So...

I know I tend to revisit certain themes. Mostly, this is due to the fact that I have yet to figure certain things out.

For example, why am I compelled to flirt with any man who pays attention to me? In the last couple of days I have found myself laying it on pretty thick and being completely unable to stop myself. (Ahem- ovulating- ahem hem) Most of these guys are not really my type. I can tell they're not really my type because they are actually paying attention to me. I normally don't fall for that kind of crap. I like them troubled, dark, and in need of saving. Man, I love that shit. But these guys I've been flirting with lately- not a snowball's chance in hell that I would ever pursue any of them.

Okay, so Tommer's not the troubled, dark or in need of saving type. But he can and does brood from time to time and I find it incredibly attractive. Sick, isn't it?

Anyway, I found myself flirting with a colleague the other day who is also married and has a kid. I like this guy. He's pretty darn nice, but I can't stand his taste in music and I think his taste in film is rather infantile. But, he has a beautiful smile and gave weird compliments like "I'd like to meet this husband of yours, he'd have to be a pretty cool guy if he married you." Okay, let's face it, that is something I hear a lot and I know that it is totally a cheap way for a guy to scope out the competition- even if he's not really planning on competing. He just wants to know where he might be in the pecking order should we end up in a small group together and have to repopulate the Earth. Would he have a chance to pass on his seed in an extreme emergency? I do the same thing, I'm just a bit more subtle about it. I don't mention any other women at all. I just see if I can hold his attention. That's all I need to know, really.

I sound totally cocky, but this is all subconscious stuff that I don't really consider in the moment. It is only after dissecting my patterns that I can make these assumptions. It is pretty clear to me how I process this information. What isn't really clear to me is how I am totally locked into the behavior. It's kind of like that moment when you find yourself on your 10th or 11th trip to the bathroom at your local watering hole and you realize "Oh, shit! I am Dee-RUNK!" and you start to giggle thinking to yourself that you should watch your mouth and get out before you make a big, giant ass out of yourself only to stay for another three hours, kiss the bartender and wind up doing the Lambada with some geezer the regulars call "Larry the Squid".

I'm just sayin'.

Let's just say that my husband has to be the most patient and secure man alive. He's seen me do it. We've known eachother for 15 years and been together for almost 13. He knew what he was getting into. Once, about 10 or 11 years ago, I saw this chick at a wrap party flirt with him and give him a huge hug in front of me. I almost killed the bitch. Of course, me almost killing someone means I smiled at her and shook her hand politely while I impaled her on a spike in my mind. I had no idea that I could be so jealous. Frankly, I'm not used to the competition. I tend to avoid it by being the only girl in the room or by accurately reading and exploiting each man's weakness to my own advantage. I wasn't expecting some bubbly bitch to come in and spoil my game.

To this day, Tom says he doesn't really remember the incident. I think he does and I think it makes him smile. As well it should.

Living Like a Single Gal

This past week I've put my son to bed a total of two times.

I've been out and about enjoying a social and professional calendar that I've not known for years. I waiver between absolute giddiness because I feel I am using my talents and my smarts to their fullest and guilt because I am out gallavanting around while my son is drawing me pictures and writing notes to me in my absence. I know we need to separate from one another at some point. I know that most mothers dont get to spend the time with their children that I've gotten to spend with my son. I also know that I've been begging for a way out for a few years. It's just that out has a bit of a price.

Balance is an extraordinarily difficult thing to find when your heart is so heavily weighted to one side. As much as I long to find myself again and be that loud, talky babe that everyone listens to whether they want to or not (can't avoid her!) I also want to have another kid and hang out at the park and feel those chubby little hugs again. I want to watch my son play with his friends and eavesdrop on his philosophical four year old conversations. They sound a lot like that Chris Farley talk show on Saturday Night Live; "Remember when Jafar turned into a snake? Yeah, that was cool..." So my question is, do I have to spend the rest of my life being pulled in 10 directions at once?

You really can't have it all. Not the way they told us.

Dear New York State Legislators;

As is standard procedure in these manners, I must apologize for the mass email. However, there are many of you and time is limited.

I am writing to follow up on yesterday's events. I participated in Lobby Day yesterday but walked away feeling a bit disappointed. First off I felt the day was poorly planned as our group was not scheduled to meet with anyone who didn't already agree with us. Frankly, I did not travel to Albany to preach to the choir and there was little time left to seek out those who might take a minute to disagree with me. I'm taking that opportunity right now.

You know the numbers, but they bear repeating. New York city public schools need the money the courts have awarded them. $1.8 billion relieve overcrowding and solve some of the problems with our crumbling infrastructure and $1.4 billion in operational funds to keep good teachers in New York City schools, provide services that are desperately needed by working New York families, and provide opportunities for our children to entice them to stay in school, focus and grow in their love of learning. This money has been awarded to the people of New York City by the courts. I understand this could be a disturbing precedent for those in the legislature that the courts should be telling you how to spend money. I agree. But I also know the funds are desperately needed.

Let's walk away from the numbers here, for a second, and talk about what is needed in the New York City schools. As I've already mentioned, overcrowding is a pressing issue. Overcrowding affects the ability of our teachers and school administrators to manage their populations, provide services to students, and to give much needed individual attention that each child deserves. In my son's school the PTA is fighting to solve some serious staffing issues. For example, kids are not getting to play outside every day. Why? Because in the population of students there are children with asthma who would suffer from the weather conditions on any particular day. There are not enough teachers/ staff required to allow other students out to get exercise and fresh air. So they stay in. There are times in the instructional day when the children have watched movies. The answer we have been given is that there aren't enough resources/ teachers to facilitate an activity on some days. We do not have a gymnasium or a library on site. Luckily, we are next door to a branch of the public library and have access to a rented gym facility but we are at the mercy of their availability. We do not have an art teacher. There is only one set of bathrooms to accommodate the student population and those bathrooms are closed for cleaning for an hour in the afternoon which leaves one toilet in the nurse's office to service over 370 children. Funds have been set aside for a few years running to provide a new set of bathrooms, however we have been having trouble actually getting our hands on it. Construction has been put off indefinitely. There are no organized sports, no band, and no orchestra. We do have a mighty fine chess team, but nothing to encourage investment in team work. We lack space and we lack funds.

As new multi-unit apartment buildings spring up around 4th Avenue and other places in the neighborhood we expect families to move into them. These are families who will be needed services from an already stressed system. The problem is pretty simple; if you put 10 rats in a box made for 5 you will have problems. We need a bigger box.

We also need to start looking at education in a very different way. I am afraid that a combination of federal standards and under funding will force the system to start narrowing the curriculum. You may have read articles in the New York Times pointing out this issue. Can you imagine how exciting your education would have been if you had spent 12- 13 years of your life studying only reading and math? Facts, vocabulary and equations are not the only things that are important in a child's education. Skills, confidence, opportunity and support are the keys to success. How do you test those things? How do you quantify them? Why would you purposely tie the hands of those who want to provide those things? Getting things done in this city are remarkably difficult and I think it is a damn shame.

I'm watching. Other parents are watching. I know you are all concerned about what new schools mean for area property taxes and jobs. Those are valid concerns. However, I do find it disturbing that we get concerned about these things when it comes to building schools and providing services to the community, but we do not have a frank and honest discussion about how perks for major corporations and the wealthy affect the same concerns. I urge you to fight for the future workforce and to bank on a renewable resource.

Thank you for your time and consideration.

Capital Punishment

Today was school lobby day, which means that a rag tag bunch of well meaning parents and low level school administrators showed their faces in Albany today. In particular we were asking the state to give NYC public schools what was promised to them by the courts; $1.8 billion in capital for new school buildings to ease the burden from our famously overcrowded schools and $1.5 billion for operational funds. NYC public schools are notoriously underfunded, over crowded, under performing and over tested. The federal standards are not succeeding here. Neither are the physical conditions in which our children are required to learn.

No one is arguing this point. Everyone says they are for education and it is always the other guy's fault. We were told in nearly every meeting that we had today that nothing would ever happen until we could get Spitzer in the governor's seat. Well, as much as I like Spitzer, I think that's just a fucking cheap excuse. Not just from my Democratic brethren, but the bullshit that come spewing from the Republican side is just as obnoxious. Just cut with the crap and make with the money the courts say we have coming to us. Quit being such a dick.

One thing I did notice upon entering the Chancellor's hall for a little educational pep rally, of sorts, was that the majority of the people who showed up for this rather arduous day were minorities. The hall was wall to wall shades of brown. Come on, honkies! You need to make a better showing for public education. It can't get any better until you put your ass into it.

On the bright side, though, I had the loveliest time being a 13 year old kid on a school field trip to learn about state government. Plus, I couldn't help admiring my friend Lidia and her ability to be flip with people in authority and get away with it by just a blink and a smile. Ooooh, she sassy!

The Weathermen

Last night Tommer and I stayed up to watch a doc about the Weathermen. The documentary itself was all right. There is something so frustratingly limiting about the current trends in documentary filmmaking and equally frustrating in the way a dramatic film would handle the same material. I could get into all of that, but I don't want to write a critique right now. Not about the film, anyway.

I vascilate. In the core of my soul, I wish I were a revolutionary. I really do. But I can't help but look at the choices of revolutionaries and find myself disillusioned and highly critical. After all, the path of a revolutionary is one of (self) righteousness. Even though there are many in my life who may have found a moment or two to describe me as such, I have to admit that I have too many questions to barrel through life that way. It's the certainty I admire, in a sick way. But it is the tunnel vision and lack of rational thinking that I abhor.

It occurs to me that I might need to mention who the Weathermen were. Some of you may be too young or perhaps did not give a rat's ass about these kinds of counterculture movements from the 60's and 70's. You'd be well within your rights, but I think they would seriously object. The Weathermen were a radical anti-war group (some would argue that they hijacked the organization from the relatively peaceful group Students for a Democratic Society) that advocated violence and destruction of property to "Bring the War Home". Their goal was to shake up the culture and overthrow the United States government and end the war in Vietnam. But, like most liberal reactionaries, I don't think they would have known what to do with it if they actually had overthrown the government.

That was the unintended message that I received from this story. Perhaps this is where the liberals in this country can learn a great lesson. Leftist movements tend to eat themselves once they have reached a certain goal (ie- getting out of Vietnam) because they have no vision beyond that goal. It seems that they never really expect to get what they want, but they enjoy the fight. Once they achieve something they tend to self destruct because they have to scramble to figure out what to do now! They argue, become bitter and disappear. Revolutionaries, by definition, are not outfitted for peace.

There was another thing about this group that sort of creeped up my spine like a lead footed spider and that was the Weathermen's racial views. These were guilty, priviledged white people trying to align themselves with black causes. Why does that bother me? And why did that seem to rankle some of the leadership of the Black Panther Party? (These kids were naive and foolish, for one...) I can't quite put my finger on it, but every time I saw the footage of Bernadine Dohrn talking about white people joining the struggle I felt really uncomfortable as if white was a filthy word. I wished she would stop saying it. I wished she would stop saying black. I wished that the whole concept would just go away. It occurs to me that I am uncomfortable, not with people of different races, but with the concept of different races. I uncomfortable with the admission that we are separate, different and impossible to unite. I am uncomfortable with the baggage of racism and the expectation of such. I am uncomfortable with a bunch of formerly (?) rich white kids muscling their way in to a fight they couldn't and shouldn't understand.

This presents a serious dilemma for me. I believe in getting to know one another and trying to empathize with one another. I also think it is arrogant and obnoxious for a few white kids to raise their hands for black power. It feels condescending as if their mere presence gives the struggle credibility. Popular culture in the 80's was riddled with stories of "good" whitey fighting the good fight for the poor, helpless, black populace. Remember the "race" films of the 80's? These were largely films about good white guys fighting bad white guys to protect the noble, but quiet black population- usually in a small southern town. Here is where whites try to style themselves as the heroes and the more I think about it, the more it skeeves me. I want to disassociate myself from the "I'm the white guy that 'gets it'" tradition.

I also want to be let in, and therein lies the dilemma. Whenever I am in a situation where I am the little corn fed white girl I am so conscious of my ultimate lameness. I am conscious of the fact that, whether it is true or not, it is assumed that I will not and cannot understand due to the priviledge of my skin. Maybe it's true. Perhaps I am incapable of comprehending blackness. If it is true, we are at an impass and I am never to be trusted. To me, this is a great loss.

Then comes the use of violence as a means to an end. By now, most of you understand where I am coming from on this. I have never and will never be convinced that adding pain on top of pain will solve anything. I must point out that after 3 of the Weathermen died in a bomb making accident that the group decided to make painstaking efforts to avoid loss of life and their main trespass was property damage. I find even that to be a rather slippery slope. I get it. I understand it. I can even put myself in a set of circumstances in which I would make the same choice. That still doesn't make it right. But what other recourse does a revolutionary have?

I guess I am heavily indoctrinated into my bourgeois, white, midwestern values. Quietly living a peaceful and good life, doing my best to practice what I preach is the only revolution I have. It's hardly glamourous. It's not wildly effective in the short term. But until something better comes along, it's what I've got.

Bed Post

Last night I composed the most brilliant post while I was snuggled under my blankets waiting for my idiot super to turn the heat on. I would have gotten out of bed to type it up, but I was frozen and I thought to myself, "this is just so brilliant that there is no way I'll forget it."

I don't even remember what it was about, much less the details of my particular genius.

Continued Dull

Another parent at school told me he had read that in the weather forecast for this weekend. Continued dull. Well, that just says it all.

Life is not dull, but the weather sure is and it has made me extraordinarily sleepy today. I suppose that is in response to my week of constant jumpiness. I have not experienced such skittish paranoia since my freshman year of high school when I was about to fail algebra. (Which I did fail and was required to go to summer school that year) Last week I just had this nagging feeling that I was forgetting something or putting something off, even though I really do have everything firmly in hand. I guess I've been out of commission for so long that I feel rusty and afraid that I am only a shell of my former super girl self. What if I can't pull this off?

Pull what off?

Well, my home school classes (and a smattering of requests for similar classes for other home school groups), private clients, finishing my play (oh yeah- that thing that hasn't seen the light of day in almost two weeks), putting together group classes for adults, my volunteer work, being a good mom, PTA meetings and trip to Albany to lobby for the school (not 100% sure I should- more money is nice, but a structure that knows how to spend it wisely would be better...), being a good wife, a good friend, and good to myself, I just don't know if I can do it all. I would have had absolutely no doubts 10 years ago and would have willingly killed myself trying. Now, not so much.

I am enjoying waking up everyday and knowing that I am going to get to do at least one thing that makes me happy that day. That's a big change over the last four years. But now I'm on constant watch, thinking that I am going to let things slide and then I'll be back where I started. I guess it is much like the monkey bars. When I was a kid I would fling myself around of them, fall, get back up, knock myself around, hang upside down and I wouldn't give it a second thought. Now I look at the monkey bars with fear and trepidation. I feel huge, stiff and brittle. It was only six years ago that I was flinging myself around in combat class doing simple acrobatics and enjoying fighting with broad swords (damn that feels good!). Four back injuries later I feel like I'll snap in two if I just walk across the room to pick up a book. Obviously, I have some work to do.

Actually, now that I read that, I know that it isn't completely true. I will tackle these little issues with gusto but for the moment I'm just neurotic and bored. If I'm going to be bored, I might as well make up a problem so the day doesn't feel so much like "continued dull".

Crushing Souls

The longer I am out and about in this world populated by children, the more I am appauled by the way adults speak to them. I am also appauled by adult expectations.

Now, don't run off and tell the world that I am some namby pamby new ager who wants every child to feel good and never corrected or put in competitive situations. It is important that all humans, regardless of age, are allowed to feel pain, anger and sadness. I'd argue that it is absolutely necessary. I just don't think we should go out with the express purpose of inflicting it on them! They'll take care of that one themselves, they don't need our help. I also thing discipline is of the utmost importance. Kids (and adults, for that matter) should feel the natural consequences of their actions. Teenage girls who collect and throw their own excrement on other teenage girls should have a priveledge or two taken away from them! And I don't think avoiding competition will prepare kids for the real world. Teaching them how to conduct themselves in competition would be better.

In particular, there was an incident at the school where I volunteer last week. I was teaching the kids how to create characters and recognize character traits in literature. The kids were going crazy making character profile after character profile and it was way fun. Toward the end of class I saw a ruckus going on at one of the tables. The classroom teacher went to attend to it so I decided to stay out of the way. It's her classroom anyway. Well, two minutes later this little girl was sobbing hysterically in the corner while the teacher had a blank look on her face holding the girl's work. Now, I need to say, before I go on with the rest of the story, that the rest of the kids were creating super hero characters, stuffed animal characters, and things like that. I walked over to the teacher to find out what had happened and she held up these drawings of amoeba-like shapes accompanied by the appropriate character profiles. The teacher said (in the snottiest tone I have ever heard) "I don't know what to make of this. She says it's an antibody."

My jaw dropped. I looked at this girl's work and was blown away by her creativity. While her peers were enjoying the simple, black and white worlds of super heroes and ballerina teddy bears, this girl had created a character out of a concept that is even difficult for adults to grasp. This antibody (according to the profile she wrote) had lots of antibody friends but still felt alone. Its wish was to be able to relax and its fear was to be beaten by a germ. To me this demonstrated great sensitivity and understanding of another creature. The teacher did not even make the effort to notice that this girl actually did the work! She wasn't goofing off, she worked hard and then this teacher, essentially, backed up the other kids who were teasing her by not giving her the recognition for the work- whether she understood it or not. The requirements of the work were not difficult to recognize and she clearly did what was asked of her. At the very least she should have been rewarded for completing the assignment and then sent on her way to do more. Instead, she ended up sobbing in the corner.

I see this kind of thing all the time. Kids handing up their hard work to adults who only see and reward things that make sense to them. Hardly making the effort to see the world through the child's eyes because that is what they are giving you. When a child hands you a work of art, a story, or whatever their two hands and minds have made, they are showing you how they see the world and that is a gift. I'm so angry about this that, even a week later, I want to stomp on that teacher and ridicule her. (Of course, I won't) Today I will get a chance to sit down with this girl and talk to her about her work and give her my professional opinion. The teacher has already been spoken to, but I'm still angry because I know she didn't get it. It makes me wonder why she became a teacher in the first place if she doesn't value children. Or worse, if she only values some of them.

I tell you, if I ever catch anybody treating my son that way you're going to see one angry mama bear.

Snotty

I was at a coffee shop with a friend this morning. Granted, she happens to love her cell phone a bit much and has been known to call me while she's waiting in line at the grocery store or whatever. That's fine. But at this moment we were sitting face to face enjoying some coffee and chatting. She has her own business and when she isn't there she needs to keep tabs on things, but she also needs a break from being onsite sometimes. Having her phone allows her to do that. Anyway, she got up to use the restroom and her phone went off. It's not my phone so I didn't feel right about answering it. I was irritated by its ringing, but hey, should she have answered it on the john? That's classy. Can't the woman get a few moments peace? Well, as I was fumbling trying to turn the volume down on the ringer this woman behind me stares right at me and announces,

"That's annoying."

No shit. But it wasn't even my phone so where the hell does she get off? Yeah, people kvetching on their mobiles is obnoxious, as is the psuedo high powered types who act like the world would fall off its fucking axis if they didn't take this dumbass call. But they're here to stay. I still believe that power is not in your ability to be available, but in your freedom to be unavailable. THAT'S how you know you've made something of yourself. If you can afford to ignore your Harry Potter ring tone (NO that's NOT what's on my phone. It's Dvorjak, if you're curious) and aren't so desperate to take the call from your boss while you're taking a dump in Barnes and Noble- then you know you're at the top of the food chain.

At any rate, there does need to be a bit of cell phone ettiquette but part of that should be to not judge the one who is left holding the phone. It's not my phone. Not my responsibility! Back off, ya old bitty. It has never been good manners to be snotty to someone who doesn't have good manners. Justifiable, sure, but good manners- fuck no. Ye who has no sin...

And it wasn't my fucking phone.

My Life Rocks

Today I got up, took my son to school, had my morning phone call with a close friend while I sat on the stoop and soaked up the sun, then I got some groceries, threw some food in the ol' crock pot and sat down to work. My job today was to crunch numbers and mock up some class plans. Then I needed to track some people down, do some scheduling and pool some resources. Now I can lay down on my heating pad and watch a little tube while I down some chips and suck back some seltzer. Then I am going to pick up the boy and hang out at the park with some pals, come home and slap some dinner on the table.

What's so great about this? It's everything I actually want to do and I am finally seeing the fruits of my labor. ($) I'm telling you, 2006 is the year my reign as supreme Empress of New York begins. Next year, the entire east coast. I'm not greedy.

Playing the Race Card

Last night I was at a party on Staten Island in which I was, for once, a part of the racial minority. I had a really nice time, but found myself a little uncomfortable when one of the men I was talking to asked:

"So, when you dance, what kind of music do you dance to?"

"Oh, baby- you're just asking me that because I'm white! Would you have asked that girl over there? Or over there?"

I gave him shit about it for a while, mostly because I wasn't sure how to answer the question. Lately, I've been honestly cutting a rug with Fela but if I would have told this guy (Raised in NIgeria, by the by) I would have felt like a total poser. Yeah, you're a real African, so let me try to impress you with my world music knowledge. I'm ever so multicultural! Yuck. I'll be the first to admit that I am not so uber worldly (note my constant use of "uber") but I do love Fela.

I'm going to be in this little Staten Island circle for a while because I am going to be offering some classes there. This means I'll be at some more parties. I should probably figure out how to answer that question a little more gracefully.

Corn fed white girl in da house!

Il y a une petite problem avec ca...

Yo no hablo espagnol par ce que je ne peut pas arreter parler en francais!

Fucking languages. I should have decided to learn Mandarin or something totally different from another romance language. At least I'd be able to straighten them out in my head. Besides, what do I need another language for? I'm Amerrrrrikin. What other Spanish do I need to know besides "Caliente, por favor" and "Yo no deseo jugar con el pinga".

Obviously I am being facetious. I'd like to be able to speak and read Spanish or I wouldn't be taking the class. I'm just hitting a frustrated moment because now that I am working on Spanish, my French is better than it ever was. The only problem is... I don't have anyone with whom I can speak French! I must resort to eavesdropping on conversations at the French bakery by my apartment. Well, that's just pathetic, really. Have you ever gone out to purposely eavesdrop? It really is the mark of a person who needs to get out more.

As usual, I have tons of work to do, but I am going to lay down on my heating pad and play with my Rubiks Cube that I found while digging in the closet today. Wahoo!

Dog Jones

It is coming up on a year since we lost our dog.

We didn't lose him, actually. He died.

To both credit and massacre George Carlin, when you purchase a dog you are, essentially, purchasing a tragedy. Either you will outlive the dog, or worse yet the dog will outlive you. Well, we outlived our dog and now I want another one.

I won't get one. The family is not ready to take in another living creature only to live in terror of it's ultimate demise. As for me, I'm prepared. That's what life with chickens and cows and sheep will teach you. Creatures die. You can focus on that or you can enjoy the strained mooing, soft bleeting, and comical clucking until you clunk them on the head and serve them up for dinner.

I don't plan on eating a dog. I just want to have a wet nose bug me in the middle of the night again. I miss that nagging feeling at 2:00 in the morning that I'm being watched only to open my eyes to see Bukka sitting in front of me waiting for me to get up and put his precious blanket back on top of him. I miss the soft, velvety head and ears and big, soulful eyes that frequently pointed toward the ceiling, exasperated with my stupidity. He just couldn't be bothered. But he did love me. He loved all of us, even though he was so much smarter, braver and more handsome than any of us could ever dream to be.

Perhaps we'll get a devoted little ankle biter next time. Or a parrot that can identify what different items are made of...SQWUAK! WOOD! SQWUAK! PLASTIC! SQWUAK! CHEAP ASS ZIRCONIUM, DO BETTER NEXT TIME! SUCKER!

Sure, our hermit crabs are fascinating mini-beasts, but they're no match for a cuddly or smart pet. Let's face it, crabs aren't very smart. They still think they'll be able to dig their way out of the glass aquarium. But they are very social, at least with one another. Last week I caught them sharing a Goldfish cracker that Sullivan had left in their tank. They were each at one end, holding it with their big claws and shoveling little fistfuls into their maws while gazing into eachothers' eye stalks. How romantic. Yeah, I like the crabs. But they don't get excited when I come home. Instead, they usually run and hide. Probably because I do enjoy plunking them in their little pools of water and watching them climb out. Poor little bastards.

Maybe someday I'll get to have a dog again. A little fluff ball that stares at me with stupid adoration and wants nothing more than to watch The Daily Show with me and travel in my handbag. I'd have to get a handbag first. Maybe that's how I should start. I should get a nice little handbag to love. I'll practice carrying it around and showing it the neighborhood sites. I'll take it around to the various vets and get it used to these kinds of visits. I'll give it little leather treats and rhinestone doodads to make it feel more comfortable. Then, when it has been worn and broken in- I'll throw it out and get myself a Rottweiler.

What the?

I find it amazing that you could spend your entire adult life consciously choosing to be with someone who is not anything like your parents. You can spend years with this person and get all smug like you dodged a bullet. Then one day after you are married with children you'll be on some cultural outing having the same argument you remember Mom and Dad having. You know the one. It's that argument when, even at the tender age of four, you can't help but shake your head and think your parents are huge idiots.

What's worse is when you discover that you've become the parent you so cautiously avoided marrying! AGH!

Then comes the crazy dinner with some friends when your adorable little child and his sweet little friends pick up a set of battery powered Playschool tools and use them to dismember one of your friends during dessert. It was like some maniacal four year old slasher movie! The little freaks were all giggling as they drilled, sawed, and hacked away at poor Jonathan's arms and legs while he screamed (Playfully, of course, but still) and then proceeded to swing his bones around and eat his feet. SAVAGES!

Dude, what kind of world do I live in?

Sappy Nostalgia- This Too Shall Pass

I'll admit it. I'm obsessed with my past.

Not like reliving the ol' glory days kind of obsessed. I can and do move on and live my grown up adventures. I don't feel stuck in my past, but the older I get, the more appreciative I am of my past. This may be the residual effects of my St. Urjo's Day drinking and suicide contemplation, but I am feeling particularly nostalgic today. (Aw...I love you, man!)

When I talk to my adult friends about their adolescent experiences I feel blessed. I was so fortunate to have been around so many wonderful people (wonderful people that I was often inadvertantly cruel to on account of my own vanity- I know this sounds flip but I really am sorry about that) who were important to me not because of their proximity and foosball table ownership but because of who they were and, I assume, still are. There are some with whom I am still in contact and others who have drifted away on a sea of time, drugs and/or resentment. Regardless, I know I have formed my belief in the ultimate goodness of mankind due to their influence. You can decide for yourself if they've suited me well or not in that regard. As for me, I'm happy with it.

I often think about tracking everyone down to tell them how much they mean to me and how much I will always love them but I fear the obligation to rebuild and maintain a friendship would sort of crush the expression and negate it. There are two other scenarios that are even worse. The first being a scenario where I am forced to account for my sins only to remain unforgiven. The second is worse yet...that I would have to face how little I mattered to them. Alas, I am afraid my ego could not take such a beating. Of course, the sweet spot that I have for those who dared to be friends with me while I was at my absolute worst will always be there and perhaps it is just best to leave things as they are and pass on the love that I feel as much as I can. We can only move forward.

So, for my old friends, know that I am a better person for having known you (and in some cases, having smooched you- you know who you are) and that my new friendships are to be credited as part of your legacy and influence. If you see or hear from someone we both knew from way back when freak them out and tell them I love them. That should make for a few seconds of really uncomfortable silence. I guess that would be an appropriate legacy for me. The legacy of "Ummmm...okay...yeah...how about that weather we're having?"

Happy St. Patrick's Day.

Sorry, I Just Blogged in My Pants

Yeah, I'm not really sure what that means. It's kind of gross, but it made me laugh. And it is true. I'm blogging and I'm wearing pants, so I just blogged in my pants.

Anyway, I just feel like blogging since I can't fucking write anything else to save my soul right now. Can't focus. So I am going to spend the rest of the day doing some hard core cleaning because I'm Finnish and nothing makes me happier than a clean house.

Oh! For my fellow Finns out there I'd like to wish you a Happy St. Urjo's Day! I don't know if my Mom made it up or if it is a true thing or if its just a thing my Mom's family did but every year my Mom would wear something purple the day before St. Patrick's Day (That's March 16th for the slow ones out there) to celebrate the facetious Finnish holiday commemorating St. Urjo's heroic feat of driving the grasshoppers out of Finland. Yeah, no one said the Finns were famous for their sense of humor. Frankly, no one ever said the Finns were famous, period. BUT I am proud of both my Finnish and my Irish heritages! So, today I will clean my house, wear purple, talk on my cell phone, have a vodka and contemplate suicide and tomorrow I will wear green, be an instigator, drink beer and lay a heavy guilt trip on my son.

So you have two days to raise a glass to me! Your favorite Finnish Irish redhead!

Gigglies

I totally get why starlets get all giggly with Jon Stewart on The Daily Show. Cute, funny man pays attention to you, you can't help but be stupid. (For full information, see my post about my chiropractor) But it does not make for good TV.

Listen, Jon, when you have me on I won't be a giggly freak, I promise. I can be all smart and Sarah Vowell but with more tits. And Stephen Colbert, baby, I'll be your Charlene anytime. Just call me.

Fruitless Pursuits

I believe in political art. I believe in personal expression, protest and a journey toward peace- whether or not we are capable of ever getting there. However, I find myself frustrated with art that screams but refuses to listen, that rants and raves but refuses to acknowledge another point of view. Most artists that participate in these forms are tortured idealists much like myself. They are terminally disappointed and frequently disillusioned, but as long as they continue to engage in work that is purely an assault the longer they will continue to be disappointed in the lack of change.

It is sad for me to see talented artists railing against the establishment in language that only their fellow artists will understand and appreciate. Outside of their circle they look intense but foolish, even stupid and naive. It is easy to dismiss their talents and the message when they refuse to acknowledge complexities or other points of view. Most people are afraid to challenge themselves, though they will absolutely demand it of others. This is not communication. It is not growth and many artists have fooled themselves into thinking that they have a monopoly on wisdom and righteousness. This arrogance must be done away with if we are to put forth work that matters.

This is not to say an artist should be without opinion. That would be the same as ripping out my own heart with a pair of salad tongs! Rather, the artist should challenge himself (herself) to constantly question what he/ she truly believes. Be right or be wrong, but be aware. Be present in the struggle to understand instead of the struggle to banish, censor and condemn. Perhaps people really desire to hang onto their anger more than they desire solutions. Perhaps they enjoy their martyrdom on the fringes of society. For this, I cannot blame anyone. It is a romantic place to be- but not always necessary.

I am just as guilty as the next person of all these things. But I recognize a need to rid them from my life as an artist. I will always be passionate and opinionated, but must remind myself that there are multiple ways to see any situation and I must struggle to see them all.

And I have to stop flinching every time I refer to myself as an artist.

Yosemite Sam, The Day After

Feeling much better now. I have this bad habit of not knowing that I've been at the end of my rope until there is no more rope. Whoops!

That's the thing, you can spend weeks and even months as a parent being so good and patient and loving- but all that goodness just wears you out. How long do I have to put up with this screaming human? I don't care if he's only four years old and he's experimenting with words and how they can be used to make someone happy and make someone sad. After a while, being called stupid will piss you off. And the copying thing. My older sister used to do that to me (and I'm pretty sure that if I pissed her off she'd do it to me again!) and it's so demeaning and obnoxious that I really have to work hard to not throw furniture.

Those of you that have known me over the years would be surprised to see just how well I can hold my temper with my son. A week or so ago, he had an hour long tantrum. He punched me twice in the nose and let me tell you, my son's got a pretty wicked jab. As I said, this sequel to The Excorcist went on for about an hour and I stuck it out. I didn't raise my voice, I didn't smack him around (but I can understand how other parents would be tempted- anything to shut him up- but I never have and I never will) and I didn't dismiss him. I knew that something huge was bothering him that he did not have the power to express so I set my boundaries. You need to sit over here and do what you need to do. I am going across the room because you are not allowed to hit me, but I will be keeping an eye on you to make sure you are safe. When you are able to calm yourself down, we can solve this problem. Can't do a thing while you're screaming. I'm here to help, but you need to calm yourself down.

It was a red letter day for my parenting skills. He eventually got out what was bothering him and we both felt better and then talked about ways to solve the problem before it got to the hitting, screaming, kicking point. But last night I just needed to be alone! He's been so tired lately that, by the time I pick him up from school, he's an absolute wreck. He's going through a growth spurt, not getting enough sleep, and still very upset about my back injury as well as Dad's crazy work schedule. I can be the most understanding Mom in the world- but I still need some time by myself without being pawed. My son hasn't nursed in two and a half years, but he still has an intense, emotional relationship with my breasts. "I just wanna rest my hand there!" I can just hear him trying to use that line on some future girlfriend. Sigh. I told my friend Prov that I had thought I had an easy going kid. She laughed right in my face. Okay, he's not exactly easy going. He's bright, funny and very sensitive but not so easy going. I love that kid. But sometimes I need to be left alone!

By 10:00 I had pretty much flipped my lid. I just couldn't believe he was still trying to jabber away at me, despite all my efforts to make the evening really boring. At one point I heard him imitating me on a trip to the bathroom and I have to say he had me down. He was muttering to himself, just like I do.

"Jesus Christ! I don't know why we have to go through this every night! When you are tired, lay down! Go to sleep! Why are you still up? You're going to be tired for school tomorrow!"

Damn, that was pretty funny.

Bitchy Ass Mama

I don't understand what the fuck is wrong with sleeping. Why the hell won't anyone in my house go to sleep when they are tired? Why must I always remind them that sleep is necessary for good health? Why the fuck won't they just go to sleep and leave me the fuck alone for a few minutes? Then why do they take it out on me when they are tired and cranky? It's not my fault they couldn't get their asses to bed before they got all ornery. I made sure the house was quiet and comfortable. I made sure everyone was fed and bathed and dressed in clean and comfy clothes. I did my job. So why must I put up with the "you're stupid, Mom" and "I hate you because you won't let me watch The Incredibles. You're stupid. Dumb!"?

Yeah, you bet your ass I'm cranky. All this Mama wants is a little R and R without all the bitching from the tired ass peanut gallery that won't pay attention to their own body cues. Stubborn! RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!

Excuse me while I get a little Yosemite Sam on your ass- ratzafratzen ziffenplikken meebleflarkin!

Link Wars

Boy, you sure can learn a lot about how others perceive you by how they choose to link you. I have to say, I am more than a little shocked at some of my links. I've been characterized as "saucy and savvy"- I'll take that one, it's pretty nice- and I've read "love her or hate her...", I didn't really think there was anything to hate. I guess anything's possible. I realize I may not be everyone's cup of tea but I'm pretty easy to avoid, if that's the case. I've also been made into the ugly stepsister, a sort of lame flipside to a specific ultra cool gal. I hesitate to get any more specific on this one because I know it was meant to be funny (that's how I'm taking it anyway) but, Dude! Must you compare the two of us? We're radically different personalities and that's a given, but do you have to paint me with the lame brush? Pout!

I'm only half being a whiny bitch about this one. It is kind of funny and, admittedly kind of true. Although I wish it weren't. Sigh. Anyway, my Mom thinks I'm cool.

Feng Shui?

Okay, before I busted up my back I went through a crazy week of rearranging all of my household furniture. My body and soul just needed a change. So I changed the head of my bed from east (wisdom) to west (money) and- well...

I don't disbelieve these things, I'm willing to try them but I don't believe the changes could be too dramatic if there is any change at all. I believe that it can shift your perspective and perhaps therein lies its power. But I will say this- since I moved my bed I've gotten job offers and my current personal project has had a little shot in the arm. Not to mention that a new client wants to see me on Monday when I normally work with homeschool kids. Then the woman who runs the homeschool program told me that next week will be cancelled and we'll extend the class another week so now I am free to jump on this new client!

I don't pretend to understand the mysteries of distribution of time and money but I am just going to say that, at this moment, I so love the Universe.

And screw wisdom, I'll take the money!

One of the Guys?

I'm hardly ever one of the guys anymore.

Not that I ever was, really, but I could at least fool myself into thinking that I was. Those were really nice days that ended once I moved to New York. Maybe midwestern guys are more capable (or insecure, or shy, or polite, or whatever...) of having friendships with women than New York guys. Come on, if you're a heterosexual in New York catching a dame is like shooting fish in a barrel. I guess they just don't have time to waste not getting laid.

My first party in NYC was an all night affair and I got pretty hammered. Hey- I was 22. Of course I got hammered. I stayed up all night talking to this guy about political theatre, music, and a whole bunch of other stuff (once again, I was hammered) and then fell asleep on the floor. Because I was 22 and that's what you do when you're 22. Sometime during the night this guy started to make the moves on me and I gently reminded him that I just wasn't going there. It was like sleeping next to a hungry octopus that is trying to devour you all night long. At least he was a respectful octopus that did not push too hard but I had be half awake in order to fend off his advances.

Anyway, the next day I ended up talking to him at school and he was pissed as hell.

"I asked around about you and found out that you're like, almost married!"

True, it did not come up in conversation since I went to the party by myself. I make it a habit to not flaunt my relationship for several reasons:

#1. Vanity. I learned quickly (especially after this incident) that men will ignore you altogether if they think they will not be able to bed you. This fellow never- and I am not exaggerating- never said another word to me again. We were in the same small school for two years.

#2. I never want to assume that someone is attracted to me only to be shot down and laughed at. It hasn't happened to me yet and I am terrified of the day that it does happen. So, I avoid it. Frankly, I'm a little dense. Once a guy corned me and kissed me so hard I thought my face was going to slide off and I still wonder what he meant by that. In my brain, I'm thinking he did it to win a bet or something- not because he was particularly attracted to me.

#3. I don't like the image of me as a married woman with a child. I like being a married woman with a child- I love my family. But I also like being an individual and I don't like my family being the only definition of who I am. My family is fantastic, they are beautiful, wonderful people who I am proud to be with. But I have to keep a little something for myself.

#4. I've said it once, and I'll say it again. Men are freaked out by mothers. Once you've pushed another living creature out of your vagina they will never look at you the same. They just keep staring at you as if you're some special on the Discovery Channel.

Why do I care? See reason #1.

I've only recently come to appreciate the company of women. Don't get me wrong, I've always had a small group of closely knit women friends. I am usually found as part of a group of three women. That's my magic number. I'll hang out with all kinds of women, but usually pick 2 to have a close 3 AM phone call bond. I don't do that on purpose, it is just a pattern I have. I'm attracted to threes.

I just wish I could have the best of both worlds. With Tom's friends I play the wife and mother. With my girl friends I'm the good friend with a husband and child. With my mom friends I get to be a mom struggling with daily issues. When I am with the guys I get to stretch my bawdy, fun girl personality. I like that Bree. I wish she could come out and play more.

So all my guy friends out there, if you hang with me you'll get the company of opinionated, loud, dirty joke gal but you won't be getting the gal.

All right. I'm packing up for work- with kids. I've got to put bawdy gal to sleep.

Clean Cup! Clean Cup! Move Down! Move Down!

'Tis a pity one cannot adequately convey tone of voice in writing. There are so many beautiful variations in vocal delivery of a word or phrase. It really is fascinating and delightful.

Anyway, I am stupid exhausted from my weekend. I've been forgetting things, leaving things in unfortunate places, and blogging for no apparent reason.

I'm just typing to hear myself type.

I Love Construction

The apartment beneath ours is being renovated by the loudest, most knuckleheaded guys I've yet to come across in Brooklyn. Since the drop ceiling has been removed there is nothing to muffle their conversations, which usually sound like this:

"Hey! Would ya hand me the fuckin' thing? The thing! The thing!"

"Keep yer panties on!"

"Hey, Joe- you ever blow bubbles when you were a kid?"

"What?"

"You ever blow bubbles when you were a kid?"

"What?"

"You fuckin' nimrod! DID YOU EVER BLOW BUBBLES WHEN YOU WAS A KID?"

"I never blew nothin. What're you lookin' at?"

This is all at the top of their lungs and punctuated with drilling, hammering, and sawing which makes it next to impossible for me to work at home. Hey, it's got to be done, right? I just wish I didn't have to work through it. Although, my personal favorite happened yesterday when I heard this:

"Did you see that fuckin' rack on her?"

"Oh, hell yeah"

At this point, I pulled up the loose floor board in my son's closet and stuck my head down and yelled,

"Yeah, they don't make tits like that for free anymore!"

The rest of the day was pretty quiet after that.

Behind the 8 Ball

I woke up this morning to discover that I actually have things to do that I enjoy doing.

I'm livin' the dream, baby!

Of course, now that the day is wearing on and I've discovered that there are only 24 hours in a day and not 28 or 36 as recent rumors would have had me believe, I find that I would like to crawl into bed with a hot water bottle and some chocolate covered strawberries.

Just goes to show ya, I'm a whiny little bitch and I always will be!

Hello gift horse! Can I have a little looksee at your bicuspids?

Words Words Words

Even when I am home alone I sometimes lipsynch- for lack of a better term. Not because I am ashamed of my singing voice or out of consideration for my neighbors but for the sheer joy of feeling words in my mouth. A well written lyric can sit so well on my tongue, having actual weight and texture. If I omit my voice I can concentrate on how each word fits around my teeth, lips and tongue. It's a sensual experience as the voice of another human visits my palate and fills my resonators with soft vowels and percussive consonants. This visitation can feel like a desperate and anonymous coupling on a sinking ship or a reassuring caress in front of a safe, warm fire. In this way, I've made out with the greats.

Perhaps I do need to get out more.

The Critical I

Over the years I've realized that, although the rest of the polite world will avoid the subjects of religion and politics in order to get along I do well discussing those things with just about anyone. I've been in heated debates about it, but I can't think of a time when I've felt uncomfortable or seriously offended anyone in the course of the conversation. One thing I do have difficulty discussing is art. Specifically, popular entertainment- film, theatre, and fiction. Most people are uncomfortable discussing it with me. Which is a damn shame because it is something for which I have a deep and unending passion.

It seems that it is that same passion that drives people away. I'll admit that I can be a bit overbearing. Okay. More than "a bit". But I am not an ogre. If you can best me I will concede my point. I am tenacious and I do get worked up over these things. It may seem frivolous and pointless to some. It's just entertainment, so why get your undies in a bundle?

Well, first because it is my vocation. If you don't feel passion for tax law, teaching, or selling your goods/services or whatever it is that you do then I really don't know how else to explain it to you. I love what I do and I love it with every fiber of my being. Being so invested means that I feel every transgression or ignorant misuse of craft in my hair follicles and in my toenails. I won't change that to make myself more palatable. It is who I am and it is something that you will have to accept or move on. It is non-negotiable.

Second, because I see how these manipulations and emotional tricks that are used in popular entertainment are being used in documentaries, shows like Dateline and Primetime Live, and on the 5:00 news. As frightening and distasteful as it is for me to see these cheap tricks used on unwitting audiences in darkened movie theaters it terrifies me to see it in journalistic arenas.

I remember being taught to be wary of generalized statements in school. Beware of words like always and never. But that was the extent of formal training in my critical thinking skills until I learned how to write a resume in high school. It was in our Communications class which students often referred to as "Bullshit Class". This class taught us to look at words and to use them to our advantage, but never taught us to be critical or media savvy. I had to learn that on my own.

It frustrates me to watch a news magazine and hear dramatic voice overs and tragic music played so lightly in the background. The facts may or may not be true, but the fact that these little tricks are being used to add credibility to the story immediately sets off alarms in my head. BULLSHIT AHEAD! BULLSHIT! PROPAGANDA! It's a simple thing to spot, but even the most brilliant people that I know fall for it and fall for it hard.

I hate these tricks because when they are being used I know, as an artist, that it is a shortcut. It is easier to manipulate that it is to build around true circumstances. It is faster to get the point across with a violin and a picture of a smiling baby than it is to look at a story from every single angle. Unbiased news is impossible, but it has stopped being a goal. Fact is no longer truth. It's art. And art that ignores the truth is shit- as far as I am concerned.

Yes, I am critical (and frequently hippocritical because I am only human) but because, to me, this means something. It is important. You may not share my views. That's fine. But I demand more and I won't stop.

It's who and what I am.

Is Anybody Else Worried About Dolly Parton?

You know I have a few things to say about the Oscars and you can put your fingers in your ears and scream "la la la, I'm not listening!" if you want to. I don't mind. But now is not the time for that post as I only have a few moments and I have something more pressing on my mind.

Is Dolly Parton being slowly sucked into some invisible vortex? How else can I explain the extreme skin stretching and apparently malnourished frame? She used to be this curvy, meaty, lovely creature. Now she just a skeleton with lips and boobs. It's disturbing. I wish she'd age. She just doesn't wear that kind of extreme vanity and insecurity well. It looks fine on some 20 or 30 year old starlet, but a woman her age and stature?

How am I supposed to age gracefully when the last curvy celeb (aside from Anna Nicole Smith- shudder) has succomb to the boobs on a stick theory of female beauty?

Oh, and her voice seems to be suffering a bit too. She was rushing and seemed to have a difficult time getting her voice out, even with the mic.

I've never been a Dolly Parton fan, but I'm concerned for her these days.

Bus Smacking Good

I've got that just hit by a bus feeling. Completely shredded, full of fresh air and my skin still has a bit of an outdoorsy tingle to it. I walked about 5 miles today - which is a bit of a stretch post back injury- and taught a group of 6-12 year olds a bit about how to be an actor.

How I ended up teaching this class is as much crazy happenstance as it is a part of my usual pattern. To make a long story somewhat manageable, let's say this; I answered an ad on craigslist and was prepared to co-teach this class with another woman. She knew these kids already and I was so going to take her lead. For once, I was going to be 2nd banana. Well, the first banana split and two hours before my first class, I inherited this group of kids. I had two hours to come up with a plan.

Things went off really well and I had a wonderful time. But, yet again, I have put myself in a position to do a benign takeover of a group of children. I've said it again and again- I like working with kids but I don't want it to be my career focus! And yet, here I am working with kids again. Why?

BECAUSE ADULTS WON'T FUCKING PAY ME! Why? BECAUSE I HAVE A REPUTATION FOR WORKING WITH KIDS!

Oh well. If I want to make money I have to teach little darlings. I actually adore them. It's just that I don't want to spend a career constantly explaining extreme basics like "This is how you read a script" and "This is a stage". I'd like to dig a little deeper.

All in good time, I suppose. I do enjoy working with kids because the things they have to say are always so surprising. It's just that I don't get the ol' synapses firing as hard when I work with kids and what I am addicted to is the brain explosions. But I also like money and eating and having a roof over my head.

At any rate, I can't look this gift horse in the mouth. It's here for a reason. I'm just not sure what it is right now and I need to ice my back and dial seven numbers for a little sustenance. I am not cooking tonight.

No way.

Horoscope

"You always feel like you could be doing more, but this overeager attitude could be fostering some unhealthy dependence among your loved ones -- and a growing martyr complex for you. Get some perspective."

I've never had a truer horoscope.

I've been training to save the world since I was about six or seven. Around 12 I realized saving the world would not be some action packed experience laden with explosives and monologues chock full of my sage wisdom, but rather a painful and little noticed event.

Screw that.

Of course, a little Catholic girl's fantasies of sainthood do die hard. A 31 year old woman often has a difficult time recognizing and caring for her own needs when everyone elses' troubles seem more pressing. It is a bit shocking to finally get that night out with friends only to have them verbally bitch slap you for not taking care of yourself. They look at you with horrified and shocked faces as you detail your daily life which, five minutes prior, just seemed like normal life. Hard, but normal.

But I have to wonder what our expectations are. I mean, I am fully prepared to admit that I do too much, but I can't quite get a handle on what balance means when everyone has these needs and I have five minutes to spare- don't I?

"But where's the time for you?!" They cry, plying me with alcohol as if THAT is supposed to solve the problem. And I must chuckle to myself as these are the same people who call me several times a day for support and may even forget to ask the obligatory "How are you?" I'm sorry, but sometimes the concept of "time for myself" seems like, well...bullshit.

Did anyone pester Mother Theresa about taking time for herself? Or did they just let her go at some point, knowing she was hell bent on getting into heaven? (hell bent...heaven...heh heh heh!) Or did Mother Theresa take her bubble baths and reading time seriously? Every living saint has got to unwind, you know!

I'm not comparing myself to Mother Theresa. I'm not that deluded. I'm not really getting my hands dirty or anything and I believe in birth control and believe the existence of God is debatable, so... the differences are pretty obvious.

I know I keep harping on this, but there is a part of me that truly believes we should all be willing to look beyond ourselves and ask "what can I give to make the world a better place?" Perhaps I take it a step to far and enable those around me- but where do you draw the line? Before I had a child the line seemed pretty clear. Nothing like having a kid to highlight your neuroses! I'm just not sure what a balanced life is supposed to look like. Sounds like a pretty unrealistic expectation to me.

Of course, I've heard people say that when faced with a future without another drink. I'm addicted to martyrdom! And it's not the exciting martyrdom you've read about- but an annoying, sighing, guilt ridden, Irish Catholic martyrdom without the benefits of eternal life.

Well, I can't figure it all out today, so I am just going to enjoy my coffee and wait patiently for the Oscars tonight. We'll see how Jon Stewart handles the festivities and most of all I am looking forward to watching how Robert Altman accepts his lifetime achievement award. I hope he accepts it graciously and yet still finds a way to stick it to the Academy without coming off as a crazy, angry old man. They need a good, sharp stick in the eye, the greedy, sentimental fuckers.

Happy viewing.

The Oscars Are Fun BUT They Don't Mean SQUAT

I must preface the coming rant by pointing out that I am aware my opinion is not a popular one. Some of you will cringe when you realize what this post is about. You are entitled to your opinion. If you love "Titanic" fine. Good for you. You are well within your rights to enjoy it. It is my professional opinion that you have been DUPED and I am going to tell you why.

I've gotten a lot of flack for my critical opinions of popular films. People say things like "You just hate it because it's made money!" or "You're just jealous." or, my personal favorite, "Millions of people liked it and they can't all be wrong!". I have a few responses to those statements. There is a bit of truth to all of them. A bit. It is a bit of a coincidence that most things made for mass consumption seem sub par to me, but there have been some popular things that I have enjoyed. Even so the trend in popular entertainment is to follow sure fire, paint by numbers formulas that are designed to play your heartstrings like a harp. There is no truth in the manipulation and I find it depressing that real people's lives can be so easily fit into a Hollywood recipe. Am I jealous? Sure. I'm jealous. How can such mediocre crap get such accolades (and money) while I toil in unjust anonymity? I can't lie, it totally sticks in my craw. I understand that millions of people really liked "Titanic", but millions of people also liked Lionel Richie, the mullet and George W. Bush. Millions of people CAN be wrong.

Look at it this way, if you want to buy a car who do you ask for advice? Do you ask your girlfriend whose main interest is Prada handbags or do you go to your greasemonkey cousin? If you are in the market for a Picasso do you ask Uncle Earl or a professional art dealer? Just because entertainment is fun and subjective does not mean that there are not professional standards and goals that those creating it should reach for. Yes, I'm glad you were entertained by it, but I hated it. You can like anything you want just as you can buy any car you want or any Picasso you want. It is just that without critical thought and examination you may end up getting screwed in the end.

I have one last thing to say in this pre-tirade moment. I could probably let "Titanic" slide as a cheap piece of melodrama if it hadn't been so hyped and fussed over. Not to mention the amount of money spent! Many who know me well have heard my frustration, screaming about how the emperor has no clothes. I hate it when people are getting cheated. 11 Oscars for that piece of mediocrity is a crime. Now, without further ado, I will tell you why.

First, the script is poorly constructed with outdated, melodramatic conceits. Do we really believe that people in 1912 lived cliche lives like so many damsels tied to railroad tracks by villains with handlebar moustaches? Let's examine the conflict here. Our heroine, Rose, is being forced by her frightened and once wealthy mother to make a good marriage with Snidely Whiplash- otherwise known as Cal. Cal is a one demensional villain whose only goal in life is acquisition and Rose is his prize. Then Rose meets a fun loving artist named Jack who shows her a world of enjoyment unknown in her society. Her dilemma is this, should I please my mother and marry the jerk who clearly has bad character and a tendancy toward violence or should I go with the cute boy who showers me with dimestore novel phrases and implausable sex in the back of an automobile stored in cargo? Well, any Edwardian lady knows the answer to that!

Rose and Jack are anachronistic. Their dialogue does not share the same cadence with the other characters in the film. Their easy manner is quite 20th century and out of step with the other characters. Their sudden lapses into extreme vulgarity do not seem to fit. You and I might scream, "shit shit shit!" as freezing water encrouches, but that seems a very 20th century response to stimulus. As does Rose's outburst at the lift operator:

"I'm through being polite, God Damn It! Now, take me down!"

Circumstantially speaking, would a good Protestant girl really decide to start taking the name of the Lord in vain when death is imminent? Does it make sense that a proper girl would abandon her upbringing and suddenly sprout an entirely new personality in the space of an hour without any trace of the person she was before? Running around, punching men and screaming "shut up" at strangers? I cannot suspend my disbelief.

The scene where she frees Jack from his handcuffs by chopping them off with an axe is such a fabrication. She should have chopped his hand off with the axe, or at least a finger. Since circumstances have been manipulated to bring them all over the sinking ship we may as well see if freezing water would cauterize a major wound like that and give them yet another obstacle to overcome!

Another fabrication that gets my dander up deals with the musicians who bravely played the ship down. According to accounts, they never played "Nearer My God to Thee". This is a manipulation that does not truly represent who these men were. In reality they played upbeat tunes to keep the mood light and provide hope and order when there was none. This was not a generation to wallow in the face of death, nor were they predisposed to self pity like their late 20th century counterparts. This musical choice was a a theatrical conceit designed to give the audience a break from the screaming and to instruct us to feel sad for their impending doom. Do we really need to be told? Is that how out of touch we are with our fellow man that we can watch them die and have to be told to mourn them? Heaven help us if that's the case.

And what's with the Degas floating underwater?

The ultimate massage in this film is a classist one. Poor good. Rich bad. There is no grey area except the one provided by the nouveau riche Molly Brown. Taking into account that notable (and brief) exception, all other rich characters are selfish and/or cruel and all poor characters are noble and kind while the crew of the Titanic are portrayed as lackeys of the wealthy. The purpose of this is to highlight the injustice of who lived and who died. Granted, class warfare is alive and well and there is a valid point to be made in this microcosm of 1912 society. However, I personally resent the idea that ONCE AGAIN we have to be directed who to root for. If we have to pick and choose who will live and who will die we would much rather have a kind and noble person live but this oversimplifies the conflict when the rich who survive are horrible creatures and the poor who die are wide eyed innocents. I guarantee there was at least one poor asshole on that ship and I bet he died. Suffering of this magnitude should bother us whether they are sweet as pie or a giant pustule of a human being. It is unfair to place blame on the survivors for surviving and that is just what Cameron's film does. It instructs us to resent them and to pass judgment on them while the truth would be better served if he could have found a way for the audience to understand them. It's uncomfortable, but that is when art is at its greatest- when it challenges us to understand.

Yes, he does include a couple of nods to this as he has characters explaining:

"If we go back there they'll all swamp us!"

And that is the depth of his understanding on the subject. Does that help you to put yourself in their soggy shoes?

One notable historical tragedy is the treatment that the crew member Murdoch gets in the script. He's the one who took a bribe from Cal, shot two poor people and then shot himself. This did not happen. This is propaganda that besmirches a real man who, by all reports, did his service with honor and sacrificed himself as he saw that others' lives were saved. This was acknowledged by Cameron who eventually issued a public apology for smearing this man's name and he made a donation for a monument to his heroism. Too little, too late as the most lasting monument to that man's life is his portrayal in this film.

The dialogue is embarassingly cheesy and littered with more heaving bosoms than a Harlequin romance novel.

JACK: This is crazy.

ROSE: I know, it doesn't make any sense, that's why I trust it.

And my personal favorite, when Bill Paxton confesses on the ship deck:

For three years, I've thought of nothing except Titanic. But I never got it. I never let it in.

Oh Jesus, Mary and Joseph!

I question Jack's clear thinking as the ship finally breaks apart and sinks to the bottom of the sea. He warns Rose:

JACK: The ship is going to suck us down. Take a deep breath when I say.

That's pretty scientifically savvy for an artistic little street rat.

JACK: We're gonna make it, Rose. Trust me.

ROSE: I trust you!

Well isn't that sweet?

JACK: Listen, Rose, you're going to get out of here. You're gonna go on and you're gonna make lots of babies and watch 'em grow. You're gonna die an old lady warm in her bed. Not here. Not this night. You understand me?

Why does that babies line just sound weird and stilted?

Much has been made of the authenticity of the film, the attention to detail and the recreation of the ship and all its' finery. I agree. The art direction was beautiful and impressive. But having the right cultery does not make for truthful interaction or good dialogue. In fact, the artifacts seem like artifacts. They are too precious and hardly endowed with the quality of daily use items- with the notable exception of that ugly-ass diamond necklace that looked like something you could get in a Happy Meal. If the actors cannot interact with their space as if they LIVE in it then it is difficult to go into their world. It is a subtle thing that only another actor would specifically notice, but this is the craft. In the big picture, these details are important. I could believe that they were on the Titanic if they filmed the movie with a cardboard box and a couple of tin cans if the actors made it happen for me. In a way, having all the details "perfect" made for lazy acting. I did not see the endowments which can only make me think that they didn't go through the actor's work of making the objects real and personal. A sensitve and intelligent director would have demanded it.

Ultimately what bothers me most about this film is its gross insensitivity. Putting fictional (one dimensional, anachronistic, melodramatic...) lovers in the midst of a tragedy of this magnetude and then turning it into a flashy action picture (which is what it is) is insulting to the memories of those who lost their lives. If you disagree with me think about how you would feel if ten years from now someone came out with a billion dollar epic about two fictional lovers mingling with real people entitled "Escape from the North Tower". It's tasteless and exploitative.

All you need to do to uncover the intent behind this movie is to look at the elements that went into it. This film's first intention was not to educate nor was it supposed to illuminate the mistakes made that led to this tragedy. It was meant to make money. Contrary to popular belief, I have no problems with people making money. What I do have a problem with is people making money off others' frozen blood. The elements of a blockbuster are all there- the contrived love story, wet clothing, sex, gun toting lunatics, money, jewels, action, adventure, property destruction...this was not a high minded drama about people coping with extreme circumstances. This was an action picture like "Terminator". (And for the record, I had a lot of fun watching "Terminator") I just hate the fact that people are fooled into thinking it is anything more than that.

If Cameron had really, honestly and truly wanted to highlight the fate of Titanic and those who lost their lives he would have scrapped the love story altogether. Although many experts contest whether the ship broke apart above or beneath the water and much of what happens during the sinking is conjecture it is, at the very least, visually skillful. I give credit where it is due. The action of the ship breaking apart and crashing onto those in the water below is indeed dramatic and awe inspiring in a way. The best parts of the film are with tirtiary characters quietly awaiting death. Of course, even this is heavy handed and clumsy, but I would have rather watched that then the heavy breathing and forced giggling of Jack and Rose for 3 plus hours.

If I had to make a film about Titanic (and I don't- you see, that's the choice here, isn't it?) I would have made the camera (i.e. the audience) into the main character of the film. I would have made the film in real time and had the audience struggle to survive/ be witness to the tragedy rather than filter it through two fictional characters. Jack and Rose could have been witness to just about any maritime disaster but Cameron chose Titanic because everyone has heard of it and that familiarity breeds curiosity. It's easier to sell and there are enough Titanic-o-philes out there to create instant interest. I'll make the argument again, if his true passion was for the tragedy of Titanic he would have made a different picture. Or maybe he's just not that skilled.

There are so many other issues that I have with this film, from the cheesy score and faux emotional theme song (will someone stick a sock in Celine Dion's yap and stop that vibrato caterwalling?) to its stilted exposition to its corny ending. Every time I see Jack waiting at the top of the stairs flanked by the smiling faces of the dead I can't help but sing to myself "Be our guest, be our guest...". It is everything I despise in modern American cinema. It squanders the opportunity to truly explore human nature in depth and instead presents us with a shallow representation that satisfies us with easy answers to difficult questions. It is a reassuring film, but it is not honest and it does not ask us to learn anything from the experience. It's candy. Once you ingest it you are left with a little sugar rush but it has no intrinsic value.

Don't be fooled by the sugar rush.

Be Prepared

My Magnum Opus blog post is percolating.

Expect it to appear soon.

A Full Plate But Nothing to Eat

I'm at another one of these classic moments where I have so many balls in the air but I can't do a thing about them until something else happens first. I'm just sitting and waiting for one of the balls to drop so I can kick it back into play but everything is in slow motion and nothing is happening right now.

Being flat on my back isn't helping my patience any either.

I hate not being busy.

I hate sitting around and feeling useless.

Well, I'm off to get some X-rays. Wahoo.