I've written before about how youtube makes the whole world kin (and not in the snarky way Shakespeare meant it) and how that is a good thing (in a Martha Stewart, comforty way- back before she revealed her cyborg undercasing).
But now I love the 'tube because it gives people a chance to take control and own the performative aspect of living in a post-industrial society.
Gender, race, religion, and profession are all social constructs, and we're meant to perform accordingly. Not to mention, being aware of the I behind your eyes- the thinking-on-all levels self- is a man-behind-the-curtains experience. I understand that I'm acting with all my actions, including thoughts, and sometimes the separation between the I behind my eyes and my performative self is a chasm.
There are standards of teaching that everyone who becomes a teacher must adhere to. These standards blur the line between professional and personal making persona that much different from true self.
And persona, to my mind, is always glossy and palatable while true self is the rock removed and the creepy-crawlies revealed. It's a gross simplification and doesn't do me or anyone who runs into my judgment any good, but I believe everyone has a boneyard in the closet and familiarity breeds a knowledge that's hard to reconcile.
Anyway, years ago when I waitressed and taught, I got into a vicious shouting match with another waitress. It ended when she started crying and I had a brief WTF moment of what I was doing. Later on that night, a cook told me I should know and do better because I was a teacher.
That burr's been in my mind ever since.
I imagine I'm not the only person who feels as if what they do is an act. I think this is endemic to society, and sometimes it's fine, sometimes it's neutral, and other times the expected performance is a soul-killer (what's the appropriate response when you look in the mirror? To say, "I'm one smoking chick?" Or to identify flaws and give a few moments to a loathing you wouldn't visit on anyone else?).
That's the reason for my hearting the 'tube. Although people might regret what they put up there and some of the sights are odious (but that goes back to making the whole world kin if only in a shared horrified fascination), a lot of the stuff is people alchemizing the performance of self. Performative becomes transformative by taking this fake responsibility we have and making it golden.
Transcendance is another human characteristic that gives me hope for the world.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
People are wonderful
This cracked my shit up:
When I stumble on stuff like that, the world doesn't seem like such a bad old place.
Believe me, the night before last- after reading the latest on the oil spill (really, we're supposed to believe the oil magically disappeared and that the ocean can take care of itself because oil seeps through cracks in the floor all the time) and Iraq, and hearing about the latest pure D crazy of my former SIL (the Eldritch horror), I just wanted someone to press the button.
But then I think of all the wonder in the world: the golden New England light at 5:00 pm in the summer, playing games with my nephews (the latest craze is Ambulance: they pretend to be hurt and I pretend to drive the couch to the hospital, far more entertaining than it sounds), taking my mom and Ella to a fancy-schmancy steakhouse for birthday and awesomeness, and beholding the nekkid eye candy of TRUE BLOOD.
Those give me hope, and as much as I scorn hope as a masochistic emotion, it does the heart good.
When I stumble on stuff like that, the world doesn't seem like such a bad old place.
Believe me, the night before last- after reading the latest on the oil spill (really, we're supposed to believe the oil magically disappeared and that the ocean can take care of itself because oil seeps through cracks in the floor all the time) and Iraq, and hearing about the latest pure D crazy of my former SIL (the Eldritch horror), I just wanted someone to press the button.
But then I think of all the wonder in the world: the golden New England light at 5:00 pm in the summer, playing games with my nephews (the latest craze is Ambulance: they pretend to be hurt and I pretend to drive the couch to the hospital, far more entertaining than it sounds), taking my mom and Ella to a fancy-schmancy steakhouse for birthday and awesomeness, and beholding the nekkid eye candy of TRUE BLOOD.
Those give me hope, and as much as I scorn hope as a masochistic emotion, it does the heart good.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Thinking about catharsis on a beautiful day
I love the concept of catharsis- it's one of my favorite ideas to teach, although students get fouled up by thinking the character has to go through the purging of excess emotions instead of the audience.
It's a handy-dandy feature of tragedies: the playwright sees the audience laboring under excess emotions and gives them a chance to get rid of them.
I don't think catharsis works as well when the purging is directly connected to the event causing the excess emotions.
It feels good to vent, but I've never found that the feelings are gone after a good venting. They always build up again. I need to ride out the emotions, but I also need to work on the emotions. Haven't you ever seen a friend, after purging to you, go to the next person, tell the same exact story, and put themselves into the same tower of rage or despair?
In that situation, catharsis (and I don't even think it's a real catharsis) doesn't work unless you or I or they reconcile, accommodate, or assimilate the experience. Otherwise it's a rut to be retread, and kind of tiresome for all involved.
The best catharsis comes from imitations (plays, songs, movies, or books), not real life. Either I'm unaware of my excess emotions or I have a lump in my chest and throat that will not dissolve. Then comes the movie or the song, and I'm weeping- letting go and restoring balance.
My favorite catharsis came from reading SECOND NATURE. My dad had died and my grief wasn't on a surface level anymore, but when I read the description of a character's death, the tears started and didn't stop until the front of my shirt was sopping. Which is one of many reasons I love, and will always love, Alice Hoffman.
Balance was ever so important to the ancient Greeks, and excess emotions were unseemly. In fact, one of the major complaints from the chorus chucked at Medea's head was that her feelings were over the top (this was before the killing of the kids entered the playscape). I love the concept of equilibrium, and one of the purposes of simplifying my life is always an effort to get me in balance. But I'm usually a gnarl of internal excess, consciously and unconsciously, and thank the gods that catharsis is available.
Cathartics off the top of my head? The song "I Will Remember You", THE ROAD (only once because that shit stays with you), the ending of THE FELLOWSHIP OF THE RING (Sam Gamgee, I heart you), The end of BUFFY- second season, and the part in THE LION KING when Mustafa talks to Simba about the stars.
It's a handy-dandy feature of tragedies: the playwright sees the audience laboring under excess emotions and gives them a chance to get rid of them.
I don't think catharsis works as well when the purging is directly connected to the event causing the excess emotions.
It feels good to vent, but I've never found that the feelings are gone after a good venting. They always build up again. I need to ride out the emotions, but I also need to work on the emotions. Haven't you ever seen a friend, after purging to you, go to the next person, tell the same exact story, and put themselves into the same tower of rage or despair?
In that situation, catharsis (and I don't even think it's a real catharsis) doesn't work unless you or I or they reconcile, accommodate, or assimilate the experience. Otherwise it's a rut to be retread, and kind of tiresome for all involved.
The best catharsis comes from imitations (plays, songs, movies, or books), not real life. Either I'm unaware of my excess emotions or I have a lump in my chest and throat that will not dissolve. Then comes the movie or the song, and I'm weeping- letting go and restoring balance.
My favorite catharsis came from reading SECOND NATURE. My dad had died and my grief wasn't on a surface level anymore, but when I read the description of a character's death, the tears started and didn't stop until the front of my shirt was sopping. Which is one of many reasons I love, and will always love, Alice Hoffman.
Balance was ever so important to the ancient Greeks, and excess emotions were unseemly. In fact, one of the major complaints from the chorus chucked at Medea's head was that her feelings were over the top (this was before the killing of the kids entered the playscape). I love the concept of equilibrium, and one of the purposes of simplifying my life is always an effort to get me in balance. But I'm usually a gnarl of internal excess, consciously and unconsciously, and thank the gods that catharsis is available.
Cathartics off the top of my head? The song "I Will Remember You", THE ROAD (only once because that shit stays with you), the ending of THE FELLOWSHIP OF THE RING (Sam Gamgee, I heart you), The end of BUFFY- second season, and the part in THE LION KING when Mustafa talks to Simba about the stars.
INCEPTION- reviewish and spoilerish
What a gorgeous hunk of a movie! Even when I couldn't get into the state of total absorption, I found myself admiring the scenery.
The star of the show was Joseph Gordon Levitt. He was charismatic and brought the comic relief when things got a little too deep or dark. The choreography of the hotel room and hallway must've been the short end of thankless stuntwork (I would've preferred to buzz around on the snow mobiles or skis), but ended up beautifully.
And his clothes! I didn't even know there was such a thing as suit porn, or that I was susceptible to it, but now I think every movie should have JGL in a suit. With him as a sidekick...kissing someone.
The first chunk of the movie is exposition heavy and clumsy in parts (but the scenery, effects, and characters are so purty!) because Nolan had to build the necessary layers. So while I griped about the clunky dialogue and had to keep reminding myself of Ellen Page's purpose (her character accomplishes important and cool stuff- OFFSCREEN, but she kisses JGL, which was very cute), the last third of the movie is pretty much perfect. The layers are in place and come together like awesome cake.
I like how Nolan emphasizes the importance of catharsis, but gives the audience a huge mental coitus interruptus. I tensed at the wobble and laughed at the black screen. I think he expects the viewers to do their own purging as they figure out the end of the movie and talk about it.
I'm a sucker for things that split people into two distinct groups. The question of whether it fell or not is more than half empty or half full because it goes into the view of reality we all have (which while not unique, must be at least slightly different from the person next to us). It ties into our trust of the storyteller and the story.
I thought it was a little brushstroke of genius amid the broad strokes of his great ending. Nolan must've felt very pleased to do it.
What do I believe? I'm a simple woman...it wobbled, it definitely fell.
The star of the show was Joseph Gordon Levitt. He was charismatic and brought the comic relief when things got a little too deep or dark. The choreography of the hotel room and hallway must've been the short end of thankless stuntwork (I would've preferred to buzz around on the snow mobiles or skis), but ended up beautifully.
And his clothes! I didn't even know there was such a thing as suit porn, or that I was susceptible to it, but now I think every movie should have JGL in a suit. With him as a sidekick...kissing someone.
The first chunk of the movie is exposition heavy and clumsy in parts (but the scenery, effects, and characters are so purty!) because Nolan had to build the necessary layers. So while I griped about the clunky dialogue and had to keep reminding myself of Ellen Page's purpose (her character accomplishes important and cool stuff- OFFSCREEN, but she kisses JGL, which was very cute), the last third of the movie is pretty much perfect. The layers are in place and come together like awesome cake.
I like how Nolan emphasizes the importance of catharsis, but gives the audience a huge mental coitus interruptus. I tensed at the wobble and laughed at the black screen. I think he expects the viewers to do their own purging as they figure out the end of the movie and talk about it.
I'm a sucker for things that split people into two distinct groups. The question of whether it fell or not is more than half empty or half full because it goes into the view of reality we all have (which while not unique, must be at least slightly different from the person next to us). It ties into our trust of the storyteller and the story.
I thought it was a little brushstroke of genius amid the broad strokes of his great ending. Nolan must've felt very pleased to do it.
What do I believe? I'm a simple woman...it wobbled, it definitely fell.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Back on the horse
On Friday, I was firing up the old grill for a brat. The propane grill has one of those handy dandy ignitor buttons for easy flame on.
Except when it doesn't work. The gas hissed like a serpent (and not the fun Eden kind) while I frantically pressed and repressed the button until I took up the spare ignitor to light it by hand.
A mini-fireball, while not big enough to torch the house, is just the right size to scare the shit out of me and burn off all the hair on my right hand and forearm.
The smell of burning feathers was hard to get out of my nose.*
Fortunately, the burn wasn't as bad as it could have been and the pain never got much worse than a bad sunburn (without the blisters).
Yesterday the brats were calling me, but I wasn't enthusiastic about grilling. I had almost talked myself into frying when I realized if I didn't go out and fire up the grill, I might as well give up any thought of cooking out for the rest of the summer.
After too much back and forth (grill- panfry- grill- panfry- don't make this into a phobia- I'm not making it into a phobia; it's too hot to cook outside- you know you're chicken- who are you calling chicken?- bawk, bawk, bawwwkkk), I grilled my brat.
It goes to show that there's nothing equal to flesh charred in the great outdoors and there's no molehill that can't be made into Everest.
*The smell of burning hair is such an infrequent and wrong odor. I was immediately transported back to the time I went with my best friend** to get his brand. He wanted support, and I wanted to see what getting a brand was like. The moment the brander (who was also an awesome piercer) touched metal to skin, the air was redolent with burning feathers and a kind of broiled pork smell. It was insane that I was smelling my best friend cook.
**This best friend was my piercing buddy. We both got our tongues and eyebrows done at the same time. He was harder core than me: at the height of his piercings, he had plugs, septum, brow, tongue, both nipples, a beautiful Prince Albert, his sac, and taint. I was little league compared to him.
Although I will say that due to an obscene amount of Jaeger, a photographer buddy, my friend's Prince Albert, my tongue piercing, and a very long thin piece of metal (of unknown purpose until we discovered it would slide through my tongue and his PA quite nicely)- a naughty photograph that pretty much captures our hedonistic friendship is floating around somewhere.
Except when it doesn't work. The gas hissed like a serpent (and not the fun Eden kind) while I frantically pressed and repressed the button until I took up the spare ignitor to light it by hand.
A mini-fireball, while not big enough to torch the house, is just the right size to scare the shit out of me and burn off all the hair on my right hand and forearm.
The smell of burning feathers was hard to get out of my nose.*
Fortunately, the burn wasn't as bad as it could have been and the pain never got much worse than a bad sunburn (without the blisters).
Yesterday the brats were calling me, but I wasn't enthusiastic about grilling. I had almost talked myself into frying when I realized if I didn't go out and fire up the grill, I might as well give up any thought of cooking out for the rest of the summer.
After too much back and forth (grill- panfry- grill- panfry- don't make this into a phobia- I'm not making it into a phobia; it's too hot to cook outside- you know you're chicken- who are you calling chicken?- bawk, bawk, bawwwkkk), I grilled my brat.
It goes to show that there's nothing equal to flesh charred in the great outdoors and there's no molehill that can't be made into Everest.
*The smell of burning hair is such an infrequent and wrong odor. I was immediately transported back to the time I went with my best friend** to get his brand. He wanted support, and I wanted to see what getting a brand was like. The moment the brander (who was also an awesome piercer) touched metal to skin, the air was redolent with burning feathers and a kind of broiled pork smell. It was insane that I was smelling my best friend cook.
**This best friend was my piercing buddy. We both got our tongues and eyebrows done at the same time. He was harder core than me: at the height of his piercings, he had plugs, septum, brow, tongue, both nipples, a beautiful Prince Albert, his sac, and taint. I was little league compared to him.
Although I will say that due to an obscene amount of Jaeger, a photographer buddy, my friend's Prince Albert, my tongue piercing, and a very long thin piece of metal (of unknown purpose until we discovered it would slide through my tongue and his PA quite nicely)- a naughty photograph that pretty much captures our hedonistic friendship is floating around somewhere.
Who's afraid of the marketplace?
I've got nothing to do and all day to do it.
It's weird how fast the day goes when I'm just dicking around on the computer or re-reading old faves. Time fairly whizzes by.
My goal is to get my ass out of the house and see INCEPTION at the best theater in my area, which is 40 minutes away. Stadium seating and chairs that recline a bit.
I'm already talking myself out of the plan. And the little voice inside me is screaming "DANGER WILL ROBINSON!
It's a fine line between being utterly content to stay indoors and being agoraphobic. It's also a slippery slope because I know I start making excuses (Don't wanna take a shower, got a stack a books and netflix right here, itsa pain to get off the couch) and pretty soon my fingernails will be too long to let me type and I'll be wearing Kleenex boxes instead of my snazzy summer shoes.
I have to leave for the movie in an hour if I want to see it. And the shut-in voice is saying, "See it tomorrow. Sunday's supposed to be a day of rest."
I don't know if the school year somehow overloads my interaction circuits, and this introversion (not alarming yet, but it might be) is a way of recouping or shoring up for next year.
It's weird how fast the day goes when I'm just dicking around on the computer or re-reading old faves. Time fairly whizzes by.
My goal is to get my ass out of the house and see INCEPTION at the best theater in my area, which is 40 minutes away. Stadium seating and chairs that recline a bit.
I'm already talking myself out of the plan. And the little voice inside me is screaming "DANGER WILL ROBINSON!
It's a fine line between being utterly content to stay indoors and being agoraphobic. It's also a slippery slope because I know I start making excuses (Don't wanna take a shower, got a stack a books and netflix right here, itsa pain to get off the couch) and pretty soon my fingernails will be too long to let me type and I'll be wearing Kleenex boxes instead of my snazzy summer shoes.
I have to leave for the movie in an hour if I want to see it. And the shut-in voice is saying, "See it tomorrow. Sunday's supposed to be a day of rest."
I don't know if the school year somehow overloads my interaction circuits, and this introversion (not alarming yet, but it might be) is a way of recouping or shoring up for next year.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
I'll talk about New Orleans
Because I can't always talk about TRUE BLOOD, even though I could.
One of the jobs I had in New Orleans was at a hotel restaurant. That's where I got my serving chops because when the dining room filled up in the space of two minutes it was catch as catch can.
The customers were mostly tourists, always looking for an authentic New Orleans experience. They didn't want to hear that I moved there from New England a month ago. So I learned to stretch the truth until I was New Orleans born and bred, growing up in the Garden District and going to UNO.
A fellow server researched the history of the location at the archives and found out it used to be a brewery. I thought that was cool (I wish I had visited the archives in my time there. I might've been writing historicals set in New Orleans if I had more knowledge. Actually, I'm satisfied writing stories set in New England- it's in my blood).
We found out that customers didn't want to hear about a brewery. They wanted romance. So we lied our faces off.
We concocted a fairy tale that grew until we half believed it ourselves. We started with the location being an estate deeded to a quadroon by her benefactor. Then she was baptized Flora, known as La Fleur because of her impeccable taste and graciousness. She was a generous patron of the arts and education. She also invested in small businesses owned by free people of color.
Flora lost three children to yellow fever, but her son Etienne lived to become a professor at a small private college in the South.
Not that we would tell every customer every detail; it's always good to have more back story than you give. We stole from Rice, Hambly, and Madame John's legacy (I walked past the place every day on my way to anywhere). At first we did it for the tips, but we developed a fondness for Flora- a woman ahead of and trapped by her time.
We knew neither Flora nor Etienne would have the bad taste to haunt the place, but if you're working in a building over a certain age in a city known for its spookiness, you better have a ghost. So we had a handyman who snapped his neck after a trip down the stairs and a maid who died- either from suicide or fever. That point was left deliberately vague.
Give the people what they want- not out of malice or a purely mercenary purpose. Give them a history and a couple ghosts, and everyone's richer for the experience.
One of the jobs I had in New Orleans was at a hotel restaurant. That's where I got my serving chops because when the dining room filled up in the space of two minutes it was catch as catch can.
The customers were mostly tourists, always looking for an authentic New Orleans experience. They didn't want to hear that I moved there from New England a month ago. So I learned to stretch the truth until I was New Orleans born and bred, growing up in the Garden District and going to UNO.
A fellow server researched the history of the location at the archives and found out it used to be a brewery. I thought that was cool (I wish I had visited the archives in my time there. I might've been writing historicals set in New Orleans if I had more knowledge. Actually, I'm satisfied writing stories set in New England- it's in my blood).
We found out that customers didn't want to hear about a brewery. They wanted romance. So we lied our faces off.
We concocted a fairy tale that grew until we half believed it ourselves. We started with the location being an estate deeded to a quadroon by her benefactor. Then she was baptized Flora, known as La Fleur because of her impeccable taste and graciousness. She was a generous patron of the arts and education. She also invested in small businesses owned by free people of color.
Flora lost three children to yellow fever, but her son Etienne lived to become a professor at a small private college in the South.
Not that we would tell every customer every detail; it's always good to have more back story than you give. We stole from Rice, Hambly, and Madame John's legacy (I walked past the place every day on my way to anywhere). At first we did it for the tips, but we developed a fondness for Flora- a woman ahead of and trapped by her time.
We knew neither Flora nor Etienne would have the bad taste to haunt the place, but if you're working in a building over a certain age in a city known for its spookiness, you better have a ghost. So we had a handyman who snapped his neck after a trip down the stairs and a maid who died- either from suicide or fever. That point was left deliberately vague.
Give the people what they want- not out of malice or a purely mercenary purpose. Give them a history and a couple ghosts, and everyone's richer for the experience.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
NOT QUITE A LADY- lame review
I'm in debt to the Smart Bitches for turning me on to Loretta Chase. I heart her and her books so much it kind of hurts (but in a good way).
I spent the afternoon with NOT QUITE A LADY, and as with many of Chase's books, I can't believe I like them as much as I do. I'm not fond of the time period (early 1800s), but darn if she doesn't create some wonderfully likable characters.
Likable and unlikable main characters have been on my mind lately because I read Turow's INNOCENT and the latest installment of Harris' GRAVE series. I think a writer has to work hard to make unlikable characters engaging without resorting to the operatic evil of Hannibal or the Terminator. But writers also have to work hard to make likable characters likable.
One false step and you've created a Mary Sue and I, as a reader, will be heartily wishing for your creation to die a horrible death.
Chase has a masterful hand with writing delightful characters. They might seem like walking, talking tropes if someone sums them up in one sentence, but she lets the reader in their heads, and that's such a nice place to be.
How satisfying her books must be to her. Or at least I hope they are. The self-contained worlds within their pages, and the colorful populations.
She can deftly describe a room or clothes or a heroine's physical characteristics, but then turns around and makes a universe in a single kiss.
How the hell does she do that?
I read a couple scenes with a huge lump in my throat that didn't go away until some tears dissolved it. It's not just the conflict between hero and heroine (if an HEA wasn't guaranteed, I don't think I could bear to read her. I let Chase break my heart only because she heals it by the end of the book), but the sweet and poignant misunderstandings between child and parent.
I'm off to check Google as soon as I post this. I'm hoping she wrote something with Colonel Morrell as the hero...her supporting characters, even the ones who are decidedly unheroic, are that good.
I spent the afternoon with NOT QUITE A LADY, and as with many of Chase's books, I can't believe I like them as much as I do. I'm not fond of the time period (early 1800s), but darn if she doesn't create some wonderfully likable characters.
Likable and unlikable main characters have been on my mind lately because I read Turow's INNOCENT and the latest installment of Harris' GRAVE series. I think a writer has to work hard to make unlikable characters engaging without resorting to the operatic evil of Hannibal or the Terminator. But writers also have to work hard to make likable characters likable.
One false step and you've created a Mary Sue and I, as a reader, will be heartily wishing for your creation to die a horrible death.
Chase has a masterful hand with writing delightful characters. They might seem like walking, talking tropes if someone sums them up in one sentence, but she lets the reader in their heads, and that's such a nice place to be.
How satisfying her books must be to her. Or at least I hope they are. The self-contained worlds within their pages, and the colorful populations.
She can deftly describe a room or clothes or a heroine's physical characteristics, but then turns around and makes a universe in a single kiss.
How the hell does she do that?
I read a couple scenes with a huge lump in my throat that didn't go away until some tears dissolved it. It's not just the conflict between hero and heroine (if an HEA wasn't guaranteed, I don't think I could bear to read her. I let Chase break my heart only because she heals it by the end of the book), but the sweet and poignant misunderstandings between child and parent.
I'm off to check Google as soon as I post this. I'm hoping she wrote something with Colonel Morrell as the hero...her supporting characters, even the ones who are decidedly unheroic, are that good.
He forgot the safe word
I'd been telling Tattoo Queen how hot Franklin (TRUE BLOOD) was during our Saturday chat, and she said in owlish tones, "Wait until you see the next episode."
That episode was "9 Crimes" and in it Franklin says goodbye to sanity and tortures poor Tara: making her call Sookie (he moved his mouth and she said the words in a scene eerily reminiscent of the one where he played ventriloquist with doomed trucker's head), leaving her tied up in the bathroom, and forcing her to go with him to Jackson.
1. Far from being a victim, Tara is using all her chops to get out of the situation alive. I've been wanting to see more from the actor (other than "The only man I ever loved is dead"), and she's really bringing it. Her easy tone when she tells him she needs food, only to give a WTF expression the next second. I'm enjoying that.
2. I still think he's hot. He's repugnant and cruel and vicious, but I can't help it. He's showing that vampire morality is a far cry from human morality, and his outright crazy sadism somehow appeals to me in an absolutely effed up way.
Fantasies can't always be safe and consensual and smell like Ivory soap. That's why they're better than real life. Okay, maybe not better- but definitely more pleasing on the boundary-pushing front. It's easier to hug (or hump) the darkness when there are no consquences. Aside from an odd self-reflection or two.
There's something brutally sexy about him in a twisted way, and I love every pretzel turn. He and Tara bonded over kicking the shit outta some rednecks, and even a child (not that a child should be watching this stuff) would know that picket fences and Gap T-shirts weren't in the offing.
Franklin's a freak, and I'm sure his pathology had roots, inclinations, and actions in his human life. I'm enjoying the fuckuppedness of their relationship (and I do consider it a relationship, which is even more dark twisty goodness), but I'll enjoy it even more when Tara stakes the shit out of him, which is what I'm hoping the writers let her do.
That episode was "9 Crimes" and in it Franklin says goodbye to sanity and tortures poor Tara: making her call Sookie (he moved his mouth and she said the words in a scene eerily reminiscent of the one where he played ventriloquist with doomed trucker's head), leaving her tied up in the bathroom, and forcing her to go with him to Jackson.
1. Far from being a victim, Tara is using all her chops to get out of the situation alive. I've been wanting to see more from the actor (other than "The only man I ever loved is dead"), and she's really bringing it. Her easy tone when she tells him she needs food, only to give a WTF expression the next second. I'm enjoying that.
2. I still think he's hot. He's repugnant and cruel and vicious, but I can't help it. He's showing that vampire morality is a far cry from human morality, and his outright crazy sadism somehow appeals to me in an absolutely effed up way.
Fantasies can't always be safe and consensual and smell like Ivory soap. That's why they're better than real life. Okay, maybe not better- but definitely more pleasing on the boundary-pushing front. It's easier to hug (or hump) the darkness when there are no consquences. Aside from an odd self-reflection or two.
There's something brutally sexy about him in a twisted way, and I love every pretzel turn. He and Tara bonded over kicking the shit outta some rednecks, and even a child (not that a child should be watching this stuff) would know that picket fences and Gap T-shirts weren't in the offing.
Franklin's a freak, and I'm sure his pathology had roots, inclinations, and actions in his human life. I'm enjoying the fuckuppedness of their relationship (and I do consider it a relationship, which is even more dark twisty goodness), but I'll enjoy it even more when Tara stakes the shit out of him, which is what I'm hoping the writers let her do.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
When I'm on the road
The trip to Virginia did have some positives:
1. I didn't get sunburned thanks to liberal dosings of sunscreen. I learned my lesson when I drove to Texas and fried the fuck out of my arm (oozy blisters and all) because I had to keep the window open (no AC then and no AC now). I figured the Texas sunburn was deserved because my brother and I got into a fight when we were younger and I scratched his sunburned shoulder, which made his blisters run in thick yellow streaks.
2. I found a pub that provided much needed liquid sanity during my free time at the conference. When I sat down, the bartender greeted me by name. I was astounded until he pointed out that I was still wearing my name tag.
3. I love Virginia. I have a special place in my heart for Virginia and Pennsylvania because my family used to take summer vacations to those states. These were hellish. Ten of us packed into a red station wagon, and we had to fold down the back seat (the one that faced backwards) to accommodate everyone. We kids desperately wanted to stay at a hotel with a pool, but my father, operating under his own logic, didn't want to stay in places with pools. His favorite catchphrase during the trips was "Look out the window, you might learn something."
We would eat cereal out of plastic bowls and bologna sandwiches on the side of the highway to save money. The only time we went to Hershey Park, it was off season. I remember walking along the fence of the park, the rides eerily still, and the big sign that mocked, "Shhhh...The park is sleeping."
The trips improve a thousandfold in retrospect. I hated them when I was younger, but somehow acquired a taste for making good time and driving insane distances.
I like road trips: I can think every fool thought in my head and resolve some things that need resolving. This trip gave me the title to Thing Three (heh- if I can get Things One and Two written) and also convinced me to change the hero's name in Thing One.
1. I didn't get sunburned thanks to liberal dosings of sunscreen. I learned my lesson when I drove to Texas and fried the fuck out of my arm (oozy blisters and all) because I had to keep the window open (no AC then and no AC now). I figured the Texas sunburn was deserved because my brother and I got into a fight when we were younger and I scratched his sunburned shoulder, which made his blisters run in thick yellow streaks.
2. I found a pub that provided much needed liquid sanity during my free time at the conference. When I sat down, the bartender greeted me by name. I was astounded until he pointed out that I was still wearing my name tag.
3. I love Virginia. I have a special place in my heart for Virginia and Pennsylvania because my family used to take summer vacations to those states. These were hellish. Ten of us packed into a red station wagon, and we had to fold down the back seat (the one that faced backwards) to accommodate everyone. We kids desperately wanted to stay at a hotel with a pool, but my father, operating under his own logic, didn't want to stay in places with pools. His favorite catchphrase during the trips was "Look out the window, you might learn something."
We would eat cereal out of plastic bowls and bologna sandwiches on the side of the highway to save money. The only time we went to Hershey Park, it was off season. I remember walking along the fence of the park, the rides eerily still, and the big sign that mocked, "Shhhh...The park is sleeping."
The trips improve a thousandfold in retrospect. I hated them when I was younger, but somehow acquired a taste for making good time and driving insane distances.
I like road trips: I can think every fool thought in my head and resolve some things that need resolving. This trip gave me the title to Thing Three (heh- if I can get Things One and Two written) and also convinced me to change the hero's name in Thing One.
I've been thinking about a metaphor
Some people refer to their works as their babies.
I feel bad for them because you never know when a commenter will take out the big old stick of literal smiting and whomp you upside the head.
"I have children, and my writing is not a baby. People who say their stories are their babies are wrong, wrong, misguided, and WRONG."
These are the same people who crawled up Kristen Stewart's nose when she said she felt raped by the paparazzi.
Can't we all just metaphor the metaphor?
I don't think of my writing as a baby because I don't especially feel kinship with babies who are not related to me. The imagery that comes to me whenever I'm not writing is that it's like phantom limb pain. The writing's not there (not outside my mind), but it aches.
I don't mean to diminish the experience of amputees. I know that not writing is a choice, and the loss of a limb isn't.
But that's what my brain jelly serves up.
It's not the same to say that I feel a strong emotional attachment to writing instead of saying, "These here pages? They're my babies."
I can understand the need for powerful images and comparisons. I think it's a primal and very human need.
I feel bad for them because you never know when a commenter will take out the big old stick of literal smiting and whomp you upside the head.
"I have children, and my writing is not a baby. People who say their stories are their babies are wrong, wrong, misguided, and WRONG."
These are the same people who crawled up Kristen Stewart's nose when she said she felt raped by the paparazzi.
Can't we all just metaphor the metaphor?
I don't think of my writing as a baby because I don't especially feel kinship with babies who are not related to me. The imagery that comes to me whenever I'm not writing is that it's like phantom limb pain. The writing's not there (not outside my mind), but it aches.
I don't mean to diminish the experience of amputees. I know that not writing is a choice, and the loss of a limb isn't.
But that's what my brain jelly serves up.
It's not the same to say that I feel a strong emotional attachment to writing instead of saying, "These here pages? They're my babies."
I can understand the need for powerful images and comparisons. I think it's a primal and very human need.
The traveler come home
I went to a teacher conference in Virginia from Sunday to Wednesday. A colleague of mine talked me into it in May, and I really have to stop being such a passive noodle.
The conference sucked, but I learned a lot. We were late because of construction, and the petty bureaucrat in charge of registration took an indecent amount of glee in telling us we would have to register after dinner, which meant we missed the welcome gathering (free booze!).
The conference powers e-mailed every day last week with handy reminders about bringing our laptops, pillows, signing up for special panels...Do you think even one of those everloving e-mails would've mentioned that all the exits around the college were closed?
Here's the thing about my colleague: she considers me one of her best friends. I consider her a friendish co-worker. I eat lunch with her and another teacher in her room; we've been grade partners for the past couple years; we have similar teaching styles. But she's really loud, she swears in front of the students, and she'll take assignments I created and pass them off as her own. She also paints herself as worldly-wise and gives me the role of sheltered spinster.
Sometimes I hate myself in our interactions. I hate the role I accept, but don't really know how to get out of it.
All her traits that are mildly annoying during the school year became full-on head-exploding torture during the four days.
That added to the general suckage of the conference, but there were daily lectures that were amazing. I took down a copious amount of notes about strategies to teach writing.
I also feel closest to my students when I'm in a boring class. The instructor was disorganized, and the minute she said she didn't like using the computer (Whaa?) was the moment she lost me. But even that class had a bright side because near the end we all started sharing stories and it's always neat to hear that some experiences are universal.
That was my only work-related task of the summer, aside from the mountain of summer reading I have to do and a few assignments I want to bang out.
The conference sucked, but I learned a lot. We were late because of construction, and the petty bureaucrat in charge of registration took an indecent amount of glee in telling us we would have to register after dinner, which meant we missed the welcome gathering (free booze!).
The conference powers e-mailed every day last week with handy reminders about bringing our laptops, pillows, signing up for special panels...Do you think even one of those everloving e-mails would've mentioned that all the exits around the college were closed?
Here's the thing about my colleague: she considers me one of her best friends. I consider her a friendish co-worker. I eat lunch with her and another teacher in her room; we've been grade partners for the past couple years; we have similar teaching styles. But she's really loud, she swears in front of the students, and she'll take assignments I created and pass them off as her own. She also paints herself as worldly-wise and gives me the role of sheltered spinster.
Sometimes I hate myself in our interactions. I hate the role I accept, but don't really know how to get out of it.
All her traits that are mildly annoying during the school year became full-on head-exploding torture during the four days.
That added to the general suckage of the conference, but there were daily lectures that were amazing. I took down a copious amount of notes about strategies to teach writing.
I also feel closest to my students when I'm in a boring class. The instructor was disorganized, and the minute she said she didn't like using the computer (Whaa?) was the moment she lost me. But even that class had a bright side because near the end we all started sharing stories and it's always neat to hear that some experiences are universal.
That was my only work-related task of the summer, aside from the mountain of summer reading I have to do and a few assignments I want to bang out.
Not so different
I was in the library grumbling to myself that Ray Bradbury was in three sections: teens, sci-fi, and general literature.
SOMETHING WICKED THIS WAY COMES was in sci-fi.
I also grumbled about the library getting the most recent published book in a series despite not having the earlier books.
Then it hit me. I was bitching about the librarians in the same way people bitch about teachers. It's not their fault that library budgets have been cut, and even if I had to look for Bradbury, the aisles between the stacks are not made of lava or studded with broken glass.
As a matter of fact, the crew at my library are a friendly bunch. They always check me out with a smile (no room in the budget for self-check out), laugh when I observe that my books' due date is in August, which means summer's speeding by, and are always willing to help if I have a question.
They do their jobs the best they can, just like I do.
SOMETHING WICKED THIS WAY COMES was in sci-fi.
I also grumbled about the library getting the most recent published book in a series despite not having the earlier books.
Then it hit me. I was bitching about the librarians in the same way people bitch about teachers. It's not their fault that library budgets have been cut, and even if I had to look for Bradbury, the aisles between the stacks are not made of lava or studded with broken glass.
As a matter of fact, the crew at my library are a friendly bunch. They always check me out with a smile (no room in the budget for self-check out), laugh when I observe that my books' due date is in August, which means summer's speeding by, and are always willing to help if I have a question.
They do their jobs the best they can, just like I do.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Where the wild things are
I was sitting on the first porch step enjoying a beer and the fact that the temp had dialed down from broil to bake.
A skunk poked its inquisitive nose around the corner and it wasn't wearing a tidy little vest or smoking a pipe.
I did what any person would do: dropped my beer, jumped up, lost my balance, regained it for a second, then lost it again, fell into the recycling bins, and skidded on my hands and knees across the wooden porch.
The skunk did what any creature would do: got the hell away from the freak.
For the short time I was sprawled on the porch, I braced, actually braced, myself for the onslaught of odor. As if it would've scampered up the stairs and hoisted its little butt in my direction.
My knee hurts something awful, my wrist and hand are sore, and I kind of can't stop laughing.
I'm going to wait a few before I go out and snag my beer bottle.
A skunk poked its inquisitive nose around the corner and it wasn't wearing a tidy little vest or smoking a pipe.
I did what any person would do: dropped my beer, jumped up, lost my balance, regained it for a second, then lost it again, fell into the recycling bins, and skidded on my hands and knees across the wooden porch.
The skunk did what any creature would do: got the hell away from the freak.
For the short time I was sprawled on the porch, I braced, actually braced, myself for the onslaught of odor. As if it would've scampered up the stairs and hoisted its little butt in my direction.
My knee hurts something awful, my wrist and hand are sore, and I kind of can't stop laughing.
I'm going to wait a few before I go out and snag my beer bottle.
Two random items about TRUE BLOOD
I am going to watch the first three eps again; I have an uncomfortable hole in my heart.
1. I can't agree with the way the actors or writers or directors have decided to pronounce Bon Temps. I think it should be Anglicized or Americanized with the "temp" flying clear. They give it a French twist. I don't like this, and it could be ignorance, but when I was in New Orleans, you'd get laughed at if you pronounced Chartres or Decatur with a French pronunciation.*
2. You know that shirt Jason wore at the Fellowship camp? The one bearing the legend "Bon Temps Football?" I love that shirt and found out it's for sale at HBO's merch shop. I need that shirt.
2a. It bothers me that I can't read all of Terry's shirt and I'm always too lazy to hit pause.
Man, it's going to be ages until I get me some new TRUE BLOOD. I miss Eric, Pam, and Layette so much I could cry.
* Yes, I realize there's "Laissez les bons temps rouler," but I never heard a person say it in real life during the time I lived there. I also never heard anyone call a person "Cher" without being sarcastic.
1. I can't agree with the way the actors or writers or directors have decided to pronounce Bon Temps. I think it should be Anglicized or Americanized with the "temp" flying clear. They give it a French twist. I don't like this, and it could be ignorance, but when I was in New Orleans, you'd get laughed at if you pronounced Chartres or Decatur with a French pronunciation.*
2. You know that shirt Jason wore at the Fellowship camp? The one bearing the legend "Bon Temps Football?" I love that shirt and found out it's for sale at HBO's merch shop. I need that shirt.
2a. It bothers me that I can't read all of Terry's shirt and I'm always too lazy to hit pause.
Man, it's going to be ages until I get me some new TRUE BLOOD. I miss Eric, Pam, and Layette so much I could cry.
* Yes, I realize there's "Laissez les bons temps rouler," but I never heard a person say it in real life during the time I lived there. I also never heard anyone call a person "Cher" without being sarcastic.
Revisiting some favorites
Late Saturday night and snug in my bed, I decided to go to Project Gutenberg and read some books.
I spent the wee sma's reading UNDERSTOOD BETSY, DADDY LONG LEGS, and DEAR ENEMY.
DADDY LONG LEGS was still charming after all these years. I'm a sucker for most stories that feature orphans. I still loved the character of Judy, and even though she dips into Mary Sue territory, she never stays there for long. She's likable and makes no bones about resenting her time at the orphanage. I love reading a character who has a realistic love of reading. It's not snobbish (teenage characters who spend any time spouting off classical verse and showing an adult knowledge of music and literature make me wish for their deaths). I got a hankering to reread TREASURE ISLAND after my time with Judy.
What squicked me out was the identity of Daddy Long Legs. I don't blame him for falling in love with her, but his manipulative nature irked me. I think he selected a girl for his philanthropy because he was feeling marital stirrings. He won't let her go to the McBride summer camp (her pleading that she's a good girl and won't be a bother touched my heart) in order to keep her away from Jimmie McBride (his rival) and to isolate her, which means he can show up at Long Willow Farm and be a rescuer.
Ick. Just ick.
I had never read DEAR ENEMY, which is DADDY LONG LEG's kind-of sequel. Sally McBride takes over Judy's old orphanage and the book keeps to the epistolary form (letters to Judy and the orphanage's doctor). The stuff about the institution tends to be dry and redundant, not to mention the character's repeated statement about having 113 charges (even after some of them are adopted) irked me.
Sally's a bit of a bitch. She was all blond fluffiness and light in DADDY LONG LEGS, but in DEAR ENEMY, character development means showing her in all her witchiness. I didn't like her, no matter how noble her purpose was.
The biggest turn off was her treatment of the orphans with disabilities. I know we have an appalling legacy of maltreatment of those with disabilities, but holy fuck- to see it in a children's book was mindblowing. Sally cavalierly assesses her charges and expels those with mental disabilities to more fitting institutions. Seeing as this blithely commanded exile comes on the heels of her loving this boy who must have ADD or ODD struck me as huge hypocrisy.
She also jokingly (but not so much) wishes she could slip arsenic to a girl with mental challenges as a remedy for a cold and life.
The repeated references to hereditary dispositions and mental illnesses nailed the coffin shut. I really hated this book.
UNDERSTOOD BETSY was even better than I imagined. Dorothy Canfield Fisher pins down the New England setting and characters with such a deft hand that I wanted to bite my toes. In a good way.
Betsy starts out as Elizabeth Ann, an orphan in the care of Aunt Frances, who passes on her neuroses to the kid and skirts the edges of Munchhausen By Proxy. Because her mother Aunt Harriet comes down with a contagious disease (TB?), Aunt Frances sends Elizabeth Ann to other relatives. These relatives can't take her in and send her to live with the dreaded Putney cousins in Vermont.
Can I just say how much I love the dreaded Putney cousins? There's Aunt Abigail, a rotund, apple-cheeked, generous, empathetic woman who knows when a heartbroken kid needs a kitten, a cookie, or a lesson in butter making. There's Uncle Henry, a taciturn New Englander with a fondness for poetry and checkers. Then there's Cousin Ann.
I heart Cousin Ann. She's assertive and capable, and her approval is worth more than gold. She reminds me of my sister Ella, who rises to any challenge and is as able in organizing a tailgate as she is in organizing the boosters at my nephews' high school. Betsy takes on the mantra "What Would Cousin Ann Do?" and it gets her through tight spots.
Must not get a WWCAD tattoo. Must not get a WWCAD tattoo.
The details of the house and the school and Vermont woodland are killer. Fisher keeps a third person omniscient POV and breaks the fourth wall sometimes, but it's like listening to a chum. I love how she has Aunt Abigail reading Emerson's Essays before bedtime. One, it shows the characters might be country, but they're not ignorant. And two, she adds that a brand new, never been read before edition of the same book is on Aunt Frances' table.
Amazing.
There's a chapter entitled "If You Don't Like Conversation, Skip This Chapter," which my sister loved because the author was actually giving permission to skip ahead. There's great food, dolls, county fairs, and kittens galore.
I often wished Fisher had written a sequel, but maybe some of the magic would've been gone. I like to think that Betsy eventually married Ralph, and she lived in Vermont for the rest of her life, doing something worthwhile and always finding time to read Scott to Uncle Henry.
She starts as Elizabeth Ann, and I had to stop reading and backtrack to see when she turned into Betsy. It's when she almost walks past the schoolhouse (such a dinky, charming little school!) and the teacher says, "Is this Betsy?"
I'm so glad I reread this. It provided comfort I didn't know I needed.
I spent the wee sma's reading UNDERSTOOD BETSY, DADDY LONG LEGS, and DEAR ENEMY.
DADDY LONG LEGS was still charming after all these years. I'm a sucker for most stories that feature orphans. I still loved the character of Judy, and even though she dips into Mary Sue territory, she never stays there for long. She's likable and makes no bones about resenting her time at the orphanage. I love reading a character who has a realistic love of reading. It's not snobbish (teenage characters who spend any time spouting off classical verse and showing an adult knowledge of music and literature make me wish for their deaths). I got a hankering to reread TREASURE ISLAND after my time with Judy.
What squicked me out was the identity of Daddy Long Legs. I don't blame him for falling in love with her, but his manipulative nature irked me. I think he selected a girl for his philanthropy because he was feeling marital stirrings. He won't let her go to the McBride summer camp (her pleading that she's a good girl and won't be a bother touched my heart) in order to keep her away from Jimmie McBride (his rival) and to isolate her, which means he can show up at Long Willow Farm and be a rescuer.
Ick. Just ick.
I had never read DEAR ENEMY, which is DADDY LONG LEG's kind-of sequel. Sally McBride takes over Judy's old orphanage and the book keeps to the epistolary form (letters to Judy and the orphanage's doctor). The stuff about the institution tends to be dry and redundant, not to mention the character's repeated statement about having 113 charges (even after some of them are adopted) irked me.
Sally's a bit of a bitch. She was all blond fluffiness and light in DADDY LONG LEGS, but in DEAR ENEMY, character development means showing her in all her witchiness. I didn't like her, no matter how noble her purpose was.
The biggest turn off was her treatment of the orphans with disabilities. I know we have an appalling legacy of maltreatment of those with disabilities, but holy fuck- to see it in a children's book was mindblowing. Sally cavalierly assesses her charges and expels those with mental disabilities to more fitting institutions. Seeing as this blithely commanded exile comes on the heels of her loving this boy who must have ADD or ODD struck me as huge hypocrisy.
She also jokingly (but not so much) wishes she could slip arsenic to a girl with mental challenges as a remedy for a cold and life.
The repeated references to hereditary dispositions and mental illnesses nailed the coffin shut. I really hated this book.
UNDERSTOOD BETSY was even better than I imagined. Dorothy Canfield Fisher pins down the New England setting and characters with such a deft hand that I wanted to bite my toes. In a good way.
Betsy starts out as Elizabeth Ann, an orphan in the care of Aunt Frances, who passes on her neuroses to the kid and skirts the edges of Munchhausen By Proxy. Because her mother Aunt Harriet comes down with a contagious disease (TB?), Aunt Frances sends Elizabeth Ann to other relatives. These relatives can't take her in and send her to live with the dreaded Putney cousins in Vermont.
Can I just say how much I love the dreaded Putney cousins? There's Aunt Abigail, a rotund, apple-cheeked, generous, empathetic woman who knows when a heartbroken kid needs a kitten, a cookie, or a lesson in butter making. There's Uncle Henry, a taciturn New Englander with a fondness for poetry and checkers. Then there's Cousin Ann.
I heart Cousin Ann. She's assertive and capable, and her approval is worth more than gold. She reminds me of my sister Ella, who rises to any challenge and is as able in organizing a tailgate as she is in organizing the boosters at my nephews' high school. Betsy takes on the mantra "What Would Cousin Ann Do?" and it gets her through tight spots.
Must not get a WWCAD tattoo. Must not get a WWCAD tattoo.
The details of the house and the school and Vermont woodland are killer. Fisher keeps a third person omniscient POV and breaks the fourth wall sometimes, but it's like listening to a chum. I love how she has Aunt Abigail reading Emerson's Essays before bedtime. One, it shows the characters might be country, but they're not ignorant. And two, she adds that a brand new, never been read before edition of the same book is on Aunt Frances' table.
Amazing.
There's a chapter entitled "If You Don't Like Conversation, Skip This Chapter," which my sister loved because the author was actually giving permission to skip ahead. There's great food, dolls, county fairs, and kittens galore.
I often wished Fisher had written a sequel, but maybe some of the magic would've been gone. I like to think that Betsy eventually married Ralph, and she lived in Vermont for the rest of her life, doing something worthwhile and always finding time to read Scott to Uncle Henry.
She starts as Elizabeth Ann, and I had to stop reading and backtrack to see when she turned into Betsy. It's when she almost walks past the schoolhouse (such a dinky, charming little school!) and the teacher says, "Is this Betsy?"
I'm so glad I reread this. It provided comfort I didn't know I needed.
Finders, Returners
During the picnic, the littluns and not-so-littluns went to the neighborhood park. My niece came back and handed me a wallet she had found.
There were tons of credit cards, a driver's license, and over a hundred bucks in cash.
The license was far, far out of state- North Carolina- and I didn't know what to do. My police officer brother told me to call the police department's non-emergency number and have them pick it up.
Two things: I would never think to pass a found wallet to the police department, but now that I do know, it'll be SOP, and I don't know why I (who had been partaking of the most excellent sangria) was tapped as responsible adult in this scenario.
I called the police and they sent an officer to pick up the wallet.
It was only when I was talking to my aunt and good sister-in-law that they told me I should call information and try to call the owner of the wallet. The guy wasn't listed, but the nice 411 operator, after I blurted that my niece had found the wallet and I was trying to contact him, asked if I had an address. She matched it with one of the names and gave me the number.
I left a message (might've been a skosh incoherent), and a couple hours later, the wife called wanting to know where the police department was. I told her and she thanked me and my niece.
Case closed.
Here's where I'm a witch. I didn't expect a reward and my niece certainly didn't expect a reward. Her parents have brought her up right and with no hesitation she had handed the wallet over to a responsible adult (sangria notwithstanding). But it would've been nice to be able to turn down an offer.
I don't know the reason I feel that way. Did I need a little more self-righteousness? Did I need to make the noble refusal?
Apparently.
I know that if I had lost my wallet, the loss of money would've stung, but it would've been the loss of credit cards and driver's license that really hurt. And if someone returned it, I would've gotten their address and sent them a chunk of cash with a soppy thank you. Because even though my niece didn't need her behavior rewarded, I'm a sucker for integrity.
My niece hasn't said a word about the incident, and I feel plenty small souled for even thinking the thoughts.* But there you go.
*This does not in any way, shape, or form diminish the pride I feel in the fact that she's a really decent person along with being a fabulous niece.
There were tons of credit cards, a driver's license, and over a hundred bucks in cash.
The license was far, far out of state- North Carolina- and I didn't know what to do. My police officer brother told me to call the police department's non-emergency number and have them pick it up.
Two things: I would never think to pass a found wallet to the police department, but now that I do know, it'll be SOP, and I don't know why I (who had been partaking of the most excellent sangria) was tapped as responsible adult in this scenario.
I called the police and they sent an officer to pick up the wallet.
It was only when I was talking to my aunt and good sister-in-law that they told me I should call information and try to call the owner of the wallet. The guy wasn't listed, but the nice 411 operator, after I blurted that my niece had found the wallet and I was trying to contact him, asked if I had an address. She matched it with one of the names and gave me the number.
I left a message (might've been a skosh incoherent), and a couple hours later, the wife called wanting to know where the police department was. I told her and she thanked me and my niece.
Case closed.
Here's where I'm a witch. I didn't expect a reward and my niece certainly didn't expect a reward. Her parents have brought her up right and with no hesitation she had handed the wallet over to a responsible adult (sangria notwithstanding). But it would've been nice to be able to turn down an offer.
I don't know the reason I feel that way. Did I need a little more self-righteousness? Did I need to make the noble refusal?
Apparently.
I know that if I had lost my wallet, the loss of money would've stung, but it would've been the loss of credit cards and driver's license that really hurt. And if someone returned it, I would've gotten their address and sent them a chunk of cash with a soppy thank you. Because even though my niece didn't need her behavior rewarded, I'm a sucker for integrity.
My niece hasn't said a word about the incident, and I feel plenty small souled for even thinking the thoughts.* But there you go.
*This does not in any way, shape, or form diminish the pride I feel in the fact that she's a really decent person along with being a fabulous niece.
Is it too late to talk about the weekend?
I actually feel as if there's an expiration date on events, and if I serve them up a couple days later, they're all dried out and crusty.
But I do want to talk about the weekend, and leftovers aren't that bad. I should know: I've been eating cookout leftovers for the past three days.
My family celebrated the 4th on Saturday because we're rebels (huzzah!) and some of us had to work on Monday (not me!).
2010 marks another chowder fiasco in the shape of frozen clams. The satellite branch of a trusted seafood place (the owner goes to my mom's church and she likes to give the parish her business) sold her quahog meat in water that had been packed in May.
The entire family was like "Whoa, that shit ain't cool." We take our chowder very seriously and given the time and effort spent on it- the few ingredients have to be fresh.
My sister Ella went to return the clams and get the money put back on my mother's card. The manager tried to squirm out of it, but you do not argue with Ella when she gets her serious face on. I'm not kidding...the tone of her voice alone makes you do anything to get the stern lady away from you.
I was relieved the clams (which did smell a little funky) hadn't been added to the chowder. I wasn't up for peeling a shit ton of potatoes again.
My aunt bought lobsters, and in between the chowder course and the main course (lobsters, burgers, and dogs), my nephews had a water balloon fight.
For some reason, I got the idea in my head that our cookout and my nephews needed water balloons. I wanted to fill a bunch of them and decided that 65 was a good number. It takes a looonnnggg time to fill up 65 balloons.
I've tasted bitterness in my life, but nothing tastes like dead plastic on the tongue quite as much as the realization, after contorting your fingers into yoga positions to tie a knot in the balloon's neck, that the balloon has a hole.
Foolish me bought the cheapy water balloons that ripped when I tried to stretch them around the faucet and the filler that came with them needed to be positioned very carefully and managed to squirt a steady stream of water into my face as well as the balloon.
Next time I spring for the heavy duty balloons.
We started with a balloon toss (littlest got an extra balloon) and moved on to full scale battle. I made the boys take 20 steps back from the cooler that held the balloons, raised my hands, and yelled, "Let loose the dogs of war!"
The mayhem was hilarious! Everyone was sopped and they didn't gang up on any one person.
I thought I was going to die laughing at the sight of them running around the backyard hurling the balloons at each other. When they emptied the cooler, one of my nephews dumped the water (some casualties burst before the battle) on the oldest.
By the time supper was ready, everyone was hungry. Sitting with my burger in one hand and a big old glass of sangria in the other, I was overjoyed.
Once it was dark, my brother-in-law lit the fireworks. A neighbor had clearly crossed some borders and bought himself some illegals because what he was lighting off was close kin to the actual firework displays for the town.
It was dueling pyrotechnics for a while, but ours suffered in comparison. But who was comparing? We all enjoyed the shows.
Boasting tangent: I make a more-than-decent sangria. When I tasted it while I was chopping onions for the chowder (after 12pm in accordance with my drinking rule), I decided it needed a skosh more OJ. An inch made it perfect. Really, I'm an ideal picnic guest. I'll eat a burger instead of lobster. I don't mind doing the gruntwork for chowder or filling up an endless supply of water balloons. And I make a killer sangria.
But I do want to talk about the weekend, and leftovers aren't that bad. I should know: I've been eating cookout leftovers for the past three days.
My family celebrated the 4th on Saturday because we're rebels (huzzah!) and some of us had to work on Monday (not me!).
2010 marks another chowder fiasco in the shape of frozen clams. The satellite branch of a trusted seafood place (the owner goes to my mom's church and she likes to give the parish her business) sold her quahog meat in water that had been packed in May.
The entire family was like "Whoa, that shit ain't cool." We take our chowder very seriously and given the time and effort spent on it- the few ingredients have to be fresh.
My sister Ella went to return the clams and get the money put back on my mother's card. The manager tried to squirm out of it, but you do not argue with Ella when she gets her serious face on. I'm not kidding...the tone of her voice alone makes you do anything to get the stern lady away from you.
I was relieved the clams (which did smell a little funky) hadn't been added to the chowder. I wasn't up for peeling a shit ton of potatoes again.
My aunt bought lobsters, and in between the chowder course and the main course (lobsters, burgers, and dogs), my nephews had a water balloon fight.
For some reason, I got the idea in my head that our cookout and my nephews needed water balloons. I wanted to fill a bunch of them and decided that 65 was a good number. It takes a looonnnggg time to fill up 65 balloons.
I've tasted bitterness in my life, but nothing tastes like dead plastic on the tongue quite as much as the realization, after contorting your fingers into yoga positions to tie a knot in the balloon's neck, that the balloon has a hole.
Foolish me bought the cheapy water balloons that ripped when I tried to stretch them around the faucet and the filler that came with them needed to be positioned very carefully and managed to squirt a steady stream of water into my face as well as the balloon.
Next time I spring for the heavy duty balloons.
We started with a balloon toss (littlest got an extra balloon) and moved on to full scale battle. I made the boys take 20 steps back from the cooler that held the balloons, raised my hands, and yelled, "Let loose the dogs of war!"
The mayhem was hilarious! Everyone was sopped and they didn't gang up on any one person.
I thought I was going to die laughing at the sight of them running around the backyard hurling the balloons at each other. When they emptied the cooler, one of my nephews dumped the water (some casualties burst before the battle) on the oldest.
By the time supper was ready, everyone was hungry. Sitting with my burger in one hand and a big old glass of sangria in the other, I was overjoyed.
Once it was dark, my brother-in-law lit the fireworks. A neighbor had clearly crossed some borders and bought himself some illegals because what he was lighting off was close kin to the actual firework displays for the town.
It was dueling pyrotechnics for a while, but ours suffered in comparison. But who was comparing? We all enjoyed the shows.
Boasting tangent: I make a more-than-decent sangria. When I tasted it while I was chopping onions for the chowder (after 12pm in accordance with my drinking rule), I decided it needed a skosh more OJ. An inch made it perfect. Really, I'm an ideal picnic guest. I'll eat a burger instead of lobster. I don't mind doing the gruntwork for chowder or filling up an endless supply of water balloons. And I make a killer sangria.
Friday, July 2, 2010
TRUE BLOOD- more and more and more
I'm wicked pissed that I won't be able to watch the show for two whole weeks. Seeing as I don't want to watch only one episode, if I stockpile three eps, that'll be five weeks! Summer will be practically over by then!
I love that the show has rich secondary characters. Lafayette still remains one of my favs (why hasn't the man been nominated for an Emmy or Golden Globe?), and I enjoy ping-ponging between liking and disliking Tara.
Some people have complained about Franklin pulling the mojo on her to get into Sookie's house. I didn't mind. Bill did the same thing to Jessica's little sister last season, and it'd be cute if this became a sort of running joke. Sookie gives Tara the run of Gran's house and inevitably the shit blows up.
I had to tolerate a whole series run of Losties getting guns taking away from them or missing targets entirely (Sayid lost a tremendous amount of cred when he couldn't kill Ben- 'cause double-taps are hard- and Sawyer might as well have been firing a rubber chicken). What I'm saying is that zombified Tara two seasons in a row doesn't bother me. Anything to get her to stop bitching about Eggs.
Jessica's penance of sleeping with the dead guy was absolutely brilliant. His lasts words were "You're a whore." Her agreement with him, a nail on the coffin she pounds in herself, was heartbreaking. I wonder if she and Hoyt will get back together and if this issue- she's a murderer and how do you love a murderer- will be addressed.
Sam's family is too awful on so many levels. Joe Lee's underwear- those dingy, disgusting drawers- make me cringe. There's been rumors that he might be molesting the younger brother, but I don't agree. I do think he's making Tommy fight in dogfights. I don't like this storyline- but can't decide if it's a good dislike. The family is gross and pathetic, and has the makings of a shit ton of cruelty. They also make me uncomfortable. But that ties into the show's main conceit. It's right there in the opening shots: hello cheeky panties, hello KKK cherub, hello bump and grind, hello maggot-ridden roadkill.
I want Lorena to hurry up and get dead. The final scene of the third ep was heeee-larious and effed up to a mammoth degree. I was a little confused if they were actually having sex (that could've been a little clearer), but when Bill decides to twist like he did last summer and she tells him she loves him, my insides recoiled (definitely in a good way). She's a sick dog and needs someone to go Atticus Finch on her ass.
Two weeks, two whole weeks...I might have to watch the eps again to assuage the gnawing in my heart.
I love that the show has rich secondary characters. Lafayette still remains one of my favs (why hasn't the man been nominated for an Emmy or Golden Globe?), and I enjoy ping-ponging between liking and disliking Tara.
Some people have complained about Franklin pulling the mojo on her to get into Sookie's house. I didn't mind. Bill did the same thing to Jessica's little sister last season, and it'd be cute if this became a sort of running joke. Sookie gives Tara the run of Gran's house and inevitably the shit blows up.
I had to tolerate a whole series run of Losties getting guns taking away from them or missing targets entirely (Sayid lost a tremendous amount of cred when he couldn't kill Ben- 'cause double-taps are hard- and Sawyer might as well have been firing a rubber chicken). What I'm saying is that zombified Tara two seasons in a row doesn't bother me. Anything to get her to stop bitching about Eggs.
Jessica's penance of sleeping with the dead guy was absolutely brilliant. His lasts words were "You're a whore." Her agreement with him, a nail on the coffin she pounds in herself, was heartbreaking. I wonder if she and Hoyt will get back together and if this issue- she's a murderer and how do you love a murderer- will be addressed.
Sam's family is too awful on so many levels. Joe Lee's underwear- those dingy, disgusting drawers- make me cringe. There's been rumors that he might be molesting the younger brother, but I don't agree. I do think he's making Tommy fight in dogfights. I don't like this storyline- but can't decide if it's a good dislike. The family is gross and pathetic, and has the makings of a shit ton of cruelty. They also make me uncomfortable. But that ties into the show's main conceit. It's right there in the opening shots: hello cheeky panties, hello KKK cherub, hello bump and grind, hello maggot-ridden roadkill.
I want Lorena to hurry up and get dead. The final scene of the third ep was heeee-larious and effed up to a mammoth degree. I was a little confused if they were actually having sex (that could've been a little clearer), but when Bill decides to twist like he did last summer and she tells him she loves him, my insides recoiled (definitely in a good way). She's a sick dog and needs someone to go Atticus Finch on her ass.
Two weeks, two whole weeks...I might have to watch the eps again to assuage the gnawing in my heart.
TRUE BLOOD- the start of the season
I don't think I'll ever get tired of seeing Eric naked. If the show ever starts to go downhill, they can throw in some gratuitous shots of Eric and I'll be a happy woman.
The six-hour sexathon he implied made me scratch my head. Given that the vampires are experts in the highspeed humping, I think that would wear out some tender bits. Plus I've never been impressed by guys with the "love you long time" attitudes. One, they were usually lying their fool heads off. And two, wouldn't a woman be more impressed with a man who could get her off in two minutes or less?
The relationship between Andy and Jason is sweet. I have to give credit to the actor who plays Andy. I have a huge time not holding past roles against actors, which is the reason I can't buy Ray Liotta or Michael Madsen in nice guy parts. In FREE WILLY, I kept expecting Madsen to hold the kid's head underwater or something. Andy's actor played a creepy creeperson in DEVIL'S ADVOCATE, but managed to blot that out of my head during the first season.
I'm not loving the Nazi Werewolf angle. When I went to TWOP to have Jacob make it all better with his recap, I was disappointed that it didn't bother him as much as it bothered me. I wish they had just stuck with the werewolves belonging to an old order. I don't know, bringing in the Nazis seems like shark hopping.
But the beefcake in this season! I thought my head was going to explode. Even the trashy werewolves have a certain sexiness to them, and with the addition of Alcide and Franklin (how does he pull off creepy and hot? I don't understand), there's so much eye candy.
Even Bill got an extra dose of badass sexy to his character. He looked good without a shirt facing the werewolves, and he looked damn good in his formal wear. Not many men can pull off the white tux, but he was a costumer's wet dream.
I'm happy the writers decided to split the couple up for a bit. Both of them are getting their chance to shine, especially Bill.
The six-hour sexathon he implied made me scratch my head. Given that the vampires are experts in the highspeed humping, I think that would wear out some tender bits. Plus I've never been impressed by guys with the "love you long time" attitudes. One, they were usually lying their fool heads off. And two, wouldn't a woman be more impressed with a man who could get her off in two minutes or less?
The relationship between Andy and Jason is sweet. I have to give credit to the actor who plays Andy. I have a huge time not holding past roles against actors, which is the reason I can't buy Ray Liotta or Michael Madsen in nice guy parts. In FREE WILLY, I kept expecting Madsen to hold the kid's head underwater or something. Andy's actor played a creepy creeperson in DEVIL'S ADVOCATE, but managed to blot that out of my head during the first season.
I'm not loving the Nazi Werewolf angle. When I went to TWOP to have Jacob make it all better with his recap, I was disappointed that it didn't bother him as much as it bothered me. I wish they had just stuck with the werewolves belonging to an old order. I don't know, bringing in the Nazis seems like shark hopping.
But the beefcake in this season! I thought my head was going to explode. Even the trashy werewolves have a certain sexiness to them, and with the addition of Alcide and Franklin (how does he pull off creepy and hot? I don't understand), there's so much eye candy.
Even Bill got an extra dose of badass sexy to his character. He looked good without a shirt facing the werewolves, and he looked damn good in his formal wear. Not many men can pull off the white tux, but he was a costumer's wet dream.
I'm happy the writers decided to split the couple up for a bit. Both of them are getting their chance to shine, especially Bill.
Eclipse- lame review
I saw ECLIPSE last night with a couple of friends who looooovvvveeee TWILIGHT.
Because David Slade was the director (HARD CANDY, THIRTY DAYS OF NIGHT), I was kind of looking forward to it.
The interview with the TWI-trio in EW thoroughly charmed me. RPatz (who dislikes his character, but loves his co-stars) was wicked funny, and even Kristen Stewart didn't irritate me as much as she usually does. In fact I had a new appreciation for her. I felt bad that her rape comment was blown out of proportion. There's no Team Bella, and it must suck to see her fellows not have to deal with a quarter of the backlash she deals with.
The movie: I think it was stronger than the other two. I wish they hadn't replaced Victoria. She's not in the movie a heck of a lot, and I don't see the reason they couldn't work around her schedule unless some object lesson needed to be taught. Bryce Howard though- I remember when she was absolutely incandescent in THE VILLAGE. Too bad she lost her shine.
There was more action, but the fight scenes cracked me up. I didn't realize vampires were made of china. It's true: they make the sound of porcelain breaking when they get their shit chomped. Wicked funny. The lack of blood was kind of disappointing. I like my battles crimson gored.
The movie gave me a newfound appreciation of Jasper, he of the crazy hair and eyes. His hair was less distracting and looks better in real life than in the stills. His backstory is developed, and he even came complete with a Hollywood Texas accent, unlike any Texas accent I ever heard, but still cute. I would read a book and watch a movie solely devoted to the adventures of Jasper and Alice.
Not to say that the movie wasn't torturous in places. I had that moment of utter dread in the beginning when I realized I was in for two hours and couldn't escape. The last battle scene, however, almost balanced that.
Unlike the stereotype portrayed in the media, the audience was the same as any enthusiastic audience, appreciative and delighted, but not over-the-top. I hate how fans are always described as squealing and out of control. It was nice to be in a crowd that reacted with such pleasure at a movie. What's wrong with showing a little love for a shirtless Taylor?
Because David Slade was the director (HARD CANDY, THIRTY DAYS OF NIGHT), I was kind of looking forward to it.
The interview with the TWI-trio in EW thoroughly charmed me. RPatz (who dislikes his character, but loves his co-stars) was wicked funny, and even Kristen Stewart didn't irritate me as much as she usually does. In fact I had a new appreciation for her. I felt bad that her rape comment was blown out of proportion. There's no Team Bella, and it must suck to see her fellows not have to deal with a quarter of the backlash she deals with.
The movie: I think it was stronger than the other two. I wish they hadn't replaced Victoria. She's not in the movie a heck of a lot, and I don't see the reason they couldn't work around her schedule unless some object lesson needed to be taught. Bryce Howard though- I remember when she was absolutely incandescent in THE VILLAGE. Too bad she lost her shine.
There was more action, but the fight scenes cracked me up. I didn't realize vampires were made of china. It's true: they make the sound of porcelain breaking when they get their shit chomped. Wicked funny. The lack of blood was kind of disappointing. I like my battles crimson gored.
The movie gave me a newfound appreciation of Jasper, he of the crazy hair and eyes. His hair was less distracting and looks better in real life than in the stills. His backstory is developed, and he even came complete with a Hollywood Texas accent, unlike any Texas accent I ever heard, but still cute. I would read a book and watch a movie solely devoted to the adventures of Jasper and Alice.
Not to say that the movie wasn't torturous in places. I had that moment of utter dread in the beginning when I realized I was in for two hours and couldn't escape. The last battle scene, however, almost balanced that.
Unlike the stereotype portrayed in the media, the audience was the same as any enthusiastic audience, appreciative and delighted, but not over-the-top. I hate how fans are always described as squealing and out of control. It was nice to be in a crowd that reacted with such pleasure at a movie. What's wrong with showing a little love for a shirtless Taylor?
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