I have good news and I have bad news.
The good news is that I am really enjoying law school.
The bad news is I have to put the blog on hiatus for a while. This is for two reasons:
1. I don't have the time to write, seeing as how I've been in the library for 6 hours already, and
2. We were explicity warned against keeping non-anonymous blogs as we begin our legal careers.
So....I am not willing to let go of the Panicking Penguin permanently, but I do need to rethink and retool. When I return, in whatever form it may be, I'll notify all interested parties.
Thank you to everyone for reading!
Sunday, August 26, 2007
Monday, July 23, 2007
Rome, The American Revolution, and the Madness of King George W.
I may have mentioned to you that I have had a lot of free time on my hands as of late. With this free time I have been watching the series Rome on DVD, reading the opinion line in the always-entertaining Wichita Eagle, and reflecting on the laws that govern this country of ours. I don’t know if this is in response to being back in the heart/homeland, or if it in preparation for the study of law into which I shall enter in 23 rather short days. Whatever the case may be, I have been thinking often about tyranny, and the threat thereof.
Tyranny was what got Julius Caesar murdered, to make a long story short. There was a lot of grumbling about the upper classes getting less of the vote, and there was a lot of good that Caesar did for the regular people living day to day. On the surface he seemed gregarious and generous, personable and noble. He paid at least lip service to the ideals of Rome, speaking of needing to consent to dictatorship for a period of time in order to repair the Republic. We will never know if this was indeed lip service or truth, because as we all know Caesar was killed in the senate, at the hands of the senate, because of his tyrannical tendencies. There was nothing a Roman Republican abhorred more than a Tyrant, a King, or an Emperor.
Of course, their plan backfired and led in part to the Roman Empire, but it is their convictions, their steadfast adherence to ideals, at least on the surface, that struck me as relevant to what is happening in this country now. After the death of the Republic the people went into a decline that led to Bread and Circuses, a gluttonous, debaucharous lifestyle, and eventually the fall of Rome and the sacking by the Goths. It was not unrelated to the lack of ideals Rome was founded on, and we are headed much the same way, in my mind. We are the new Rome, we have been for years, and never have the parallels been clearer or more striking. If you look closely, you can see the same grisly mindset at play in “To Catch a Predator”, “American Idol”, Biggie size everything and NASCAR that you could in the combat of Gladiators and the advent of Vomitoriums. Keep the people occupied with trivialities, and they cannot pay attention to politics. We are at the moment when Caesar crossed the Rubicon, and there is no turning back.
Fast forward from Rome to the present day, where we find that we as a nation are under the rule of a Tyrant, as we have been once in the past. I have already made a case that the behavior of the King George of which the Declaration of Independence speaks has eerie and clear parallels to the behavior of the current President of the United States. Some of the grievances that were written about in the DOI include (parenthesese mine, otherwise taken directly from the DOI):
“He has made Judges dependent on his Will alone for the tenure of their offices, and the amount and payment of their salaries. (See what has been going on in the Justice Department with the firing of Attorneys)
He has erected a multitude of New Offices, and sent hither swarms of Officers to harass our people and eat out their substance. (Homeland Security, anyone?)
He has kept among us, in times of peace, Standing Armies without the Consent of our legislatures. (Yeah, I know this is now legal, but still).
He has combined with others (Cheney ((who apparently is his own private branch of government)), Rove, Rummy, et. al) to subject us to a jurisdiction foreign to our constitution, and unacknowledged by our laws; giving his Assent to their Acts of pretended Legislation:
For imposing Taxes on us without our Consent (See the District of Columbia until very recently, and threatened by a veto when offered representation)
For transporting us beyond Seas to be tried for pretended offences (Guantanamo Bay, secret prisons all over Eastern Europe, Saudi Arabia, etc.)
For taking away our Charters, abolishing our most valuable Laws and altering fundamentally the Forms of our Governments (Patriot Act)
He is at this time transporting large Armies of foreign Mercenaries to complete the works of death, desolation, and tyranny, already begun with circumstances of Cruelty & Perfidy scarcely paralleled in the most barbarous ages, and totally unworthy the Head of a civilized nation. (Halliburton and all the other contractors in Iraq)
In every stage of these Oppressions We have Petitioned for Redress in the most humble terms: Our repeated Petitions have been answered only by repeated injury. A Prince, whose character is thus marked by every act which may define a Tyrant, is unfit to be the ruler of a free people. If you aren’t with us, you’re against us.”
You catch my drift. Our founders, much like the Republican Romans hated a tyrant, and created a set of laws that gave the executive branch arguably the least power of the three. They safeguarded us through checks and balances, hoping to avoid the creation of a King or Emperor, and yet, they wrote from an idealist standpoint, with the hope that the men who would follow them would be better men, even more committed to equality than they. It is this pervasive hope and righteous indignation that make the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution such beautiful, and in some ways very moving documents. They believed that better days, and better men were ahead.
We find they are mistaken. This man, this so-called President, is committing many of the same atrocities (yes, I said atrocities) that caused us to revolt in the first place. The question now is, are we going to react like Rome, attach ourselves to a Tyrant and rally around his banner, while the ideals of this once great nation go up in smoke, or will we behave as our forefathers did, and refuse to subject to this tyranny and fight for our inalienable rights has human beings and our legal rights has United States citizens? We can no longer ignore this; we can no longer allow this man and his henchmen to wipe their feet on the Constitution on their way to greater power and even greater wealth. We are a nation of laws, and this criminal must be brought to justice, just like any other man that causes great harm. This is not a problem that will just go away on it’s own, it will get worse, or it will get better, but whatever direction it goes, we will be responsible.
I revel in the free speech that allows me to say these things freely, yet I fear that may be gone soon as well. Speak the truth, while you still can.
Tyranny was what got Julius Caesar murdered, to make a long story short. There was a lot of grumbling about the upper classes getting less of the vote, and there was a lot of good that Caesar did for the regular people living day to day. On the surface he seemed gregarious and generous, personable and noble. He paid at least lip service to the ideals of Rome, speaking of needing to consent to dictatorship for a period of time in order to repair the Republic. We will never know if this was indeed lip service or truth, because as we all know Caesar was killed in the senate, at the hands of the senate, because of his tyrannical tendencies. There was nothing a Roman Republican abhorred more than a Tyrant, a King, or an Emperor.
Of course, their plan backfired and led in part to the Roman Empire, but it is their convictions, their steadfast adherence to ideals, at least on the surface, that struck me as relevant to what is happening in this country now. After the death of the Republic the people went into a decline that led to Bread and Circuses, a gluttonous, debaucharous lifestyle, and eventually the fall of Rome and the sacking by the Goths. It was not unrelated to the lack of ideals Rome was founded on, and we are headed much the same way, in my mind. We are the new Rome, we have been for years, and never have the parallels been clearer or more striking. If you look closely, you can see the same grisly mindset at play in “To Catch a Predator”, “American Idol”, Biggie size everything and NASCAR that you could in the combat of Gladiators and the advent of Vomitoriums. Keep the people occupied with trivialities, and they cannot pay attention to politics. We are at the moment when Caesar crossed the Rubicon, and there is no turning back.
Fast forward from Rome to the present day, where we find that we as a nation are under the rule of a Tyrant, as we have been once in the past. I have already made a case that the behavior of the King George of which the Declaration of Independence speaks has eerie and clear parallels to the behavior of the current President of the United States. Some of the grievances that were written about in the DOI include (parenthesese mine, otherwise taken directly from the DOI):
“He has made Judges dependent on his Will alone for the tenure of their offices, and the amount and payment of their salaries. (See what has been going on in the Justice Department with the firing of Attorneys)
He has erected a multitude of New Offices, and sent hither swarms of Officers to harass our people and eat out their substance. (Homeland Security, anyone?)
He has kept among us, in times of peace, Standing Armies without the Consent of our legislatures. (Yeah, I know this is now legal, but still).
He has combined with others (Cheney ((who apparently is his own private branch of government)), Rove, Rummy, et. al) to subject us to a jurisdiction foreign to our constitution, and unacknowledged by our laws; giving his Assent to their Acts of pretended Legislation:
For imposing Taxes on us without our Consent (See the District of Columbia until very recently, and threatened by a veto when offered representation)
For transporting us beyond Seas to be tried for pretended offences (Guantanamo Bay, secret prisons all over Eastern Europe, Saudi Arabia, etc.)
For taking away our Charters, abolishing our most valuable Laws and altering fundamentally the Forms of our Governments (Patriot Act)
He is at this time transporting large Armies of foreign Mercenaries to complete the works of death, desolation, and tyranny, already begun with circumstances of Cruelty & Perfidy scarcely paralleled in the most barbarous ages, and totally unworthy the Head of a civilized nation. (Halliburton and all the other contractors in Iraq)
In every stage of these Oppressions We have Petitioned for Redress in the most humble terms: Our repeated Petitions have been answered only by repeated injury. A Prince, whose character is thus marked by every act which may define a Tyrant, is unfit to be the ruler of a free people. If you aren’t with us, you’re against us.”
You catch my drift. Our founders, much like the Republican Romans hated a tyrant, and created a set of laws that gave the executive branch arguably the least power of the three. They safeguarded us through checks and balances, hoping to avoid the creation of a King or Emperor, and yet, they wrote from an idealist standpoint, with the hope that the men who would follow them would be better men, even more committed to equality than they. It is this pervasive hope and righteous indignation that make the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution such beautiful, and in some ways very moving documents. They believed that better days, and better men were ahead.
We find they are mistaken. This man, this so-called President, is committing many of the same atrocities (yes, I said atrocities) that caused us to revolt in the first place. The question now is, are we going to react like Rome, attach ourselves to a Tyrant and rally around his banner, while the ideals of this once great nation go up in smoke, or will we behave as our forefathers did, and refuse to subject to this tyranny and fight for our inalienable rights has human beings and our legal rights has United States citizens? We can no longer ignore this; we can no longer allow this man and his henchmen to wipe their feet on the Constitution on their way to greater power and even greater wealth. We are a nation of laws, and this criminal must be brought to justice, just like any other man that causes great harm. This is not a problem that will just go away on it’s own, it will get worse, or it will get better, but whatever direction it goes, we will be responsible.
I revel in the free speech that allows me to say these things freely, yet I fear that may be gone soon as well. Speak the truth, while you still can.
Observations on Being at Home
What makes home, home? Is it the way your childhood bed envelops you like you never left it? Is it the particular shade of blue-green on the walls that reminds you of the ocean and feeling small and tired from a day at the beach? Is it knowing that when you wake up you’ll find coffee in the coffee pot, and the paper waiting for you to leisurely read it, laughing at the local news and frowning at the national? Is it being at once nostalgic for your childhood habits, but excited by the understanding you have gained as an adult? Is it waking in the middle of the night and hearing the sound or your parents breathing in their sleep, knowing that for this moment, whatever happens next, all is right with the world? Or is it simply knowing that wherever you go and whatever you do, there is a small place in the world where two people will always love you, will always miss you?
It has been strange being at home these last few weeks. I have discovered much about myself, and about my past. I have put to rest a lot of longstanding concerns, and explored a lot of new ideas about where I come from and how it informs where I’m going. I’ve discovered that no matter how hard I run from Kansas, it always seems to be inside me, the wide open spaces and the down home manners; the oppressive heat and the brilliant blue sky. I am as much a product of this state as anything else, and I have decided to stop denying it. It makes me who I am, it makes it difficult for me to accept that paying $750 for an apartment is a good deal, reminds me that all politics is local politics. I never realized how much of my civic mindedness was a product of Wichita until I moved to a place where local politics got much less attention than national. I’m not saying one if better than the other, but here people care about things like the city council and the school board, and the decisions those bodies make are easily as important to people here as the war in Iraq or Immigration Reform. Here they are all tired together. There are many people that live here who have political views I simply cannot bring myself to respect or even understand. I have tried. What I can respect, however, is the discourse- here people still care enough to have an argument, whether it’s in the editorial pages of the paper, or on the floor of the city council.
I have tried to be open to the city, to my past here, more so than I’ve been on the other times I’ve visited. I am not afraid of running into anyone now, not afraid of trying to justify what I’ve been doing away from home for the last seven years, or what I’m doing going forward. I’ve been able to reflect on the great support system I had hear growing up, on all the people and organizations that were pulling so hard for my success, and who continue to do so. In retrospect, I’m not entirely sure what I was running from so hard, except the fear of stagnation. I still fear stagnation, I will not lie to you, but I can see from an older perspective that stagnation is not the result of a place; it is the result of a mindset. Unfortunately many people here are in that mindset, and that contributes to sort of the general feel of the place, but since I’ve left, it has grown in some ways by leaps and bounds, and that is be commended. I still would not want to move back, but now I can see that it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, if for some reason I had to.
It will be hard to leave home, hard to leave my parents, and their love and support. I know that travels with me, but there is something to be said for being taken care of, for being able to get a hug from your mother just because, or to laugh with your father about some stupid joke. These are the things I miss; these are the things I know they miss. Perhaps it is the purview of the only child, to be so close with his or her parents that you miss them even when you’re there, as though when you aren’t together you are missing a limb. In my 25th year I begin to reckon with the idea of mortality, mine and others, and if I can barely stand how much I miss them from across the country, I admit that it scares me to think of how I will be when they are gone.
Such are the morose and melancholy thoughts of being at home. On the whole I am joyful, and excited and ready, but as will all big steps forwards, there is the fleeting glance back, the trepidation at moving ahead. I move toward my next chapter, know that there is beauty and love behind me, and the same ahead.
It has been strange being at home these last few weeks. I have discovered much about myself, and about my past. I have put to rest a lot of longstanding concerns, and explored a lot of new ideas about where I come from and how it informs where I’m going. I’ve discovered that no matter how hard I run from Kansas, it always seems to be inside me, the wide open spaces and the down home manners; the oppressive heat and the brilliant blue sky. I am as much a product of this state as anything else, and I have decided to stop denying it. It makes me who I am, it makes it difficult for me to accept that paying $750 for an apartment is a good deal, reminds me that all politics is local politics. I never realized how much of my civic mindedness was a product of Wichita until I moved to a place where local politics got much less attention than national. I’m not saying one if better than the other, but here people care about things like the city council and the school board, and the decisions those bodies make are easily as important to people here as the war in Iraq or Immigration Reform. Here they are all tired together. There are many people that live here who have political views I simply cannot bring myself to respect or even understand. I have tried. What I can respect, however, is the discourse- here people still care enough to have an argument, whether it’s in the editorial pages of the paper, or on the floor of the city council.
I have tried to be open to the city, to my past here, more so than I’ve been on the other times I’ve visited. I am not afraid of running into anyone now, not afraid of trying to justify what I’ve been doing away from home for the last seven years, or what I’m doing going forward. I’ve been able to reflect on the great support system I had hear growing up, on all the people and organizations that were pulling so hard for my success, and who continue to do so. In retrospect, I’m not entirely sure what I was running from so hard, except the fear of stagnation. I still fear stagnation, I will not lie to you, but I can see from an older perspective that stagnation is not the result of a place; it is the result of a mindset. Unfortunately many people here are in that mindset, and that contributes to sort of the general feel of the place, but since I’ve left, it has grown in some ways by leaps and bounds, and that is be commended. I still would not want to move back, but now I can see that it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, if for some reason I had to.
It will be hard to leave home, hard to leave my parents, and their love and support. I know that travels with me, but there is something to be said for being taken care of, for being able to get a hug from your mother just because, or to laugh with your father about some stupid joke. These are the things I miss; these are the things I know they miss. Perhaps it is the purview of the only child, to be so close with his or her parents that you miss them even when you’re there, as though when you aren’t together you are missing a limb. In my 25th year I begin to reckon with the idea of mortality, mine and others, and if I can barely stand how much I miss them from across the country, I admit that it scares me to think of how I will be when they are gone.
Such are the morose and melancholy thoughts of being at home. On the whole I am joyful, and excited and ready, but as will all big steps forwards, there is the fleeting glance back, the trepidation at moving ahead. I move toward my next chapter, know that there is beauty and love behind me, and the same ahead.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Updates from the 'Ta
So......
There
is
nothing
to
do
here
Which is good in some ways, since I'm enjoying the endless days of reading the first six Harry Potter books, catching up on DVD tv series like "Rome" and laying out by the pool. I had a brief computer scare because I have to steal wireless by typing out on the porch, and the transition from inside sub-zero air conditioning to 95 degree, 98% humidity confused poor little Mackie. But I took it to the local mac retailer, and they had it fixed quick as you please, for no charge. Another benefit of a relatively small town. It's been raining here pretty much every day, for at least part of the day, and yesterday we had a classic Kansas storm, where the sky goes literally green. I wonder what the sky looks like before a storm in Rhode Island?
I've been reading up on "what to expect in Law School" and I'm not sure if it's helping, or if it's freaking me out more. It's been three and a half years since I worked very hard on anything, so it will be interesting to see how I reacclimate. I've been buying kitchen stuff and bathroom stuff, and once I realized that I could decorate my apartment however I wanted, i got quite excited. I don't have to worry about someone else ruining my stuff, or encorporating someone else's belongings into my decorating scheme... I could cover the walls in dead squirrels, and no one could complain. Well, ok, the health department might have a little something to say about it, but you get my point.
It's hard to remember to keep in touch. It's like, I feel like I'm on vacation, and I'll just see everyone in a bit. But then I realize, no, I won't, and I have to make sure to seperate some time each week to keep up my personal relationships. It's a sad, strange realization, and I imagine most of my homesickness or feelings of loneliness will come upon me like that. That's the great thing about emotions- the sneak up on you when you least expect it. So far so good, but I'm with my family, so I'm sure that's taking the edge off it a bit. Not to mention the fact that it's never a dull moment at the Furst household. I wonder what it must be like to live in other families where people communicate a normal volume, where your parents talk about nice normal things like the weather or sports, versus my house where my father is at alternate turns cursing the very existence of the Republican party in elaborate, vitriolic language, or enganging in absurd comedic rants about people who live next door, and my mother and I have conversations that he can't hear because he's too busy with all the ranting. My life at home resembles nothing so much as an Edward Albee play, accented by elements of a bad Monty Python sketch. It's nothing if not entertaining, at least. I'll find examples and report back.
Ok, must get back to Harry Potter. I'm 2/3 through the 4th book, and I need to finish it before tomorrow when I'm hoping to go see the newest movie.
It's a hard life.
There
is
nothing
to
do
here
Which is good in some ways, since I'm enjoying the endless days of reading the first six Harry Potter books, catching up on DVD tv series like "Rome" and laying out by the pool. I had a brief computer scare because I have to steal wireless by typing out on the porch, and the transition from inside sub-zero air conditioning to 95 degree, 98% humidity confused poor little Mackie. But I took it to the local mac retailer, and they had it fixed quick as you please, for no charge. Another benefit of a relatively small town. It's been raining here pretty much every day, for at least part of the day, and yesterday we had a classic Kansas storm, where the sky goes literally green. I wonder what the sky looks like before a storm in Rhode Island?
I've been reading up on "what to expect in Law School" and I'm not sure if it's helping, or if it's freaking me out more. It's been three and a half years since I worked very hard on anything, so it will be interesting to see how I reacclimate. I've been buying kitchen stuff and bathroom stuff, and once I realized that I could decorate my apartment however I wanted, i got quite excited. I don't have to worry about someone else ruining my stuff, or encorporating someone else's belongings into my decorating scheme... I could cover the walls in dead squirrels, and no one could complain. Well, ok, the health department might have a little something to say about it, but you get my point.
It's hard to remember to keep in touch. It's like, I feel like I'm on vacation, and I'll just see everyone in a bit. But then I realize, no, I won't, and I have to make sure to seperate some time each week to keep up my personal relationships. It's a sad, strange realization, and I imagine most of my homesickness or feelings of loneliness will come upon me like that. That's the great thing about emotions- the sneak up on you when you least expect it. So far so good, but I'm with my family, so I'm sure that's taking the edge off it a bit. Not to mention the fact that it's never a dull moment at the Furst household. I wonder what it must be like to live in other families where people communicate a normal volume, where your parents talk about nice normal things like the weather or sports, versus my house where my father is at alternate turns cursing the very existence of the Republican party in elaborate, vitriolic language, or enganging in absurd comedic rants about people who live next door, and my mother and I have conversations that he can't hear because he's too busy with all the ranting. My life at home resembles nothing so much as an Edward Albee play, accented by elements of a bad Monty Python sketch. It's nothing if not entertaining, at least. I'll find examples and report back.
Ok, must get back to Harry Potter. I'm 2/3 through the 4th book, and I need to finish it before tomorrow when I'm hoping to go see the newest movie.
It's a hard life.
Friday, July 06, 2007
Independence Day
It is no longer the Fourth of July. It is two days later, and it has taken me those two days to figure out exactly what I want to say. I’m writing to you now from America’s Heartland, God’s Country, Wichita, KS where we have an Air Force Base to the south, a dog track to the north, a mega church to the east, and nothing but wide open prairie to the west. We have had cataclysmic tornados, torrential downpours, and oppressive drought, all in the last 6 months, all unaided by the Kansas National Guard, which is by and large taxed beyond it’s capacity because many of it’s members are currently fighting an unholy war in the Middle East, either in Afghanistan or in Iraq. These are men and women who signed up for a weekend a month and two weeks a year, and maybe some occasional weather duty, who are now trying to dodge car bombs and insurgents in the worst guerrilla warfare this country has seen since Vietnam. And the town of Greensboro, and the town of Coffeyville, and countless other places in this simple state go unhelped and unprotected because of this President’s, and this government’s, misappropriation of human lives.
You have read my words about this administration and it’s basic lack of decency before. If you think I repeat myself, if you think that I am beating a dead horse or sounding like a broken record, it is because they are continuing to do the same. Their dead horse is our national fear, and their broken record is a litany of misdirection aimed at making us pay closer attention to the fact that Paris Hilton had a shortened jail sentence than the fact the Vice President of the United States has declared himself a branch of government all his own. It is a gamut made to insure you don’t pay too close of attention to the fact that the President of the United States literally took the law into his own hands and commuted the sentence of I. “Scooter” Libby in such a way that the judge presiding over the case had to ask the attorneys that argued it to present him with briefs as to how to make the President’s new sentence fit into the confines of the law (he has commuted the sentence to take away the jail time and leave the parole, but the law has no ability to force a parole without the service of jail time). On the eve of the 231st commemoration of the date that a few true patriots wrote a declaration of independence from tyranny and in so doing signed their own death warrant, the current leader of this free nation signed a virtual pardon for a crony, sealing forever his reputation not as a plain-spoken man of the people, but a company shill, a man who could be bought and sold, and who traded in other men’s lives and lies as other’s have traded in his.
It is not just this commutation that has me angry. It is not just the recent blast from the racist, sexist, robber-baron past that our Supreme Court has handed down that has me appalled, and it is not just the general lack of backbone from our congress that has me disheartened. Far more than this, it is the absence of faith that I have in the people of this nation that has me filled with fear. Even when our government was out of step, even when our leaders would not listen, even when our nation was at war, I always, always believed that this was a nation of the people, and the people had ideals. The people knew what this country stood for, could recognize the inherent good and power in the words our forefathers wrote, in the strength of character it took for those men to write those things at a time when writing them was treason. A nation built on ideas, and ideas that men were willing to fight and die for so that others might see them come to fruition. I always, always believed that this was a great nation, because it was filled with a people capable of greatness.
Now, I do not know. I look around and I see people ill informed and unresponsive. I see men and women and children who do not know or care to know the history of our own nation or of our world as a whole. I see people who care more about who wins American Idol then who wins our national elections. I see men and women who disapprove of our president at a whopping 71%, yet their displeasure is witnessed only by the person who takes the poll. Where are the riots? Where are the protests? Where is the accountability? Where are the congressmen and -women that we elected on the promise they would get us out of Iraq? Where is our national pride? When did it become ok with everyone that we are at alternate turns an international laughing stock, or a reckless, dangerous child to be kept at arms’ length? We are the nation that brought an end to the Second World War and fought off Hitler and the Nazis. We are the nation that brokered the New Deal and said no matter what the fortunes of the commercial world, basic human decency dictated that it was not right, and would not be allowed that any man, woman or child in this nation go hungry or homeless, and in doing so redefined what government was capable of. We are the nation that stood up and said we will no longer be silent under the yoke of tyranny, but will fight for what we are worth as human beings, and what we could be as a nation: a beacon of change, of possibility; a new way of being human.
Let us not forget what it meant to say “all men are created equal”. Let us not forget that the Revolutionary war did not start with a gunshot or a cannon ball, but with words, powerful words the like of which had never been spoken before. Let us not forget that amidst all those bumper stickers and paper flags and fireworks and yellow ribbons and red and white and blue there is blood and sweat and tears and a miracle called America. We are a nation created out of fire and passion, a nation created out of the hope that life could be more than toil and struggle and pain, that man was more than a beast of burden for so-called greater men. We are a promise made by our founding fathers, that the next day would be better than the last, that the government was not the ruler of the people, but that the people would be the custodians of the government, and in so doing, would promise to their children a brighter future than the present they had. We would not succumb to tyranny again, from without, or from within, so long as we held fast to the founding article of our national faith: that all men are equal, and therefore no man can be greater than the other.
These are dark days, and I see more dark days ahead. On this anniversary of the cry in the darkness that was to become our great country, I urge, I beg each one of you to consider what it means to be an American. Not just the happy parts, not just the easy parts, but the hard parts, the dangerous parts, the parts that scare us. Please, please, take the time to read the words of the Declaration of Independence, and feel their power within your own heart, within your own soul. Let them call you to arms as they called others 231 years ago. Let them bring you back to what we are meant to be as a nation, so that we can all work towards getting back there together.
You have read my words about this administration and it’s basic lack of decency before. If you think I repeat myself, if you think that I am beating a dead horse or sounding like a broken record, it is because they are continuing to do the same. Their dead horse is our national fear, and their broken record is a litany of misdirection aimed at making us pay closer attention to the fact that Paris Hilton had a shortened jail sentence than the fact the Vice President of the United States has declared himself a branch of government all his own. It is a gamut made to insure you don’t pay too close of attention to the fact that the President of the United States literally took the law into his own hands and commuted the sentence of I. “Scooter” Libby in such a way that the judge presiding over the case had to ask the attorneys that argued it to present him with briefs as to how to make the President’s new sentence fit into the confines of the law (he has commuted the sentence to take away the jail time and leave the parole, but the law has no ability to force a parole without the service of jail time). On the eve of the 231st commemoration of the date that a few true patriots wrote a declaration of independence from tyranny and in so doing signed their own death warrant, the current leader of this free nation signed a virtual pardon for a crony, sealing forever his reputation not as a plain-spoken man of the people, but a company shill, a man who could be bought and sold, and who traded in other men’s lives and lies as other’s have traded in his.
It is not just this commutation that has me angry. It is not just the recent blast from the racist, sexist, robber-baron past that our Supreme Court has handed down that has me appalled, and it is not just the general lack of backbone from our congress that has me disheartened. Far more than this, it is the absence of faith that I have in the people of this nation that has me filled with fear. Even when our government was out of step, even when our leaders would not listen, even when our nation was at war, I always, always believed that this was a nation of the people, and the people had ideals. The people knew what this country stood for, could recognize the inherent good and power in the words our forefathers wrote, in the strength of character it took for those men to write those things at a time when writing them was treason. A nation built on ideas, and ideas that men were willing to fight and die for so that others might see them come to fruition. I always, always believed that this was a great nation, because it was filled with a people capable of greatness.
Now, I do not know. I look around and I see people ill informed and unresponsive. I see men and women and children who do not know or care to know the history of our own nation or of our world as a whole. I see people who care more about who wins American Idol then who wins our national elections. I see men and women who disapprove of our president at a whopping 71%, yet their displeasure is witnessed only by the person who takes the poll. Where are the riots? Where are the protests? Where is the accountability? Where are the congressmen and -women that we elected on the promise they would get us out of Iraq? Where is our national pride? When did it become ok with everyone that we are at alternate turns an international laughing stock, or a reckless, dangerous child to be kept at arms’ length? We are the nation that brought an end to the Second World War and fought off Hitler and the Nazis. We are the nation that brokered the New Deal and said no matter what the fortunes of the commercial world, basic human decency dictated that it was not right, and would not be allowed that any man, woman or child in this nation go hungry or homeless, and in doing so redefined what government was capable of. We are the nation that stood up and said we will no longer be silent under the yoke of tyranny, but will fight for what we are worth as human beings, and what we could be as a nation: a beacon of change, of possibility; a new way of being human.
Let us not forget what it meant to say “all men are created equal”. Let us not forget that the Revolutionary war did not start with a gunshot or a cannon ball, but with words, powerful words the like of which had never been spoken before. Let us not forget that amidst all those bumper stickers and paper flags and fireworks and yellow ribbons and red and white and blue there is blood and sweat and tears and a miracle called America. We are a nation created out of fire and passion, a nation created out of the hope that life could be more than toil and struggle and pain, that man was more than a beast of burden for so-called greater men. We are a promise made by our founding fathers, that the next day would be better than the last, that the government was not the ruler of the people, but that the people would be the custodians of the government, and in so doing, would promise to their children a brighter future than the present they had. We would not succumb to tyranny again, from without, or from within, so long as we held fast to the founding article of our national faith: that all men are equal, and therefore no man can be greater than the other.
These are dark days, and I see more dark days ahead. On this anniversary of the cry in the darkness that was to become our great country, I urge, I beg each one of you to consider what it means to be an American. Not just the happy parts, not just the easy parts, but the hard parts, the dangerous parts, the parts that scare us. Please, please, take the time to read the words of the Declaration of Independence, and feel their power within your own heart, within your own soul. Let them call you to arms as they called others 231 years ago. Let them bring you back to what we are meant to be as a nation, so that we can all work towards getting back there together.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Are we too dependent on our parents?
http://www.nytimes.com/2007/06/28/fashion/28mommy.html?th&emc=th
This is an interesting article from the NY Times about women of my generation being far closer with their mothers than previous generations, almost to the point of dependency. I think we all know that I'm pretty close with my mom, and it is a rare day that i don't speak to her at least once. In fact, if I don't, I generally get a D-I-D (dead in a ditch) phone call frantically inquiring as to my whereabouts, usually within 12 hours of the last time I spoke to her. But I'm equally reliant on her, and can get pretty frustrated if I need to tell her something and can't reach her because of something stupid, like her job working for federal government. Whatever.
But I've never thought of us as dysfunctional or co-dependent. My mom doesn't pay my bills, she doesn't call into work for me if I'm sick, she didn't fill out my law school applications or schedule my appointments or interviews, like some children are having their parents do. Growing up she was decidely un-helicoptery, and I became pretty independent, in the literal sense. I didn't feel the need or desire to move home, I didn't want to live closer to my parents so that I would have a safety net, and while I'm spending the next month with them, it is because I'm moving much farther away and am not sure how often I will get to see them. I love being with my parents, but I also know that living my own life on my own terms means I'm not going to be close to them (not because of them, more because they live in Kansas). There is nothing wrong with wanting to live close to your parents and be close with your parents, but I'm wondering at what point did it start being ok to continue pre-pubescent expectations of care and financial support into one's 20s and 30s?
I'm curious as to what you all think it the reason behind this phenomenon... read the article, and get back to me.
This is an interesting article from the NY Times about women of my generation being far closer with their mothers than previous generations, almost to the point of dependency. I think we all know that I'm pretty close with my mom, and it is a rare day that i don't speak to her at least once. In fact, if I don't, I generally get a D-I-D (dead in a ditch) phone call frantically inquiring as to my whereabouts, usually within 12 hours of the last time I spoke to her. But I'm equally reliant on her, and can get pretty frustrated if I need to tell her something and can't reach her because of something stupid, like her job working for federal government. Whatever.
But I've never thought of us as dysfunctional or co-dependent. My mom doesn't pay my bills, she doesn't call into work for me if I'm sick, she didn't fill out my law school applications or schedule my appointments or interviews, like some children are having their parents do. Growing up she was decidely un-helicoptery, and I became pretty independent, in the literal sense. I didn't feel the need or desire to move home, I didn't want to live closer to my parents so that I would have a safety net, and while I'm spending the next month with them, it is because I'm moving much farther away and am not sure how often I will get to see them. I love being with my parents, but I also know that living my own life on my own terms means I'm not going to be close to them (not because of them, more because they live in Kansas). There is nothing wrong with wanting to live close to your parents and be close with your parents, but I'm wondering at what point did it start being ok to continue pre-pubescent expectations of care and financial support into one's 20s and 30s?
I'm curious as to what you all think it the reason behind this phenomenon... read the article, and get back to me.
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Random Question
Is Zach Braff the new voice over guy for the Wendy's commercials?
If anyone can help me out, I'd really appreciate it.
If anyone can help me out, I'd really appreciate it.
Happy Birthday to Me! (Or, a Penguin looks at 25)
I'm so old.
Actually, 25 isn't hitting me nearly as hard as I thought it would, probably because there is a lot going on right now, so I'm distracted, and probably because I'm going to law school in the fall so I feel all productive-y and grown-up. Also, it definitely helped that my best friends Ali and Amber threw a surprise party for me that brought together all of my other nearest and dearest, and it was lovely. I was actually really surprised, which was quite the feat, seeing as how I had asked them to throw me a party... how can I be surprised by a party I asked for? Only me, kids, only me.
What can I say? It's been a big year with lots of changes, mostly for the good, and so I have a good feeling about 25. I think it's going to be a solid year. And the blog is officially a year old, and hopefully my fan base has grown, and will continue to do so. That's a not so veiled request that you tell your friends and family about my blog. I want to be at least as big as the Fug Girls.
And god, at least I'm not 26. Now that is old.
Actually, 25 isn't hitting me nearly as hard as I thought it would, probably because there is a lot going on right now, so I'm distracted, and probably because I'm going to law school in the fall so I feel all productive-y and grown-up. Also, it definitely helped that my best friends Ali and Amber threw a surprise party for me that brought together all of my other nearest and dearest, and it was lovely. I was actually really surprised, which was quite the feat, seeing as how I had asked them to throw me a party... how can I be surprised by a party I asked for? Only me, kids, only me.
What can I say? It's been a big year with lots of changes, mostly for the good, and so I have a good feeling about 25. I think it's going to be a solid year. And the blog is officially a year old, and hopefully my fan base has grown, and will continue to do so. That's a not so veiled request that you tell your friends and family about my blog. I want to be at least as big as the Fug Girls.
And god, at least I'm not 26. Now that is old.
Saturday, June 23, 2007
Dirty, Dirty A-rabs
http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2007/06/22/AR2007062202158_pf.html
I want you to check out this article from the Washington Post. I've met Jack Shaheen, and I've seen his short film. The film is interesting, but only if you aren't an Arab. If you are, it's old news. I've often wondered to myself why the PC police never seem to get to Arab-bashing? I suppose if another minority group was flying planes into buildings, we might not be as ready to give them equal time, but the sad truth of the matter is that long before there were hijackers and 9/11 there were tons of rather productive Arab immigrants already living in this country. The closest depiction I can come up with for my family and the way that the behave and have contributed to American society is the movie "My Big Fat Greek Wedding", and it's about Greeks. To be sure, Arabs are all over the airwaves, and in positive ways, but you don't know that they are Arabs. Jamie Farr in MASH, Casey Kasem and his Top 40, Danny Thomas and Father Knows Best, Tony Shalhoub and Monk... all great performers, and not a single one of them performing as an Arab. Which is not to say that they are denying their identity- Tony Shalhoub does a lot of independent pro-Arab filmmaking- it's that they are performing just as people, and that's what Arab immigrants have been doing, for the most part, since they started coming to this country. More than I would say many cultural groups Arabs understand the need for community, and when you live have a world away from your born community, well, you have to build one here. That's how my grandparents, both from Ramallah, Palestine, came to live in and be beloved by literally the most German town in the United States, New Ulm, MN. That's how my uncle Adel introduces himself as Joe. That's how all my cousins living in Birmingham, AL speak Arabic with a southern accent.... They realized that it was possible to assimilate and become "American" without sacrificing the "Arab" parts of themselves. When those men perform their roles they don't have to telegraph their ethnicity... they know who they are, both Arab and American, and they can be both simultaneously.
Perhaps that is a mistake. Perhaps we need to have more actively vocal members of the community coming out and being identifiably "Arab". The problem with that is that to be identified as Arab by the majority of Americans, you have to do just what Jack Shaheen implies- be a belly dancer, a bomber, or a billionaire. And what about the thousands of Arabs who aren't any of those things? What about fathers and mothers, grocery store owners, lawyers, doctors, nurses, any other thing that anyone else in this country does? There is a small movement starting, led by some comics who call themselves the Axis of Evil (Check them out on Comedy Central). They are fucking hilarious, but my fear is that it doesn't translate. There are a thousand things that are funny to people in the community (which is true of most communities, I know), but when you say it to outsiders sometimes they are horrified, sometimes they are confused, and sometimes they just don't think it's funny. So is it enough that we are performing for ourselves? Is it enough to just be present agains the stereotypes, or should we be actively fighting those stereotypes? It's as though our desire to assimilate prevents us from defending ourselves. Or maybe it's that we've become so assimilated, we don't recognize that it is us they are making fun of. I just don't want to end up like Tony Shalhoub's character in Sum of All Fears, where he realizes that all this time he's been an FBI agent and a translator don't stack up against the fact that he is ultimately an Arab. As he's put into the detention facility that has been created for all Arab men in New York, he turns to Denzel Washington and says " I won't be your sand n*gger" anymore. It's a horrible thought, and a visceral line, but one that I think hit's close to home for any Arab post 9/11. At what point will our Arab-ness outweight our American-ness.... and what happens then?
I want you to check out this article from the Washington Post. I've met Jack Shaheen, and I've seen his short film. The film is interesting, but only if you aren't an Arab. If you are, it's old news. I've often wondered to myself why the PC police never seem to get to Arab-bashing? I suppose if another minority group was flying planes into buildings, we might not be as ready to give them equal time, but the sad truth of the matter is that long before there were hijackers and 9/11 there were tons of rather productive Arab immigrants already living in this country. The closest depiction I can come up with for my family and the way that the behave and have contributed to American society is the movie "My Big Fat Greek Wedding", and it's about Greeks. To be sure, Arabs are all over the airwaves, and in positive ways, but you don't know that they are Arabs. Jamie Farr in MASH, Casey Kasem and his Top 40, Danny Thomas and Father Knows Best, Tony Shalhoub and Monk... all great performers, and not a single one of them performing as an Arab. Which is not to say that they are denying their identity- Tony Shalhoub does a lot of independent pro-Arab filmmaking- it's that they are performing just as people, and that's what Arab immigrants have been doing, for the most part, since they started coming to this country. More than I would say many cultural groups Arabs understand the need for community, and when you live have a world away from your born community, well, you have to build one here. That's how my grandparents, both from Ramallah, Palestine, came to live in and be beloved by literally the most German town in the United States, New Ulm, MN. That's how my uncle Adel introduces himself as Joe. That's how all my cousins living in Birmingham, AL speak Arabic with a southern accent.... They realized that it was possible to assimilate and become "American" without sacrificing the "Arab" parts of themselves. When those men perform their roles they don't have to telegraph their ethnicity... they know who they are, both Arab and American, and they can be both simultaneously.
Perhaps that is a mistake. Perhaps we need to have more actively vocal members of the community coming out and being identifiably "Arab". The problem with that is that to be identified as Arab by the majority of Americans, you have to do just what Jack Shaheen implies- be a belly dancer, a bomber, or a billionaire. And what about the thousands of Arabs who aren't any of those things? What about fathers and mothers, grocery store owners, lawyers, doctors, nurses, any other thing that anyone else in this country does? There is a small movement starting, led by some comics who call themselves the Axis of Evil (Check them out on Comedy Central). They are fucking hilarious, but my fear is that it doesn't translate. There are a thousand things that are funny to people in the community (which is true of most communities, I know), but when you say it to outsiders sometimes they are horrified, sometimes they are confused, and sometimes they just don't think it's funny. So is it enough that we are performing for ourselves? Is it enough to just be present agains the stereotypes, or should we be actively fighting those stereotypes? It's as though our desire to assimilate prevents us from defending ourselves. Or maybe it's that we've become so assimilated, we don't recognize that it is us they are making fun of. I just don't want to end up like Tony Shalhoub's character in Sum of All Fears, where he realizes that all this time he's been an FBI agent and a translator don't stack up against the fact that he is ultimately an Arab. As he's put into the detention facility that has been created for all Arab men in New York, he turns to Denzel Washington and says " I won't be your sand n*gger" anymore. It's a horrible thought, and a visceral line, but one that I think hit's close to home for any Arab post 9/11. At what point will our Arab-ness outweight our American-ness.... and what happens then?
Friday, June 22, 2007
What the Hell is Wrong with Boys/ Men? (Not Boys II Men, I Hear they are Planning a Comeback)
I knooooooow that this might be like beating a dead horse, but seriously, men, WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU? WHAT??????
I have tried to understand it. My girlfriends have tried to understand it. We have spoken at length on the subject, drunk, sober, happy, sad, sleepy, caffinated, whatever. You all never make a damn bit of sense. Like Janeane Garafalo said in "500 cigarettes: "You're all like roving packs of giant babies."
You might be wondering what has taken the lid off the ever-simmering pot of my endless disappointment in the male of the species. Well. Let me count the ways. First of all, there was my encounter with Brian 3 weeks ago. I met Brian, who lives in California, at a theatre conference, and we hit it off immediately. We had conversations that lasted for hours on end, and we were up until 5am every morning just talking and kissing and relishing each other's company. We met on Thursday night and spent the next three days pretty much together. During this time, he mentioned more than once wanting to come see me this summer, how I have opened up parts of him that he thought were closed off, how he is happier with me then he's been in years, yada fucking yada. Now, ordinarily, I would think that this is all a ploy just to sleep with me ( BTW, I'm on this new kick where I don't sleep with anyone... fun), but I could tell he was being genuine. For one thing he was too theatre geeky for that kind of game. So, Sunday afternoon, after we have spent the last 16 hours in bed, cuddling, fooling around a bit, talking, talking, talking, him saying I want to come see you (again!), him not wanting to let me get up to get about the day, finally we part company so he can go to a workshop and he says he'll call after it's over. I think things are going great, I'm super excited to meet a great guy, and I think my new plan of being open minded and not sleeping with people so quickly is working like a charm. THEN, after being away from me at a conference for 4( count 'em 4!) hours he calls me up and says, and I quote: "Since you aren't moving to California any time soon I don't see where this is going. We should just let it be what it was."
How do you go from wanting to see me over the summer to never wanting to see me again in 4 hours, during which I'm not even present? I could maybe understand it if I was with him, but without even being around me? Do I have relationship ruining telepathic powers? Is that like some awful, superpower? Man-Panic-Inducing Girl?
This has happened to me before, readers. It's like some weird pheromone thing or something- when I'm with a guy it's like they can't get enough, but as soon as I'm out of visual range, it's like they forget who I am. Over the phone I'm a total stranger, but when I see them again, it's like I was what was missing from their lives. I need to create some sort of hologram, or like a Hala-patch or something, because this is getting fucking ridiculous.
So that's my personal boy trauma of late, but that in and of itself is not worth the anger. What I'm more angry about is the pattern that I see emerging in the relationships of my friends, and I think the above story is merely a short-term demonstration of the same basic tendency. In the last year no less than 4 different friends of mine, in various stages of committment from months to years, have had their boyfriends/signifigant others freak the fuck out on them. There is an epidemic of men of a certain age (approximately 27-32) , within relationships, one day waking up and deciding that they are giant whiny toddlers who blame everyone else for their problems and no longer want to play house despite all the things they've said to their partners to the contrary. It's disheartening, and really disturbing. What's most disturbing is the sense that I get that most of these men don't actually realize they don't want any of this until it is far too late, and they are far too invested, and so they keep playing the part in the hopes that eventually it will all be ok, and it just isn't. So they lash out at their partners, because they blame them for causing this unhappiness, when really it was their own lack of self-awareness that caused the problem in the first place. And this brings me to the bigger issue: trust. People are always telling me to put more trust in men, but how can you trust a person to be honest with you, when they aren't even aware they are lying to themselves?
What has caused this epidemic, is what I wonder. I think maybe part of it is that gender roles in this country have become unclear, which is some ways is good, what with equal pay and woman in the workplace and all, but I think also makes it difficult to know what "being a man" or "being a woman" means. There aren't as many clear cut duties for either gender as there once was, and now it's becoming more and more acceptable to get married later, or not at all. And yet, in some parts of the country (and I do think this is a midwest and south issue more than a coastal one), it's still pretty much expected that people will graduate high school, go to college, get married, and have babies. Except that that construct is no longer as satisfying as it once was. There is a great big world out there, and there are a lot of things to see and do prior to settling down. And now that divorce and "starter marriages" have become more and more accepted, there isn't the same "grin and bear it" philosophy at play in unhappy arrangements that there once was. And that's a good thing- I don't want anyone to stay together when they are unhappy, but there is a difference between irreconcilable differences and just cutting out when things get at all difficult. Which leads me to my second theory, that part of it is that we as a generation are pretty lazy. We benefit from helicopter parents who let us move back home and pay our bills and fix our lives, we are used to an instant gratification so severe that we can get literally anything we want at the touch of a button, and under those conditions the struggle and pain of a relationship that takes work seems like an awful lot to put up with. And then finally, my final theory has to do with women, and with our seemingly complete inability to tell a man up front what we want and expect. We are taught that to "catch a man" we have to let them think we want what they want, and so we sublimate and sublimate and sublimate our needs to the point where they become non-existent. Then, 5-6 months into a relationship, we remember that our feelings and desires matter too, and the man is so confused that we are arguing with them or changing our tune because we were alway so amenable in the past. And that is our fault, not theirs. People, men and women, have to be upfront about what they need. They have to make it clear from the get go, or no one is going to be happy for very long.
So these experiences have lead me to certain rules: 1) Never marry a man under 30, because something happens to them and they freak out. I've been on the receiving end of one of these freak outs, and it is not pretty. It usually involves cheating, lying, or some combination of equally destructive behaviors, and you want to steer clear. Even this isn't a clear cut rule, though, because sometimes it isn't the actual age, it's their emotional age and the amount of committment they are ready for. Or not ready for, as the case may be. 2) No matter what a man says to you, take it with a grain of salt. This unfortunately includes the words "I do". 3) Be as honest as possible, and right away. Maybe this sounds extreme, or bitter, or whatever, but I'm looking out for myself and for my friends. And to the gentlemen of our generation (with a few notable exceptions): Man the fuck up. Because if another one of you pieces of crap messes with my girls, you'll have one angry, short Palestinian to deal with. And my people make bombs, so you know I mean business.
I have tried to understand it. My girlfriends have tried to understand it. We have spoken at length on the subject, drunk, sober, happy, sad, sleepy, caffinated, whatever. You all never make a damn bit of sense. Like Janeane Garafalo said in "500 cigarettes: "You're all like roving packs of giant babies."
You might be wondering what has taken the lid off the ever-simmering pot of my endless disappointment in the male of the species. Well. Let me count the ways. First of all, there was my encounter with Brian 3 weeks ago. I met Brian, who lives in California, at a theatre conference, and we hit it off immediately. We had conversations that lasted for hours on end, and we were up until 5am every morning just talking and kissing and relishing each other's company. We met on Thursday night and spent the next three days pretty much together. During this time, he mentioned more than once wanting to come see me this summer, how I have opened up parts of him that he thought were closed off, how he is happier with me then he's been in years, yada fucking yada. Now, ordinarily, I would think that this is all a ploy just to sleep with me ( BTW, I'm on this new kick where I don't sleep with anyone... fun), but I could tell he was being genuine. For one thing he was too theatre geeky for that kind of game. So, Sunday afternoon, after we have spent the last 16 hours in bed, cuddling, fooling around a bit, talking, talking, talking, him saying I want to come see you (again!), him not wanting to let me get up to get about the day, finally we part company so he can go to a workshop and he says he'll call after it's over. I think things are going great, I'm super excited to meet a great guy, and I think my new plan of being open minded and not sleeping with people so quickly is working like a charm. THEN, after being away from me at a conference for 4( count 'em 4!) hours he calls me up and says, and I quote: "Since you aren't moving to California any time soon I don't see where this is going. We should just let it be what it was."
How do you go from wanting to see me over the summer to never wanting to see me again in 4 hours, during which I'm not even present? I could maybe understand it if I was with him, but without even being around me? Do I have relationship ruining telepathic powers? Is that like some awful, superpower? Man-Panic-Inducing Girl?
This has happened to me before, readers. It's like some weird pheromone thing or something- when I'm with a guy it's like they can't get enough, but as soon as I'm out of visual range, it's like they forget who I am. Over the phone I'm a total stranger, but when I see them again, it's like I was what was missing from their lives. I need to create some sort of hologram, or like a Hala-patch or something, because this is getting fucking ridiculous.
So that's my personal boy trauma of late, but that in and of itself is not worth the anger. What I'm more angry about is the pattern that I see emerging in the relationships of my friends, and I think the above story is merely a short-term demonstration of the same basic tendency. In the last year no less than 4 different friends of mine, in various stages of committment from months to years, have had their boyfriends/signifigant others freak the fuck out on them. There is an epidemic of men of a certain age (approximately 27-32) , within relationships, one day waking up and deciding that they are giant whiny toddlers who blame everyone else for their problems and no longer want to play house despite all the things they've said to their partners to the contrary. It's disheartening, and really disturbing. What's most disturbing is the sense that I get that most of these men don't actually realize they don't want any of this until it is far too late, and they are far too invested, and so they keep playing the part in the hopes that eventually it will all be ok, and it just isn't. So they lash out at their partners, because they blame them for causing this unhappiness, when really it was their own lack of self-awareness that caused the problem in the first place. And this brings me to the bigger issue: trust. People are always telling me to put more trust in men, but how can you trust a person to be honest with you, when they aren't even aware they are lying to themselves?
What has caused this epidemic, is what I wonder. I think maybe part of it is that gender roles in this country have become unclear, which is some ways is good, what with equal pay and woman in the workplace and all, but I think also makes it difficult to know what "being a man" or "being a woman" means. There aren't as many clear cut duties for either gender as there once was, and now it's becoming more and more acceptable to get married later, or not at all. And yet, in some parts of the country (and I do think this is a midwest and south issue more than a coastal one), it's still pretty much expected that people will graduate high school, go to college, get married, and have babies. Except that that construct is no longer as satisfying as it once was. There is a great big world out there, and there are a lot of things to see and do prior to settling down. And now that divorce and "starter marriages" have become more and more accepted, there isn't the same "grin and bear it" philosophy at play in unhappy arrangements that there once was. And that's a good thing- I don't want anyone to stay together when they are unhappy, but there is a difference between irreconcilable differences and just cutting out when things get at all difficult. Which leads me to my second theory, that part of it is that we as a generation are pretty lazy. We benefit from helicopter parents who let us move back home and pay our bills and fix our lives, we are used to an instant gratification so severe that we can get literally anything we want at the touch of a button, and under those conditions the struggle and pain of a relationship that takes work seems like an awful lot to put up with. And then finally, my final theory has to do with women, and with our seemingly complete inability to tell a man up front what we want and expect. We are taught that to "catch a man" we have to let them think we want what they want, and so we sublimate and sublimate and sublimate our needs to the point where they become non-existent. Then, 5-6 months into a relationship, we remember that our feelings and desires matter too, and the man is so confused that we are arguing with them or changing our tune because we were alway so amenable in the past. And that is our fault, not theirs. People, men and women, have to be upfront about what they need. They have to make it clear from the get go, or no one is going to be happy for very long.
So these experiences have lead me to certain rules: 1) Never marry a man under 30, because something happens to them and they freak out. I've been on the receiving end of one of these freak outs, and it is not pretty. It usually involves cheating, lying, or some combination of equally destructive behaviors, and you want to steer clear. Even this isn't a clear cut rule, though, because sometimes it isn't the actual age, it's their emotional age and the amount of committment they are ready for. Or not ready for, as the case may be. 2) No matter what a man says to you, take it with a grain of salt. This unfortunately includes the words "I do". 3) Be as honest as possible, and right away. Maybe this sounds extreme, or bitter, or whatever, but I'm looking out for myself and for my friends. And to the gentlemen of our generation (with a few notable exceptions): Man the fuck up. Because if another one of you pieces of crap messes with my girls, you'll have one angry, short Palestinian to deal with. And my people make bombs, so you know I mean business.
I Can't Sleep
I want to sleep. I never have trouble sleeping. But I find myself laying awake in bed, staring at my ceiling, which has a huge hole in it. Of course, the hole makes me think about the spackling I have to do, which leads to me think about the cleaning of the walls, which leads me to think about the sweeping and mopping of the floors, which leads me to thinking about the 87 other things I have to do before I move. The problem is that the person moving into my apartment is a family friend, so if things aren't spick and span he'll tell his mom, who will tell my mom, and then there will be a good old fashioned guilt trip to deal with, and that is something I want to avoid at all costs. If you had ever been guilt-tripped by a petite, red-headed, PALESTINIAN LAWYER (which is the perfectly terrifying combination of righteous, generationally-based anger and non-stop, rat terrier-like tenancity) you would want to avoid it too.
I'm too distracted to write anything of worth right now. I'm so all over the place. My apartment is in disarray, my life is kind of in disarray, therefore my brain is in disarray. All my clothes are scattered around my living room, the neatly ordered 7 piles have turned into about 15 not so clearly delineated piles, and everytime I think I've finished a section, I find one random item that should have been packed with that section, and I have to create a box full of the random things that didn't get packed with their brethren. Sad little items. I can't concentrate on any one thing, so I'll focus on my birthday and my party coming up. I'm going to give myself the weekend off, at least in an emotional, spiritual sense. I still have to fucking pack, but I'm going to not care about the order or competence of that packing for the weekend.
Until, of course, I open up box after box of shattered belongings in August. Then I'll care a whole hell of a lot.
I'm too distracted to write anything of worth right now. I'm so all over the place. My apartment is in disarray, my life is kind of in disarray, therefore my brain is in disarray. All my clothes are scattered around my living room, the neatly ordered 7 piles have turned into about 15 not so clearly delineated piles, and everytime I think I've finished a section, I find one random item that should have been packed with that section, and I have to create a box full of the random things that didn't get packed with their brethren. Sad little items. I can't concentrate on any one thing, so I'll focus on my birthday and my party coming up. I'm going to give myself the weekend off, at least in an emotional, spiritual sense. I still have to fucking pack, but I'm going to not care about the order or competence of that packing for the weekend.
Until, of course, I open up box after box of shattered belongings in August. Then I'll care a whole hell of a lot.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Daytime TV: What the hell else am I supposed to do?
Ok, so first of all, yes, I know that I didn't post anything yesterday. I'm a failure. Whatever.
The days are just endless, friends. I'm not working right now, thank God, so all I have to do all day is pack and clean. Which is a bitch, don't get me wrong, but I get to sleep in, and walk to the coffee shop, and write on my blog, obviously, and watch daytime TV including but not limited to: a blow-by-blow (HA!) account of Paris' time in jail, an E! True Hollywood story about AJ from the Backstreet Boys, reruns of Dharma and Greg, the occasional made for TV Lifetime movie, and my most recent secret shame- Army Wives. It's awful, and sooooooo addictive. It's Desperate Housewives meets JAG meets MASH meets Grey's Anatomy (some of the wives work at the hospital on base)... what's not to like? It started off with a surrogate baby scandal involving the actress some of you (meaning me and some guys living in the basement of the science building) might recognize from the movie "Quest of the Delta Knights", which was itself featured on MST3K in Season 7...
Ahem. The point is, if you are looking for a way to waste a perfectly good afternoon and kinda hate yourself after, Army Wives is there to please.
My other recent discovery is the show "Girlfriends". Now, you may be thinking to yourself "Hala, isn't Girlfriends a show about black women in LA? And isn't it on the CW, a network known for crappy "urban" programming that even members of the demographic on display don't watch?" To which I would say, "Yes, and yes, but seriously, watch this show". It's better than "Sex in the City", friends (also, not sure where this "friends" thing is coming from- i think I must be channelling John McCain...), and twice as relateable to those of us that don't blow $400 on a pair of shoes A WEEK (or ever). I love me some Sex in the City, you all know that, but this show has filled that aching void, and has done it while being funnier and more accessible. The only down side is that they have only come out with season 1 on DVD so far, so I am being left hanging. AND SERIOUSLY HANGING: at the end of the last episode of season 1 one "girlfriend" had apparently slept with another one's man. WHAT WILL HAPPEN????!?!?!?!?
Ok, I probably need to be getting on of the house more, but since I have like $7 until my loan disbersment in 6 weeks, TV is pretty much it for me. I don't make fun of your friends.
And finally, June 24th is my 25th Birthday. Cash is always a lovely gift.
The days are just endless, friends. I'm not working right now, thank God, so all I have to do all day is pack and clean. Which is a bitch, don't get me wrong, but I get to sleep in, and walk to the coffee shop, and write on my blog, obviously, and watch daytime TV including but not limited to: a blow-by-blow (HA!) account of Paris' time in jail, an E! True Hollywood story about AJ from the Backstreet Boys, reruns of Dharma and Greg, the occasional made for TV Lifetime movie, and my most recent secret shame- Army Wives. It's awful, and sooooooo addictive. It's Desperate Housewives meets JAG meets MASH meets Grey's Anatomy (some of the wives work at the hospital on base)... what's not to like? It started off with a surrogate baby scandal involving the actress some of you (meaning me and some guys living in the basement of the science building) might recognize from the movie "Quest of the Delta Knights", which was itself featured on MST3K in Season 7...
Ahem. The point is, if you are looking for a way to waste a perfectly good afternoon and kinda hate yourself after, Army Wives is there to please.
My other recent discovery is the show "Girlfriends". Now, you may be thinking to yourself "Hala, isn't Girlfriends a show about black women in LA? And isn't it on the CW, a network known for crappy "urban" programming that even members of the demographic on display don't watch?" To which I would say, "Yes, and yes, but seriously, watch this show". It's better than "Sex in the City", friends (also, not sure where this "friends" thing is coming from- i think I must be channelling John McCain...), and twice as relateable to those of us that don't blow $400 on a pair of shoes A WEEK (or ever). I love me some Sex in the City, you all know that, but this show has filled that aching void, and has done it while being funnier and more accessible. The only down side is that they have only come out with season 1 on DVD so far, so I am being left hanging. AND SERIOUSLY HANGING: at the end of the last episode of season 1 one "girlfriend" had apparently slept with another one's man. WHAT WILL HAPPEN????!?!?!?!?
Ok, I probably need to be getting on of the house more, but since I have like $7 until my loan disbersment in 6 weeks, TV is pretty much it for me. I don't make fun of your friends.
And finally, June 24th is my 25th Birthday. Cash is always a lovely gift.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Sifting throught the debris of my past...
So, I'm moving. You have all heard me bitching about it, and now the time has come. I'm taking these last two weeks and sorting through everything that I own, and then moving what I care about and selling/ giving away/ throwing away/ paying someone to take out of my sight (thank you, Craig's List!) the rest of it. It's a painstaking process based on big questions like "Do I care about this priceless heirloom enough to wrap it carefully, worry about it travelling a billion miles to Rhode Island, then unpacking and finding a place for it? No. Well, someone will love you, beautiful crystal vase that my dead, immigrant grandmother carried on her back all the way from the Middle East."
I'm kidding, I didn't do that. Much.
So, let me share with you my reflections on the process of moving, thus far:
1. It is slow going. First you have to sort through everything, and I mean everything. There are seven piles in my living room right now, one for things I'm keeping and will be taking with me to Wichita to then be taken to Rhode Island; one for things I'm taking to Wichita and leaving in my parents basement; one for things that are being packed and sent directly to Rhode Island; one for things that are being taken to Goodwill; one for things that I'm going to try and hock to my friends; one for things I'm throwing in the garbage; and finally one for things I feel guilty about getting rid of but I know will haunt me like a murdered child in a bad horror movie if I don't take this purging opportunity and part with them now. But they are staring at me. I think they move around when I sleep.
Anyway.
2. While sorting, you have to encounter your past. Now. I have many memories, many I like to recall and many, many that I like to pretend absolutely never, ever happened. The problem being here that many of those disastrous events were documented for posterity via both photographic and written media. So, for every lovely and joyful picture or momento that I came across, there was one of me with 18 chins posing awkwardly next to someone I either can't remember or wish I couldn't.
3. Furthermore, this past-encountering makes you do crazy things. It makes you, for instance, email your drama teacher from highschool and ask him if he wants to have lunch while you are in town for the month of July. This, gentle readers, is not a good idea. But unfortunely, while the internet will happily destroy important, life changing emails I try to send to people I love, or financial aid offices, or even bank transfers, this poorly intentioned email gets through just fine and so I am apparently meeting him for lunch sometime in the next month. My only advice to you is only re-read your diaries from the year you were sixteen while under close, adult supervision and without phone or internets access.
4. Sometimes while you go through these piles of the past you find cards from your deceased grandmother asking why you don't call more often and cry like a baby for a solid 30 minutes.
5. Beer and red wine (not together) seems to make the whole process a lot more bareable. I'm investigating this possibility thoroughly, and will report back.
6. Packing in 90 degree heat in a third floor apartment without AC is a recipe for two things: 1) Heat stroke and 2) Losing weight. I feel like I'm a wrestler trying to stay in a lower class.
7. Much like having to write a term paper, moving inspires you to do absolutely everything else you have to do before actually cracking down and doing the packing. Hence, I find myself writing a blog entry.
And speaking of blog entries, there will be more forthcoming. I'm commiting to a post a day going forward. They may not all be Pulitzer quality (like you all are used to from me), but I have learned from gofugyourself.com, jezebel.com, and wonkette.com that sometimes it's quantity not quality. Plus, the blog saves me from having to talk to you people direcly while I'm in "Lil' Rhody" (seriously, they call it that. I mean, if you want people to take you seriously, smallest-state- in-the-US, why do you pick a perfectly ridiculous and diminuitive nickname like that? You should have people call you "We're-not-compensating-for-anything Rhody", or Rhode-I'll-fuck-you-up-Island", or "Rhode Island: We'll kick you in the balls if you call us that again"... you know, something more butch. Just a thought.)
I'm kidding, I didn't do that. Much.
So, let me share with you my reflections on the process of moving, thus far:
1. It is slow going. First you have to sort through everything, and I mean everything. There are seven piles in my living room right now, one for things I'm keeping and will be taking with me to Wichita to then be taken to Rhode Island; one for things I'm taking to Wichita and leaving in my parents basement; one for things that are being packed and sent directly to Rhode Island; one for things that are being taken to Goodwill; one for things that I'm going to try and hock to my friends; one for things I'm throwing in the garbage; and finally one for things I feel guilty about getting rid of but I know will haunt me like a murdered child in a bad horror movie if I don't take this purging opportunity and part with them now. But they are staring at me. I think they move around when I sleep.
Anyway.
2. While sorting, you have to encounter your past. Now. I have many memories, many I like to recall and many, many that I like to pretend absolutely never, ever happened. The problem being here that many of those disastrous events were documented for posterity via both photographic and written media. So, for every lovely and joyful picture or momento that I came across, there was one of me with 18 chins posing awkwardly next to someone I either can't remember or wish I couldn't.
3. Furthermore, this past-encountering makes you do crazy things. It makes you, for instance, email your drama teacher from highschool and ask him if he wants to have lunch while you are in town for the month of July. This, gentle readers, is not a good idea. But unfortunely, while the internet will happily destroy important, life changing emails I try to send to people I love, or financial aid offices, or even bank transfers, this poorly intentioned email gets through just fine and so I am apparently meeting him for lunch sometime in the next month. My only advice to you is only re-read your diaries from the year you were sixteen while under close, adult supervision and without phone or internets access.
4. Sometimes while you go through these piles of the past you find cards from your deceased grandmother asking why you don't call more often and cry like a baby for a solid 30 minutes.
5. Beer and red wine (not together) seems to make the whole process a lot more bareable. I'm investigating this possibility thoroughly, and will report back.
6. Packing in 90 degree heat in a third floor apartment without AC is a recipe for two things: 1) Heat stroke and 2) Losing weight. I feel like I'm a wrestler trying to stay in a lower class.
7. Much like having to write a term paper, moving inspires you to do absolutely everything else you have to do before actually cracking down and doing the packing. Hence, I find myself writing a blog entry.
And speaking of blog entries, there will be more forthcoming. I'm commiting to a post a day going forward. They may not all be Pulitzer quality (like you all are used to from me), but I have learned from gofugyourself.com, jezebel.com, and wonkette.com that sometimes it's quantity not quality. Plus, the blog saves me from having to talk to you people direcly while I'm in "Lil' Rhody" (seriously, they call it that. I mean, if you want people to take you seriously, smallest-state- in-the-US, why do you pick a perfectly ridiculous and diminuitive nickname like that? You should have people call you "We're-not-compensating-for-anything Rhody", or Rhode-I'll-fuck-you-up-Island", or "Rhode Island: We'll kick you in the balls if you call us that again"... you know, something more butch. Just a thought.)
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Joss Whedon is Pissed
I don't have a lot of time to post right now, but I think this is an eloquent and disturbing truth. For those of you who don't know, Joss Whedon was the writer of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, but that's actually sort of irrelevant at this point. What he has done here is express something I've been wrestling with for a while: why do women hate themselves so much, and why do we let men hate us too? That's the first question. The second is why are we ok with seeing that hate translated into film/ media? This isn't about west versus east, or different appreciations of women, it's about why we are ok with watching it happen? Literally the watching or violence, be it on TV, in the news, YouTube, whatever. When did we cease to understand that these images are representations of human beings? Now, I'm not one of those people that thinks that violent video games cause people to be violent. I think it's the other way around: I think we as a culture are becoming more and more violent, and those video games etc. are just reflective of the changing tolerance threshold of our culture at large.
For some reason the hyperlink isn't working, so please check it out at: http://whedonesque.com/comments/13271
Friday, April 27, 2007
Wanderlust
Wanderlust
"... Human beings can't like life very much if they don't belong to a clan associated with a specific piece of real estate."- Kurt Vonnegut.
I read this last night in Fates Worse Than Death, a very excellent collection of essays and various literary detritus by Mr. Vonnegut, and it resonated somewhere deep inside me. Somehow I knew it was completely true, and yet in the same moment, began to evaluate who my clan was, and where they might reside. As you might expect, I came up with a variety of answers. My first thought of course was of my ethnicity, of Palestine and more specifically Ramallah, where all of my mother's family is from. But this is problematic for a variety of reasons, the two most important being that 1) I've never even been there, and 2) I have a lot of angst about "how Palestinian" (or not) I am. So while I have a connection to that space, I don't think it's my clan. There are my parents, but as my father frustratingly reminded me today, when I left Wichita, I never looked back. Not even once. So while my parents may be part of my clan, Wichita certainly isn't my hunk of real estate. There could be choir, where I can remind myself how much I love music, and pour so much of my energy, pain, hope and joy into the sound of voices moving together. There could be several people and locations that fit the bill in the Twin Cities, but nothing I can think of at the moment really pops out. So, does this mean that I am emotionally homeless?
I got to thinking about this further, and began to wonder if it was true for me right now. I am tetherless currently, winding down in St. Paul and about to move to Rhode Island, with a stop in Kansas along the way, I am placeless for the time being, and I'm actually ok with it. I'm relishing the freedom of not having a house or a spouse or even a car payment to tie me down to anything. I know eventually I will want a clan, but for now, I'm satisfying, or trying to satisfy my wanderlust. There is a part of me that wants desperately to be closer to my family again, and wonders when that will be, and if it will be. If my parents will eventually follow me from state to state much like my grandmother did to my mom, or whether it will just be visits on holidays or for summer vacation as my parents retire someplace beachy. It's almost too hard to think about, the idea that we will not be together, or within shouting distance again, so I try not to think about it. Of course that just starts this huge spiral of wondering why I have to leave, why I have to keep moving, why I'm so deathly, deathly afraid of stagnating or staying in one place. Settling down seems terrifying to me, but will I be like the grasshopper that sang all summer? Will I one day wake up and wonder what happened to having a marriage and a family? I definitely don't want that to happen...
In the end I think I have to keep moving. It's something in me that pushes me on, the same thing that took my grandmother half way across the world to be the first woman in her family to come to the United States, and for a job, no less! It's the same sense of adventure that made my dad enlist in the Navy so he could see the world. And it's the same thing that pushed my mother farther and farther in pursuing her childhood goal of being a lawyer: it's ambition mixed with curiousity. It's the very human desire to see what's just on the other side of the horizon. Once you lose that desire, I think you lose a part of yourself that makes you human.
"... Human beings can't like life very much if they don't belong to a clan associated with a specific piece of real estate."- Kurt Vonnegut.
I read this last night in Fates Worse Than Death, a very excellent collection of essays and various literary detritus by Mr. Vonnegut, and it resonated somewhere deep inside me. Somehow I knew it was completely true, and yet in the same moment, began to evaluate who my clan was, and where they might reside. As you might expect, I came up with a variety of answers. My first thought of course was of my ethnicity, of Palestine and more specifically Ramallah, where all of my mother's family is from. But this is problematic for a variety of reasons, the two most important being that 1) I've never even been there, and 2) I have a lot of angst about "how Palestinian" (or not) I am. So while I have a connection to that space, I don't think it's my clan. There are my parents, but as my father frustratingly reminded me today, when I left Wichita, I never looked back. Not even once. So while my parents may be part of my clan, Wichita certainly isn't my hunk of real estate. There could be choir, where I can remind myself how much I love music, and pour so much of my energy, pain, hope and joy into the sound of voices moving together. There could be several people and locations that fit the bill in the Twin Cities, but nothing I can think of at the moment really pops out. So, does this mean that I am emotionally homeless?
I got to thinking about this further, and began to wonder if it was true for me right now. I am tetherless currently, winding down in St. Paul and about to move to Rhode Island, with a stop in Kansas along the way, I am placeless for the time being, and I'm actually ok with it. I'm relishing the freedom of not having a house or a spouse or even a car payment to tie me down to anything. I know eventually I will want a clan, but for now, I'm satisfying, or trying to satisfy my wanderlust. There is a part of me that wants desperately to be closer to my family again, and wonders when that will be, and if it will be. If my parents will eventually follow me from state to state much like my grandmother did to my mom, or whether it will just be visits on holidays or for summer vacation as my parents retire someplace beachy. It's almost too hard to think about, the idea that we will not be together, or within shouting distance again, so I try not to think about it. Of course that just starts this huge spiral of wondering why I have to leave, why I have to keep moving, why I'm so deathly, deathly afraid of stagnating or staying in one place. Settling down seems terrifying to me, but will I be like the grasshopper that sang all summer? Will I one day wake up and wonder what happened to having a marriage and a family? I definitely don't want that to happen...
In the end I think I have to keep moving. It's something in me that pushes me on, the same thing that took my grandmother half way across the world to be the first woman in her family to come to the United States, and for a job, no less! It's the same sense of adventure that made my dad enlist in the Navy so he could see the world. And it's the same thing that pushed my mother farther and farther in pursuing her childhood goal of being a lawyer: it's ambition mixed with curiousity. It's the very human desire to see what's just on the other side of the horizon. Once you lose that desire, I think you lose a part of yourself that makes you human.
Thursday, April 12, 2007
RIP Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.
You know that one book that you read as a teenager and it changed the whole way you looked at the world in the deep and fundamental way that only an adolescent can feel? For me that book was A Cat's Cradle, by Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. I picked it up off a cute boy I kinda of liked in my church youth group, and mostly started reading it because he was kind of an existencial stoner and thought the book was really deep. I wanted him to think I was really deep, ergo, the book. But I started reading it at a point in my life when I was struggling with my faith and didn't know what I believed, and as I read about the gentle followers of Bokonon, and the gospel that all was unknownable, except for human kindness, I felt like KV had entered a door in my brain, sat down, and started typing about the decor. It was amazing. He articulated for me what I believed, before I knew that was what I believed. And for that, I was and will be eternally grateful.
For those of you who don't know, KV died on Wednesday, and with his death, as Jon Stewart put it, the world is "a little grayer, and a little less interesting". It's an odd feeling knowing that your favorite author, responsible for being the literary articulation of so much that you consider you, is no longer alive. That he will no longer create, that his copious canon is finite and now complete, save finding any random unfinished manuscripts. I never got to meet him, although I had a couple of close calls, but in some ways I felt that I already had met him, through his books. That's true of most authors, but more true of Kurt Vonnegut. He was unabashedly autobiographical in his books, and his brutal honesty about himself and those around him was both endearing and jarring at the same time. His was a love-hate relationship with the human race: love because of their infinite potential, and hate because they so often fall short of the mark. Much like my own opinion of people as a whole, KV believed that people were capable of greatness; whether it was great evil or great good was a personal choice. He did it all with an awkward grace that any human being can recognize as their own, and a dark humor that was as funny as it was sad.
I would quote some here, but in the way of all good books, I have shared them and in the process lost many of them. When I broke up with my ex-boyfriend the only thing I regretted was that the piece of shit never gave me back a dogeared and threadbare copy of some of Kurt vonnegut's collected works. I would quote A Cat's Cradle here, but it has been torn to pieces by a small dog named Vader that belongs to my friend Ali. The point is that quotes aren't going to convey to you why his work was so important to me, because you aren't reading them from inside my head. Kurt Vonnegut's words might ring hollow to you, and that's ok. He would be ok with that, because it would prove his assertion that all great truths are lies, and individuals, not universals, are the saving grace of humanity. Vonnegut was a humanist, and did not believe in God. What he believed in was people, sometimes for better and sometimes for worse. He taught me something that seems depressing at first, but isn't the more you think about it: people will always disappoint you, so you have to find other things to love them for besides living up to expectations.
In his last book, A Man Without a Country, which made me laugh, and cry, and mourn for him because it was clearly a goodbye letter, he created a series of sketches that were epitaphs. It takes a sick and lovely mind to create a list of the things to put on your own tombstone, especially when standing so near the threshold of death. I don't know what the epitaph will end up being, but the only bright spot in the tragedy of this loss is knowing that there will be at least one last thing of Vonnegut's left to read, and I can guarantee you that it will be a surprise, a delight, and a devastation.
For those of you who don't know, KV died on Wednesday, and with his death, as Jon Stewart put it, the world is "a little grayer, and a little less interesting". It's an odd feeling knowing that your favorite author, responsible for being the literary articulation of so much that you consider you, is no longer alive. That he will no longer create, that his copious canon is finite and now complete, save finding any random unfinished manuscripts. I never got to meet him, although I had a couple of close calls, but in some ways I felt that I already had met him, through his books. That's true of most authors, but more true of Kurt Vonnegut. He was unabashedly autobiographical in his books, and his brutal honesty about himself and those around him was both endearing and jarring at the same time. His was a love-hate relationship with the human race: love because of their infinite potential, and hate because they so often fall short of the mark. Much like my own opinion of people as a whole, KV believed that people were capable of greatness; whether it was great evil or great good was a personal choice. He did it all with an awkward grace that any human being can recognize as their own, and a dark humor that was as funny as it was sad.
I would quote some here, but in the way of all good books, I have shared them and in the process lost many of them. When I broke up with my ex-boyfriend the only thing I regretted was that the piece of shit never gave me back a dogeared and threadbare copy of some of Kurt vonnegut's collected works. I would quote A Cat's Cradle here, but it has been torn to pieces by a small dog named Vader that belongs to my friend Ali. The point is that quotes aren't going to convey to you why his work was so important to me, because you aren't reading them from inside my head. Kurt Vonnegut's words might ring hollow to you, and that's ok. He would be ok with that, because it would prove his assertion that all great truths are lies, and individuals, not universals, are the saving grace of humanity. Vonnegut was a humanist, and did not believe in God. What he believed in was people, sometimes for better and sometimes for worse. He taught me something that seems depressing at first, but isn't the more you think about it: people will always disappoint you, so you have to find other things to love them for besides living up to expectations.
In his last book, A Man Without a Country, which made me laugh, and cry, and mourn for him because it was clearly a goodbye letter, he created a series of sketches that were epitaphs. It takes a sick and lovely mind to create a list of the things to put on your own tombstone, especially when standing so near the threshold of death. I don't know what the epitaph will end up being, but the only bright spot in the tragedy of this loss is knowing that there will be at least one last thing of Vonnegut's left to read, and I can guarantee you that it will be a surprise, a delight, and a devastation.
Monday, April 02, 2007
I heart Seattle, I anti-heart the red eye flight back to MPS
Sigh.
Well gentle reader, my love of the overly-caffinated, underly-concerned Pacific Northwest has been solidified. Overly-caffinated because you can literally smell coffee in the air, and even the barista at the drink cart at a student union can make a coffee drink that would make the angels weep, and underly-concerned because Amber and I were almost run over at one point, and the most the super mellow west coast driver could muster was a shrug and a chuckle. I think of Seattle as a Minneapolis that is larger, more cosmopolitan, and all-importantly located on the water. It has everything I want: ocean, socially concious citizenry, sustainability, fashionable shops, lots and lots of terrific coffee, year-round excellent produce, gourmet markets and foodie restaurants, tulips, and a plethora, a veritable cornucopia, if you will, of cute bachelors.
And yet, I will be attending Roger Williams University School of Law in Rhode Island for the next three years.
Let me back up:
Last weekend I went out to Bristol, RI by way of Boston to visit Roger Williams University, aka "the school no one has heard of". When looking at law schools they tell you two things: 1) pick the location you want to practice in, and 2) go to the biggest name you can. I am instead going to 1) where they are throwing the most money at me, and 2) where I've been told, verbatim, that I will be the center of the faculty's attention. At the Honor's student event they took us to dinner, where I got to sit next to the Dean and pretty much wrap him around my finger, and then the students took us out drinking. Being persuasive and drinking... two of my favorite things. Oh, and somehow, despite my best intentions in a new place, I managed to present myself once again as a huge party-er. One of the other girls there at the event turned to me at one point in the night and said "if we go to school together, we're going to be trouble." I liked her.
Bristol is a cute little town, like a cross between Star's Hollow, where the Gilmore Girls live, and New Ulm, MN, where my mother was born and raised. Everyone knows you, everyone knows what and who you've been doing, and consequently the bar to church ratio is about 1:1. It's about an hour away from Boston, three hours away from the big NYC, and a half hour away from Providence, which I've heard many nice things about despite my father thinking it's a cesspool for unknown and unknowable reasons. So, it's well situated in a very pretty part of coastal New England, and I think I could be reasonably happy there. But what I really like is the school. It's got some great programs: a maritime law program, international/study abroad opportunities that are really interesting, and a strong public interest focus, all things I was looking for. Plus, they started out offering me a 50% scholarship, and are now at about 75% through a couple of different scholarships. Graduating from law school with about half to three-quarters less debt than most law students is super attractive, especially if you are like me and want to save the planet instead of being a wage slave at some giant, autonomous mega-firm. I have zero interest in working 80 hours a week and making partner so that I can enjoy my huge bonus on my... non existent weekends and vacation days.
But still, I wanted to see what else was out there. So I boarded a loooooong flight to Seattle, prepared to fall in love with Seattle University. However, they were not prepared to fall in love with me. First, when I went to the admissions office I was literally ignored. As in, someone looked at me, and then actively decided not to help me. Nice. Then, the girl who finally did escort me to the class I was supposed to attend introduced me to the Professor as "Andrea". Strike two. Finally, when I found my way back up to the admissions office for the appointment I made a month ago, they kept me waiting for half an hour, again ignoring me, while they talked to other students. Let's just say, I was panicking a tad bit, because I really was struggling with not being able to come to Seattle. So I did the only logical thing: I called the Dean of RWU, who had also taught at Seattle U. Now, keep in mind it was 6:30pm on a Friday night on the east coast, and the man spoke with me for about half an hour about whether or not I should go to someone else's school. And he spoke with me honestly, helping me weigh my pros and cons. At the end of the conversation, he promised me that if after a year I didn't like it, he would help me transfer. The flattery is nice, but the fact that he took that kind of time to talk to me really told me something.
So, I'll be going to school where the Dean knows my phone number, not the one where they can't remember my relatively unique name. It's weird to be making a decision that will take me so far away from the town I know I want to be in. It's weird to be responsible enough that I can recognize that long term goals sometimes require short term sacrifice. Deep.
Well gentle reader, my love of the overly-caffinated, underly-concerned Pacific Northwest has been solidified. Overly-caffinated because you can literally smell coffee in the air, and even the barista at the drink cart at a student union can make a coffee drink that would make the angels weep, and underly-concerned because Amber and I were almost run over at one point, and the most the super mellow west coast driver could muster was a shrug and a chuckle. I think of Seattle as a Minneapolis that is larger, more cosmopolitan, and all-importantly located on the water. It has everything I want: ocean, socially concious citizenry, sustainability, fashionable shops, lots and lots of terrific coffee, year-round excellent produce, gourmet markets and foodie restaurants, tulips, and a plethora, a veritable cornucopia, if you will, of cute bachelors.
And yet, I will be attending Roger Williams University School of Law in Rhode Island for the next three years.
Let me back up:
Last weekend I went out to Bristol, RI by way of Boston to visit Roger Williams University, aka "the school no one has heard of". When looking at law schools they tell you two things: 1) pick the location you want to practice in, and 2) go to the biggest name you can. I am instead going to 1) where they are throwing the most money at me, and 2) where I've been told, verbatim, that I will be the center of the faculty's attention. At the Honor's student event they took us to dinner, where I got to sit next to the Dean and pretty much wrap him around my finger, and then the students took us out drinking. Being persuasive and drinking... two of my favorite things. Oh, and somehow, despite my best intentions in a new place, I managed to present myself once again as a huge party-er. One of the other girls there at the event turned to me at one point in the night and said "if we go to school together, we're going to be trouble." I liked her.
Bristol is a cute little town, like a cross between Star's Hollow, where the Gilmore Girls live, and New Ulm, MN, where my mother was born and raised. Everyone knows you, everyone knows what and who you've been doing, and consequently the bar to church ratio is about 1:1. It's about an hour away from Boston, three hours away from the big NYC, and a half hour away from Providence, which I've heard many nice things about despite my father thinking it's a cesspool for unknown and unknowable reasons. So, it's well situated in a very pretty part of coastal New England, and I think I could be reasonably happy there. But what I really like is the school. It's got some great programs: a maritime law program, international/study abroad opportunities that are really interesting, and a strong public interest focus, all things I was looking for. Plus, they started out offering me a 50% scholarship, and are now at about 75% through a couple of different scholarships. Graduating from law school with about half to three-quarters less debt than most law students is super attractive, especially if you are like me and want to save the planet instead of being a wage slave at some giant, autonomous mega-firm. I have zero interest in working 80 hours a week and making partner so that I can enjoy my huge bonus on my... non existent weekends and vacation days.
But still, I wanted to see what else was out there. So I boarded a loooooong flight to Seattle, prepared to fall in love with Seattle University. However, they were not prepared to fall in love with me. First, when I went to the admissions office I was literally ignored. As in, someone looked at me, and then actively decided not to help me. Nice. Then, the girl who finally did escort me to the class I was supposed to attend introduced me to the Professor as "Andrea". Strike two. Finally, when I found my way back up to the admissions office for the appointment I made a month ago, they kept me waiting for half an hour, again ignoring me, while they talked to other students. Let's just say, I was panicking a tad bit, because I really was struggling with not being able to come to Seattle. So I did the only logical thing: I called the Dean of RWU, who had also taught at Seattle U. Now, keep in mind it was 6:30pm on a Friday night on the east coast, and the man spoke with me for about half an hour about whether or not I should go to someone else's school. And he spoke with me honestly, helping me weigh my pros and cons. At the end of the conversation, he promised me that if after a year I didn't like it, he would help me transfer. The flattery is nice, but the fact that he took that kind of time to talk to me really told me something.
So, I'll be going to school where the Dean knows my phone number, not the one where they can't remember my relatively unique name. It's weird to be making a decision that will take me so far away from the town I know I want to be in. It's weird to be responsible enough that I can recognize that long term goals sometimes require short term sacrifice. Deep.
Friday, March 30, 2007
Attack of the Ear Thingies!!!
Readers, what the hell is with the ear bud cell phones? How did these get marketed? "Look like you're a crazy homeless man yelling at yourself in the airport!" "Have deeply personal and explicit conversations in front of a room full of strangers!" "Yell at your wife and humilate your family in public without ever leaving work!"
Seriously.
I saw no less than 87 people wearing these ludicrous things yesterday, doing all manner of activities. And they were all men. What that means, I don't know, but I'll venture a guess it has something to do with showing off one's penis. There was a guy sitting at a restaurant eating dinner, still with that thing stuck to the side of his head like he was a member of the Borg. There was a guy roaming the halls of the terminal screaming at some poor woman about god knows what- oh wait, I do know, because HE SHARED IT WITH ME AND THE OTHER THOUSANDS OF PEOPLE IN THE AIRPORT. Seriously, I understand the appeal of the hands free, I really do, but can you confine that to your driving, or when you have some intense knitting to be done, or maybe even in the bathroom? Not in public. No one needs to hear the details of your life, even if you are a mega-important master of the universe business man. And really, how important can you be if you're wearing a polo and a sportscoat? Not that important, friends. If you really want to show off, why don't you hire a smaller person to run around under you holding your phone to your ear? That is real power.
Seriously.
I saw no less than 87 people wearing these ludicrous things yesterday, doing all manner of activities. And they were all men. What that means, I don't know, but I'll venture a guess it has something to do with showing off one's penis. There was a guy sitting at a restaurant eating dinner, still with that thing stuck to the side of his head like he was a member of the Borg. There was a guy roaming the halls of the terminal screaming at some poor woman about god knows what- oh wait, I do know, because HE SHARED IT WITH ME AND THE OTHER THOUSANDS OF PEOPLE IN THE AIRPORT. Seriously, I understand the appeal of the hands free, I really do, but can you confine that to your driving, or when you have some intense knitting to be done, or maybe even in the bathroom? Not in public. No one needs to hear the details of your life, even if you are a mega-important master of the universe business man. And really, how important can you be if you're wearing a polo and a sportscoat? Not that important, friends. If you really want to show off, why don't you hire a smaller person to run around under you holding your phone to your ear? That is real power.
Saturday, March 10, 2007
I was up at 5:45am to watch adolescents give speeches....
I know, it totally doesn't sound like me.
My friend Tai (who refers to herself on this blog as Ms. South Korea) invited me to be a judge for the high school and junior high speech competitions being held in and around southeastern MN. Having been a major drama geek (yet in a glamorous, completely awesome way that got me lots of dates...um)in high school, I jumped at the chance. Plus, I got to judge people, and we all know how much I love that!
Now, as some of you may or may not know, I don't really like kids. I may have discussed it on this blog on occasion, I'm not really sure. Check the archives. Anywho, despite this general dislike, I do have a soft spot in my heart for quirky, smart, somewhat a-typical teenagers, which I developed by working at Seeds of Peace as a camp counselor for two summers in college. Now, I was not a very good camp counselor, as I don't like camp, and I'm not very good with kids in the first place, but I did discover that I was very, very good at reaching out to the kids that were too smart for the own good, held contempt for all that they surveyed, and generally lashed out against people as a preemptive strike in case those people didn't like them- basically me at that age. I mellowed a lot in high school when I inexplicably became popular, but before that I was a snarky, spiky, needy little middle schooler who could not WAIT to be like, a grown up. So I got along well with these kids, mostly because I didn't try to sugar coat everything, and allowed them to vent about the kumbaya bullshit we were doing when the news every day was basically that their homes had been destroyed and their futures were uncertain. Don't get me wrong, Seeds of Peace was the best thing I have ever done, but snarky kids need to be angry some times, and I let them be angry.
So, the speech competitions have a high percentage of kids like this- obviously not in the sense that their homes are being demolished by the IDF, but, you know, they are angsty. And I like that, because even though it's sometimes whiny and generally ridiculous, I love how full of life and hope they are. They bitch about everything because they really believe it can be changed. They are moody and manic, and it makes you remember what it felt like to be that age and feel your future was full of possibility, before you had to pay for insurance or balance a check book or deal with micromanagement (although, sometimes teachers are micromanagers). It reminds me of how much fun it was to do these competitions, to get really, really into it, and be so nervous you thought you were going to throw up for something that in the grand scheme of things, is really sort of meaningless. Now the only time I get nervous is when I think my boss is going to catch me blogging at work and I'm going to be fired, and that's not a fun nervous.
Today I'm at my last competition (blogging in the Spring Grove High School/ Middle School/ Elementary School hybrid library, which you can totally do when you're a grown-up... AWESOME!). I really like the dynamic of being a judge. Since I'm not a well-trained speech judge, I like to remind the kids to have fun and relax. I laugh at their humorous speeches, and intently listen to their serious prose. I joke with them before they start, and I write comments that are critical, but only because they are so full of promise. This experience has reminded me that I would really like to teach, but I don't want to go through all the political and administrative hoops that real teachers have to- I would be like that teacher in the movies that always butts heads with the principal and eventually leaves with a little cardboard box full of books while Ethan Hawke stands on his desk reciting "O Captain, My Captain" and mourning the suicide of Robert Sean Leonard. And that would just be weird. Especially since it would mean I was Robin Williams, and I was teaching at an all boys school. So instead of being a real teacher or Robin Williams, maybe I can volunteer my time as an assistant coach of something!
My friend Tai (who refers to herself on this blog as Ms. South Korea) invited me to be a judge for the high school and junior high speech competitions being held in and around southeastern MN. Having been a major drama geek (yet in a glamorous, completely awesome way that got me lots of dates...um)in high school, I jumped at the chance. Plus, I got to judge people, and we all know how much I love that!
Now, as some of you may or may not know, I don't really like kids. I may have discussed it on this blog on occasion, I'm not really sure. Check the archives. Anywho, despite this general dislike, I do have a soft spot in my heart for quirky, smart, somewhat a-typical teenagers, which I developed by working at Seeds of Peace as a camp counselor for two summers in college. Now, I was not a very good camp counselor, as I don't like camp, and I'm not very good with kids in the first place, but I did discover that I was very, very good at reaching out to the kids that were too smart for the own good, held contempt for all that they surveyed, and generally lashed out against people as a preemptive strike in case those people didn't like them- basically me at that age. I mellowed a lot in high school when I inexplicably became popular, but before that I was a snarky, spiky, needy little middle schooler who could not WAIT to be like, a grown up. So I got along well with these kids, mostly because I didn't try to sugar coat everything, and allowed them to vent about the kumbaya bullshit we were doing when the news every day was basically that their homes had been destroyed and their futures were uncertain. Don't get me wrong, Seeds of Peace was the best thing I have ever done, but snarky kids need to be angry some times, and I let them be angry.
So, the speech competitions have a high percentage of kids like this- obviously not in the sense that their homes are being demolished by the IDF, but, you know, they are angsty. And I like that, because even though it's sometimes whiny and generally ridiculous, I love how full of life and hope they are. They bitch about everything because they really believe it can be changed. They are moody and manic, and it makes you remember what it felt like to be that age and feel your future was full of possibility, before you had to pay for insurance or balance a check book or deal with micromanagement (although, sometimes teachers are micromanagers). It reminds me of how much fun it was to do these competitions, to get really, really into it, and be so nervous you thought you were going to throw up for something that in the grand scheme of things, is really sort of meaningless. Now the only time I get nervous is when I think my boss is going to catch me blogging at work and I'm going to be fired, and that's not a fun nervous.
Today I'm at my last competition (blogging in the Spring Grove High School/ Middle School/ Elementary School hybrid library, which you can totally do when you're a grown-up... AWESOME!). I really like the dynamic of being a judge. Since I'm not a well-trained speech judge, I like to remind the kids to have fun and relax. I laugh at their humorous speeches, and intently listen to their serious prose. I joke with them before they start, and I write comments that are critical, but only because they are so full of promise. This experience has reminded me that I would really like to teach, but I don't want to go through all the political and administrative hoops that real teachers have to- I would be like that teacher in the movies that always butts heads with the principal and eventually leaves with a little cardboard box full of books while Ethan Hawke stands on his desk reciting "O Captain, My Captain" and mourning the suicide of Robert Sean Leonard. And that would just be weird. Especially since it would mean I was Robin Williams, and I was teaching at an all boys school. So instead of being a real teacher or Robin Williams, maybe I can volunteer my time as an assistant coach of something!
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Insh'allah
Inshallah is an Arabic word meaning "God willing". Arabs use it with the frequency Valley Girls afford "like" or Paris Hilton uses "hot". It follows any and every statement about the future; everything from a preditiction about the weather to getting into the college of your choice. It was not uncommon for my Teta to say things like "when you pick me up for church in two hours, insh'allah, we'll go to the McDonalds", or "Insh'allah, I'll be home in time to watch Urkel." My grandmother loooooved Urkel. Point being, there was no point in talking about the future unless you were guarding against potential tragedy at every turn. It was not in one's best interest to temp fate, or God, or whatever, by being presumptious in your prediction about whether or not you were having chicken salad for lunch.
But there is another side to insh'allah, and the one that I wish to discuss today. Insh'allah also carries with it the promise of things being out of your hands in a refreshing and hopeful way. Insh'allah reminds you that there is a force greater than you out there, and it is calling the shots. You can make recommendations, you can pray, you can express preferences at how you want your life to go, but at the end of the day, yours is not the final say. It's not about fate, in the Greek sense that you can't change your destiny, it's just a subtle reminder that life will unfold in the way it is supposed to, and you can choose to give yourself over to that flow, or you can beat your head against a wall trying to force life to fit the predetermined plan you made.
When people ask me about my faith in God, it is my Teta and insh'allah that I think of; her steadfast trust and absolute certainty that our lives were filled with purpose and meaning remains my center. My grandmother was what one might call a "determined" woman, although "relentless and single-minded in purpose" might be more accurate. Despite her stubborness, even she was able to offer herself up to whatever was to happen next. Knowing that you have tried your hardest and given your best there is nothing left to do but release it to powers greater than yourself. Hers was an incredible, adventurous, astonishing life, in part because of her sheer force of will, and in part because of her willingness to surrender it.
Suprisingly, control-freak that I am, I find this concept very encouraging. Sometimes when I get all in a tizzy and freak out about what is happening next or where I'm going or what I'm doing with my life, I remember the simple philosophy contained in insh'allah. Right now is one of those insh'allah moments. I don't know where I'll be next year, I don't know what my living situation is going to be for the next 6 months, I don't know if I'll like the schools I've gotten into or whether or not I'll be able to handle life without my friends. Hell, I don't even know if law school is the right decision for me right now. But it's ok. Or it will be ok. It has to be. Life has a multitude of choices; there are any number of potential paths any of us could take in order to be happy and successful in this life. Some are better than others, without a doubt, but how are we to know which those are before we explore them?
So, when i start to panic about what happens next, I remind myself to take a deep breath and say insh'allah. God willing, it will all be just as it should be.
But there is another side to insh'allah, and the one that I wish to discuss today. Insh'allah also carries with it the promise of things being out of your hands in a refreshing and hopeful way. Insh'allah reminds you that there is a force greater than you out there, and it is calling the shots. You can make recommendations, you can pray, you can express preferences at how you want your life to go, but at the end of the day, yours is not the final say. It's not about fate, in the Greek sense that you can't change your destiny, it's just a subtle reminder that life will unfold in the way it is supposed to, and you can choose to give yourself over to that flow, or you can beat your head against a wall trying to force life to fit the predetermined plan you made.
When people ask me about my faith in God, it is my Teta and insh'allah that I think of; her steadfast trust and absolute certainty that our lives were filled with purpose and meaning remains my center. My grandmother was what one might call a "determined" woman, although "relentless and single-minded in purpose" might be more accurate. Despite her stubborness, even she was able to offer herself up to whatever was to happen next. Knowing that you have tried your hardest and given your best there is nothing left to do but release it to powers greater than yourself. Hers was an incredible, adventurous, astonishing life, in part because of her sheer force of will, and in part because of her willingness to surrender it.
Suprisingly, control-freak that I am, I find this concept very encouraging. Sometimes when I get all in a tizzy and freak out about what is happening next or where I'm going or what I'm doing with my life, I remember the simple philosophy contained in insh'allah. Right now is one of those insh'allah moments. I don't know where I'll be next year, I don't know what my living situation is going to be for the next 6 months, I don't know if I'll like the schools I've gotten into or whether or not I'll be able to handle life without my friends. Hell, I don't even know if law school is the right decision for me right now. But it's ok. Or it will be ok. It has to be. Life has a multitude of choices; there are any number of potential paths any of us could take in order to be happy and successful in this life. Some are better than others, without a doubt, but how are we to know which those are before we explore them?
So, when i start to panic about what happens next, I remind myself to take a deep breath and say insh'allah. God willing, it will all be just as it should be.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
The Obligatory Valentine's Day Post
sigh.
I don't really want to talk about Valentine's day, and not because I'm single and have no Valentine and not because it's a media inspired bullshit frenzy, but mostly because it's such a non-event. I literally don't care, and yet, I have to comment on it. It's the type of thing we sassy, clever girls are expected to comment on, perhaps with insight on the sexual habits of the modern man. I think I have written plenty about the sexual habits of the modern man, and they are both repugnant and confusing. For reference, please see my earlier posts "Yak Balls" and "the Hooter" (Actually, that would be a good cover-band name, as in "Yak Balls and the Hooter playing your favorite hits by Air Supply"). Since then the cavalcade of the bizarre and awful has not ceased, not do I see it coming to a close anytime in the near future. I keep dating, and they keep getting weirder. In fact, the absolute worst Valentine's Day I've had was when I was with someone. He bought me flowers from Rainbow. Rainbow, people! The grocery store. I had to pretend to be excited about some yellow carnations and a daisy. Then he had a panic attack in the middle of the event we were at and ruined not only my night, but the nights of most of my friends. And there was no sex. On Valentine's Day. Not that I was remotely attracted to him after that ridiculous display, but it was the principle of the thing. Needless to say that was the beginning on the end.
I don't get it up for little candy hearts, pink makes me think of pepto bismal and I think red roses are the quintessential example of male creative deficiency. In fact, when I worked at the hotel I delivered so very many dozens of red roses to rooms on birthdays, anniversaries and Valentine's Day that I swore to myself that if a man ever gave me a dozen red roses I would dump his ass for his shear lack of originality. That was before I got what were basically gas station flowers- now I have amended my vehemence to say I would appreciate them, then gently guide him to other flower choices as our relationship blossomed. Ahem. My point is that you can't just throw a red bunch of petals at a girl and expect her to get all hot and bothered.
I'm not bitter, I'm not sad, I'm bored with it all. Maybe I'm so bored with it because this year has really tried my whole patience with the two-cats-in-the-yard-married-with-three-point-two-runny-nosed-brats bull. For reasons passing understanding I have been made witness to the dark and ugly side of many a marriage (no waymy, I don't mean you guys), and would frankly rather be single and self-aware than married and clueless. At least I know what I'm up to. It's pretty hard to lie to yourself about where you are at night. But more than that, I'm really enjoying being single, having no one to answer to and no one to please or worry about. Maybe that's selfish, but I don't care. And really, no it isn't selfish. It would be selfish if I behaved that way and was with someone. So, it's good that I'm being selfish in my solitude.
Just remember: St. Valentine was martyred by the Romans... let that be a lesson to your cookie-bouquet giving selves.
I don't really want to talk about Valentine's day, and not because I'm single and have no Valentine and not because it's a media inspired bullshit frenzy, but mostly because it's such a non-event. I literally don't care, and yet, I have to comment on it. It's the type of thing we sassy, clever girls are expected to comment on, perhaps with insight on the sexual habits of the modern man. I think I have written plenty about the sexual habits of the modern man, and they are both repugnant and confusing. For reference, please see my earlier posts "Yak Balls" and "the Hooter" (Actually, that would be a good cover-band name, as in "Yak Balls and the Hooter playing your favorite hits by Air Supply"). Since then the cavalcade of the bizarre and awful has not ceased, not do I see it coming to a close anytime in the near future. I keep dating, and they keep getting weirder. In fact, the absolute worst Valentine's Day I've had was when I was with someone. He bought me flowers from Rainbow. Rainbow, people! The grocery store. I had to pretend to be excited about some yellow carnations and a daisy. Then he had a panic attack in the middle of the event we were at and ruined not only my night, but the nights of most of my friends. And there was no sex. On Valentine's Day. Not that I was remotely attracted to him after that ridiculous display, but it was the principle of the thing. Needless to say that was the beginning on the end.
I don't get it up for little candy hearts, pink makes me think of pepto bismal and I think red roses are the quintessential example of male creative deficiency. In fact, when I worked at the hotel I delivered so very many dozens of red roses to rooms on birthdays, anniversaries and Valentine's Day that I swore to myself that if a man ever gave me a dozen red roses I would dump his ass for his shear lack of originality. That was before I got what were basically gas station flowers- now I have amended my vehemence to say I would appreciate them, then gently guide him to other flower choices as our relationship blossomed. Ahem. My point is that you can't just throw a red bunch of petals at a girl and expect her to get all hot and bothered.
I'm not bitter, I'm not sad, I'm bored with it all. Maybe I'm so bored with it because this year has really tried my whole patience with the two-cats-in-the-yard-married-with-three-point-two-runny-nosed-brats bull. For reasons passing understanding I have been made witness to the dark and ugly side of many a marriage (no waymy, I don't mean you guys), and would frankly rather be single and self-aware than married and clueless. At least I know what I'm up to. It's pretty hard to lie to yourself about where you are at night. But more than that, I'm really enjoying being single, having no one to answer to and no one to please or worry about. Maybe that's selfish, but I don't care. And really, no it isn't selfish. It would be selfish if I behaved that way and was with someone. So, it's good that I'm being selfish in my solitude.
Just remember: St. Valentine was martyred by the Romans... let that be a lesson to your cookie-bouquet giving selves.
Thursday, January 25, 2007
I Hate Other People's Kids Too! (In response to Tai)
I will respond piece by piece, because there is much here I wish to discuss:
Tai said...
I told the host at the Macaroni Grill (which is one of THE premier restaurants in Rochester...sad) that I would like a different table after he tried to seat Mike and I between 2 tables that had toddlers at them (on a Friday night). The host had the nerve to refuse and then ask why.
Ok, so this has happened to me at many a restaurant, and I don't get it. I mean, I get it, but i don't get it get it. The potential reasons that a host would have an issue with reseating you is many-fold, but the primary reasons are these:
1. He is a pimply-faced adolescent that isn't being paid to care. He's barely being paid to exist in the present tense.
2. He doesn't want to get hassled by the servers. As anyone who has waited tables or hosted can tell you, life can become a real pain in the ass real quick if you double or triple seat a section. The servers are swamped, they're asking you to run food, they are pissed because they are doing twice the work with half the tips because they can't give as good a service as they would like, and the diners are unhappy because their food is cold, or rushed, or wrong. So, the host is looking to make his life as easy as possible, and rotating sections in a very orderly manner is what the lazy host perceives to be the easiest route to this. When you ask to move sections, you are fucking up his rotation, as they say in the movies.
The fact that he had to get "special permission" is ri-fucking-diculous. My response to this situation would have been "not my problem sunshine, I'm either sitting over there, or I'm sitting at another restaurant. Take your pick."
So I had explain that I didn't want to sit by a bunch of kids. Now, I realize this may seem a little harsh - but this is the first date that Mike and I have been on in...I can't remember when.
I don't think this sounds harsh at all. In fact, we as a nation should be harsher in our non-child centered demands.
Where, 10 minutes later, retard host seats a family with a toddler NEXT TO US!
That was just out of spite.
I beg the questions:
Why does society feel the need to share their bundles of joy with strangers at nice restaurants on Friday nights? Where are the parenting skills of our society?? Why are PARENTS no longer expected to have any common social curtesy in regards to their offspring
I don't know the answers to these questions, Tai. They make no sense to me. The only thought I have is that these people can't afford to pay a babysitter, and so they bring their kids with them. If that is the case, they I don't really think they can afford to have kids in the first place. I think the parents of these hellions are so shellshocked and clueless that they maybe don't even notice anymore. Of course, it could just be that they really enjoy their kids, and if that is the case, then I shudder...
I would really like to know what you all think about why parents are so shitty these days, because as much as I dislike children in the main, I realize that it is not their fault they are obnoxious, it's their parents fault. Every so often you encounter a truly pleasant child that makes you rethink the whole thing, but generally, they are the devil spaun of the idiots lining the bottom of the food chain. The worst is when these backwards yokels shrug, as if to say, "that's kids!" To that I reply, no, "that's YOUR kids. Kids aren't born being assholes, and if I had acted like your little satan-monkeys, I would not currently be in possesion of the ample booty you see before you because it would have been SPANKED RIGHT OFF OF ME."
Personally, i think it was the rise of the "parents-as-friends" ridiculousness. Memo to all these idiots: your kids do not want you to be their friend. They want you to drive them to the mall, pay for some nachos, and disappear. If you try to become friends with them, they will never leave you. Why would you leave friends that feed, clothe, house and remind you on a daily basis that your shit literally smells like roses.? I know I as sure as hell wouldn't. Unless you want your child to end up like Captain Creepy, living with his parents at 40 and working at Radio Shack, then stop with the friendship. When adults are friends with kids that they aren't related to, our natural urge is to call the cops. I say that is a good urge. We should go with it.
And I encourage you all to read I Hate Other People's Kids. It's a great book.
Tai said...
I told the host at the Macaroni Grill (which is one of THE premier restaurants in Rochester...sad) that I would like a different table after he tried to seat Mike and I between 2 tables that had toddlers at them (on a Friday night). The host had the nerve to refuse and then ask why.
Ok, so this has happened to me at many a restaurant, and I don't get it. I mean, I get it, but i don't get it get it. The potential reasons that a host would have an issue with reseating you is many-fold, but the primary reasons are these:
1. He is a pimply-faced adolescent that isn't being paid to care. He's barely being paid to exist in the present tense.
2. He doesn't want to get hassled by the servers. As anyone who has waited tables or hosted can tell you, life can become a real pain in the ass real quick if you double or triple seat a section. The servers are swamped, they're asking you to run food, they are pissed because they are doing twice the work with half the tips because they can't give as good a service as they would like, and the diners are unhappy because their food is cold, or rushed, or wrong. So, the host is looking to make his life as easy as possible, and rotating sections in a very orderly manner is what the lazy host perceives to be the easiest route to this. When you ask to move sections, you are fucking up his rotation, as they say in the movies.
The fact that he had to get "special permission" is ri-fucking-diculous. My response to this situation would have been "not my problem sunshine, I'm either sitting over there, or I'm sitting at another restaurant. Take your pick."
So I had explain that I didn't want to sit by a bunch of kids. Now, I realize this may seem a little harsh - but this is the first date that Mike and I have been on in...I can't remember when.
I don't think this sounds harsh at all. In fact, we as a nation should be harsher in our non-child centered demands.
Where, 10 minutes later, retard host seats a family with a toddler NEXT TO US!
That was just out of spite.
I beg the questions:
Why does society feel the need to share their bundles of joy with strangers at nice restaurants on Friday nights? Where are the parenting skills of our society?? Why are PARENTS no longer expected to have any common social curtesy in regards to their offspring
I don't know the answers to these questions, Tai. They make no sense to me. The only thought I have is that these people can't afford to pay a babysitter, and so they bring their kids with them. If that is the case, they I don't really think they can afford to have kids in the first place. I think the parents of these hellions are so shellshocked and clueless that they maybe don't even notice anymore. Of course, it could just be that they really enjoy their kids, and if that is the case, then I shudder...
I would really like to know what you all think about why parents are so shitty these days, because as much as I dislike children in the main, I realize that it is not their fault they are obnoxious, it's their parents fault. Every so often you encounter a truly pleasant child that makes you rethink the whole thing, but generally, they are the devil spaun of the idiots lining the bottom of the food chain. The worst is when these backwards yokels shrug, as if to say, "that's kids!" To that I reply, no, "that's YOUR kids. Kids aren't born being assholes, and if I had acted like your little satan-monkeys, I would not currently be in possesion of the ample booty you see before you because it would have been SPANKED RIGHT OFF OF ME."
Personally, i think it was the rise of the "parents-as-friends" ridiculousness. Memo to all these idiots: your kids do not want you to be their friend. They want you to drive them to the mall, pay for some nachos, and disappear. If you try to become friends with them, they will never leave you. Why would you leave friends that feed, clothe, house and remind you on a daily basis that your shit literally smells like roses.? I know I as sure as hell wouldn't. Unless you want your child to end up like Captain Creepy, living with his parents at 40 and working at Radio Shack, then stop with the friendship. When adults are friends with kids that they aren't related to, our natural urge is to call the cops. I say that is a good urge. We should go with it.
And I encourage you all to read I Hate Other People's Kids. It's a great book.
Monday, January 15, 2007
Just one more, I promise...
(This was an old chestnut I found from last year when I was cleaning out my computer files. Enjoy!)
What exactly does the first class lavatory have to do with the war on terror? The flight attendent states “in the interest of safety, please remember that the front cabin lavatory is for first class passengers only”. What is the threat from the coach cabin that is so scary we must be warned from venturing ahead? Is Osama Bin Ladin hanging out in there, kidnapping passengers that foolishly attempt to move ahead of their station in life. To me it is the class system at work. I belong in that lavatory. I sure as hell do not belong back here in coach, being kicked in the kidneys by the most adorable hell spawn who’s father is to concerned with the other rugrat currently occupying his lap. What is it about an airplane that makes parents oblivious to the goings-on of their offspring? Do they reach a point at which they just decide they can’t take it anymore and disavow knowledge of the fruit of their loins for the duration of the trip?
kick kick kick.
I am a bitch, I suppose, but I want nothing more than to turn to this incompetent father and say, if you’re kid keeps kicking my seat, I’m going to start kicking back. But I am the single young woman, wearing the smart ass political t-shirt and typing on my white laptop. I have no crediblity in the eyes of Papa Clueless behind me. I don’t know what it’s like to have kids, so I can’t possibly understand the trauma of having to silence little Mephistopheles or Haggis. Who am I to crush the creative spirit out of their child?
I’ll tell you who I am. I’m the woman that won’t be bring her child on board a plane without a muzzle and a bottle of bourbon. The muzzle for the kid, of course, the bottle of bourbon for those around me in case the muzzle proves inadequate. I don’t have a child yet, of course, but I am certain that once I do, I will be the best mother ever. Ever. And this includes keeping them from kicking seats in planes.
kick kick kick.
I know a lot of articles have been written about kids kicking chairs on planes, but to me this only indicates our failure as a society to eradicate said behavior. It has to stop, and it will begin with me.
What exactly does the first class lavatory have to do with the war on terror? The flight attendent states “in the interest of safety, please remember that the front cabin lavatory is for first class passengers only”. What is the threat from the coach cabin that is so scary we must be warned from venturing ahead? Is Osama Bin Ladin hanging out in there, kidnapping passengers that foolishly attempt to move ahead of their station in life. To me it is the class system at work. I belong in that lavatory. I sure as hell do not belong back here in coach, being kicked in the kidneys by the most adorable hell spawn who’s father is to concerned with the other rugrat currently occupying his lap. What is it about an airplane that makes parents oblivious to the goings-on of their offspring? Do they reach a point at which they just decide they can’t take it anymore and disavow knowledge of the fruit of their loins for the duration of the trip?
kick kick kick.
I am a bitch, I suppose, but I want nothing more than to turn to this incompetent father and say, if you’re kid keeps kicking my seat, I’m going to start kicking back. But I am the single young woman, wearing the smart ass political t-shirt and typing on my white laptop. I have no crediblity in the eyes of Papa Clueless behind me. I don’t know what it’s like to have kids, so I can’t possibly understand the trauma of having to silence little Mephistopheles or Haggis. Who am I to crush the creative spirit out of their child?
I’ll tell you who I am. I’m the woman that won’t be bring her child on board a plane without a muzzle and a bottle of bourbon. The muzzle for the kid, of course, the bottle of bourbon for those around me in case the muzzle proves inadequate. I don’t have a child yet, of course, but I am certain that once I do, I will be the best mother ever. Ever. And this includes keeping them from kicking seats in planes.
kick kick kick.
I know a lot of articles have been written about kids kicking chairs on planes, but to me this only indicates our failure as a society to eradicate said behavior. It has to stop, and it will begin with me.
MLK Who?
Pardon me if I am wrong, but isn't Martin Luther King Jr. day a holiday? I don't have to work today, but apparently most everyone else does, including students. Many schools in Minnesota are not closed today, and I really don't understand it. What has happened to holidays in this country? People back to work the day after Thanksgiving and Christmas and New Years, they don't celebrate Veteran's, Memorial, or Labor Day, and most people won't take a yearly vacation even if they have the time. What the hell are we working so hard for? Why can't we take a little time to reflect on our lives and the lives of our heroes, to appreciate their sacrifices and what they stood for? Is it that if we did take the time to think, really think about our lives we would be appalled and disgusted? We would be left examining lives bereft of meaning and consumed with consuming? Is it any wonder that we are all so fat and unhappy and stressed out, while the Europeans and their 5 weeks of paid leave a year are happy, slender and glamorous? I am getting so done with our constant rat race and our universal quest to keep up with the Jones' at the expense of our health and sanity, to say nothing to the health of our personal relationships. So, I encourage to you take stock this holiday, even if it is in your cubicle.
Did Hell just freeze over, or did the President take responsibility for failing in Iraq?
I'm literally speechless. Good thing this is a written forum.
I hope you all saw the President's speech last week, because otherwise you might be lost. Georgie-Boy actually stated that the mistakes made in Iraq were his. My jaw literally dropped, and I believe I uttered a Stacy London style "SHUT UP", but I can't be too sure- the whole thing is a bit of a blur. However, the familar old George we all know and despise was back at it a little later on in the speech, committing 20,000 more American service men and women to this modern day Vietnam. Apparently taking responsibility for previous mistakes gives you carte blanche to continue making even bigger mistakes, with even more human lives. Was he possessed by the ghost of LBJ, the other Texas War President? I mean, this is getting ridiculous. When a man who lived through the Vietnam war can stand in front of the global community and state that we must remember the lesson of Vietnam, and that the lesson is that we will lose if we leave, then you really need to start looking for supernatural reasons for this kind of negligent evil.
I'm of two minds about the so called "surge". Part of me agrees with Colin Powell's Pottery Barn doctrine of "you break it, you buy it", meaning that we took the lid off this can of worms, and we need to figure out how to get it back on. The other part of me believes that while this mess is our fault, there really isn't a damn thing we can do about it, and we need to let them fight their civil war and then come back when the dust has settled to actually provide aid and infrastructure. Neither one of the courses of action is particularly responsible. The question is, whose lives do we value more, those of Americans or those of Iraqis? Can we live with the blood on our hands if we pull out now (much like the evacuation from Saigon...maybe years from now there will be a musical called Miss Tikrit)? Can we live with the blood on our hands if we commit more troops? I don't know. I saw an Army recruiting ad today that made me cry, not with sadness, but with anger and frustration, that we have created a society where we use our poor as cannon fodder, stringing them along with the promise of money for college if they survive the war. It's disgusting. Where does Bush think he's going to get these 92,000 more troops that he wants for the military in general? There is no way we're going to have that many recruits without the draft, and as a woman in her early twenties, that concept literally scares the shit out of me.
So I don't know how to feel. I don't know what the answer is, but at this point I think it would have to involve a time machine or Barbara Bush believing in birth control.
I hope you all saw the President's speech last week, because otherwise you might be lost. Georgie-Boy actually stated that the mistakes made in Iraq were his. My jaw literally dropped, and I believe I uttered a Stacy London style "SHUT UP", but I can't be too sure- the whole thing is a bit of a blur. However, the familar old George we all know and despise was back at it a little later on in the speech, committing 20,000 more American service men and women to this modern day Vietnam. Apparently taking responsibility for previous mistakes gives you carte blanche to continue making even bigger mistakes, with even more human lives. Was he possessed by the ghost of LBJ, the other Texas War President? I mean, this is getting ridiculous. When a man who lived through the Vietnam war can stand in front of the global community and state that we must remember the lesson of Vietnam, and that the lesson is that we will lose if we leave, then you really need to start looking for supernatural reasons for this kind of negligent evil.
I'm of two minds about the so called "surge". Part of me agrees with Colin Powell's Pottery Barn doctrine of "you break it, you buy it", meaning that we took the lid off this can of worms, and we need to figure out how to get it back on. The other part of me believes that while this mess is our fault, there really isn't a damn thing we can do about it, and we need to let them fight their civil war and then come back when the dust has settled to actually provide aid and infrastructure. Neither one of the courses of action is particularly responsible. The question is, whose lives do we value more, those of Americans or those of Iraqis? Can we live with the blood on our hands if we pull out now (much like the evacuation from Saigon...maybe years from now there will be a musical called Miss Tikrit)? Can we live with the blood on our hands if we commit more troops? I don't know. I saw an Army recruiting ad today that made me cry, not with sadness, but with anger and frustration, that we have created a society where we use our poor as cannon fodder, stringing them along with the promise of money for college if they survive the war. It's disgusting. Where does Bush think he's going to get these 92,000 more troops that he wants for the military in general? There is no way we're going to have that many recruits without the draft, and as a woman in her early twenties, that concept literally scares the shit out of me.
So I don't know how to feel. I don't know what the answer is, but at this point I think it would have to involve a time machine or Barbara Bush believing in birth control.
High Stakes
So, it is finished. Everything is turned in, all the i's are dotted and the t's are crossed... it's all over but the shouting and the waiting. I should know the thrill of victory of the agony of defeat around late march/ early april.
Which means, of course, that I will once again have time for the blogging. Hooray.
Todays topic is success. I was thinking about this last night at choir practice. For one particular song we are in a mixed formation, meaning singing next to people that are singing parts other than your own. I haven't done that for about 7 years, since I was in Madrigals in high school. It was a struggle to learn at that time, and I felt way over my head, but eventually, I was successful and learned how to hold my own against the other voices. I remember feeling so challenged by it, mostly because I was so grateful to be in Madrigals in the first place, and felt like if anyone realized I couldn't hold my part, I would be outed as an imposter and kicked out of the choir. It never even occurred to me that you weren't supposed to be perfect immediately when starting something new.
This change in formation made me think about the things I had wanted when I was younger. I wanted to be in Madrigals so desperately when I was a Junior in high school. All through high school I spent my time trying to be the lead in every play, the soloist in every concert, what I refered to as "the it girl". I was always trying to prove something to someone, either myself or others. I wanted to be known, and I wanted my talent to be coveted. And because of this, I was incredibly hard on myself. I remember leaving my Madrigals audition and balling my eyes out, breaking down crying in the back hallway behind the choir room because I had missed one note. I couldn't appreciate my talent, because I was always judging it. But when I got into Madrigals, and began to really feel blessed by talent instead of critical of it, I was able to move into a place where performing was fun again, and I could feel strong and confident and capable.
But it was still a couple of years before I could stop taking it all so personally. When I didn't get into the BFA Acting program at the U, I once again found myself crying in a hallway, this time in New Jersey, during a spring break trip to New York. I was sobbing so hard I think my drama teacher thought someone had died. At the time, I thought it was my dreams. Once I got to college, I still took myself really seriously, but as my experience in theatre broadened and I was able to see other options, I began to realize that it wasn't about me as a person, or my talent, sometimes it was just about being "right" or not. It is personal, but in a way you really can't control, like not being attracted to people with blue eyes. There isn't a thing they or you can do about it.
So I was thinking about this last night, how badly I wanted these things and how trivial and small they seem now. Your desires just get bigger and more complicated as you get older, and the stakes get higher. If I hadn't gotten into Madrigals as a Junior, I probably would have gotten in as a Senior, but I would have been miserable. Now, if I don't get into the right law school, I don't know what my next step will be. I want this so badly, badly enough that I haven't left myself other options. If I don't, I guess I'll get over it, but at what point does this emotional rollercoaster stop? And bigger question, do I really want it to? Isn't the passionate intensity of desire what makes life worth living? What would it be like to travel through life without any dreams, or goals, or aspirations? Without the potential for loss that is deeply and painfully felt? Maybe I'm just a drama queen, but I think I'd take possible pain over definite boredom any day.
Which means, of course, that I will once again have time for the blogging. Hooray.
Todays topic is success. I was thinking about this last night at choir practice. For one particular song we are in a mixed formation, meaning singing next to people that are singing parts other than your own. I haven't done that for about 7 years, since I was in Madrigals in high school. It was a struggle to learn at that time, and I felt way over my head, but eventually, I was successful and learned how to hold my own against the other voices. I remember feeling so challenged by it, mostly because I was so grateful to be in Madrigals in the first place, and felt like if anyone realized I couldn't hold my part, I would be outed as an imposter and kicked out of the choir. It never even occurred to me that you weren't supposed to be perfect immediately when starting something new.
This change in formation made me think about the things I had wanted when I was younger. I wanted to be in Madrigals so desperately when I was a Junior in high school. All through high school I spent my time trying to be the lead in every play, the soloist in every concert, what I refered to as "the it girl". I was always trying to prove something to someone, either myself or others. I wanted to be known, and I wanted my talent to be coveted. And because of this, I was incredibly hard on myself. I remember leaving my Madrigals audition and balling my eyes out, breaking down crying in the back hallway behind the choir room because I had missed one note. I couldn't appreciate my talent, because I was always judging it. But when I got into Madrigals, and began to really feel blessed by talent instead of critical of it, I was able to move into a place where performing was fun again, and I could feel strong and confident and capable.
But it was still a couple of years before I could stop taking it all so personally. When I didn't get into the BFA Acting program at the U, I once again found myself crying in a hallway, this time in New Jersey, during a spring break trip to New York. I was sobbing so hard I think my drama teacher thought someone had died. At the time, I thought it was my dreams. Once I got to college, I still took myself really seriously, but as my experience in theatre broadened and I was able to see other options, I began to realize that it wasn't about me as a person, or my talent, sometimes it was just about being "right" or not. It is personal, but in a way you really can't control, like not being attracted to people with blue eyes. There isn't a thing they or you can do about it.
So I was thinking about this last night, how badly I wanted these things and how trivial and small they seem now. Your desires just get bigger and more complicated as you get older, and the stakes get higher. If I hadn't gotten into Madrigals as a Junior, I probably would have gotten in as a Senior, but I would have been miserable. Now, if I don't get into the right law school, I don't know what my next step will be. I want this so badly, badly enough that I haven't left myself other options. If I don't, I guess I'll get over it, but at what point does this emotional rollercoaster stop? And bigger question, do I really want it to? Isn't the passionate intensity of desire what makes life worth living? What would it be like to travel through life without any dreams, or goals, or aspirations? Without the potential for loss that is deeply and painfully felt? Maybe I'm just a drama queen, but I think I'd take possible pain over definite boredom any day.
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