yawp

Frozen

2011-02-04T20:23:00.035-06:00

There will be points in life when it is impossible to see the good in anything.

The falling snow -- once a symbol of playtime, beauty and innocence -- will mean cracked radiators, middle fingers and two hour commutes.

There will be buckets of rain for every beautiful sunset, a dozen tears for every smile and newspaper headlines that ache to the core.

There will be times -- entire seasons -- where every phone call will end in a sigh.

Times when you will plead for news to be untold.

There will be times when it becomes impossible to love or live as you should

times when the fear of everything prevents you from doing anything.

Oh, yes, there will be times.

Times like today when you think of everyone who has passed in this, the most deplorable of winters.

And you will think, hanging up the phone, of the terrifying news to come.

You will swallow, and swallow, the lump in your throat gathering into a whimper.

You will limp to your car in the morning, slave away the day and spend your nights wondering where the day -- where the time, where this life -- has gone.

You will obsess over what you cannot control. You will give into the meaninglessness of everything, marveling as the world seemingly drowns in alternating currents of vitriol and apathy.

You will see all that remains to be done -- everything you have failed to accomplish -- and you (like Buridan's ass) will do none of it.

You will starve. And you will wither.

You will sit painfully and idly by, immobilized by the future remembrance 0f inevitable loss.

And you will forget, as so many people do, that life goes on.

Whether or not you truly live it is up to you.

But the question remains: how do you focus on the now...

on the moment...

when in the end

there is so much to lose.

Empty

2009-06-11T18:33:00.002-05:00

Among the Darbies

2009-05-29T05:32:00.003-05:00

I do not believe in fatalism. I understand cause and effect and believe wholeheartedly that a decision as simple as whether or not to board a bus could very well change the entire course of your life. And yet: I cannot help but deny a certain untouchable defeatist element to existence.

And: yes, yes. I know. Everyone feels this way at some point: or else we wouldn’t have clichés about camels and straw; or laws like Murphy’s.

But it’s this precise realization that makes me so quick to wonder: why bother at all.

Imagine for a moment that you did everything to create a comfortable life for yourself: the life you wanted, even. But what if the harder you tried, the further that dream went away?

Just another classic case of Tantalus, you might say.

And I say this: I’m not talking about water and grapes. This is life: a vacant and meaningless existence treading dangerously close to an irretrievably crushed spirit.

Recently someone said he admired me because no matter what happened, nothing ever gets to my core.

I appreciate what I consider to be a compliment, but I doubt its accuracy.

Because these things, little by little, are getting to me. And with so much of everything collapsing around me, I feel at times I have only myself to blame. And yet: I don’t know what I’ve done wrong. I don’t know what I could’ve done differently.

And so: day after day, these experiences tear at me from the inside. I try to heal old wounds and a new one arises; I stop one leak, and a bigger one begins.

But if I must be the girl who serves as a godmother – but never a parent – so be it. If I must be the girl who has to choose between backpacking across Scotland alone or not going at all, I will choose the former.

And yet: why it is come to this, I will never understand. These shelves of unwatched books; lists of “must see” movies and unseen vistas. Hopes and dreams that once seemed inevitable have somehow become insurmountable peaks.

They grow; they loom; they taunt. Fates approach in the distance; growing larger and larger, scissors poised before my string.

This is not the life I fought for. This is not the life I wanted.

This is the life that found me.

But tell me why – like Sisyphus – I scale the mountain all the same.

And People Call These "Weeds"

2009-05-28T10:30:00.001-05:00

I'll never understand.

Every Day is Different. Every Day is the Same.

2009-05-27T10:05:00.001-05:00

The Wind in Slow Motion

2009-05-26T11:41:00.001-05:00

I shot these at the "wrong" shutter speed and almost deleted them. And yet: I wound up preferring them over most other photos I took this past weekend. Not to mention, my camera broke some 30 minutes thereafter, and I figured I may as well post the last images my Canon G7 produced. It'll be awhile before I can afford another.

Variations of the Same

2009-05-25T21:37:00.006-05:00

It's not that I'm back. It's just that I know, deep down, I won't be safe anywhere.

Love Before the Ruins, Part II

2009-02-22T09:01:00.001-06:00

The story continues.

Love Before the Ruins

2009-02-13T08:16:00.000-06:00

If you'd like to see me be momentarily optimistic -- and believe me, this is a rare occasion indeed -- then be sure to check this out.

(And then check back in a day or two for the continuation.)

Soccer Fashion

2009-02-11T17:36:00.004-06:00

Shameless Plug

2009-02-10T17:06:00.003-06:00

It's true I couldn't draw to save my life, and my comics are about as useless as man-teats. But for whatever reason I'm particularly proud of the one I posted today. Check it out.

Super Bowl Commentary

2009-02-01T20:17:00.005-06:00

As I watched the Super Bowl tonight, at best half-interested in the game and mostly just sticking around for the commercials, I couldn't help but wonder:

Have Omar Epps and Pittsburgh Steelers coach Mike Tomlin ever been seen in the same room at the same time?

Because I'm pretty sure they're the same person.

Music 2000

2009-01-28T20:50:00.003-06:00

Imagine it's early 1980s and a group sets out to predict how music will sound in the year 2000.

This, my friends, is the result:

(And for the record, that apparition is the ghost of Tchaikovsky -- one of the judges for the Music 2000 contest).

High Five!

2009-01-26T22:55:00.005-06:00

HIGH-FIVE INAUGURATION! - watch more funny videos

Voices (a Q&A with the author)

2009-01-22T14:42:00.000-06:00

What does it mean when nearly every voice in your head is screaming for you to get the f*ck out of Chicago?

(Only to be followed by a whisper, "But to where?")

And why, pray tell, does all this news about salmonella leave me craving peanut butter?

That Which We Do Not See

2009-01-19T22:23:00.001-06:00

Even the most intelligent of our species fail, time and again, to appreciate the beauty of the world around them.

They rush from Point A to Point B with their faces in cell phones,

and their heads so far removed from the best of their reality that they dream only of alternates: bigger homes; bigger paychecks; more beautiful spouses.

But what of perfectly formed snowflakes, glistening on windshields? What of shadows and sunspots

-- simple smiles or autumnal leaves forever orange (frozen in ice)?

It has taken me a long time to realize that not everyone sees the world as I do.

Which isn't to say there's anything special about me; only that it's with good reason that words such as "weird" and "quirky" are so often used to describe me.

But it is this same personality trait that compels me to seek out the like-minded,

ever hopeful that I will stop to take a picture and the person beside me will understand precisely why I'm fascinated by complex equations,

or a certain slant of light.

Together we will slay dragons with our laughter, run circles around Lake Michigan, and wiggle our toes through the morning dew.

But emotion, as with life, is a one-sided beast:

a landslide that consumes the very thing it loves, leaving eternity-old lessons in its wake.

You can depend on no one in this world.

Which is to say:

You are alone.

It is this very lesson that I find myself confronting again, even as I try -- perhaps now more than ever -- to disprove lifelong hypotheses.

But am I falling again?

Failing?

Cornering myself into the circumference of infinity?

There's no denying it, I think, staring out of my window and into stained glass: this life is a loop, doomed to repeat itself.

And so I do, the record and the needle bouncing inconsolably between the bitter and the sweet;

the beautiful laughter and the desolate sigh.

Which is to say, there's only one lesson to be had here, and you already know it:

The people you love will not recognize you even as you stand before them:

And yet they will remember you, beautifully and painfully,

when you are gone.

The Occasional Stutter

2008-11-15T15:46:00.005-06:00

My inability to create art is, perhaps, one of the greatest disappointments of my life.

Whether it involved drawing, or painting, my talents never evolved beyond 5th grade art class. I was stuck in a land of stick figures, which I continued to doodle in the margins of my poetry books.

This has gone on for years, with my drawings being a source of bemused embarrassment; something I never shared, though I seldom had reservations about posting my words under the comfort of anonymity.

But then I discovered very respectable web comics like Toothpaste for Dinner and Exploding Dog, which helped me come to terms with the terrible artist within:

I don't understand perspective or shadows, and I couldn't draw a human face to save my life... but I do understand a bit about the world, and some days I just can't put it all to words. I'm a very visual person, believe it or not (hence my obsession with photography).

So for a few years now, I've actually been keeping track of my drawings. And this Friday, something strange happened: I filled up the last page in my book.

I've also been sharing a few comics with co-workers, two of which have encouraged me to give my strip a name and put it online.

And so I did. I've scanned everything in that I've done thus far, which means there's ample material for a comic-a-day for quite some time... particularly when you consider I hope to continue the series.

So here's what I'm going to do: on days when I have a new comic to post, I'll do that. But if the muses fail to inspire, I'll have something old already triggered up and ready to go.

Next time you come to YAWP and you're disappointed to see I've (once again) failed to post, try The Occasional Stutter.

You'll be disappointed in a whole new way.

To Silly for Sad

2008-11-13T21:01:00.001-06:00

I'll let these images speak for themselves.

Being There

2008-11-06T19:11:00.003-06:00

This, I imagine, is how it begins.

An entire day spent in silence, readjusting a junk sofa; laying down new rugs and wiping vomit from the old ones.

This is what you never wanted; what so many of you fear.

It is alone.

Not the adjective and not the adverb, but rather the thing itself. It is, for lack of a better description, the genesis of a solitary noun.

It is… orange leaves outside of a window.

Sirens wailing towards Devon.

The gurgle of a seldom used fountain; the collapse of a soap dish unable to carry its burden alongside the tiled bathroom wall.

It is the sight and the sound and smell of autumn; everything falling and crunching and wailing to its own chord.

It is beautiful and sad. It is solitude with little more than a waning desire to be otherwise.

It is giving up.

It is the nauseating understanding of difference; the realization that, hermit or not, there is a profound difference between having the choice of company (youth) and none at all (present).

And it pushes on your chest, dripping your lifeline into the pit of your stomach, pounding to the beat of old memories and moments. Laughs and pranks and walks and sundry other moments where you were not — by any superficial definition of the word — alone.

But time is a lion, leaving in its wake a path of beautiful destruction.

People grow. They marry. They have children. The children grow.

Everyone older and older, their faces dropping from the only circle you’ve known. And so it goes: you are alone, in the middle of everything.

God forbid you should ever wake up to realize what I have: that there’s seldom a need for a telephone. No need for stationery and blank CDs. No need for vocal chords or complete dinette sets.

You will stay where you are while the world spins on; stopping and demanding you dance at their convenience. And yet: otherwise forgetting your face; your name; your voice.

And that, perhaps, is your problem. Your Achilles heel, as it were.

You are always there.

Waiting and helping. Helping and waiting. Like a piece of furniture that brings comfort after a long day, with scarce occasion for reciprocity.

But when the world does indeed comes crashing down — as it most assuredly will — and your ears ache with the sort of silence that only tinnitus knows.

No one — no one — will be there to hear you scream. No one will rub your feet or bring breakfast in bed. No one will answer their phone or call for random hello’s.

And this, I imagine, is the replicating middle. The climax to a story with no denouement except for the endless repetition of the silence; the solitude; and the fury.

But the question remains:

How does it end? How do you break out of the cycle and rebirth yourself into the happy happy joy joy of the faces around you?

It is the hardest feat of them all. An action so Herculean in effort that you can scarcely imagine the thought.

You will have to turn to someone you love and say, anguish dripping from your cheeks, that, no

I cannot be there for you.

Not ever again.

And until you accomplish this one, great disaster of your life, there is only this:

the beginning, the middle and the end – consistent only in their unraveling.

To Say

2008-11-03T17:37:00.001-06:00

Listen.

I have nothing to say.

Just these photos, now old, taken of a new experience some months back.

There's nothing profound, really: just a memory; a laugh; an experience.

I have been here and there when you have not.

Living...

Waiting...

Walking, so often, where we have walked.

But: listen.

I have nothing to say.

Kant Attack Ad

2008-10-16T22:28:00.000-05:00

The Carpe Diem Chronicles

2008-10-14T23:01:00.001-05:00

Something happens though no one wants it to. It sneaks up when you’re in the middle of your afternoon coffee or mid-step on a 12-mile hike.

You are dying, dying, dying.

And with you: all of those dreams and what-might-have beens. But where did it all go? The almost-reality of summer internships in Paris; the train that kept you from a moment of bliss?

And what of those long walks in the rain – where have they gone? Or your spark, for that matter, which once upon a time could ignite the world.

What did they say you would be, when you were young? What did you say?

Were you going to publish a novel? Act on broadway? Cure cancer?

This is the potential of every life, exponentially wasted.

In Ernest Becker’s Denial of Death, these dreams of ours dwindle as we come to terms with our mortality, anxious by the ever-increasing pressure to leave something behind.

“Immortality projects,” he calls them. Beacons by which future generations will remember us. Traces of the dead, forever engrained into the living.

And while some never lose sight of those early dreams – and so paint their way into history books – most turn instead to the project that society (both modern and ancient) has deemed the simplest means of self-preservation: the propagation of the species.

Which is to say: procreation.

It is this biological desire that so strikingly resembles those of our animal brethren – creatures we’ve held ourselves above since the first caveman turned a grunt into an utterance.

But even the most brilliant of minds will awaken some day to a realization: the same realization that haunts parents and dictators and artists alike, from the recesses of their very subconscious.

You. Are. Trapped.

You’re caught in a life cycle that seems beyond your control; and yet, beneath you: a mammalian instinct engrained in your DNA, and so very well out of your hands.

The doom of your lifeline is carved into your palm, so deeply engrained that no amount of scrubbing could ever erase.

[How’s that for futility, Mrs. Macbeth?]

Your dreams, once upon a time, were limitless. But your hours upon this earth are not. So why, then, all of this wasting?

When all along, we have only ourselves to blame.

Dog is My Co-Pilot

2008-09-29T06:42:00.003-05:00

Without question, my "new" apartment is significantly less intense than the last: the police haven't been there once; no one is cooking meth (as far as I can smell); and rather than wearing a snowsuit to bed in the winter, I sometimes feel the need to prop open a window to cool the place down.

So in terms of safety and overall comfort, it's an improvement.

But that's not to say it's perfect; far from it. There was the bathroom incident, for starters. Or the fact that my landlady has a habit of letting herself in unannounced, and generally fails to properly finish necessary repairs.

And the last guy to live above me was a neurotic, heavy walker who seldom took off his shoes when he was home but often bounced on the hardwood floors at a pace Michael Phelps would be hard-pressed to match in an Olympic-sized pool.

He suffered from hearing loss, a problem he accounted for by turning his radio up to obnoxiously high decibels, his speakers just inches above the rotting hardwood that separated our abodes. In other words: I could generally sing along with his music, the tunes so clearly broadcast into my home office.

But he was a nice guy, actually, and when I once mentioned the loud music to him, he apologized profusely and generally (though not always) kept his music down. Which is to say: he put his speakers on a rug, so the sound was muffled. It was still audible, but at least it was nowhere near as distracting.

When he moved out, I was thrilled to discover his replacement was a light-walker: someone I could occasionally hear walking, but only in the same way it's impossible for anyone to entirely snuff out the sound of their steps on an old, creaky floor. His music is generally kept down; and though I can make out his television set when my apartment is silent, if I turn on something in my apartment, I don't hear his TV at all.

It was near bliss until I realized he had one great flaw — a disturbingly dark mark on an otherwise clear complexion.

He has a dog. A small, yippy thing that barked almost constantly the first couple weeks after he moved in. But rather than complain — either to him or my landlord — I chalked it up to anxiety with being in a new place and figured I'd give the pup some time.

And that seemed to work. The dog barked less and less, and in the past month or so I've heard it bark fairly regularly, but never at intervals as long or as pronounced as those first two weeks. In short: it was occasionally annoying, but the bouts of annoyance were generally short-lived.

Short-lived, anyway, until this past Friday. The dog was barking when I got home at 5:30 p.m., and barked off and on for the next two hours... at which point, the pace picked up and was a near-constant until well after 2:30 a.m.

It was around 1:45 that I finally called my landlady, something I've never done before (at least: never in regards to a neighbor). She could hear the dog barking through my phone, as though the pooch were inside my very apartment.

She was skeptical that it was coming from immediately above me, as that gentleman — as it turns out — actually has two dogs. This became apparent to me when she went upstairs (she lives in the basement, three stories removed — and on the opposite side of the building — from the sound) to make sure my neighbor was OK.

We'd theorized that either:

• He'd left his dogs alone for hours, and the yippie one was lonely and/or needed a potty break.
• He'd had a heart attack or some other major medical incident and needed help

When I heard her walk into his apartment, the yipping continued but was joined by a deep, guttural bark from a presumably much larger canine. I was terrified for a moment that she was going to be attacked but as the footsteps continued and I heard her shout for them to shut-up, I figured she was still in one piece.

So as the two dogs barked and I tossed and turned in my bed, my alarm primed for 5 a.m. and a 3-hour road trip on the horizon, I waited for the wail of a siren to come to my neighbor's aid.

But no such thing occurred. Rather than lying unconscious on his floor, he wasn't home. And hadn't been home. Instead, he'd left two dogs, one of them quite large, cramped up inside a one-bedroom city apartment, potentially all day. And most certainly all night. Maybe he checked in on them once; there was a 1/2 hour period of silence around 10 or 11 when I thought maybe he'd returned home.

But then the barking resumed, and I was no better off for the brief silence.

I was angry and irritated. Exhausted and anxious. It occurred to me to give up entirely and hit the road then, rather than waiting for sunrise. But I knew I'd fall asleep the moment I got behind the wheel, so instead I alternately packed my belongings for the trip; crashed exhausted into my bed; and then got up again when it became clear — once again — that I couldn't sleep through the barking.

This cycle continued for five hours, when at long last — around 2:30, maybe 3 — I heard the hallway stairs creak, followed by light footsteps on the floor above me.

The dog hushed, its owner (or possibly animal control) there at long last to end our misery.

Boy Toy

2008-09-19T17:37:00.003-05:00

Cousin: So do you have a new boyfriend yet?

Me: *pause* Do you have a new boyfriend yet?

[I should add that said cousin is a heterosexual male.]

***
Because of these and similar questions, which I seem to be hearing a lot lately, I've begun RSVP'ing to important events for 1 1/2 people, having re-instated a certain man of mystery from a decade-old retirement.

My closest friends know what that means.*

*No, it's not dirty. And NO, I'm not pregnant.

You Know It's Over When...

2008-09-17T18:09:00.005-05:00

...you immediately turn a conversation about all of the attractive, single guys who'll be at your friend's wedding into a discussion about your cat(s).*

*Of particular concern is when said conversation devolves into a wistful remark of how utterly cute it is when you reach down to pet said cat and she lovingly puts her paw on top of your foot.**

**Not that I would ever talk about something like that.***

***Who needs human companionship, anyway?

Netflix Flop

2008-09-15T23:42:00.003-05:00

Let me say, first of all, that up until about six weeks ago, I was a happy Netflix customer.

They had nearly every movie I looked for, and I think it's great that renting a film no longer involves city traffic or stress about returning a movie on time. I just queue it up, wait 1-2 days for delivery. And, voila, it's in my mailbox.

[Assuming my mailman delivers mail that day — he regularly takes days off without having a temp fill in.]

I can keep the movie for as long as I want, with no late fees. With a flat monthly rate, though, the incentive is to watch as many movies as possible to get your money's worth.

But lately that's been nearly impossible.

Starting with the downed servers that cramped service for days just a few weeks ago — which I thought at the time they handled well (from a public relations perspective) — service just hasn't been the same.

Instead of a two day turn-around time between when I drop off a DVD and receive another one, the last few cycles it's been more like a 5-day turnaround. At one point I even reported two disks missing, having dropped them off early one Thursday and not hearing anything from Netflix by the following Monday (usually, you'll get an e-mail the next morning saying they were received).

But that's just the beginning.

Where in the World is Osama bin Laden? was sold out the one time I tried to see it in the theatre, so I saved it to my Netflix queue the very next day, hoping that meant I'd receive it the moment it came out on DVD.

When the film moved from the "saved" (in other words: not yet released) portion of my list to the "queue" portion, I immediately moved it to the #1 spot in my queue.

When the film released on DVD August 26, I thought for sure I'd have it August 27. But instead, its availability was listed as "very long wait," and it was another two weeks before this status was updated to "long wait."

I was immediately peeved, since by this point it'd been saved to my list for well over a month. Maybe even two. Shouldn't they have been able to meet their immediate demand by basing the number of DVDs ordered on the number of users who had the film in their queue prior to release?

But that, still, is not my biggest gripe.

You see, a co-worker/friend of mine was asking for my thoughts on Netflix, and I actually gave the service a glowing recommendation — with the aforementioned disclaimers referenced in our conversation.

He signed up and is currently in the third week of his free, 30-day trial.

Just for kicks, he added Where in the World is Osama bin Laden? to his queue this last Friday, when he still had some movies at home. The availability for him was immediately listed as "Now."

He suggested maybe I should remove it from my list and then add it again. You know... refresh my queue.

So I did.

"Long Wait," it said.

And this morning... well, early this morning he sent me this:*

(Click the image so you can read the type.)

Thing is, he doesn't even want to see the movie. So the good news is, he'll be loaning it to me when it comes in.

And while I'm happy about that, I'm nevertheless ticked at Netflix for so blatantly ignoring their loyal users in the quest to mislead (by prioritizing their demands) potential customers.

I understand this practice from a financial perspective but find it to be dishonest and unfair, all the same.

I think I'll just let my own screen capture, taken later this morning* — some two months after the film in question was saved to my list — speak for itself:

*Screen captures edited only to protect anonymity. No other changes made.

A Day in the Life, Part IX"Temporal Lobe Apathy"

2008-09-13T13:31:00.002-05:00

I've always felt out of place among crowds.

I even remember the first time I experienced that sensation: I was 9 or 10 years old, and it was half-time at a high school basketball game.

I ventured out into the common area with friends for restroom breaks and nachos and -- in my case -- however much gum I could purchase with the quarter in my pocket.

But the area was packed with people navigating in all variety of directions, dozens upon dozens of conversations all buzzing into one. There were foot steps, I remember, and the smell of popcorn was ripe in the air (along with cold dragged in from the outdoors and perfumes and colognes and sweat and the last bounce of the basketball fresh off the court).

I was overwhelmed by all five senses, a certain nausea developing in the pit of my stomach and lingering as a pseudo-numbness in my hands.

I wanted nothing more than an open space, from which I could safely sit and observe the sights and smells and sounds without being a part of them.

There is something profoundly melancholy about so much of everything at once, I thought (or some juvenile version thereof), making my way to a bench and waiting for the crowd to clear.

There was a similar nausea, too, just days ago when I was away from everyone and everything but myself, and these memories:

I was looking at recent photos, scrolling one by one until something got... stuck... and the program started to scroll at its own, accelerated rate. Each image was on my screen for a split second -- at best -- before my computer shuffled on to the next.

By this manner the last six months of my life flashed by in one minute, maybe two. It unrolled like a movie -- a flipbook -- with people laughing, walking, talking... sometimes in sequence.

There were sunrises and sunsets of mirror image vistas. Flowers from all variety of angles.

Fireworks taking off.

Exploding

And then falling.

It was perhaps one of the most surreal experiences of my recent life, and I spent it entirely alone.

No crowds.

No people.

Just memories.

And the same sickening overload.

I learned recently that these experiences may very well be the result of a medical condition.

I was watching a movie wherein one of the lead characters periodically enters a sort of... trance... where he becomes hypersensitive to the world around him, staring off into space only to later talk excitedly about something as simple as a flower, or as light as a breeze.

It was theorized he suffered from temporal lobe epilepsy -- a very real condition that has, as I've since discovered -- impacted a great many brilliant minds.

Artists. Poets. Musicians. Playwrights. Novelists.

A list of people I'd be proud to be listed among.

People who suffer from things like hypergraphia, deja vu, and jamais vu. People who were at once overwhelmed

and underwhelmed

by the world around them: sensations I've lived and relived for much of my life.

Now this isn't to say I wanted to find that I had a condition (and particularly not epilepsy, whose harsher effects I certainly don't intend to downplay); rather, I was mystified to think of creativity as a symptom.

A marker of illness. An anomaly.

It saddened me, in a way. Another facet of personality explained by medical science.

Is nothing real?

Is everything about biology and nothing about soul? Or even ephemera?

But I digress.

Greater research on the matter has confirmed I don't have T.L.E., a realization that leaves me as relieved as it does concerned.

Worried beyond belief that -- in the world at large, and my life --

normalcy will crush or cure the opposition.

A Day in the Life, Part VIIIEmpathy for the Living

2008-09-10T11:40:00.006-05:00

My mind is a cacophony of words; images; thoughts.

It is silence, and then a terrifying mess of sounds.

It is awash with ideas and experiences, old and new, many now too lost in time to ever be communicated or understood.

For example: everything you see here is three months old — a single two days plucked from the early summer — though the words are a bastardization of every moment since.

But let us work backwards, for a moment. The unordered order of the recent past.

Yesterday I skipped the post-work workout and drove directly home; tired and unmotivated for anything other than sleep.

When I pulled up to my apartment, I was first greeted by a neighbor (don't worry, I like this one) and his dog. A short conversation and a minute or so later, and I was unloading my car when a man on a bicycle pulled up behind me and said:

"Excuse me, miss. You speak English?"

"Yes," I said, turning around to find a face as vaguely familiar as those words.

And then it hit me. Again and again, as he continued to speak.

He was exasperated and out of breath; a wad of cash in one hand and an inhaler in the other.

And then his story — as familiar as the cash, the inhaler, the bike — began:

He just needed a few more dollars (he said, showing me the wad of tens and twenties) to get his inhaler filled at the Walgreens down the street. He isn't going to hurt me, he said, he just needs a little help so he can get his asthma medication.

"I gave you 10 bucks for your inhaler a couple months ago," I said truthfully, realizing his plea was as likely a ruse before just as it was then.

"I know, I know," he said. "But I just need a little more. It's for my daughter," he said, gesturing to the invisible no one over his shoulder after repeating a story to me that was otherwise identical to the one before.

"I'm sorry," I said, shutting my car door, angry with myself for having ever given the ten dollars in the first place.

"God bless you anyway," he said, pedaling hurriedly on to his next victim.

I looked at my car and sighed, wondering if he'd return later to "bless me" (and my vehicle) for our lack of alms.

And three days before:

His face crinkled and flushed into a melancholy red as he let out a painful sigh.

"The sun is going down," he said, looking out of the window. "The sun is going down and I haven't seen my mom all day."

The inflection at the end — coupled with his keen observation of the rural horizon — was what killed me, my body filling with a sort of empathy that, these days, is reserved especially for him.

He's only six, after all. Going to school all day for the first time in his life, leaving his mom at home alone with his infant brother. Spending three nights a week refining his martial arts skills, and every other weekend with his grandparents.

But that wasn't all I thought about then, putting my hand on his shoulder and telling him I'd let his Papaw know it was time to take him home (it wasn't our weekend, after all).

Secondary to my concern for him, it bothered me that it's seldom his father he misses (or at least: that he talks about missing). That he's become so used to that absence in his life, it's hardly worth mentioning. It is, after all, his father who swims in the same gene pool as I, and it pains me to think our role in this little boy's life could be in any way amiss.

But I shake off the thought, reminding myself that this attachment between a mother and child is historic. An inevitable fact of life, really. It's the mother they so often cry for; seldom the father.

Why is that?

"But I can't go yet," he said, sniffling and wiping his eyes. "I need to bull ride Papaw first."

I informed my father of this change of events and stood by, amused, as my nephew threw on his favorite cowboy hat and hopped onto my father's back.

He was smiling and laughing in seconds.

It was the same smile I saw three months ago when I opened my apartment door to find him on the other side.

He marched in, hands on his hips, and rattled off a list of things he wanted to do during his weekend visit.

And, boy, did he keep my parents and I busy. Museums

and aquariums

and sculpture parks

and hatcheries

(just to name a few).

I had fun, really. All of us did.

But one thing really struck me on that trip, something that was solidified this past weekend:

There's no denying he resembles both of his parents, but it's particularly interesting for me to see him now: he's the same age his father was when I was born.

And now when I look at him, I see the beginnings of the boy I first remembered.

McCain Defends His No. 2

2008-09-04T14:04:00.002-05:00

Attacking policies and track records?

That I understand.

But for the love of God, let a man have his No. 2 in peace.

[And, no, that isn't an Onion article — though the headline certainly reads like one.]

Fall Fashion

2008-08-25T10:08:00.004-05:00

A recent article and photo featured on the MSNBC website argues that Katie Holmes has brought men's jeans back into women's fashion.

Along with the article was a photo of Frau Cruise herself, sporting her husband's jeans with a bulky, tightly-cinched belt.

But the article fails to mention what is, in my opinion, the biggest bit of news to emerge from this photo:

The tight-roll is back, baby!

Olympic Fever: Catch It

2008-08-20T16:42:00.001-05:00

This would be more humorous if it weren't so eerily plausible.

Chinese Officials: Deadly Virus Sweeping China Is Just Olympic Fever

Behind the Scenes

2008-08-19T19:33:00.000-05:00

The highlight occurs around 07:15, if you want to skip ahead.

Italian Sausage Sunset

2008-08-17T10:22:00.000-05:00

You tell me.

Did I take the picture because of this...

...or this?

Still Further Proof that the Man Upstairs Hates Me with an Unabashed Passion

2008-08-14T22:23:00.000-05:00

After penny-pinching for a few months and holding out for the best price possible, I recently bought some much coveted airfare at surprisingly low rates.

But necessity also compelled me to purchase a couple more outfits for work (figured "business casual" didn't call for holey shirts and frayed pants bottoms), which I did whilst enjoying a friends and family discount for the Republican Banana.

I even started shopping for a new wireless phone, as my contract was about to expire and it was time for an upgrade.

But God would have none of that.

Oh, no.

Rather, Maude has been suspiciously lazy and keeps adding on weight (not to mention, urinating in weird places), and a routine exam at the vet revealed that she most likely has a rare (though not entirely unheard of) condition that causes cysts — and secondary infections — to form in the bladder. What's that mean for me?

X-rays. Blood cultures. Urinalysis. Antibiotics via oral syringe. Temperature taking by means I'd rather not describe. Needing to add two more litter boxes to my one-bedroom apartment. Dietary supplements she turns her nose up at.

And lots and lots of money.

But oh, no, that's not all!

Of the two new litter boxes, the vet insisted one NOT have a lid.

So can you guess where Maude and Guest Cat both prefer to do their business?

Yes. That's right — number one and number two... from both cats... in the same, unhooded box.

That means litter all over the floor, occasional spill-over, and a smell that no amount of Glade Plug-Ins can erase.

The other two bigger, prettier — and most importantly, covered — boxes remain pristine.*

But that, still, is not all.

I went in for an oil change and found out my car was due for much more costly maintenance. So I paid the price, only to have them say, "Everything looks good."

But, hey, they topped off the windshield wiper fluid, and we all know how expensive that is (SMIRK).

In other words: I paid almost $200 for a few ounces of something I had a whole container of in the trunk of my car.

But wait — there's more!

Early this week, my cell phone (which is my main phone) went from old-but-functional to doesn't-hold-a-charge-overnight.

In other words: the battery is shot. As is its car charger, the bluetooth that goes with it, and the corded hands-free set I purchased to try and replace the latter on-the-cheap.

So I can replace the battery, bluetooth and car charger for my current phone at full price, or renew my two-year contract and get a new, better phone at a discounted rate.

OK, OK. I'm complaining when I shouldn't. But here's my real beef with the powers-that-be.

(And in this case, I mean Warner Bros).

The next Harry Potter film — originally slated to release this November — has been pushed back EIGHT MONTHS.

That's right. No more witches and wizards until July 2009.

That sound you hear — shhhh... — that's my heart dying.

A moment of silence, please.

*My priority, of course, is Maude's health — and I don't care if that makes me a crazy cat lady. Of course I wouldn't gripe about the money if I suspected she wasn't going to be OK. I'm taking donations all the same.

Georgia On My Mind

2008-08-14T11:42:00.000-05:00

Apologies for two political entries in a single week, but I need a forum to sort through my confusion in regards to the Georgia / Russia conflict.

Maybe I'm not following the timeline properly, but I'm pretty sure last week Georgia tried to deny South Ossetia (by force) the independence it's been vying for since the breakup of the Soviet Union, and Russia (by force) told Georgia to leave South Ossetia alone.

And then President Bush steps in to tell Russia to end its Georgian aggression, asserting our allegiance with Georgia and calling Russia all sorts of dirty names.

Seriously, Bush? Seriously?

Is it just me, or wasn't Georgia the initial aggressor here? Or to rephrase the pop-lingo: "Georgia shouldn't write checks its military brass can't cash."

Essentially, the skinny kid punched the much-bigger-kid's little friend, and now the skinny kid is crying foul.

I mean, I'm as concerned about Russia as the next person. After all, the new Russian president was essentially appointed by the former Russian president, and the former Russian president is the new prime minister.

If that doesn't wig you out, allow me to rephrase:

Something is rotten in the state of the Kremlin, and it ain't the old potatoes outside the vodka distillery.

Even still: does that give the United States the right to tell Russia to leave Georgia alone when, in fact, Georgia "started it"?

Or is this all a microcosm for what we've done in Iraq?

Yeah, Bush, that's just what we want. As though our military isn't spread too thin already, let's add Russia to the playing field. And once this whole Olympics thing is over (oh, what ironic timing!), surely we can continue the international competition by inviting China to join in.

And, oh — oh! I hope North Korea wants to play too.

Now here's an idea: let's do the democratic thing and take a vote: all in favor of using our words to diplomatically (rather than offensively) tell both sides to chill, say "I."

And if that doesn't work — and Bush continues with the heated name-calling — here's a tip for Russia.

Say it with me.

I'm rubber, and you're glue...

Commune / Commute

2008-08-13T19:42:00.002-05:00

"drive through hell"
by charles bukowski

the people are weary, unhappy, frustrated, the people are
bitter and vengeful, the people are deluded and fearful, the
people are angry and uninventive
and I drive among them on the freeway and they project
what is left of themselves in their manner of driving—
some more hateful, more thwarted than others—
some don't like to be passed, some attempt to keep others
from passing
—some attempt to block lane changes
—some hate cars of a newer, more expensive model
—others in these cars hate the older cars.

the freeway is a circus of cheap and petty emotions, it's
humanity on the move, most of them coming from some place
they
hated and going to another they hate just as much or
more.
the freeways are a lesson in what we have become and
most of the crashes and deaths are the collision
of incomplete beings, of pitiful and demented lives.

when I drive the freeways I see the soul of humanity of
my city and it's ugly, ugly, ugly: the living have choked the
heart
away.

Thought Police: Concerning the Beijing Olympics

2008-08-12T11:28:00.012-05:00

"Most of the people see the fog, they say it is pollution. But we know here it's not pollution. It's mist, a fact of the nature."

I'll be the first to admit that our government is corrupt — the current regime; those before it; and all of those to come.

That's perhaps the darkest secret of human nature: even with the best of intentions, our secret thoughts and actions often undermine the very best of ourselves.

Which is to say: we're far from perfect. And, in large numbers, we're actually quite dangerous.

But I maintain that democracy (in various forms) is the best of all possible governments. Don't believe me? Just pay attention to the Beijing Olympics.

If what you see doesn't make you burst into the chorus from "I'm Proud to be an American," then you're not looking closely enough.

Most of what we've seen in Beijing so far is benign on the surface. But like that proverbial tip of the iceberg, it's something I'd prefer to never run into.

A fireworks display so impressive that even the live audience thought it was real (it wasn't). A six-year-old girl told she wasn't cute enough to appear on stage, though she was asked to sing while another, "cuter" girl lip-synched. Or even better? That China rationalized this decision as being a matter of "national interest."

Just imagine if the U.S. didn't allow the unattractive to perform — what then would come of the Steven Tylers and Clay Aikens of the world?

(OK, so maybe this one little quirk isn't such a bad thing.)

And let us not forget the stone-faced police terrifying tourists; the underage gymnasts; China nearly reneging on its promise to allow uncensored media coverage; the thick smog and how offended the Chinese government became when some American athletes wore masks; or the alarming lack of protesters since the torch relay (particularly when you consider China's reputation for killing and imprisoning dissidents)?

And this is on an international stage, with the whole world watching. Just imagine what they do when we're not paying attention.

Tibet, anyone? Anyone?

I understand that "when in Rome" it's wise to follow protocol. But does that mean if the Olympics were held in Sudan, we'd be free to kill by the thousands, and then tell the international media that the population drop was due to climate change?

Or, excuse me, isn't this why some places aren't selected to host the Olympics?

But far be it for me to tell the IOC how to do their job.

I realize the United States is far from perfect; we're a bully in our own right. Our current administration has manipulated information, misinformed the public, and started unjust wars with unprepared (and under-supplied) soldiers, many of them fresh out of Folsum.

And we didn't just vote in this administration once... we did it twice.

So we're culpable, in a way.

But there's a reason organizations like the American Civil Liberties Union — who I never in a million years thought I'd jump to defend — make such a stink when the government starts tapping our phone calls or holding people without due process.

Because the loss of civil liberties is a slippery slope — one it's best to not start treading.

So... say what you will about the United States.

You're allowed.

(The CIA will just be sure to add it to your file.)

Photo by Paula Bronstein / Getty Images

True Love Will Find You in the End

2008-08-12T06:42:00.000-05:00

A Day in the Life, Part VII"There's No Place Like"

2008-08-11T06:42:00.001-05:00

Maybe it's because my parents were always moving. Maybe it's because we're nomads by nature.

Or maybe it's just me.

But I have honestly never felt content enough to hang my hat anywhere. The best places I've discovered are far away from family, and a healthy amount of guilt compels me to strive for proximity.

(Unless wealth were to afford me to the luxury of flying anywhere on a whim — thus far a dream and not a reality).

I do feel, at times, that Thoreau had the right idea; just... an undermining level of hypocrisy.

I've struggled with Walden ever since I first read it in high school: a man endeavors to turn away from society and live alone on a small farm. He praises the virtues of nature — and solitude — all the while downplaying the visits he paid to his benefactors (the Emersons) and ultimately abandoning his experiment after 2 years, 2 months and 2 days.

He said it was time to return to civilized life though, in earnest, he'd never left it. He'd just... changed it, in a way... only to realize he needed it in its entirety more than he'd ever care to admit.

But I think I understand him now. I understand the desire to be at two places at once; the desire to give everything away and retreat within oneself.

And yet: I want all of the things I enjoy in life, without the hardships that pay for so many them.

Gas to travel. Photos and cameras and music and bicycles and books and concerts and plays.

And yet: no more traffic. No more construction or 8-hours-a-day without the smallest slant of sun.

A week ago I was in one room, with the TV on in another. Through the hall I heard words I'd written (spoken by another) — a fairly rare occurrence for me, given the medium for which I normally write.

And I thought: well, my job isn't so bad. If only I could do it from home.

But where is home? My apartment with leaking walls, mold, and a landlady who lets herself in, unannounced?

The city where I live — the horns, the drunkenness, the middle fingers... and bicyclists who ride 3 in a row, blocking traffic either to prove a point or through sheer ignorance of the world around them?

The place where I grew up, where nearly every visit is marred with frustrations too personal to list?

And I think... I know the answer. Home is anywhere for me, so long as I maintain the freedom to pack my bags on a whim. In my dream world, I keep my job but have the ability to do it from anywhere: my apartment, my hometown, internet cafes on remote islands. Campsites in the Pacific Northwest; trails in Appalachia. I pack a single bag and move, but always with a home to return to.

But right now? Right now... I feel stuck. There are cars and pink fabric walls everywhere I turn.

They are closing in.

For the Two People in the World Who Haven't Seen This Yet

2008-08-09T08:47:00.004-05:00

See more Paris Hilton videos at Funny or Die

A Day in the Life, Part VISweet Home Chicago?

2008-08-07T11:42:00.001-05:00

And then:

The anti-climax.

A return to the city with the highest sales-tax in the nation; the worst postal system of all major cities; and government corruption that serves as a backdrop for Gotham City.

[Not to mention, the astoundingly empty apartment.]

But it's not all bad. There are free festivals. Bike trails galore. Forest preserves, a beautiful skyline and storms powerful enough to transform downtown into a land of Oz.

Monday night, for example, the Lightening Detection Network — who knew such a thing existed?! — recorded 90,000 bolts of lightning in northern Illinois (essentially, the Chicagoland area).

That's a year's worth of lightning in a single night. And I'll tell you — it was an amazing sight (terrifying, even) to witness.

But this summer, otherwise mild, has had its share of freak storms... including one early June that ruined countless pieces at the Printer's Row Book Fair and sent a friend and I running for cover (but not before we helped a few sellers try to protect their goods).

Sirens were wailing all around us,

And by the storm's end, sellers were offering books as discounted prices — or discounting them altogether.

And I thought there was something strangely... poetic... in this juxtaposition of a syllabus and a trash can...

and a mysterious foe.

Particularly in a land I can never quite call home. A city I at once love and hate with equal ferocity. A land I refer to, in my loneliest moments, as the city of Cold Shoulders.

(With apologies to Carl Sandburg.)

But this is it. This is where I have been, and where I am. It's where I go at the end of the day, and where I return after vacations and camping trips and — yes — a 3,000 mile sojourn to the Pacific.

But, why, then, cannot I not refer to this place as "home"

And actually mean it?

Thoughts Concerning My Benevolent Nature

2008-08-06T06:23:00.000-05:00

Some call me generous; others, thoughtful. And if both camps agree on one thing, it's this:

I'm always looking out for other people.

That's why I don't want you to torture yourself when it comes to selecting the perfect Christmas gift for me this year.

I'll tell you.

Everywhere Signs

2008-08-05T06:42:00.001-05:00

And so ends the first major event of my summer, though I have much more to post about once I recuperate from this most recent bout of writing and photo uploading.

Until then, I give you sundry images from that 3,000 mile road trip — mainly, funny signs and other oddities that didn't jive with any previous entries, though I wanted to post them all the same.

But first: best to step back a rung or two on the maturity scale before scrolling down.

A Day in the Life, Part V"Washington becomes Oregon"

2008-08-01T21:42:00.002-05:00

There's something altogether humbling about turning the page on a calendar.

I did that today for my home and work calendars (all five of them), amazed to realize the summer is nearly gone.

Next will come autumn, and then winter, and then spring, and then summer.

You know the story -- it neither begins nor ends, it just... keeps going. Sometimes considerably faster than we like; and some days slower than we ever thought possible.

But enough of that; you're probably wondering why one person would need so many calendars, in which case I feel compelled to say the quantity has more to do with an obsession with art, rather than an obsession with time.

Though it is most certainly both.

Every time I turn one of those pages, I'm as eager to see the next month's artwork as I am disturbed to see the previous one pass.

And I cannot help but think, too, how ironic it is that days drag on whereas years pass in a proverbial blink.

A marker of a life wasted, methinks. A failure to enjoy the moment and the desperation that comes when you realize months upon months are full of wasted days.

So stop wasting them.

I am reminded, too, of a recent communique from a friend, asking who the real me is -- the words and pictures he knows from this fiber optic anomaly, or the girl with an off-color sense of humor who takes pride in her life's misadventures (not the least of which involved getting lost in the hills of New England).

I've been thinking about that question, and now -- days later -- my calculated response is the same as my immediate:

I am both.

Look at it this way: we've all heard the tragic tales of our favorite comedians. These people who -- on stage -- made us laugh so hard we cried, though their personal histories were often of a much darker ilk.

I won't at all profess to contain that level of tragedy or propensity for fame -- because I don't -- but the comparison remains the same:

I'm the reverse, in a way.

Roughly half of the people who read me have never met me. And so, all they know is this... melodramatic voice.

Though in person, I'm full of jokes, terrible puns, and stories of woe that nearly always have a humorous spin.

I'm the girl who cackles with glee when she realizes a simple word has been transformed either by time

Or some like-minded imp.

The girl who thinks this street name -- in hippie city, USA (i.e. Eugene, OR) -- is too fitting to be an accident.

The girl who mispronounces a name she's known all her life when it's out of context, and realizes just how unfortunate (that is to say: humorous) it really is.

And so on and so on, for days upon days.

But you know what I most liked about Eugene? This statue, which seemed more alive to me than most of the people I pass on any given day.

It's the first little boy that most stood out to me. Because for all of my love of literature, and movies, and plays... I understand and appreciate his desire to turn away from the speaker.

It's not so much that he's adverse to fiction.

(In fact, I imagine the converse to be true.)

But that he's immersed in life.

A Day in the Life, Part IV"The Northwest Passage"

2008-07-31T11:42:00.004-05:00

I don't often talk about my dreams — neither my aspirations for the future nor what happens whenever I close my eyes.

But last night, well... last night I came face-to-face with the very beast that's made it nearly impossible to write, or speak.

You see, the follow-up to my most recent apartment fiasco is that my landlady now turns the cold water off at night, long before I generally go to sleep.

That means no tooth brushing, no face washing, no showering and — last but not least — no toilet flushing.

And it was the final in that list that I attempted to do around 10 p.m. last night, only to realize my water was already off for the day.

[Yes, I realize what she's doing is very likely illegal — but I have almost a year left on my lease and moving is very time consuming and expensive].

I was so... frustrated... that I couldn't fathom any way to spend the remainder of my evening, except to sleep. I had no words for anyone.

No thoughts.

Just a simple tinge of anger and frustration, welling in the pit of my stomach.

My mind was a jumble of sounds and images, all of them indiscernible. And even as I crawled into bed, I knew sleep would not come fast enough.

How could it, with my pulse racing as it was?

But when it did — when finally the last drops of daylight faded from my eyes — I shouted in my sleep the very thing I'd been meaning to say.

My family was visiting. My sister and my oldest nephew were in my living room watching cartoons when I realized something was awry. I looked up and saw bubbles forming across my ceiling, spreading with pox-like rapidity down the hall and into the living room.

I grabbed my nephew and shouted for my sister to follow, as hole after hole burst through my ceiling and water spewed forth, ruining most (if not all) of my possessions (which are almost entirely sentimental in value).

I called my landlady to report the incident, and lost my temper for the first time — lamenting the photos and books and letters that lay in ruins.

"I just want things to be right — I want back everything that I've lost!" I shouted into the phone. "Life isn't meant to be so complicated!"

And I continued.

I'm tired of all of this.

[There was an exclamation point in my voice when I yelled this but now — in the world of conscious thought — a period and a pregnant pause will suffice.]

And that, as they say, is the rub.

I'm struggling to speak and write because everything is wrong, or even...

Out of place.

And I've come to realize that nothing I say or do will help to restore order.

What I see in this world — what I feel — is so often at odds with what I experience. It's at odds with every newspaper headline and every rush hour traffic jam.

And this streak of bad luck — if you can call it that — isn't a streak at all.

This isn't a phase.

This has been my life, and for as long as I can recollect.

So when does it stop? When do things get better? When do I stop being a doormat upon which other people shake their muddy shoes?

Or for that matter: when does writing about such things cease to suffice as a means of catharsis?

It stops when I stop.

All of it.

And that, I suppose, is what I fear.

That I'm stopping. That I'm giving up.

That for all of these traveled miles, for all of these experiences — however beautiful —

I have forgotten myself along the way.

I worry, then, that there is nothing left to regain.

(And so: no reason to try.)

And yet, even still,

I persist.

A Day in the Life, Part III"I Da Ho, U Da Ho"

2008-07-30T19:23:00.001-05:00

Sometimes you can drive across an entire state and not see much of it.

All it takes is a mixture of persistent storm clouds

Extreme fatigue

And a confused GPS unit that keeps telling you to abandon the highway at every possible exit.

But even under the worst of conditions, a little beauty is bound to shine through.

And everywhere in-between, you amuse yourself with unusual signs you pass along the way.

From the juvenile

And the unintended racism

To the fallen.

Before you know it, you're 380 miles from where you started, and you realize you'd had GPS set to "pedestrian" — and not "automobile" — all the while.

A Day in the Life, Part II"The Tetons"

2008-07-29T11:42:00.010-05:00

Everyone's a building burning
With no one to put the fire out
Standing at the window looking out
Waiting for time to burn us down

Modest Mouse, "Blame it on the Tetons"

I've spent the morning waiting for the night to shake off, certain that chronic fatigue is more than an urban legend.

And I wonder if for every one of these posts — every attempt at assigning words to the summer's thus-far-adventures — will be the same.

An exposition on wordlessness. A litany of the ineffable. A diatribe on appreciating aesthetics when all the while desolation is just around the corner.

And so it goes. And goes. These stories with no beginning, middle or end.

This diurnal battle to find the energy to speak when I want nothing more than to retreat to my bed

Pull up the covers

And dream the world away.

Or should I tell you? Should I say what I am thinking? Should I offer those few words I've jotted down in the margins of my notebook?

This is the first day of the last of our life together.

But where do I go from there? From here?

How do I continue when I am speaking of a recent past, now at odds with my present?

These are memories. Photographs are nearly always that, and a little more. Every image tells a story; an emotion.

And one, I fear, I'm losing the ability to articulate.

But I will say this for Wyoming: it's prettier than you might think.

Amazing, really, with all variety of landscapes and vistas: plains and desert; mountains and red rock.

And the wildlife is as diverse as it is accessible: deer, antelope,

moose, buffalo,

and wild horses.

[Rumor has it there are grizzly bears, too, though I didn't see any of those.]

I am glad for the time we took through the Tetons. Through Wyoming. State highways are nearly always more scenic than the ExpressWay, if not more than a little bit slower.

And that, I think, it what we need more of.

We need more slow.

Can I say that? Can I use an adjective as a noun?

It doesn't matter, really. The point remains the same.

There's a world of difference between letting life drag on, and seizing the day.

And so — whatever you do — don't wait to act until these moments have gone

too far away.

A Day in the Life, Part I"The Beginning"

2008-07-28T10:35:00.009-05:00

For nearly two months now, I have had volumes to say. And yet: the moment a pen is in my hand, or my fingertips at a keyboard...

Everything fades away.

I become exhausted with words until there are none left to speak, and I crawl into bed hours ahead of schedule.

Only to wake up exhausted, again, the next morning.

But this summer, well... this summer hasn't been so bad. There have been ups, and downs, and for the most part I've surprised myself by venturing out into that brave new world, often in the company of friends.

[And sometimes alone.]

There have been concerts and plays; movies and festivals. I've traveled over 2,000 miles by car, only to fly back again.

I've played in the snow along the continental divide. I've camped in the storm of the century and realized that, in fact, I do not need any help taking down my massive, 7-person tent.

I can do it alone.

I've jumped up and down to REM; Modest Mouse; the National; the Young Dubliners; I've barbecued with an up-and-coming. I've sat alone next to the only empty seat in the house while the Swell Season took the city by storm.

I've babysat a small child (my one-year-old nephew) for the first time in my life.

I've changed diapers (also for the first time).

I've seen a beloved, but often overlooked, family pet suffer on her final day of life.

I've read four novels, witnessed countless sunsets, and — get this — started cooking actual meals at home.

I've knocked a minute off of my 3-mile jogs, and taken my oldest nephew for a swim.

And yet: for all of this. For every meaningful moment...

There's very little I can say.

But I will give you this: photographs taken from the past 2 months, the highlights of my adventures, posted (with slight exception) in the order in which they were taken until there's nothing left to see (this post, then, being the first of a series). I'll comment when I can but promise nothing...

Except, maybe, this:

This summer — quite literally — started with a storm: clouds ripe with rain, and dropping in the distance.

But once the storm clouds cleared, everything was beautiful again. But there was a reason I took pictures of so much.

Of the before

And the after

Because the thing we so seldom realize

The thing we waste our lives failing to understand

Is that it was beautiful all along.

Shadow Puppets Revisited

2008-07-28T06:42:00.002-05:00

Bush or Batman

2008-07-26T09:24:00.000-05:00

God Bless Viral Ads

2008-07-25T06:23:00.001-05:00

(And thanks to BPP for alerting me to this video's existence.)'

Font U.N. (or, "F.U.N.")

2008-07-24T06:23:00.002-05:00

See more funny videos and funny pictures at CollegeHumor.

Sofa King Miserable

2008-07-22T13:07:00.009-05:00

I have a headache today. I had a headache yesterday. I don't feel well.

I didn't get any sleep Saturday night (camping interrupted by the storm of the century), and Sunday I witnessed the most pitiful site, which I'll likely blog more about later (long story short: I found my parents dog — born when I was just a kid — dying in the backyard, unable to move and being eaten by flies despite being still alive).

Suffice it to say sleep Sunday night wasn't much better. My memory is a bit of a torture device in that I can't easily erase particular images from my brain.

But this week, well... this week is off to a poor start. This morning while getting ready, an odd, distant trickle of water erupted into a waterfall from above, as a portion of my bathroom ceiling bubbled to the size of a basketball and water spewed forth, pushing plaster (and with my luck: probably asbestos) from its path, creating a puddle of water on my bathroom floor that spilled out into the hallway.

I called my landlady and attempted to clean up the mess after the deluge slowed, and she informed me that she knew they were having "problems with the toilet" upstairs, and she'd take care of it "today."

She knew they were having problems, and she waited until this happened to take care of it?

And that was TOILET WATER I was cleaning up?! That I got all over my work clothes, requiring I change... and show up for work 90 minutes late?

And now I can barely concentrate, headache and all, terrified that the leak will start up again; that Maude might eat something that my landlady leaves on the floor; that our guest cat will escape if the door is left open.

I can't wait to leave work today, and for all the wrong reasons.

Estelle Getty is dead.

But, hey, there is this. At long last, a smile — albeit bittersweet — to mark the day.

Doors of Perception

2008-07-20T23:16:00.003-05:00

Sometimes the only thing separating an unintentionally humorous image...

...from an outright perversion

...is a matter of perspective.

P.S. If you're not sure what I'm talking about, please don't ask. Oh! And I'm about a month behind in posting photos, though I've been busily snapping away. I hope to get up-to-date soon.

Mmmm... Spaghetti

2008-07-19T09:02:00.000-05:00

Honey Bunches of Oats with Vanilla Clusters(A Review)

2008-07-17T06:23:00.003-05:00

It's pretty much tasteless, with the vanilla flavor neutralizing the honey, ultimately resulting in... blah.

Regular Honey Bunches of Oats is much better.

But I'm poor, and I have a whole box. I'll eat it till it's gone, but I won't be happy about it.

[So this is what happens when you have a lot to say, but lack the energy to say it.]

It Could be Worse

2008-07-16T10:28:00.004-05:00

A friend sent this to me with the title, "And you thought you have bad luck."

Well, this certainly puts things into perspective...

(Make sure your boss isn't around when you watch this.)

Indecision '08

2008-07-15T06:42:00.000-05:00

'No Values Voters' Looking To Support Most Evil Candidate

Mov-E

2008-07-14T06:23:00.000-05:00

Wall-E
The best animation I've seen since the Triplets of Belleville, and my favorite love story since Harold and Maude. It's cute, it's funny, it's endearing... and much to my surprise, it also makes a very poignant statement on consumerism and conspicuous consumption. It's set in a future where humans have evacuated earth and robots have been left to clean up their mess -- but the mission fails and humans orbit the solar system indefinitely while one lone robot, WALL-E, continues about the task on his lonesome. But the monotony of his otherwise charming existence changes when he falls in love with another robot, sent back to earth in search of life. I dare you to watch this movie and not smile. FINAL GRADE: A

Summercamp!
I love documentaries like this. Like King of Kong, it sounds silly — a camera crew follows around a group of kids and counselors at a summer camp in Wisconsin — but emerges as an interesting sociological study that positions children at its epicenter. Here you see 12-year-old boys crying for their mother; girls lamenting (and rather truthfully) how immature all of the boys are; kids battling the traumas of their home life; and the token "fat kid" being made fun of by others... pushed to the point of himself becoming a bully. Forget Meat Balls. This is a true summer camp movie. FINAL GRADE: A-

Pieces of April
Why more people haven't seen this 2003 film is beyond me. I mean, I was interested once I read the plot, and somewhat disinterested after I realized it starred Katie Holmes. But, well... I was pleasantly surprised. It's a fairly smart Indie film about a young 20-something screwup (played by Holmes) who's been all but disowned by her mother (dying of cancer) and her younger sister. Her father and brother cling to hope as they drive to New York City for Thanksgiving dinner, which the wayward eldest is hosting (along with her new boyfriend) for the first time. A very real movie with believable characters, some of whom you'll actually care about. FINAL GRADE: B+

Rushmore
I originally watched this Wes Anderson film shortly after its '98 release. I hated it. After rediscovering Anderson a couple years later, I decided to rewatch Rushmore, thinking perhaps my mood had impacted my impression. And I suppose it did, in a way... I didn't despise it anywhere near as much this time around, and in fact almost liked it. It's about a 15-year-old boy who gets into a prestigious academy on a writing scholarship, despite being an otherwise awful student (with little to no family income). He's quirky, neuorotic, and even a bit psychotic — particularly when he falls in love with a 1st grade teacher. FINAL GRADE: B-

27 Dresses
Romantic comedies generally aren't my thing — unless there's a very dark twist. I was hoping this would be an exception, as initial glowing reviews led me to believe this was more so a comedy than it was a romance. I mean: a woman is a bridesmaid in 27 weddings and thinks nothing of it — until her crush of several years proposes to her younger sister. Funny in some parts such that I could definitely relate... but it also relied a bit too heavily on the standard love story formula. In other words: you can accurately call the ending about 20 minutes into the film. This predictability doesn't altogether ruin the experience of watching 27 Dresses (it's still fun), but it certainly caused the film to lose a few street-cred points. FINAL GRADE: B-

Charlie Bartlett
Not as good as I'd hoped when I first saw previews, but better than the bleak reviews offered by the majority of critics. This one is about a wealthy teenage boy who just wants to be popular — and who'll do anything to make that happen (even if that means getting kicked out of countless private institutions before his mother resorts to public school). An indie-comedy with a slightly dark twist, it doesn't live up to its potential... but nor does it fail entirely. FINAL GRADE: C+

Kentucky Fried Movie
When it comes to a collection of sketch comedy, I'll take Monty Python and the Flying Circus over Kentucky Fried Movie, any day. Certainly funny and clever in some parts, Kentucky Fried Movie also relies too heavily on the shock value of exposed female body parts. Perhaps I'd have enjoyed it more if I hadn't watched it alone (hearing other people laugh can sometimes make or break a movie)... or with some chemical assistance. FINAL GRADE: C

Thoughts Concerning Atlas Shrugged

2008-07-10T06:23:00.006-05:00

The worst thing about this book is that it has been cited #2 — preceded only by the Bible — as the most influential work on American lives.

The second worst thing about this book: just about everything else.

I mean, I appreciated the idea of it. And it's the idea of it (along with the ingenious title) that prompted me to ever pick it up in the first place. After all, I agree with most the basics: society would cease to exist as we know it, without brilliant new ideas and honest competition. Communism is bad, capitalism is good. Et cetera.

In fact, this nearly 1,200 page novel is a testament to laissez-faire economics (it's no wonder Allen Greenspan was one of the first members of Rand's inner circle). But it's the heartless rationale underlying Rand's objectivist philosophy that drove me bonkers.

I mean, her heroes and heroines are miserable people — and not just because they're stifled by a controlling futuristic government that punishes the successful (now very realistic, I must admit)... but because they're devoid of any real feeling, apart from a zeal for work and occasional bouts of nihilism. And those who do demonstrate any... compassion... are exposed as lunatics and/or sadistic frauds.

Add to that every pedagogical viewpoint spews forth like diarrhea of the mouth in very unlikely settings (with Rand having one character ask another a question that leads to 2 pages worth of rambling on sundry economic inanities), and it was difficult... nay, impossible, for me to side with those Americans (apparently I'm in the minority) who have allowed Rand to so greatly influence their lives.

But you know, in a way that makes a lot of sense: because I seem to be running into a lot of people who don't give a damn about anyone else. But I digress.

There is one scene early on that I really liked — a scene that so clearly defined what I actually liked about Rand — not to mention, a situation I'm very much so familiar with:

The protagonist, Dagny Taggart, wakes up from a train ride to realize the locomotive is no longer moving. She walks outside to find the engineer and the rest of the crew all standing around the signal, which had beckoned them to stop. And because it remained red, they refused to move on even though there was no viable reason for it to remain red for as long as it had.

Dagny insists that they continue and — as COO of the railroad — promises that she will accept blame if anything bad should happen as they continue down the line despite the warning signal.

But this is very early on in the book, and Rand spends the next 150 pages reiterating the same point over and over, in a far less poignant fashion.

And I limit my knowledge to the remaining 150 pages because I didn't bother finishing this book. I felt like I got the point after that scene, and everything else was wasted time.

I mean, even the single line that defines this novel — "Who is John Galt?" — loses its luster within the first 20 pages, as Rand couldn't let the reader figure out what it meant... she has someone come out and tell us exactly what it means. Seems she was writing this book for "looters" rather than "strikers" (her terms), assuming her audience was incapable of thinking for themselves.

Every time "Who is John Galt" is repeated after this initial expose, I was as irritated as Dagny was (though for different reasons). I can only be hit over the head with a point so many times before I forget why I wanted to read the book in the first place.

I'm also a little disappointed I didn't make it all of the way to Galt's Gulch, but I simply haven't the patience (nor the life left in my years) to listen to her hapless characters drone on about the same thing. So I skipped around and got the basics after I finished the first 200 pages.

And so: one of my favorite radio programs, Sound Opinions, rates albums on a "Buy It, Burn It or Trash It" scale.

If a comparable scale were to exist for literature, I'd direct all of you to Spark Notes to catch the highlights of Atlas Shrugged. It certainly makes some interesting points and contains some downright brilliant insights — and the basics of the plot are certainly interesting — but so much else is pedantic drivel. It'd be worth the read if it were, say, 500 pages. But 1,100+ of the same thing over and over?

That's just bad editing.

So, uh, sorry America. I don't like this book as much as you.

Why I Am Giving Up on People

2008-07-09T06:23:00.002-05:00

It's nothing new, really.

Just the same old observations magnified by circumstance.

For example:

Last Thursday at the gym, I was using the elliptical and watching a film on my portable DVD player when a man — shorts barely keeping his appearance PG-13; legs so smooth they had to be wax; and skin evenly tanned by some UV machine — stretched in front of me (demonstrating not only all that god gave him, but also all of the hours he spends daily on the weight machines) and reached up to the television screen, changing the channel.

Now these TVs (there are several of them) are so high up for two reasons:

So people can't just change them on a whim.
So that multiple people can watch one television set, even from a distance.

And while I was absorbed in my DVD player, I was also keenly aware that other folks around me had been watching that particular program before he changed it.

I turned around and saw a girl glaring at his flawless pecs.

But he didn't stop there: oh, no.

Even though the treadmill he was about to board came complete with a small fan that a runner can direct directly onto his/her face, that would not suffice for my dearest Fabio.

Instead, he grabbed a nearby chair; jumped on top; and then stretched into the distance to turn on — and redirect — an industrial-sized fan towards his treadmill.

And since his treadmill was directly next to my elliptical, there was no escaping that Bertha-sized breeze.

Now before you think I'm over-reacting, allow me to explain that — though four years worth of allergy shots helped to curb the most noticeable effects — I am severely allergic to mildew, mold and dust.

These fans are never cleaned. In fact, I've been going to this particular gym for months, and I've never seen them on. But what I have seen: a layer of all three allergens, deposited on the fan blades and the surrounding screen.

Suffice it to say I didn't finish my workout on that elliptical.

***

Last night I picked up a few groceries after my workout, my trip timed perfectly (if you can call it that) to the entrance of a woman with four children (three old enough to run around; the fourth sitting in the cart and screaming). As luck would have it, they seemed to be visiting the same aisles as me, and in a similar order, such that I saw them multiple times during my 30 minute visit.

There were a couple times when one of the girls — about 5 or so — would stand in the middle of the aisle and just stare up at me when I tried to pass around her mother's cart.

"Excuse me," I'd say.

And she'd just stare. And stare.

And her mother, occupied with a box of cereal, would do nothing such that on more than one occasion, I simply turned around and circled the aisle from the other direction.

And I know this girl could speak — English and Hebrew, for that matter — as the three eldest kids fought and played in the aisles, conversing back and forth with their mother in both languages.

This general lack of consideration culminated at the front register, with the boy (at 10 or 11, probably the oldest) bouncing a gigantic ball (roughly the size of three basketballs) in the main aisle where people were trying to pass.

One of his sisters screamed, crying that she wanted to play.

"Let Sirah bounce the ball, Jonas!" yelled their mother from the checkout. "You have to share."

OK. So at least they learned a lesson on sharing... but what about a little consideration for the people around them?

I guess that's a moot point, right? Everything you do is all about you.

No one else matters; and if they do, it's only insofar as they contribute to your immediate gratification.

This isn't something I believe in, but I realize now — more than ever — that most people do.

Deja News

2008-07-07T20:23:00.003-05:00

It's that time of the year again: when "no duh" headlines plague the front page of every major news organization.

I wrote about this last year, and have nothing new to add except that I really think this is non-news in that the consequences of the bull run are a given and so shouldn't warrant any media attention — and certainly not "above the fold" (if we can call it that in this fiber optic era).

And so long as I'm on a soapbox, I would like to add that perhaps it's equally useless to report on things blowing up in the Mideast, since that (also) is a constant.

You know what I want to see?

Raging bull given Xanax
Raging bull on steroids, sources say
Raging bull hits I-94, clearing lane of traffic
Pamplona "bull run" replaced by "bull skip"
Raging bull misunderstood, friends say
Car bomb ignites peace in Iraq
'Let's share Gaza,' say Palestinians, Israelis

Now that would be news.

Love in the Time of Cholera (Movie Review)

2008-06-30T06:23:00.005-05:00

I've never watched the film based on a book so soon after reading the book itself — I did it intentionally this time around, as I figured that meant I'd be better able to retain the book rather than have the film tarnish my memory.

And while I didn't think this 2007 adaptation was awful — as countless critics have suggested — I agree with the majority that this book may very well be unfilmable. But unlike those Marquez sycophants out there, I empathize a bit more with the director in his plight: he actually did an OK job capturing the highlights of the plot, but in order to do that you have to drop all of the fluff in-between, and it's that fluff that actually contains the spark of Marquez's work. Without it, you're left with a Cliff Notes type of film — the basic elements devoid of any real spirit.

What you're left with in the film, then, are all of those things that almost made the book a disaster for me: unrealistic characters and scenes that border on comical (and are most likely even intended in jest) but just don't fit in with the characters — or even the overall tone of the work.

I also resented the director's main breach from the novel (really the only one worth noting, since it is otherwise true to the action): he's made this into a love story, and all but forgotten the irony of said "love." And it was this irony that made the book for me.

Or perhaps that's just me... I didn't read Love in the Time of Cholera as a love story that took place during an era whereby cholera was ravaging the planet; rather, I walked away thinking it was a story about life, whereby love (in all its forms) is as dangerous a threat as the plague itself.

Oh, wait, there's one more thing: Javier Bardem does a sufficient job as Florentino Ariza, with one big problem: Bardem is, by his very nature, masculine, whereas Florentino is described in effeminate terms.... smaller in stature, pristine, etc. (hence all of the rumors questioning his sexuality). So while Bardem did an OK job acting the part, he didn't all resemble it.

FINAL GRADE: C-

Eight is Enough

2008-06-26T06:23:00.003-05:00

King of Kong
Now this is why documentaries exist: to pit good against evil in the pursuit of the much-coveted title, "King of Donkey Kong." Here two men stand off to outscore one another in one of the earliest arcade games: one as the reigning world champion with a score purported to be "unbreakable" (this guy is a real-life version of Ben Stiller's character in Dodge Ball), and the mild-mannered father of two who claims to have broken the record — and has a tape to prove it. But don't let the subject material bore you: the filmmakers sure don't, the end result being a documentary that's as humorous as it is insightful. FINAL GRADE: A

In the Company of Men
When a friend recommended this film to me by stating that it will, "really improve your opinion of the male persuasion," I assumed he meant that in jest. And having just watched it, I now know that for certain. Or if this gives you any idea: this film is rated "R" for language and EMOTIONAL ABUSE. I've never heard a film getting an "R" rating for emotional abuse, but, well.. it was certainly warranted. Not to mention, it shows a smooth-talking man (a real sweetheart to the ladies) as he is beneath the surface. A truly disturbing but nevertheless well-orchestrated film that aptly demonstrates just what men are capable of — and so pushed me one big step closer to voluntary spinsterhood. FINAL GRADE: A-

Incredible Hulk
If you want pure entertainment without having to think too much, Incredible Hulk really isn't too bad. Sure, a couple hokey lines really cracked me up for all of the wrong reasons ("HULK.... SMASH!!!") but I was otherwise entertained. I also thought they were so busy setting up a sequel at the end of this film, that they failed to aptly conclude this one. But then again, I wasn't really expecting too much and I wasn't disappointed. I also appreciate the homage-by-way-of-cameos to the original television series, which I vaguely recall from my days as a toddler. FINAL GRADE: B

Julien Donkey-Boy
Oh, I dunno. This film is purportedly about a schizophrenic teenage boy, with a series of grainy, shaky vignettes capturing the world as he sees it. But I'd say this is more so about a highly dysfunctional family than anything else (the father is abusive; the brother is obsessed with becoming a wrestling champion; and the sister is thrilled about a mysterious pregnancy). And for that matter, I'm not sure the boy (Julien) is so much schizophrenic (or at least, not only schizophrenic) as he is inflicted by other personality and/or learning disorders. This film certainly has its moments, with a Blue Velvet-esque creepiness that certainly got my attention. But it also tries a bit too hard to achieve an objective that remains nevertheless unclear. FINAL GRADE: C+

Ratatouille
I queued this one up because my 6-year-old nephew was going to be visiting, and I wanted to make sure I had at least one genuine kids film in my apartment. But we wound up spending most of our time at museums and the like, only briefly watching parts of a film — in which case, he chose Harry Potter (atta boy!). But I tried watching Ratatouille — a computer animated film about a French street rat who has aspirations of becoming a chef — on my lonesome after he left and, well... let's just say it's interesting to look at but is otherwise pretty dern dull and most definitely a kid's film (unlike crossover films — like Shrek — that could equally entertain an adult audience) — never mind a couple double entendres and occasional fits of drunkenness. FINAL GRADE: N/A

Night at the Museum
Not as good as I'd hoped, but better than expected (particularly after hearing a series of very harsh reviews). It's about the Museum of Natural History and the tablet that brings all of the exhibits to life at night — and not to mention, the night watchman who's new to the shift. But the fact remains that this film had all of the ingredients for a great family film — and while it is certainly still the latter, it certainly falls short of its potential. FINAL GRADE: C+

Semi-Pro
It pains me to have thought so little of this film — most definitely not Will Ferrell's finest. Here he stars as Jackie Moon, one-hit-wonder turned basketball player/owner/coach. Though occasionally funny, I spent most of my time staring blankly at the screen, longing for entertainment. FINAL GRADE: C

Mama's Boy
This one stars Jon Heder — of Napoleon Dynamite fame — as the boy who refuses to grow up and leave home, in large part because of the trauma induced by his father's untimely death. Marketed as a dark comedy, it was rare that I found this film funny, more often irritated by Heder's character (he's cranky and curmudgeonly to all who cross his path). FINAL GRADE: C-

Thoughts Concerning Love in the Time of Cholera

2008-06-25T06:42:00.000-05:00

I was about 20 pages into this novel before I decided it was at least worth finishing; it was another 50 before I was interested in what was happening; and even by the end, I wasn't entirely buying any of the characters (I was apathetic towards most of them, at best) — and occasionally the story would lose me for a paragraph or two before it pulled me back in.

And yet: at some point, I was hooked. Even with all of those aspects I didn't care for in Love in the Time of Cholera (trans. 1988), there's no mistaking the end result: a beautifully crafted novel that explores all types of love (familial, platonic, physical, emotional, young, mature, etc.) over the course of more than half a century (from the last 1800s thru the 1930s).

And with love — time, death, and aging are also central motifs, all of which are occasionally described in such intriguing language that I can't help but wish I knew Spanish so that I could read the book in its original dialect (author Gabriel Garcia Marquez is Colombian).

But then again: at other points, I was rolling my eyes at the melodrama and wondering if people like that really ever existed — even on some unnamed Caribbean island at the turn of the century (about which I know next to nothing).

The emotion behind the actions and words, however, remains timeless — and so propels the suspense that kept me wondering if the man (Florentino Ariza) and the woman (Fermina Daza) at the novel's center would ever even talk to one another (never mind, engage in a relationship of any sort).

Marquez stitches the pages together by traveling back and forth through decades, exploring the perspectives of various characters on multiple occasions, thereby creating one cohesive storyline by the final page.

Overall: definitely worth the read. And, yeah, contrary to what I told people 50 pages in... I probably will try 100 Years of Solitude (perhaps Marquez's best-known work) one of these days.

Something to Laugh About — Period.

2008-06-23T06:42:00.005-05:00

An Observation Regarding Human Nature

2008-06-23T06:23:00.000-05:00

Many people just don't have what it takes to be good parents.

Unfortunately, those are generally the people who wind up with the most children.

Goldilocks: Brief Encounters of the Third Kind

2008-06-19T06:42:00.013-05:00

Part I
One needn't be blond to suffer from Goldilocks Syndrome:

The indefatigable quest to find your niche (notch) in the world: to find a place where you fit in, where you are comfortable.

And I need that now more than ever — to feel that at least one fleeting aspect of my life is "just right."

And yet:

I am too liberal for conservatives; too conservative for liberals.

Too tall for petites; too short for regulars.

Too hippie for squares; too square for hippies.

Rich enough for expensive tastes; too poor to accommodate them.

Base enough for certain instincts; too moral (or uptight, depending on your interpretation) to act on them.

Full of words without the means to organize them.

Obsessed with photography without genuine ability.

Exhausted in the mornings; unable to sleep at night.

Too rural for the city, too urban for the country.

Part II
And I feel as though — no matter where I am, and no matter the crowd — I fail, and desperately so, to belong.

Like last night, sitting next to the only empty seat in the house: my presence noted by conspicuous absence, and so diminished when the show was over and I attempted to work my way through a crowd of people that never saw me coming.

"Excuse me," I would say. "Excuse me."

But I was invisible again — a blurred face among many — a reality which transformed my solitude into an ineffable queasiness in the pit of my stomach.

Once again, though, the train ride offered the mostly unlikely sort of contrast: my seat was "just right" until the car started to fill and a newcomer sat down beside me.

I shifted my bag and my book to give him ample room, but felt his eyes wandering to my pages as we shuffled on towards our many stops.

"What do you think of that book?" he asked, the alcohol on his breath and the redness of his eyes unmistakable signs of the evening.

From there we conversed, talking about literature and film — an oddly decent single-serve conversation — before he nudged my leg with the back of his hand and said, "Well, this is my stop."

In that instant I offered a hurried goodbye, marveling at how the only people who have seen me in the past two weeks would most assuredly not remember our encounter by morning.

And that, I suppose, is where I fit in.

Somewhere between the stops — the spaces. Somewhere between two chords in a piece of music, or the background to a painting noted for its foreground.

It is there, nestled between the gin and the tonic, that I reflect again on those words spoken to me by the man who sideswiped my vehicle earlier this month:

"I'm sorry," he said to me then. "I just didn't see you there."

More Movie Matters

2008-06-18T06:42:00.001-05:00

Keeping Mum
Add a murderous twist (and good writing) to Nanny McPhee or Mrs. Doubtfire, and you have Keeping Mum — a black British comedy that had me chuckling from beginning to end. It stars Maggie Smith... that's Professor McGonagall to my fellow Harry Potter fans — as a sweet elderly woman with a dark past who'll stop at nothing to ensure the happiness of the family she works for. FINAL GRADE: B+

Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull
I was more amused by this than most people I've talked to — but I'm also only a casual Indiana Jones fan who sought out the film to stay on top of my 6-year-old nephew's interests (for the record: I would NOT recommend taking a 6-year-old to see this, for one scene in particular). I've heard some say it's too campy (but wasn't it supposed to be, I ask); others, that it wasn't campy enough (which I can kind of see — at some points I worried the film wanted me to take it seriously... and I may have given it too much benefit of the doubt). But, whatever, it made me chuckle with all of its horrible hokeyness. FINAL GRADE: B-

Meatballs
Yeah, I know. This Bill Murray classic was made before I was born, so why do I care to watch it now? Because it's a Billy Murray classic. He stars as Tripper Harrison, the silly-but-loveable head counselor of a co-ed summer camp who challenges authority even when he doesn't need to, and shows a softer side in relating to teenage boy bullied by his cabin mates. And for the most part, I was entertained. But I was also immensely disturbed by one quasi-rape scene that was meant to be taken comically and yet changed my perception of the film altogether. So you can relate to teenage boys, and even if you really care about a girl it's still OK to threaten her physically so long as YOU know you're not going to do anything? That's just not funny. But, whatever, the rest of the film was OK. FINAL GRADE: C+

Storytelling
I rented this thinking I'd seen every other Todd Solondz film but this one — and then quickly realized that I'd seen this one before, too. Per the norm, it's disturbing and yet... real... and also quite possibly not very memorable, when you consider I only remembered the actions just seconds before they occurred (not to mention, I didn't really care about any of the characters). I like the idea of it though, with the movie split into two parts: "Fiction" (where a girl recaptures a horrific, personal experience in writing but can't get anyone to believe her) and "Nonfiction," where a hopeful documentarian edits his subject material to suit his personal aspirations. FINAL GRADE: C+

Requiem for a Day Off

2008-06-17T15:17:00.000-05:00

Requiem For A Day Off
Uploaded by benjifilms

A Verbal Snapshot Regarding MyNeighborhood's Summer Festival

2008-06-17T07:31:00.008-05:00

Boys making out with boys.

Girls making out with girls.

[And never the twain shall meet.]*

*I would like to add that this was actually billed as a "family event," though last I checked, copious amounts of tongue and fondling in public spaces -- regardless of orientation -- isn't exactly G-rated material. Which I suppose explains why no one with tots actually stuck around.**

**OK, so maybe I was just jealous.

Thoughts Concerning Slaughterhouse Five

2008-06-16T06:42:00.002-05:00

I've decided that by the end of this summer, I'll have read (or at least attempted to read — I don't have the time for things that don't interest me) every work of fiction on my bookshelf previously untouched by me.

And if my current pace continues, it shouldn't take too long.

Now, granted, Kurt Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse Five is a relatively short novel, but it also helped to remind me that when you really get into a story you can't put it down — and before you know it, 48 hours have passed between the first and last page and you're so thoroughly emerged in someone else's universe that you can scarcely return to your own.

Which is fitting, given the subject material: a semi-autobiographical sketch of Vonnegut's time spent as an American prisoner of War at a German work camp (literally: a slaughterhouse) in Dresden (which would be destroyed in a controversial firebombing while Vonnegut was still prisoner there). And while he, himself, is a minor character in the book — occasionally shouting lines and expressions that the protagonist, Billy Pilgrim, overhears — it is important to remember that Vonnegut was a science fiction writer, and this World War II story is no exception.

Rather, Pilgrim himself is a POW at the same camp... and not to mention, a time traveler (but in a way that borders on PTSD) who is captured by aliens sometime after the war. The resultant narration thus jumps back and forth in time, between the present (late 1960s), early childhood, early adulthood, the war and so much in-between.

In many ways the past, present and future overlap, with Pilgrim being taught by his alien captors that time is a construct — the brainchild of shortsighted humans who mourn death without appreciating life.

And as with Flaubert: it was easy for me to see why this had been (and continues to be) so well-regarded. Only one thing really bothered me — the constant repetition of "so it goes" after every story, description and side note regarding death and dying. I understood the point, but that didn't make it any less annoying.

Also of note: this book is subtitled, "The Children's Crusade." And for good reason — a good percentage of our military force was (and continues to be) kids straight out of high school.

Thoughts Concerning Madame Bovary

2008-06-13T06:42:00.001-05:00

After 4 years of college and 2 more of grad school (both studying literature) — and five years spent learning the French language (and, no, I still can't really speak it) — I have finally read one of Gustave Flaubert's most notable works and can't for the life of me understand why it was never assigned.

I actually read the first chapter a dozen or so times over the past few months, unable to really submerge myself in anything other than Harry Potter and quick hits of poetry.

But I'm back, and reading with a vengeance.

And as for Madame Bovary: once I made it past the first chapter, I was hooked... marveling at Flaubert's understanding of the human psyche, and underlining passages and phrases as though I might be writing a research paper (and forming at thesis) at the end of the term.

The book chronicles the moral collapse of a provincial woman who becomes bored with her small-town doctor husband (who loves her dearly). Emma Bovary has big aspirations in life, and resents being held back by the limitations of her gender in 19th century French society... and not to mention, she could really use a little more disposable income.

But Emma is not entirely the "c you next Tuesday" I may have hitherto portrayed her as being: she is capable of great sympathy and remorse, even at those points when she is unable to control her emotions... and even as she acts out against her husband, who is completely undeserving of her biting remarks.

In fact, her mood fluctuations led me to believe that she might have been what we today term "bipolar" — at times very warm and kind; one moment, passionate and willing to give everything she owns to the world. And the next... spending everything on herself and slinking away into a deep depression.

What amazed me all the while was the third-person omniscient voice that speaks the thoughts and actions of so many characters, with Flaubert brilliantly tapping into the minds of countless personality types. I found his characters to be so believable — even though they are 150 years in the past — because I understood them in a way that pervades time and place.

It was easy for me to see, however, why Flaubert was charged with indecency for this novel; and it was easy for me to see how he was able to escape a conviction on the grounds that Emma — and her entire family — suffers greatly for her sins.

And that is where the novel loses me, for a bit. I could almost sense Flaubert methodically adding plot devices and morals to the closing chapters — all a means of validation, should the preceding pages get him into legal trouble.

That bothered me a bit, as it took a subtle message and made it shout like an impassioned courthouse rebuttal.

And yet: I couldn't help but think that Gustave was smiling wryly as he composed those pages, understanding better than most that no good deed goes unpunished.

Like That, Like That

2008-06-13T06:23:00.000-05:00

And then there is this:

The feeling that those you care most about have let you down in irreconcilable ways, forcing you to confront a reality you'd prefer to go on denying.

Like being told, yes, we are going. Make sure you're ready!

And then waiting at the door, and still waiting, your six-year-old mind unable to fathom a let down so heavy, so thoughtless, so damaging.

And realizing — hours after your mother storms in and tells you it's your fault you're not going — that she never had the tickets in the first place.

There will be moments, I tell you, that your children will never forget. Little lies you tell; promises you make, believing that such a small mind couldn't possibly retain.

But they will, I promise you, and some night years later when they are trying to sleep — tossing and turning to a past doomed to repeat itself — they will recollect these moments with a nauseating clarity. They will come to understand the truth that we go on denying:

Everything is meaningless.

People you love will leave, and the heroes of your youth will haunt you with their future indifference. They will reach out from your past as such a stark contrast to your present that you will fear you never really knew them at all.

And so it goes. And so it goes.

Like that, times two — the disappointments simultaneous and mounting, almost too much to bear.

Almost, you think. Almost.

But there is your alarm, and you force your mind through the fog and begin the rituals of the day, closing — dear God, please turn off the circuits that remind me of them — your thoughts to your present decay.

I have become dispensable, you think, squeezing out the last of the toothpaste.

But then again: was there ever a point when you weren't?

A Novel Idea

2008-06-10T06:42:00.003-05:00

The rules:
bold = what you’ve read,
italics = books you started but couldn’t finish
~~crossed out~~ = books you hated
* = you’ve read more than once
underline = books you own but haven’t read yourself... yet
( ) = You've seen the movie. (I added this one — go figure)

1 (The Ultimate Hitchhiker's Guide) by Douglas Adams
2 Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell by Susanna Clarke
3 (The Kite Runner) by Khaled Hosseini
4 Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy
5 Life of Pi: a novel by Yann Martel
6 Don Quixote by Miguel De Cervantes Saavedra
7 Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoyevsky
8 One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez
9 Vanity Fair by William Makepeace Thackeray
10 The Silmarillion by J.R.R. Tolkien
11 Ulysses by James Joyce
12 War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy
13 Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert
14 The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoyevsky
15 Catch-22 a novel by Joseph Heller
16 Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte*
17 The Blind Assassin by Margaret Atwood
18 Quicksilver (The Baroque Cycle I) by Neal Stephenson
19 A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens
20 The Satanic Verses by Salman Rushdie
21 Middlemarch by George Eliot
22 Reading Lolita in Tehran : a Memoir in Books by Azar Nafisi
23 The Name of the Rose by Umberto Eco
24 The Kor'an by Anonymous (I've read bits and pieces)
25 Moby Dick by Herman Melville
26 The Odyssey by Homer
27 The Canterbury Tales by Geoffrey Chaucer
28 Love in the Time of Cholera by Gabriel Garcia Marquez (it's next on my reading list)
29 The Hunchback of Notre Dame by Victor Hugo
30 The Historian : a novel by Elizabeth Kostova
31 Foucault's Pendulum by Umberto Eco
32 Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand
33 The History of Tom Jones, a foundling by Henry Fielding
34 The Three Musketeers by Alexandre Dumas
35 (The Count of Monte Cristo) by Alexandre Dumas
36 The Sound and the Fury by William Faulkner*
37 The Iliad by Homer
38 Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf
39 Emma by Jane Austen
40 Doctor Zhivago by Boris Pasternak
41 Sons and Lovers by D.H. Lawrence
42 Gulliver's Travels by Jonathan Swift
43 The House of the Seven Gables by Nathaniel Hawthorne
44 (Guns, Germs, and Steel: the Fates of Human Societies) by Jared Diamond
45 (Dracula) by Bram Stoker
46 Lady Chatterley's Lover by D.H. Lawrence
47 A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius by Dave Eggers
48 Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens
49 The Once and Future King by T. H. White
50 Robinson Crusoe by Daniel Defoe
51 To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf
52 Mansfield Park by Jane Austen
53 Oryx and Crake : a novel by Margaret Atwood
54 (Great Expectations) by Charles Dickens
55 Labyrinth by Kate Mosse
56 Tess of the D'Urbervilles by Thomas Hardy
57 Collapse : How Societies Choose to Fail or Succeed by Jared Diamond
58 The Corrections by Jonathan Franzen*
59 Moll Flanders by Daniel Defoe
60 Underworld by Don DeLillo
61 Ivanhoe by Sir Walter Scott
62 The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck
63 ((Jane Eyre)) by Charlotte Bronte*
64 The Gormenghast trilogy by Mervyn Peake
65 The War of the Worlds by H. G. Wells
66 Jude the Obscure by Thomas Hardy
67 The Origin of Species by Charles Darwin
68 Tender is the Night by F. Scott Fitzgerald
69 A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man by James Joyce*
70 A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court by Mark Twain
71 The Divine Comedy by Dante Alighieri
72 The Inferno by Dante Alighieri
73 Gravity's Rainbow by Thomas Pynchon
74 The Fountainhead by Ayn Rand
75 Swann's Way by Marcel Proust
76 The Poisonwood Bible : a novel by Barbara Kingsolver
77 The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay : a novel by Michael Chabon
78 Sense and Sensibility by Jane Austen
79 The Portrait of a Lady by Henry James
80 Silas Marner by George Eliot
81 The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde*
82 The Man in the Iron Mask by Alexandre Dumas
83 The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy
84 The Book Thief by Markus Zusak
85 The Confusion by Neal Stephenson
86 (One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest) by Ken Kesey
87 Frankenstein by Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley
88 Bleak House by Charles Dickens
89 The System of the World by Neal Stephenson
90 The Elegant Universe: Superstrings, Hidden Dimensions, and… by Brian Greene
91 Cryptonomicon by Neal Stephenson
92 The Known World by Edward P. Jones
93 The Time Traveler's Wife by Audrey Niffenegger
94 The Mill on the Floss by George Eliot
95 The English Patient by Michael Ondaatje*
96 Mason & Dixon by Thomas Pynchon
97 Dubliners by James Joyce
98 Les misérables by Victor Hugo
99 The Bonesetter's Daughter by Amy Tan
100 Infinite Jest : a novel by David Foster Wallace
101 Lord Jim by Joseph Conrad
102 Beloved: a novel by Toni Morrison
103 Persuasion by Jane Austen
104 (A Clockwork Orange) by Anthony Burgess
105 The Personal History of David Copperfield by Charles Dickens
106 ~~Tropic of Cancer~~ by Henry Miller

Very unimpressive, I know. And like the friends who've also participated in this meme, most (but not all) of those noted as owned and/or read above are a result of my studies... which isn't to say I didn't enjoy them all the same (particularly The English Patient — perhaps one of the most beautifully poetic novels I've ever been assigned).

Exceptions include The Corrections, Hitchhiker's Guide and Madame Bovary... the first two I read independently and loved; the last I'm reading now.

Also of note, I'm just OCD enough that when I was initially tagged for this meme, I went though and capitalized all of the book titles that were in need of it.

Yeah, I have problems.

That's Me in the Corner

2008-06-10T06:23:00.000-05:00

I walked around and behind the United Center, exploring new territory before the sun faded and the concert began.

It was somewhere near the Blackhawks statue that I became remotely aware that someone else's eyes were exploring the image upon my shirt (or so I told myself), a sketch from Daniel Johnston with the ephemeral words, "Hi, how are you?" scrawled across the bottom.

I looked up to see this man's half-stoned eyes staring into mine, thus affirming that my suspicions were not entirely unwarranted.

Minutes (seconds really) seemed to pass as the eye contact continued and he said, filled with ironic conviction:

"I love you."

"Thank you," I responded, smiling weakly and walking past him, unconsciously aware that he had half-turned to watch as I continued on, peasant skirt swaying in the breeze.

And so began my first ever experience seeing R.E.M. (a favorite of mine since the early 90s) live. Or Modest Mouse (a favorite of mine since 2004), for that matter. Or, shoot, let us not forget The National, who I only just discovered in March of this year but labeled a "new favorite" immediately thereafter.

So when you see three favorites on a single ticket, you don't exactly let the opportunity pass you by.

And so I went, tucked into the far back row (and in the worst section) where altitude-related nosebleeds are more than a sardonic concern.

But, whatever, I was there (and with binoculars) and enjoyed the show all the same. Even though the acoustics weren't so great for either opening act (there was even occasional feedback when Modest Mouse took the stage, a horrible ear-screeching sound that had some people in my section taking unscheduled breaks). And even though the National had fewer than 1/3 of the seats full (and I assure you, they deserve better than that). And even though I could only understand about 1/2 of whatever Michael Stipe said when he was speaking on stage.

I was otherwise entirely entertained on countless fronts, and by all three bands.

But what I found most peculiar — particularly when you consider my adoration for the opening acts and the main event — was how the energy so undeniably changed when Stipe ran out onto the stage when it was his band's turn in the spotlight.

I saw him even without the binoculars, recognized him from miles away from his trademark hairline; his two-piece-suit and tie.

Forget singing for a moment.

That man can perform.

But allow me to backtrack to where fantasy meets reality and I struggle to discern the two.

Because, I swear, when I raised my binoculars to get a better look at Isaac Brock (lead singer for Modest Mouse), my first response was a single, muffled chuckle.

If the man who declared his love for me before the show wasn't Brock himself, he was a darn good facsimile.*

*I realize it was most likely the latter but, please, allow a lonely girl her fantasy.

And then there was the ride home; lost fans being told by police to take cabs and buses but to absolutely not walk to the nearest train station.

I had had no problems walking from the train during the daylight, and didn't see why the reverse trip should be any different.

And it wasn't, really, not until I was well beyond the "danger zone" of the area surrounding the United Center.

I was heading towards one of the city's more affluent neighborhoods, in fact, when the man (most likely batting for the "other" team, and most likely strung out on heroin — by his demeanor and the way he clutched his arm) next to me swayed in his seat, his eyes opening and closing, consciousness fading and reappearing just in time for him to pull himself from his seat and go to the door.

"Wrong stop," he'd say, sliding back to his seat.

They had rerouted our train; the red line was making brown line stops, which further compounded this man's misery.

"Where are we?" he said to anyone.

I explained what was happening. Told him that though we were making brown line stops, that'd probably change once we got to a transfer station.

I asked him where he was going; he told me. I told him when he could expect his stop.

He smiled — as best the muscles in his face could manage, anyway — and touched my hand.

"You're my friend," he said, rubbing my arm.

"You're my friend."

Observations from the Days Passed

2008-06-05T06:23:00.003-05:00

Man on Weight Machine [to his lifting buddies]: I only hire attractive women — I mean, I make sure they have a personality, too... but ugly chicks are bad for business.

His friends nod and grunt, a telltale sign of agreement.

On the Road
So I was out of town all last week, seeing 3000 miles worth of sights in 6 days before marking my return to the Midwest with a solitary flight. I will have pictures, and postings, as soon as I have time to sort through the mess of images from the road-trip portion.

Until then: suffice it to say the Tetons are lovely, and I was sad to return.

On the Road... Again
Upon my late Friday return, I promptly drove an additional 320 miles (round-trip) to visit family for the weekend. I managed this while also manning phone calls from my boss, asking for me to put together five intensive pieces of writing by Monday morning for an important meeting. I agreed to try my best, without expecting reward, but was then told I'd be getting two days of comp time for my off-the-clock efforts.

I was thrilled by the notion, as that meant I'd regain two vacation days for other upcoming travels.

Back to Work
The following morning — Monday — I was so amazingly exhausted that when I rose from bed for work, I was immediately daydreaming about returning home that afternoon and going promptly to sleep.

But the cosmos had other plans, and a man in an SUV entered my lane without checking to see whether or not it was occupied. He sideswiped my driver's side and forced my passenger side over a curb.

The Positive
Damage is minor, and almost entirely cosmetic. Injuries are limited to a slightly jammed left index finger, which I'm not fussing over. The man immediately accepted blame, kindly apologized, and has made it clear he'll pay for any and all repairs. In other words: he's a decent fellow, which should make the whole process easier.

The Negative
I've already used some of my comp time to have my car checked out for mechanical problems, and may have to take another full day to have the paint job done and the alignment checked.

Parents
I've been informed that my parents and nephew (the subject of this particular piece) will not be able to make it to the photography exhibit before it ends this Friday. I otherwise would have been entertaining guests today and had previously rather looked forward to seeing my nephew's response to seeing his image on a gallery wall.

Klutziness
Part One
In the past 24 hours, I fell while walking up the stairs at work, which wouldn't have phased me were it not for the co-worker walking down the stairs who witnessed the incident and asked profusely whether or not I was all right.

Part Two
Later at the gym when I went to engage my lock, my finger was sliced open by an imperfection in the locker's metal. I accept blame for the stair incident; the locker, however, was just pure, dumb luck. When I informed the gym of the incident, they taped off the locker for repairs.

The Lesson
God hates me.

Creep Fest: Movies of Brilliant Discomfort

2008-06-03T21:23:00.001-05:00

There Will Be Blood
If this film has anything in common with P.T. Anderson's previous work (Magnolia, Punch Drunk Love), it's the creepiness factor — and I mean that in the best possible way. Based on Upton Sinclair's Oil, this film adaptation follows an oil tycoon in a small, western God-fearing town. Explores concepts of greed, religion, family and... errr... mental illness. Well-deserving of the critical acclaim it received. FINAL GRADE: A-

Lolita
If anyone could adapt Vladimir Nabokov's Lolita for film and remain true to its spirit, it's Stanley Kubrick. He hardly breaches from the story at all, in fact, managing somehow to truly capture the loving hypocrisy of Humbert Humbert and the vixen-like attributes of his otherwise naive child-love, Lolita. It's funny and discomforting, just like that novel — which remains one of my favorites, despite the taboo subject material. FINAL GRADE: A-

Palindromes
If you've ever seen a Todd Solondz film (Happiness), then you know what to expect from this one: prepare to writhe in your seat with discomfort, all the while unable to pry yourself from the television screen. Solondz has once again managed to add a slather of comedy to some of humanity's darker life moments, exploring the life-cycle of a young girl, Aviva, in her quest to become a mother (along with the boys and men who take advantage of her maternal desire). In this "sort-of-sequel" to his Welcome to the Dollhouse (a personal favorite of mine), multiple actresses portray Aviva, thus demonstrating the universality (and the multi-faceted nature) of the character herself. FINAL GRADE: B+

The Talented Mr. Ripley
I was pleasantly surprised by this thriller, having previously had no desire to see it. Matt Damon stars as the title character, a lower middle class pianist/bathroom attendant who's sent to Italy to retrieve the ex patriot son of a wealthy ship builder. Here a different side of Ripley emerges, himself a master of deception (mimicking voices, forging signatures, lying, etc.). As he interacts with the upper classes it becomes increasingly clear that he doesn't fit in unless he pretends to be someone else — and so he does, creating a sympathetic devil who simultaneously loves and hates the people that cross his path. An interesting approach to class differences and multi-dimensional character, in The Talented Mr. Ripley you at once like Damon's character as much as you despise him — just as you sympathize with his otherwise ego-maniacal victims just before their collapse (with one exception... but I'm not about to give it away). FINAL GRADE: B+

It Takes a Big Gun to Shoot Down a Rising Star

2008-06-02T06:42:00.000-05:00

I have no idea what this means, but it suddenly occurred to me and I felt like sharing.

If you're in the fortune cookie business and you're looking for writers, please contact me at thirdworstpoetinthegalaxy@gmail.com.*

*Publishers, editors, agents, art galleries, and potential suitors will also find me at that address.

Podcasting Call

2008-05-23T06:23:00.003-05:00

I know, I know.

I complain about my commute all of the time. But I haven't even mentioned the worst part: there's only been one rush-hour radio program around here that I've ever really enjoyed, and it was only on for six months before most of the personalities were canned and the show was reformatted for a different — presumably hipper but most definitely louder and more obnoxious — demographic.

And I just can't take much more of the boredom. Sure, I'll turn to NPR for news, but you can only hear the same story so many times before you want something a bit less repetitive and WAY more amusing.

So, please, lend me your podcasts. Recommend your (free) favorites so that I might download them to my iPod (for free) and listen whilst I drive. To give you some idea of what I like, I'm a bit of a nut when it comes to Wait, Wait Don't Tell Me and Sound Opinions.

Did I mention I want the podcasts to be free?

Don't be fooled by the fact that, just yesterday, I bought a cute little dress for my parents' tiny new puppy (a Chihuahua/Yorkie mix).

I'm not made of money.

Leviathan; or, Life is Gut

2008-05-21T06:23:00.007-05:00

I am at once a dreamer and a realist; an optimist and a pessimist.

I claim — and rather earnestly, in fact — to expect the worst out of people and yet still find myself disappointed time and again. This, I realize, is proof that I've failed in my darkest objectives.

And it is this contradiction — this duality of my nature — that led to the purchase and subsequent use of a polished metal "Life is Good" keychain.

It is small, and subtle: the brand etched on one side of the nickel-sized medallion; and a solitary daisy on the other. I have long been a customer of this brand, an admirer of the expressions and graphics that mark their attire.

I own, for example, a t-shirt with a rendering of hiking boots on the front. And underneath those: "Not all who wander are lost."

And there's the one with a rolled up sleeping bag and a campfire ("Bed and Breakfast") and another with a lone individual hiking a cartoon mountain with a sun setting behind it ("Entertainment Center").

I like these images; these expressions. I like seeing my hobbies and perceptions plastered onto a comfy t-shirt or cute (but practical) handbag. And yet: I am entirely and undeniably conflicted by the mark that defines them.

Life most certainly is not good, I think, reminded immediately of the tiger philosopher (if I may take him out of context for a moment).

Life, he said, is "solitary, poor, nasty, brutish and short."

And that, I think, is more like it.

And yet: I won't hesitate to claim that, at times, life is beautiful beyond words.

Precious, even.

And others: it is precisely as Hobbes defined it in the natural state.

It is solitary. Poor. Nasty. Brutish. And — perhaps most importantly — short.

Because no matter how difficult our lives or numerous our troubles in this world, few of us want to leave it. And not because we've just been enjoying ourselves so damn much, but because for so many the known misery is better than the unknown hereafter.

And there is always the promise of tomorrow, we think. Yes, tomorrow! Tomorrow I'll treat my family better; I'll wake up first thing and run three miles. Tomorrow I will eat healthy. Tomorrow I won't waste a second. Tomorrow I will start looking for a new job. Tomorrow I'll start my novel. Tomorrow I'll volunteer.

Tomorrow I will seize every moment, and tap to the living, breathing dance of life.

And that, I think, is the crux of our quandary. We can't stand the idea of leaving this life before we actually start living it.

But how can we, when there is traffic? When there are bills and middle fingers and scowls and unreturned phone calls?

And how, for the love of God, can we look up

where the mere force of gravity is pulling us down?

No, no. Life is not good.

But it does, I admit, have its moments. And regardless of how long I exist on this planet, the fact remains that I will never have enough of them.

Just Another Day at the Office

2008-05-20T06:23:00.000-05:00

MUTO a wall-painted animation by BLU from blu on Vimeo.

Just Some Other Manic Movies

2008-05-19T06:23:00.001-05:00

The Diving Bell and the Butterfly
What a wonderfully depressing movie. Based on the story of Jean-Dominique Bauby, a famous French journalist and former editor of Elle magazine, this film is derived from Bauby's own novel — which he wrote after suffering a "cardiovascular accident" that left him with "locked-in syndrome." That is to say, he was entirely paralyzed and unable to communicate by any means other than blinking his left eyelid. While in this state, Baubly reflects on his life (he was a bit of a philandering jerk); his mistakes (he was good with his children when he saw them, but seldom did); and his regrets. You can sense his agony with this film, not only for his inability to speak his thoughts and rise from his bed, but also the emotional turmoil that haunts he and his family. FINAL GRADE: A-

Prince Caspian
Based on the second-published (fourth installment if read chronologically) novel from The Chronicles of Narnia, I found this film adaptation to be a deserving follow-up to the first. There's never a boring moment in this almost three-hour film, which marks the return of the Pevensie children to the mythical land of Narnia, some 1,300 years after their reign (though only a year has passed in the "real" world). They were summoned by Prince Caspian, the rightful heir to the throne after he's driven from his kingdom (and into Narnia) by his despotic uncle. But as C.S. Lewis intended these books to be for children (though they're also favorited by adults the world over), some elements — especially as conveyed by filmmakers — test the boundaries of the suspension of disbelief. That is to say: there were definitely some moments where I felt inclined to roll my eyes, but I was otherwise amused, intrigued and entertained. FINAL GRADE: B+

Death at a Funeral
The first 25 minutes of this British comedy were hilarious: one of the most consistently, subtly humorous starts of a film in recent memory, in fact. But at one point the humor slows and things don't so much grow stale as they almost grow too serious for the film's own good. But that's the beauty of the film, as a whole: forcing the audience to laugh precisely when it knows it shouldn't. In short: the entire film centers around the funeral (go figure) of a wealthy businessman; his family (two sons, a wife and the goings-on his nieces and nephews); and the gay lover who changes everything. FINAL GRADE: B+

Walk Hard: The Dewey Cox Story
This film was pitched as a parody of the rise, decline and fall of your typical pop star... and yet it makes no apologies for pretty much satirizing the life of Johnny Cash and parodying Walk the Line to a T. As a fan of the late Mr. Cash, this disturbed me a bit. And yet: I still found the film to be goofily funny, with John C. Reily creating a character that is loveable and minutely comedic even when at his worst. And, well, let's be honest: Johnny Cash's story did pretty much set the mold for future musicians to follow.: the infidelity; the drugs; the alcohol; the stints in prison; etc. In all, this film will make you laugh... and even though "smart" in some ways, you'll also never be able to shake off the feeling that it's horribly silly and a bit irreverent. FINAL GRADE: B-

The World Spins Madly On

2008-05-15T06:23:00.012-05:00

When I was five or six — I can't say for certain how old — I watched a film (or perhaps an episode of the Twilight Zone) about a girl who would sleep for months at a time, waking on occasion and rising from bed as though only the night had passed.

And in this manner her whole life was a dream: entire days lost to sleep, with so few life experiences to mark her existence.

For years this film would haunt me, my earliest childhood fears circulating around cancer, nuclear war and — yes — sleeping my life away.

Whether rational or otherwise, the fact remains that these fears were very real to me — reason enough to remain awake at night, in fact, terrified that by the time I awoke, the world would have continued on to a brilliant pace without me.

And today, some years later, I tell you: that story was no work of fiction. And yet: as much as I strove to avoid such a fate, it appears to have fallen firmly and irresolutely upon my chest, the weight of it some mornings making it nearly impossible to breathe.

I feel it now — typing to the blanket "you" of this fiber optic universe — marveling only at how the magnetic force of this... nothing and everything... has gathered now into the pit of my stomach (the gravitational consequence of attempting to sit up, I think), leaving all other nooks, crannies and extremities to their own, hollow devices.

I am awake now and yet: still asleep. Love and lifetime lost to a nightmare that knows no rest.

Snippets

2008-05-13T04:23:00.009-05:00

•I was told recently by a male co-worker that -- aside from differences in hair color -- I bear an uncanny physical resemblance to this woman:

I don't see the similarity, but I'll take that as a compliment until further notice. Besides, not a day goes by that I don't wish I could drive 150 mph to work.

•Speaking of work... I continue to be baffled by women who:

A. Hover above the toilet seat despite the presence of seat covers in each stall.
B. Fail to make sure all of their "bidness" is properly disposed of.

•The gallery reception went OK, thank you for asking. My photograph was marked as "2nd Place," which was a bit of a shock in large part because I didn't realize awards were given (of the 40 or so photos in my category, there was one 1st, one 2nd, one 3rd and one honorable mention).

•I feel unbearably hollow.

That is all.

The Walk

2008-05-12T07:23:00.006-05:00

The host looked at me, half-concerned as I said: "Just for one, please," solitary in a light summer dress.

Minutes later he passed my table (a booth in the back), handing me a copy of the day's Tribune.

"I thought you might like this," he said.

I smiled and thanked him — in spite of myself — knowing full well the reason for his generosity.

But I was grateful, in a way, scanning the front page to busy myself from thoughts of the day, my eyes immediately consumed by the juxtaposition of two lead stories.

There was, above the fold, a photograph of three Burmese infants (one sleeping, one eating, one crying), filthy and homeless in a devastated nation.

And next to them: a story about how the slowing economy and rising gas prices have forced one Lincoln Park tricksy out of Saks Fifth Avenue and "into Forever 21."

[Though, she later confessed, she refuses to cut back on her Dulce & Gabbana perfume.]

Seeing that story next to the world's-away photo somehow increased my sympathy tenfold for the children so-pictured. And it was funny, in a way, how that picture meant everything to me precisely because the nearby words meant so little.

And so I started to write, my thoughts interrupted by the clop-clop-clop of an elderly woman's shoes [bright red dye job, and even brighter lipstick]. Nearby at another table, the sound seems to disturb a Fragile X boy as he shrieks to cover it — noise upon noise — his parents quieting him with a gentle hush.

Soon my waitress stops by, laughing and moving on when I tell her about the eggshells.

But I wasn't kidding, I thought, There are shells in my eggs.

[Breakfast for dinner is among my favorite treats.]

But she was on to another table, a family, smiling and catering because — as we all know — there are better tips at bigger tables.

And so the nature of my visit hits me: rising later and paying my bill, not stiffing her on a tip despite her poor service.

I walked, then, on to the gallery's reception and decided that — no — now was not the time to enter.

So I grabbed my camera and retraced my steps to take a picture of a plastic bag competing with the American flag for airspace.

Marveling at how, all around me, disparate worlds seemed to collide.

But there was no avoiding the evening's objective: no sense driving home when I'd yet to accomplish what I'd set out to do. So I walked, ever-so-slowly, overcoming my nervousness — my hesitation — just as I realized it had nothing to do with where I was going.

And everything with how I was arriving.

A Tale of Six Movies

2008-05-09T06:42:00.001-05:00

In order of preference...

The Savages
A very dark comedy that touches on a delicate family moment: the diagnosis of an estranged parent with "dementia" as he spirals towards inevitable death. A brother and sister work together to cope with the situation, never getting melodramatic — sometimes warranting laughs — and yet always making me a wee bit uncomfortable in my seat. But it's the sort of discomfort I appreciate: recognition that life is not forever, and "carpe diem" is, sadly, just something people say. FINAL GRADE: A-

Baby Mama
Easily one of the best "clean" comedies of recent memory, with clever, subtle humor throughout that kept the material from ever going stale. A truly enjoyable viewing experience about a 30-something career woman (Tina Fey) who hires a white trash surrogate (Amy Phoeler) to carry her embryo. FINAL GRADE: A-

Forgetting Sarah Marshall
Without question, this was the first time in a great while that I've enjoyed a Judd Apatow-produced film without the slightest tinge of inner conflict. With Sarah Marshall — a film about a man recovering from the devastation brought upon by the end of a 5-year relationship with a television actress — he's at long last put his checkbook behind a comedy that doesn't intersperse hearty laughs with chauvinist undertones. Plus, there are boy parts! Ow-owww! FINAL GRADE: A-

Harold and Kumar Escape from Guantanamo Bay
Yeah, I know. You're disappointed in me for parting with the $9.25 it cost to see this one. But for whatever it's worth, this second Harold and Kumar "stoner" film was precisely what I figured it'd be: really funny in some parts, and way overboard (as in "oh-my-god-why-did-they-have-to-include-this") in others. But, hey, I'm not the targeted demographic and I was still chuckling the next day when I'd recall particular scenes and different lines. And, yes, Kumar, donuts are awesome. FINAL GRADE: B

Iron Man
I told a friend I saw this. His response: "So does that mean you're dating again?"

So aside from the fact that teenage boys and adolescent men are the targeted demographic for superhero films, this one really isn't half bad. Certainly better than most others I've seen, barring the darker, more recent Batman films. There's psychology behind the action, and Robert Downey Jr. was perfectly cast for the part. FINAL GRADE: B

Super Troopers
Maybe it's because I watched the majority of this alone, and while doing chores. Or maybe it's because my sense of humor had hit a bit of a valley before I popped this into the DVD player. Whatever it was... I didn't find this to be anywhere near as funny as I was expecting. It wasn't bad, per se, and the writing was actually decent for a slapstick, toilet-n-drug comedy. But it was just wasn't doing it for me. Perhaps I'll have to try again some other time; suspect it could be a bit like Austin Powers for me, which I despised on my first viewing... before going on to watch it a dozen times in a single year. FINAL GRADE: Pending

Charlie Wilson's War
Oh, I dunno. This is an interesting "based on a true story" story regarding covert U.S. involvement in the Soviet occupation of Afghanistan in the 1970s, and the U.S. congressman who made it all happen. But I really struggled with Tom Hanks and Julia Roberts in the lead roles. Not that they were awful, but that they just weren't... compelling. FINAL GRADE: C+

Com•po•sure

2008-05-06T06:23:00.007-05:00

The cold is retreating.

So I lace up my Montrails and turn to the lake, battling bus fumes and pleas for spare change – the toll one pays for any oasis-bound journey.

But this early-morning jog was intended, first and foremost, to serve as exercise: but it isn’t long before I find myself so lost in my surroundings that I scarcely realize I’m running at all.

As when I entered the park and passed an empty table typically reserved for chess, the sun hitting the surface where countless kings had fallen, the lake going on behind it as if locked in a perpetual stale mate.

I wished for my camera by that point, stopping midway to ingest my environs (Title: “Table for Two”): sidestepping dandelions through the freshly-risen grass, walking toward the lake and marveling – as I so often do – on how strange it is to see the city meet the sanctuary.

And so I walked. And I stood. Staring out over the lake, inspecting the city-sanctioned graffiti before turning once again to my gravel path and heading home.

It was there that I jotted down a few thoughts and retrieved my camera, spending the remainder of the day searching for scenes to fill the gaps between words.

And I turned to iron and steel (the chalk upon my slate), taking picture after picture as if to say:

This is how I feel.

Searching for words when there are none

And biting my tongue for all that remains.

Shudder Bug

2008-04-30T06:42:00.006-05:00

I have never fancied myself a photographer. A writer, sure, but a mediocre one at best.

And my approach to photography has long been one that would make the professionals shudder:

I believe in quantity in the hopes of a mere sliver of quality.

That is to say: I take a camera with me just about wherever I go, and take pictures (sometimes several) of things that strike me as... odd. Or beautiful. Or even better yet: anything that qualifies as both.

From neon signs

(Some with bulbs out, leaving an unintended message in its wake)

And ironic church marquees

To shots full of empty things...

(The meaning derived from what's missing.)

...and city streets in medias res.

But this is all out of habit — and perhaps a hobby — but I've never intended for it to go anywhere.

Even as I searched for my name on the scroll — that list of photographers selected for an exhibit at a local gallery — I had no expectation of finding my name among the rest.

And yet, still,

There it was.

Dangling at the bottom (an alphabetical consequence) as though the faintest breathe might forever shake it from the page.

March of the Penguins

2008-04-30T06:23:00.000-05:00

Being about the only person on the planet to have not yet seen this 2005 documentary, there's probably not much reason for me to explain it catalogs a year in the life of Antarctica's Emperor penguin.

It's among the better "animal" documentaries I've ever seen, perhaps even preferable to Wild Parrots of Telegraph Hill. This touching film focuses primarily on the mating habits of these flightless birds, as well as the resultant familial behaviors.

And it is just as the filmmakers profess it to be: a love story, first and foremost. And a well-told one, at that.

Definitely something I'd like to add to my permanent collection.

FINAL GRADE: A-

1/0

2008-04-22T22:00:00.003-05:00

The camel and his straw may be a cliche, but it most certainly is not a myth.

In fact, I have felt it very recently: that inscrutable push over a ledge I've previously traipsed with relative elegance (all klumsiness aside).

And, no, I'm not talking about how, this weekend, I fell down half a flight of stairs at a popular sporting event only to hear a crowd utter "Ohhhhh!" in a sort of bemused unison.

[In hindsight, I actually found that experience to be rather humorous myself.]

It doesn't matter what I'm talking about, really: the particulars so seldom do. Because, with moments like this there is little to say but the obvious:

Nothing I do now will change a thing.

And yet: my perspective has changed entirely.

Losing people is funny like that; like that favorite pair of socks and the mysterious mate that slinks away after a single washing.

It's gone. There's nothing you can do. Best to move on while your legs are still strong enough to do the walking.

And so onward you drive, 5 mph in a 40; your 20 miles taking 90 minutes. You crawl and you sigh, watching and marveling as you're passed by scowling women in every shade of Mercedes; and blue-toothed men gesturing from their Beemers and six-cylinder Inifities.

I, too, could go on forever, you think.

[And often do.]

Along the way there are homes, too: brilliant, beautiful castles and mansions interspersed with the occasional, charming cottage (more my style). And yet: all beyond anything I'll ever see from the inside.

"My life goal," I tell family and friends, "is to have my own washer and dryer."

Forget the 4 bedroom home and the picket fence. Forget the 2 1/2 children and the 3 car garage. Forget the book deal and the trip to Scotland: I want to stop doing my laundry where the cockroaches outweigh my cat and the change machine is graffitied with gang signs.

Is that too much to ask for?

Some days, yes.

Yes it is.

And there is this train, this beautiful train. Layered with dirt, puddles of urine caked half-dry and sticky in particular corners. The people are amazing, looking every direction but at each other.

"This is my stop," you say, lost in the middle of everything.

"This is my stop."

You look around you only to see what you knew all along: that every head is down

and no one is listening.

What's Shakin', Chicago?

2008-04-18T14:59:00.006-05:00

So in the past week we've had a mountain lion wander into the city — despite being considered "extinct" in this region — and an earthquake.

I've received a few e-mails asking me if the tremors interrupted my beauty sleep, so I thought I'd post a little something here:

No, I didn't feel anything. The fault is way south of here, though apparently the tremors did shake the skyscrapers and definitely caught the attention of Chicagoans already awake at that hour.

Some of my co-workers were among that group. And my family about 150 miles due southeast woke up rather early this morning, my sister thinking a big truck was speeding along the street; my mother thinking a massive wind was shaking their little home.

But otherwise: no odd stories, no personal accounts.

As for that cougar... they determined it was, in fact, wild (and not some escaped pet) and it's beginning to look like it may have friends.

A whole new reason to take pepper spray whilst jogging. I hear they hate being jabbed in the eye and/or being shot six times by the police.*

*Though I'd have preferred a tranquilizer gun be used to spare the creature's life, I also understand the police (though I am not normally one to jump to the CPD's defense) did what they felt they had to do at the time. And, besides, after one shot you better keep firing: only thing worse than a healthy — albeit frightened — mountain lion lost in a city is an angry, wounded one.

So I've Not Much Felt Like Writing...

2008-04-18T06:23:00.002-05:00

Bottle Rockets
Bottle Rockets is an early dark comedy from director Wes Anderson, replete with his usual quirkiness but lacking the sort of artistry of some of his later (and more recent) work. It stars some of the usual suspects, including the Wilson brothers (Luke and Owen) as two of three best friends who try to break free from small town malaise by forging connections with the local godfather (and so embark on a sadly shortsighted — and so comical — ) life of crime. FINAL GRADE: B

Breakfast Club
I watched this film years ago but thought it (along with a few other John Hughes productions) was worth rewatching now that I'm fairly familiar with where most of his films were shot (north suburban Chicago). But since 98% of this film takes place inside of a school (with a group of stock character kids all serving a very unrealistic 8-hour detention together), I didn't get to "point out" anywhere near as many sights as I did with, say, Ferris Bueller (a cinematic homage to this city, among other things). And while I certainly understand why this 1985 film is considered to be a "seminal" work, there's also no denying its unintentionally hokey qualities. But, hey, it speaks for an era — and there's something to be said for that. FINAL GRADE: C+

Clay Pigeons
A very dark comedy with elements of suspense, the moral of this story is obvious: don't lie; don't cheat with your best friend's wife; and don't be (or hang out with) a serial killer. Stars Joaquin Phoenix, Vince Vaughn and Jeananne Garofolo, all who put on an enjoyable performance in this 1998 film — a sort of underproduced predecessor to No Country for Old Men (2007). FINAL GRADE: B+

Sixteen Candles
So I thought I'd seen this other John Hughes classic previously, but was more than a little surprised to recognize only bits and pieces. In fact what I thought was Sixteen Candles was actually this. I prefer this "version" better. Not to mention, I found it to be slightly less hokey than the other aforementioned Hughes film. Also set in north suburban Chicago, this one shows a bit more of the sights and is about a girl who wakes up on her 16th birthday only to realize that everyone in her family has forgotten (those of you who know me know how easy it was to relate). Other typical teenage concerns unravel (and are reconciled) throughout the course of the day. FINAL GRADE: B

Wild Parrots of Telegraph Hill
This 2005 documentary about a man who dedicates his life to caring for a flock of "wild" parrots in San Francisco is intriguing, to say the least. And even with his long hair; resistance to conventional means of work; and single boiler plate kitchen, I really wouldn't qualify him as "eccentric" (in fact he intelligently refutes that label). The manner in which he describes individual parrots — and the lens through which this film was shot — is truly touching, underscoring the personality of birds non-native (and so misunderstood) by the populous. FINAL GRADE: A-