Internet, but she promises to write again soon because she really loves you a lot and stuff. Just like she really loves me, and makes me dance for treats and then shaves my balls.

Takk Dirty

2006-02-24T12:48:00.000-05:00

Feb220017
Originally uploaded by jrmystone.

Sigur Rós graced Indianapolis with their presence on President’s Day. It was as fantastic as I thought it would be. Rather than relying on the disingenuous “quiet-loud-quiet” formula that the Indy Star music critic is using, here is a list of images that their live show conjured for me:

• Freezing fog
• Napping under stained-glass windows
• Ice-coated trees refracting light under street lamps
• Spelunking under stalactites
• My childhood music box
• Swimming with albino fish in a cenoté
• Shattering icicles

My rib cage practically snapped from their bass lines. I am happy.

Side note: Can someone tell me why I am compelled to chew the faces of Icelandic women when they talk? The way they curl their tongues to form purrs of sentences is disarming.

overheard in pilates class

2006-02-20T08:08:00.000-05:00

let's hike our legs like my dog pierre.

a light dusting with a dash of publicity

2006-02-17T10:41:00.000-05:00

Due to my past entry on PETA and food fights on fur-clad celebrities, I feel obliged to comment about the most recent incident on Paris “won’t take my clothes off for Playboy but I’ll answer my cell phone while doing it doggy-style” Hilton and designer Julien MacDonald.

Tsk, tsk, tsk, PETA. I gave you a brava on Wintour because of the humiliation factor. The torture of being pummeled by a pie in front of her peers was spectacular, especially when she has only eaten souls for the last twenty years. However, your incident in England is unacceptable.

Entirely edited and designed by Tr3nt via source.

According to PETA, the reason for the WMD, or War on Manic Debutantes, is that they “may have been able to ignore images of bloody skinned animals gasping for breath in the past, but hopefully a dash of flour will help [them] rise to the occasion and forsake fur once and for all.” [Source]

Well done, PETA. Well done. I’m sure MacDonald and Hilton are back at their estates contemplating the errors of their fashionable flubbers. Especially after all of the wonderful publicity you have afforded them. Honestly, MacDonald looks as if he received an invitation to the grandest ball in France circa 1796, complete with powdered wigs and panniers. And don’t confuse Paris, she may think she is in the grandest coke party in L.A.

After all, the only fashion crime she has committed is this:

"I am two with nature." Woody Allen

2006-02-10T13:59:00.000-05:00

I hate to admit this -- there are two television programs that I absolutely must see and get thoroughly entangled in: Gauntlet 2 and Project Runway. The first step to recovery is admitting, right? Anyhoo, I figured out why Robin from the Gauntlet fascinates me. Check it:

Sources: Robin / Scarlett

If you stripped Scarlett Johansson from her L'Oreal contract and fantastic scripts…If she was a cracked out deviant, she would resemble MTV’s Robin. Now that that’s settled…

For my literati peeps (possible spoiler alert). Toombsday and I saw Match Point over the weekend. We didn’t know much about the film, only that it was written and directed by Woody Allen. In the opening scene, I was taken aback. Quoi? Woody Allen writing an English film? Has he even been outside of New York? How does he plan on bottling l’eau d’anglais?

I adore Allen for his capacity of capturing human flaws while adding a New Yorker’s sensibility (read: neurotic). Allen has only been writing films for forty years. Maybe he’s a little bored with New York’s inspiration. Drawing from his film’s portrayal of the British, I have determined the following: 1) They all play croquet; 2) They all wear heavily starched dress shirts; and 3) They all skeet shoot after drinking G&Ts.

But if you have not yet had an opportunity to see Match Point, please do so. Some have compared it to Woody Allen channeling Hitchcock. And a film can never go wrong when you combine those two. In short, his film compared love versus lust, and the emotive complexities between the two. Love is a soft, comfortable place where his character continually returns for validation, renewal, security, yada yada. Lust, a manic state, is exciting and thrilling -- an addiction of sorts.

Maybe this is why he chose to go with a British flair -- perhaps with our overindulgent American qualities, our current pop culture consciousness can not do justice to this level of writing. We do not exude “the fitness of character,” that is required in a traditional tragedy (and by traditional, I mean Aristotelian). The British still have traditional elements of language, culture, etc. that they have not yet destroyed (correct me otherwise). This also may be why he chose Scarlett Johansson to play this role -- she’s an oversexed American tart who spins men into a tizzy. By placing her within this film’s environment, her character suffers an absurdity of her own false expectations from Britain’s entertainment industry and a married man. The contrast makes England a fitting location for this tension. In essence, Scarlett’s end is our end (and I won’t tell you what that is).

This is probably Woody Allen at his best. Even though it is part Hitchcock, it is in essence homage to Greek tragedy with an American spin (even though it’s “English”). To accomplish this, there is a “whole” plot in which we are introduced to the characters untainted by their flaws, only to have them succumb to their faults and finally reach a concluding catharsis. What makes this equally Allen and Aristotle is the catastrophe, or the reversal of events, which is entirely wrapped up in the Allen’s symbol of tennis and the fate of “the net,” hence the name Match Point, from the protagonist:

The man who said "I'd rather be lucky than good" saw deeply into life. People are afraid to face how great a part of life is dependent on luck. It's scary to think so much is out of one's control. There are moments in a match when the ball hits the top of the net and for a split second it can either go forward or fall back. With a little luck it goes forward and you win. Or maybe it doesn't and you lose.

There are no coincidences in this work, only a fated connection between events strung together by human flaw. Allen even gets to dash a few of his quirky stylistic effects of post-war operas and angry ghosts. And this, my friends, is what makes Allen rock. And this film is utter genius.

I would love to draw out these Greek/American/British comparisons on an etch-a-sketch for you, but I don’t want to alienate anyone (if I haven’t already). Please comment if you want to kibitz about it.

"Conjugate positive vibes"

2006-02-07T14:43:00.000-05:00

Preface: If you don’t want to read my entry, at least scroll down to the last paragraph and check out the links to the video and Biker Fox. You won’t be sorry.

When a friend first told me that the city of Carmel was considering a speed limit for the northern part of the Monon Trail, I said, “What a great idea.” In 2005, a cyclist was killed in a traffic accident when she crossed a street that the trail occasionally intersects. Perhaps a 15 mph restriction would prevent accidents like these from occurring. “No, no, no,” he clarified, “They want to put a restriction on the trail itself. To keep bikes from speeding over 15 mph.”

Now that’s an interesting concept. I really enjoy the trail, one of the few redeeming qualities of Indianapolis. By far, it is one of the most creative uses of urban space (I would almost say nationally if not regionally) by converting an abandoned railroad into a walking/biking/rollerblading trail. The Monon Trail is one of the few places where I can take The Toby to sniff other dogs’ anuses without apologizing, run without fear of being sideswiped by a vehicle, and actually enjoy my surroundings. Sure, the cyclists are a little annoying, especially when they whizz by you at lightning speed, screaming, “On your left!” It’s even funnier when a dyslexic cyclist screams, “On your right!” then zags left, and misses The Toby by a few inches.

The speed restriction seems a bit unnecessary. As far as I have read or seen, no one has been injured on the trail because of cycling. And cyclists are far less annoying than the SAHM’s pushing double-stroller SUVs. I imagine it is the SAHM profile whose primary concern on the trail is “discourteous speeding.” This may be just a Carmel effort of segregating itself from the rest of the city, which I have seen before (ahem, Nichols Hills in Oklahoma City? You know, where the citizens have their own water supply, but during a black out insist that they be serviced first before the rest of the city.). But this is all speculation, even though the demographic who responded to the trail survey was described as “white, non-Hispanic, college-educated users earning $40,000 or more per year.”

Even though I do not own a bicycle, I actually empathize with Indy cyclists. They passed the speed restriction today, which brought to mind a couple of questions. If the speed limit deters bikers, where are they supposed to train and commute? What message is this sending to Indiana’s initiatives to overturn obesity, such as InShape? How do they plan on policing this restriction? Will I get to see some racy, high-speed Pacific Blue type chases on bike? Oh, well, I don’t have answers to any of these questions. But this is the perfect excuse to segue into Tulsa’s biking situation via this locally directed video by James Plumlee that includes Oklahoma legend Biker Fox. Enjoy!

filibusted

2006-02-03T16:07:00.000-05:00

The Ballad of Jed Clampett: "America is addicted to oil." Isn't that kind of like the pimp pointing out the obvious to the pervert right before he sells him his favorite beyotch even though she may have emotional issues and venereal diseases?

Lest I remind you of Internal Revenue, Section 179, Mr. President.

good morning

2006-02-03T08:30:00.000-05:00

Somebody explain to me the logic behind this:

I have these problems with alarm clocks. Number one is that they exist. Number two is that I hit snooze about five times before I even think about getting out of bed. Not even Eagles’ “Hotel California” can repulse me out of bed long enough to get in the shower. So in an effort to calm the storm which is Lizz at 5:45 a.m., Toombsday bought me a new alarm clock.

It’s an Emerson Research alarm clock. Not only can it alert individual alarms throughout the week, it also can set its own time according to the arrangement of the planets and wind direction. Plus it has the name “Research” in it. Über genius, I know.

What the genius designers didn’t consider is that the firking bejerkin sleep button is nestled into the snooze bar. Let me clarify: When I roll over in my coma to shut off Madonna’s “Like a Prayer” and I accidentally hit the snooze bar (which, again, cradles the sleep button), it automatically shuts itself off not to be snoozed again. The designers thought, “Hey, any normally functioning person can distinguish between the snooze bar and the sleep button and depress the corresponding and desired function.” Not so, Emerson Research, not so. I can’t even find the front door knob in the morning let alone zone in on a snooze bar.

Toombsday and I have one last ditch effort of annihilating the sleep button before dropping another $30 on an alarm. To Emerson Research, may birds of hell PLUCK OUT YOUR EYES for your poorly designed monstrosity of utter intelligent confusion.

you're it

2006-01-28T15:37:00.000-05:00

So Jeff has taken the liberty of randomly tagging me. Thanks, Jeff. So the premise is to list five weird things about yourself and then tag five people.

So here are my five "weird" things:

I have an extra vertebra. It doesn’t enable me to do anything except that yoga is difficult at times.

I ate an entire bag of Swedish Fish last night. I love the gummy texture they leave in my molars. Then I felt guilty because I think that the gumminess is a result of gelatin which is on my vegetarian list of things to avoid because it is an animal byproduct.

I read haiku in the bathroom.

I still have one baby tooth that lacks a successor-- my dentist patiently awaits its ultimate descent.

I tap dance in elevators by myself.

The five people I tagged were the result of doing a keyword search relevant to my "weird" list: Olivier A Paris, Crackheadfe, Sekime-Photolog, JohnParks, Garganchewin.

post holiday stress disorder

2006-01-25T15:40:00.000-05:00

So I noticed a trend on blogs concerning 2005 in review. My favorite being this one. Technically, I have never considered annual reflection during the new year. My excuse: I’m Indian (in case you haven’t heard me mention it). Time does not have a beginning or end, or extend itself in a linear fashion. It bends in on itself. It’s an onion. It’s a goddamned domino arrangement teetering on the edge of sanity. Or an aesthetically interesting, but poorly functional IKEA bookshelf. And in that anachronistical fashion, please note that I am posting this unintentionally toward the end of January.

After reading some of these inspirational entries, I realized that my 2005 sucked. Yes, part of it may have to do with my dazzling pessimism. But in sum, when I reminisce about the chapter that was 2004, 2005 just sucked. So in the spirit of trying new things, here is a slapdash year in review.

January
Hey, I have an idea. Let’s sign up for a graduate class in postmodern literature. Hey, where did these kids come from…rural Indiana? Oh, yes, I guess they did. Well, maybe I can learn ‘em some Don DeLillo.

February
Underwent a hernia surgery for an injury received on a film set in 2004.

Note to self: Do not drag an ice chest full of ice and soda onto a bus by yourself followed by spin class with a diva instructor who wears real diamond earrings and polo sweatsuits.

Additional note to self: Don’t trust a doctor who addresses you in the third person while sucking on a lollipop like he’s goddamned Kojak.

The rest of this month was spent on a couch, enjoying episodes of Next and Prince Valium.

March
Oh, wait a minute, I’m organizing a film festival and an annual board meeting? No problem.

April
For the first time ever, I purchased and consumed a frozen meal. I felt naughty. Growing up, everything was homemade -- bread, noodles, etc. Because, you know, corporations are out to get us with their preservatives, toxic ingredients and illegal harvesting methods.

Thank you, Morningstar Farms, for your delicious vegetarian frozen meals.

May

Memorial Day Itinerary
2:00 p.m. - 3:00 p.m. Bunny Baseball
11:30 p.m. - 12:30 a.m. Bell Biv Devoe Dance Party
2:00 - 3:00 a.m. Imitating Van Morrison doing can-can kicks on The Last Waltz

June
Summer trip to Tulum, Mexico. Highlights were snorkeling, playing dice in a grass hut during a rain storm, and telling my waiters that I was a vegetable when I was trying to say I was vegetarian. Good to know that “smile and nod” is a universal language.

July
After separated for one year, The Toby and I were reunited. We had a year apart to think about our relationship, but I just couldn’t quit him. We’ve been through it all: piddle training, don’t-bite-the-children training, three moves, and two chaotic boyfriends.

August
After a three month search, Toombsday and I finally found a place to call (temporarily) home. We could not find anything downtown for under $1,000 a month that did not have rooms that smelled like cat urine, or offices without electrical or cable outlets, or crack dealers banging on our door. Instead we settled for a mid-town duplex with punk rockers for neighbors, but that’s another story.

September
After three years of daydreaming, I finished developing a thesis based on the coyote/trickster cycle in Erdrich’s Last Report. Changing gender identity is a major motif. Excerpt: “In some oral accounts, the coyote shaped a vagina from elk liver.” So he could get food for his squirrel friends, of course.

October>

The annual Megatron Halloween Spectacular during which I shattered many eardrums with my rendition of Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’.” Her home included a faux-torture chamber and a casket constructed to hold a keg. Companies interested in sponsoring her events, please e-mail me for further information. Additional side note: in no way do they endorse murder, torture, or live burials.

November
Native American Philanthropy month in Indiana where there are no Indians. At least we have a kick ass museum. I met Joy Harjo and drank too much wine with Indians in executive positions. I sat back momentarily and thought: Have I arrived? Is this how we beat the system? Not by holding up picket signs and sitting on Alcatraz, but by tricking the system into thinking that we are normal? By holding fundraisers and playing golf, too? And then I realized I was just drunk. Or maybe I was dead on.

In sum, I think the emcee, Kay Walkingstick, put it well when she said, “The only reason why you feel guilty for us is because we are still alive.”

December
Only kicked out of one of my three holiday parties -- not because I was belligerently drunk, but because my section was bought by large Armenians with pinky rings and petite girlfriends.
Note to self: Do not partake in any product, venue, etc. that substitutes a similar-sounding letter for the actual letter.

Example: Vizion (Vision) = gay; Hypnotiq (Hypnotic) = retarded and gay

So in sum, I realized my mortality, which I suppose can be considered “growth.” I call it shitty disillusionment of grandeur. I cannot try to do three overreaching events in one month without physically or mentally breaking down. I can, however, forgive myself for trying with large amounts of alcohol, traveling and an undiagnosed case of tourettes. So here is to 2006 and balancing priorities aligned with my actual needs rather than other peoples’ expectations.

Cheers!

colts collapse

2006-01-18T11:04:00.000-05:00

So this is the end of our road? Three years ago, when I met you, I hardly noticed you even though you were always the center of attention. Groups of family and friends invited me over to meet you though I hardly ever took fancy to what seemed to be your manipulative tactics. I preferred the artichoke dip to your aggressive nature.

But over the years, I learned to look beyond this façade of machismo. What I mistook for manipulation was actually strategic finesse. What I thought was unnecessary aggression was actually just your unwavering desire to succeed. And I hoped that your outrageous salaries would offset the imbalance of our public servants’ salaries (school teachers, bus drivers, etc.) with your ability to implode an enemy’s head or to melt a defender with laser eye energy.

But I don’t know if I can forgive you for what you did on Sunday. Honestly, what more could you want from us? We have given you so much: a strong support base, ideal demographics and exceptional mentors and leadership (even if one of them has a penchant for beat writers). We even are going to give you a modernized, state-of-the-art home. And yet we never realized our full potential together. Why is this? They say that the definition of insanity is repeating the same behavior and expecting different results. But can we give this one more try? If not for me, do it for the local economy and franchise dollars.

In spite of it all -- the nine consecutive months of winter and a lackluster finale to a historical season -- at least we still have Angela.

absurd

2006-01-12T09:08:00.000-05:00

My gym decided to start a valet parking service. What a great idea! I didn't want to overexert myself by walking across the parking lot.

"Pour some sugar on me"

2006-01-05T19:05:00.000-05:00

FADE IN: INT. Medicine Hall. Norman, Oklahoma. Night. A group of misguided youths gather for a brew and listen to a distorted, equally misguided emo band. ANA is half-listening to the band, half-engaged in a conversation with MATT, a rightfully pretentious piano major. Also with them is TIM, a computer technician who has brittle, crunchy black hair -- most likely the result of too much hair gel -- and wears a flannel shirt because there was no time to change clothes in between rounds of Dune and Grand Theft Auto. Tim brought AARON who also, due to his computer addiction, has not seen daylight or a razor in three days. The BAND tricks the audience into thinking that they are simply shoegazers, who rely on memorizing parabolic destruction to confect this seemingly innocent math rock. Nay, my friend, if Burroughs were a rock star, this would be he.

BAND (in the tone of fiberglass with crashing guitar chords)

Don’t leave me now. Don’t leave me know.

MATT

This has too many highs and lows. Not enough transition. I can’t handle it.

BAND (whiny like a castrati who just lost his will to live)

I love you. I love you.

BAND falls into embryonic positions on the beer-soaked, cigarette-laden floor.

MATT

White noise is B flat. The minor tone is emitted from amps, televisions, and the ringing you’ll hear in your ears tonight after leaving this godforsaken place.

ANA (forlorn and dreamily captivated)

But what does it all mean?

MATT
God is B flat. He is everywhere.

TIM

Well, why don’t we just start our own boy band? Matt will be the individual who has his personality. I will be the charismatic one with all the right moves. John will be the unattainable teenage heartthrob. I guess Aaron will have to be the antisocial one since he does that so well.

AARON

Why do I have to be the antisocial one?

TIM

You need to get on Paxil, Aaron.

AARON

No way. Side effects include nausea, uncontrollable appetite, constipation, diarrhea, memory loss, hair loss, weight loss, weight gain, insomnia, drowsiness.

MATT

You know what we really need? A no-armed drummer. Def Leppard was noticed for their one-armed drummer. We need a no-armed drummer. We’ll just attach drumsticks to his shoulders. The animation will be incredible -- ticket sales will be huge.

FADE OUT

Journal entry circa August 21, 2001. I found this while searching for an old document that might help me organize my work. Track funders, grantwriters, etc. Then I stumbled upon my old e-journal and these random notes from an inebriated night in Norman, Oklahoma. Starting a band with a no-armed drummer doesn’t sound so bad after all.

Hillbilly Holiday Highlights

2005-12-27T19:18:00.000-05:00

Installing a door with my dad,
Cost: Free -- Salvaging parts from the local dump.
Not having him yell at me whenever I lose my grip during installation,
Cost: Priceless.

Plus, you know your friends rock whenever they play Johann Sebastian Bach’s “Ode to Joy” on their new hammered dulcimer when all iPods lose power.

pets! in hats!

2005-12-26T22:35:00.000-05:00

peace on earth and goodwill toward small pets that have no defense against easily amused owners.

"Gift of Blankness"

2005-12-21T13:03:00.000-05:00

If you’re like me, you are sick of VH-1 specials of eight hundred comedians giving their three million different takes on one theme. I love to hate the “I Love” series in which a network pays people to sit and make snide comments about pop culture. If I wanted to partake in this, all I have to do is have a couple of friends over for dinner and a film like Point Break starring Patrick Swayze and Keanu Reeves.

To my horror, this trend of superficiality laced with irony is no longer a fad but a way of life. This movement was coined by Jesse, and best explained by Alex Blagg (and observed by many) as the “New Sincerity.” If I were to process this into my magical critical/social theory skills, I would say that Americans particularly are sick of crap. Particularly hypocritical crap. Case in point, we want to “shock and awe” a country because we believe they may have WMD. Motive: We want oil. They have a lot of it and probably can’t defend themselves. Hey, coincidentally, we also have this excuse of a domestic terror attack that we could use as a scapegoat. Unfortunately, our leadership did not foresee the less than peaceful welcome.

Another example is paying an exorbitant amount of money for "health care" wherein exchange we receive overpriced and limited medical attention in addition to extremely long waits in office lobbies wherein we contract additional diseases from wailing, young children who do not have parents that teach them the importance of god forsaken covering their mouths whenever they cough, sneeze, vomit and emit piercing squeals. [And I thought Indian health care was bad. I would forego "health care" for Indian hospitals any day (but there are no Indian hospitals in Indiana so we will talk about that another time). This is not considering the American population who neither have the luxury of health care nor hold a CDIB card. You get the picture?]

In our search for some sort of real meaning and depth, we look to our recent past that was so real that it was unreal. Like Bret Michaels donning pink, glittery lip gloss and singing, “UnSkinny Bop.” These people were serious about their stupidity, whereas now we are just stupid by being too serious. We prefer fortified cereal with marshmallows and high sugar content. Or gummy bear vitamins. Or glamorizing reality television. Or buying artists’ records that were produced before they ever played live. And then forgiving them for lip syncing live. Or supporting our children’s education with lottery money.

So ‘tis the Spirit, bitches. Alas, I did not win the holiday new sincerity contest hosted by the aforementioned Blagg Blogg and Splangy. So, in the words of Point Break’s Brodhi, this is my “gift of blankness” to you.

Providing Impoverished Third-World Children with Fashion Dolls
The Official Christian Charity of the New Sincerity

Because Mattel will save you from hell.

"I found the most beautiful bride Barbie doll somebody sent. And down that little rocky path again came little Sarah, and this time grinning from ear to ear. She bathed her little face and combed her little hair so straight and found some kind of a little -- not a ribbon. It looked like it was a piece of cord like she found a cord like someone tied a horse up or something. And she made it all like a bow. And she stuck this in her hair with a little piece of wire. And she was the cutest little thing. Bare footed but clean. And when she walked up there and I was able to hand into those little arms the little bride doll and showed her the picture of Jesus on it. And I said Sarah who gave this to you? And that little hand went straight up to Jesus, Jesus did. Jesus did. And that's the joy of being able to do that.”
- Journal Entry from Jan of “Praise the Lord”
http://www.smileofachild.org/about/index.php/1/6.html

In essence, Barbie dolls are more filling than food.

Oh piddle

2005-12-13T12:39:00.000-05:00

Do you remember that time at the Z104.5 Edge Birthday Bash before Weezer graced the stage for three songs? It was somewhere after drinking four of the $9, 12 ounces of cat urine golden goodness called sponsored domestic beer. This was right before being nailed in the head by a 13 year-old crowd surfer and directly after basking in the 101 degree Oklahoman sun at noon. Somewhere between this time span, I consumed a $6 bottle of Dasani water. And I just had to, you know, go see a man about a horse. Powder my nose. Punish some porcelain. S hake the dew off the lily. But Southern Culture on the Skids was next in the lineup and I can’t waste the time at some portapotty, waiting behind a girl complaining about how her ripped fishnets do not match her mary janes but her new tattoo itches so much and ohmygod can you believe that she is dating doug because doug was so with brittany the other night and god knows what disease she might be carrying*.

Well, those days are no more. Ladies, I bring you the p-mate. You can purchase them here, but the Dutch site is prettier. Plus, I like that they use the word “trousers” for the American word “pants.” Because “pants” in England means “panties,” and can cause some awkward situations when trying to borrow “pants” from a British girl.

This product harkens back to the days before the p-mate. When keggers in rock quarries required pre-planning, such as remembering my Quilted Northern with my Camel Golds. Also learning survival skills such as finding adequate foliage, and judging incline and wind direction. For added security, selecting a potty mate early in the evening to alert you of any incoming disruptions, such as wildlife and stray drunkards, is essential.

My worst outdoor experience was one winter evening during which I consumed many strawberry-flavored daiquiris that induced an uncontrollable girly giggliness. I decided to meander into the darkness for a quick break. While lurking in the shadows was a lone stump, waiting for its opportunity to attack my bum while I was in the perched position. Luckily, it only caught my left cheek and spared my orifices.

So, hurrah to the inventor of the p-mate, the saviour of splashed shoes and bruised bums. The matronly saint of snow tidings in yellow cursive.

*Please note sarcasm in mentioning the above bands. In fact, I’m way cool about my music. Just check my myspace profile where I list all of my favorite bands by genre, era, and geographical origin. This, by the way, takes up my entire profile. I have no life. Enter more sarcasm here and a picture on my profile in which I did not have the p-mate available**. Also, enter gaffaw here because this isn’t my real picture. In fact, it’s actually a man. And I also don’t have a myspace profile. Jeez. Stop taking me so literally.

**Link found via Kristin Tracy.

Deez Nuts

2005-11-29T10:23:00.000-05:00

I am not one for decorating the outside of my home for the holidays, let alone rake my leaves or water flowers. I grew up in the country, which meant that very rarely would a person even see my home. The coyotes and cows don’t really care about twinkling lights. Children would not venture the five miles of unlit dirt road to our house; otherwise, my parents might mistake them for furry predators and accidentally shoot them. We didn’t even have a neighbor to marvel or envy any celebratory acts of the holidays. The closest neighbor was two miles away which, according to my brother, is great for peeing off the side of the deck.

I have taken on the family tradition of not participating in holiday decorations. My roommates would often complain that I was just plain evil in this respect. Somehow I just don’t enjoy straddling rooftops in twenty degree weather, let alone singing carols with frostbitten fingers. That’s just not for me…bah humbug. Maybe one day, a starving child filled with hope and optimism may change my mind. But I work in philanthropy, so maybe feeding a third-world family for a year makes me feel better than twinkling lights and carols. (Although I enjoy the spiked cider during any occasion.)

The one decoration that I use every year is the pumpkin. It’s easy. It costs under three bucks. It requires no strategic placement. It works from Halloween to Thanksgiving. It’s orange. But every year since I’ve lived in Indiana, my pumpkin does not make it to Thanksgiving due to its ultimate defacement. At first, I thought that my scarred pumpkins were the result of some strange prankster who chose to slowly carve out its innards as opposed to smashing them on the front lawn. But last year, I caught the bastard. Damned squirrels. I would take pictures but you wouldn’t believe me…these rotund little balls of menace curled up inside my now-hollowed out pumpkins.

This perhaps is a nice little segue into squirrels and Indianapolis. How, do you ask, can I find a reason to make Indiana a target of every complaint? According to Toombsday, I’m a hater, by nature. I swear there is an ounce of love and hope in every message. But perhaps I will get to that later. I just explained that I moved here from the backwoods of Oklahoma, didn’t I? That I have consumed moonshine, can race barefoot on gravel, and showered in thunderstorms. (This, by the way, makes Herbal Essence’s orgasmic level look like a wet firecracker.) Or in the words of Unfrozen Caveman, “Your world frightens and confuses me! Sometimes the honking horns of your traffic make me want to get out of my BMW and run off into the hills.”

So this was a tangent, no? Back to the subject at hand…Squirrels! Toombsday’s mother visited Indy for a football game when she noticed the squirrels, “They’re just so…fat.” Yes, they are a bit round. Their sqabowolly legs slow them down a bit. They are fair game for cats and cars. If they were in Oklahoma, we would stop hunting deer and opossum for dinner. But I decided to investigate. And I learned there is a direct correlation between disappearing trees and fat squirrels.

Abstract:
There are two types of squirrels: gray and red squirrels. Or skinny and fat ones respectively. The gray squirrels are spry, but they are absentminded. They bury their acorns and forget where they hid them…kind of like a pothead and his weed. Eventually, these will sprout into trees, then forests…get the picture? But the red ones, oh these little bitches who destroy my pumpkins, will take them to one place where the seeds “suffocate,” are rendered infertile, and die (sort of like a workaholic woman, no?). But instead of adopting cute little Chinese babies, their habits are counteractive to forests. And they’re too damned lazy to bury the important seeds deep enough to propagate trees. Hence, they become the freeloaders of the rodent world, chitter chattering about the weather and staring at me like they expect some sunflower seeds. This system has blossomed in Indiana to the point that gray squirrels are practically nonexistent and red squirrels dominate. Some forest rangers claim that we still have gray squirrels, but I have not seen one to reinforce their claims.

Best served cold

2005-11-12T20:21:00.000-05:00

“Oh, is that a piece from the Betsey Johnson line? I do say it bears some resemblance. Notice the shredded tulle, the gracefully distressed silk accessory, the organic tones? This must be the product of her new eco-fashion line.”

“What’s that? You’re right. I think that is a homeless person. Good thing you said something. I was about to ask her who her agent was. Well with her gaunt figure and chiseled, sunken jaw line…I’m famished. We need to find a croissant or something before Mui Mui...”

Or a ginormous tofu pie to the face. When Editor Wintour refused to run PETA ads in her magazine, PETA members launched an editor’s worst enemy, public humiliation. I don’t want to include too many political, religious, or feminist ideas in my blurbs, but this was too good. C'mon, it's like hearing your Alexander Pope-praising English teacher fart in class or witnessing Bobo the Insult Clown slam your lame date.

NaDruWriNi finale

2005-11-06T03:23:00.000-05:00

3:24 a.m. evan williams bourbon, 7 years aged, on the rocks. and my morning jacket playing.

so where am i now? this is the point where i could ask you what is in your cd player. or how you found yourself right here, right now. or i might try to start a fight with a shrubbery. or i might try to DDT you.

hmmm...it's storming right now. and the weather forecasters are exclaiming that "wind gusts are up to 44 miles per hour!" and, unfortunately, they are not playing "roadhouse" starring patrick swayze on tbs. which is usually playing at this hour on a saturday eve. no, alas, it is chuck norris starring in "delta force."

this week for the first time in a long time i was invited to participate in philanthropic activities and galas and benefits and such. it is during this gala that i learned that accumulating multiple degrees and titles and experience is really just an excuse to eat with your mouth open in front of influential people sitting at a dinner table. and that i am a token indian in indiana. which you would think that they would have indians in indiana. they have mascots representing indians. and indian museums. but don't let that fool you: they do not have indians in indiana.

hmmm...and i think that is about it for my ranting this evening. because i am now listening to gillian welch doing radiohead covers. and sleep calls to a time where i wake up and slap my forehead tomorrow for saying such idiotic things. buenos noches. bon soir.

NaDruWriNi , part deux

2005-11-06T02:28:00.000-05:00

2:31 a.m. rosemount shiraz, 2002. Third glass. so...this is usually my cut off limit. where i can usually go home without reasonably taking out innocent pedestrians. This is also a good time to convince me to just take a shot of bourbon and take a cab home.

My living-in-sin boyfriend asked my why i don't get dancing on the bar drunk. well, it's simple. there was this time. a time that dave attell would consider time traveling. that i drank an entire bottle of red wine, a gift from my orthodontist to my parents, at my then boyfriend's birthday party (one of the three men i dated who later decided to bat for a different team). within a span of a couple of hours, the following things happened:

1. time travel: kissing a man whom i have never met in front of said gay boyfriend
2. time travel: wake up in a closet of sorts
3. time travel: cursing gay boyfriend's best friend in french in a bathroom
4. time travel: puking red wine on white carpet
'nuff said.

so, i'm having a good buzz at the moment. wondering how long i can keep this up. i have stopped capitilizing my sentences. so that's a good indication, i think.

nadruwrini 2005, beyotch

2005-11-06T00:45:00.000-05:00

12:46 a.m. Rosemount Shiraz 2002, an old college favorite. Recommended by a b&n cohort/photographer. This coupled with a John Coltrane would make an art girl swoon. Too bad I am not that pretentious, or French, or male.

So...I just finished watching Jarhead. It was a marvelous film, which cinematically explores the hopeless and blinding situation that was begat (begotten?) in Kuwait. Both mental and physical boundaries are shattered as the futility of trained killers ... did I mention you get to see Jake Gyllenhaal and his new body?

Let's see...I also unintentionally annihilated an entire colony of ladybugs. They were congregating in my shower this morning, warming themselves in the sun magnified by glass blocks, when they were killed with the shower's blast. Let's pray that they are in a better place, where the sun warms them in all seasons. Or something.

Well, this is only one glass. Check you later.

Driving Tip for Hoosiers

2005-11-04T14:41:00.000-05:00

If you must change lanes due to an obstruction in current lane, (i.e. large loading truck with flashing lights, invincible gangsta gots da wiggles and doesn’t look both ways before crossing the street, or a suburban mom’s GPS or front dash DVD player malfunctions), it is determined that if you have indicated your intention by turn signal and noticed a W I D E gap in which you can navigate your car into desired lane FOR THE LOVE OF GOD please take that opportunity to move into that lane.

I am polite for I am Southern…this is indicated by my willingness to apply slight pressure to the brake in order to assist your need, but GOD HELP YOU if you force me to stop because of your inability to understand this gesture. Kiss your euchre charms that I don’t get all Texan on you. This technique is strikingly defined in which the person who must change lanes could care less about turn signals let alone checking for openings and abruptly jerks into desired lane whether there is a car, person, puppy, or infant child in the road.

People, even our retired community drives with better common sense. Sheesh.

But I will give you some props: your roads are so pristine in the winter. Yes, they may be punctuated with plum-sized globs of molasses that melt away the horrific ice and snow. But after shoveling away two feet of snow and warming up my car for thirty minutes, your roads are so navigable.

Don't Stop Believin'

2005-11-01T15:45:00.000-05:00

IMG_1883
Originally uploaded by toombsday.

Reminiscing about Halloween, I'm attempting to recall the elementary school embarrassments that were my costumes. My mother -- part Wonder Woman, part seamstress -- designed a majority of these outfits. When her hand was involved, these whimsical concoctions were spun with enough glitter and sequins to put Liza Minnelli to shame.
1. Kindergarten: The tooth fairy. Not very creative on my parents' part: my father was a dentist. But what a damned proud bucktoothed tooth fairy I was.

2. Second Grade: Pocahontas. My ancestors sharpened their tomahawks for my scalping as I attempted to recreate Disney’s sham of an interpretation, complete with faux suede and plastic beads.

3. Fourth Grade: The California Raisin a.k.a. aspiring writer. I actually learned a little Marvin Gaye so I could twirl my gloved hands and spin for a treat. My garment was basically a garbage bag filled with wads of newspaper over purple tights. Mom always encouraged me to follow my heart. Who knew this costume would foreshadow my current ambitions?

4. Fifth Grade: The Statue of Liberty. The outfit was complete with green-gray face paint and torch made of quilted fabric. I don't know what possessed me to choose this symbol of liberty. Maybe it was my attempt of being patriotic in the face of Operation Desert Storm. No way was I going to let Saddam Hussein take away my ten-year-old freedom of playing Nintendo Super Mario Brothers.

5. College: Jackson Five member. A last minute idea of desperation complete with an afro wig and my own polyester threads. I think the aforementioned afro was lost during a keg stand.

6. 2005: Dynasty character, a little of both Alexis and Chrystal. My mother would be proud of this snazzy sequined number. I had enough mascara on to make Tammy Faye Baker blush. I mean, really blush, like underneath her three inches of wax. By the end of the night, I was Liza Minnelli channeling Judy Garland alcoholism. Note to those who know me: I have never done karaoke in my life...ever.

om

2005-10-14T13:05:00.000-05:00

overheard in yoga class: "pretend there's a little kitten inside you."