tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-73038031400600900272024-03-05T04:14:38.463-07:00The Mad Dreams for an InsomniacThis is entirely a self-indulgent exercise, but I do require validation from others so comment away.Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12187271371863115410noreply@blogger.comBlogger53125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7303803140060090027.post-85241547957117672032015-04-23T14:33:00.000-06:002015-04-23T14:40:43.758-06:00I'll Never Sink When You're With Me (A Tribute)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="http://theangstmuffins.blogspot.com/">Cat</a> and I have a shared history of rough surfaces.<o:p></o:p></div>
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We’ve picked our way across the black basalt of the Spiral
Jetty, dusty shoes in hands that are flung out for balance while our bare feet
wriggle and grasp the irregular surfaces, slipping every other step into the
shallow Salt Lake. Eyes squinting against the glare of the August sun and the
gusts of hot, dry wind that work to push us off our precarious perches, we
still felt welcomed by the hostile landscape after driving through two hours of
desolation to get there. Cat was already married and moved away, I was consumed
with my own life changes, but that day as we made silly poses with Rosemary we
were giants, explorers, elemental pilgrims responding to the simple geometry of
the site with equal reverence and humor. <o:p></o:p></div>
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We’ve been crammed into the back of an economy car, limbs
tangled and wedged into corners, heads thrown back and eyes closed as the third
hour of us singing along with the radio came to a close. Chests heaved and
muscles strained as we wailed along to “Oh, Darlin’,” and “She’s So Heavy.” Pitch
is abandoned in favor of raw, ragged emotion. Swimsuits already on, our skin
stickily adhered to the door jam, to the upholstery, to each other with warm
familiarity as we turned the final bend to Bear Lake, parked, and then leaned
back for one more howling chorus. We were dying for the soft sand, we had
fantasized all week about thick, melty raspberry shakes after a long swim, but
we clung to the journey with equal fervor. We sank into the comfort of shared
skin and space, the smell of sunscreen and sound of Ringo's indefatigable beat
enough for now.<br />
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We’ve sat on threadbare, fraying, greying carpet and
silently passed a 2-liter of Diet Coke between us while we soaked in every drop
of <i>SLC Punk </i>on an old VHS. The carpet
did nothing to belie the floorboards beneath, but with only one chair in the
room we unanimously decided that our sore tailbones made the experience more
“authentic.” Our faces may have reflected the carpet’s same greyness from the
dim, slightly warped images on the screen, but flat Diet Coke and
antitotalitarian angst has never been so vividly consumed than in that living
room.<o:p></o:p></div>
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We’ve lounged on metal bleachers that looked over an
abandoned high school parking lot, swigging from chilly glass Coke bottles
while the ridges of the seats dug into our thin jackets and jeans late on a
March evening. High on the lingering scent of fireworks, we belted out Depeche
Mode and Green Day lyrics between dirty jokes about what Cat would be up to the
next day. Overly aware that we were creating a picturesque memory on the last
night of Cat’s single life, we aggressively policed our mood and conversation.
We were determined to crystallize every misty streetlight and tragically faulty
cigarette lighter into multifaceted symbols that could be proudly dangled for display
in the future. The three of us were, in that moment, in a perfect friendship,
and we sipped on that singularity with the same relish we gave the almost-empty
bottles.<o:p></o:p></div>
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echoing New York City apartment, windows open to the sweltering July air. All
the contents of my two suitcases had been desperately molded into a mattress
for us on the bare parquet floors, and we pretended that such efforts were
sufficient; we stayed up talking until 4 and woke up at 7 out of desire, not
necessity. Cat had spent five hours on a bus from Boston and another hour on
the subway to be with me on my first weekend in my new home. If she was
nonplussed by my lack of furniture and broken ankle, she hid it well. She gushed about my new space and theorized
on my coming adventures while I nervously leaned against the dirty walls and
avoided eye contact with the cockroaches. She pounced on the opportunity to
help me set up when the first of my furniture arrived. They were two entirely
useless Tiffany lamps, sans lightbulbs, resented for the lack of cushioning
they would bring that night. But the packaging that disintegrated into
fragments of white Styrofoam so light and small they didn’t actually land on
the floor exasperated and amused us, skating all weekend just above the
surface, evading all efforts to be swept up, gracefully looping around and over
the path of the pests that skittered by.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Our rough surfaces aren’t just environmental, they’re the
landscape of our temperament and relationship. There have been pitfalls and
landslides, blocked passages and gaping canyons in our almost seven years of
friendship. I stand in awe of how Cat has made herself within and around her
landscape. She wins and gives love to people and subjects in a way that looks
effortless, but actually takes care and passion directly from her in an exhausting
way. My acts of friendship, my presence, my attention, my patience have been
imperfect throughout, but Cat has shone through despite all of the personal
debris I’ve thrown about. She is a remarkable woman who is going to populate
everyone around her with epic and sweet memories without ever growing trite or
tired. Happy Birthday, Cat.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12187271371863115410noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7303803140060090027.post-26808361487713237912013-11-26T22:20:00.001-07:002013-11-26T22:29:24.662-07:00Hold Tight and Pretend It’s A Plan!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Wow, it has literally been years since I made a post.
This is not necessarily the dawn of a revivalism of this blog—you’d be much
better off checking out what <a href="http://lightboxheroes.weebly.com/">Rosemary, Cat and I are doing at Lightbox Heroes(shameless plug)</a> if you miss my ramblings. However, this last weekend was a
situation that lent itself particularly well to the written word, so I break my
silence in the name of epic adventure. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">And by adventure I mean mostly ridiculousness.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 17px;"><b>The Epic Tale, or, And You Thought <i>You</i> Were a Fan of Doctor Who . . .</b></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">It was Saturday night. I had already had a
tumultuous day of nothingness: my brand of coping in the face of looming
deadlines, job searches, and a vague sense of academic inadequacy is to do absolutely
nothing useful. The idea was that I would devote the evening to my studies, but
having twilight come at four thirty in the afternoon was enough of a bummer that
I had reopened negotiations with my anxiety for another extension of
slackerness. The perfect excuse for another night of nothing had already
presented itself: the 50<sup>th</sup> anniversary episode of Doctor Who had
aired today, and my slow internet was just minutes away from completing the download
of those 76 precious minutes of joy and escapism. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">In preparation for my “study break,” I had decided
to get comfortable. In the spirit of consistency, I had been putting off doing
my laundry as well as my grading and final papers, which left my selection of
comfortable loungewear a little lacking. Luckily, for my last birthday my
mother had given me a present that demonstrated how tuned in she is to her
grown daughter’s stunted sense of whimsy: a pair of bright yellow pajamas,
liberally decorated with the characters of Dr. Seuss’s classic aquatic tale
“One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish.” Did I mention this pair of pajamas
were in fact onesie footie pajamas? With one long zipper bulging erratically
from naval to chin, these pajamas are the picture of efficiency, simultaneously
keeping me warm in my drafty Milwaukee apartment and providing a big blaring
sign of “VIRGIN” to anyone who chances by. I would have preferred if the signal
from the pajamas could have loudly signaled “VIRGIN BY CHOICE,” but there’s
really only so much one can ask from a single measure of unapologetically
yellow fleece.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">It was now seven thirty at night (yes, I had already
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">judgments to yourself).
I was pretending to skim articles on Skopas, while in fact clicking over to the
status of my downloading Doctor Who episode approximately every 2.68 seconds. A
low, mechanical drone started to sound. It was coming from the hallway, and it
was certainly loud enough for me to hear, but I couldn’t identify exactly what
the sound was accomplishing. Living in an apartment building that has over
thirty units, you get relatively used to strange noises that never get explained.
When that building was also built over a hundred years ago, and has fixtures
and radiators that were probably installed by an employee of the WPA, every day
there are a number of auditory oddities that I just shove into the periphery of
my awareness. In essence, while the almost moaning sound was persisting
unabated, I was not terribly concerned. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I’ll be perfectly honest: it did cross my mind that
the sound I was hearing could be some antique approximation of a fire
alarm. My doorbell sounds like a buzzer
used in a 1950s game show when the contestant gets a question wrong, so it
would make sense that the building’s fire alarm sounds equally bizarre. I
contemplated this possibility, sniffed the air for smoke, and went back to
watching my Doctor Who episode finish downloading. In my hierarchy of needs watching
this Doctor Who episode was in slot number one, tied only with my desire to not
get up from my armchair. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I started to hear a fair amount of running and
pounding from the apartment and hallway directly above me. I was unperturbed.
Ten minutes went by, all the previous noises were still continuing in the
larger building, and I remained a fixture in the corner of my living room,
cursing utorrent for teasing me with its “Downloading: 98.9% complete” message.
There was a heavy pounding, this time no longer above me, but actually at my
own door. I half stood up, and then became very conscious of the
virginity-affirming pajamas. I remained there for a few moments, waffling
between being seen in such getup and ignoring the knock. I finally stood all
the way up (begrudgingly), padded over to the door, and carefully stuck my head
out the door. There was no one in the hallway, just a magnified version of the
same mechanical droning and more hurried, stomping feet coming from the hallway
upstairs, with the occasional muffled shout added to the cacophany.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Here’s where I’m going to lose most of you: <i>I then went back inside, sat back down on my
armchair, and kept on waiting for Doctor Who to download</i>. I had concluded
at this point that there was most likely a fire somewhere in the building. But
I was quite willing for the people directly affected by the situation to handle
it. I had a plan for how my evening was going to go, and not enough outside
stimuli had been introduced to prod me toward giving up that plan. It’s a big
building. I still couldn’t smell (much) smoke. As far as I was concerned, they
could come get me if it was that big a deal. Oh, if wishes were horses.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">About five minutes later (utorrent now read as
“99.4% complete”), there was a second pounding on the door, followed by a
booming “Fire Department! Open up!” This kicked me into a slightly higher gear,
meaning I didn’t pause when rising from my chair, and I somewhat hurriedly
threw my green plaid robe over the unabashedly chaste pajamas. Answering the
door, the (obnoxiously handsome) pair of firemen barked at me that there was a
fire, and that I needed to be out of the building. It was only at this point
that I got a little flustered. Why I got flustered then, I couldn’t tell you. I
had had fifteen minutes of preparation, where I had actively acknowledged the
almost certainty of a fire, and chose to make like inertia and not act until
acted upon by an opposing and irritatingly attractive force. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">With the two offensively hunky firemen looking on, I
scrambled for my keys and started to put on boots to protect the soles of my
footie pajamas. It would be great if I could muse here over how basic motor
skills often get compromised with a rush of adrenaline, but that would
incorrectly lead you to assume that in times when rugged men aren’t watching me
I am fairly competent at putting on my shoes. No. Even at the best of times,
shoe-putting-on is not a strength of mine. Normally, I at least know that I
have to sit down on any available surface to be successful. I suppose it was
that command center of the brain that failed me in that moment, letting me
blithely try to achieve what I can’t do even at the best of times. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I tried to hop on one foot while yanking the boot
onto the other, ignoring the added challenge of mashing in extra fabric from
the pajamas into the same space. The yanking motion completely threw off my
precarious balance, and I abruptly transitioned from being upright and
balancing on one leg to my rear making violent contact with my hardwood floor,
my legs splayed out at crazy angles and the cinch of my robe coming loose so
that the robe parted in the front. The two fetching firemen cooling observed
the tableau, patiently waiting for me to stop being an irritation in their work
as other equally brawny men started to use the back of their axes to get
through the door across the hall from me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I crammed my toes into both boots, my heels not even
close to being in the right place, and awkwardly pranced out of my apartment. I
then carefully closed the door behind me, and pulled my keys out of the pocket
of my robe so that I could secure the lock. Halfway through that motion, with my
two virile companions incredulously looking on, I started to process how me
locking my door might be a) slightly not helpful in the context of firemen
actively knocking down the door right across the hall, b) certainly caused my
two assigned firemen to doubt my sanity, since I didn’t seem in any hurry to
get out of the building. I quickly put the keys back in my pocket while
avoiding eye contact with the pitying paragons of masculinity in front of me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Muttering something incoherent, I did an about-face
and headed toward the stairwell so that I could get out of the building. There
were multiple hoses crisscrossing the hallway and stairs, demonstrating that I
was definitely late to the evacuation party, and was most likely the only one
who had needed a hand-delivered invitation. I pushed the swinging door that was
at the head of the stairs, and smacked the fireman standing on the other side
of the door right in the face. Luckily his helmet took most of the blow. It
should be noted that this door has a fair-sized window in it, and that I had
seen the fireman before pushing the door forward. And yet, I was still quite
surprised with how that situation unfolded.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Tripping across multiple hoses as I descended the
stairs (remember, I’m still basically walking on my toes, since my heels are
uselessly jammed into the ankle part of my boots), I navigate my way out of the
stairwell and around the outside of the building to the front entrance,
successfully avoiding getting smacked in the face by all but one of the fire
hoses. I got over to where all of the other less avid Doctor Who fans (or
perhaps people with a stronger survival instinct) were gathered to watch the
impressive flames in the window of a third-floor apartment. More firemen were
hauling a long ladder across the lawn to set up underneath the window closest
to the most violent area of the fire, armed with axes so they could smash
through the window and directly address the fire with their prepped hoses.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I should mention here how quickly watching the
heroic struggle between man and fire gets tedious when it is fifteen degrees
outside, and you’re standing there in fleece footie pajamas and a robe. Any
romantic symbolism that might be seen in this battle with the elements that
makes or break man’s progress freezes in the air along with your breath, and
you just start to look at the flames with a certain degree of longing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I started to notice how the other tenants of my
low-rent building—all of them types that I would probably cross the street to
avoid directly passing on a dark street—are edging away from me, the crazy lady
dressed in an adult version of pajamas a two-year old should be wearing. This also
dimmed any interest I had with how the firefight is going. I blessed my brain
for at least remembering to grab my keys (even if they were grabbed with the
intent to lock the apartment door and impede the progress of the firefighters,
I was still going to latch on to any small victory), and retreated to my car
that was parked on the street, completely locked in by the four fire trucks and
eight fire department SUVs that lined my no-outlet street. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I squeezed myself into the front seat in the small
opening I could manage between my door and the SUVs, started the engine, and
let the heaters do their work. I leaned back, surveyed the chaotic scene in
front of me, tracking how the swiveling red lights threw into dramatic relief
different areas of the trauma. As the vents started to warm up I leaned back,
closed my eyes, and mourned the fact that my laptop was still in my apartment,
probably with a fully downloaded Doctor Who episode on its hard drive. The
universe can be so harsh sometimes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I spent the next four hours in my car, calling old
friends to keep myself entertained as I waited to find out the fate of my
apartment. At around eleven thirty we were informed that no one was permitted to
return to their residence for the night, but we could be escorted to our
apartments to pick up anything we might need for a few days away. I returned to
my apartment to find a hole the size of my face kicked into the lower part of
my kitchen wall. Apparently the firemen had needed to transport some equipment
to the apartment across the hall (the one directly below where the fire had
originated, both of which had a great deal of fire and water damage), and the
hall wasn’t wide enough. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">My kitchen floor was covered with splintered wood
and paint, but I still consider myself remarkably lucky, especially considering
how idiotic my initial response to the crisis was. My landlord was waiting for
me to finish packing up my things (you better bet my laptop with the precious
episode was the first thing put into my shoulder bag), so I grabbed the
necessities and shoved them all together, doing such an excellent job at
packing that it was impossible to zip up the top of the bag due to the bulging
hodgepodge of clothes and hair products. I deemed it good enough and picked my
way back through the darkened, smoky hallways.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Considering the . . . “iffy” nature of my
neighborhood, I decided driving another ten miles to find a hotel near the
airport would probably result in much safer and cleaner accommodations. Nearing midnight now, I walked to the front
desk of the Clarion Hotel with my bag in one hand and a 24-pack of Diet Coke in
the other (it had already been in the trunk of my car, I figured it was worth
bringing along). I politely asked if there were any vacancies. The woman at the
front desk seemed a little flustered and said she would check, but her eyes
darted between me and the screen at an alarmingly rapid rate. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">She told me there was an opening, and hesitantly told
me it would be 95 dollars for the night. I considered her demeanor to be a
little odd, even jumpy, and didn’t understand why she seemed surprised when I
said I would take it. It was only when I went to retrieve my wallet from the
pocket of my robe that I really took stock of my appearance: I looked like a
crazed homeless woman, wandering the cold streets of Milwaukee in infantile
pajamas, a bathrobe, and an inexplicable supply of diet soda. I was the
definition of a potential unpleasant incident for a night clerk. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The clerk was relieved when I explained my
situation. Not relieved that people were out of their homes, but relieved that
I was now a known entity, one that would probably not start screaming
hysterically in the lobby or striking up conversations with the potted plants. I was happy for her peace of mind, and chose
not to tell her how far my love of Doctor Who had led me away from rational
behavior. I don’t think she would have processed that information in a way that
painted me in a kind (or sane) light.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Things
I Learned</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; text-indent: -0.25in;"><b>1)</b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><b style="text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I suffer from the most pervasive
malady of my generation: obliviousness.</span></b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; text-indent: -0.25in;"> I always knew my
connection to reality was a bit tenuous in general, but this certainly hit that
home in a new way. I am obviously an idiot for how I behaved before exiting the
building, but I would argue that I am not that far outside of the norm for my
generation. Sure, most wouldn’t avoid a fire because a Doctor Who episode was
on the cusp of downloading, but there is definitely a generational disconnect
with the unavoidable cause and effect of choices. This is easiest to see
online, when narcissists post every detail of their personal life in their
facebook status, or passive-aggressively attack family members and roommates
through the well-placed tweet or blog post. Ideas of keeping public and private
spheres separate, of addressing conflicts in person and not dragging issues
through the digital sphere, of consciously decided not to permit evidence of passing
anger or malaise to endure forever is something my generation doesn’t
understand. Yes, I am definitely harping on a common problem in order to
distract you all from the fact that I’m such a media junkie I almost achieved a
nice toffee-colored complexion from an even roasting. It’s all about
misdirection, folks. </span></div>
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<span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><b> 2) My mother is awesome</b></span></span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; text-indent: -0.25in;">.
My initial response to the crisis was “oh, I really hope my parents don’t find
out about this.” With them living twelve hundred miles away, I didn’t want them
to be stressed about my situation, or somehow find a way to interpret the
problems with an apartment I chose to be the sign of deeper trends toward
irresponsibility. This is left over from the much more combative relationship I
used to have with my parents during the first half of my twenties, and is an
attitude that is actually unworthy of the reality of my parental unit. I
quashed my initial response, and instead called my mother the next day at
around noon. I briefed her on what had happened (ok, ok, I skipped all the
Mary-made-like-an-ostrich-and-buried-her-head-in-the-sand-for-fifteen-minutes-before-getting-kicked-out-by-firemen
part of the tale). I told her the condition of my belongings and my apartment,
told her where I was currently staying, and that I was still waiting to find
out when I could move back in. She listened, asked a couple follow-up
questions, told me she was very glad I was ok, and we swapped goodbyes and
I-love-yous before hanging up. The whole call took six minutes in total.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; text-indent: 0.5in;"> Darling
mothers and fathers out there: </span><i style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; text-indent: 0.5in;">This is
how you need to parent your adult children</i><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; text-indent: 0.5in;">. It was awesome. There was no
hysterics, no incessant peppering of questions, no doomsday speeches or blame
or micromanaging of my behavior. Any of those would have driven me right up the
wall with both frustration and anxiety. Instead, there was respect and affection,
and a trust that I would keep her updated if anything came up that I needed
help with. Otherwise, it was my own business. I can’t stress how nice it feels
to not be infantilized by your parents when you’re 27 years old. I’ve observed
enough to know my parents are exceptional in that regard, and I couldn’t be
more grateful for my luck in scoring these guys. </span></div>
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<span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><b> </b></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="text-indent: -24px;">
<span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><b> 3)</b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><b style="text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">My
friends and sister are da bomb diggity. </span></b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; text-indent: -0.25in;">I called and texted
more than a few individuals while I was forced into a Who-less stasis for the
majority of that Saturday night. I wasn’t traumatized by what had happened—I
think the word trauma gets thrown around too imprecisely. No one was hurt, and I
was fairly sure my apartment wasn’t burning down. I was mildly inconvenienced
and shocked out of my normal routine, not staring down the fragility of my
existence. As such, I was calling and texting people just to kill time and
share a fun story, and there’s something magical about how many kindred souls
I’ve collected over the years that knew how to respond. Connected with how much
of a nightmare it would have been if my mother had had a meltdown from the
news, it’s a real sign of friendship and connection that no one I talked to
tried to whip me into hysterics. They settled into jokes and their own stories,
filling the time as I watched the fire engines slowly return to the station in
my rear view mirror.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; text-indent: 0.5in;"> These
are the kind of people everyone should actively seek out and cultivate in their
life—friends and family that contribute to you keeping your life balanced and
manageable. I can be proud that over the past five years I have weeded out
people who are only interested in highlighting drama, fixating on unfairness,
and ramping up discord. Those people would have loved a phone call that night;
they could have vicariously feasted on the chaos, and victimized my
circumstances stretch out the drama, but I wouldn’t have gotten anything
positive out of that interaction.</span></div>
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<span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: bold; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: bold; line-height: 107%;"> 4) I have a complicated relationship with my own independence and letting others
help me. But I don’t necessarily think I’m the one that needs to change. </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; text-indent: -0.25in;">Here’s
a truth: despite the fact that I’ve technically been responsible for my own
education and living expenses since I was 18, I’ve only gotten a good handle on
it in the last couple years. Imagine my impressive ability to deny the danger
of fire in the face of Doctor Who, and you have a good idea of the financial quagmire
that was the majority of my twenties. I was raised by parents who were not only
incredibly responsible with their own finances, they went out of their way to
train me in good habits and warn me of the pitfalls that could arise from not
keeping a handle on spending and budgeting. Apparently I don’t learn through
excellent guidance, I learn by drowning for years in my own denial and not even
being able to communicate how much trouble I’m in because I’m incapable of
admitting to weakness and mistakes in judgment.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; text-indent: 0.5in;"> Why
am I sharing this information that seems embarrassing and uncomfortable?
Context. All told, I now have a line of credit of about $2,000, and it took a
complete turnaround in my attitudes toward money and my general problem-solving
habits to be eligible for that much. I pay off my credit cards every month,
which means late on a Saturday night when I need a place to stay, I can hand
over my Vis and charge my room without any problems. You need to understand: I
am so proud that I was able to financially and emotionally handle this, it’s
been all I’ve wanted to talk about. This felt like an incredible proof that I
have progressed exponentially in areas that I know to be weaknesses in my
character and a danger to my long-term goals.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; text-indent: 0.5in;"> So,
when I told people at my church and school about what had happened, and I was
scolded for not calling them up at midnight on a Saturday for a place to stay,
I didn’t know how to process their conviction that I was doing it all wrong. I
was met with almost universal disbelief that I would check into a hotel rather
than find someone to take me in. Here’s the thing: I never doubted the
generosity of spirit the people in this area have toward their fellow man,
including me. But I, to my complete delight, was capable of taking care of
myself in an emergency, and so I did. I derive so much more peace of mind and
general comfort in that knowledge than I would have from accepting the kindness
of acquaintances.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; text-indent: 0.5in;"> I’m
no solider of Ayn Rand. I don’t hold to an insane level of self-sufficiency
that removes compassion for others from the equation. I’ve certainly had to
avail myself of the kindness of family, friends, and strangers in the past. But
in this circumstance, I was able to prove to myself that I will be able to
handle both the emotional and financial fallout in the face of an unanticipated
hurdle. Do you have any idea how empowering that is? Especially for someone who
is coming up on the daunting task of job hunting once I finish my degree this
May? Basically, there’s something to be said for doing all you can before
seeking out the help of others. It doesn’t mean asking for help is shameful—not
at all. It means that you get to carry around with you the knowledge that you
are capable, and able to master many situations on your own, including the
situation where asking for help from the right quarter is what the circumstance
demands.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; text-indent: 0.5in;"> Huzzah
for independence, for self-reliance! I could really get excited about this.
You’ll see me punching the air jubilantly every time I’m able to pay an
unexpectedly high water bill, or roll with the additional challenge of a
disruptive student. Sure, I’ll look like a crazy person, giving an empty room
an enthusiastic round of high-fives and doing a one-person wave, but I’ve
looked stupider. I’ve checked into a hotel wearing yellow footie pajamas, for
crying out loud. I can do </span><i style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; text-indent: 0.5in;">anything</i><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; text-indent: 0.5in;">.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> . .
. Except put on shoes without some sort of support structure<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12187271371863115410noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7303803140060090027.post-20228453150472626772012-11-13T13:33:00.002-07:002012-11-13T13:33:43.760-07:00I Wanna Publish Zines and Rage Against Machines<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I liiiive! And I made this zine as a sample for my graduate seminar--too many of them have never even seen one, and don't know a thing about punk, so I thought it would make my 45 minute presentations on the details of punk scholarship to give them as reference. Peace be unto my lieblings. Enjoy.<br />
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Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12187271371863115410noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7303803140060090027.post-10030991554326941442011-10-21T13:23:00.006-06:002011-10-21T17:23:42.209-06:00I've Got No Time I Wanna Lose To People With Something To Prove<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2prWRCzad2nqH0FlEEjvhWNsab67_pZZP4iGQn_tWnY1Lb5jyK1_2AwFR8QkxVSTm_4AR6m6JrE-5N4e7n64mbQHyhjF4i8m3f_fqTUTE_jZn1aTZ2ydoJOQEC87JC-FBmni7RtyXWQk/s1600/Colonel+Jack.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" rda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2prWRCzad2nqH0FlEEjvhWNsab67_pZZP4iGQn_tWnY1Lb5jyK1_2AwFR8QkxVSTm_4AR6m6JrE-5N4e7n64mbQHyhjF4i8m3f_fqTUTE_jZn1aTZ2ydoJOQEC87JC-FBmni7RtyXWQk/s320/Colonel+Jack.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">But good golly sweet Moses in the name of <br />
all carbonation that just shouldn't be allowed.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I have the sneaking suspicion that my entire personality has been slowly eroding from the obsessive waters of<br />
Symposium<br />
GradSchool<br />
Symposium<br />
GradSchool<br />
HeyLookShiny </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">boringness. I'm attempting to counter this very real trend with a blog post, but I understand if my efforts are less than perfect. Please allow some room for error.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">A note: I've noticed that my recent blog habit has been to mostly post about small things that annoy me. I'm not actually that big of a sourpuss, I just find that fixating on small irritants helps me shrug off the potentially debilitating stuff. Well, that and obsessing about how unlawfully attractive Richard Dean Anderson is during my nightly <em>Stargate</em> episodes, but my Richard time is just for me, and you'll probably thank me for not sharing too much about that one.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">So, who doesn't love Weezer? I maintain that their Blue Album shies away from the Platonic ideal form of a debut album only because they failed to write "Perfect Situation" for another eleven years. Well, that and the fact that Weezer arbitrarily decides to take a pretty offensive attitude towards women in their song "No One Else." Now, the song is obviously about a girl who has issues with fidelity, but I still take umbrage with the extremely catchy chorus:<br />
<br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><em>"I want a girl who will laugh for no one else.</em></div><em></em><br />
<em><br />
</em><br />
<em>When I'm away, she puts her makeup on the shelf.</em><br />
<em><br />
</em><br />
<em>When I'm away, she never leaves the house.</em><br />
<em><br />
</em><br />
<em>I want a girl who laughs for no one else."</em><br />
<br />
Seriously, guys? Have you been holed up in your garage planning for the day when your music makes you attractive for so long that you've completely warped your idea about what you want? I talked to Wes about my frustration with the sentiment in this song and he said (without endorsing the behavior) that it was catering to a very fundamental need/want/desire/insistence that men feel desired by their partner. All I gotta say is, this instinctive need of men is rather vomit-inducing. I would never want to be with someone who keeps their personality carefully pressed and in the bureau, only to be pulled out for special occasions when their main squeeze is around. I would want to be with someone who has wide-ranging interests, acquaintances, and things to laugh at. Regardless of who is present. The whole possessive quality of the chorus, wanting someone who doesn't even have enough self worth to look good just for herself when no one else is around, makes me want to smash birdhouses. Maybe even with the birds inside. <br />
<br />
Yes, I realize I just flipped out about a Weezer song that was written when I was seven years old and was probably intended to be rather tongue-in-cheek. But, dude. It bugs.<br />
<br />
Speaking of bugs, let's tackle something completely different. I just realized that that sentence was a perfect setup for me to start a discourse on insects. I am now scrabbling, trying to work up some righteous indignation about any many-legged creepster. I'm coming up empty. Ah, the torture of imperfect moments! Anyways, back to the subject on hand, which you are no doubt on tenterhooks to discover:<br />
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbWZgy6ItHt-eyGeXKofsLysFeZkUgxOH8tJjcznJDKDzit_gIyBA4epEUYqj6shJCdaGMnMsykhA_zxJ0nDEj3wzm2fQzS372fZkUdE8CTt4r9tFo1FzeaAjps_P8j7ZwiwpN2-D3PLw/s1600/Bunny+Gets+Snookered.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" rda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbWZgy6ItHt-eyGeXKofsLysFeZkUgxOH8tJjcznJDKDzit_gIyBA4epEUYqj6shJCdaGMnMsykhA_zxJ0nDEj3wzm2fQzS372fZkUdE8CTt4r9tFo1FzeaAjps_P8j7ZwiwpN2-D3PLw/s320/Bunny+Gets+Snookered.jpg" width="246" /></a>Art. I know, big surprise, Mary wants to talk about art. As if co-hosting a podcast wasn't enough time for me to nerd out. But this topic doesn't really lend itself to a podcast discussion. Scenario: I either a) mention I'm going to pursue graduate work in art history, b) reference any work of art, regardless of time period, in a common conversation, or c) look at interest at any piece of modern sculpture that is in front of my face. The reaction to any of those behaviors has been almost singularly unchanging as of late. Whenever any of these apparently 'trigger actions' occur, I feel like I'm constantly on the receiving end of a lecture masking as a benign comment from near strangers and pass acquaintances alike. The formula continues, with my unwanted conversational partner passionately rambling about how they saw X exhibit in Y respected gallery/museum/public area where all it was was just a jumble of mutilated Peeps at the foot of a grandfather clock whose face has been colored in or whatever. They then pause, look at me significantly, with a challenging gleam in their eye, and say "Can you believe anybody would show that? I don't care who you are, that's <em>not</em> <em>art.</em>" It's at this point when I smile politely, nod, and consider all the different ways I could jerryrig the Tootsie Roll Pops and assorted bobby pins in my backpack into a weapon that can put me and/or them out of my misery.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Here's the nutshell: it's doesn't matter if you think it's art. No, that's not me being snotty and saying that my opinion is higher than yours, because the truth is it doesn't matter if I think it's art, either. What matter is that somebody, some curator, some group, some social sub-group, assigned it the label of art. That's what I study. I study what people see as art, and I study the why behind it's creation, the reaction it receives. What everybody is responding to when they see an exhibit that they don't enjoy is <em>personal taste</em>, which is something I will always respect. Personal taste is by handy coincidence with it's moniker, not very applicable on a wide scale. But while I will always be interested in your personal taste, and in fact part of what I study is the taste of individuals and how that influences the cycle of art being put out there, I will never feel pressured by your personal taste to excuse or dismiss or ever yield to your definitions of what art is. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsMc7eNZiSJnLHG80MjTI0mImh-eKuGONHxP_x1Kb_vesSFYBi5JHI-2G6YWbCYLJChMxK7gckqJDxxA4hC5aAxTZ3SKsnC7eQcTNNOYXte8o1Dyw6qQaR8fhelF4T9QovIJn17wJTbBo/s1600/Berlin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" rda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsMc7eNZiSJnLHG80MjTI0mImh-eKuGONHxP_x1Kb_vesSFYBi5JHI-2G6YWbCYLJChMxK7gckqJDxxA4hC5aAxTZ3SKsnC7eQcTNNOYXte8o1Dyw6qQaR8fhelF4T9QovIJn17wJTbBo/s320/Berlin.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Because it doesn't matter, not one bit, if we differ on what is art. So stop thinking you're scoring some deep insight when you get hung up on it. Also, putting down pieces you don't consider valuable is a deeply negative and straight-up boring subject. It sorta just pushes itself into a corner and festers on it's own outraged sensibilities. There's way too much good art out there to get your panties in such a twist over the ones that don't speak to you. Now, if you want to talk about how an artist who has gained some recognition and reverence is in your opinion lacking in some areas, be it skill or thematic material, that could also be interesting. But it always needs to be based on the understanding that while you don't like it. you respect the personal taste of others that dictates them to disagree with you. So, can it. You bug me.</div><br />
Now, back to the recurring theme of Little Boys Who Spend Their Time Writing Music Instead of Talking To Girls Have Creepy Misconceptions. Who here loves Death Cab for Cutie? I would do quite a bit to have Ben Gibbard's babies, personally. Going to their concert with Becca was an ace in the hole for me having a good time. And before I tear apart Death Cab, it should be admitted that the first song I'll be criticizing was the band's opening number, and it has one of the top three sexiest bass riffs in it, and I cheered and danced and got excited along with everyone else. That said, based on these songs, Ben Gibbard's courting style leaves something to be desired.* Allow me to demonstrate with a selection from "I Will Possess Your Heart:<br />
<br />
<em>"You reject my advances and desperate pleas.</em><br />
<em><br />
</em><br />
<em>I won't let you let me down so easily.</em><br />
<em><br />
</em><br />
<em>You gotta spend some time, Love.</em><br />
<em><br />
</em><br />
<em>You gotta spend some time with me.</em><br />
<em><br />
</em><br />
<em>And I know that you'll find, love</em><br />
<em><br />
</em><br />
<em>I will possess your heart."</em><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUEM-FCgXs8X2TH6akd7im5zaI6AcMFqSYKTtiP854FR8sva0jFK8OZFKLBRgsjE5mtIix408haFdnK8pqNuZ3zDfI1uIiBNXonwno2ypT4azYof9Btg2RqgadW1lF-xBN2xZa_EqkadQ/s1600/Chicago.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="186" rda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUEM-FCgXs8X2TH6akd7im5zaI6AcMFqSYKTtiP854FR8sva0jFK8OZFKLBRgsjE5mtIix408haFdnK8pqNuZ3zDfI1uIiBNXonwno2ypT4azYof9Btg2RqgadW1lF-xBN2xZa_EqkadQ/s320/Chicago.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>So. Not. Ok. First off, the persistent tone of the chorus makes you wonder if Ben Gibbard is completely married to the metaphorical meaning of the phrase "possess your heart." If you resist his affections long enough, is he just gonna settle for an "I told you so" when he rips the vital organ out of your chest? I listen to these lyrics and just start vehemently shaking my head in the negatory. <br />
<br />
And if you think this guy would at least be sensitive to the imbalance of affection, and how it feels to be the one who cares more, think again. Allow me to introduce you to the tender message behind "Someday You Will Be Loved:"<br />
<br />
<em>"I once knew a girl in the years of my youth with eyes like the summer, all beauty and truth. In the morning I fled, left a note and it read: "someday you will be loved." I cannot pretend that I felt any regret, cause each broken heart will eventually mend. As the blood runs red down the needle and thread, someday you will be loved. You may feel alone when you're falling asleep, and everytime tears roll down your cheeks. But I know your heart belongs to someone you've yet to meet, someday you will be loved. You'll be loved, like you never have known. The memories of me will seem more like bad dreams, just a series of blurs like I never occurred. Someday you will be loved."</em><br />
<br />
Translation: We hooked up, I wasn't feeling it, instead of breaking up with you I left you a note with vague promises of future of happiness that of course I have no control over. I then proceeded to feel really deep and justified about the fact that my actions really have no impact on you, because . . . well, I didn't love you. That's like home base in tag, right? Freebie?<br />
<br />
Yeah, Ben Gibbard, you sorta suck. Stop being so good at making your general cadness so catchy.<br />
<br />
Ok, I feel rather cleansed after this exercise. Tune in next time, when I plan to air my feelings about sundry issues like Ron Paul fanatics.<br />
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ7XKoyOpNwQgkxGubkYx1ZycvW2BCFlt-YWIuhRBx6wBWZb-SbIatmS5go77nqM2jeUKAkgq-FBapcMYhM3NGoXyq1bjXl4E3-Xn5VT1YpmNS4-fqOwcVz_9Fuxp0jZjd_zcE4na30ng/s1600/Modern+Mother+and+Child.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" rda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ7XKoyOpNwQgkxGubkYx1ZycvW2BCFlt-YWIuhRBx6wBWZb-SbIatmS5go77nqM2jeUKAkgq-FBapcMYhM3NGoXyq1bjXl4E3-Xn5VT1YpmNS4-fqOwcVz_9Fuxp0jZjd_zcE4na30ng/s320/Modern+Mother+and+Child.jpg" width="320" /></a>In the meantime, I'm going to listen to Billy Joel's "Vienna Waits For You," cause it tends to calm me down a bit when all I want to do is sprint for the nearest puke receptacle. Which is occuring on multiple occasions per diem, with the symposium looming closer by the second. But don't you worry, Billy makes it all better.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">*It should be noted that I consider "Summer Skin," "We Will Become Silhouettes," "Transatlanticism," and "Twin-Sized Bed" to be great examples of Ben Gibbard using his rhetorical powers for good rather than evil.</div></div>Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12187271371863115410noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7303803140060090027.post-78375044899539360012011-09-27T10:09:00.006-06:002011-09-27T10:55:17.882-06:00Instead of Actually Completing My Grad School Applications . . .<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">List of Things That Are Going To Be a Tough Sell To Strangers When I Move to A Strange City for Grad School (which I currently obsess over):</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjILZGpU6bNXV9UIU76UYwpZBBq8N0iQKkB2ATpqN4aP7FULkTPLfOfJfaoq5Z8zmKVd0cxc1FaK2ks3Xemoy8OyIMWSQ9rodmnBZLRMyFBIA5uYct8EQuP-Q5h2eleWRfi6Fjiu2Ls6k0/s1600/Patti.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" kca="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjILZGpU6bNXV9UIU76UYwpZBBq8N0iQKkB2ATpqN4aP7FULkTPLfOfJfaoq5Z8zmKVd0cxc1FaK2ks3Xemoy8OyIMWSQ9rodmnBZLRMyFBIA5uYct8EQuP-Q5h2eleWRfi6Fjiu2Ls6k0/s400/Patti.jpg" width="273" /></a></div><br />
-Yes, that's my real sneeze. No, really. <br />
<br />
-Yes, I love Star Trek. And Stargate. And Battlestar Galactica. And The X-Files. And Buffy. You like video games? Dude, you're such a dweeb.<br />
<br />
-Yes, I'm wearing this American flag kerchief. Unironically.<br />
<br />
-No, I don't see a problem with having "Tearing Up My Heart" by *NSync and "Institutionalized" by Suicidal Tendencies on the same mixed CD.<br />
<br />
-Yeah, I said mixed CD. As in still not on board with the mp3 shindig.<br />
<br />
-And by not on board I mean deeply terrified of electronics and other storage/computing systems whose brains I can't see.<br />
<br />
-Yes, I went on a thorough grocery shopping trip and returned with 3 tubs of Greek yogurt and 64 cans of Diet Coke. No, I don't see the problem with that.<br />
<br />
-I swear I'm going to stop talking about my past achievements once I get more comfortable and no longer think I need to persuade you to like me. Should happen any month now.<br />
<br />
-Yes, that's my real cough. Yes, I've heard the Zoolander "black lung" joke before. No, sadly, while that's enough incentive for me to <em>want </em>to change my cough, I'm afraid I'm not the one in charge here.<br />
<br />
-Yes, I'm politically conservative. It's because I hate poor people. And bunnies. And myself, cause I'm a woman. Gross.<br />
<br />
-No, you can't have any of my barbeque chips. Step off.<br />
<br />
-I am currently working on a plot to destroy Oprah.<br />
<br />
-Yes, I'm always going to think I'm smarter than you. I'm well aware of how unattractive this is. Nothing has helped so far.<br />
<br />
-No, you may <em>not</em> talk to me while the Olympics is on.<br />
<br />
-I find talk about settling down and buying the dream house to be alienating from women and a turnoff from men.<br />
<br />
-If you get all 'sharey' and dump your completely legitimate and complicated emotions on me I'm going to smile sympathetically, pat you gingerly on the elbow, and run for the hills.<br />
<br />
-Yes, I really do like Bill Pullman that much.<br />
<br />
-I totally use the fact that I can make my eyes imitate Bambi in immediate danger of being decapitated by evil smoke monsters to my advantage.<br />
<br />
-Yes, I'm that nostalgic about entire sections of the past that I didn't live through and don't necessarily agree with.<br />
<br />
-Yes, I'm typically this hostile and dismissive of all women in my program until you prove yourself. And by prove yourself I mean cold-fusion level prove yourself. As in, you better be an art history genius who has also literally discovered cold fusion, because otherwise I'll remain unimpressed.<br />
<br />
-Yes, again, that's my real sneeze. Yes, I have noticed that I sneeze after every meal. No, you are not living with or associating with a cartoon character. Don't believe all the hype.<br />
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">-Yes, I really do watch Reality Bites this often.</div><br />
-Yes, I'm secretly a prude. You just have to dig real deep to get to it. No, that in of itself was not a dirty invitation.<br />
<br />
-I bawled through the entire last ten minutes of <em>Voyage of the Dawn Treader</em>. I will hit you very, very hard if you make fun of me about this.<br />
<br />
-Oh yeah, but the way, I hit people. Pretty frequently. And keep on thinking it's a term of endearment, despite the vehement protest of peers.<br />
<br />
-If you ask me to go fishing I'll wonder what plot is afoot to destroy me.<br />
<br />
-Yes, that's a bottle of spf 105 sunscreen. Apply liberally.<br />
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnlB8WIwV14XAgosqktWh_EndDrk5kq8qAR6LJMIC4cGK_NTjHH_MXNvqB7QhfR9-fqoIhZPWj6pVtjYzyQIx3p5SBanTGRT9-UVkgBeIrU25ZiTzqsY0Qg-giPV-qejeFG0q1tg63Byo/s1600/Cindy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="303" kca="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnlB8WIwV14XAgosqktWh_EndDrk5kq8qAR6LJMIC4cGK_NTjHH_MXNvqB7QhfR9-fqoIhZPWj6pVtjYzyQIx3p5SBanTGRT9-UVkgBeIrU25ZiTzqsY0Qg-giPV-qejeFG0q1tg63Byo/s400/Cindy.jpg" width="400" /></a>-All those jokes about how paranoid I am--yeah, they're not actually jokes. That humor there is what we call a Coping Mechanism.</div><br />
-Yes, I understand that my punkish influenced clothing and my abject fear/respect/obeisance to authority figures is a wee bit of a contradiction.<br />
<br />
-Yes, I'm a complete fraud. Anything funny I say was stolen from a movie, TV show, or a funnier friends' facebook status.<br />
<br />
-Yes, that's my idea of fashion. I'm so sorry.<br />
<br />
-I've had an ongoing sneaking suspicion since I was eleven that I am actually not smart/liked at all, and that I'm living in an elaborate Truman Show-esque world where my parents bribe actors to carry on the delusion. No, your jokes about how you're still waiting for their check in the mail are <em>not funny</em>.<br />
<br />
-Yes, that was my attempt to flirt. No, there's nothing I can do about the toe-twisty-head-tilty thing. Any efforts to control it can only be sustained for about a five minute conversation, in which I won't say anything coherent, because my attention will be so fixed on the toes and the head angles.<br />
<br />
-No, our budding friendship will not recover if you negatively go off about Peter Pan, Mary Poppins, or Disneyland.<br />
<br />
-I'm only .05% joking about my animosity towards whales.<br />
<br />
-Yes, I love Katy Perry. Why would that surprise you?<br />
<br />
-I genuinely have the hots for David Bowie. In <em>Labyrinth</em> specifically, but also in general. I listen to "As the World Falls Down" alone and pretend he's trying to seduce me by hiding from me in a magical bubble.<br />
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9sjTp3Fr9fY2Fv3RqUM13-1wQL-HLNdmW4ovDeYuifLm9vUycqedLgqwQmlzkuUhz2eFmKPJ7pfaeumbUZGCkbvfWruQ4b5mDkiJmxoH4Cf23-DgWdKzKoj6y3GmBq0MpT2QbrfuILEc/s1600/Edna.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" kca="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9sjTp3Fr9fY2Fv3RqUM13-1wQL-HLNdmW4ovDeYuifLm9vUycqedLgqwQmlzkuUhz2eFmKPJ7pfaeumbUZGCkbvfWruQ4b5mDkiJmxoH4Cf23-DgWdKzKoj6y3GmBq0MpT2QbrfuILEc/s400/Edna.jpg" width="292" /></a>-Yes, I'm that avid of a supporter of Turkey, our oft-maligned friend.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">-No, I never actually recover from missteps in common repartee. If I once misidentified a piece of art and was corrected in the conversation, I will carry that shame to the grave.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div>-Yes, I really do take myself this seriously. Don't let the self-deprecating laughter fool you. The fact that I can explain most of my likes and dislikes with a four-point analysis reveals the lie of the laugh.<br />
<br />
-I understand that my chances of being a rock star, buddies with Velvet Underground, present at a Toy Dolls concert, an agent of an intelligence agency, or a protege of Joey Ramone are dwindling by the millisecond, if they aren't already impossible. That is a handful of many, many reasons why I will truly be less than satisfied with my life.</div>Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12187271371863115410noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7303803140060090027.post-70648291298796872412011-08-19T16:08:00.002-06:002011-08-23T11:14:40.139-06:00I Stumble and I Sway<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div closure_uid_it6g2l="262"><div closure_uid_fg73ke="256"><div closure_uid_byqb31="264">An hour into my shift I was asked to stay late at work. I don't mind staying late--I love helping out overworked peers and I don't object to money--but I unfortunately have a streak of non adaptive throwback genes that wants to sit down and cry every time I'm not giving my preferred twelve hour notice that helps me wrap my head around the extension. Turns out I'm not remotely evolved or sophisticated, I hate breaks from patterns just as much as the most backwoods Ozark yokel. </div></div></div><div closure_uid_it6g2l="262"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_it6g2l="262"><div closure_uid_ecd6zh="331">In the spirit of making as many distractions for myself in this time of cushy paid hardships, I have crafted a list of: </div><div closure_uid_ecd6zh="331"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_ecd6zh="331"><strong closure_uid_ecd6zh="333">The Top 15 Best TV Dads</strong> </div><div closure_uid_byqb31="272" closure_uid_ecd6zh="331"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_ecd6zh="331">I figure musing over father figures that would respond to my whining over extra work by telling me to rub some dirt in it will be the best possible coping mechanism.</div></div><div closure_uid_it6g2l="262"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_it6g2l="262"><div closure_uid_j1xntg="251"><strong>Methodology</strong></div></div><div closure_uid_it6g2l="262"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_it6g2l="262"><div closure_uid_wv5g23="361"><div closure_uid_ecd6zh="339"><div closure_uid_byqb31="273">The types of fathers being highlighted here are very specific in nature. First off, let's establish that I myself have an awesome dad. He sang me Irish lullabies and songs about girls named Mary every night when I was little, switched that out for nightly readings from books like <em>Huckleberry Finn</em>, <em>The Chosen</em>, and <em>Last of the Mohicans</em> after I got too old for songs, and patiently waited out my tendency from age twelve to twenty to hate his guts while in his house and avoid any visits from him in college. Nowadays he just reads my term papers and tells me I'm brilliant, politely declines to read my blog or be friends with me on facebook so that I don't have to censor myself, and doesn't give me any grief for being single other than occasionally abusing the general male gender on my behalf. He's not my friend, he's my dad, and I appreciate the attention to the distinction.</div></div></div></div><div closure_uid_it6g2l="262"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_it6g2l="262"><div closure_uid_wv5g23="369"><div closure_uid_byqb31="274">Like I said, great dad. So in the spirit of respect for fatherhood, there will be no representations of clueless dads who are roundly abused by spouse, neighbors, and children alike, such as Tim Taylor in <em closure_uid_wv5g23="410">Home Improvement. </em>Also, any TV show where I have the "oh, yeah, he's a dad" moment is sort of an automatic disqualifier, like Ricky Ricardo in <em>I Love Lucy. </em>TV characters who are beloved and eccentric and truly terrible fathers also did not make this list--I'm looking at you, Red from <em>That 70s Show</em> and George Sr. from <em>Arrested Development. </em>Also, I will not even dignify Homer Simpson with the title of father. The number of online lists that cartoon gets onto makes me shudder. Also, and this is completely unfair, but when I find out too much about an actor's off-screen behavior while filming, perfectly likeable father characters like Danny Tanner from <em>Full House</em> are no longer palatable or listable. </div></div></div><div closure_uid_it6g2l="262"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_it6g2l="262">An addendum to the methodology: We didn't have TV after I turned ten years old, and even when we did it was basic channels and closely monitored. If any glaringly obvious classic father figures are missing from the list, it's because I never got to watch the show. But I'm sure they're very nice. Put them on your own list, this one's mine. </div><div closure_uid_it6g2l="262"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_it6g2l="262">And now, with plenty previous ado, we begin the countdown with</div><div closure_uid_it6g2l="262"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_it6g2l="262"><div closure_uid_j1xntg="282"><strong>#15: </strong>John Schneider, <em>Smallville</em>'s Jonathan Kent</div><div closure_uid_j1xntg="282"><br />
</div></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcinStJKhZHlvQoyKe-qQgwicXKn4NcgG4irWSIz7eLT7lQpg-KO29LR673VilAPJQ0r6UAt3dsUUseddL1temT0gCmQ3TmPRv7nMX4GyStGgnpQ099SGF7S_ubAPE1p-P69_UkZmJprw/s1600/Jonathan+Kent.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320px" qaa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcinStJKhZHlvQoyKe-qQgwicXKn4NcgG4irWSIz7eLT7lQpg-KO29LR673VilAPJQ0r6UAt3dsUUseddL1temT0gCmQ3TmPRv7nMX4GyStGgnpQ099SGF7S_ubAPE1p-P69_UkZmJprw/s320/Jonathan+Kent.jpg" width="213px" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mmm. Floppy haired goodness. I'm allowed to check him out--he's not <em>my</em> dad.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div closure_uid_it6g2l="262"><div closure_uid_wv5g23="449"><div closure_uid_byqb31="275">Let's not kid ourselves. Being the dad of an alien would be hard work, even if he wasn't an indestructible god-like force. And being the dad to an indestructible god-like force would be a cake-walk if that same 'roid pumped snot face wasn't a broody little misfit who has a thing for the wrong girl almost as consistently as he's seduced by the dark, bald side of the force. Jonathan Kent pulls off moralisms with minimal fuss, is believable as a hay bale-throwing Midwesterner, and is . . . just so, so pretty. Wish he still had the The General Lee around, I wouldn't object to being taken for a spin.</div></div></div><div closure_uid_it6g2l="262"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_it6g2l="262"><div closure_uid_j1xntg="264"><strong>#14: </strong>Jason Bateman, <em>Arrested Development</em>'s Michael Bluth</div><div closure_uid_j1xntg="264"><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0FzIj-UPQiQgKkfo7njTo8IiO7pvaxouFse0hBqc0pLHusAuW718Ny40FBm5v9emBa2NC39IMgrkDsnons2gHyIQNLKpm1bjDjgmrsRnzGw7gQyO12SSc0POikDe9fKYuGn6csX8K_n8/s1600/Michael+Bluth.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" qaa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0FzIj-UPQiQgKkfo7njTo8IiO7pvaxouFse0hBqc0pLHusAuW718Ny40FBm5v9emBa2NC39IMgrkDsnons2gHyIQNLKpm1bjDjgmrsRnzGw7gQyO12SSc0POikDe9fKYuGn6csX8K_n8/s1600/Michael+Bluth.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div closure_uid_byqb31="276">I'll never be able to listen to "Afternoon Delight" with any kind of reverence. Not that I really could before</div></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div closure_uid_j1xntg="264"><br />
</div></div><div closure_uid_it6g2l="262" closure_uid_j1xntg="283"><div closure_uid_j1xntg="284"><div closure_uid_wv5g23="483"><div closure_uid_byqb31="277">Michael has a lot on his plate. He has the most grasping, needy, neurotic extended family in the universe, and having his jailbird father squirrelled away in their faux home doesn't make things easier for him. And while his son, George Michael, is a peach, he's the type of pale, pudgy, hairless, cousin-lusting peach that repulses most normal people. But Michael Bluth loves him anyway, and even frequently has old-fashioned Opie-Andy moments that warm the heart.</div></div></div><div closure_uid_j1xntg="284"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_j1xntg="284" closure_uid_t9t07i="309"><div closure_uid_t9t07i="252"><strong closure_uid_j1xntg="285">#13: </strong>Nathan Fillion, <em>Castle</em>'s title character</div><div closure_uid_t9t07i="252"><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBkCFgLdxm9CjjNZZ-JSqIBCoeRmApJAMwcyVUAaKecQ98tGwBw8nXcsbVFB9N0LkTjBceExEcdtIpJXuT1UF81lB1Nh3xw5ia8UNwKnDX3U71Oc8gcg5CahW00HHJa6UQYnZo7Bt4yVw/s1600/richard+castle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320px" qaa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBkCFgLdxm9CjjNZZ-JSqIBCoeRmApJAMwcyVUAaKecQ98tGwBw8nXcsbVFB9N0LkTjBceExEcdtIpJXuT1UF81lB1Nh3xw5ia8UNwKnDX3U71Oc8gcg5CahW00HHJa6UQYnZo7Bt4yVw/s320/richard+castle.jpg" width="317px" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> O Captain, <em>my</em> Captain. Mine.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div closure_uid_t9t07i="252"><div closure_uid_wv5g23="495"><div closure_uid_byqb31="278">Let's face it, Rick Castle--mega rich novelist with the emotional maturity and instinct for play of a fifteen-year-old boy--as your legal guardian and moral compass would be a dream. He is the epitome of self-indulgence and good humor, like a soft serve ice cream double dipped in chocolate and sprinkled with money. In fairness to the other dads, it must be acknowledged that he sorta caught an epic break by having a daughter so grounded and self-disciplined that I suspect government brainwashing. However, his handling of boyfriends and body image demonstrates an instinct for unconditional love that earns him his spot on the list.</div></div></div><div closure_uid_t9t07i="252"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_t9t07i="252"><strong>#12:</strong> John Spencer, <em>The West Wing</em>'s Leo McGarry</div><div closure_uid_ranetz="256" closure_uid_t9t07i="252"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_ranetz="310" closure_uid_t9t07i="252" closure_uid_wv5g23="528"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL1CWv4Q1YGp7nlLZaIC2Oik1rB-l8_25397vuOYkmiC2c11t-wFG7Pm9BU05AaBaKImH3aXUD3Y8qZRVGlhiRTTEtnQQbN5uoxbOAHDo82H-ENlJgovOIA6hyphenhypheneEAIZBo1cznahiggDRo/s1600/Leo+McGarry.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="256px" qaa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL1CWv4Q1YGp7nlLZaIC2Oik1rB-l8_25397vuOYkmiC2c11t-wFG7Pm9BU05AaBaKImH3aXUD3Y8qZRVGlhiRTTEtnQQbN5uoxbOAHDo82H-ENlJgovOIA6hyphenhypheneEAIZBo1cznahiggDRo/s320/Leo+McGarry.jpg" width="320px" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">O.G.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div closure_uid_ranetz="311"><div closure_uid_wv5g23="517"><div closure_uid_byqb31="279">Leo is a fantastic example of a much more realistic school of Dad. While he excels at his job, he's crazy awkward in his home life. The way he deals with this is by frequently growing petulant and dismissive with his daughter Mallory while simultaneously trying to keep her close. He barks at Mallory much more often than he opens up to her, but he still finds ways to express his affection and protectiveness, even if she'd probably prefer to flirt with his staff in peace. Gruff around the edges and incapable of make a straight statement of love, Leo ranks high in the category of adored yet off-putting patriarchs.</div></div></div><div closure_uid_ranetz="311"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_ranetz="311"><strong>#11</strong>:<strong> </strong>Michael Landon, <em>Little House on the Prairie</em>'s Charles Ingalls</div><div closure_uid_ranetz="311"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_ranetz="311" closure_uid_wv5g23="313"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrFc8sr1M3zwJy6s3EfXA-WRLy798XW-jikzyK0hOirJsusEMKt6XbxORTdB_RaFWNb6KkrOBvy2O5tYVpY5Hv6bGuFwi2QopmP-CFj_pVbvfBYxFfny9Ew4SYiJ_x00Rqx-Kfx2Zc1o8/s1600/Charles+Ingalls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320px" qaa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrFc8sr1M3zwJy6s3EfXA-WRLy798XW-jikzyK0hOirJsusEMKt6XbxORTdB_RaFWNb6KkrOBvy2O5tYVpY5Hv6bGuFwi2QopmP-CFj_pVbvfBYxFfny9Ew4SYiJ_x00Rqx-Kfx2Zc1o8/s320/Charles+Ingalls.jpg" width="285px" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div closure_uid_byqb31="280">If you're starting to notice the trend of Magnificent Locks, this is not happenstance. And you ain't seen nothin' yet.</div></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div closure_uid_lwemom="317" closure_uid_wv5g23="256"><div closure_uid_lwemom="266"><div closure_uid_byqb31="281">He's Pa. The infinitely kinder, wiser, more practical version of his wife, one who <span closure_uid_byqb31="282" closure_uid_lwemom="262" closure_uid_wv5g23="527" style="background-color: white;">understands Laura's high spirits and doesn't discourage his daughters from thinking they can do absolutely anything they set their minds to. Always struggling to make ends meet, he infuses their desperately poor existence with magic, protecting his children from wild beasts and Nellie Blye (synonymous?) with a tireless concern for their welfare. And then there's the hair, which I could probably dedicate a whole section of this list to. Pa is not to be beat.</span></div></div><div closure_uid_lwemom="266"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_lwemom="266"><strong>#10: </strong>Andy Griffith, <em>The Andy Griffith Show</em>'s Sheriff Taylor</div><div closure_uid_lwemom="266"><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1FgVNPysmfWnkmZy7HQHgs6jB8a0tN8MX5qZh2dAqCT468jOc1dx-6D1D1S0AOpDUQ1vJ9Lvy1-AoeFPgiIpzh-juuHO8T5Zfuabx6Kl8gPCWWhYTwOyPUaweAsks3NXtH_XymmGfT4E/s1600/Sheriff+Taylor.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320px" qaa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1FgVNPysmfWnkmZy7HQHgs6jB8a0tN8MX5qZh2dAqCT468jOc1dx-6D1D1S0AOpDUQ1vJ9Lvy1-AoeFPgiIpzh-juuHO8T5Zfuabx6Kl8gPCWWhYTwOyPUaweAsks3NXtH_XymmGfT4E/s320/Sheriff+Taylor.jpg" width="258px" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Even his ears seem kind. And law-abiding.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div closure_uid_lwemom="266"><div closure_uid_byqb31="284">I couldn't claim the title of red-blooded American if I didn't acknowledge that Sheriff Taylor is the essence of Manliness. He's an officer of the law, he's a hulking figure of a man, he enjoys fishing, shootin' breeze at the local barber shop, and keeping Barney Fife in line. And above all else, he's the kindest, gentlest father to itty-bitty-Opie that anyone could ever hope for. Really, I think he could have accidentally squished him into<span closure_uid_byqb31="283" closure_uid_lwemom="337" style="background-color: white;"> oblivion if he wasn't so conscientious. He's the type that I'm sure cries every time he accidentally steps on a caterpillar. Except that Andy Taylor's are simultaneously so manly and so sweet that they produce harty maple syrup for his flapjacks.</span></div></div><div closure_uid_lwemom="266"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_lwemom="266"><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><strong>#9: </strong>Peter Gallagher, <em>The O.C.</em>'s Sandy Cohen</div></div></div><div closure_uid_lwemom="272" closure_uid_wv5g23="530"><div closure_uid_lwemom="318"><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div></div></div></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4kWWrqVNuRGKQwL-RLxXJTEx_KYiJamSD9StS05dppX7BQ0GPTelDOX966qV6Ti-iDgMWF5JBaJgiImShv_p_-NLmz3D2Bz8XfIy-UaNj0fn7nKqPtyuZxxd1HpTHPT9HMSHfkgTNHC0/s1600/Sandy+Cohen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320px" qaa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4kWWrqVNuRGKQwL-RLxXJTEx_KYiJamSD9StS05dppX7BQ0GPTelDOX966qV6Ti-iDgMWF5JBaJgiImShv_p_-NLmz3D2Bz8XfIy-UaNj0fn7nKqPtyuZxxd1HpTHPT9HMSHfkgTNHC0/s320/Sandy+Cohen.jpg" width="320px" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div closure_uid_byqb31="285">Those eyebrows could kindly conquer continents. And my heart.</div></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div closure_uid_ecd6zh="256" closure_uid_lwemom="283" closure_uid_ranetz="311" closure_uid_wv5g23="529" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><div closure_uid_ecd6zh="257"><div closure_uid_byqb31="286">If pressed to reveal how I know about this character, I will claim that I am gathering only from hearsay. That is all I have to say about the matter. But seriously, Sandy is, like, the best dad ever. Coming from a wild background, he pulled himself into a position of respectability and wealth, but never lost touch with his roots. He devotes himself to his family and helping the unfortunate, never losing his idea of right and wrong while simultaneously having boundless faith in the potential of people society has written off. Also, he surfs and loathes yogaletes. Which just seals the deal.</div></div><div closure_uid_ecd6zh="257"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_ecd6zh="257"><strong>#8: </strong>Fred MacMurray, <em>My Three Sons</em>' Steven Douglas</div><div closure_uid_ecd6zh="257" closure_uid_g36bex="330"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX-2dOPim3zGXuUtNHUyoRVfOAApnoUZL_tyWvTRi5Bxyb70VgU-kwk8dLNCivBMvN0dgHHTwIZ8wLy2UxzWAip8-b_b9DXCKBO8xKW6VD1FWKBvEu0BkeI4Z_A-LqzMNWg1tBDb7qEQU/s1600/Steven+Douglas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" qaa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX-2dOPim3zGXuUtNHUyoRVfOAApnoUZL_tyWvTRi5Bxyb70VgU-kwk8dLNCivBMvN0dgHHTwIZ8wLy2UxzWAip8-b_b9DXCKBO8xKW6VD1FWKBvEu0BkeI4Z_A-LqzMNWg1tBDb7qEQU/s1600/Steven+Douglas.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" closure_uid_fg73ke="312" style="text-align: center;">Coiffed curls and cleft chins=trust</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div closure_uid_fg73ke="278" closure_uid_g36bex="331" closure_uid_wx6hu0="314"><div closure_uid_g36bex="256"><div closure_uid_byqb31="287">I have a mildly shameful loyalty to the show <em>My Three Sons</em>. It's unabashed agenda somehow circumvents any shakily constructed cynicism I may have put up and gets me absolutely pumped about how perseverance, optimism, hard work, virtue and a good hair gel can really keep the universe on an even keel. Mr. Douglas' backseat approach to parenting is comforting in that he is always interested in his boys welfare, but equally committed to allowing them to find their own path and passions. Corny it may be, but that doesn't make it less enviable.</div></div><div closure_uid_g36bex="256"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_g36bex="256"><strong>#7: </strong>Avery Brooks, <em>Star Trek: Deep Space Nine</em>'s Commander Benjamin Sisko</div><div closure_uid_g36bex="256"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpuaYYyeruyfMax2QgWf_OtkMqLIJ7lHK6gP9DXb4q4tl3rfuaeoHcIJZMcQJN_ABVSuzm7o79fjdaSN3UyTBVVgS5l8_48sNNbCRlfW-T942n53ormBUsK96-4mod2vuuqMWUSMjCsv8/s1600/Benjamin+Sisko.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320px" qaa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpuaYYyeruyfMax2QgWf_OtkMqLIJ7lHK6gP9DXb4q4tl3rfuaeoHcIJZMcQJN_ABVSuzm7o79fjdaSN3UyTBVVgS5l8_48sNNbCRlfW-T942n53ormBUsK96-4mod2vuuqMWUSMjCsv8/s320/Benjamin+Sisko.jpg" width="222px" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div closure_uid_byqb31="288">This kind of dapper demeanor must be passed from father to son.</div></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div closure_uid_g36bex="256"><div closure_uid_byqb31="289">Here's a man who devoted his life to the job without sacrificing his son's upbringing. Instead, he used his position as the commander of a far-flung space station to enrich his son's thinking, exposing him to new cultures and ways of life that helped boy Jake become a phenomenal writer. Even the initial struggle Sisko had with his son choosing a career so completely different from Starfleet was handled admirably, as Sisko relinquished the idea that his child should operate as a miniature perfection of himself. And, above all else, Sisko achieves this high rank of Fatherhood through his devotion to the greatest of sports--baseball. Jake was given every advantage, including superior taste in leisure activities.</div></div><div closure_uid_g36bex="256" closure_uid_ift7fh="330"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_g36bex="256" closure_uid_ift7fh="257"><strong>#6: </strong>Enrico Colantoni, <em>Veronica Mars</em>' intrepid Keith Mars</div><div closure_uid_g36bex="256" closure_uid_ift7fh="257"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_g36bex="256" closure_uid_ift7fh="330"></div><div closure_uid_g36bex="256" closure_uid_ift7fh="330"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><div closure_uid_t6tj06="286"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyhkLpPiqdm3XGZpM8Ou_3YYeoMfl3_HI9hIFf8N7LFyqbu_P8dnCstjvb0e-kIydQExGnZAa3hg7tqie2XKi91x0NjF5bvQiC9YJke-CW6XH-m6gYCX8XFJ4iuJIHD_9QSba_97MHyL4/s1600/Keith+Mars.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320px" qaa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyhkLpPiqdm3XGZpM8Ou_3YYeoMfl3_HI9hIFf8N7LFyqbu_P8dnCstjvb0e-kIydQExGnZAa3hg7tqie2XKi91x0NjF5bvQiC9YJke-CW6XH-m6gYCX8XFJ4iuJIHD_9QSba_97MHyL4/s320/Keith+Mars.jpg" width="220px" /></a></div></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div closure_uid_t6tj06="287">Look at them twinkling brown eyes. Songs could and will be written.</div></td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div closure_uid_g36bex="256" closure_uid_ift7fh="330"><div closure_uid_byqb31="290">Keith plays on multiple themes touched on by fathers lower down in the rankings. A father whose job is the absorbing task of pursuing truth and justice, Keith also recognizes and focuses on his child's potential. Ex-Sheriff Mars never tries to dissuade daughter Veronica from demonstrating her brilliance and resourcefulness, and strikes up a partnership that allows her to flouish. He may occasionally set traps of spraying ink when she starts to snoop into areas best left alone, but that's really more in the attitude of a rival colleague than an overbearing parent. His affection and faith that his daughter will develop into a truly remarkable person is never shaken, and his personal struggles never color his treatment of people in trouble or pain.</div></div><div closure_uid_g36bex="256" closure_uid_ift7fh="330"></div><div closure_uid_g36bex="256" closure_uid_ift7fh="330"><div closure_uid_t6tj06="328" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
<strong>#5: </strong>Jeffrey Dean Morgan, <em>Supernatural</em>'s John Winchester</div><div closure_uid_t6tj06="328" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgse27acym3gYMjNSl956zPrfzy04WouW0V2ByyGhefXMv2EUjrKZvOOjcq2nKP9L4d6BlQZrZZu76DXVbuKnEBpDX8FnnPoNZerSVstgVNs__F76GkvjoVo6jk1wDeQ2eEWA7AbEIWqGo/s1600/John+Winchester.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320px" qaa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgse27acym3gYMjNSl956zPrfzy04WouW0V2ByyGhefXMv2EUjrKZvOOjcq2nKP9L4d6BlQZrZZu76DXVbuKnEBpDX8FnnPoNZerSVstgVNs__F76GkvjoVo6jk1wDeQ2eEWA7AbEIWqGo/s320/John+Winchester.jpg" width="251px" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div closure_uid_byqb31="292"> . . . there are no words. Well, yes there are, but they'd probably creep y'all out.</div></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div closure_uid_t6tj06="359" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><div closure_uid_i3966="271"><div closure_uid_byqb31="291"> Ok, yeah, so maybe he slightly abandoned his sons for periods of their childhood in his one-man quest to capture the demon who killed their mother. And maybe he's a textbook case of the non-communicative, ever demanding, praise and affection witholding type of father. And maybe when I gaze into those eyes and contemplate his scruffy jawline I find I don't care in the slightest. No, but really. John Winchester had his flaws. But he had an iron grip on the difference between good and evil, and more than that, he sold his soul to the devil in exchange for his son's life. Eternal burning, the whole nine yards. I find I can forgive quite a bit in the face of that level of devotion. Basically I just need to be in the face of his face and I am completely persuaded of all his virtues.</div></div></div><div closure_uid_t6tj06="359" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_t6tj06="359" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><strong>#4: </strong>Edward James Olmos, <em>Battlestar Galactica</em>'s Commander William Adama</div><div closure_uid_t6tj06="359" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><div closure_uid_ra4p23="254"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQDcxP1_BHNsZpdGtVTzgRtGQD-ohgpCEBn1s_qnb0xLDLsKYrMD_ITGZMmPVTszS_xVrLt6wWo5_tgVqicfFZeM1C3npc3fupcoJwNPg3m_b4_OeWQy7LhKWk0jE7RjmVA5h0EShn67s/s1600/William+Adama.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320px" qaa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQDcxP1_BHNsZpdGtVTzgRtGQD-ohgpCEBn1s_qnb0xLDLsKYrMD_ITGZMmPVTszS_xVrLt6wWo5_tgVqicfFZeM1C3npc3fupcoJwNPg3m_b4_OeWQy7LhKWk0jE7RjmVA5h0EShn67s/s320/William+Adama.jpg" width="238px" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div closure_uid_byqb31="293">I'd be perfectly fine with this being prominently placed on currency.</div></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div closure_uid_ra4p23="255"><div closure_uid_c237qy="335" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><div closure_uid_byqb31="294">Now, if I were this estimable hunk of honor, grit, and smarts, I would have considered my duty to humanity complete when I realized that I had contributed my DNA to the creation of the Sun God:</div></div></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO4V4NlCKgORCjFYmYo6hiUnSw7QYNPiEUGJ1Wdgk4NTsytxHD8h3yG8rm3m0Iltb3wiLHrRDbAlmO2GDwOR90cMZq4h_A7l5-c8WrNt42-GcXh5cpzr28_Jl_14NRCa8IEA7D2ULjRBg/s1600/Apollo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" qaa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO4V4NlCKgORCjFYmYo6hiUnSw7QYNPiEUGJ1Wdgk4NTsytxHD8h3yG8rm3m0Iltb3wiLHrRDbAlmO2GDwOR90cMZq4h_A7l5-c8WrNt42-GcXh5cpzr28_Jl_14NRCa8IEA7D2ULjRBg/s1600/Apollo.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" closure_uid_byqb31="295" style="text-align: center;">Feel free to linger over this image as long as you wish.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div closure_uid_c237qy="256" closure_uid_ra4p23="255" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><div closure_uid_c237qy="365"><div closure_uid_ozvc4q="267"><div closure_uid_byqb31="296">But was our inestimable leader of the remnants of civilization satisfied with that? Not in the slightest. He proceeded to be a truly remarkable father. While reticent and closed off at times, he sees the end of the world as a second chance, an opportunity to reach out and give all of his worldly wisdom about the value of human life. He clings to the best parts of mankind, never letting despair and bitterness overcome him or those in his command. The best part? He didn't just do this with the above godly hunk of flesh who had a genetic claim on his concern. He became the father of the entire fleet, never tiring in his duties to each of them in turn. Now, go back and stare at Apollo again if you need to. I know I do.</div></div></div><div closure_uid_byqb31="297" closure_uid_c237qy="365"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_c237qy="365"><strong>#3: </strong>Victor Garber, <em>Alias'</em> Jack Bristow</div><div closure_uid_c237qy="365" closure_uid_wx6hu0="256"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_c237qy="365"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhemq2V0PpMMimsr34n8QqtvoFpjDqwFIbe4i4gNX6AHpzk-4uKPEvrNWtzAtORxehWyXZk9Js2b-yhyphenhyphenhovaWFBUO9Ih3LssEKytNNPyXvnDzqHJGd9inAkwL6hDW22ymU2tibjaCUUTd4/s1600/Jack+Bristow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" qaa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhemq2V0PpMMimsr34n8QqtvoFpjDqwFIbe4i4gNX6AHpzk-4uKPEvrNWtzAtORxehWyXZk9Js2b-yhyphenhyphenhovaWFBUO9Ih3LssEKytNNPyXvnDzqHJGd9inAkwL6hDW22ymU2tibjaCUUTd4/s1600/Jack+Bristow.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" closure_uid_wx6hu0="311" style="text-align: center;"><div closure_uid_byqb31="298">Such terrifying loyalty.</div></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div closure_uid_wx6hu0="277"><div closure_uid_byqb31="299">Jack brings to the table at levels of Certainty no one ever could (or should) rival. There is no force in heaven or earth that could sway Jack from his core purpose in life, which is keeping his daughter Sydney safe. Jack is unhampered with any feeling of individual significance, nor is he distracted by any semblance of a personal life outside of his daughter. Jack truly considers that his only point of worth, the sole contribution he can make to the world, is in using his particular set of skills to ensure that Sydney lives. Did we mention that this skill set involves warehouses of currency, munitions, and instruments of torture? Jack doesn't care how much he has to compromise himself. Sydney is all that matters.</div></div><div closure_uid_wx6hu0="277"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_wx6hu0="277"><div closure_uid_ozvc4q="315"><strong>#2:</strong> William Henry Cosby, Jr., <em>The Cosby Show</em>'s Dr. Heathcliff Huxtable</div></div></div></div></div></div><div closure_uid_g36bex="256" closure_uid_ift7fh="257" closure_uid_ozvc4q="266" closure_uid_t6tj06="273"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUOcNcZMyTdQq748O51oyoa1diWpJJYJXgp_ErrXpxSsjELmR_Rb5lVxPo5poVZT3zjG72MVShjGVAwzAveK7rKhip66eDsM2A5B2P_mcwm41e0I7p1uFpRRHPxoDss5ZJaLPN80B7el8/s1600/Heathcliff+Huxtable.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" qaa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUOcNcZMyTdQq748O51oyoa1diWpJJYJXgp_ErrXpxSsjELmR_Rb5lVxPo5poVZT3zjG72MVShjGVAwzAveK7rKhip66eDsM2A5B2P_mcwm41e0I7p1uFpRRHPxoDss5ZJaLPN80B7el8/s1600/Heathcliff+Huxtable.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" closure_uid_ozvc4q="313" style="text-align: center;">Dad is great! Gives us chocolate cake!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div closure_uid_ozvc4q="314"><div closure_uid_je7pmx="253"><div closure_uid_byqb31="300">Dr. Huxtable brought you into this world, and he can take you out of it again! Not only is he wisecracking and silly-faced, Dr. Huxtable demonstrates an inspiring level of love and tenderness toward his brilliant wife. As a team the Parents Huxtable encourage their children to pursue their strengths wholeheartedly, kindly expecting them to see obstacles only as challenges that they will soon conquer. The level of common sense he teaches and tender affection he shows to all his children is a marker that few will ever reach, let alone surpass.</div></div></div><div closure_uid_ozvc4q="314"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_ozvc4q="314"><strong>#1: </strong>Kiefer Sutherland, <em>24</em>'s Jack Bauer</div><div closure_uid_ozvc4q="314" closure_uid_ubn2yh="257"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM0UrsSgyRjXwRQ7WkvUk3NGo_qZr15ptZX67eFoC_vsj75OTsfconUp2EKOh7TGihY8g2MtrDUnDMPzdZNG2RQBhy8LyNjTtjAYVMlk24nIRnxgBTU2-HDsofAlJ73ap2kT_J7hvgl-k/s1600/Jack+Bauer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320px" qaa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM0UrsSgyRjXwRQ7WkvUk3NGo_qZr15ptZX67eFoC_vsj75OTsfconUp2EKOh7TGihY8g2MtrDUnDMPzdZNG2RQBhy8LyNjTtjAYVMlk24nIRnxgBTU2-HDsofAlJ73ap2kT_J7hvgl-k/s320/Jack+Bauer.jpg" width="233px" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mr. The Bauer, Sir. My Liege.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div closure_uid_je7pmx="258"><div closure_uid_i3966="294"><div closure_uid_byqb31="301">Here it is. The epitome of what it is to be a dad. Also, the final proof that it really doesn't matter how much you suck, everyone deserves a great dad. Kim can go ahead and spit everything her father gives up for her back in his face, but Jack still walks through fire, bombs, terrorists, torture, more bombs, incompetent world leaders, and sleep deprivation to make sure you're ok and able to continue living your sucky life. But Jack is untouched by Kim's untreatable level of lameness. He rises above it all, the perfection of filial duty, love, and bad-ass gauntlet-throwing defiance. I love my dad, Jack, but if I could trade him for you . . . I'd have to think about it. If your hair was floppy I'd already be sold.</div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12187271371863115410noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7303803140060090027.post-80056990324023446072011-08-15T15:49:00.006-06:002011-08-16T09:04:34.798-06:00My Emotions Wrapped in Vines<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div closure_uid_enprt6="261"><div closure_uid_wjfi9h="254"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjns1wwZaa5N_tWqiC6UDkNZ3pvZ5XqombQ6avxh9g648H2UsUszPXLR8WJNdUUPFSw3U6YwptT_byJPg18h4scZofHZf8y24jpJEyLXBElPs6YvvbmJTrbSZmvLdS01zocplW1wnLv0eI/s1600/Der+Blaue+Reiter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjns1wwZaa5N_tWqiC6UDkNZ3pvZ5XqombQ6avxh9g648H2UsUszPXLR8WJNdUUPFSw3U6YwptT_byJPg18h4scZofHZf8y24jpJEyLXBElPs6YvvbmJTrbSZmvLdS01zocplW1wnLv0eI/s320/Der+Blaue+Reiter.jpg" width="320px" /></a></div><br />
Ok. I just finished up my 16 credits that I in a fit of ambitious vanitas thought would be a great idea for my summer vacation. I have precisely two weeks until my 20 credit fall begins, I'm still in the note-taking-research-gathering stage of my symposium paper, my friends are fleeing the area like krill evading humpbacked whales, they still haven't re-released chocolate cherry Diet Dr Pepper (it's like drinking a Tootsie Roll pop! The nation is being robbed of that tantalizing taste bud treasure!), and my haircut refuses to be as punked-out-Zooey-Deschanel as I would like. In essence, today I am a crank. And in the spirit of sloughing off personal improvement for my brief two weeks of academic freedom, I am going to sink into my crankiness. It's going to be like when Mowgli is falling asleep and Kaa makes him the bed of tree leaves that perfectly fold over and snugly ensconce Mowgli into a bed of green bliss, except this time the leaves are discontent and glowering resentment. So, as an outward expression of my momentarily ill-tempered soul-klavier, I present:</div></div><div closure_uid_enprt6="261"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_enprt6="261"><div closure_uid_wjfi9h="264">THREE WILDLY OVERRATED THINGS*</div></div><div closure_uid_enprt6="261"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_enprt6="261">1. Raisins</div><div closure_uid_enprt6="261" style="text-align: left;"><div closure_uid_wjfi9h="253">Hey, here's a grape. A grape that we deliberately sucked all juice and flavor and delicious grapeness out of. Essentially, the raisin is the bottled water of California. They're just baffled, bemused, and boozing it up over the fact that we keep on paying them for this product.Wanna put it in hot cereal, so that it's withered, dusty, dry skin can get sorta wet and become a mushy insult to grapeness instead of a leathery one? Or hey, you could put it in bagels. Delicious, dense, shmear-covered bagels, which you would typically take luxurious bites of at will, but now you're held up every few minutes by the fact that you're not positive if you just ate an ill-fated potato bug that inexplicably made it into the bagel dough, or a dehydrated fruit whose presence is equally mysterious. </div><div closure_uid_wjfi9h="253"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_wjfi9h="253">What an alarming way to start the morning. </div><div closure_uid_wjfi9h="253"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_wjfi9h="253">Or, if you're feeling particularly vicious, you can use these ravaged once-refreshing morsels to trick your friends into thinking that they're about to enjoy a bite of carrot cake or cookie. How sad, how foolish of them to think that you actually liked them and wanted to give them chocolate. That'll show them to try and look after you when you're sick. They've received the message--you return favors by feeding people grapes that have been tortured and violated until they're a mockery of their own form. </div></div><div closure_uid_enprt6="261"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_enprt6="261">Speaking of soulless pretenders to much greater things, let's move on to the second subject on our list:</div><div closure_uid_enprt6="261"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_enprt6="261"><div closure_uid_wjfi9h="265">2. Iron & Wine</div></div><div closure_uid_enprt6="261" closure_uid_wjfi9h="266"><div closure_uid_wjfi9h="252"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_wjfi9h="252">First things first: only the best of the best can pull off having a band name for a one-man-show. Take a wild guess on whether I'd put you in that best of the best category. Also, if you notice that most other bands can only pull off having one or two tracks per album that reach your level of mellow non-music tinkering on the banjo, it's because they've discovered that if they pursue that level of non-dynamicism for all their songs people will mistake them for hack jobs who want you to fall asleep quickly before anybody notices that their music really isn't that good. And Samuel Beam, I really can't stress this enough: <i>You must stop whispering</i>. If you don't stop whispering each and every one of your mediocre melodies in a tone that implies that your sub par, vague lyrics carry the secrets of the world, I may have to attack your larynx with the ragged edge of my Diet Coke can. I think it would improve the sound. And maybe provide you with a brief glimpse into an actual range of emotion for your music. </div><div closure_uid_wjfi9h="252"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdXeLB5jWy5QiEVnxn-A8kFOV_6aBrtiYxjyXLOhoUSSld82ihBwhc50nuUiyz4vThkoxFLPah8-615-bv-x1MKlFWyFHyJNiYDBVyDYjlJqR0AVhWBG5k_fnFlRaUYOTusIncqfFwqoo/s1600/Caligula.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdXeLB5jWy5QiEVnxn-A8kFOV_6aBrtiYxjyXLOhoUSSld82ihBwhc50nuUiyz4vThkoxFLPah8-615-bv-x1MKlFWyFHyJNiYDBVyDYjlJqR0AVhWBG5k_fnFlRaUYOTusIncqfFwqoo/s320/Caligula.jpg" width="237px" /></a></div><div closure_uid_wjfi9h="252"><br />
<div closure_uid_e4jgn8="271">An addendum: Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel should be permitted to take turns flossing your teeth with their mandolin strings for having to suffer the indignity of their immortal "Hello darkness, my old friend, I've come to talk with you again because a vision softly creeping left its seeds while I was sleeping" being compared favorably with your vastly inferior "Have I found you? Flightless bird, jealous, weeping. Or lost you? American mouth. Big pill looming." Sheesh. No wonder Kristen Stewart picked you for the Twilight soundtrack. Ohhh, burn.</div></div><div closure_uid_wjfi9h="252"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_wjfi9h="252">3. Harry Potter movies</div><div closure_uid_wjfi9h="252"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_wjfi9h="252">The number of times I read "My Harry Potter journey is coming to an end! *sob*" and various other forms of the same sentiment when the final movie came out made me want to rip my hair out. Well, most things make me want to rip my hair out these days. My hair sucks. But this one made me also want to rip out other people's unsuspecting hairs. And eye teeth. Apparently if I were a serial killer I'd be the type to collect trophies. Not unlike Voldemort. Which brings me back round to my point. You wanna know when yours, mine, and everybody's Harry Potter journey ended? July 21, 2007 when the last book was published. I remember getting off my shift at the greasy spoon diner I was carhopping for that summer, driving directly to Barnes & Noble, and buying two copies so that Alan and I wouldn't sabotage each other to read it first. That was the end of the journey. Cause Harry's scar hadn't hurt for nineteen years, and everything was all right. Finito.</div><div closure_uid_wjfi9h="252"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_wjfi9h="252">If we were talking about film adaptations that reached the caliber of book adaptation of <i>The Lord of the Rings</i> and <i>The Godfather, </i>I'd be more willing to negotiate. But no director with a sweeping vision or love of the deeper themes of the story came in and crafted an interpretation that stayed true to the characters and narrative while taking liberties that brought out the sweetest notes of the underlying message. The Harry Potter movies are crass commercialization, a capitalization on a truly delightful world of possibility and imagination that got shoved unceremoniously through a thirty-year-old carbon copy machine, emerging smeared with ink and stretched until the paper itself was almost translucent from wear. </div><div closure_uid_wjfi9h="252"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_wjfi9h="252">Instead of picking apart the entire series, I will highlight one character to make my point: Hermione Jean Granger. Brilliant. Passionate. Idealistic. Loyal friend. Bitingly sarcastic. Feisty. Impatient. Know-it-all. Socially awkward . . . . Hot? Pouty, whimpering, girly? Ew! Stop it. I feel betrayed by the movie franchise. Hermione was the example that people could still like you, that you could be valued on a totally different bar graph, that smarts really <i>did</i> stand alone as a value, that all of these elements were so much better than not having buck teeth and frizzy hair.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGdRT6w2nCWDHUkLbHpcvPPXV_7MB4dn4g1ykBJgZ-U_L1L1U-C1poat21i72B0h5YOL1e0NUdJ0tApKqoQbH53h-cukHYrnVuUeobgPnbtDsOLqyLf70_a-xJmuuovNbex9pTnpgpYV4/s1600/Vogue.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGdRT6w2nCWDHUkLbHpcvPPXV_7MB4dn4g1ykBJgZ-U_L1L1U-C1poat21i72B0h5YOL1e0NUdJ0tApKqoQbH53h-cukHYrnVuUeobgPnbtDsOLqyLf70_a-xJmuuovNbex9pTnpgpYV4/s400/Vogue.jpg" width="308px" /></a>Am I over identifying here? Of course I am. Which only makes my criticism carry more weight, because I'm the key part of the demographic who had the most to lose in the movie's desecration of Hermione. If there is so much as one single "but she's hot" comment on this post, I will annihilate you with rubber bands. I don't care how long it takes. I will find a way.<br />
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<br />
I'mma gonna go watch <i>Some Kind of Wonderful</i> now. And listen to a lot of Heartless Bastards. But not at the same time. That would make no sense.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
</div></div><div closure_uid_enprt6="261">* I am perfectly aware that I am mortally offending some of my dear friends right to the quick with this list. Know that I still love you, see the above paragraph about how cranky I am, and . . . get over it? Too harsh? Kisses!</div><div closure_uid_enprt6="261"><br />
</div><br />
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</div>Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12187271371863115410noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7303803140060090027.post-11317500918570304332011-07-13T14:42:00.003-06:002011-07-13T15:27:23.782-06:00If We Weren't So Alike You'd Like Me A Whole Lot More<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9z4gW5gDTnMy_RDTBbbusKLaWKVIxP7pt0Ow5wX6-VZxefg4MPQ1gmG3igUKHsjpBy3ygWodqEFjSXeWzeo-mzxG1_2ggDePcypGhGPCD9eOGiOzMSU4Zh-Wihazi1HFnZ3vULYFFV2g/s1600/Christo+and+Jeanne-Claude.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212px" m$="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9z4gW5gDTnMy_RDTBbbusKLaWKVIxP7pt0Ow5wX6-VZxefg4MPQ1gmG3igUKHsjpBy3ygWodqEFjSXeWzeo-mzxG1_2ggDePcypGhGPCD9eOGiOzMSU4Zh-Wihazi1HFnZ3vULYFFV2g/s320/Christo+and+Jeanne-Claude.jpg" width="320px" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Sometimes I just really wish that my world had more properties of a claymation film. I'm not wild about the gross teeth and the creepy blinking that are inevitable byproducts of the claymation process, but I do think it would be hugely useful in the aspects of the consequence-free self mutilation and dramatic punishment of others. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">For instance: the next time I get a migraine as bad as the ones I've had the last few weeks and some brutal soul decides that that's funny, I think the world would be a better place if I were free to wrestle that person to the ground, spear them through the ears with twin apple corer peeler slicers, and just start turning both instruments in opposite directions, letting their skin peel off in delicate spirals and their flesh be sliced into precise, concentric circles. If I could do this to someone without the actual gore, I'm pretty sure my head would feel much, much better. </div><br />
And if the next time I'm subjected to being within earshot of a conversation with my boss's boss--the one whose voice has a throaty, dull, moist quality that feels like two rotting, mushy pieces of wood smacking against a rubber buoy--I was able to pull my skin away from the corners of my mouth and use my entire face-flesh as an appropriate cushion between my ear drums and the voice, I'd be better able to get through the day. See? Being mutable clay would have its advantages sometimes. <br />
<br />
I can say with some certainty that the hands down best way to start off a day is to enthusiastically freak out to "Twist and Shout" in the middle of a gas station with one's big brother. Although it didn't hurt that we got to pass all the hot air balloons rising off the field with graceful majesty right before the fortuitous tunage. Yes, there is such a thing as a majestic thirty-foot-tall inflated Smoky the Bear head. The only one who surpassed our benevolent guardian of the forest was the sensuous yet dignified Coke bottle.<br />
<br />
When you take a moment to look at it objectively, hot air balloons as an enterprise are just uncommon strange, even before you branch off into shapes.<br />
<br />
The other day Jason, Rosemary, and I were discussing the environment when I used the phrase "don't shit where you eat." Jason was in Jason-like hysterics (meaning he laughed) for the next five minutes, saying that hearing that folksy-type phrase coming out of my mouth was just jarring and ridiculous. So let's clear something up, here and now: <br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">My grandparents were farmers or the children of farmers. Half of them come from Canada, half from the exotic County Weber. Sugar beet factories, bee farms, truck driving, alcoholism, and spinning wheels figure heavily into my very near and dear history, as do the early loss of teeth and the tendency to view with deep suspicion people who pay for a hair cut. We don't be fancy folk. Which I enjoy immensely, it makes family reunions much more entertaining. Also, despite the fact that I've been talking everybody's ear off about my symposium in Savannah and how I'm going to be the most sophisticated world-travelling art historian since Brad Pitt (re: Mr and Mrs Smith), this does not mean that I don't get/want to pepper my talk with more savory phrases. There's only so many times you can use the word "aesthetic" in a paragraph without needing to go have a vigorous game of horseshoes with the second cousins to help regain a personality. </div> <br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I've spent the last two months living on a raw, raggedy edge; my nerves have been laid o<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE2WkcD-x03A89UQpGTKk50f2f0tEtrci_zsSss9yFw3qOQe_1jtCe_BlzJrkPiaqPtv5fflFrgkDNYNLduruRUx4Mp3y6SnYxbKBOWHERG2UdhOL8RtfZgavS43seGwKHohMNLUAMj44/s1600/Goya.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400px" m$="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE2WkcD-x03A89UQpGTKk50f2f0tEtrci_zsSss9yFw3qOQe_1jtCe_BlzJrkPiaqPtv5fflFrgkDNYNLduruRUx4Mp3y6SnYxbKBOWHERG2UdhOL8RtfZgavS43seGwKHohMNLUAMj44/s400/Goya.jpg" width="276px" /></a>pen like an exposed wire, reacting with violent sparks and sputters to every fluctuation in mood or routine, bound to blow at the very next encounter with any hint of friction. I'm twitching around haphazardly, trying to keep my glazed focus on something--anything--all while I swear even the ends of my hair are shredding at a faster rate in order to keep up with my mind.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">That said, I think the very nature of this chaos has helped me suck out the marrow of what summer should be whenever I've gotten the chance. Even while most days I've been so wrapped up in my own head that I've been about as useful as a screen door on a submarine, there have still been the nighttime croquet games. Hour-long games of catch, moments stolen sitting with friends on the curb in a summer thunderstorm, treks at midnight to the cheap taco stand, all have been made that much sweeter and Epic in contrast. I have the bug bites to prove it: my half-gnawed carcass is evidence that despite the fact that my brain has been like a turtle on Prozac, I'm still living life. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"></div><br />
A symptom of my constant frenzied state of brain has been my abuse of Bush's "Glycerine" on my playlists. I don't know if that is due to the song being almost chewable in it's melancholy angst, or if I just feel better every time I compare myself to Gavin Rossdale. My life may lack a certain panache, and I very likely will flunk the GRE, but at least I'm not a washed-up one-album-wonder who married Gwen Stefani in a mutual sell-out that has lead them down the path of paired lameness ever since. I'm no Gavin Rossdale. It's become a mantra.</div>Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12187271371863115410noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7303803140060090027.post-66084650281311028862011-05-24T12:56:00.004-06:002011-05-25T10:25:12.095-06:00I Ain’t Been Home To See My Baby In 99 And One Half Days<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTz2WNMsFQIfWB-Wz7eth-WobLF33rNwx1T8zxsQhVv7nXzo2v7r2odlvc7Kl-jkNSyiIuzsFUzmGoYBdkzHCg9uJozWdhUkmPZqgvAwErrMEyQ_V5nT-B36Am_yPo9M3-MvRl6cGIZuw/s1600/Goya.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="177px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTz2WNMsFQIfWB-Wz7eth-WobLF33rNwx1T8zxsQhVv7nXzo2v7r2odlvc7Kl-jkNSyiIuzsFUzmGoYBdkzHCg9uJozWdhUkmPZqgvAwErrMEyQ_V5nT-B36Am_yPo9M3-MvRl6cGIZuw/s320/Goya.jpg" t8="true" width="320px" /></a></div>Due to a complex and uncontrollable course of events, I don’t have shoes to wear at work today. And I’m trying to see if I can make it to one thirty without anyone in the office noticing that I’m wearing mismatched striped socks and nothing else. This to my brain seems to have been translated into a creeping, pointed-toes-first sort of saunter that is certainly the polar opposite of stealth. <br />
<br />
Luckily my path to and from the printer is largely unobserved. I’m already psyching myself up for my trek to the break room when this can of Diet Coke runs out. That route is a veritable minefield of bored workers who might take it into their head to closely observe all trans-offices pilgrimages for any deviations from routine. I believe the neurotic fool who overcompensates for a lack of rubber-soled footwear by prancing like she could launch into a pirouette at any moment would provide too much fodder for them to handle without a shovel.<br />
<br />
I’ve decided that 60s rock-blues is the perfect accompaniment to this drizzly, dank, droopy weather. Joplin, Velvet Underground, and Jimi have been very heavy in my rotation of albums at work the last few weeks. And since Janis has been such a sweetly melancholic balm while the sun refuses to shine, I was more than a little appalled that they named the weather pattern that has killed over one hundred people Tornado Joplin. Too soon, guys, too soon. <br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div>Yes, I do understand that I’m fairly screwed up for devoting more attention to a critique of tornado naming than I do to worrying about real people being hurt. I’ll work on getting worked up about that. <br />
<br />
I’ve been having my typical spring-induced burst of eloquence/need for attention, but I haven’t been able to channel this into blog form. Every time I log in and get ready to type I get overcome with a guilt complex about not doing my math homework. Due to this overreaction of mine, I am now three sections ahead of where I need to be, and I think I’m going to keep up that pace until I just obliterate the whole course, because nothing brings on the crazy like math. <br />
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I’m not going to elaborate how much of my mental powers I daily devote to the argument that my ability to divide polynomials is going to have literally no impact on my career/life/endeavor to become an interesting person, but trust me, it’s a subject I dwell on with some passion. </div><br />
But much more troubling than my futile sophist arguments against systems of equations is how quickly math slickens my grasp on reality until is slips out of my minute yet tenacious grip. I don’t know why my mind wanders from the task at hand so quickly—probably the lack of adjectives—but usually about forty seven seconds into my first math problem I get bogged down in the philosophical inquiries that the presence of math naturally hazards. For instance: is the assertion that the rules of math have been proven in nature just another example of man imposing a law of order onto an uncompromisingly anarchistic universe? Do we find the proofs for geometric laws because they’re there, or because we crave to see them? In other words, is 4 really divisible by 2 independent of man’s consciousness or influence, or is 4 divisible by 2 because we need it to be?<br />
<br />
See, there’s a reason why I stopped taking math after Pre-Calc sophomore year of high school. I argue that my judgment to stop the madness there should have been respected.<br />
<br />
I was totally gearing up to dive into the various difficulties that come with making new acquaintances and friends. I’m fascinated with how much I can completely misrepresent myself while making only truthful statements. But every attempted sentence related to this topic kept on coming off either self-congratulatory, self-loathing, or creepily detached. Which I suppose means we best shelve that discussion for another time.<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">It should be noted that tonight I am finally gaining some closure on a nine-year-stale grievance. Tonight, I shall see u2. Bono shall serenade me. More importantly, The Edge will rock my soul. My parents better cross their fingers that those irascible Irishmen still have their groove, because if this concert doesn’t blow my concept of what is legendary, they’re never getting off the hook for denying me the chance to see their Elevation tour back in 2002. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmcuoFyV_yFFcrZcDh-V0za2PHy8tbLsLjWshxqbS4xrcg7LeQgbbtuaB3yuewue2jq86l9hIoWY3mDN4icmr-VcdbBT1h6nUdazfRYcgF4sJncPY6lc-b8ro6vCCQWkmcYSTwJHSqDiM/s1600/Munch+Vampire.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="248px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmcuoFyV_yFFcrZcDh-V0za2PHy8tbLsLjWshxqbS4xrcg7LeQgbbtuaB3yuewue2jq86l9hIoWY3mDN4icmr-VcdbBT1h6nUdazfRYcgF4sJncPY6lc-b8ro6vCCQWkmcYSTwJHSqDiM/s320/Munch+Vampire.bmp" t8="true" width="320px" /></a>I know, how leftover teenage angst of me. I should just bust out the Slim Fast and Daria and call it a Nostalgia Tuesday. Maybe if I feel super rebellious I can watch the copy of Moulin Rouge I used to hide in the shoebox under my bed, cleverly concealed beneath my ballroom shoes between the layers of tissue paper.</div></div>Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12187271371863115410noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7303803140060090027.post-66434381583908565592011-05-03T13:58:00.000-06:002011-05-03T13:58:56.231-06:00Some Things Need To Be Said<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0DwLls9hXhF6jtTCurZfZ214bt7p15CuCOiXFrU5HgxiS5c9vzH62nNSW3Au2icWrKAMwennqFw_WNBk9eWiwx3ngCEkvJzMs_SrTJy-aQr-Gnr3bGMQ1c1kXHhjvXPhawCT-7JFrcvc/s1600/Wreckage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="275px" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0DwLls9hXhF6jtTCurZfZ214bt7p15CuCOiXFrU5HgxiS5c9vzH62nNSW3Au2icWrKAMwennqFw_WNBk9eWiwx3ngCEkvJzMs_SrTJy-aQr-Gnr3bGMQ1c1kXHhjvXPhawCT-7JFrcvc/s400/Wreckage.jpg" width="400px" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I’m about to blow every shred of my carefully accumulated, ferociously guarded street cred. In this blog, I’m going to dispel for all of my liberal friends and associates the meticulously nurtured conception that I, I am their conservative friend who cannot be dismissed out of hand, for (even though I profess unashamedly to being conservative) I have never stated anything particularly outrageous. Through my careful nonspeaking about political matters, I have been identified as reasonable by those who I disagree with. This is of course typically achieved by not voicing much of anything at all, but I’m going to break this tradition and destroy all these years of hard work. I feel like I’ve earned a good ol’ freakout. </div><br />
<br />
It all comes down to this quote:<br />
<br />
"I mourn the loss of thousands of precious lives, but I will not rejoice in the death of one, not even an enemy."<br />
<br />
This has been attributed (falsely) to Dr Martin Luther King, and has spread like wildfire over the webbytubes via Twitter, blogs and facebook statuses less than 48 hours after it was announced that Osama bin Laden had been found and killed by US Special Forces. <br />
<br />
Here’s where I’m going to offend a lot of people.<br />
<br />
How nice it is, how very comfortable, how open-minded and accepting and sensitive of us to choose the highest of high ground regarding bin Laden’s death. How much is speaks for my generation that we have taken this of all moments as the time to claim our philosophical position, to use this moment in history to demonstrate that we are above the maddening crowd. It’s so enlightening to see my peers view the reaction to the death of a mass murderer with idealistic eyes, to watch them weep sophist tears of pity and condemnation for those whose more base instincts took over and compelled them to gather at Ground Zero to savagely toast the continuation of barbaric acts. I’m sure my peers are all very proud and satisfied with themselves.<br />
<br />
I, on the other hand, I am enraged. <br />
<br />
I have had reason to be embarrassed by my generation in the past. I have seen (and admittedly participated) in a movement of apathetic materialism. I am fully aware that our canon of behavior dictates that our reaction to any overt display of emotion, patriotism, or reverence for tradition must be consistently one of arch, jaded bemusement. As the information age has expanded and the social network revolution spiraled on, the people of my demographic have responded with the dichotomy of a self-absorbed urge to document everything while remaining aloof from any true commitment of passion, conviction, or action. <br />
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">To you all, I have this to say: responding to bin Laden’s demise with a catchphrase concerning the sanctity of life does not demonstrate your depth. It showcases your debilitating naïveté. You have become so ensconced in your comfortable distance from reality that you now embarrass yourself in your complete lack of context or scope. </div><br />
Osama bin Laden was by all accounts a quiet man of measured tone, intelligence, and reason. He was no mad man frothing at the mouth. This makes it all the more sickening that his lines of logic lead to the calculated conclusion that the violent destruction of life was to be his life’s work. He calmly determined that those who lead lives in a manner contrary to his own radical teachings had no value, and that it was not only his duty to murder them, but to do it in such a way that even survivors would feel the threat and fear hang over them in their daily life. He was not my neighbor who slighted me and who I should in the end find it within me to forgive and mourn. He was the mastermind behind a force who is seeking to eliminate me and mine.<br />
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I rejoice that his potential for evil has been cut down in the most final of ways. I mourn that he is not alone in this perverted world view, but I celebrate that his individual capacity for wicked works is at an end. I believe that the fact that he prevailed this long after his attack on New York City was psychologically damaging to us, the survivors. I consider it essential that we be able to see that in the end those who perpetrate mass acts of hate against us will be brought down and stamped out. And I resent the proliferation of people who hand down judgment on me for responding this way to his death, who aim to paint me as one with a Neanderthal-like grasp on ethics, or just too absorbed in my mundane existence to pull above such ‘savage’ responses. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO3eyP0801fhmZrF25BjySMAaZxO2Iz936FeaxH5hfxUYV5CC8auPQbXFAMfAF07FzxjUvPo-zxThyDRmIEJzCE47Vq-bpyf-b_soxuDTxLpx6kJvR7UlDusZHf_jUfMJayQxijCs9R5I/s1600/Lady+Justice.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320px" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO3eyP0801fhmZrF25BjySMAaZxO2Iz936FeaxH5hfxUYV5CC8auPQbXFAMfAF07FzxjUvPo-zxThyDRmIEJzCE47Vq-bpyf-b_soxuDTxLpx6kJvR7UlDusZHf_jUfMJayQxijCs9R5I/s320/Lady+Justice.jpg" width="320px" /></a>I celebrate that the very pluralism of society that allows me to offend all my comrades as much as they deeply upset me is the same society that bin Laden felt to be so offensive that he wished to obliterate it. Better luck next time, Osama. I relish the very contradiction of terms, and am exultant that a threat against all I consider holy has been neutralized. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div>God bless the troops who performed this righteous deed, and our President for having the conviction to follow through on an unpleasant but necessary task.<br />
<br />
</div>Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12187271371863115410noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7303803140060090027.post-11936832034996699332011-03-29T12:35:00.002-06:002011-03-29T13:19:35.676-06:00Who Are All These Strange Ghosts Rooted To the Silly Little Adventure of Earth With Me?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZRTxMbR_NESWrowQDv3h9e5TH4xZ6XsWGOkZi3d5cuy2hjNObmIvtjjmmcyO-zjFb0nIWSN7PSIF2-tBZeFS_DLmwgDSdsva0hoayx2E_mtnSe-X4wcU77oFT-dHKuCKG3AWWzY02E0o/s1600/Claude+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZRTxMbR_NESWrowQDv3h9e5TH4xZ6XsWGOkZi3d5cuy2hjNObmIvtjjmmcyO-zjFb0nIWSN7PSIF2-tBZeFS_DLmwgDSdsva0hoayx2E_mtnSe-X4wcU77oFT-dHKuCKG3AWWzY02E0o/s320/Claude+1.jpg" width="291" /></a></div>Free Willy was a lie. Or rather, Free Willy was a partial and misleading truth. We shouldn’t let the whale back into the wild because it’s our friend and a sensitive, gentle creature. We should let the damn whale back into the wild (whether it was born in captivity and has the resources to survive or not) because if we don’t, they’re going to attack us by our ponytails, drag us to the bottom of their tank, and hold us there until we drown. Whales are not friends; they’re hostile prisoners of war. <br />
<br />
Yes, I am talking about the Shamu franchise at Sea World. I get periodically worked up about this, it’s like how I sporadically and with no exterior stimulus go into rages about how Louisa May Alcott fails as a writer by selling us the Laurie-Jo relationship only to renege and trying to convince us that the Laurie-Amy marriage isn’t one of the more creepertastic developments in all literary history. But I digress. Back to how we’ve had the wool pulled over our eyes concerning the proper course of whale-human relations. <br />
<br />
From a criminal justice perspective, the consequence for throwing the human being who feeds you back and forth until she loses consciousness and drowns should not be a spectacular light-and-water show and the adoration of thousands of children. That is, unless you put forward that forcing the whale to perform inane tricks in a tiny habitat is a fitting punishment, but then it would inevitably be pointed out to the judge that the risks to innocent civilians is only increased by this cruel and unusual imprisonment. So, we either gotta let Shamu out of his plea bargain or set him to cracking rocks, because this is just ridiculous.<br />
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I blame the marketing blitz that the whales, with the help of their well-paid cohorts, have implemented—I’m looking at you, MJ. Did your conscience burn with a pain akin to your erratic, struggling heart as the end neared? Did you contemplate how you had lent your compelling vocals to this campaign of misinformation? (Aww, too soon? Don’t look at me like that.) </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb2fKsrnuR75Uj04vaXzspQqraOEZ4duUiV74zz-UstBM027PRM4oeGNLA6SNiMOxTZdX0EJGQvA0EsSDpfYr4jmd24azdphHqznCK1ZdVsKlpo3cy8QNFOHhgaOb9Bl-6zdDgUq68yJg/s1600/Claude+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb2fKsrnuR75Uj04vaXzspQqraOEZ4duUiV74zz-UstBM027PRM4oeGNLA6SNiMOxTZdX0EJGQvA0EsSDpfYr4jmd24azdphHqznCK1ZdVsKlpo3cy8QNFOHhgaOb9Bl-6zdDgUq68yJg/s1600/Claude+2.jpg" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">We need to return to a Melville-heavy perspective, make Ahab a tragic hero who is doing his part for mankind to eliminate massive water-born killers. This blatant propaganda full of calm violins accompanying those majestic underwater film shots that the human-hating National Geographic fascists keep shoving down our throats is confusing our children, distorting the justice system and our God-given sense of preservation. I’d enlist the Disney juggernaut in this media counteroffensive, but they showed their true colors with the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Fantasia 2000 </i>segment where they cannibalized Respighi’s<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> Pines of <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Rome</place></city>.</i> Flying whales? What new devilry is this?!</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">It should be stated here that penguins and dolphins are still adorable and still deserve our friendship. Also Professor Bhaer is a perfectly nice man, yet is found infinitely wanting.</div><br />
Ok, children, here is the maiden voyage of our hopefully semi-annual Magnificent Woman tribute. Today’s recipient is a Surrealist photographer and writer; she would have won me over solely for being an influence for my favorite photographer that ever breathed (Cindy Sherman), but she tips the scales into uncharted awesomeness by doing two of my favorite things: creating a space for women in the misogynist Surrealist movement, and fighting Nazis:<br />
<br />
Claude Cahun, as she was known, intentionally selected a sexually ambiguous name to replace her birth name of Lucy Schwob. Cahun's life was marked by a sense of role reversal; her works pointedly challenged the public's notions of sexuality, gender, beauty, and logic. Surrealism is rooted in Freudian psychology, a branch of thought that displays women as incomplete versions of men, driven largely by their jealousy of what men are and an unconquerable sense of incompetence based on their essential womanhood. Cahun’s presence provided a counter to this predominantly male Surrealist art, with their primary images of women as isolated symbols of eroticism, and strove to epitomize the chameleonic and multiple possibilities of the female identity. In tandem to her photography, Claude worked on a series of monologues called "Heroines," which was based upon female fairy tale characters that intertwined traditional stories with witty comparisons to the contemporary image of women. <br />
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">In 1937 Claude and her partner Marcel settled in Jersey. Following the outbreak of World War II and the German invasion, they became active resistance fighters and propagandists. The two produced anti-German fliers, many of them snippets from English-to-German translations of BBC reports on the Nazi's crimes, which were pasted together to create rhythmic poems and harsh criticism. The couple then dressed up and attended many German military events in Jersey, strategically placing them in soldier's pockets, on their chairs, etc. Also, fliers were inconspicuously crumpled up and thrown into cars and windows. In 1944 they were arrested and sentenced to death, but luckily the war was ended before the sentences were ever carried out. However, Cahun's health never recovered from her treatment in jail, and she died in 1954.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_Gxisdt8itWh86FaoL0SSXBPtiFuS6UlMcN4MsGb-m-qEQyzu8yReIVF1ITbccRtVa4u2_A4VPVGyllpx7tdcnMzZ8zrRxqpwLokXJ7JQGAm5XEmpE33yISAmlG8vP_X9tqqva_FXp8k/s1600/Claude+4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_Gxisdt8itWh86FaoL0SSXBPtiFuS6UlMcN4MsGb-m-qEQyzu8yReIVF1ITbccRtVa4u2_A4VPVGyllpx7tdcnMzZ8zrRxqpwLokXJ7JQGAm5XEmpE33yISAmlG8vP_X9tqqva_FXp8k/s320/Claude+4.jpg" style="cursor: move;" unselectable="on" width="252" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">She was totally nuts. Look at those crazy eyes staring at you out from the mirror. I absolutely love it.</div></div><br />
To complement this tribute, and to satisfy the requests of some of those who attended my symposium lecture a couple of weeks ago, I’m including excerpts from the Riot Grrrl Manifesto that was published by the Bikini Kills: <br />
<br />
BECAUSE we must take over the means of production in order to create our own moanings. <br />
<br />
BECAUSE we don't wanna assimilate to someone else's (boy) standards of what is or isn't. <br />
<br />
BECAUSE we are unwilling to falter under claims that we are reactionary "reverse sexists" AND NOT THE TRUEPUNKROCKSOULCRUSADERS THAT WE KNOW we really are. <br />
<br />
BECAUSE we know that life is much more than physical survival and are patently aware that the punk rock "you can do anything" idea is crucial to the coming angry grrrl rock revolution which seeks to save the psychic and cultural lives of girls and women everywhere, according to their own terms, not ours. <br />
<br />
BECAUSE we are interested in creating non-heirarchical ways of being AND making music, friends, and scenes based on communication + understanding, instead of competition + good/bad categorizations. <br />
<br />
BECAUSE we are angry at a society that tells us Girl = Dumb, Girl = Bad, Girl = Weak. <br />
<br />
BECAUSE we are unwilling to let our real and valid anger be diffused and/or turned against us via the internalization of sexism as witnessed in girl/girl jealousism and self defeating girltype behaviors. <br />
<br />
BECAUSE I believe with my wholeheartmindbody that girls constitute a revolutionary soul force that can, and will change the world for real.<br />
<br />
Don’t some of those sentences make you want to smack your lips with pleasure and satisfaction? <br />
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb_rHusZNbl8wIDMYqP7Oig6jXt3fafYBMRL-psJw_PGs_QrsOdQJFiXn70lYrcLLqhEYCkYkTvyZ3mlLxJUZ8goK4rffwTWHSePsJWXg7ZE3tPHhY96rb_czVKg6ngg0NuZsK4WMAbBA/s1600/Claude+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb_rHusZNbl8wIDMYqP7Oig6jXt3fafYBMRL-psJw_PGs_QrsOdQJFiXn70lYrcLLqhEYCkYkTvyZ3mlLxJUZ8goK4rffwTWHSePsJWXg7ZE3tPHhY96rb_czVKg6ngg0NuZsK4WMAbBA/s1600/Claude+3.jpg" /></a>I hope I never end up being a Cameron Diaz. Pretty much all she can contribute to the film industry is the occasional movie where she Doesn’t Suck. I would hate to have my high points be defined as just Not Sucking. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">And speaking of films and the relative level of suckage, let’s get something clear once and for all: I don’t care what film and television reviews say. And I certainly don’t consider viewership to be relevant to whether I’m going to be entertained. But most importantly, I’m never going to consult a review before seeing a film that has already sparked my interest, and when people forcibly parrot to me what they’ve heard of a movie—either before I’ve seen it or as a counter to my impressions when they still haven’t seen it—I become massively irritated. Twitchy, seized up muscles, creepy calm face and dead disingenuous eyes irritated. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div>Ye have been warned. Yonder there be treacherous waters.<br />
<img height="96" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_Gxisdt8itWh86FaoL0SSXBPtiFuS6UlMcN4MsGb-m-qEQyzu8yReIVF1ITbccRtVa4u2_A4VPVGyllpx7tdcnMzZ8zrRxqpwLokXJ7JQGAm5XEmpE33yISAmlG8vP_X9tqqva_FXp8k/s320/Claude+4.jpg" style="filter: alpha(opacity=30); left: 199px; mozopacity: 0.3; opacity: 0.3; position: absolute; top: 1451px; visibility: hidden;" width="75" /></div>Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12187271371863115410noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7303803140060090027.post-36017938227193763612011-03-08T13:08:00.003-07:002011-03-08T19:06:18.528-07:00A Desperate Attempt to De-Legitimize Myself<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx9tnDB0otXVQnYAsnMUaWYjSp4II5bpsBZXbD-SwM4p3x0WEZ_CIKnKOpH1t4zC3EChVGIlhPgVUZ_F-U4kjDq0kLowS2SzC-e9Wz_LCndcbDKZMpDsKac-z3OSWlivJjspafMk8zo_k/s1600/de+Kooning.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" q6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx9tnDB0otXVQnYAsnMUaWYjSp4II5bpsBZXbD-SwM4p3x0WEZ_CIKnKOpH1t4zC3EChVGIlhPgVUZ_F-U4kjDq0kLowS2SzC-e9Wz_LCndcbDKZMpDsKac-z3OSWlivJjspafMk8zo_k/s400/de+Kooning.jpg" width="303" /></a></div>Ned is a fabulous whistler. Ned is the jolly very deaf old man who occupies the corner opposite from me in our basement, plodding along at his mysterious accounting responsibilities which after almost two years I still haven’t quite been able to identify. He also takes long and very contented-looking naps in the break room. I get jealous every time I go in there to get yet another Diet Coke. But above all, Ned whistles. He whistles in a fashion I would not have considered possible for someone so very deaf. His whistle trills, thrills, and sings. He also does that, by the way. Sings. Full-throated old-man sings. It’s great. More than a little bizarre, but great. All of this adds a little much-needed color to the homogenous crowd that is the accounting and payment services departments. <br />
<br />
That is, it did. Until yesterday.<br />
<br />
Beginning March 7th in the year of our Lord two thousand and eleven, Ned has persistently, consistently and quite accurately whistled “On My Own” from the seminal classic Les Miserables. Which is just dandy, except that once upon a time I was an overly delusional/emotional eleven year old who latched onto that song with a fervor and devotion unparalleled by anything except parasitic organisms. I really couldn’t tell you why I seemed so determined in fifth and sixth grade to identify with songs and sentimentalities that were so obviously out of my depth. But I was passionate about how much those types of songs “spoke” to me. <br />
<br />
<div style="border: medium none;">Me, the chunky eleven year old with glasses biting into her chubby cheeks and a sneaking suspicion that Santa maybe could still exist. Who was so far removed from the adult themes of those songs that a year later I bought a condom from a woman’s bathroom dispensary and still had no idea what it was. And I didn’t even have good taste. Sure, I though that “On My Own” spoke to me (because no one gets the pain and torture of lonely, beaten down women in the throes of unrequited love like prepubescent girls, right? Right?), but I also almost wore out Celine Dion’s “Falling Into You” album and I tuned into Delilah’s radio show every night on KOZY. </div><div style="border: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirZeqjqPvO-hReAL5n94vW4PvxzwpVGzzbVzDX1TlEuhm-H4CB5wEP6DDfcyfKGu13cm8DZL_mn4wDlwJO-aCMBZdKq9-5jPbKr-Aobt3vN4WsuY1kExLVYzXPELKPGA0auyjA-r33sC4/s1600/O%2527Keefe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" q6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirZeqjqPvO-hReAL5n94vW4PvxzwpVGzzbVzDX1TlEuhm-H4CB5wEP6DDfcyfKGu13cm8DZL_mn4wDlwJO-aCMBZdKq9-5jPbKr-Aobt3vN4WsuY1kExLVYzXPELKPGA0auyjA-r33sC4/s320/O%2527Keefe.jpg" width="192" /></a></div><div style="border: medium none;">Yeah. You read that right. I’m pretty sure I’ve never owned up to that until this very moment. Ohh, the hours I spent listening on the most maladjusted, dysfunctional, selfish people pour their hearts out to the always sugary, always banal Delilah! I blame her for my hypoglycemic condition as much as I do the unfortunate seventh grade diet of Slim Fast and Diet Coke. But it’s been enough time, and I’ve so very assiduously made up for it in the decade since, it feels right to come clean about my thoroughly lame use of time. </div><br />
This confession also explains why even to this day I shy away from overly demonstrative emotional displays. Because in my experience, eleven year olds who are fascinated by things they don’t understand are the only ones who behave that way. Which is incredibly unfair to many of my much more emotionally developed and comfortable friends, but it certainly is a clue to my reserved manner in matters of sentimentality.<br />
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Pretty much this entire line of thought is Ned’s fault, because he won’t stop whistling that beautiful but damned song, and I can’t stop cycling through my conflicting memories of appreciation and disdain.<br />
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This should also explain why I take such perverse delight in blasting “I Don’t Wanna Miss A Thing” by Aerosmith. It’s one of the emotion-junkie songs I didn’t really listen to until recently, and glorying in the ridiculously overwrought vocals is sorta therapy, some positive connections with something similar but not identical to that magnificently mortifying part of my childhood.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="border: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKM-SGNggIM8q8oFE9NjY-BySd8tdpC5AKOjk6jqgOjqFs7OLOAes2xFSiJsZ8HesOKUqESFKdiBoxvnwBwg2mfIozYMu1lgqhuUtclDALER6NQ8Vv52Boa6ofvXHHjxc_BS7CyF3_LQg/s1600/Steichen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" q6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKM-SGNggIM8q8oFE9NjY-BySd8tdpC5AKOjk6jqgOjqFs7OLOAes2xFSiJsZ8HesOKUqESFKdiBoxvnwBwg2mfIozYMu1lgqhuUtclDALER6NQ8Vv52Boa6ofvXHHjxc_BS7CyF3_LQg/s400/Steichen.jpg" width="247" /></a></div><div style="border: medium none;">It hurts my soul when Pandora lets music group profiles be written by people who really don't like the band. I’ve come to terms with people having different music tastes than me, and I don’t mind healthy criticism, but I do protest the time and place for such snarkiness. When you’re listening to your station on Pandora and click the group’s tab to learn more about them, it feels a little mean spirited and guerrilla warfare-esque to have every line full of little jabs at their authenticity or message. Take your aggression out on youtube comments like a normal person, for crying out loud.</div><br />
As is typical, this blog post is happening because I’m fairly openly terrified that I won’t have my stuff together for my symposium presentation on Friday. I could easily just do a twenty minute rant about the disenfranchised, voiceless modern woman, but I don’t think that would win many points with my professor. Or my mother. Or any of my male friends that might show up. <br />
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Ghaa, growing up and doing what you’ve dreamt of doing for years is just the worst.</div>Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12187271371863115410noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7303803140060090027.post-47057213645509088152011-02-25T13:06:00.000-07:002011-02-25T13:06:20.001-07:00You Can't Talk To A Psycho Like A Normal Human Being<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikqo_DQWixdphmhi9c3bBOUPkfPLLhQc94K2Bbs9T0OaG100BjY4IkNUOWKKuCZbH-EZ13-Oo2LzjrbPwewoWDMVUBsKi74Nd4n_F9Nu2O3CgRKQKoD6kbYI5nRJIjNtAd4zieAF58Xu0/s1600/Magritte.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="291" l6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikqo_DQWixdphmhi9c3bBOUPkfPLLhQc94K2Bbs9T0OaG100BjY4IkNUOWKKuCZbH-EZ13-Oo2LzjrbPwewoWDMVUBsKi74Nd4n_F9Nu2O3CgRKQKoD6kbYI5nRJIjNtAd4zieAF58Xu0/s400/Magritte.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Dear Snide People: When you talk about the American Dream with air quotes and derisive comments you are only demonstrating your own ignorance and misinformation. The American Dream is the concept that you can arrive at Ellis Island with nothing but the clothes on your back and through hard work, perseverance, a firm sense of reality and clear eye on your goal you can pull yourself up to a social standing where you are respected by your peers and able to care for yourself and family with comfort. The American Dream far predates ideas of ‘fame’ in the modern sense through youtube or reality programs. The American Dream even predates the concept of someone being a millionaire—nobody but heads of government had the ability to amass that kind of capital until the late nineteenth century. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div>The American Dream is almost solely about a land of opportunity where if you demonstrate ability and work ethic, you can be recognized for your achievements. No one will care about your upbringing or past acquaintance with squalor or ignorance. I actually think that this dream is enduring into the twenty-first century. So enduring that my definition probably appears to be far too simple, or even taken for granted by most. Modern America is very far removed from their immigrant forefathers who came from countries where caste and class ruled supreme, and where your position at birth truly dictated your choices. Of course the struggle to pull yourself out of a more obscure, resource-poor area is going to be more intense, I’m just saying that the American Dream promises that it is possible if you want and <em>work</em> for it hard enough. <br />
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The American Dream hasn’t been lost by this generation, it has merely been abused by rhetoric so that the definition is almost buried by disdain and smarmy remarks by media and intelligentsia who want to demonstrate their superiority to grasping lower individuals. I repeat: a pop star rocketing to the top of the charts with an inane, manufactured album is not achieving the American Dream. Neither is winning the lottery or becoming the new “It” fashion girl. It’s about an achievement-based society where you are given the chance to work your ass off and keep what you worked for without anybody looking down their nose at your efforts.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyUf4hXBTaMhySeMYmP4WRZoIEJ6SSMFz-qTh7DiIoMPv2uSSYcFlyYtVf2IsNiDI5O9Y604981KbpFUaKZsgpNQu7KBbkAWeV6MfNZqfVICjFcx0_h-q7ezddP5BOj3r70o7fQjl39fc/s1600/Klee.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" l6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyUf4hXBTaMhySeMYmP4WRZoIEJ6SSMFz-qTh7DiIoMPv2uSSYcFlyYtVf2IsNiDI5O9Y604981KbpFUaKZsgpNQu7KBbkAWeV6MfNZqfVICjFcx0_h-q7ezddP5BOj3r70o7fQjl39fc/s400/Klee.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>Ok, I’m done, that’s been bothering me for years. Those who have been holding back your sarcastic comments may now release your worst.<br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Alrighty, I’m going out on a limb this year. In an effort to sabotage any later attempt I may make to pretend that I had predicted the outcome of the entire Oscars, I’m putting my guesses/wishes out two days before the event. Note that I have eliminated the categories that I am either apathetic toward or lack knowledge about. Also be aware that I will be making it a personal effort to use the phrase “when I saw it at Sundance” as frequently as possible. Feel free to assume that I will be using my stuffiest tone.</div><br />
Best Visual Effects: <em>Inception</em>. They made a city fold into a cube. And it was cool.<br />
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Best Cinematography: <em>Black Swan</em>. The paranoid space of most of the show was such a fantastic contrast to how they filmed the dance sequences.<br />
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Best Art Direction: <em>True Grit</em>. Yup.<br />
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Best Song: <em>Toy Story 3’</em>s “We Belong Together.” Any animated film that could make me cry that hard was obviously doing something right, and I think that something was partly Randy Newman.<br />
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Best Documentary: <em>Restrepo</em>. I’d be thrilled for <em>Exit through the Gift Shop</em> if by some miracle they won, but I doubt it. I don’t believe the quirky value or what they address about the nature of contemporary art is “deep” enough for The Academy. I saw <em>Restrepo</em> at Sundance last January; not only was it well made, the subject matter was much weightier in ways the self-important Academy likes best.<br />
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Best Animated Film: <em>Toy Story 3</em>. As if there was ever any real competition for this one (I’m in the process of founding a non-profit to encourage the Toy Story makers to go and save Bo already).<br />
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<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Best Adapted Screenplay: <em>The Social Network</em>. Aaron Sorkin is a god and should finally be recognized as such. The Cohen brothers are already established deity; they’ll be fine without it. Also they had more fertile material to work with in the first place. Aaron magicked the analytical introspectiveness out of basically nothing.</div><br />
Best Original Screenplay: <em>Inception</em>. Breaking into Chris Nolan’s brain should be Leo’s ultimate goal. <br />
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Best Supporting Actress: Hailee Stanfield from <em>True Grit</em>. I get that she probably won’t win. But she should. Almost as much as Jacki Weaver from <em>Animal Kingdom</em> should, but I know she has even less chance. When I saw her performance at Sundance last year, she was the terrifying character that I carried around in my brain for weeks afterward. There’s something so sinister about grandma-seeming softness disguising a moral code that would make Mussolini blush.<br />
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Best Supporting Actor: Christian Bale in <em>The Fighter</em>. This is the category where I am blatantly hedging my bets, since he’s swept everything so far. I truly wish John Hawkes in <em>Winter’s Bo</em>ne would win—when I saw the movie at Sundance it was his intensity and inscrutability that captured my imagination and fascination. Also, the fact that he was able to be that terrifying while being named Teardrop was proof positive of his craft.<br />
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<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Best Actress: Natalie Portman in <em>Black Swan</em>. I’m most likely never going to watch that movie again, but good ol’ Nat completely immersed herself into the madness of that role, it was heartbreaking and stressful to watch.</div><br />
Best Actor: Colin Firth in <em>The King’s Speech</em>. He. Has. To. Win. I’ve always adored Colin Firth, largely because he has ever been so comfortably Coliny. In contract, this is the role of his lifetime. This is character where he pushed himself to the limits, and I want to celebrate how un-Darcy like he was from the rooftops.<br />
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Best Director: Darren Aronofsky of <em>Black Swan</em>. This man’s pysche lives in a dark and thoroughly unwholesome place. I’m genuinely worried about what drives him to take the audience to the emotional places that he does, but I can’t deny the fact that he is successful with every single attempt. So, bravo. <br />
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Best Picture: <em>The King’s Speech</em>. I really loved some of the other contenders, but as a complete film I felt like The King’s Speech was not only masterfully executed, it really had a soul. They captured an individual’s struggle and made it a deeply emotional journey for everyone watching. Truly enduring and important filmmaking was happening there. So I want it to win.<br />
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<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I feel like our culture is too preoccupied with our own sense of history. This isn’t peculiar to this century; most time periods that are richest in art and monuments were peopled by civilizations with an acute knowledge of how their own lives might influence their descendents. The problem I see with this particular brand of societal self-awareness is our inability to discern between mundane and truly important and far-reaching decisions. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9Y6G8hm8ADaKSshRVlBn6CbKiz_k1p_1Wq4oVibXGb75RLjY-5qX2TMN1PEIzQJ9wHiCcoqOnIP3xIqXS7LxkuACIlZpMYxur2hYoY8E8j6Pc3X9EG7Bv1wDF5vZKj2JEbVIPSYkKHkg/s1600/Magritte+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="317" l6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9Y6G8hm8ADaKSshRVlBn6CbKiz_k1p_1Wq4oVibXGb75RLjY-5qX2TMN1PEIzQJ9wHiCcoqOnIP3xIqXS7LxkuACIlZpMYxur2hYoY8E8j6Pc3X9EG7Bv1wDF5vZKj2JEbVIPSYkKHkg/s400/Magritte+2.jpg" width="400" /></a>This issue has been niggling at me with an increasing level of irritation, because I realize that I am a prime example of this problem--trust me, the irony that I'm discussing this on my blog is not lost on me. I feel the same urge to document, display, and decode the minutiae of my life as if my personal feelings about last week’s episode of Community or what color my hair was at my birthday party is somehow significant and hidden with potential nuance and depth. It’s a fairly abhorrent system when everybody is constantly behaving that way. I believe that the fixation on preserving a record of everything, on providing a running commentary for each day, actually inhibits our ability to be fully present. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div>The sad part is that I’m still going to feel compelled to update my status every day on facebook, even when I know that that very act will only highlight how thoroughly I’m already filtering my reactions and feelings through a historically compact and bloodless mechanism. </div>Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12187271371863115410noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7303803140060090027.post-59880406699409419542011-02-18T13:01:00.002-07:002011-02-18T13:02:40.669-07:00Your Legs Feel Like Sandpaper, You Can't Do Anything Right<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggdRbSQ_t3lM5Ec6ENVgjdLMQGghyphenhyphenG8pN_qKfPzAfDrtaEgcdy9R4mb-Z1DModrllfQ9COvueaUYfo8Ruy8pcqnIl7mFFwEhpEpHBgERUyMXGE5kvCGr5kdaCC57AvRDoJOjV-TzRwEG0/s1600/Maholy-Nagy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="248" j6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggdRbSQ_t3lM5Ec6ENVgjdLMQGghyphenhyphenG8pN_qKfPzAfDrtaEgcdy9R4mb-Z1DModrllfQ9COvueaUYfo8Ruy8pcqnIl7mFFwEhpEpHBgERUyMXGE5kvCGr5kdaCC57AvRDoJOjV-TzRwEG0/s320/Maholy-Nagy.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">From 1725 to 1890, the Salon de Paris was the academic organization which selected the subject matter, artistic execution, and categorization of all art that was to be exhibited publicly. In 1863 avant-garde artists rebelled against the Salon de Paris, declaring that the jury of the Salon de Paris was too conservative and inhibited true expression, experimentation, and advancement in the visual arts. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">To appease them, Napoleon III established Salon des Refuses, where Jury rejects could be shown to the public and given a shot for recognition. From this stemmed the Impressionists’ independent salons in the 1890s, and since then there has ceased to be any kind of academic or government control over what art could become the next big splash in the western world. In essence, the control of art was removed from the institutionalized few and instead given to the masses.</div><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">And look at what a mess has been made of that. I don’t want to blame the masses; I want to blame my very favorite and always deserving punching bag: the press/PR world. The media has successfully disemboweled people of any inherent taste or discernment in the art world. The same people who gave us the blown-out controversy of Pastor Terry Jones and the Quran burning last September, the classy classy folks who prey upon people’s disgruntled feelings and vindictive tendencies in order to get fodder for their next cash-cow scandals, these same Masters of Hysteria and Hounds of Hell-bound Controversy have demolished the simple dream of an artist placing his creations in a gallery and allowing those interested to peruse the work for an image that appeals to them. </div><br />
I may or may not have watched <em>Exit through the Gift Shop</em> last night, and it could or could not have caused this bitter diatribe on the fate of contemporary art. It shows how pervasively this grasping, leering façade of “being in the know” and the It Crowd has choked off individualism of taste or cognizance of preference. Bah, I banish all of you.<br />
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I’m going to take a beat and step away from the hair-pulling frustration to talk about one of my longest living loves: Anne Decatur “Poe” Danielewski. Poe has been one of my touchstone music artists ever since Daisy Krakowiak introduced me to her eleven years ago. Poe grew up in Provo, was an incredibly angry oppressed female rocker in the mid-90s with her first album, and in her second she exhibited an achingly eloquent full set of daddy-never-understood-me issues. She’s pretty much everything that is good and pissed off in this world. <br />
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<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">And yes, eleven years is a long time to stay excited about only two CDs and about 25 songs, but hey, it could be worse. I could be thinking that Avril Lavigne is legit. At which point you’d all be forced to leave me in a room paneled in bad pop art rip-offs and pipe in mediocre local whiny bands until I promised to behave myself in a more circumspect fashion. But that isn’t necessary, because I know what company I keep, and my friends Fiona, Joan, Bjork, Janis, and the ever present, ever fabulous Poe would never let me down. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge2nl1XKjYlYOgIC5178XJ9O3jGMCn77Q0A9NQ_iZPsjffGD8d-C9phXQZOxdDcquC4-6tJ9YEPI9ShWuk_Ltz_qXdsGCZ4hRKsxEfvkzfkPRN_PT_hcu-cD_mxF_i2HQLTUZyCa9tfgw/s1600/De+Chirico.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: right; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" j6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge2nl1XKjYlYOgIC5178XJ9O3jGMCn77Q0A9NQ_iZPsjffGD8d-C9phXQZOxdDcquC4-6tJ9YEPI9ShWuk_Ltz_qXdsGCZ4hRKsxEfvkzfkPRN_PT_hcu-cD_mxF_i2HQLTUZyCa9tfgw/s400/De+Chirico.jpg" width="303" /></a></div><br />
I’ve come up with a very fragmented theorem about friendship. Jason and I were talking the other day about levels of intimacy in relationships—strictly platonic ones—and I think that one of the key frustrations many people have (I’m going to keep this discussion to single people, because it’s the only first-hand experience I have) is linked to their mistaken idea of the permanency of friendships. I’m not talking about dramatic circumstances with people turning crazy overnight and deciding to put Nair in your shampoo instead of going to the movies, I’m talking about the impermanence of intimacy levels in friendship. Because in the end there are always two people involved, and people are inconstant in their commitments and how much they wish to open up. <br />
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<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">It’s like there are a million planes of familiarity within a friendship, starting with the surface and moving on down as confidences are shared and favors are given and taken more freely. I believe that friction within friendships starts when one party bumps another up a few planes back toward the surface end. Because everyone is out there thinking that intimacy levels are like staked-out territory in the Wild West—once it’s been seen and mapped out and claimed once, it’s there forever, you can mine away at your leisure or run off to another ranch for six months and come back and it’ll still be there. When in reality I think it’s more like trying to set up a claim on a wet patch of beach and fending off the sand getting pulled back into the surf by putting your hands up as barriers—there are far too many dimensional ways that everything can slip back to where it originated. </div><br />
So when one person is having a bad week or an anti-social moment or a shift in priorities, the other is left infuriated by this withdrawal but without the vocabulary to express the frustration because the basic understanding of how friendships work doesn’t operate in the reality of vacillating behaviors, it’s constructed in an ideal world of cemented landmarks on the road to deepest friendship. I don’t know if that made any sense, I’m going to have to tweak this some more, I’ve just been musing on the true impossibility of bringing two people together in any kind of fortressed battlement of deep friendship—one of them can always desert their post without malice and still bring ruin to the whole operation. I’d like to think that if people got a better perspective of how changeable all of this is, there’d be better communication and fewer feelings of betrayal: it’s so infrequently intentional, this separation, but it’s even less frequently fully understood.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkiCJA00FCUEt2R0Io5im9Q0yxizeOGj0jlxXViu0ls-LK9kieaCDE6zAMVSpS927j7MfB6v6IepQqom1CguzZazstPJXloayxBoIILjBvSkLI4AEy1g4k5wS1VahQh6NB5buNYTWIliA/s1600/Chagall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" j6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkiCJA00FCUEt2R0Io5im9Q0yxizeOGj0jlxXViu0ls-LK9kieaCDE6zAMVSpS927j7MfB6v6IepQqom1CguzZazstPJXloayxBoIILjBvSkLI4AEy1g4k5wS1VahQh6NB5buNYTWIliA/s400/Chagall.jpg" width="330" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I don’t know why I’ve been thinking about this, I guess it has something to do with my preoccupation with the fact that I’m the Bad Guy in somebody’s story. Ok, let’s not kid ourselves, probably many more than one somebody. But that realization is still just a few years old, and it’s a painful one to accept for a control freak like me who wants to be able to dictate that everyone understand the method and motivation for my actions, and when those still make me look like the Bad Guy then they should also take into account my larger life situation at the time, and when that still doesn’t justify it then the wronged party should just assume that I feel really really bad about it and leave it at that. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">See? My expectations are ridiculous and even more absurd when you hear my own woe-is-me-for-once-he-wronged-me-greatly tales. It’s at these moments that I just take a deep deep breath, consider holding it forever, and finally exhale with the momentary acceptance that there are some people who won’t like me and I can let that go, followed immediately by another attack of nerves as my controlling nature bucks against the idea of surrendering to bad opinion. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div>In the end I’ve found that a cocktail of Poe’s “Beautiful Girl,” “Dolphin,” and “That Day” keeps the craziness at bay just as competently as anything else.</div>Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12187271371863115410noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7303803140060090027.post-47690548890891348912011-02-02T12:45:00.002-07:002011-02-02T23:00:00.145-07:00The Terrible Shrew<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXbKzwz-oRAmnWpOKE6OrthLLGDxVHYdE9UY_xmV4xVv7CXp7DVs-Fj_oCxCXqGtZff9dKjUffaoYI4tMuyulECmQWeCR45YtJXne2q3SzxIxpGUHCJlUNuVU2zJ9GzKbu_2-CBTE5RcA/s1600/Munch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" s5="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXbKzwz-oRAmnWpOKE6OrthLLGDxVHYdE9UY_xmV4xVv7CXp7DVs-Fj_oCxCXqGtZff9dKjUffaoYI4tMuyulECmQWeCR45YtJXne2q3SzxIxpGUHCJlUNuVU2zJ9GzKbu_2-CBTE5RcA/s400/Munch.jpg" width="306" /></a></div>Continuing on my nerdy self-obsession with blog stats, I’ve noticed that in the last three years of blogos-ity I have had a very disappointing turnout in January postage. I’m trying to determine if this is in reaction to cold weather making me hibernate, my commitment to avoid reflections of last year or goals for the next, or my personal fixation on my own birthday that consumes the majority of my emotional quota and mental fortitude. The not so sneaking suspicion is that the latter carries the brunt of the blame. <br />
<br />
<br />
Does anybody else walk around or lounge about while purposefully adjusting one’s optic nerves so that you see double vision? It’s my go-to way to deal with fatigue, boredom, and/or a passionate desire to be able to deny having actually seen what was in front of my face—be it a roommate making out with her boyfriend, a bill, awkward people trying to flirt, or faux “impressionist” paintings from local artists of the 20th century. Plausible deniability and the shielding of my retinas from too many searing images is key to my already shaky mental soundness. Although I’m sure I look like a veritable brain trust sitting there with a glassy, unengaged look on my face.<br />
<br />
The inevitable Sundance Reflection: (Sorry, I wish I could dispense with this necessity, but the movies this year were just <i>really</i> good, guys. I’ll do what I can to only talk about one of them.) Resurrect Dead: The Mystery of the Toynbee Tiles was the documentary we saw. I’m going to do the blanket recommendation while sailing past the synopsis, because I’ve come to discover in the four days since seeing it that that this film is unsynopsisable. I am choosing to make it a personal goal to use that newly invented word at least once a conversation. Suffice to say, the Toynbee Tiles documentary was touching and intriguing and strangely personal in a way that makes you feel almost alien to your fellow viewers. Now, on to the aspect of the film I want to talk about. <br />
<br />
The Toynbee Tiles movie made me look at the ideas of advocacy and determination and devotion in a completely new light. Every story that we love about people like Thomas Moore, Galileo, Ghandi, Churchill, Sidney Poitier, Monet, Alexander Graham Bell, Louis Pasteur, Joan of Arc, Susan B Anthony, stories about people with conviction to an ideal that nothing—including the general ridicule and oppression of their peers or authorities—could shake, every story that is a success at least in an historical sense, all of these inspirational moments that are currently getting debased to greeting card levels, they are all indicators of hidden masses—of thousands of other individuals who believed as passionately, persevered as boldly, and ultimately sunk into obscurity. I’m not addressing the validity of these failed ideals or projects; I’m addressing the psychology of what that kind of bone-crushing, nerve-deadening, peel-your-skin-from-your-face agony it must be as an individual to possess so much conviction but only grow old and rust away in tandem with once-iridescent dreams of how the world could be changed. I find that suggestion to be haunting, and I no longer disbelieve or fail to grasp why bright, ambitious minds can be twisted into inconsolable and cankerous madness. <br />
<br />
Something that’s been waiting to get off my chest: Stephanie Meyer’s writings are to literature as rap is to contemporary music—except that rap actually has some creative merit. The day that becomes an SAT question, including the qualifier about rap, will be a day of glory, for it will signal that an era of duped, delusional, and degrading women’s roles has been ended. All kidding aside, kids, listen to your very very cool and intelligent Auntie Mary when I tell you that the relationship archetypes present in the Twilight series are genuinely toxic. The female character defines herself almost entirely by her relationships with men, openly admits to not knowing who she is without them, considers herself to be a grey, limp, and wholly unworthy adjunct to her counterpart, subjects herself to a mindset where she is cowed and apologetic for trying to establish friendships outside of her relationship, and on top of all this she has the personality of an uncooked dried-out wrinkly old lima bean. Our heroine of the 21st century, ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the age of gender equality and respect. Being thoroughly convinced that you are wholly inferior to your partner as well as helpless to stand on your own two feet <i>isn’t romantic</i>. All of this makes me want to shake my limbs until they flop off as an expression of discomfort. <br />
<br />
<div style="border: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnIqma2bjNMmzLHZKyU7arhuk0vkHDf1zYNJQyk8WQRtdSwx8Yuq017bNC2O7Or0_kuCIHyuB0k4TMfV1ljwsenPZOagYqKXU1bEsdiP8PxkiSCz4ySp6Wy2J2F7MsHdTaAg6AbOjK0sM/s1600/Munch+11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" s5="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnIqma2bjNMmzLHZKyU7arhuk0vkHDf1zYNJQyk8WQRtdSwx8Yuq017bNC2O7Or0_kuCIHyuB0k4TMfV1ljwsenPZOagYqKXU1bEsdiP8PxkiSCz4ySp6Wy2J2F7MsHdTaAg6AbOjK0sM/s400/Munch+11.jpg" width="281" /></a>As for rap, I actually have developed a secret but savory liking for the stuff. But I can’t get around the stereotypes of women either being sexual objects to be dispensed with at will or the malicious and treacherous saboteurs of the male psyche and success. I don’t understand how it came about that such a large percentage of one musical genre decided to shove half of humanity into such one-dimensional interpretations, but in the end I find that I cannot stomach much rap, no matter how much I may love the flow and poetry of it all. So there you have it. Eminem and Stephanie Meyer are joining forces to combat the progression of the American female. Have your lighters ready to burn them bras, ladies, I think Steph is going to be the far more formidable foe. </div><div style="border: medium none;"><br />
</div>But wow, I hope it doesn’t result in actual bra burning, I like mine far too much.<br />
<br />
</div>Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12187271371863115410noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7303803140060090027.post-63126679603346025412010-12-31T16:01:00.001-07:002011-01-03T12:07:24.779-07:00We're Just Two Old Souls Swimming In A Fish Bowl Year After Year<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW3dLQsFaXnCyWI725fZNj34FIUMlauOsXMBuu4zJCnZbZ-SbvjFCV6s-NFPnS0Iru45WrB3O5Nbeg6RUZ1CJL98sOD5q3OV01se2uyQYqqsPbFunTOSEwAgyKYgwVR7_CrdQNO4vbqzA/s1600/TV.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW3dLQsFaXnCyWI725fZNj34FIUMlauOsXMBuu4zJCnZbZ-SbvjFCV6s-NFPnS0Iru45WrB3O5Nbeg6RUZ1CJL98sOD5q3OV01se2uyQYqqsPbFunTOSEwAgyKYgwVR7_CrdQNO4vbqzA/s400/TV.jpg" width="286" /></a></div>There's something uniquely satisfying about having the first song of the day be an extremely angry chick-power song. I don't care that I have no reason to identify with it, I choose to be empowered. I've drunk from the Kool-Aid for so many years; I might as well reap the rewards of Poe furiously condemning men's narrow conception of women's place, capabilities, and potential. Rock on, angry feminists, I'll pretend I have a real reason to be this vindictive and righteously outraged if your music meets me halfway.<br />
<br />
So, I've been working on this blog for the last couple days, but haven't posted. Why, you ask? Does it have anything to do with a desire to put out a truly polished, well formatted and intricate posting? Sorry, wish I was that interested in your reading experience being pleasant. It has everything to do with the fact that so far this year I've written 19 posts, and that's a prime number and therefore awesome. Even numbers are to be avoided at all costs. Odd numbers are cool, but prime numbers? Shoot dang, that's the prize. But I've been pulling these nine hour (odd number!) days at work, and the stir craziness has been too much to bear--blog I must. I considered postponing the posting of said post (oooh, that was fun) until the New Year, therefore preserving my darling 19. But as soon as I had entertained that thought, I felt cheap. I knew I no longer deserved 19 posts with such cheating heart tactics as that. However, I comfort myself that this will be my 39th post ever (odd number!) and when you divide 39 by the 3 years I've kept up this blog is equals 13--not too shabby, I'm only two degrees from a prime number! That's like barely off-beach property. Quality stuff. <br />
<br />
Shit. I just took the precaution of recounting my posts and this will only be the 38th. Epic fail. I really don't know if I can handle the reality that I've annually posted even numbers of posts. And then I couldn't even count it right. Sigh. I've already walked myself through the whole accept-your-numbered-fate; it's far too late now to rejustify my actions.<br />
<br />
And yes, I do realize that I just gave a terrifying peek into how my brain relates things that may leave some of you scarred for entire minutes of your life. Shrug. Peoples is peoples.<br />
<br />
Here's a serious question: Did Keith Richards and Mick Jagger get what they wanted, or what they needed? I'm almost a little terrified to find out the answer to that either way, but the query intrigues me.<br />
<br />
So I sell my plasma for extra cash. It leads to lots of killer prostituting-myself jokes and is a great way to stretch from one paycheck to another. But my absolute favorite part of my twice-weekly visit to the plasma center is that I have a large and fervent following amongst the male phlebotomists.<br />
<br />
I'm not delusional, I don't mistake their excitement at seeing me and quick tussle to get my chart first as the final indicator that I have Arrived as the hawtest piece on the market. I understand that this level of devotion to me has a lot to do with the fact that the majority of plasma donors are men, and the few others who are women tend to look a little more . . . how shall I put this . . . "rode hard and put away wet" than I do. But hey, supply and demand being what it is I'm willing to supply my fresh-faced smile in exchange for some of shallow fawning my ego demands. <br />
<br />
Unfortunately, there is one aspect of the plasma donating process that ruins this illusion of hyperactive flirtation every time. The last step of screening, before the organization graciously agrees to stick a hollow needle in my arm for an hour and suck out my lifesource, is a routine battery of questions between me and one of the phlebotomists. These questions include "Have you ever had sex with a man who has had sex with another man, even one time, since 1977?" "Do you have hepatitis or have been in close contact with someone else who has hepatitis?" "Do you participate in high-risk behaviors like prostitution, recreational drugs, or needle sharing?" and, my very favorite question, because it always <em>always </em>includes a flickering glance at my stomach after I answer in the negative: "Have you been pregnant in the last six months?" Yeah, I dunno, maybe I'm just awfully sensitive, but being interrogated concerning your potentially criminal and wild sex life by someone you were shamelessly flirting with two minutes ago is a pretty big buzz kill. I just thought my meaningless flirting with people whose last names I don't know would be a little more . . . special.<br />
<br />
I think I find the name Brock to be offensive to my soul. Either that or I really like it, without a tangible reason why. I can't decide--all I know is that I have a visceral response to the name Brock, and I'm beginning to doubt it can be entirely blamed on the Treetop-apple-juice-toting lactose-intolerant boy in my second grade class who everyone called Brockoli. So if I end up having a kid and naming him Brock Cobain, don't look too surprised. I may have to name a kid Brock just so that I can objectively figure out if I hate the name or not. Just sorta sucks for him if I come down on the side of hating.<br />
<br />
I read Steve Almond's <em>Rock and Roll Will Save Your Life </em>last week. It was a lovely little read, except for the fact that I kept on having the thought "Wow, so I have really never had an original thought on my blog. This guy says everything I've ever touched on, and with infinitely fewer apologies or run-on sentences." But aside from my own insecurities, the book was great. Its main focus was delineating, defending, and demarcating what it means to be a 'Drooling Fanatic' of music. Not a rock star, just the people who are obsessed with said rock stars. I certainly am firmly entrenched in that sad little hole in the world.<br />
<br />
So, of course, while reading this book I about how Drooling Fanatics are the wannabe parasites of the music world I frequently escaped reality by envisioning what kind of rock star I would be if I somehow got in a horrible accident that shredded my vocal chords to a pleasing growl while simultaneously giving me that brush of death necessary to get over my paralyzing primness while performing. <br />
<br />
I quickly discarded that I would be an Epic rock star, let alone of the Timeless variety. I love Janis and Joan and Freddie way too much to consider myself worthy of the pantheon. Instead, I determined that I would be a rocker like The J. Gells Band or K's Choice who talk about finding their homeroom crush in the centerfold of Playboy or how people need to get off their backs for smoking. I'd glory in the mundane, find some humor in a daily encounter, all while getting to wear all the outfit combinations Becca won't let me wear in the real world and shredding the air guitar (the idea that I could ever actually become skilled on the real guitar is even further off in dream world than me being a rock star). <br />
<br />
Maybe after years of perfecting my observational humor lyric-writing Grandness I could hook up with a genuinely imaginative mind and we could write something in the grey outer edges of the magnificent world of songs like The Flaming Lips' "Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots." That, indeed, would be the peak of life achievement for any red-blooded American. <br />
<br />
But sadly, I think if I ever went down that road I would, as has so often happened to me before, get bogged down in the minutiae. I'd try to write a song about eating in a restaurant alone and watching strangers or how people need to back off my soda addiction and would end up writing a whole stanza about the napkin that looked like a mutated platypus and the song would get away from me. The loyal fans would try to finds the deeper significance of me devoting half an album to metallurgy, but in the end would just have to conclude that I'm someone who really likes shiny things. Ah, such is the fleeting mistress we potential failures call Fame. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0rPgGs9HbX2zrk4ivIyYqS68A0ndCbGh10NKZh8Jy1ehqFv3YJtLieERu_KsEBqEzvTwrGauh5G8ngiujGj9zbeP5ZJVSx8QShgzcyBWqWJh5SW2ToBBf4dFst30fhB6bjZf7-ZQpsvY/s1600/Kan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0rPgGs9HbX2zrk4ivIyYqS68A0ndCbGh10NKZh8Jy1ehqFv3YJtLieERu_KsEBqEzvTwrGauh5G8ngiujGj9zbeP5ZJVSx8QShgzcyBWqWJh5SW2ToBBf4dFst30fhB6bjZf7-ZQpsvY/s400/Kan.jpg" width="392" /></a></div>How much street/life cred would I lose if I admitted my discovery that Timbuktu and Kathmandu were real places in the world wasembarrassingly recent? For some reason I had some elaborately designed explanation for how those names were just nonsense words from Lewis Carroll's writings that denoted exotic locales. I don't know why I didn't take it a step further and decided Jabberwocky was really the name of a charming suburb nestled in the Swiss mountains, but my brain continues to elude even me.<br />
<br />
Ultimate Spinach Rules.<with hands="" jazz="">Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12187271371863115410noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7303803140060090027.post-89558765621652843112010-12-15T19:50:00.001-07:002010-12-16T08:33:09.801-07:00I'm Not Sick But I'm Not Well<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJxyYkhK0Q9QLDWAbT5_e4slrfOdG0xFEwl9uCgVAttszxUVsF2-eT3tk_Y6vK1GZDl_DOtg8g9XLwZBXGh5vuoSSYLAcqLUqwgB9AwefpPR5noEMd2sYxRDLwxdU8NAf0HbAPwlcwqN0/s1600/Cindy+Sherman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="277" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJxyYkhK0Q9QLDWAbT5_e4slrfOdG0xFEwl9uCgVAttszxUVsF2-eT3tk_Y6vK1GZDl_DOtg8g9XLwZBXGh5vuoSSYLAcqLUqwgB9AwefpPR5noEMd2sYxRDLwxdU8NAf0HbAPwlcwqN0/s400/Cindy+Sherman.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>I just spent seventy minutes writing feverishly about the rise of secularist subject matter in Germanic art, and what do I feel like doing? Writing more. Cause, you know, the fun. Actually, I consider it of anthropological interest to document my state of non-mind immediately post my final final.<br />
<br />
Warning, this post is going to be scattered with lyrics, both with or without context. Specimen one, from the immortal and underrated Harvey Danger: "A shooting star is a little piece of cosmic debris desperately wanting to fall to earth. It doesn't get too far, it's not a real star, it's hardly even worth footnotes in your memoir . . . it's just a surrogate connection, leaving you all alone." I'm just saying, that's fairly impressive wordology for guys whose big hit was "Flagpole Sitta." But they were in Seattle in the 90s, and therefore they are gods. Right? Right.<br />
<br />
My work installed a new Big-Brother soul-crushing fun-sucking anal-retentive internet filter. The end result, other than my general misery: no Pandora for Mary. It's pretty horrific. To compensate for the lack of bass beat to accompany my always rhythmic mad 10-key skillz, I've had to dig up my massive stack of mixed cds that are cryptically worded with phrases like "Sweet n Low" and "Why Not?" It's quite the adventure, sticking in a cd with less than the slightest hint of an idea as to its theme or content.<br />
<br />
There have been some delightful side effects to this state of affairs. For instance, I have rediscovered a) I know all the words to Savage Garden's "I Want You," and therefore b) I am just the awesomest. That was sooo worth the better half of a semester three years ago when Alyssa and I methodically mastered each verse with brief bursts of enthusiasm every time we got to say "chic-a-cherry-cola."<br />
<br />
Also, I would be remiss if I didn't tip my hat to Mary nine-point-seven (there are many, many versions of Mary, I'm thinking I"ll need to break it into Eon, Era, and Epoch soon) for glorying in the poetic grandness of the Josie and the Pussycats soundtrack. Rock these lyrics:<br />
"It took 6 whole hours<br />
And 5 long days<br />
4 all your lies to come undone.<br />
And those 3 small words<br />
Were way 2 late<br />
Cause you can't see that I'm the 1."<br />
Did you see what they did there, with the numbers and the word play? Bloody Shakespeare, that's what that is.<br />
<br />
The crazy aspect that keeps me up at night concerning how much I loved/shamefully still love things like Josie and the Pussycat is not my possibly terrible taste, but rather how it pulls into relief how trapped everybody is their immediate reality. I look back at Mary 9.7 and immediately become guilty of historian no-no numero uno: I apply my contemporary philosophies, morals, and expectations to my past self. Which means even though it was <i>me</i> doing all those stupid things, I still can't really tell you why it was that I was/am/will be such a mess. I'm in the best position to recall enough to sketch out a detailed outlined of my past actions, but I feel like I have no more of an upperhand in actually dissecting and predicting my own motivations than any stranger would.<br />
<br />
It's like all the circular conversations in my International Organizations class. We discuss again and again the options for peacekeeping, sanctions, regional organizations, but when it comes right down to it we fail to come up with anything innovative or at least mildly better than this mess of an anarchic globe because we cannot fundamentally comprehend what it would be like to live in a world that was structured differently than what we got.<br />
<br />
The occasional writer might get all Utopian on me, but I normally find that irritating. A current global political structure without the United States as unipolar power is too essential to our understanding of the underpinnings of our life for us to really "get" multilateralism or a balance of power set-up. Our parents couldn't conceive a world without the Soviets breathing down our necks, and now that we got it we don't know where the hell we're going to go next. It's like we keep on tripping into a new scenario where we pause, straighten, orient ourselves, and then promptly forget everything that had come before. This is the fragmentory, fleeting world we live in, and it's the state of my personal psyche as well.<br />
<br />
But back to the important meaty issues. I'm pretty sure that the reason Poison is one of my top-all-charts best-studying/living/breathing/showering/make out-music ever is because it taps into my Inner Mullet. Everybody's got one of them inside--either an Inner Mullet, Inner Trailer Trash, Inner Hillbilly, they all correlate with a seriously mediocre genre of music that creates a bliss factor far beyond their own chord-progression power (I won't disclose what matches up with trailer trash and hillbilly, I don't wanna get in trouble).<br />
<br />
But regardless of the causation, Poison is my happy place. And luckily, love-ily, it is now also irreconcilably linked in my brain with the road trip I took with my sister and her mess o' kids for the previously blogged and lauded Denver Trip Of King Tut Mind Melting Goodness. I think I'm just going to have to make Poison my life long culture-journey theme music. Which will totally discombobulate the minds of my future art history students when we go on summer trips to Europe. Ohh, I like this idea even more now. Almost as much as I like G. Love and Special Sauce. Man I should have been in my twenties in the nineties. The music was so much better, and the technology wasn't sophisticated enough to make me as paranoid as I now am. Stupid bunch of Android Cylons.<br />
<br />
Oi!! Quick rant. I love me some Hieronymous Bosch. I really do, and it's not his fault that he's a product of his people's preconceptions and indoctrinations, but in "Garden of Earthly Delights" the Garden of Eden panel depicts the creation of Eve as being instantaneous--and in fact synonymous--with the creation of evil. Those kind of historic visual gems genuinely make me want to hurl my cookies across the room every time. It's been noted by wise people that the only type of content in films that I genuinely cannot sit through is the debasement, marginalization, and subjugation of women by men, especially when those men are supposed to be their partners, lovers, and sympathizers. I get so tense it takes me days to wind down just thinking about it.<br />
<br />
But when I do need to wind down, this is what I listen to:<br />
<br />
I don't wanna be a rusty suit of armor<br />
Or a tumbledown forgotten castle in your mind<br />
I just wanna be a twisted willow<br />
So I can leave your shallow thinking far behind<br />
<br />
I can feel the darkness in your shadows<br />
And the melting of ice behind your troubled eyes<br />
And the discoloration of all the words you're saying<br />
As you're hunted without mercy by your lies<br />
<br />
I've flown so high I'll never return<br />
And I've been to the bottom of the dregs of your troubled soul<br />
And I've basked in the sun of your revelations<br />
But I guess you and I, we have different goals<br />
<br />
So go and slay your dragons in blind amusement<br />
And topple imagination with a song<br />
<a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/2/2d/Regnault-Der_Tod_der_Kleopatra.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="347" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/2/2d/Regnault-Der_Tod_der_Kleopatra.jpg" width="400" /></a>At the moon, it plays little mind games<br />
So you'll wonder where all the stars have gone<br />
<br />
You have spoken to me about nothing<br />
And you've shown me fantasies in a crystal ball<br />
And you've promised me the world for my asking<br />
Don't you know that to me it means nothing at all?<br />
<br />
Because I know you'll leave me a burned out matchbox of forgotten roses<br />
Inside a get-well card I had to address by myself<br />
But that's not what I need from another stranger<br />
So I guess I better do things without your help<br />
<br />
Ultimate Spinach, y'all. So glad something went right in Boston in the 60s.<br />
<br />
I know, posting lyrics is lame, emo, and lazy. So sue. I just freaking schooled finals.<br />
<br />
I just re-read this and it's possible a little bit of my essay/paper-writing vocab snuck in there. Profuse apologies.<br />
<br />
Twelve hours later I re-read it again, and man there are some pretty interesting spots of grammar going on there. I'll preserve them as an homage to taking school seriously (it's a first!).Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12187271371863115410noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7303803140060090027.post-40568725228707788752010-12-03T14:00:00.006-07:002010-12-03T16:46:19.191-07:00Feeling Like You're Constantly on the Brink of Having a Heart Attack Has Its Perks<div class="separator" style="border: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEeje8-dUCo0U7tr9u0QEUldhVoM1jukyzOjf3fYwZDBQ1zTedrfafqZPI2htjCtyDzQ9EVbI3KUZhTQ3MPb2gS5N_QBhBJH148o4U-lFtWzaj6z3T9AMyEth6ztRanmBCNOPISkiWnaU/s1600/His+Girl+Friday.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEeje8-dUCo0U7tr9u0QEUldhVoM1jukyzOjf3fYwZDBQ1zTedrfafqZPI2htjCtyDzQ9EVbI3KUZhTQ3MPb2gS5N_QBhBJH148o4U-lFtWzaj6z3T9AMyEth6ztRanmBCNOPISkiWnaU/s320/His+Girl+Friday.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="border: medium none;"><br />
Quick background: My roommate Rosemary works as a reading tutor in a high school and also has a close relationship with one of the English teachers. This teacher decided today to have some fun and mock her in front of his rather large class, accusing her and our friend Joseph of having a secret passion for each other. I have a passing acquaintance with the teacher, so I decided to defend Rosemary's honor. I sent him an e-mail that reads as follows:</div><br />
<br />
Master Rutter:<br />
<br />
<div style="border: medium none;">I am here to provide a ground-zero perspective/defense of the implied romantic entanglements of Rosemary Larkin and Joseph Moore. </div><br />
But before I dive in, I can't allow your abuse of power to pass without a stern reprimand. <br />
<br />
<div style="border: medium none;">Presenting your version of the Rosemary-Joseph love affair to your students, in an environment where you as instructor wield significant credibility, is an argument style that is beneath your persuasive abilities. Also, the inclusion of teenagers in any accusation of affection is tantamount to whipping up a mob against evolutionary biologists at a Wednesday prayer meeting in the South. Even before this Twilight Generation, teens have had a long history of being constantly on the brink of hysteria, and they certainly don't need your muckraking to push them over the edge. Think of those poor, excitable kids, Rutter, and restrain your need to be validated in your wrongthinking.</div><div style="border: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border: medium none;">And now to the meat of the issue: Joseph and Rosemary. Watching TV. K-I-S-S-I----No. Absolutely not. I've known Joseph since we were married in the fourth grade play, and I've alternately loathed from afar and lived with Rosemary since we were twelve. From that unique position of expertise, I can say--without a shred of doubt or wishful thinking--that Rosemary and Joseph have as much of a chance of getting together as I have a shot at the Heisman. This is not something to mourn over. My heart isn't broken over the lack of another shiny paperweight, and I can assure you that neither Rosemary or Joseph are nursing any melancholy wishes for "what-might-have-been." </div><br />
<div style="border: medium none;">How dare I speak with such authority concerning other people's inner feelings? Observation has provided me with enough information to consider my findings conclusive. After 15 months of witnessing the movie nights, soda runs, early morning rides to work and break-up talks, I can declare without any outlying data that Rosemay and Joseph have the combined chemistry and sexual tension of a mis-matched pair of oven mitts. The kind of oven mitts where one was crocheted for you by your senile great-aunt and is slowly devolving into a singed mass of unravelling yarn and the other is large, serviceable, but with shiny yellowed stains of questionable origin that make you relieved to take them off as soon as the tray has been removed from the oven.</div><br />
<div style="border: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP9AaswW2Z8h0gm2leOKQ78WwVdvz6f0KETK5OQVYfqEg9FcbKN26nmF9hZnh6gQngeuHWqUgLoGMSMtCJpkph1_8oFVQTjCI9nwdWTt_pimXa3d77DLru2w719PVQF8KrSud-W55AA5I/s1600/stewardess+ad.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP9AaswW2Z8h0gm2leOKQ78WwVdvz6f0KETK5OQVYfqEg9FcbKN26nmF9hZnh6gQngeuHWqUgLoGMSMtCJpkph1_8oFVQTjCI9nwdWTt_pimXa3d77DLru2w719PVQF8KrSud-W55AA5I/s400/stewardess+ad.jpg" width="306" /></a>Kindly take this into account before you choose to take another flight into the charming but unsubstantiated realm of Blind Man's Bluff Matchmaking. And don't beat yourself up too much over your mistake--it isn't entirely your fault. You simply must remember that you are severely handicapped as a Happily Married Man. Married Persons suffer from dating amnesia, meaning when they look at two people of a legal age they can't remember why that isn't enough to equal a couple. Also, as a Happily Married Man, you've had your best friend as a spouse for so long that you no longer recall that while you may have both in one person, correlation does not indicate causation.</div><br />
<div style="border: medium none;">Enjoy your day,</div><div style="border: medium none;"><br />
</div>Mary Shurtz <br />
<div style="border: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border: medium none;">I know. I'm hilarious. Really, I take my own breath away. He responded very quickly, and while the response was funny, it couldn't touch this masterpiece.</div><br />
So, the moral of the story is: when your brain is being pulled in twelve directions at once, that is when you have the most potential to be the most creatively dynamic you've ever been. Yayyy masochism as a lifestyle.Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12187271371863115410noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7303803140060090027.post-20263065293512636702010-11-30T13:34:00.001-07:002010-11-30T17:14:55.743-07:00I Make the Best of It, I'm An Extraordinary Machine<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8a7izZ2HpMzfqfT4-W6a9JEudUZnO6-eQrcwX8n8UnVIb210ahzyShlyyg8-7PV1hSx5VU599NUYI1ua0KKVZaUkSBNKzFLI-0XLhB8fWOgf69npGZp8kmZ6XxjtHDhpYXauILsHmJBs/s1600/Meit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8a7izZ2HpMzfqfT4-W6a9JEudUZnO6-eQrcwX8n8UnVIb210ahzyShlyyg8-7PV1hSx5VU599NUYI1ua0KKVZaUkSBNKzFLI-0XLhB8fWOgf69npGZp8kmZ6XxjtHDhpYXauILsHmJBs/s400/Meit.jpg" width="290" /></a></div>My brain is a mystifying object. It's like it has the microscopic/telescopic quality of a van Eyck. I just typed that am already deeply ashamed that I've become <i>that</i> art history person. I wish I could make it up to you. But instead I'm going to continue with the simile, because it's a fairly apt analogy. Judge away. In van Eyck's paintings every piece of the painting, whether far away or right at the front of the scene, is executed in excruciatingly minute detail, without any haziness or blurred lines to indicate distance.<br />
<br />
I can remember with equal clarity the piece I read in the news yesterday about the Mossad pulling crazy Bond/Bourne stunts to assassinate Iranian nuclear physicists and my lines from our fourth grade production "Of Mice and Mozart." The minutiae of daily life don't really get sifted out of my brain. Ever. I can typically recall first conversations with new acquaintances, kids from my second grade class, and what outfits other people wore six months ago with such a stunning level of recall that the inevitable consequence is that I frequently come off as the creepiest mass stalker on the planet. This grieves me at times. More people just need to believe that in <i>my</i> brain it isn't a signal of obsession that I remember the clogging performance my friend's little sibling's friend is having if I'm in the room to hear about it. I'm not saying that you shouldn't typically find such behavior to be red flags: there are real creepers out there, and they act just like me. I'm just the exception that proves the rule.<br />
<br />
But my creeperesque mannerisms are actually a demonstration of how singularly inept my brain is at releasing it's deathgrip on pretty much any shred of "knowledge" that floats within its vicinity. It gets so bad that sometimes I play dumb, pretend I don't remember huge tracts of information just to avoid the wary gleam in the other person's eye, like an alert gazelle that is beginning to suspect that that waterhole might not be so refreshing after all. <br />
<br />
Fret not; this is not an aimless ode to my brain, or even an extremely circular route to complimenting myself. I was merely providing the background information that is necessary to understand my complaint about my brain's fatal flaw. So, to summarize so far: Mary's brain is tenacious to detail, but not creepy. This does not mean one shouldn't be vigilant against mouth-breathing uncomfortable-level-of-eye-contact skulking types as a rule; in fact please do, just cross Mary off your list as an anomaly. And now for the fatal flaw:<br />
<br />
I can't prove anything, mostly because I don't care enough for science to try, but I'm pretty sure there's something sinister about the barometric pressure in winter which inhibits certain synapses to fire at all, leading me to lose all memory of what it is to step outside and be warm. It happens quickly, this mental block, usually within moments of the first truly cold walk to the bus stop. But even now in my almost temperate basement office, I couldn't tell you what it feels like to step outside and not ready myself for breath-stealing braced-back cold. <br />
<br />
I don't mind the cold in of itself, I'm even considering getting my masters in Milwaukee, a city to which no one I have shared my plan with has anything of interest to say except "Milwaukee--it's a cold place." Thanks, guys, for the razor-sharp insight with its limits-pushing subtext. <br />
<br />
No, I really don't mind cold. But I do object to brain damage. And this complete loss of a basic sensation I have a solid six months of every year feels like deliberate and malicious damage on my brain. I guess I could try and re-read my blog post about when the AC broke, but I resent that necessity to read my own pale, amateurish attempts to describe something as basic as being meltingly hot. I live in the desert, for the love of DDP.<br />
<br />
I think Utah Valley girls watched way too much Anne of Green Gables growing up. Only individuals with that particular kind of handicap would think the sloppy ponytail/bun-ish thing on the very top of the head was remotely attractive/aesthetically appealing. You, my dears, have been exposed to one too many pompadours in your day. Next thing you know you'll all be sporting puffed sleeves so large you can't walk through the door. I have luckily escaped these fads. In exchange, though, I have huge hangups because my inner psyche is waiting for a Canadian farmboy with brains, ambitions, and infinite patience for crazy girls. Yes, Mom and Dad, this is the most recent theory for why you're going to have a cat lady for a daughter.<br />
<br />
<div style="border: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv7KhUfFu3lbRGyTVbbq1VNkIR1uKAOe018B0pqC-i9YQm_9g2m9VtDlS3rAg9gnhm952KfFP3Lxdo9V7PkkLzjIEoHRZCF1I6Uu7ieCKHWKh3v498Bq1m2woyKMSFjO8oSsg-GRF70Yk/s1600/Rembrandt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv7KhUfFu3lbRGyTVbbq1VNkIR1uKAOe018B0pqC-i9YQm_9g2m9VtDlS3rAg9gnhm952KfFP3Lxdo9V7PkkLzjIEoHRZCF1I6Uu7ieCKHWKh3v498Bq1m2woyKMSFjO8oSsg-GRF70Yk/s400/Rembrandt.jpg" width="325" /></a>This blog is happening because I would rather insert tiny razor-sharp pieces of glass into my fingernails than re-read, edit, and finalize my art history paper that I spit out in rough form Sunday. I'm truly terrified to read what it says--I dosed myself with chocolate at around 11:30 Sunday night so that my hypoglycemic self would crash into a sugar coma and I could actually sleep. The flaw in this sly, ever so crafty plan? I still had a page and a half to write. Which I did write. But I have no memory of it. </div><div style="border: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border: medium none;">You see my conundrum. Ah, well, might as well face my psychosis head on.</div>Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12187271371863115410noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7303803140060090027.post-47370908279616158202010-11-16T11:59:00.009-07:002010-11-17T10:12:10.154-07:00An Ode<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM1e20JTS7FFd92HvkPu4eCH6IT7rNRIalHah0qla0NrQYGt4wGEGlGIlxffONF5UXVwu2Eeyv0tp88l3NlMwuQ6Nw4zSd2iOjOQJLaXNUMLkeun1BDlNVMeZ8xA2syoHlma0mPM8xJww/s1600/Marcy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM1e20JTS7FFd92HvkPu4eCH6IT7rNRIalHah0qla0NrQYGt4wGEGlGIlxffONF5UXVwu2Eeyv0tp88l3NlMwuQ6Nw4zSd2iOjOQJLaXNUMLkeun1BDlNVMeZ8xA2syoHlma0mPM8xJww/s320/Marcy.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
I've only been on the right road to being a Person for approximately three years and five months. <br />
<br />
I've been a lot of things in my still-short existence. Many of them have been contradictory; the punk ballroom dancer, the overachieving malcontent, the socially incapable aspiring actress, the khaki-wearing rebel, the physically violent shy girl that ducked behind her feminist maxims. But something that was constant in all these interpretations and perspectives was my fundamental discomfort with the all-encompassing truth that is me. <br />
<br />
As I flipped around like a beached whale from one definition of self to another, the running commentary in the back of my head was always heavily laced with panic, anxiety that someone would point out a piece of me that didn't fit my newest reinvention and this whole Jenga game of let's-pretend would come crashing down. I speak flippantly about it now, but it truly was a crippling kind of mindset, a fundamental discomfort with myself and my own thoughts, tastes, interests, background.<br />
<br />
June, 2007: one of my brother's best friends from high school calls me up. This isn't that peculiar, he had been in the habit of doing that from time to time since he got back from his mission. Back when we were both in high school--he the wise and benevolent senior and I the freshman in the throes of yet another identity crisis--this guy was the epitome of Cool. In the time since, very little had changed in my perception of him. The guy was so Cool he even occasionally kept in touch with his friend's little sis who, I'll admit, hero worshipped him more than a skosh. But we had once in the good ol' days bonded over a pomegranate, and this guy wasn't one to disrespect the memory of ritualistic dining on mythical fruit. That would be Un Cool.<br />
<br />
So he remembered to keep in touch, this time with an invite to run up to Salt Lake City for dinner and a movie. I needed a friend even more than usual, and a hangout with the essence of Cool was just what the doctor ordered. We had the normal warm but mildly stilted greeting, got in his car and headed off. He tossed me a huge binder of CDs and informed me I was in charge of music for the trip.<br />
<br />
This was terrifying. Someone as insecure as I was knew all too well how quickly you could step wrong with a poor music choice. I thumbed through the selection with almost reverent care, occasionally using a finger to mark a possibility, refusing to commit until I knew I had picked something completely acceptable and perhaps even inspired. In short time all of my spare fingers were occupied with marking places. I was beginning to have another panic attack--his music was so varied and so so Cool, I didn't know how I was going to pass this imaginary test. <br />
<br />
Thankfully I was near the back of the binder now, wiggling my thumb in a painful sideways movement in order to turn the plastic pages without losing any of my precious potential selections. I turned to the last page and stared at what I saw. He owned *NSync's original album <em>and </em>"No Strings Attached." I was so at a loss for an appropriate reaction, I promptly fumbled the binder and lost all the places I'd been saving.<br />
<br />
Some background: all through sixth and even bleeding into early seventh grade I had <em>loved</em> *NSync. JC Chasez had been my one true love. My mother not letting me go to their concert in sixth grade had broken my heart and lead to weeks of door slamming and a point-blank refusal to eat her lasagna. But then I had discovered Kurt Cobain: without a moment's pause or guilt I trapped any tender, positive feeling I had for that adorable boy band in an airless compartment, threw away the key, and never looked back. I denied them many more times than thrice in the subsequent years, completely willing to risk my soul as long as no one knew I <em>ever </em>had such a Shameful Secret. And here I was, with the Coolest guy I knew, being confronted with the worst kind of transgression he could commit--publicly displaying something so very, very not cool. Didn't he realize people could now "out" him? How could he be so careless?<br />
<br />
I was inwardly appalled for him, but to the naked eye, my reaction wasn't of that nature. As only the truly insecure can, I pulled a 180 and turned on him my most venomous voice of judgment. I used all my most derisive vocabulary as I mercilessly monologued about his taste in music. How quickly the rabidly self-loathing turn on their heroes.<br />
<br />
But then the most surprising thing happened, marking the turning point in my odyssey toward Personhood. As I drew breath for another spouting wordfest of malice, the victim's inherent Coolness showed his real stripes once again. Without bothering to take his eyes off the road he just casually shrugged. "It was early high school. It was fun. Why wouldn't I want to keep that around, for those times when I'm reminiscing? Those were good times; I don't have a problem with it." <br />
<br />
I was stopped in my tracks. And I was so, so mortified by how I had reacted. Once again, I was far from Cool. I wanted to sink right through the upholstery, I wanted to hide in that space under the seat where tic-tacs and sunglasses go and never return. Since that wasn't an immediate possibility, at least not until we hit another stop light, I instead focused on what was in my hands. I studied the album art of those two nefarious CDs, and thought about how often Ashley Beutler and I used to watch their music videos, learning all the dance moves and fighting over who was cuter, JC or Justin. I couldn't believe how completely I had buried those memories. I tentatively inched the original album halfway out of its sleeve with my fingernail and looked beseechingly at the driver. <br />
<br />
Mr. Cool, who of course was completely oblivious to the existential crisis that was occurring two short feet away, smiled and agreeably nodded in consent. Lickety-split in went the CD before I could change my mind for the both of us. "Tearin' Up My Heart" blasted enthusiastically from the speakers. It was too infectious for words. I started my incredibly suave seat-dancing, coming in spot on for every vocal cue, breaking off for the harmonies. Quicker than I could have imagined I realized that the album was over and we were in Salt Lake. My enabler had endured the entire cathartic exercise with remarkably good grace, and after the movie and restaurant even gave in to my pleas that we continue on to "No Strings Attached." <br />
<br />
Luke N Lewis brings up that trip from time to time with a good-natured moan at my instance to car-dance to two full albums of *NSync, having no clue of how huge of a day that was for me. Through his own example, he gave me the room and permission I needed to settle into my own skin with a greater degree of comfort than I had felt since elementary school. And it only could have been Luke. There wasn't anybody that could have played surrogate in that experience, no amount of persuasive speak could have talked me around to beginning to like all past and present versions of me. Luke was the one who had to be there, because he was the only person I admired, respected, and blatantly aspired to be like on such a monumental level. <br />
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">And that sentiment shouldn't be placed in the past tense--I don't know if many of you have had the opportunity to become best friends with your hero, but from that night onward it's been the best aspect of my life. I don't think scientific instruments exist that could measure the magnitude that Luke's willingness to be my Person for these last three and a half years has shaped, influenced, and liberated me. I wish I could think that I had the capability to give as much back to Luke, but I'm afraid this friendship has been a tad uneven--I've been reaping the greatest rewards because I was the one who needed the most help, and Luke in his benevolence was always more than ready to be the rock, the reassurance, the fun mind-expanding influence.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyr78s7OpsPlw695ZKDFoaKBXp9LMXByx5puhlrKHecZ9EtO3qJL8RmS1EsL0wglhKZRLiPuekND0mZYZSx-uIrkvn58v_XnlBykDpfMP-272A0IgzEdoptEyZ-MlE6vfYT4EVtNevaPM/s1600/nsync.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyr78s7OpsPlw695ZKDFoaKBXp9LMXByx5puhlrKHecZ9EtO3qJL8RmS1EsL0wglhKZRLiPuekND0mZYZSx-uIrkvn58v_XnlBykDpfMP-272A0IgzEdoptEyZ-MlE6vfYT4EVtNevaPM/s320/nsync.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
And now this freakin gem is getting ready to marry a girl that is totally worth every bit of him, and I wanted to get a jump-start on the teary tributes to all that is Luke. Love you. Let's eat pomegranates again soon.</div>Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12187271371863115410noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7303803140060090027.post-45921071388744452652010-10-31T18:43:00.004-06:002010-11-03T11:26:03.672-06:00Fine, Fresh, Fierce, We Got It On Lock<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpZPntBUh4ZTYAwHb5nzQgLDlErRP2lQFpDFfnW8Q48hR0ynkauZyI7XU3-1qZi5_MLEPCWR7KyxXOCFGlFKauDz-hQ1AyI3OJUOO0oTykEDZuBcGVruI8za1c03TjAfm-M7baSsxu8d8/s1600/Katy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpZPntBUh4ZTYAwHb5nzQgLDlErRP2lQFpDFfnW8Q48hR0ynkauZyI7XU3-1qZi5_MLEPCWR7KyxXOCFGlFKauDz-hQ1AyI3OJUOO0oTykEDZuBcGVruI8za1c03TjAfm-M7baSsxu8d8/s400/Katy.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">We're going to spend the majority of our time talking about this fabulous individual. But first things first, I gotta get this nerdiness out before I explode:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Northern European Renaissance art is SO COOL! Of course I remain in awe of the monumental feats of the Italian Renaissance; the grandiose scale of their accomplishments is unparalleled. And technically speaking, the Italians were much more advanced as far as the mathematics they uncovered for accurate perspective and anatomy. Which is why the contrast of what was going on Up North is so appealing to me. Each artist was a lot more out on their own, feeling their way towards a style they liked, no real over-arcing purpose or message present in their works. It's just all so . . . idiosyncratic. Yes, that's exactly the word I'm looking for. The artist's whims or predilections had so much more room to exhibit themselves in the Burgundian north. See here a detail from Geertgen tot Sint Jans's <i>Nativity</i>:</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="375" nx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-5ZZBRkR8kkHw33tB2m3nE7R08WCgBH2J7Pa7DAeKxINiWrJwmXnlqgJedSWgF2m25FHAms4n3V4FEaLRGo0jbDdGjEQy-lIz6AIZXuD0ebBbNDlnVtM8EDo0giTmZw24VALliDDZDy8/s400/Angel.PNG" width="400" /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Just <i>look</i> at the angel in the bottom right corner! Isn't he just the most joyous, overwhelmingly rapturous little guy you ever did see? Especially in comparison to the angels around him, who are so static, so flat, so unmoved by the Christ child's birth. The norm of Northern figures leans much more toward those more complacent figures, but I adore that tot Sint Jans snuck this little dude in there. I was completely distracted during the lecture on this piece, absorbed with the idea of what went through his mind when painting these disparate figures. And then there's my slightly stranger reaction to this detail of Geertgen's <i>The Burning of St John the Baptist's Bones</i> (how could you not love that title!)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjuj-iKZQTzO4nJT4hFMApXM15zd4dOACCI9Fs5By2GQpWC-nH5cJc4L721CnL-xn1RY6TD1Lu9_2b8H8IRbHCLPV0Ixxcy9_dgI9ZnBQn3EbZr3SjaaQUuMY9kOrSpRSY1Bfw4p8rXwQ/s1600/Stranger.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="236" nx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjuj-iKZQTzO4nJT4hFMApXM15zd4dOACCI9Fs5By2GQpWC-nH5cJc4L721CnL-xn1RY6TD1Lu9_2b8H8IRbHCLPV0Ixxcy9_dgI9ZnBQn3EbZr3SjaaQUuMY9kOrSpRSY1Bfw4p8rXwQ/s320/Stranger.PNG" width="320" /></a>Note the guy in brown on the far right, his gaze going off into space. I'm weirdly into to this guy. Ya, I know, sort of a creepy overshare. But this guy and Michelangelo in Raphael's <i>School of Athen</i>s? I find them attractive. I can't help it. Maybe in this image it's his nose, I've always had a strange thing for the larger-nosed men--Michael Vartan, James McAvoy, Adrian Brody, Jason Schwartzman, all dreamy. I understand that as an art-historian-in-training I should keep more distance and objectivity with my subject, but my first reaction to this piece was not to examine any of the details that would get me an A on a paper. Instead, I zone in on that guy and say "Dang. Oddly attractive." I'm not going to seek professional help yet, I figure I can keep it under control if it stays at this level.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgynWqUnjjFLc-j5Yk3PLpwi28T31FIw8MV-ckfgDHiRhG1LZMextewWA4yiMO0Ge9V4phMEcm6EukdoMcq2mz9aheBZDa3XjY773wKLuNfZt4dO3twljtVTkgvzObUNRG-bGVgoit5PKc/s1600/Throne+of+Grace.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgynWqUnjjFLc-j5Yk3PLpwi28T31FIw8MV-ckfgDHiRhG1LZMextewWA4yiMO0Ge9V4phMEcm6EukdoMcq2mz9aheBZDa3XjY773wKLuNfZt4dO3twljtVTkgvzObUNRG-bGVgoit5PKc/s320/Throne+of+Grace.PNG" width="128" /></a> But nevermind my weird crushes on oil-on-wood characters, back to what makes Renaissance art cool. Item numero three: grisaille, or the art of painting a scene so that it looks like stone. This is <i>Throne of Grace</i> from the outside panel of the <i>Flemalle Altarpiece </i>by Robert Campin. And it is so, so incredibly awe-inspiring. Sculpture is possibly my very favorite medium of art, but by its very nature there is significantly less of it, and what does survive the centuries rarely is in primo condition. Which is why images like this sorta help fill the void. Sluter basically left behind only one enormous well and an intricate tomb, so it's nice to see his contemporaries emulate his style in their paintings. And just when you were about to pass out from the dry scholarly torture-talk, let's refocus again on my favorite gal-pal-in-waiting:</div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_DaXH2lYeWI92pFI8h2LG4E2vRXqlyPX0tH9M9BWlrQorIqRmSuaRcVOl-hwifwf0ofEaU52Iot7z5O6C6HJb7kkt0UdxvkbGCj75Ta0j1UKbGOsE0zLhMD_N4kMOlY_TSvnB75bThf4/s1600/Perry.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_DaXH2lYeWI92pFI8h2LG4E2vRXqlyPX0tH9M9BWlrQorIqRmSuaRcVOl-hwifwf0ofEaU52Iot7z5O6C6HJb7kkt0UdxvkbGCj75Ta0j1UKbGOsE0zLhMD_N4kMOlY_TSvnB75bThf4/s400/Perry.jpg" width="290" /></a> Katy Perry. Is. The. Bomb-diggity. I, Mary Shurtz, professed rocker-grrrl extraordinaire, have a girl-crush on pop goddess Katy Perry. I know this is inherently problematic. And to start out, I have to say that I owe my devotion to KP completely to my roommate, Cassie. Cassie and Katy have a lot in common, at least in my head. They have an eager, unapologetic love for life, color, and choosing to giggle at all that is ridiculous in life instead of rolling their eyes condescendingly.</div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Katy is a bit more of an exhibitionist than Cassie is, but that appeals to my own favorite things. And despite the fact that Katy's hits deal with layered subject matter such as regional archetypes, adolescent fantasies and superficial displays of various sexual orientations, she delivers each song with such exuberance and inherent humor that I find I don't mind when I spend a whole day humming about my futuristic lover's cosmic kiss. Ya. Right there, this is why I adore her. I know some of you now are feeling like I would deserve to have my band posters and rocker-queen status stripped from me right this second, but I must protest with two points: One, what is more rock-n-roll than making the excesses of life a point of celebration and satire all at once? And two, I have no moral issue with biting and kicking to keep my Ramones poster where it belongs. Street rules only. </div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to go commune with Katy about how "It's Not Like the Movies."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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</div>Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12187271371863115410noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7303803140060090027.post-12102433360619868292010-10-22T14:02:00.000-06:002010-10-22T14:02:39.759-06:00I'll Be With You When The Stars Start Fallin'<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiplccGVsfVJoz2O-YnJwyKuIwzghCwC_xIuHX-3ApKEitkzrwG5BblIfPY5YVwq7uDVuDwyzsBW6jcxsqKqYEbNWXR7jvl_oqEApqBqOPndiWxVzINI4Lnpj1KyNNyXQrJymCFUvnvNnc/s1600/The+Future.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" nx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiplccGVsfVJoz2O-YnJwyKuIwzghCwC_xIuHX-3ApKEitkzrwG5BblIfPY5YVwq7uDVuDwyzsBW6jcxsqKqYEbNWXR7jvl_oqEApqBqOPndiWxVzINI4Lnpj1KyNNyXQrJymCFUvnvNnc/s400/The+Future.jpg" width="310" /></a> <div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I'm at a heart-rending crossroads, torn between two dreams. I'm entrenched in my indecision, uncertain of which goal I should pursue, desperately crying to the gods to show me my future, to reveal which path will lead to the greatest contentment. Let me break it down for you; show you how impossible the decision to chase one ideal over the other is:</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Situation 1: I'm being interviewed by the History Channel as <em>the</em> leading expert in the (fill in the blank liberal arts area) field of study. They have me seated in front of a minimalist dark background which flatters my tweed jacket piped with red that I wear over a band t-shirt and accent with silver jewelry that, on closer inspection, is comprised of a complex labyrinth of interlocking skulls. Eccentric and unconventional? Yes, but no one at my (fill in respected university, preferably one within driving range of a lighthouse) cares in the slightest, I'm too passionate and brilliant a scholar and teacher to have them be bothered with standards and practices. And the History Channel people just adore it; it's so much more interesting than their usual somewhat dour and owlish guest experts. I'm poised, confident, funny, and engaging, and I get asked back again and again on related projects. Eventually, they find the funding for a complete series around my sizeable collection of published scholarly articles, which conveniently address subjects all over the world, necessitating that I travel to all said places to get shots of me walking in various ruins while discussing opposing interpretations of such and such. In combat boots, fishnets, and the everpresent tweed.</div><br />
Situation 2: I get to be one of the partial-face black-and-white split-second-shot people in those crazy-ass Levi commercials, the one with old scratchy recordings of stuff like "O Pioneers." Think about it. It'd be epic.<br />
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So, you see my conundrum. They sure sound equally rewarding to me. Both have their drawbacks--on one hand, I don't think I'd be really primed for being able to support myself after the commercial (I'd be far too drunk on fame), but on the other hand, what if I get hot in all that tweed? Sigh. This period of my life is just too fraught with the tough decisions.<br />
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I've been closely following the Palestinian-Israeli peace talks, both to indulge my nerdiness, distract me from work, and for my Middle East class, and I swear, if they just had more people who looked like Omar Sharif in either leadership I think the possibility of gaining sympathy from the global community and really getting things done would increase one hundred fold. Just two minutes of looking into that man's soulful brown eyes and I'd be ready to sign over the Golan Heights and throw in my addiction to Diet Dr Pepper just to demonstrate how much I want him to stick around. Those eyes are the designer hot chocolate that keeps me from freezing straight through when I watch <em>Doctor Zhivago.</em><br />
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I should be doing homework right now. Any moment that I'm not actively committing to memory verbs, rock types, regimes, or theories of global structure, I fall behind. But I knew my public needed me, so this continuing homage to <em>moi</em> is really all for <em>you</em>.<br />
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A brief explanation for why I choose bravado over self-deprecation as my mainstay humor style: I feel that false modesty already pervades our culture to an alarming degree, to the point the self-deprecating humor normally falls flat due to people believing that a) you are actually fishing for compliments, or b) you actually believe that you are that terrible at everything. Neither of these options is at all desirable. I find option b particularly troubling, because I consider this society-wide emphasis on never admitting to your genuine strengths and talents to be toxic to one's notion of self-worth. Once you fall into the pattern of brushing aside praise or focusing only on areas in which you stumble, it can become a boa-constrictor like creature that squeezes all potential or ambition out of you.<br />
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<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0YZldEasrT596HpogAbnMc_8t3K4oU1DTZdoMOj7yNdhfSzhyLVkTYU6Ezj0tx8hH5cjKNSxQ6DwYujTxFVB4OGuvfJwGyKJ3y_2XvTYCorJyizru2X6KX3J8pxgMBdrIm0Q5drxrRn8/s1600/The+Past.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" nx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0YZldEasrT596HpogAbnMc_8t3K4oU1DTZdoMOj7yNdhfSzhyLVkTYU6Ezj0tx8hH5cjKNSxQ6DwYujTxFVB4OGuvfJwGyKJ3y_2XvTYCorJyizru2X6KX3J8pxgMBdrIm0Q5drxrRn8/s400/The+Past.jpg" width="263" /></a>So, as a general statement on the world and because I think it's funnier to constantly consider myself the cat's meow, I pick bravado every time. Which I know disconcerts any new acquaintance, but I figure the worst that can happen is that a) the occasional casual introduction goes badly, but I can always make up for that in overtime, b) I fall flat on my face every once in a while, which isn't necessarily at all bad because physical comedy is also underutilized ever since Jack Lemmon went out of style, <em>or </em>c) I could actually convince myself and others that I'm fairly fabulously awesome. Things could be worse.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
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</div>Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12187271371863115410noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7303803140060090027.post-88244345765591799842010-09-14T15:19:00.004-06:002010-09-14T18:07:33.110-06:00I'll Sprechen Your Deutschland<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4HtrUZEYd9KNjqlH3WSOU8HIZiJ-J_sQLljy9bZU_tGs7Q_jRpyE4SFGHQxuCRZQ3WjCJqduHyt7bY2TYuQE8ScizKu-B8Iw1EbC3utD8Qejur1dp8QBURgHGfeFDOf-ffptRUKdG1v4/s1600/Imhotep.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4HtrUZEYd9KNjqlH3WSOU8HIZiJ-J_sQLljy9bZU_tGs7Q_jRpyE4SFGHQxuCRZQ3WjCJqduHyt7bY2TYuQE8ScizKu-B8Iw1EbC3utD8Qejur1dp8QBURgHGfeFDOf-ffptRUKdG1v4/s640/Imhotep.jpg" width="336" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Wouldn’t it be cool if we could pull an Inception-style hijack on the world’s brain and dictate which words get to be used to describe us? I think if I had that power—or more accurately, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">when</i> I have that power, mwahahaha—the adjective that hopefully isn't entirely out of my reach to achieve on my own that I wish to be used to describe me is "electric.” In fact, if I had my way nearly as often as I ought, I think electric is the one word that would be absolutely synonymous with the conception of me.</div><br />
Yes, the choice of that word may have more than a little to do with my obsessive attachment to Oasis’s song “She’s Electric.” On top of that positive association is the slightly more bizarre childhood love I still have for the way John Travolta exclaims “it’s electrifyin!” in the high-brow favorite “You’re the One That I Want.” And yes, Joe, this whole section of this post was inspired by you drawing a flattering connection between me and MGMT’s “Electric Feel.” Way to be.<br />
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But aside from my permanently fabulous music and friend taste, I want that word to equal me because I think it encompasses so very many things that I consider valuable in a person: vitality, excitement, stimulation, bombastability, dynamicism (just made that word up), galvanization, a general idea that lying flat and letting life go by just isn’t an option for an electric person, and that anyone in contact with said person would be either shocked or energized by their presence. <br />
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</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">So, there it is, the goal: not just to team up with Leo and take over people’s minds while having his babies, but to keep on gaining static stores from the daily friction I encounter in classes, work, and the five minutes of ‘life’ I get every day until I can be an absolutely electric personality. I may be a little weak on the physics of that analogy, but I think I have enough of a working understanding of people to implement it.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">And now, for the main attraction, the best example I have of what kind of experiences I think really juice up the wires on the road to a truly electrifying presence/mind/soul: Seeing beautiful, wondrous, and life-changing art.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">That’s right, I just said that my visit to Denver’s King Tut exhibit was positively life changing, and no, I don’t think that that hyperbole is too grandiose for the event--in fact I would argue that it isn’t a hyperbole at all. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I have, in the past, future, and present, waxed pretentious about art. This is not news. But I have reserved the right in the midst of my massive superiority complex to loath people who try to be more/differently pretentious than me. For instance, I have always have a twitchy semi-Tourette's reaction to those who pompously declare that you “simply must see it in person, dahling, or else you just couldn’t understand what the piece really is.” </div><br />
This bothers me because it often is in conjunction with a long braggish description of a recent trip to Europe from people who don’t really know how to tell stories. Also, I believe my intellect and capacity of understanding can fathom a painting even if I wasn’t in that little nook of Eastern Europe. And I still stand by that. But now I’m amending my previous position just a leetle bit: because when it comes to ancient Egyptian art, you sorta really have to see it in person! Go ahead and hate me for that reversal and lack of integrity of approach.<br />
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Or maybe it was just me that had to see it in person to get completely swept away in what they were able to accomplish. In all my art history classes I enjoy the Egyptian section, but inevitably find myself comparing their works to the Greeks, and since Greece is later in time and in fact builds on what the Egyptians were doing, Greek art is undoubtedly more advanced in realizing the human form in a naturalistic setting. So, in short, Egyptians=cool, Greeks=Egyptians plus extra strength awesomeness.<br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">And then there I was, staring up at a fifteen-foot bust of Akhenaton, completely enthralled with the stylized shaping of his ear for a good twenty minutes. I couldn’t get over it, I couldn’t contain or express the awe I felt for all that had been done four thousand years ago. The muscle and tears and sheer inspiration these people used to grind and coax and compel unyielding rock into holding a piece of their culture, their souls, their sheer stubborn insistence that people remember that<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> they were there,</i> not just doomed to fade away into the sand. <br />
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I'm sure I was a sight to see at the museum, a little girl of indeterminate age with my pigtails and combat books making me looking like a combat-ready Rebecca of Fort-Sumter Farm, dashing about from statue to stoneware, a look of part glee/part incomprehension/part geek-out of unchartable proportions on my face.<br />
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In fact, as I scurried from the bust of Hepshetsut to a tiny but lovingly formed statuette of Imhotep a security guard stopped me in my tracks and asked "What is it?" I was confused and just stared at him. He elaborated: "What is it that you're reacting to right now? Which piece?" I was the least articulate person on the planet in that moment. I finally spit out a befuddled "Wah--wel---Everything!!" and got back to what I wanted to be doing, which for once didn't have anything to do with the people immediately around me.<br />
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There were many quiet moments, usually as I looked at the smaller pieces of statuary and the inlaid jewelry, that tears welled up in my eyes. I couldn't tell you exactly their source, there seemed to be a lot of confusion in my brain, but I know at least part of it was an overwhelming feeling of kinship and love with these people who cared for beautiful things in a way I am still aspiring to. <br />
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One thing is for sure: as I walked out of that gorgeous museum, I was positively crackling with electricity.</div><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM3xSxEPeiLlVZaB57rYcpf0jH6vGKDnvBImWGSZP4grkhTjxb4xuOvot9NLY2JyqsXZkUWjbbMzazqJRYgRewxLU5tU7CxCKpRmHJur3eoN5vATPpG3NspqkONYxMS3bMH2RtRFffqNE/s1600/Head+of+a+Princess.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM3xSxEPeiLlVZaB57rYcpf0jH6vGKDnvBImWGSZP4grkhTjxb4xuOvot9NLY2JyqsXZkUWjbbMzazqJRYgRewxLU5tU7CxCKpRmHJur3eoN5vATPpG3NspqkONYxMS3bMH2RtRFffqNE/s400/Head+of+a+Princess.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12187271371863115410noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7303803140060090027.post-38640887469826125322010-08-31T18:09:00.002-06:002010-08-31T18:10:47.073-06:00I Don't Want Some Pretty Face To Tell Me Pretty Lies<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgNeYp30L0qNlmrW9Q-l4u9rfqQSlvsgIprBMQVTi12X1o5lkyTC3k3NyY0H6ZJvqsTeIIAmBBVyFbOZclFvHz7Q5SDtyj2CHo3R72tVEdjaRlv0UfIWo5O1IDtHB1Yf2RpdvdNCF5lik/s1600/Cindy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="cssfloat: left; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="270" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgNeYp30L0qNlmrW9Q-l4u9rfqQSlvsgIprBMQVTi12X1o5lkyTC3k3NyY0H6ZJvqsTeIIAmBBVyFbOZclFvHz7Q5SDtyj2CHo3R72tVEdjaRlv0UfIWo5O1IDtHB1Yf2RpdvdNCF5lik/s400/Cindy.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
I've been thinking about all of the impressions I give, and how much thought and worry I put into them. <br />
<br />
Not just first impressions, although it has been fun to watch the new roommate's face as she tries to navigate the murky waters of my past personalities only to discover the contradictory facade that is today's partially actualized M. R. Shurtz, or her soon to be anagrammed pen name, Tzar Hurt-My-Rush. <br />
<br />
No, I have been thinking about my daily exchanges, and the great lengths I go to in order to have a stranglehold control on how I present myself to oldest friends and newest acquaintances alike.<br />
<br />
The fact that I've been ruminating on this won't surprise any of you. I've made a joyous career out of applying my obsessively analytical brain to the study of other's reactions to their environment, and to my presence in their habitat especially. The fact that my favorite movie in high school (and a recently revisited obsession) was "SLC Punk!"--a manifesto on the culture of the outsider and its effects on society--is also not an accident. <br />
<br />
So why even address it anymore? The subject should be worn out by now, there's only so many ways I can make neon signs that say "Don't pigeon-hole me, you close-minded automaton!" And you're right, that bitter diatribe is tired at best and meaningless at worst. Instead, what I've been focusing on is the somewhat more subtle and definitely more willing changes I make in order to soften/accentuate the impressions I make on my peers, families, and peoples with authority.<br />
<br />
I, despite my clinging to my band t-shirts, am exceptionally adept at this type of self-reinterpretation/censor. An example that comes to mind is when I compiled a calendar of my favorite poems as a Christmas present for my parents. I know, I'm adorable. And broke, but whatever. A conscious decision I had to make while putting together that selection of poetry was eliminating roughly 74% of my favorites and replacing them with what I considered to be lesser cousins to the greats. <br />
<br />
Why, you ask? Because the subject matter of most of my favorite poems is of a fairly dark, melancholy nature. And I knew that not only were my parents not of a temperament that would enjoy those poems, but more significantly, if I included even a handful of verse that was written from a negative perspective, my parents would attribute those themes to my mental state and would worry/fret/bother me with frequent visits to snap me out of it.<br />
<br />
Let me emphasize, those are not my favorite poems because I am perpetually in a deep dank dark dungeon of depression. They're my favorite poems because they are well-written monuments to some of humanity's strongest emotions. I believe that the greatest amount of trash and genius has been written about love and despair because those two themes are what pierce us to the soul, and drive individuals to find an outward way to express it. This applies to poetry, music, art, film, sky diving, any medium of self-expression.<br />
<br />
In relation to this, I also censor myself on an almost daily basis. When I'm too lazy to think of a witty comment for facebook, I generally choose a song lyric fragment and post that. Some are meaningful; some are arbitrary, all from music I love. I have almost never allowed myself to post lyrics from my very favorite songs, for fear of misinterpretation or a bad impression. <br />
<br />
Some of them are very angry, most of them are incredibly romantic, and none of them are about situations I am currently in. But I'm not a creature who really needs music lyrics to speak to me in the humdrum, literal narrative sort of way. If all my song lyrics were a play-by-play of my daily emotions and events, it would be the flattest, most non-committal changeless bunch of hooey you ever did see. <br />
<br />
Songs become my favorite because an artist or lyricist's message was so sharply in focus to <em>them</em> that it reaches out and grabs me. I wish I was less afraid to share those moments, but I have this self-imposed paranoia of leaving the impression that I'm 'emotional.' <br />
<br />
How ridiculous is that? Of course I'm emotional. I'm part of the human race, we have souls and communication and history progresses because we have more than the basic animal instincts to feed and procreate. <br />
<br />
Well, most of us do. <br />
<br />
So why on earth should this be something I shy away from so resolutely? Couldn't really tell you. It'd be easy to blame it on our post-modern 21st century cynicism, where no display of feeling is real or without cliche unless $50 million is spent on post production. But I sometimes sit in fearful contemplation that my abhorrence of personal display has a lot to do with a very singular disconnect that I have within.<br />
<br />
On an unrelated note, school is incredible. It's also facing me off like a prize-winning sumo wrestler, testing to see if it can smother me and remain the undefeated champion. But I've carbed up and am ready to roll with it. Ewww, roll with it. Bad choice of words for this piece of imagery.<br />
<br />
I will be victorious. <br />
<br />
Also, I guarantee my next post will be frivolous fluff in an effort to slyly distract you from this post.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr8aDNRzymHWuq7_mq8qW7ihNvnNlQonsgQA-M2YBfwlMr8N09hmhBgieQYaKvIhPVFb-iGcDK71DkIIim_34YRvUu_mqG3fWurOu1MmLidI48OG81fLA4n1sv9D5_mTl5wnOqvaB-NRM/s1600/Vulnerable" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr8aDNRzymHWuq7_mq8qW7ihNvnNlQonsgQA-M2YBfwlMr8N09hmhBgieQYaKvIhPVFb-iGcDK71DkIIim_34YRvUu_mqG3fWurOu1MmLidI48OG81fLA4n1sv9D5_mTl5wnOqvaB-NRM/s400/Vulnerable" width="400" /></a></div>Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12187271371863115410noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7303803140060090027.post-12679528402978699482010-08-10T13:26:00.002-06:002010-08-10T19:35:13.022-06:00You Just Put Your Lips Together And... Blow.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyF6LYYnbTM83pkzZms-gyJlhpBEuOQfsqL67AG0PdaOLziysDrmTMf1mGFgtNADOqtXjKo8zTOaIkPsfr43h-Ie4JLnFeC9bytV9bk3KHk48CyZm20OuU5OM3jRO_FN1veO494RaKC-0/s1600/Lauren.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" mx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyF6LYYnbTM83pkzZms-gyJlhpBEuOQfsqL67AG0PdaOLziysDrmTMf1mGFgtNADOqtXjKo8zTOaIkPsfr43h-Ie4JLnFeC9bytV9bk3KHk48CyZm20OuU5OM3jRO_FN1veO494RaKC-0/s400/Lauren.jpg" width="311" /></a><br />
<br />
My parents have ruined my ability to be a normal woman who is satisfied with her position in life.<br />
<br />
Bless their dear little hearts, they really didn't mean anything by it, but the fact remains that I am going to blame them and only them. And no, I don't think my own neurosis should be taken into account in this manner. I believe nurture champions nature every time when blame needs to be assigned.<br />
<br />
And like most things related to my family, the parental unit didn't see conventional tactics as an interesting enough way to mess up my brain. I got plenty of hugs as a child (and a few of spankings, but I'm pretty sure I was a really bratty kid). No, instead my parents chose to go a different, more subtle way. <br />
<br />
My parents destroyed my chances at contentment by indoctrinating me with classic films.<br />
<br />
I know, it's a rough existence, being raised in a home that strives for a level of culture and understanding of all art mediums. It's even worse when it's accompanied by a desire to keep the children in their home from being exposed to the crudity of modern entertainment at too young an age. I'm so oppressed.<br />
<br />
But I will say unequivocally that saturating me at such an early age with the archetypes of the winsome ingenue and the mysterious femme fatale has permanently stunted my level of personal satisfaction. Essentially, classic Hollywood set up the most unachievable paradigm of womanhood possible for a gal like me.<br />
<br />
I would kill to be mysterious. I would sacrifice half of my caffeine consumption to be ethereal and aloof. I'd give myself a papercut in the eye every day if it meant that I could carry around with me an aura of mystery, allure, and a hint of troubles past. Lauren Bacall could totally pull off the accompanying eye twitch of a perpetual eye paper cut and make it look incredible. <br />
<br />
But I could never be any of these things. I like hugs. And sticking three gumballs in my mouth to see how big of a bubble I can get. When the occasion calls for it, I've been known to giggle. It's true that I've dealt with what sometimes feels like more than my share of early adulthood troubles; but much to my consternation, I keep on bouncing back and trying to make the best of it. <br />
<br />
I truly wish I could look world-weary before my time. Instead, people walking their dogs when I'm on the way to my bus stop ask me if Provo High has already started up for the fall. I yearn to have a laugh laced with bitterness, to be the lovely heroine who is racked with troubles but confides in no one. I confide in everyone. I love the sharing, the storytelling, the insights in my youth that might explain why I am who I am.<br />
<br />
I'm an oversharer, I couldn't be enigmatic if I tried. I'm quirky, I'll give myself that, but I'm not even aloofly quirky. One of my quirks is that I love to cross examine and explain the mind process and physical manifestations of my quirkiness (ref: this blog). <br />
<br />
I'm not even sufficiently vulnerable. I'm small, which is a plus, but I'm also sturdy. With a tendancy to laugh when I get hurt. And a certain air of 21st-century-woman competence. Damn feminism. And no man is ever going to sweep me up in the classic neck-cracking kiss, because they'd have to bend over too far to reach me at that point and it would just create a very awkward silhouette. <br />
<br />
My existence obviously isn't that horrible, but let it be known (since I can't seem to keep myself from sharing) that I will always and forever feel like my life in it's totality was a little bit flatter, a shade less shiny, because I was never the woman who's large-brimmed-hat-profile in the deeply shadowed restaurant made anybody go "Who <i>is</i> that woman?" I'll never be described as intoxicating, glamorous, dangerous, or unknowable. And that makes me a tiny bit sad.<br />
<br />
Just not sad enough to be awesome.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB6XsTe75l1HZXJsJKU3fEu_RJvlWecFMXFxNk_J-D36oZapW1Yn9fEoiae-J91nMh0StYPTe6xtv-Rzl44pG5MzeeSyRLRgk60KQvD6kO9SwClcqFSv1N4gvl_5OMyt6LNlfnNlolZs0/s1600/Ingrid.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" mx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB6XsTe75l1HZXJsJKU3fEu_RJvlWecFMXFxNk_J-D36oZapW1Yn9fEoiae-J91nMh0StYPTe6xtv-Rzl44pG5MzeeSyRLRgk60KQvD6kO9SwClcqFSv1N4gvl_5OMyt6LNlfnNlolZs0/s400/Ingrid.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12187271371863115410noreply@blogger.com4