The Panicking Penguin

Going Underground

2007-08-26T20:11:00.000-05:00

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!

Rome, The American Revolution, and the Madness of King George W.

2007-07-23T16:18:00.000-05:00

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.

Observations on Being at Home

2007-07-23T16:17:00.000-05:00

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.

Updates from the 'Ta

2007-07-10T12:49:00.000-05:00

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.

Independence Day

2007-07-06T09:06:00.000-05:00

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.

Are we too dependent on our parents?

2007-06-28T11:46:00.000-05:00

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.

Random Question

2007-06-24T22:51:00.000-05:00

Is Zach Braff the new voice over guy for the Wendy's commercials?

If anyone can help me out, I'd really appreciate it.

Happy Birthday to Me! (Or, a Penguin looks at 25)

2007-06-24T22:33:00.000-05:00

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.

Dirty, Dirty A-rabs

2007-06-23T10:05:00.000-05:00

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?

What the Hell is Wrong with Boys/ Men? (Not Boys II Men, I Hear they are Planning a Comeback)

2007-06-22T23:03:00.000-05:00

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 Can't Sleep

2007-06-22T22:40:00.000-05:00

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.

Daytime TV: What the hell else am I supposed to do?

2007-06-21T15:02:00.000-05:00

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.

Sifting throught the debris of my past...

2007-06-19T22:03:00.000-05:00

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.)

Joss Whedon is Pissed

2007-05-23T15:33:00.000-05:00

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

Wanderlust

2007-04-27T00:29:00.000-05:00

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.

RIP Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.

2007-04-12T22:31:00.000-05:00

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.

I heart Seattle, I anti-heart the red eye flight back to MPS

2007-04-02T01:55:00.000-05:00

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.

Attack of the Ear Thingies!!!

2007-03-30T10:32:00.000-05:00

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.

I was up at 5:45am to watch adolescents give speeches....

2007-03-10T09:07:00.000-06:00

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!

Insh'allah

2007-02-28T20:35:00.000-06:00

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.

The Obligatory Valentine's Day Post

2007-02-13T22:56:00.000-06:00

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 Hate Other People's Kids Too! (In response to Tai)

2007-01-25T15:02:00.000-06:00

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.

Just one more, I promise...

2007-01-15T14:02:00.000-06:00

(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.

MLK Who?

2007-01-15T13:25:00.000-06:00

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?

2007-01-15T13:04:00.000-06:00

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.

High Stakes

2007-01-15T12:38:00.000-06:00

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.

Fat Guy in a Little Plane

2006-12-29T16:04:00.000-06:00

Wednesday, December 27th, 2006
Why can’t I ever sit next to some dashing young man on a plane? We’ve all heard those stories and about people meeting the love of their life 30000 feet over Des Moines or some bullshit- why can’t they ever be me? Why do I have to sit next to the most uncomfortable human beings in the world? This particular flight was a doozie, but of course it was my own just desserts for being so mean and hateful prior to the flight. I board the plane, and I have the first seat on the right hand side, in the aisle. Well of course there is someone sitting in the chair, and of course he weighs easily 400 lbs. So, I ask him if he is sitting in the aisle or window seat, and the stewardess, without any prompting from me or Chubs McGee, pipes up and says, rather loudly “Oh, he has to stay right there”, as though he has been a very bad boy, and seat 1A is his time out chair. I reply that my ticket seems to indicate that I need to stay right there too, so we have ourselves a bit of a pickle. She seems unconcerned with this, unlike the countless passengers who are now backing up in the aisle. I turn to my rotund friend and say I don’t care whether he takes the window or the aisle, but he needs to pick one. So he scoots in, sort of, and I proceed to move in front of my seat, knowing just through shear spacial relations that my ass will in no way fit next to his. Now, I am not a small girl, I think we can all be honest, but I do fit into my chair just fine. No so with my seat mate. He was easily taking up half of my personal space, and on an RJ, where there isn’t a lot of personal space in the first place, this can become problematic.

Here begins the most uncomfortable plane ride of my life.

For those of your who have never ridden the 9:59pm flight direct from Mpls to Wichita, the equipment provided is what is known as an “RJ”, which I can only imagine stands for “Ridiculously Junior”, because this plane is itty-bitty. It is only slightly bigger than uthose radio-controlled planes you see nerdy junior-high boys playing with in the park. Needless to say, you need to get cozy with your neighbor on the best of occasions, but on this particular flight I felt I would soon be able to trace 1A’s anatomy blind-folded. He was literally sitting on me, or rather part of his dewlap was sitting on me. Now, I’m not one to make fun of people for being overweight, and I actually felt quite bad for the guy as it was clear he was intensely uncomfortable, but at a certain point I gotta look out for number one, you know what I mean? So I’m trying very hard not touch him any more than is absolutely necessary, because it’s hot and sticky and I don’t like strangers touching me. I cross my legs, but that shifts my butt over into his fleshy leg. I stick my legs straight out in front of me, but that pushes my lower back so far out of alignment I feel like I’m doing a back bend. Finally I settle on kicking my left leg up high onto the bulkhead in front of me, while hugging my right armrest and keeping my right leg in the aisle. I look like some acrobatic contortionist, much to the amusement of the surrounding passengers, I’m sure. Of course, this means that every time the drink cart comes by, I get slammed in the knee, shoulder, what have you, without so much as an “excuse me” from the loud, obnoxious stewardess, who began the flight informing us that we were going to Tulsa. This same dumb bitch asked me 3 separate times whether or not my ipod was off, because I guess she is unfamiliar with the ways of electronics and did not understand that a blank, black screen equals off, no matter how many times I showed it to her.

Grrrr.....

2006-12-22T21:10:00.000-06:00

So I am currently blogging from the floor of gate A10 in the Minneapolis St. Paul Airport, courtesy of Boingo online service, the wireless provider the airport sees fit to use. I am paying 8 bucks for the priviledge of reaching out to you people, which I will gladly pay to escape the ridiculousness that has become airline travel in this country. I know I've written about this before, but it behooves mentioning yet again. Everywhere around me, as far as the eye can see is mooing, grazing, glassy-eyed cattle. God, I hate these people.

Has anyone noticed that Americans approach flying like they are fleeing a third world country? Everyone seems to be wearing the baggiest, ugliest most shapeless crap they could dig out of their closets. They cart pillows, blankets, garbage sacks, babies, food, as though the khmer rouge was right behind them. Gate A10, my new permanent home, is no exception. These people are fugly. These people are Wichita. That's right kids, once again I am travelling into the belly of the beast, and once again my companions on this journey are the world's greatest collection of sideshow freaks. There's the 800 pound woman, the man with backwards legs, the World's Most Boring Human Being, and all manner of plain people of the Great Plains. What is it about a certain breed of woman- they hit 35 and it's all down hill from there: stringy disgusting hair, girth roughly the size of Texas, flowered sweat suit, too much perfume. Do they just give up? Kids, as an example of what I am talking about, at this very moment in my line of sight is a gentleman of roughly Methuselan age who is wearing a neon lime green polyester polo shirt, stain on the omnipresent beer gut, natch. Of course there are the requisite slacks, slung low under his manly belly. On the opposite side of that spectacle is a woman, a girl, really, who fancies herself Paris Hilton, without the trust fund. She is wearing a olive drab sweat/ lounge suit, also slung low on her decidely more svelte midsection. She is chewing gum like a cow chews cud, lazily, open-mouthed and loudly. I despise every little thing about her.

Thankfully, she does not have a dog. Seriously, what's with all the damn dogs? I have counted 5 dogs in little bag-like carriers in the past hour. Why in God's name do you need to bring your bishon frise on a cross country flight? The poor little bastard gets to ride around in his own shit covered pope mobile just so that you can have the pleasure of toting a living thing around like it was this season's hottest handbag? Screw you. At least I let the animal die before wearing it. You want to humiliate something for your own enjoyment, then have children like God intended.

What is it about travelling by plane that makes me so vitriolic? I'm catty as hell on my best days, but flying makes my sartorial judgement rival that of Anna Wintour. And it's not just clothes that get me, it's the existence of other human beings in general. Their mannerisms, smells, expressions, voices, breath... it all just irritates the crap out of me. I find fault with the smallest thing, I find superiority in the miniscule and ridiculous. Why? I'm opened to suggested reasons.

Kiss my Ass, Logic Games

2006-11-29T15:41:00.000-06:00

I hate fucking logic games. I hate them. Please, for the love of God, someone tell me what the following has to do with being an attorney or the general practice of law (and this is completely as written in the practice book):

A science student has exactly four flasks-1,2,3,4- originally containing a red, a blue, a green, and an organce chemical respectively. An experiment consists of mixing exactly two of these chemicals together by completely emptying the flask into and of the flasks. The following conditions apply:

1. The product of an experiment cannot be used in further experiments.
2. Mixing contents out of 1 and 2 produces a red chemical
3. Mixing the contents out of 2 and 3 produces an orange
4. Mixing the contents out of 3 with the contents of either 1 or 4 produces a blue chemical
5. Mixing the contents of 4 with the contents of either 1 or 2 produces a green chemical.

What the hell is that? My mother's been an attorney for 28 years and never once has she had to prosecute the case of the Green and Blue Chemicals.

So when you hear me bitch about studying for the LSAT, this is why. In the actual test I have to do four of these, with 5 questions a piece, in 35 minutes. As rabid squirrels bite at my toes, while strung by my elbows above a rabid shark tank. Ok, maybe not that last part, but you get the idea.

Don't get me wrong, Logic Games have a definite place in the real world. Example:

Hala goes out on a first date 4 times a month. On any given evening the gentleman across from her begins to a)sweat profusely, b)hoot, c)check the score of the game on his cell phone or d) is an overbearing Russian creep-fest. Hala goes out on dates on either a Friday, Saturday, or Sunday, either in the day or the evening. The following conditions apply:

1. Each of the gentleman has at least one of the above conditions, and possibly more.
2. If Hala goes out with the hooter on Friday, she cannot go out with the Sweaty Guy on Sunday.
3. Hala will not see the Cell Phone Guy in the light of day
4. If Cell Phone Guy is also Sweaty, he will electrocute himself, necessitating a redo of the orignal first date.
5. If Hala has to go on another date with the Russian, someone will end up dead.

Now, if they made questions like that, it would be a cinch, because under no logical circumstances would I ever go out with any of those guys again. But alas, the world of Logic Games for the LSAT is not as simple and straightforward as the cavalcade of horrors that has been my dating history. *Sigh*.

I've Missed You!

2006-11-28T18:11:00.000-06:00

So, it's been a while, huh? How have you been? I've been good. I went home for a while for Thanksgiving, have been studying a lot for the LSAT and delicately crafting my applications. Translation: I went home for a while for Thanksgiving, I've been staring at my LSAT prep book in the corner of my room pretending it isn't there, mocking me and my non-studying, procrastinating ways, while writing so many essays I can barely stomach the English language any more. Hence the lack o'blogging. Much English languaging to be done.

Discussion topics?
1. The Dems took the house and the senate, Rumsfeld was fired and George Bush is pledging to work amenably with the likes of Nancy Pelosi. Has Hell frozen over?- discuss.

Well, no I don't think Hell has frozen over, although I do wish the dems could have won on their own efforts, instead of the A-Triple B (AnyBody But Bush) philosophy that put Clinton in the White House. Whatever, we're here, we're unclear on message, get used to it. That's not how it goes, is it? I am excited that Nancy P to the Losi is the new Speaker of the House, because that is one tough broad. I really do think she'll be able to keep the party in line, focused, and on-message. As much as I crave to the bottom of my very soul a witch hunt for the bastards in the White House, I think she has it right in taking impeachment off the table and working to actively create change. We don't want to make the mistake of gloating, because there is way too much poor governing to fix. The top of the agenda should be the reinstatement of oversight, of actual honest-to-God checks and balances. Personally i think this will just happen organically because now the executive and the legistlative branches are from opposing sides, but still, i think a clear move in that direction is important. It's been a while since this happened, so I think my righteousness has abated a bit. Sorry, this should have been a lot more vitriolic... I'm sort of disappointed in myself.

2. Read Michael Pollan's book, The Omnivore's Dilemma. Do it now. Right now. I'll wait.

Seriously, Pollan is one of the most interesting, articulate and impassioned writers I have ever read. Let's put it this way: he makes industrial agriculture seem nuanced and intriguing. I'm a bit bashful to admit that part of the reason that I applied to Berkely was because Pollan lives there. I think it would be hard to casually bump into him at a dinner party, woo him away from his loving wife with my feminine wiles, and spend the rest of his natural life cooking me sustainable, locally produced gourmet meals if I remained in Minnesota. I stayed up half the night reading about his adventures in the belly of the beast, the beast in this case being the American Agri-Military-Industrial complex. Eesh... you want to be scared off of fast food, save yourself $9 bucks and instead of going to see Fast Food Nation get OD from the public library. How sustainable and green of you!

3. I'm a-takin' that there LSAT on Saturday. I hope I can get me sum of that edumacashun at a fancy lawyerin' school.

I don't even really want to talk about this, but I think it bear mentioning. You all probably don't, as the majority of the readership of this blog are my friends, and you all have heard me bitch ad nauseum and ad infinitum about the LSAT. Well, come saturday, that will be no more. Then you can hear me bitch about waiting for my acceptance or lack-there-of letters to come. Hooray!

The End of Rumsfeld: A Play in One Act

2006-11-08T15:12:00.000-06:00

An artist's rendering of how Rumsfeld's Resignation went down:

Bush: Rummy, here's your resignation form- heh heh heh.

Rumsfeld: You insipid little twit, I made you!

Cheney: Fuck off, Rumsfeld, we need a scapegoat for this whole democrats-taking-the-house-and-senate thing,and no one likes you. You come off like Grandpa Apocalypse.

Rumsfeld: That's nice coming from a guy that shot his best friend in the face for sport.

Bush: I hate it when mommy and daddy fight. (He sticks his fingers in his ears and runs out of the Oval Office.)

....and SCENE.

My personal love letter to voting

2006-11-07T12:25:00.000-06:00

Dearest Voting,

I love you. I love how you make me feel, like I am special and important, like my voice is heard and I matter to you. Thank you for giving me agency. Thank you for the privilege of helping me participate in our democracy, and for reminding me of the struggles that others have had to endure so that I might be able to exercise my wishes towards the future of our country. You give so much and ask so little, Voting- just that I show up, spend a little time, and pull your lever on occasion.

I love what happens when we hang out, Voting. I love going to your polling place, greeting all the little old ladies, getting my crisp white ballot and filling it in with firm black pen marks. Most of all, though, I love the little red "I voted!" sticker that I get on my way out. I wear it proudly throughout the day, a badge of honor that declares our very special relationship. I love the way people see my sticker and want to give me free things, like Chipotle burritos, dessert and gas. I feel so joyful and rewarded through my involvement with you.

Most of all, though I love how open our relationship. I am happy to share you with anyone and everyone, and I love how open you are to that possibility. Sometimes I know I talk about you so much that my friends get sick of hearing about you, but you are just so important to me and I think you should be important to everyone. I don't want you to go anywhere, ever, and I know that the one way to make sure you are never taken away from me is to keep in touch, let other people know how great you are and really take the time to get to know you.

Love always,

Hala

October 17, 2006: The Day America Died and King George was Crowned

2006-10-29T11:43:00.000-06:00

"On October 17, 2006, President George W. Bush signed the Military Commissions Act of 2006, which does away with Habeas Corpus and makes it perfectly legal for the government to secretly arrest any American citizen, strip him of his citizenship, hold him indefinitely without charges, try him in front of a military tribunal, and execute him in secret."

I don't know what to say. And apparently neither does the rest of the country because they don't even know it happened. I didn't even know this happened until well after the fact, not because I am ill informed but because it got so little coverage in the general media.

What the fuck, America? Now they really are giving away our civil liberties, burning them with the bodies of our soldiers on the funeral pyre for all that was good about this country, offering them as tribute to our glorious ruler George W. Do people understand that the executive branch now holds all the cards? This is about to get 18 times worse than the McCarthy trials- at least Joseph McCarthy couldn't unlawfully imprison citizens without telling them what they were being imprisoned for. He drove people to suicide with the blacklist, but as wrong as it was at least they knew what they were being accused of.

Without Habeas Corpus we are all at risk. This is not an overstatement- we are now without the right to a trial by a jury of our peers, a limit to how long we can be held without that trial if it is granted to us, and most essentially the right to know what we are being accused of. This is supposedly only in regards to enemy combatants, but who decides what makes an "enemy combatant"? This mystery tribunal? Are we in a comic book all of a sudden? Where is this administration cribbing from- Battlestar Galactica?

What happened to reasonable people in this country? Why aren't people rioting in the streets? In Hungary a politician says that he lied about some economic statistics and people are setting fire to the governtment buildings- we can barely keep ourselves from changing the channel. Perhaps part of the problem is that most of our citizens didn't know what Habeas Corpus was in the first place. It's exceedingly easy to dupe an unsuspecting public- how can the miss what they didn't know they had? Being uneducated about our government and our history is now costing us our most basic freedoms, possibly our lives.

We are better than this America. We are better. We can do better than these people and their duplicity. We have become lazy and silent and overfed and comfortable but the comfort is costing us something much more dear- our souls. No amount of comfort and personal security is worth sacrificing this American Experiment- this great exercise in the will of the people. We have become a joke, the democracy without demos, the people. Even as a representative democracy we have failed- we do not notify our representatives of our wishes and we do not hold them accountable for their poor choices. We must do better, or we will perish. The United States will remain, but it will be a vastly different place than our forefathers imagined. It will be a place familiar to the Ray Bradburys and George Orwells and Margaret Atwoods and Kurt Vonneguts of the world- a nightmare of control and oppression disguised as personal choice. It has happened before- the Romans had their bread and circuses, we have MickeyD's and American Idol. Think about that for a second, American Idol. Idol. As in idolatry, as in worship. We are worshipping celebrity and excess while our leaders are quietly and quickly dismantling the constitution. We have become our own Nero, fiddling while Rome burned.

Please, protest this. I don't care how you do it- call a congressional leader, a senator, write a letter to the editor, for God's sake vote on November 7th, but do something. We have to do something, we cannot be complacent- complacent is complicit. Keith Olbermann is right, history will judge us, and it will not be kind. Where were you when our constituition became just a piece of paper- I pray to God you weren't watching Dancing with the Stars.

The Hooter

2006-10-18T23:22:00.000-05:00

What is it about men?

I mean seriously, what the fuck is it with them? I know much has been written on the subject.; women are from venus men are from mars or whatever bullshit is marketable to women who watch Oprah in elastic pants. But really, when it comes down to it, they are just plain, old-fashioned weird. It started in grade school, some bully on the playground pushing you into the teeter-totter, fracturing your pelvis and laughing, all because he liked you and didn't know how to take the funny feeling in his pants and articulate it in a non-violent manner.

Things are essentially still the same.

Case in point: tonight, I travel with two of my girlfriends (I'll call them Amber and Maureen because that's what their parents named them) to a new favorite hang out, the Town Talk Diner. I know every single person in this joint, mostly because once upon a time I worked as a concierge at the same hotel in which the owner used to manage a restaurant. The grammar in that sentance was horrible, but I'm a wee bit tipsy, so begrudge me the poor English and move on. Anyway, it's like old home week- I feel like someone is going to yell Norm when I walk through the door. However. There is a gentleman, and I use that term loosely, sitting at the bar who I do not recognize. He looks to be about 37, not bad looking, but nothing to write home about. He smiles at me and winks, like he knows who I am.

Gentle reader, he does not know who I am. I do not know who he is. But for the next two hours he unleashes a campaign of oddness that even wild gorillas attempting to attract a mate would be ashamed of. He does the whole catch my eye and wink thing like seven times before I order my first drink. He's elbowing his buddy like it's third period French class- I keep waiting for him to pass me a note. I would find it flattering, if it weren't so damn creepy. There is a very thin line between flirting and stalking, and this guy has not been aquainted with it. At a certain point in the evening he takes his two first fingers, dips them in his drink, sucks them (all the while looking right at me) and proceeds to hoot.

I'll repeat that for effect: hoot. As in hoot and holler. He lets out a wail that some hogcallers might be interested in hearing. Then looks at me again, leeringly, as though the hoot was what I was waiting for. Oh yes, be still my heart. All my life I've waited for a hooter. Take me, I'm yours, hooting-man.

Who hoots? This guy, that's who. Now please, someone tell me why this was a logical response. When I find myself drawn to a young man, I do not bellow at him like some creature from the Black Lagoon. I do not wink at him like I'm having an epileptic seizure and stare while he is trying to enjoy a perfectly decent grilled cheese sandwich. No. I smile, bat my eyelashes, perhaps even stop by his seat at the bar on my way to the restroom to have a casual chat. I do not hoot. This guy, again, not bad looking, could have come over to me, said, "hey, how you doing", or even, *gasp* pulled out the old chestnut of buying me a drink. But no. I attract men that think putting their hand in a cocktail and licking it off like some bad Jenna Jameson impression is the way to win my heart.

So I return to my earlier question: What the fuck is it with men?

Kids With Mullets: Why?

2006-10-06T17:49:00.000-05:00

Upon arrival into the Minneapolis/ St. Paul International Airport I took the 8 mile trek to baggage claim and was greeted by one of the most horrific sights in Christendom:

The kiddie mullet.

This little boy, I'll call him "Cletus", was probably no older than 7 years old, and was running around the terminal like he'd just been given his first 8-ball (cocaine, not novelty item). Of course, cocaine is a high class drug, so maybe it was crystal meth. Anyway. Cletus was sporting faded denim jeans, high top sneakers, a Starter jacket (I didn't know they even made those for munchkins)and some manner of stain covered sweater- in all an exact replica in miniature of his daddy. Now, on top of all of this was a mullet that would have done Billy Ray Cyrus proud... it was super short along the back and sides with a litte tufting at the top, some spiky front bangs, and a series of curly ducktails eminating from the bottom of his skull like horrible fingers of sartorial ugliness.

Now I know what some of you are thinking: "The kid's parents are probably dirt poor you callous bitch." And you are probably right. But I don't fault them for shopping at Goodwill or keeping Cletus warm and clothed. In that they should be commended. What I don't get is the fashion haircut. Those sorts of styles, not matter how ugly, cost real money. So wouldn't it be better for all involved if you just cut junior's hair with a bowl and called it a day? Given a choice I think the world would rather look at Moe than Mel Gibson circa 1987.

This sort of hair choice on a child just defies all understanding. It's complex, it requires upkeep- even product in some extreme cases. The more hair you have on a kid the more you have to hogtie them to wash it, and you just know those little tendrils are going to pick up dirt from God know's where. And furthermore, why would you want your child to look like a diminuitive Nascar driver? Is it the red state equivalent of dressing your daughter in a tutu to make her want to be a ballerina or giving your son a basketball in an attempt to make him into the next Michael Jordan? And what if Cletus ends up like Martina Navritalova? She had a mullet too. Do you think his parents would be happy then?

So, Am I Moving to New York?

2006-10-04T23:25:00.000-05:00

No.

Oh, you want more?

Ok, so, I loved New York. It was an amazing trip, it was terrific to see Melissa and Ben and to have a break from the daily grind of flyover county. The apartment was nice sized for the area, although my bedroom would have been so small I couldn't have taken any of my stuff with me, including my bed, or my shoes. Or my underwear- anyway I expected that, and that wasn't the reason, at least not entirely. I am an only child, and having lived on my own for a while (albeit with a roommate but in very large apartments) I think it would be a very hard transition to sacrifice so much personal area. I didn't think I would be happy because I would be uncomfortable in my home, something that I'm not sure I could handle and know I haven't enjoyedin the past. I can do it, but it makes me want to peel off my own skin. And all those things they say about New York are true too. It's dirty and loud and crowded and smelly and fast. And fabulous, of course. I feel at home in the city, with the fast-pace and the direct people, not rude just busy. It's the way I operate, and it's not exactly popular in the Kingdom of the Passive-Aggressive. When I'm talking to people, thats when I want to live there most. It's the most alive city I've ever been in, but it's a desperate, screaming type of life that can take a bit to adjust to. The truth is, I think New York is a miserable place to live if you don't have money, and I wouldn't have any, not a job, not the prospect of a job. I know that I said before that it didn't matter, but it's one thing to say it siting comfortably at your desk in Minnesota and another to be confronted with the day in and day out reality of living sans paycheck in one of the most expensive cities in the world. It could be done, but why would I be doing it? I suppose to say I could. Well, now I know I can; the question is, do I want to ?

I have to admit that returning to Minneapolis was like putting on an old, comfortable coat, but one that makes you look good and never goes out of style. I had an amazing first night in New York, but I woke up the next morning feeling strangely ill at ease. Part of it was a hang over, part of it was the knock-down drag out fight I was having with my dad, but most of it was homesickness. There was something refreshing about coming home last night, rolling the windows in the car down, driving along the freeway and seeing the sky, wide and open. You don't get that wide open space in New York, unless you go to Coney Island, or the Hamptons. Which is fine, but I think it's in my blood, that need for space, for being able to see for miles. I have run from Kansas, and some how it keeps pulling me back, if only spacially.

So I won't be moving to New York, at least not now. How could I, when Minneapolis and St. Paul are entering the height of haute cuisine and hipster trendiness? If Brooklyn's the new Manhattan, can Minneapolis really be that far off?

Probably, but for now it remains home, and for now that's entirely fine.

Audrey Hepburn is Doing Approximately 8000 RPM in Her Grave

2006-10-04T23:18:00.000-05:00

Do you think in a million billion years that Audrey Hepburn, easily the most graceful and classy movie star to grace the silver screen would be advertising for the Gap? What the hell is her estate thinking? I can't think of two more incongruent things than Audrey Hepburn and bargain denim. The woman made a career on looking elegant, and the Gap makes a quick buck on dressing down America. It's sick.

Bend Over- Meditations on Flying in America

2006-10-04T16:42:00.000-05:00

I have heard tell that once upon a time, in a land of promise and prosperity known as America, travelling by airplane was a thing of glamor and beauty. Families would don their Sunday best and be escorted through a shiny terminal to the destination of their choice accompanied by well-trained and tempered service professionals who would procure for them blankets, beverages both alcoholic and non, four star meals and reading materials of their choice. The compartments were spacious, the companions delightful and the children heavily tranquilized with liquor.

No more.

Flying today resembled nothing else so much as being on the bus in the movie Speed. You're hurtling through the air, cramped, unable to escape, and the person you must intrust your life and luggage too is too busy hating you to care whether you live, die or need and extra pillow- not that you can have an extra pillow, because there no longer are pillows. Pillows, blankets, magazines, snacks, and apparently the souls of most flight attendants have gone the way of the dodo due to "budget cuts". What budget are they cutting? Northwest has declared bankruptcy, is fighting with it's unionized workers, and is basically hemorraging money left and right, and yet they continue to fly all their newly-hired workers to Minneapolis just to get a urine sample. I'm sure you couldn't find anyone to do that testing in DC, or Alaska, or wherever the hell you live. And the executives certainly aren't taking the hit- you would think they could find .50 cents out of their gi-normous paycheck to front me some f-ing peanuts, but no. I now have to pay anywhere from $2-$5 for some lousy "snack-box" during my three and a half hour flight.

I was flying Northwest Airline (aka NWA- Norwegians with Attitude)to New York City, and while it wasn't the most hellish flight I've ever been on (that was American to Chicago when they stranded me at Christmas), it certainly was up there with voluntary dental surgery. First of all, there is the routine full body cavity search you are subjected to at check in- now I've spoken before about the TSA and how I feel about people with GEDs being the only line of defense between me and Crazy the Shoe Fire bandit, but now things are even more out of hand. Before my flight I was very responsible and checked the FAA website for the list of things one could take on board and what needed to be in check luggage. Here's a run down:

4 oz of KY Jelly- totally fine
Gel Filled Bras- a-ok
Cigar cutter- no problem
water- um, only terrorists and commies drink water (seriously, I saw TSA make a child pour out their sippy cup before boarding a flight... because a tiny Japanese tourist baby is going to be packing heat)
toothpaste- Oh, SWEET JESUS, hide the kiddies!

Sooooo... apparently you can have one helluva rockin' orgy on the plane (what are you doing with a half of a cup of KY jelly? How long is your flight?), but absolutely no fresh breath or moisturized skin. Martha Stewart should get involved in this craziness- she could develop a whole line of makeup and skin care products based on personal lubricant. Who knew KY was such a great hair gel?

Moving on from that ridiculousness, we are met with the flight itself. Now, American asses are getting bigger, anyone can tell you that. But planes are getting smaller in conjuction, to meet up togethger in the perfect storm of uncomfortable. I have actually read an article that stated that for shorter flights Northwest is looking to develop a standing "seat", ie a plank of wood onto which passengers will be strapped in like Hannibal Lecter. Does no one else see a problem with this? How can that be safe? We aren't astronauts, this isn't space camp, let the people sit down for God's sake. Of course, we'll have to pay top dollar for the priviledge of being lashed to our "chairs" like Odysseus avoiding the Sirens.

At this point I can say with all seriousness that the experience of riding the New York City Subway was far and away a more enjoyable one than flying pretty much anywhere. At least on the subway i can listen to my iPod without fear that I'm going to bring the plane down. How can anyone really believe that? How is listening to the Postal Service on the ascent of a flight going to jam the circuts? The thing is self contained, it doesn't receive or emit a signal of any sort. Are the electronic systems of most modern aircraft so delicate and fickle that they can be brought to a crashing halt by something with less communicative power than a walkman?

Excuse Me Stranger on the Street, But Did I Mention I Might be Moving to New York?

2006-09-21T22:00:00.000-05:00

I just love the way that sounds. I like the way it rolls off my tounge, the nonchalance with which I say it, as though I might move to New York or I might go backpacking through the Himalayas, it just depends on which way the bohemian wind blows. Most of all I love the way people get that excited look in their eyes, like "man, I wish I could do that." I find myself bringing it up for no particular reason, sharing it with perfect strangers, finding any reason to fit it, however awkwardly, into conversation. I actually got dressed up to go to a play not because I wanted to see the play, but because I had gone to college with half of the cast and just wanted to casually mention to them that I, say it with me, "might be moving to New York."

What's with that? Am I so insecure I have to use geography to justify my existence? Is the possibility of living in the Big Apple supposed to be my entre into another, more exciting. and glamorous life in the eyes of my peers? Or is it just the exilaration I feel being able to finally admit to myself and those around me that yes, I do want to leave the comfort of my midwestern onclave and try my luck in the biggest city of them all? I tried for so long to deny that I wanted to live in a place like New York, tried to pretend that it wasn't important to me whether or not I ever made it in one of the toughest cities in America or was able to tell my children that once upon a time I hung my hat in the city that never sleeps. But once the seed of the idea was planted, once a series of events came into being that made it seem not only possible but probable I realized it was just fear all along. After I hung up with Melissa and was laying in bed, there was an absolute moment of clarity that came over me in which I realized that this whole time, at least since middle school, I really had wanted to live in New York, and that at some point I had tamped that desire down, trying to starve it to death. I hadn't wanted to go because I was afraid I would fail, that I couldn't hack it, that ultimately I was more wheat fields than skyscrapers. What brought on this fear? At what point did the little girl who was taught she could do anything start to believe there was an addendum to that statement, that I could do anything but x,y, or z? And what else is on that list? What else have I been suppressing deep down, telling myself I don't really want because admitting that I do want it might open up a potentially painful can of worms? That's a scary question, but one that I think is important to ask. What have I not given myself permission to want because the wanting is too hard?

I think part of it comes from growing up in Kansas. Despite the healthy ribbing and outright contempt I often express towards the 'Ta, I'm proud of my Midwestern and even my Southern roots. But with that environment comes a certain stoicism and pragmatism, and to an extent I think that living in the Midwest breeds a self-affacing quality into people, as though we must be humble, must not attempt to aspire too far or get "too big for our britches". I don't know if that comes from the cold, or the solitude, or the Teutonic/Scandinavian sense of character-building deprivation, but it's there. Ultimately it's as much our own doing as it is the doing of the coasts, we let them make generalized assumptions about those of us occupying flyover country. We play into their hands by voting Republican so fucking much and trying to put "Intelligent Design" into the state curriculum (Kansas, I'm looking at you).

I'm shaking off the fear and embracing uncertainty. Convention and routine haven't been working out for me too well lately, and to continue pursuing that direction would seem to be madness. I'm sick of feeling afraid all the time, of worrying that my life is passing me by while I try to make up my mind about who I want to be when I grow up. At this rate by the time I figure that one out it will be too late, so I might as well just do what makes me happy from moment to moment. I believe that the Universe (God, Fate, what have you) has a path for me, and as long as I continue to listen to that still, small voice I'll be able to find it. Where did Mary Tyler Moore go after leaving Minneapolis?

Note to Blog Readers

2006-09-16T18:56:00.000-05:00

I accidently disabled comments for the past 2 months without knowing about it. Sorry. Please comment again, I have fixed the issue.

Also, I have a flight out to NYC scheduled for Sept 30th... so exciting! This doesn't mean I am definitely moving... it just means I am definitely considering moving. Then you can all say you have "people" in New York!

eek!

New York, New York????

2006-09-14T23:54:00.000-05:00

My friend Melissa who I met during the Cornerstone Institute last summer in California just invited me to come out and live in the extra room in her apartment in....New York City.

New York City.

She said it to me, said, "come out and live in our extra room for $500 a month (which is like obscenely cheap for NYC). You belong on the East Coast." Of course immediatly I said no, I can't do that.... but as soon as the words were out of my mouth, I realized that it wasn't true. I could of course do that. Of course I could. Now is the perfect time, actually. I don't have a job I'm in love with, I don't have a significant other to worry about leaving, I could even possibly have someone take over my half of the lease.... I have my friends, who are incredibly important to me, but that's about it.

What's stopping me? And why does this idea excite me so very, very much? The thing that has always stopped me from going out to New York is that I didn't know anyone and I didn't have any place to live. Or a job, but you can always find a job. Hotels and banks are almost always hiring, and I have experience in both of those fields. But now, suddenly, those two other criteria were met. I have some money saved up, enough to make the move, I could sell my car and make even more, because who the hell has a car in New York?

It would be an adventure of the truly first class, and the more I've been thinking about it the more I realize that if I don't do it, I may feel disappointed in myself, as though I had somehow let myself down and been a coward. I'm usually pretty well-thought out, a planner, you might say, but suddenly I don't want to plan. Suddenly this feels like the break in the clouds I didn't know I was looking for.

Am I moving to New York?

Gobsmacked by the Cosmos

2006-09-13T12:51:00.000-05:00

My Horoscope for Today: Those of us born under the sign of Cancer the Crab are sometimes pathologically self-sufficient. We can dole out love in abundance but be conflicted about asking for and accepting the love we need.

Ouch. That's cold. But I guess if the Universe can downgrade Pluto from Planet to Dwarf Planet, it can wound me too. Is that my problem, poppets? I don't know how to ask for love? So I run from it and seek it's polar opposite emotions, anger, fear, lust?

Comments and suggestions would be appreciated.

5 Years and a Day

2006-09-12T14:31:00.000-05:00

Today is the day after the 5th anniversary of Sept. 11th, and it just so happens to be the primary elections for Minnesota. I can't think of a better way to commemorate the event then by exercising my right to vote. I hope you all join me.

At what point will this date just become another day? At what point will the wounds be at least scabbed over or enough of us be dead for it to be a dim memory, like Pearl Harbor Day is now? It's hard to imagine that will ever be the case, but in some strange way the certainty that it will provides some small measure of comfort. Not that we will forget the lessons learned on that day or in the aftermath, but that in some way the pain will lessen and we'll be able to examine it from the outside. I hope to live to see that day, so that I can see the men and women who have used September 11th as a buzz word and a campaign slogan villified as they should be.

We all have our "where were you on 9/11 stories", and there isn't much point in rehashing mine. I do remember that just a few months earlier I was lamenting to my father that my generation had no unifying event like Vietnam or the Civil Rights Movement to identify us coheasively and take us out of our little navel-gazing Paris-hilton obsessing bullshit. I didn't mean this, however. This was not what I signed on for. None of us signed on for the 3000 men and women dead that day, the additional 3000 American soldiers dead unnecessarily in Iraq, or the literally countless numbers of dead civilians we've been racking up like points in a video game in Afghanistan and Iraq. I sure as hell didn't sign on for the most partisan and duplicitous government since Nixon's. I didn't sign up to see Toby Keith use the American flag as a backdrop for racism and hatred, or the American government detain and torture people without due process of law, or our civil liberties chopped up into bits and served back to us as "Freedom Fries". I didn't sign on for the diversionary tactic that is the Iraq War, for the killing of innocent civilians who had nothing at all to do with the fight that was actually brought to our door. I didn't sign on to see the nation I love turn the clock back to the era of McCarthy and in a perverse twist, define patriotism like the communists did back in the day: blind obedience.

I could blame the government, but the people get the government that they derserve (vote!). Sure the government has a share in the blame; Bush, Rumsfeld, Cheney, Rove, they whole sinister lot of them are evil to the core of their shriveled black beings, but ultimately we are the collective idiots that put them in power, either by ambivalence, actually voting for them, or not getting the truth out there. I don't want to believe that my countrymen would willingly put these jackals in power if they knew the truth. I may not know the full truth, but I do know that you don't throw good money after bad, and you don't throw American dead bodies on top of other American dead bodies. The President keeps saying we are safer..... how can we be safer when we are at a two-front foriegn war, an internal domestic war for all intents and purposes, and 3000 people who weren't dead three years ago are now very much not alive? We cannot be safer when no other country has our back (and no, Georgie-Boy, Poland does not fucking count); we as a country took the collective goodwill of the nations of the world and literally pissed all over it in attempt to define ourselves as the "don't-fuck-with-me" nation of the New Millenium. We are at present the national equivalent of a steroid junky- so big we are beginning to destroy ourselves from the inside while simultaneously ramping up the hysterical aggression. That sort of behavior is why pitbulls get put down, and eventually we will too. In our quest to fight "terror", we have become terrorists ourselves. Or doesn't it count when the death toll is made of foreign civilians and our own national values?

I don't have any pearls of wisdom with which to end this rant. In the face of tragedy, disappointment, and outrage I think human beings have a need to fill in the gap with meaning and eloquence. In the case of September 11th we should resist that urge. Sometimes the dead shouldn't be covered up with flowers and poetry. Sometimes atrocities should be left as gaping wounds, much like the hole in the ground still left where the World Trade Center once stood. At a certain point you can no longer bury the dead. You have to face them. I can only hope that soon our nation will be ready to stop running from ourselves and hiding behind the guise of "the war on terror", and face the uncertain, but honest, future.

Knee-high Boots and the Meaning of Accomplishment

2006-09-11T17:56:00.000-05:00

On sunday I engaged in a little retail therapy to recover from the weekend, mostly done at Target thank you very much. I found the Holy Grail of chunky-calved girls everywhere, the knee-high boot! And I found it in black and in brown! And in suede! I gotta tell you, before the boots I was feeling pretty shitty about myself. The night before I had gone out and done something so monumentally stupid and yet so clearly what I wanted that I had to be both punished and congratulated. So I punished my wallet and congratulated my closet with my two new pairs of boots. What was it that I did, you might ask? Well, here's a list of things, and you see if you can make out what it was:

Vodka Gimlets
Co-workers and soon to be ex-coworkers.
More Vodka Gimlets
Rides home

I have this horrible habit of putting my mind to something that I have no business putting my mind to and being able to pull it off with little to no effort on my part. But only when it's hooking up with completely inappropriate people or causing my enemies to have unexplained cosmic accidents (like getting laid off from the police force or breaking a limb) or getting everyone that I hate at work to quit or move to a different department. Never anything for the good of mankind or the curing of diseases. Why can't I use my power for good instead of evil? Why was I drawn bad?

Wait, i'm not Jessica Rabbit. I wasn't drawn bad.

I guess ultimately the lesson here is that I can really only accomplish things with Maciavellian expediency when I don't have a dog in the fight. When I have nothing to lose and really, nothing to gain either, that's when i am up to the challenge, when the gloves can come off and I pull no punches. When there are no stakes except my own internal narrative, I perform beautifully. So why can't I take that devil may care attitude and translate it into the rest of my life? Why can't I regard the LSAT with the same savoire faire as a Saturday night at the bar? Why can't I laugh off the pressures of paying my bills on time and in full in the same why I laugh at some random guy who hits on me? The easy answer is that it matters more, but does it? Does it ultimately matter any more? Are all things equal? Should I be able to go through life putting my mind to every task ahead of me with the same determination and yet lack of pressure that occasionally blesses my mental doorstep?

Should is probably the wrong word. I don't know how to turn off the caring. I don't know how to say that all things are equal, because I don't know if I believe that. I do know that every so often (and by every so often I mean about once a day) I want to shrug off the societal constraints of modern life and just do whatever the fuck I want- run away and join the circus, travel the world, take this very decent and well paying job and shove it, you know, the usual. Is it that I am selfish and morally bankrupt? Is it that I want to run away from responsibilty? Or is it that I want to do as Thoreau did and "live the life I've imagined", which in this case involves me doing whatever I want whenever I want. I suppose it could just be me being 24.

The problem with this is that there are consequences. I'm not Paris Hilton, there isn't infinite amounts of money available to me. If I drop off the face of the planet for a while and bum around Europe, I'm still going to have to get a job eventually. If I sleep with everyone that I want to, inside relationships or out, there are still emotions and other messy ugly stuff to contend with. The only way to live a truly independent existence is to live it independent of people. That way the only one you are hurting is yourself.

But is independence worth the loneliness?

My New Weight Watchers Meeting is Next to an Old Country Buffet

2006-09-02T18:00:00.000-05:00

Seriously, that's just bad comedy.

Not that I would ever eat at an Old Country Buffet, but still... Welcome to America! The land of excess, binging and purging and a guilt-based diet culture. I should take a picture and submit it to the New Yorker. I just think it's cruelty, really, because a lot of people with weight problems also have budget problems, and enjoy a low-priced cornucopia in the vein of OCB. To me, that's the major problem with weight in this country, we make it too damn easy and affordable to put it on, and way too expensive to lose it. It's easy enough to say "eat less, exercise more", but when you live in Minnesota and working out requires a membership to an indoor gym 9 months of the blessed year, weight becomes a class issue. Fat used to mean affluence, but now it signals a lower standard of living, someone who doesn't take care of themselves and has no self control. That's an oversimplifacation of the situation, and it's quickly becoming an epidemic in this country. Our kids are sedentary and unhealthy, and our adults feel powerless to stop it. I have a suggestion:

Calm the fuck down.

Now let me unpack that for you, and trust me, I know whereof I speak. It's one thing to listen to Susan Power's skinny ass go on and on about "the insanity", but real madness is listening to someone who's been thin their whole life talk about weight loss. I'm not saying some who is thin can't have adequate perspective on maintaining a healthy weight and lifestyle, of course they can and do, but I'm talking about losing. And you can't understand losing if you've never lost, and never had to. What we really need is women like Wendy the Snapple Lady talking about weight loss. She hasn't been very successful, but at least I can appreciate her perspective. The nice thing about Weight Watchers is that everyone that works there has had a sustained weight loss for like, decades. I can trust them. So the first part of my CTFD theory is stop listining to over-pumped fitness gurus who do nothing more with their days then work out. You will learn nothing from them short of how to feel woefully inadequate, and that ain't gonna help, sunshine.

Next, stop with the low fat/fat free foods. I know this sounds radical, but seriously, fat tastes good, and if you are enjoying what you are eating, eating less of it isn't going to piss you off half as bad as it could. Also, keep in mind that some of that flavor must be replaced, and what replaces it is usually sugar, which your body turns into fat at the end of the day anyway, so you're screwed. I'm not talking about skim milk, but I am talking about fat free cheese. That's fucking card board, and cannot be good for you. Look at the label. If you can't pronounce half the ingredients, let alone know what they are, do not under any circumstances swallow it. Calm down, take a breath, and remember what your mama told you: was it, "eat processed soy product melted on your egg substitute and suck it down with some fat free bread while you are at it?" I'm betting not (and fat free bread? Seriously, how much fat is in a slice of whole grain bread, like .5?). I'm pretty sure it was something along the lines of "eat your veggies and drink you milk". Eat food, not food product. We get so excited about the next big low fat-no fat-food type thing that we forget that food's principle point is NOURISHMENT, not weight loss. When did we forget how to eat food in this country? I was in the supermarket today to buy some salad dressing, and all but the organic granola-eating-hippie salad dressings had high fructose corn syrup as the primary ingredient. When was the last time you wanted to pour some Karo syrup on your tossed greens? Yum. You know what's a no fat salad dressing? Balsamic vinegar. Lemon Juice. Even Soy Sauce. If you seriously don't want any fat, don't fill that void with the magic of modern chemistry. That's what gave us the A-bomb.

The third component of the soon to be pattented CTFD Theory of weight management is to slow down. Stop making life so f-ing stressful. We do it to ourselves, and we know it. We don't have to do everything, it is entirely permissible to sit on our asses watching bootleg copies of the Closer. But, while doing that all important ass-sitting, we can also be cooking a normal, food-only dinner, comprised of normal things like fish, vegetables, rice, whatever. The point is, when we are stressed out we make poor choices about everything. Our food choices under pressure, like a deadline, are the dietary equivalent of the complete fuck-up you walk out of the bar with at closing time. Your judgement is clouded by the time crunch, and what seems like a perfectly sensible decision at 2am makes your stomach turn a couple hours later. This nauseous feeling is true for both boys and greasy fast food.

Of course I started this all talking about the obesity epidemic with our children, and I think it's coupled with an overall epidemic of eating disorders, whether over or under. We do not have a healthy relationship with food as a nation, and it is quite literally killing us. I, like most American females, wish they would publish a list of the publicists, personal traners, chefs, clothing consultants, designers, etc. that help make our celebrities what they are. If they could just do that, I think I would get exhausted just looking at the list and feel sorry for the poor, beautiful creatures. But publishers don't do that, and so our daughters are growing up thinking it's perfectly possible, and in fact necessary to look like Jessica Simpson. We don't value health in this country, we value aesthetics, and if you don't fit into that aesthetic, well, hopefully you are smart. I don't understand how we got back here, obsessing about our weight and comparing ourselves with magazines, hoping a boy will notice us. What happened to Women's Lib? Even feminists these days are participating in strip aerobics and buying Us Weekly. And I guess that's their choice, but I feel that I know or know of far too many women my age who are just biding their time in their careers until they can nab a husband, and it makes me feel dirty.

What does that dynamic have to do with weight? Well ultimately what we are telling ourselves is that only thin people are worthy of love. I cringed inwardly at the moment in Little Miss Sunshine when Olive's father (played so on-spot annoying by Greg Kinnear) tells her that ice cream will make her fat and if she's fat she can't be a beauty queen. I cringed today when I was at Weight Watchers and saw an anorex-ercising mom bring in her daughter. The daughter was tall and maybe a little overweight, but clearly solid and in excellent shape. I overheard them talking, and the daughter was swimming 3 hours a day as the captain of the swim team! Why the fuck was she there? I hated that mother. I felt like smacking her I was so angry on behalf of that girl. What was it going to take for the mother to be proud of her daughter? What clothing size equals love? What did the scale have to say before she could be happy with the beautiful young woman she had raised, apparently in-between trips to the treadmill? So when I say Calm the Fuck Down, ultimately what I really want is for people to take stock of what is important in their lives. I think when they do that, really do that, their weight might become much less important, and once we stop obsessing about it, we just might be fine. The chatter isn't going anywhere, but no one says you have to listen.

Now, just file with entry under "if only Hala could take her own advice." I'll keep you posted.

I Got Schooled By the Homeless

2006-08-30T00:53:00.000-05:00

So, four years of acting classes and tonight I had my performing ass handed to my by a bunch of homeless men.

Perhaps I should explain. I went to a workshop tonight that brought together homeless and housed people as a first step towards creating an original work for Homeless Awareness Week in November. Now, I have worked with all sorts of different communities throughout my shortish tenure as a theatre artist, and I have worked with homeless people before as well, although not in a theatrical capacity. But tonight, I who am never without words, was literally stunned speechless and thrown completely off my game. As one of the exercises towards the beginning of the evening, we were supposed to inact a "typical" scene of some aid workers trying to persuade some folks living on the street to come to a shelter. Since I was paired up with four homeless or formerly homeless men, I was of course supposed to be the aid worker. So I start to "get into character", trying to think up what I could say to these people to get them to come to my proverbial shelter, and in the back of my mind I'm thinking, why the hell wouldn't you want to come in off the minnesota february streets and into the warmth of the shelter?

Silly, bourgeoisie girl. As I went to work on my schpiel, these guys were ignoring me. Just flat out ignoring me. They were pretending to smoke a crack pipe, hit on me distractedly, drink, get a blow job (from an imaginary other homeless woman), but mostly just ignoring me. In real life they were being encouraging, telling me to keep trying, but they were trying to make a point, that out there is freedom, with no stupid bitch from the shelter telling them when to come and when to go, what they can have in their room and who can't be in their room. It may not be the most comfortable place to sleep, but no one can tell you what to do in the tent city. Even the cops avoid it.

I don't know why it effected me so much, but it was the first time in a long time that I felt truly out of my depth. I just had no frame of reference for this and therefore no tools in my acting toolbox. But mostly, I think it was the question that one of the asked me: "What would you be willing to sacrifice to get our attention." I didn't have an answer for him, for that particular scene or for my feelings about being an actor as a whole, and it totally knocked me on my ass. What was I willing to sacrifice? How far was a willing to go as a performer? I didn't know, but these men challenged me as an actor in a way I hadn't been challenged in a very long time. It wasn't that their performances were great, it was that their reality was so different from mine, and they were so completely willing to embrace the truth of it. There was no artifice, it was "in the tent city there are people shooting up and smoking crack and having sex with everyone around them watching, so if you really want to be heard little missy, you're just going to have to deal with it". They weren't embarrassed and they weren't trying to embarrass me- it was just their lives, and they weren't going to sugarcoat it. It was my responsibility as a participant in their narrative to meet them on their terms.

It had been some years since I had worked with the homeless, actually 10 years, to be exact. I worked in some soup kitchens and community centers on a mission trip to Chicago in the summer before my sophomore year of high school, and it really changed my opinion of the homeless. Before that, by virtue of living in Kansas where there are very few homeless people and a lot of vocal rightwing republicans, I thought that homelessness was a result of laziness and stupidity. I also thought that george bush senior had been a great president at that point, so you see how far we've come, yes? After speaking to many homeless people on the mission trip, mostly at dinners at soup kitchens and while baby sitting in community centers I came to realize that many thousands, if not millions of Americans are one paycheck or less away from homelessness. It's not about laziness, it's about circumstances, although every single homeless person at the event tonight said that remaining homeless is a choice. They believe that getting out of the cycle has to be your own doing, no matter what the situation. They respect that there are a lot of things in life that you can't control and that can contribute to sudden homelessness, but you also have to seek out resources and work at if you want to move on and out of shelters etc. This may have been a particularly optimistic group, but they seemed to have a good handle on why they were where they were, and articulately debated the causes behind homelessness, like chemical dependency, mental illness, and wanting to stay with ones family (a lot of shelters won't except kids under 18, so that splits up families, and many transitional housing facilities don't allow signifigant others or even married couples to live together). I was amazed by the educational and family backgrounds of the people in the group tonight. We had men and women with graduate degrees, 8 children, grandchildren, parents who were doctors and lawyers, recovering addicts and bible thumpers. There was a huge range of experiences in the group, and the saddest part was that most of them had jobs. One guy I talked to had a job and a car, but just couldn't get enough money together for first month and last month rent. Not to mention that even if people have the money, they may not pass the credit or criminal check. And how do you apply for a job when you don't have a phone or an address?

I was impressed with the people I met tonight. They were better informed and more well read than most of the housed people i know, and had a much better grasp of the socio-political situation of the twin cities, not just in regards to their own circumstances, but to the whole scene. They debated about why they were where they were, and how the community could collectively move up. They were funny and joyful, in a way that I don't know that I could be if I found myself without a home. I was grateful for the experience, and hope to work with them all again. And the next time you see a panhandler on the street, instead of pretending they aren't there, if you don't have the money or don't want to give it, just tell them that. Don't ignore them as though they do not exist. According to the folks I met tonight, they would much prefer you just acknowledged them, even if it is to say no. It's better than being invisible.

Ode to a Leprechaun

2006-08-30T00:49:00.000-05:00

In true Irish fashion, I offer a Limerick of thanks:

There once was a wee man named Wayne
Whose Mac-ability garnered some fame.
He can't be understood
'Cause his accent's no good.
But man, can he fix a mainframe!

Thanks for taking care of my baby, Poodle.

The Day the Mac Died (or Why I Have Been Silent for So Long)

2006-08-29T16:10:00.000-05:00

It's hard to talk about it. I still feel so raw inside, like a gaping wound the size of my whole body. I'll try to tell the tale however, so that others might be spared the horror I went through.

*gasp*

At 2am on August the 18th, I was returning home from an evening out with friends, and poured myself a cup of water to keep by my bedside. Unfortunately, for reasons that escape me now, I was at less than my peak gracefulness and managed to spill the entirety of said cup of water onto the floor. On the floor at this time was my ibook G4, aka the Love of My Life.

*sob*

Frantic, I tossed towels, dirty clothes, the cat, anything I could get my hands on onto the floor to mop up the spillage, but alas, to no avail. The damage was done, and when I opened up Mackie all i got was about three seconds of light and joy before she was plunged into stygian blackness. Something was terribly wrong! So I did what any right thinking person in my situation would do, I woke up the Mac tech that happened to be living in my house. This is the real reason Wayne came into my life, not because of Amy, not because they're going to get married and have 17 rather short leprechaunish babies, but because the cosmos knew that my Mac would someday be in jeaopardy. It's like the end of Signs, when you finally understand why Mel Gibson's wife kept telling Joaquin Phoenix to "swing away". To Wayne's credit he jumped right into action and wasted none of the time screaming and cursing at me that I would have if some person had awakened me from my beauty sleep to tell them i had dumbassedly spill water on a glorified appliance.

The professional advised me to put Mackie on the baseboard heater to dry her out, and he'd take a look at it tomorrow. Tomorrow came, and she was still behaving the same way, still starting just fine, getting your hopes up, then crashing and making me want to cry. This was the most boyfriend-like she had ever behaved, and I felt betrayed. Those who know me know that I am obsessed with my computer. I love it. If it were human, I would marry it. It's reliable, beautiful, stylish, and efficient. So much better than most of the people I've ever dated. So this new behavior was very upsetting. I had come to rely on something, and it was letting me down in a way I never thought it would.

Later that day Wayne called me to tell me everything was fine, that she was all put back together and was just behaving badly. There was joy in my heart once again. I was elated. I felt so happy to be back with Mackie, it felt right, like old jeans and childhood stuffed animals. But then, just when I was getting comfortable, a second round of tragedy struck. I could not get her to turn on. She just went blue, no explaination, no warning, just kaput. Nothing. I was inconsolable. I felt jostled by the cruel winds of fate, a prisoner of chance and the Mac gods. It was a terrible place to be. Wayne went in, and discovered that I needed a new logic board. Would I have to get a new computer entirely? Would we not be together through the good times and bad that law school had in store for me? Would I never again feel the warm embrace of my beloved Mackie?

Well, as it turns out, yes, I would feel all those things again. For $469.00 on ifixit, I got my baby back. I have yet to see her post-op, but Wayne says she is recovering nicely and is even a smidge faster. I could turn this into a commentary on how dependent we are on technology or how computers have become so essential to our functioning in society, but at this moment I really couldn't give a shit about any of that. I have my ibook back, and I'm once again a whole person.

Countdown to the LSAT

2006-08-22T16:03:00.000-05:00

I have officially decided to apply to law school. However, deciding to do something and actually executing the change are two vastly different things. How did I decide on law school in the first place, you might be wondering? Well. Hmm. Um.

As many of you know my mother is an attorney and I have always been very impressed by and proud of her accomplishments in this field. Growing up people would always ask me whether or not I was also going to be a lawyer, and of course I told them no... I was going to be an actress!

Ha.

So the whole acting thing didn't work out because I got bored, and the whole changing the world through art thing didn't work out because it felt like hammering my head against a brick wall day in and day out. A brick wall made of poor dirty hippies who live with 17 cats. Here's the problem with wanting to change the world: the other people who want to change the world with you are infuriating. These people are all about nice feelings and everyone being loved and not actually getting anything fucking done. There is so much in-fighting, navel-gazing and incompetency in most non-profit organizations it would make your head spin. They are lovely human beings, but I wouldn't trust most of them to lead a cub scout troop, let alone the last great hope of humanity.

Wow. I'm a terrible person.

Anyway, so I decided that if I really wanted to make a tangible and in any way, shape, or form immediate change in the world I would need to become a mover and/or shaker. Also, I really want to be like Josh on the West Wing, and he went to law school, so I figure this might be a good first step towards becoming a cutthroat lobbyist (kidding. sort of). The first step towards this first step is taking the LSAT. This will be my first standardized test since the ACT and the SAT, and while I did well on those there has been a lot of beer and pot consumed since I was a senior in high school. I may be really stupid at this point, who knows? And everyone around me is putting the fear of god into me about not having started studying for the LSAT around the time I was actually conceived. Why haven't I started studying, when the test is little over a month away, you might ask. Here's the thing: much like the President of the United States, i'm not a studier. I don't study. I never have, and I've always done pretty well with that plan. This is not to say that I don't work hard at school, I do. But I don't really sit at a desk with a test prep book and "study", in that traditional sense. I imagine the hardest part about law school for me might be the learning to study in that traditional sense. But I don't really think deep down its my inner ferris bueller or spicolli that is keeping me from studying, I think it's what Yoda would call fear (of failure).It's like if I start studying for this test I'm admitting that I am really doing this, that I am really going to law school and becoming a lawyer and will probably never tap dance on broadway. Not that I know how to tap dance really, but still....I know that I don't want a life in the theatre anymore, but it's still hard to let go of the nostalgia for the dreams I once had (sorry, I was watching Dr. Phil today).

It's so much harder to apply for graduate school than it was for college. First of all, i have no fucking clue where I want to go to school. I bought one of those Princeton Review books that goes through every school ever ABA accredited, but I'm barely into the Ns and I've been reading it since May! Before I went to college I literally had two giant plastic garbage bags chalk full of materials sent to my by prospective colleges just because I had been able to write my name on the PSAT booklet. Now I'm applying to schools based on a two page blurb that may or may not have been updated in the last 3 years. Of course, I can ask for prospecti, but after the fawning that I experienced pre-college it feels dirty somehow, like begging for attention from these schools. I'm definitely above that.

I'm so far above that I'm probably going to end up going to some non-accredited at night law school in a strip mall.

The other reason that it is harder to apply for gradschool is that I now have a job, instead of parents. Meaning that instead of being fed, clothed and cleaned for (to an extent) I am having to actually take care of myself, work a full time job and find another 40 hours a week to commit to the application process. I know I sound like a whiney baby, and I don't care. This is why I am going back to school. Real Life is hard. Boo.

So if any of you know of great, affordable law school programs, want to help me write up my CV, or just do my applications for me, let me know. I promise you free legal counsel in the future. Whether or not I'll be able to get you off, well, that's just a crapshoot I guess.

To the Person or Persons Who Wrote that I Was "Too Direct" in My 6 Month Review

2006-08-18T00:13:00.000-05:00

Ahem.

Buck the fuck up you whiney little baby. It is not my job to be your friend, hold your hand, on in anyway give two little shits about your wellbeing other than in so far as you are another human being. And even that is pushing it. If you think I'm mean now, I can show you mean, and much like the hulk, you will not like me when I am angry. So go back to your little desk, you passive-aggressive fuck, and worry less about my performance and more about your own incompetence. It is not my fault that you're a dumbass, and I'm not about to start tiptoeing around your personal issues. The next time you have a problem with me why don't you grow a set and tell me about it to my face? Just keep hiding behind your anonymous reviews and I'll keep treating you like the intellectual equivalent of a 90-pound weakling that you are. Because no matter what you thought your review of me would make me feel, mostly it makes me feel sorry for a grown person that can't even speak up when they feel they have been wronged. Until you learn to do that, you're just going to keep getting pushed around by the universe, sunshine.

How's that for direct?

Why I Should Apparently Never Leave the State of Minnesota

2006-08-14T20:55:00.000-05:00

I bring catastrophe and discomfort in my wake. The Fursts have had a long tradition of either slightly preceeding or following natural disasters: hurricanes in Florida, earthquakes in San Francisco, tornados all throught the midwest. But I have now become a personal magnate for my own particular brand of travelling horror. It's always on the way back, as though the universe were trying to tell me that being on vacation is where I'm meant to stay. I'm frankly inclined to agree with it, but there are these pesky things like bills and rent that have a nasty habit of asserting themselves whenever I want to take off and move elsewhere. This time I was travelling to Kansas City, and while the trip down was rough, that was completely of my own doing. I had made the absolutely stupid decision to go out the night before I was to make the drive (just so we are all clear, this is a 7 hour drive meant to be commenced at about 6am in order to get me into KC at check-in time at the hotel), and thought, ok, I'll just have one drink and catch up with my friend Maureen. The thing about me and Maureen is though that we are not so much friends as we are drinking buddies. We are friends, we chat and we lend emotional support, but mostly we go to happy hour. That's how we met, that's what we do. We're good at it. So I go out at about 10pm to meet Maureen at this club where she wants to see a particular DJ. Only when we get there the DJ is a no show, so I think, good news, we'll just be here for a little bit. Wrong. There are $3 well drinks to be had, so we have them. I'm about two gimlets into the evening when a couple of friends of mine from my previous career at the hotel come over and say hi. I had once had a crush on one of them, so of course we're going to be staying for a while. Skip to several more gimlets, me falling on the dance floor (in the most beautiful and elegant fashion, natch), and 3am at Mark's apartment. (Don't worry, nothing happened, mom).

So there's this noise in my ear, and I think to myself, why the fuck is someone screaming in my bedroom?

But sadly, it was not someone being disemboweled all Braveheart-style. No, the wiser among you have already guessed that it was my alarm, a scant 3 hours later at 6am. And of course, because I didn't want to have to explain to my parents that I was late reaching Kansas City because I was hungover I get up. Actually, they would probably have more sympathy for that situation than most, but still, it's an uncomfortable admission. So instead of calling them and letting them know I was going to sleep for another hour I dragged my ass out of bed and into the car.

The car without air conditioning. Why does my car not have air conditioning you might ask? Because repairing the air conditioning in my car will cost be $1,450.00, and if I had that kind of scratch I would use it for a down payment on a new car.

Since this is the summer that Proves Al Gore is Telling the Truth, not having air conditioning on a 7 hour drive in the a southernly direction quickly became my own very personal version of hell. Literally. Like a burning lake of fire with a pitchfork wielding demon included. I should mention that nothing puts me in a more irritable mood then the heat. The heat and traffic. So of course the ruthless combination of record temperatures and the dumbest fucking drivers in America mixed to give me one lethal bad mood. Seriously, what is wrong with drivers in this country? How is it legal for someone to watch a DVD while driving a motor vehicle at 85 miles an hour? And why has no one else gotten the memo that the left lane is for passing or at least driving a hell of a lot faster than everyone in the right lane? I swear I want to mount a bull horn to the hood of my car.I was ready to kill someone, and that was before the hangover actually hit me, which it did somewhere in Iowa. Iowa smells like pig shit, and is the largest, longest state in the entire union. I don't care what the map says, if they have disproportionately given priveledge to the northern hemisphere they have also scaled Iowa to like one-fifth of it's hog-waste smelling size. And I could smell it all, because hangovers hit me like migraines, everything is heightened, including my sense of smell and my hatred for all human beings.

So finally, after what feels like a literal eternity I arrive in sunny Kansas City MO. The time spent there with my folks, by the pool, etc, was terrific. But then come sunday, I had to make the drive back. It was 101 degrees by the time I left and I was in no mood to fuck around on the interstate with some Missouri rednecks who couldn't find their ass with a map and two hands. I managed to evade most of them, but still was sweating like a stuck pig by the time I reached Iowa. Of course, in Iowa being a stuck pig is a popular thing to be, so I felt right at home. I keep hearing noise on the radio about storms coming into Iowa and Missouri, and low and behold out of nowhere a whole sky full of storm clouds appear. I'm officially fucked. I'm in the literal middle of nowhere, I have no map, and therefore have no way of knowing where I am in relationship to the storm. Of course, this ceases to be an issue when the barometer dropped like a rock and the clouds opened up. I was looking around for an arc and animals in pairs it was raining so hard. Everyone had to pull over to the side of the road and just sit tight. I couldn't get cell service because of the torrential downpour, so I was relegated to listening to the farm and weather report on KIOA (say it out loud. Clever, aren't they those iowegians). Fun.

Eventually the weather cleared up about an hour later and I was able to get back on the road, having lost much in time and patience. It simply reinforces my theory that whether it's being stranded in Chicago with no flights home, losing luggage on a direct fucking flight or being caught in the storm of the century, if I leave home, people get inconvenienced. Usually me. Perhaps it would be best for all parties involved if I just stayed put for awhile, on a beach with a boat drink.

Can We Officially Make a Bomb Out of Anything?

2006-08-10T16:10:00.000-05:00

File this under You Have to Laught to Keep From Crying:

A sports drink and some hair gel are reportedly what "terrorists" were using to create explosive devices on about 10 flights between here and Great Britain. I think it's official: If Gatorade and Pantene Pro-V can combine to make a nuclear weapon, every bored 9 year old boy in this country has a de facto license to kill. At this point it's just embarrasing- we spend 89 gadzillion dollars a year on weapons to defend ourselves and it can all be taken down with a approximately $3.89 and a CostCo membership. As per ususal, I'm less disturbed by the plot than I am with our response to it, which has been pretty much as ridiculous as ever. Our administration has no imagination. Their responses to these attempted attacks are basically just to restrict our rights to the point where any trip to Grandma's most closely resembles a chapter from A Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovitch meets 1984. They leap into action like your third grade teacher- punishing everyone because one wackjob thought this would be a good idea. The shoe guy wanted to use his tennies to create a fire, so everyone has to take off their shoes. These cats were going to create bombs out of the contents of a Walgreens, so no one gets to take lotion, hair gel, water, makeup, anything on a flight. I don't know about you, but that puts a major cramp in my style. Airplane flights are notorious dehydrating, and I for one need to apply lotion, drink some water, smooth down the do, and usually put on some makeup towards the tail end to avoid emerging from the plane like some sort of diminuitive Yeti. Doesn't this administration figure that if they stopped the plot Al Qaida might move onto some new material?

Which of course leads us into scary, new territory ducklings: maybe our government is misdirecting our attention in an attempt to get us all to fall in line and give up some of those pesky personal and political liberties that have been causing Georgie-Boy so much trouble lately. I don't doubt that there are people out there that hate America (oversimplification alert)and want to destroy us. I don't doubt that there are madmen and zealots who will stop at nothing to crush that which they disagree with. What I do doubt is that any amount of security checkpoints, gel-less hair styles and flip flops are going to keep us safe. Lets face it, we have the modern day equivalent of Barney Fife performing the general operations of the TSA. I wouldn't trust the security people at airports to feed my fish, let alone with the last line of defense between me and some psycho. I don't think these people even have to have a high school diploma, and I'm going to trust them to stop a terrorist attack at 50,000 feet. Right. Your ass would be history, and we all know it. If a terrorist wants to get on that plane, they are getting on that plane, end of story.

So is this all a song and dance to make us feel more safe or less safe? Is it an exercise in pretending to be protecting us so we'll feel satisfied with our security, or is it an attempt by the powers that be to raise anxiety and create the feeling that we would collectively stop at nothing just to be able to relax again. You decide. I know what I think.

I'm a Bad Artist

2006-08-07T09:14:00.000-05:00

So I just realized that it's been over two weeks since I posted something on this blog. How awful of me. I've probably completely alienated my fan base. I've definitely been keeping busy, if it's any consolation, with meetings and protests about Israel's ridiculous war, weddings, visits from the Mommy, and work-party boat cruises. Obviously some things were more fun than others....

There is something that I have been meaning to confess to you all, my gentle readers, and it is this: I am a Bad Artist. The Fringe Festival as once again come to town and once again I am overflowing with apathy. I could literally not care less that this is going on, which always makes me feel slightly dirty, as though my theatre degree is going to animate itself and kill me with a thousand papercuts. I'm proud to live in a city and a state that houses this awesome theatre festival, but man, I just don't wanna go! Every year I read a list of the shows that are playing, literally hundreds of different things, and not a one catches my eye. And so I have come to realize, even accept, that I am just a bad artist.

I don't mean bad like Carrot Top is bad, believing props to be a legitimate medium for expression. I do fancy myself a decent performer, director and *ahem* writer. I mean bad in terms of my committment to being a participant or spectator to other people's artwork. I'm not big on supporting others, lets be honest. It takes a lot to convince me a show is worth seeing, and I don't know if this makes me an aesthete or just lazy. The Pre-Raphaelites struggled with that distinction too, and they were brilliant artists. Shitty human beings, maybe, but the kids could paint. I think the problem is really that deep down I find nothing more abhorrent than bad theatre (ok, obviously that's not true, killing puppies or stealing from orphanages is probably worse, but unless you're Snidley Whiplash you're just not going to see as much of those things as you will see truly, deeply, disturbingly bad theatre). Now I speak from experience kids, I have been on both sides of some really horrible pieces of stagecraft. I remember one play in particular where I was overjoyed to have a huge speech cut because it meant I wouldn't have to expose myself to the public and give voice to the drivel that was masquerading as dialogue. Man, that was a bad play. For those of you not in the "biz", when and actor wants less stage time, you're in serious trouble. Trying to make those words sing was like playing a musical saw. Every so often you could hit a note, but most of the time you are rubbing metal on a jagged edge. See? The writing in that play was so bad the memory of it is making my writing bad. Lets move on.

I can't say which is worse, being in a bad play, or being subjected to it. At least watching jarringly bad theatre can be entertaining in it's punishing absurdity. The problem is that I tend to get serious giggle fits when presented with absurdly awful spectacles, as anyone who went to see the show "Tales of Djoha" can attest.I can't control myself when it comes to onstage stupidity, I just lose it. This may create a disruption amongst the more honest, non-schaedenfreude-seeking theatre-goers, but seriously, the only appropriate reaction to a woman pretending to be a demon having sex with an elf-puppet while the music from Pokemon plays in the background is stunned silence followed by horrified laughter. There is no other response that makes sense. I guess walking out might be acceptable, but not nearly as much fun. Plus, when you walk out you have to deal with the sad eyes of the performers, watching you leaving and slowly dying inside with the sheer shame of being in this worthless piece of crap just because they can't admit to their artsy friends that they'd rather be working a desk job then cavorting with low rent muppets.

This is the show I think of when it occurs to me that I am squandering my degree.

I Heart Miss Japan

2006-07-23T23:32:00.000-05:00

Tonight, while stuffing our faces with roasted chicken Waymy (meaning Amy and Wayne, thanks Tai!) and I watched the Miss Universe Pageant. This was of course a completely accurate metaphor for American society as a whole (except that Wayne is Irish...anyway): sitting on the couch, gorging ourselves while watching anorexic foriegn women objectify themselves on TV. Ish. But, that being said, it was kind of fun. These women may have been smart, I don't know, but their profiles were like a competition in the Insipid Olympics. One of the them, i think it was Miss Trinidad and Tobago, listed "Meditating, Watching Movies, and Socializing" as her interests. The next, Miss Puerto Rico (and as an aside, why is there a Miss PR? Aren't they techinically a part of the US? I know they aren't a state, they are a territory... is this a trade off for not having representation in congress?) mentioned "Watching Reality TV" as one of her interests. And Miss USA, who I'm pretty sure was legally retarded, mentioned "playing with her Cat and Dogs". I think that was a euphemism.

The one exception to this was Miss Japan. She was a looker to be sure, I wouldn't have kicked her out of bed (ok, well I probably would because a) I'm not gay and b) I'd be really freaked out to wake up and have Miss Japan sleeping next to me), but this was what won me over: her short list of interests was "French Cinematography" and "Flamenco Dancing". This may not seem like much, but in comparisson to "socializing" she might has well have listed "Nuclear Physics". During the Evening Gown competition Miss Japan (or MJ, like I prefer to call her) was the only one wearing black, while everyone else looked like some sort of demented taffeta cupcakes. She came off as elegant, intelligent, and charming, while the others seemed confused and uncomfortable. Then, the piece de resistance: during the "interview" (or one idiotic question that your other finalists wrote in eyeliner while trying to remember how to spell) MJ was asked the question "If you could change one thing in history, what would it be?" Now, knowing MJ as I do, I thought for sure this Okinawa homegirl would break out with "Not having nuclear bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki would have been great", but she did one better. In the middle of a beauty pageant, in which her job is to be objectified by a panel of mostly male judges and the international public at large, she says that what she would change through time was "the history of men oppressing women." Boo-ya.

Of course, MJ got second place, she was the first runner up, so in the event that someone finds inappropriate pictures of Miss Puerto Rico she might get a chance at that crown. But when she found out that she lost, she took her flowers and walked off stage. Didn't stick around to smile and cry and pretend to be happy for the winner like the rest of hypocrits, she just left, like "Screw you stupid bitches, I've got some French Cinema to watch." And I love her even more for that.

This is to replace my earlier, less articulate post on being a "QuirkyAlone"...I encourage you to read this one.

2006-07-23T22:48:00.000-05:00

Now that I've actually finished the book, "QuirkyAlone", i think we should start with a definition of terms. As defined by Sasha Cagen et. al a QuirkyAlone, or QA, is a person who prefers to be alone rather than compromise their romantic ideals; who values friendships as their primary relationships and builds a family of friends; who can be in relationships but doesn't espouse the "tyranny-of-coupledom" mentality; who understands and lives the distinction between solitude and loneliness, and who are generally quirky, compelling individuals. I of course am a QA, but didn't realize it. I thought I was just a freak who didn't like babies and rejected the ideal of the picket fence for a loft and a vacation home in south beach. Case in point: everytime someone (usually a girl, lets be honest) has a baby they want to parade it around. I'm fine with that, good for them, they shoved something out of their body and they should be proud of that. However. They bring this thing for me to look at and they expect cooing and cuddling and all those typical girly behaviors, and I just can't deliver. I just don't get it up for babies. I don't get what the big fucking deal is. If I wanted something that pooped its pants and couldn't communicate in my life I would still be dating my ex (kidding....sort of). I get why people get all excited about their own babies and I'm sure I'll be the worst offender when I have kids (yes I want kids. It will be like a science experiment...kidding....sort of), but why do they expect everyone else to be all excited? They present me with this baby and look at me all expectant like I'm going to suddenly break out with the googoo gaga crap, and all I can think of is complete, adult sentences, like "my, what an articulate way to express your wants through the medium of the scream. What an elegant social commentary on the commercialism inherent in modern american life. I think i'll join you in your primal yell." Surprisingly enough, that never goes over well with the parents. I've lost many a coworker's trust with that routine. But to them I say, "no one told you to bring your fucking baby to work. This is where I come to do my job, make personal long distance phone calls, and write my blog. Now get your orangutan out of my face."

Ahem. I wasn't much of a babysitter, lets put it that way.

The fact of the matter is that ultimately I do want to be in a relationship and have a family, and I think anyone that spends at least 3.2 minutes with me can see that, but I want to be in a relationship that I haven't encountered yet. Every so often I'll see a kid out of the corner of my eye, and smile, knowing that someday I'll understand what all the hoopla is about. But I don't know if marriage is the right word, or partnership, or whatever. I'm not trying to be new age, I've just been thinking a lot now about what I want out of life, and what I should call the person that could accompany me on that journey. Right now I am loving being with my friends, and being with myself, in a way that I always have but hadn't given myself permission to enjoy. I always thought something was missing from my life because I didn't have a boyfriend (to put it like the junior high kids do), and while I felt fulfilled and loved, it was never enough. Then I actually got a boyfriend, and after much soul-searching and introspection realized that it was absolutely enough, and I was much, much happier without this freeloader taking up all my time and using all my gas to drive his lazy ass around town. I was much happier not being this needy, clingy thing because I thought that was how you demonstrated that you "really cared". I was so afraid of letting him figure out that I really didn't give two shits about his comic books and his beer brewing because I thought we would break up. After we did break up, I realized that if I was afraid to let him know I had no interests in his interests, it probably wasn't worth my time pretending to care and being resentful in the process. Since I broke up with the J-dog I have regained some of the confidence that went on hiatus when I started college and really let myself start to wallow in the joy of being single. I'm sad it took me this long to figure it out, but I think I had to go through all the bad, broken relationships, especially this last one, in order to understand that I'm the only person I can count on being with for the rest of my life, so I better be fan-fucking-tastic.

I don't know what's with all the f-bombs in thsi blog. I'm excited, I guess. I now officially know what to call myself besides militantly feministic and independent.

So what do QAs like to do, you ask? Well, this one likes to go to movies alone. That way no one can yell at me for talking at the characters, laughing too loud, crying, heckling, etc. I'm pretty much a movie-going nightmare, which is why I always reject it as a first date choice, unless I really want to see the movie and I can't afford to see it on my own (admit it, we've all gone on dates not out of desire for the person, but out of desire for a free meal when your cupboard and pocket book are equally bare....of course, this can backfire in the case of a dutch first dater, who is a dying breed because no one is going to sleep with a man that doesn't pay on the first date. I may be a feminist but I'm not stupid). I really like going to movies on my own though because it give me a chance to be alone in public, a hallmark of the QA. It's social, but not socializing, and it allows me to people watch to my hearts content. Plus, I can cry and laugh and engage with the movie one on one, which I find to be the best way to figure out how you really feel about it. You're not thinking about the person beside you, you're not gauging your reaction on theirs, you're just being you, watching a movie. And doing it in public involves some resiliancy, you have to be proud and know that people are watching you. I get dressed up, put on makeup, and open myself up to the possiblities of the universe. I know some people might look at me and pity me, but I think most people see the wry smile on my face and envy my confidence and self possession. And I like that too.

I also like going out to dinner on my own. Usually I'll do this with a book or a paper, but I always go with the hope that I'll get myself into a new adventure. There are a few restaurants that I go to alone so often that I've gotten to know the staff, the owners, the bartenders, and some of the patrons, of which many are doing the same thing that I am. I love eating at the bar at 112 Eatery because I feel like Norm from Cheers, but with much better cocktails and incredible food (Eat there immediately if you haven't already. 112 Eatery, 112 N. 3rd St in Downtown Mpls, 612-343-7697, ask for Nancy, she's the owner and married to Isaac, the chef. You'll probably need a reservation if it's going to be more than just you). I've made friends there, been asked out on dates, introduced important people in my life to other important people in my life, gotten drunk, had my birthday and generally had a whole lot of fun at 112 all because the first time I went there I was entirely, conspicuously and proudly on my own. People are attracted to me when I'm alone, they want to know my story and why I'm out without anyone else. It might start as pity on their part, but more often then not it turns into admiration. Hopefully I've inspired others to do the same. Some people are always going to think it's sad if you are out to dinner or a movie by yourself, but those are probably the same people that go to their 20 year high school reunion because that was the high point of their lives. So I'm usually able to turn that pity right back around.

So, lovelies, I encourage all of you, if you haven't done so already, to spend some quality, one-on-one public alone time with yourself and find out if you are a QA too. It's totally fine if you aren't, but if you find this action strangely freeing, read the book, and learn more.

Go See the Diane Arbus Exhibit at the Walker!

2006-07-19T17:59:00.000-05:00

Last Thursday I went with my friends Sonja and Andy (who are married, in case it matters) to see the Diane Arbus exhibit at the Walker Art Center, aka the most confusing art museum in the history of the world. That's probably not true, I'm sure there are much more confusing museums, but this is the most confusing one I've ever been in, and as mine is the only opinion that matters, it might as well be the world. While Sonja and Andy didn't see what the big deal was (I believe the phrase they used was "scowling, ugly people being captured living bleak, joyless lives") I disagree. I thought there was intense, simple joy, and dare I say pathos in her pictures. These were ordinary people captured in seemingly ordinary and mundane settings that take on a greater social significance through the lens of time and space (Take that, cultural studies!). I craved the simplicity in the photos, in the raw nakedness and the lack of guile. Even drag queens in dresses, wigs and full faces of makeup seemed desperately, violently exposed, and somehow cleansed in the process. The picture and lives were dirty, but that grit made them seem true and pure in a way I can't really express. Go see the show; you'll see what I mean. Or maybe you'll think they're scowling, ugly people living bleak, joyless lives.

What made the exhibit better (and honestly, I'm not sure if I would have enjoyed it as much otherwise) was observing the other exhibit-goers observing the photos. It was two-pronged voyeurism that I really dug. I love people watching. Scratch that, what I really love is people judging, love looking at their clothes and their hair and their posture and their expressions and imagining a life around those things, which I guess when I really think about it, is what I loved about the Diane Arbus photos; her subjects were laid bare in her photos, exposed in all their minutiae, just as people are in real life, right in front of you. The people watching is always great at Art Museums. You of course get the requisite art students with their tragically hip trying oh-so-not-so hard to look accidentally fabulous; the middle age cultural elite, who will go to the opening of an envelope and wear their Walker and MPR Memberships like a badge of liberal honor; the clueless plebian tourists, but then there are the wild cards: the 12 year olds with their hippie parents, trying not to snicker at all the saggy, old boobs in the pictures of the nudist colony; the incredibly awkward first date where the guy is trying really hard not to look at these photos as pornography and the girl is trying really hard to remember why she said yes to the date in the first place; the guards, who are all artists themselves when they aren't trying to pay their rent (as an added bonus, one of the guards told me they loved my hair, so I will refrain from judging them at this juncture) and then everyone else. They are all remarkable.

I should mention that I have a love-hate relationship with people as a whole. I love watching them walk, think, choose, speak... and I am repulsed and yet attracted by much of what they do. In that way people are like a very bad train wreck- you just can't look away. Most people are so weird, so foreign in a fundamental way from each other and from myself, and yet in almost every person I encounter I find some behavior or article of clothing or speech pattern or gait that I want to try out, to emulate, to figure out how that element that so attracts me might be incorporated into the me-ness, like some characteristic magpie. Even with the photos I was trying to do that, catching my reflection in the glass and seeing the images reflected on my skin. How can I see myself through this image? I guess ultimately my desire to emulate them is really a desire to find that within myself- to understand how I and this other person are similar, and how we are different. I think that's what Diane Arbus wanted us to cull from her photos, that sense of difference and sameness living in the same space. As I walked aroung the exhibit, I could see people looking at the photos, examining them, and finding themselves somewhere within. Every so often I could catch the spark of recognition, as though they were seeing themselves as if in a dream, where you see your face but it isn't your face. You know that it is supposed to be your face, and somehow it all makes perfect sense. That was how I saw these photo, and the other patrons... these people were supposed to be me, and we all make some sort of weird, parallel universe sense.

Don't You Wish Your Girlfriend Were a Beer Like Me?

2006-07-18T00:56:00.000-05:00

Ok, so you know that commercial for Heineken Light that has the song "Don't Cha" by The Pussycat Dolls in it? It's basically just an image of a wet, glistening beer, with some flashy lights and in the background this song, with lyrics like "Don't you wish your girlfriend was hot like me, Don't you wish your girlfriend was a freak like me?". Now, the song is catchy, don't get me wrong, but everytime I see the commercial all I can think of is, well yeah, don't most men wish that their girlfriend was a beer? I mean, think about it: a beer can't talk, ask for communication, committment, interaction. A beer is available when the drinker wants it, it's portable and easily chilled for use. The beer doesn't ask questions, it's there to serve. A beer provides pleasure and asks for nothing back-it's like a blowjob in a bottle. If you drink enough of them it can even provide companionship! I know these are a bunch of cliches, but that is what the ad is playing into, and I guess it does a good enough job, since I'm still thinking and talking about it. I can't say that the ad irritates me, because it doesn't and in some ways it's pretty clever, but I still can't help but think that their main campaign plan was to make men think that life would be so much easier if their wives and girlfriends were just replaced by giant, preferably well endowed beers.

A Plea for Help

2006-07-16T22:18:00.000-05:00

I try to keep this blog light, for the most part, but I'm going to take a moment to urge all of you who read it to speak out to those around you and most importantly to your political officials about the violence that has erupted in and surrounding Palestine and Israel. Most of you know that I am Palestinian so I know you know where my loyalties lie, but at this point it's gotten ridiculous, no matter who you are. There is a siege going on in Gaza that is starving a people to death, separating them from outside assistance or aid. This is in response to a kidnapping of a soldier, which is reprehensible, but why punish the entire region of Gaza? Civilians are dying at this point, and the response is completely dispreportionate to the initial crime. Secondly, the bombing going on between Israel and Lebanon has reached a fever pitch. The Israeli's have bombed all the airports in Beirut, Hezbollah (probably) has retailiated by bombing the port of the beautiful city of Haifa, home to Arabs and Jews both. Now there are refugees fleeing from all over southern Lebanon, and once again civilians are being killed. I'm not going to say that Israel does not have the right to defend itself, it does. But once again, the skirmish by Hezbollah on the Israeli/Lebanese border killed eight and kidnapped two. It does not justify and all out war agains the people of the entirety of Lebanon. At this point, I don't really care what side you are one, people are dying on both sides, and it must stop. Please take the time to educate yourselves about what is going on, and then urge those in power and those around you to put a stop to it. The US still has a lot of power over the region, please help us exercise it.

On Being the Bigger Person

2006-07-13T15:29:00.000-05:00

So I recently rejoined a gym, this time LifeTime Fitness, which contrary to popular opinion doesn't seem particularly crowded with Gym Bunnies. I've been going to the St. Paul location, which is in the old University Club, so it has this sort of dilapidated swankiness that I really dig. It looks like a converted hotel, and in fact very well may be. The pool, which is what sealed the deal for me, to be honest, is a national historic landmark. It looks like something out of an old Ethel Merman movie, all this really intricate inlaid tile and floor to ceiling marble pillars. It makes me actually want to go work out, which is saying something. Of course, the other swimmers become distracted by my intricate underwater routines, but they are welcome to join me in my Golden Years of Hollywood fantasy.

Last night I went to a yoga class, which kicked my ass as they always do. The same thing always happens when I go to a yoga class: I start out really excited to go, and then half way through the class I get this sinking feeling in my stomach and all I can think is "this was an intensely bad idea". This thought usually occurs to me in the middle of the 4th Sun Salutation, when I've been in the Cobra asana for what feels easily like 8 years. For the uninitiated this is a pose where you support the full weight of your body on your hands and the tops of your feet. Fun! Right about when I lose all feeling in my upper arms I realize that I am not cut out for this kind of workout. But this is always how I have to work out, I have to sneak up on it. I have to trick my body into thinking it's not that big a deal until I am already in the middle of it, sort of like the way you lure a dog to the vet, or a small child to get a tetinus shot. I tell my body we're just going for a drive, maybe for some ice cream, then I swing a hard right and before my body can say a word I'm in yoga, contorting it into positions it didn't even know existed. Yoga is great like that- every time you finish you're like "i didn't even know I had a muscle in the bottom of my ass". At least this wasn't a "hot yoga" class, where they crank the heat up to 115 degrees and kick your ass for a straight hour and a half. That was easily the most intense physical activity I have ever encountered, and while it felt great, a small part of me is pretty sure it was the closest to death I've ever been. It was this class that made me realize that my favorite pose is Corpse Pose.

Last night's class was good, but as always it was a little disconcerting to look around the room and being the largest one there. That happens to me a lot. I don't know if it's that I didn't get the memo about segregated skinny and non-skinny activities, or that people my size don't think they can do yoga or pilates, which really bums me out, because nothing will get you lean and tone faster than those two things. I spoke with the instructor after class for a while, and she remarked that I had better form and was more flexible than most of the people in the class, which goes to show you that physical size isn't the issue, it's perception. The one good thing about being overweight pretty much my whole life is that I generally do not feel inhibited by my size. I have always done and worn whatever everyone else has, because I was never taught to be ashamed. Is it hard? Sure. Am I at the gym in the first place because I want to lose weight? Of course. Do I let that stop me from doing something that I think could be fun and interesting? Never. In this culture we are taught that only people who look a certain way or weigh a certain amount can do certain things. Our activities are segregated by size and shape, and people buy into it. I think that is bullshit, personally.

(As a somewhat side note: it's important to remember that body issues are body issues, and everyone has them. Everytime I talk about people that are overweight, friends of mine that are very skinny talk about their own pain of trying to gain weight and feel normal in what is perceived as an overly slender body. Everyone thinks they are ugly and awful, and we can't assume that one type of self-loathing is better than any other. )

As I got to thinking about all this last night, I realized that there is something ultimately empowering about being the largest person in a yoga class. It shows them and me that the only limitations people have are those that are put on themselves. It makes me feel good that people in the class can look at me and be envious of my skill and form, can maybe even wish, however fleetingly, that their body had the power and grace that mine has. All my life, I've heard comments from people to the effect of "For a big girl, you sure don't act like one", and I always want to say to them, for a "small-minded asshole, you sure don't come off that way". What does a comment like that mean? What do they think a "big girl" should act like, that I should shroud my size 14 frame in a muu-muu and apologize for existing in their slender world? And what constitues "big" these days? How is it defined? Big can mean many things to many people, and I choose to believe it means I am a bigger person, which will stay the same no matter how much weight I lose. The next time someone says something like that to me, I'll invite them along to a Yoga class and proceed to kick their scrawny ass.

On the Joys of Movie Hopping

2006-07-08T23:52:00.000-05:00

Today, after getting done with work at noon (seriously, if you have to call into a bank at 7:45am on a Saturday, you have some really screwed up priorities) I decided to engage in a lively afternoon of movie hopping. For the uninitiated, movie hopping is paying to see one movie, then sneaking into another or series of other movies following the one you paid for. There were a bunch of movies that I wanted to see, and with very little coin in the old purse, it seemed that movie hopping was the answer. In order to assuage my guilty conscience (right!) the ticket I chose to pay for was for An Inconvenient Truth, where the proceeds go to support organizations dedicated to fighting Global Warming. This also happened to be the first movie that I went to see, and was actually really good. Most people think it's going to be an hour and half of Al Gore droning on and guilt tripping everyone about not taking your bike to work, but it's really nothing like that, and it's really nothing like the Al Gore we thought we knew. He's affable and charismatic, and sounds for all the world like a major statesman. If we had seen this Al Gore in the 2u000 election, he might have one more than just the majority of the popular vote (as apparently that wasn't quite enough). The movie is essentially the scientific support for idea of Global Warming, and it's pretty damn compelling. I actually cried at a couple of moments, but mostly that was in frustration upon seeing the face of G-Dub. Gore came across as a latter day Jimmy Carter, a truly decent man attempting to make his world a better place and therefore being politically hosed for it. Side note: there is a part of the movie where there is this sad little computer animated polar bear swimming in a vast sea without hope of support on dry land or ice. It's heartbreaking! For the love of God, stop Global Warming before it kills all the cute, cuddly polar bears. Or Sweet Jesus, think of the PENGUINS!!! That hadn't even occured to me yet..... *single tear*. Seriously, see the movie.

Next came the Lake House, which was lovely, despite the fact that Keanu Reeves has the oddest acting style ever recorded. I'm not going to say that he's a bad actor, because I don't think that's true, but he is odd. r. It's like he is just an awkward person in general, and so his awkwardness underscores all his characters. In Speed he played an awkward cop, in the Matix he played an awkward hacker, and in this movie he played an awkward time travelling architect. In this film he looked a little scruffy and kind of rough around the edges. He is not a good five o'clock shadow guy, it makes his face look pockmarked and patchy in a very non-hot way. Lovely is pretty much the word I would use for this movie, and I suggest you see it, if only for the house itself. It could be a rental. The last movie I saw was Click, which is a definite rental. It's like It's a Wonderful Life for the information age. Plus, all the women were like, inordinately wicked hot. The wife, played by Kate Beckinsale is like a size 0 with huge boobs, a full body tan and perfectly tousled hair right out of bed. This woman takes care of two children under the age of 5 everyday, all day. Take stock of the women in your life that you know with children under school age, and tell me if they look like this character. I'm betting not. And there's nothing wrong with that. What's wrong is that we have to have this conversation because women are made to feel like shit because they can't roll out of bed with a full face of makeup. Also there was this really rascist moment in the beginning involving "Arabian Sheiks"....anyway. Adam Sandler gives it the old college try, but he is lugging a safe in the script. See it, don't see it, I was disappointed- but hey, I didn't pay.

Yak Balls

2006-07-08T08:15:00.000-05:00

So last night I'm out with a couple of my former sorority sisters and one of them, Karra, is getting ready for a date the next afternoon (it was a lunch date because Karra's so popular she already had plans for the evening and other plans in the afternoon). Any talk of first dates naturally comes back to bad first dates, and oh my god have I had some doozies. The worst of these (which I am sharing here completely out of context at the insistence of LeeAnne who point blank told me my blog wasn't funny, but she would read it if this story was on it) is:

The Saga of the Yak Balls
(This one goes on to KJ and LeeAnne)

So like most everyone in these modern times I too am a casual internet dater. Meaning I go to one site and occasionally will chat with people there, and occasionally will go on dates with the people I chat with. I don't have a lot of patience for the crazies and the politics of online dating, but I don't have a lot of patience for the crazies and politics of any kind of dating. I'm getting a bit sick of it all at this point, because it's become clear that online dating has an over-abundance of wunder-geeks with peter pan complexes who wouldn't know what to do with a girl even if they were given an instruction manual written in programming code. Witness the fact that I had an actual boyfriend that I met on this site who never once in the entire time we were dating, including the first time I saw his apartment, cleaned his room because he "wanted me to know what he was really like". Apparently he was really a fucking slob. He also had two outfits total, one of which was a hoodie that said "I'm a rocker. I rock out." and the other was a t-shirt that said "I'm a rocker. I rock out." Clever boy.

BUT. We are not discussing him, gentle readers, we are discussing Yak Balls. My point in relating this initial piece is that in general it seems like many of the man-boys that one meets online haven't quite mastered the art of adulthood. They haven't even been able to free sketch the turtle on the back of the brochure to get into the art school of adulthood (that was a strangled metaphor, and you're welcome to call me on my cell phone to explain it to you).

So, back to the Saga of the Yak Balls. So I arrange to meet a gentleman who I have been speaking with for about a week for dinner. He picks the restaurant, a Tibetan place on Grand Ave that's known for serving exotic meats, like yak, goat, etc. He's been there before and speaks highly of the food, and I'm always willing to try something new and delicious. It's a first date in the late spring and I want to make a good impression (as always), so I wear a pair of black pants, a black tank top, and funky necklace and a little denim jacket. I look put together but not overly formal. It should be noted that I firmly believe in first impressions, and taking the time to attire oneself appropriately indicates that the meeting is important to the person because time and care were taken over one's appearance. I arrive at the restaurant and am sort of standing around, waiting for him, when I hear someone call my name. I turn around and I literally have to keep myself smiling and walking. The effort is massive, because this is what I am faced with: for our first date, the first time he meets me in public, the hero of our story chooses to wear cutoff shorts whose identity as denim or khaki was obscured by a plethora of paint spots which suggested he came straight to our date from working the paint mixer at Home Depot. Above the aforementioned shorts was a T-shirt with the Native American figure of Kokopelli and a tagline that read something like "Santa Fe, New Mexico" or "Kokopelli Festival 2003". Below the shorts was the horror of horrors, Teva sandals buckled over black socks. Who honestly thinks this is a good look other than fathers in 50's sitcoms? He is shirt was tucked in, so it was apparent to me that he actually did look in the mirror and think "Yeah, this works". Suffice it to say my first thought was not "I'd hit that."

This outfit was a cavalcade of horrors, but I spent a good 15 minutes of the date wondering which one was worse. It was like a neck and neck 3 way tie over which item I hated more. Eventually I had to give up, it was just too hard to decide. So we sit down, and immediately I realize that he is a Sweaty Man, the kind that sweats for no apparent reason while those around him are comfortable in sweaters and jackets. I can understand being nervous on a date, but this spoke to some sort of medical condition. I watched in horrified fascination as he proceeded to sweat his way all through dinner, so profusely that it was literally dripping down his face. How do you eat watching that? You don't, that's how, and here's why it's easy: I had never been to the restaurant before, so I naturally asked him what was good. We didn't have any other goddamn thing to talk about, so we had one of those painfully awkward conversations about what we were going to have. So when I ask him what's good he immediately says "The Yak Balls."

Now what do you think when someone says Yak Balls to you? You think he's talking about Yak Testicles, which is exactly what I thought. The fact that he continued to explain that they were more like ground Yak dumplings didn't mitigate the fact that I felt in my heart that what I had been told to order for dinner was the gonads of a Yak. But I ordered them, nonetheless, as he had suggested them and I felt it would seem rude and unadventurous of me to decline, and I am neither rude or unadventurous. We continue to sit in sweaty, uncomfortable halting conversation until the food comes (he was sweaty, I was uncomfortable). I should say halting, because everytime I tried to talk I was halted by more words from him. The man would not shut up. He just kept talking and talking and talking and for the life of me I could not get a handle on anything he was saying. He was so boring that I had forgotten how to understand English- I'm sure it was an instinctual coping mechanism. Now I don't wear a watch, but I found myself continually checking my naked wrist, to the point where it seemed like a tick. I went to the bathroom for a while to kill some time, hoping he might just leave, but there he was, grinning like an idiot upon my return.

Then the food came.

I cannot express to you my disgust with the Yak Balls. It should be noted that I eat raw meat, oysters, snails, truffles, frogs legs, and have been known to eat a deep fried worm on a dare (Ali...). None of these can compare to the culinary trauma that was the Yak Balls. They tasted like someone had taken ground pork, put it in a used sweatsock, boiled it in salty water, then wrapped it is gelatinous tasteless dough. Yummy. So I'm picking at my Yak Balls, and he looks over and says "Is something wrong?" Where do I begin to address the number of things that were wrong at this point? I settle for telling him that despite my best intentions, Yak Balls are not for me. He pays the check (thank God) and asks for a box, so he can take the Yak Balls home with him.

We decide to go on a walk around the neighborhood (or rather he decides, at this point I am resigned to my silent participation in the Date That Will Not End). We walk around a bit, him trying to take us farther and farther from the cars, me trying desperately to pull us back in that direction. After what easily seems like a decade of small talk, we thankfully arrive at the cars and I praise Jesus that the Sweaty Man does not go in for a kiss. I thank him for dinner and get in my car. I do not say anything along the lines of "this was nice", "we should do it again sometime", "give me a call". I am not a man. I do not "spare feelings" by lying. I just get in my car and drive home.

Once home, I change into my grubbies and then do a quick email check. Not fifteen minutes after we say goodbye Sweaty Man has sent me an email, in which he talks about what a great time he had, and how much he enjoys our rapier-quick banter. He must have been listening into another table, because the only rapier I remember was the one I was imagining plunging into his eye just to get him to shut the hell up for a minute. Finally he mentions that he would love to get together to watch a DVD. Now, everyone knows that "watching a DVD" is code for "coming over to make out in the dark". This is a) not a second date activity and b) not something I would be engaging in with Sweaty Man in easily the next billion years. How was this the guy that called me right away, that imagined chemistry great enough to suggest I would even kiss him on the cheek, let alone repeatedly and in my home? I had to put an end to it right there. I wrote him back and said that while he seemed like an interesting person, I wasn't particularly interested in seeing him again. I thanked him again for dinner and said goodbye. He wrote me back to say that while the outcome wasn't what he hoped, he appreciated my honesty. (Side note: Boys, let that be a lesson to you: if you don't want to date us, for God's sake just say it. We're not going to like it, but it's better than the Uber-limbo of the lie "I'll call you sometime" .)

At least he could take comfort in the left over Yak Balls.

Brief Responses to the Comments from my Earlier Post

2006-07-07T10:19:00.000-05:00

First of all, yes, Tai, the snuggles meant something, but Wayne upgraded my computer and provided it with wireless for absolutely free. Perhaps if you also have some technology to bring to the table, I could be persuaded to put you in first place, until then, feel confident in your seating as a very close second.

Second of all Ali: I agree with you that I am talking about the Mega suburbs and that communities can be formed in the smaller ones. I would even argue however that the suburbs that now touch the metro, such as Roseville and the other ones you mentioned are extensions of the cities themselves, and can no longer be lumped into the same category as your Minnetonkas or your Lake Oronos. I know that communities can be formed in the larger ones too, I don't think they are all automatons. However, I think the largess of the homes out their preclude any sense of community because you are in essence creating a fortress. And I agree with you that culture can take many forms, such as a garden, etc, my argument is that most of these people do not seek out culture or choose to cultivate it. That is what I have a problem with: I can accept and even embrace that your sense of culture includes creating a comfortable home, investigating different recipes, even going to a recital or concert given by the local community high school when you don't have a kid in it. But there are people out there, and you know this is true, that move to the suburbs and create a haven for themselves in which they can live out life in a cultural vacuum, getting no more information than what prime-time programming can provide. You have met these people, who think that voting for American Idol (speaking of which, doesn't that sound vaguely like a sign of the end times, like we are worshipping idols? remember Moses and the Chosen People ((wouldn't that be a great name for a band?))? god wasn't too happy about that golden calf idol... anyway, I'm getting off topic) is more important than voting for President. Do people like that live in the City? Of course they do, and it is just as frustrating to me. My argument is that there are more sheep living in the suburbs, by nature of what the suburbs are, then in the city.

And finally my argument never had anything to with who worked "harder". I never accused the people of the suburbs of laziness. You can work hard and still live in a cultural wasteland (who wrote that originally? ). My main arguement was actually not about the people, but about the way that the suburbs utilize resources wastefully. So I guess you could say that my logical argument is about the wasting of resources, while my illogical argument is about the people and purely my unsubstantiated opinion.

Ok let move on to something else... (which of course does not preclude commentary!)

On Soccer Moms and Why I Sincerely Distrust the Suburbs

2006-07-06T17:06:00.000-05:00

It has come to my attention that many of my gentle readers were confused about my hatred for the suburbs. I too felt that the post in which I express my dislike of them was short of substance, but this was because I was typing it up at the end of my work day and didn't want to stay here any longer than was absolutely necessary. Some things suffered, some critical points were missed, some animals may have been harmed. This post will have lots of spelling errors for the same reason. Further, the concept of the soccer mom was thrown into the mix, so here I will address my feelings on the "Soccer Mom" heretofore referenced as the SM.

Oh, the SM. It's normal for any woman to be jealous of her. In my darkest moments I must admit even I, Rosie the Riveter herself, has felt the siren song of the Crate and Barrel Life. She is clean, elegant, put together, in possession of all of the signs and symbols of successful womanhood: the kids, the husband, the picket fence, the dog. But there is a dark side to the SM, a secret shame and almost certain madness upon awaking to the fact that this indeed is your life. Witness the horror of the Stepford Wives or Bree on Desperate Housewives, SMs both. "Lives of quiet desperation" is the phrase that most often comes to mind when I think of the SM. And here's why: She is defined by things outside herself, her house, her kids, her car, her husband, even her ann taylor credit card. She is trapped by the trappings of the life she was told to want. Now, this is not to say that there are not women who are satisfied and fulfilled by this life, I'm positive there are, and I am happy for them. Feminism means choice, and that includes the choice to stay home and make a job of raising your family. However. I don't think most women think this choice though. I think they end up sublimating their desires and their rage, and end up as very simple, disappointed people. I've seen it happen with my own to eyes. I had two friends in high-school, both with what would be considered "soccer moms", stay at home moms who worked as a mother and runner of the household. One was joyful, funny, slightly messy and had fun with her kids and her life. She was satisfied and happy. The other one was pinched and bitter, fully believing that she had never lived up to her potential, because she didn't see the potential in being a committed wife and mother. It's all about the choice. Who is making the choice, the woman, her husband, or the society we have surrounded ourselves with? If it's truly her, and she is truly happy, then more power to her. If not, then she needs to play a little Aretha and be ok with the fact that raising children and washing some slobs underwear isn't as fulfilling as everyone made it out to be. It's all about honesty, people.

That being said, I know first hand (ok, I guess technically second hand, but still) that it is possible to be fulfilled by both motherhood and a job. My mother worked my entire life because she wanted to and felt driven and fulfilled by work, and I never felt deprived of her attention or affection. She never wanted to take care of me full time and never felt that she had to. I'm sure she felt torn at times, especially in the eighties when being in the workforce for women meant glass ceilings, sneakers with suits, and shoulder pads, but I'm proud of how far she went at a time and in a place where that wasn't expected or frankly, always allowed. My father and mother both did a great job of balancing career and family, and I think I'm a better adjusted adult for it. So I've never bought into this hogwash that children with stay at home parents are any better. Parents that stay at home can be just as fucked up as parents that don't. It's not about location, it's about participation (there, put that on a fucking bumper sticker instead of those stupid honor roll notices). My parents participated in my life through school events, extracurriculars, everything, and still had their own lives. I think parents that are too involved in the planning and execution of their child's day to day activities are raising losers- literally. People who will never amount to much because they were never taught how to take care of themselves. You all know who I'm talking about. If you suspect you might be one, here's a quick test: Is mommy still folding your undies? Then I think you know the answer.

That all being said, if you are a SM that drives a hummer, you are automatically a waste of skin. Sorry, but thems the breaks. Also, I disagree entirely with Ali's assertion that all SM kids are well put together and clean. I have seen plenty examples to the contrary, generally coughing up a lung behind me on an airplane. Dirty little brats. I know writers throughout this century have pontificated on this very issue, but why is it that some parents are literally blind to the shitty behavior of their children? Ali told me a story the other day about a kid at Target who knocked 3 aisles worth of display shoes off the racks. Just wiped them off with his arm. And the mother looks at the employee whose job it is to clean this shit up and says: "Kids will be kids". I think I would have said "Your kids will be dead in about 3.2 seconds if you don't get in their and start cleaning, bitch." I would get fired, but man, would it ever be worth it.

Moving right along...THE SUBURBS! Anyone ever see the movie "The 'Burbs". This is why I hate the suburbs. I believe this movie is true. Maybe people don't start worshipping Satan, but they do start worshipping at the alter of rampant, wasteful consumerism. They become unconcerned with the world around them because they are trying to escape it. They come into the city once a week (unless they work here) and call it dirty, dangerous and expensive. So what? That's what cities are, and thats what makes them exciting. I like the city because you have to work a little bit harder. You have to walk instead of drive because you can't afford parking. You get to go to a corner market or a farmers market instead of the supermarket. You create actual neighbors out of shared experience and even create urban families, while in the suburb your giant yard separates you from your neighbor and your fences create physical barriers. I know this is a gross generalization, and it is just my perception. There are plenty of things wrong with the city. I guess it just boils down to this, and it's my blog so I can be ridiculous: people from suburbs are more annoying to me than people from the city. End of story.

That's not really a constructive reason, though, is it?
I must also mention at this juncture that I am currently typing this while I am sitting on my couch, which doesn't seem like a huge deal, but is because it means I can access the internet via an AirPort, which is the wireless set up for a Mac, which Amy's boyfriend brought over with him from Ireland. Hooray for Wayne! He is my new favorite.

So, back to the issue at hand. I think the real reason that I don't like the suburbs or those in them as a general rule is that I don't trust them. I don't think the people that live there have the best interests of humanity at heart, so I guess I distrust them for the same reason I do republicans. I believe that they have the best interests of their own immediate family at heart, and I don't think they are bad people. I do think they are short-sighted, however. These houses that first initiated this rant were enormous, much too large for single family dwellings. They were like castles, but new. And I just think it is excessive to use that much space and resources when you do not need them. The same goes for the gas guzzling SUVs. I understand that often times a lot of space is needed to haul around kids, dogs and their equipment. But you aren't landing at Normandy, you're going to ballet practice. Come to think of it, the vehicles that transported the allied forces to the beach at Normandy were positively Lilliputian in comparison. The point is, we as a nation are using way over our share of every natural resource, and I see the suburbs at the vanguard of this.

I also don't see the appeal aesthetically, but that's just me. Give me a rehabbed (amber help me out here on the spelling) loft in the city with no fucking yard to take care of and I'll be yours forever. I like homes with character, and ultimately I feel that is what is lacking in the homes, clothes, and sometimes personalities of the suburbs.

A Weekend Among the Cheeseheads

2006-07-03T17:39:00.000-05:00

Apparently I don't like to stay too long at home, because last week once I returned from the wonder of Wichita I spent exactly one full day in Minneapolis and turned right around to go off on another mini-break. This time around my roommate Amy and I stopped off first in Rochester to visit our delightful friend Tai who is in full wedding-planning-family-freaking-out mode. She is the most easy going person you will ever meet in your entire life, and I truly admire her ability to remain sane and joyful when everyone around her is making her life a personal hell. All for a wedding! I've never understood this madness. Why should the happiest day of your life require you to break out in stress hives? This I think was Tai's intention when she wanted to have her wedding in her parents backyard, go real casual for the ceremony and her reception, but I guess the fam had other plans. This is why I want to fly somewhere warm and tropical for my wedding (when and if I have one, which is essentially my way of knocking on wood and not jinxing myself by talking about a wedding before I have even the hint of a groom lined up). I want my wedding to be a stress free as possible, even if that means leaving everyone at home. Anyway we got tanked on Margarita's and talked about boys, which is as good an antidote to insanity as I have ever heard.

Having woken up remarkably sans hang-over Amy and I pressed onward towards the heart of Darkness itself, Wisconsin. Now, we tease Wisconsin here in Minnesota, what with their steady diet of beer, cheese, and deep-fried beer battered cheese, their obsessive compulsive relationship with Brett Favre and their general drunken zaniness. But I'm going to admit to what all Minnesotans secretly know and feel shamed by: Wisconsin is a) a prettier state than Minnesota and b) their citizenry, while a bit on the weird side, are definitely more outgoing/ less reserved and culturally diverse than their mostly Scandinavian counterparts to the west. I personally blame the crazy-ass Germans and the small but vocal Arab contingent (of course, that's because I'm German and Arab, and like to take credit for everything). I may be locked up in the Mall of America and chased by rapid Norwegians and Swedes throwing ludefisk and lefsa for admitting this, but we all know it's true, and I'll risk Minnesotan exile in order to speak the truth. I imagine I could fine sanctuary across our Eastern border.

Now I didn't always feel this way about Wisconsin, but this time I around I decided to put all my joking aside and really embrace that which is the Sconnie lifestyle, and I came back a better person for it. First off all, you are pretty much required by law to have some sort of alcohol running through your veins at all times, preferably beer. At Summerfest, where we were to see Cowboy Mouth (more on this shortly) there were easily 8 different manners of beer tent. Just types of beer tent. There were approximately 1700 actually tents. You could have your good old American swill, Miller, or you could go slightly more refined with a refreshing Leinie's. For something a little unusual there were 4 different offerings from Sprecher, not even counting the non-alcoholic wonder that is their Root Beer. Then for the micro-brew beer snob I counted 3 different brewery pavilions, and I didn't even walk the full length of the festival. These weren't stands so much as they were mobile restaurants. Now how can you not love a State whose biggest outdoor festival practically prevents you from walking more than 8 feet without buying a beer? Second of all, there is a giant ass lake right next to Milwaukee, and while MN may be the land of a Thousand Lakes, we don't have a built up city by one like Wisconsin. Sure, Duluth is plenty beautiful, but if you don't have a cabin, there just isn't much to see. Third of all, and this again, may be due to the huge amounts of beer I'm consuming, but I can say without a doubt that I have never had a bad time in Wisconsin. Never. Everytime I've gone to that state it's been a laugh riot. There was the wenis incident of 2001, when a bunch of us when to visit Ali after Freshman year, then there have been the several trips I've taken with Amy to see her family. So perhaps it was time for me to get off my high horse and really revel in the beer and cheese scented ether of Wisconsin.

The reason we went to Wisconsin in the first place was to see the band Cowboy Mouth. This is a New Orleans based band (or I guess used to be) and they ROCK. They have great music on cd etc, but live they are AMAZING: best live group I have ever seen, and I've seen Queen, U2 and Prince. Fred and the band just get so into it it's incredible to watch, and you can't help but be sucked in. The lead singer/drummer gets so sweaty you think he's going to have a heart attack right there on stage, but he just keeps giving it everything he's got, which makes the audience want to do the same, and honestly, provides you with a great, gut wrenching catharsis usually reserved for ancient Greek tragedy. Seriously, the next day, Amy came down to wake me up and I was all like "ouch, my abs hurts" and she was like "yeah, mine do too"... and we sat and thought about it for a while and realized we had been singing and screaming so hard it was like we had done a 2 hour session of Windsor Pilates. I appreciate any workout I can do semi-drunk.

So, long story short: Check out Cowboy Mouth. If you're the kind of mouth breather that needs a bandwagon, they are the band that did "Jenny Says", so there, they are too popular!

Saturday we did pretty much nothing, except explore the new monstrosities parading as single family homes that are going up around Amy's parents house. These home are ridiculously huge, and even though we were hiking our way through the bones of the homes, with just the wood frames, they are glutinous. There is no need to live in something that big, at least not something that big that isn't already standing. These homes are a terrible use of resources, destroying the surrounding wooded areas that were part of the reason people wanted to move out to the suburbs in the first place. These giant castles are built right on top of one another and sell for literally ungodly amounts of money, as in, you will have to sell your soul or your first born to purchase one. Now, those who know me know that I find the suburbs repugnant on the deepest level. I don't get them, and I don't get those who live in them. I cut them out of my life. I'll touch on that more, I'm sure, later. But, it was fun entering (no breaking, thank you) these unfinished constructions and getting to run around in them.

Then Amy taught me how to drive a stick shift. CORRECTION: attempted to teach me. Now, she was an excellent teacher, much better than my screaming parents (thanks for the hearing loss and deep routed fear of all things clutch related, mom and dad), but I have what is kindly referred to as a "lead foot". I do ok except for the starting and the stopping. And the shifting. We shall not speak of this again.

And then on Sunday, we went to Amy's brother's house for a party which included a whole roasted pig. Now I know some of you out there are vegetarians, and all I can say is, I'm so very sorry. Because pulled pork, like butter, is tangible proof that there is a God, and he does in fact love us best. Sweet sassy molassy- them's good eats. I won't belabor the point, but suffice it to say I practically ate myself comatose. But hell, I wasn't driving.

Scenes from the Center of the Universe

2006-06-28T15:12:00.000-05:00

On my trip home this weekend it came to my attention that I may have offended some of my readers with my last post. This came to my attention because I found out that my mother told all of her friends, including our family physician who has known me since I was 5 years old and who is also a family friend to go ahead and have a look-see at her zany daughter's writing. These friends, who all live, work, and raise families in the greater Wichita area were less than amused with my harsh criticism of their town. I stand by my statements, but in deference to them and the respect I have for them, I will now give you a top ten list of the best things about Wichita, KS: (oh, and obviously the thing about the Pope and the gateway to Hell was an urban legend- it was however told to me by a practicing and devout Catholic, so you never know- I googled it, and apparently the exact gateway to hell was in a church in Stull, KS, which has since been torn down-good plan)
Top Ten Things I Like About Wichita Kansas (in no particular order):

The cost of living is ridiculously low, so everything there is cheaper.
Despite a population of close to 500,000, much like Cheers, everyone seems to know my name.
My parents (and their pool membership, central AC, and well stocked fridge) live there.
It is temperate most of the year, never too hot, never too cold.
It's the kind of place where your family doctor not only agrees to see you on a saturday just to reassure you that the lump in your neck is not a) cancer b) a second head or c) a vestigal twin trying to escape, but she does so by coming out to breakfast with you and the parents and brings along a beautiful vase full of sunset roses for you birthday!
Greasy, greasy mexican food.
Most per capita restaurants of any city in the United States (I kid you not).
Not everyone is blond, for god's sake (like in MN).
People still talk about city politics like it matters.
I'm still working on number 10!

Home, Home on the Range

2006-06-23T13:20:00.000-05:00

So I will be incommunicado for a little while, ducklings, as tonight I am making the journey home. I'll be there until Tuesday, which is about the exact amount of time I am comfortable spending in the 'Ta (aka Wichita, KS, known as the Breadbasket of America, the Birthplace of Aviation, and most graphically, the Abortion Capital of the World, and hence home of the Summer of Mercy, in which insane people sent their children to lie under cars because that would logically precipitate the closing of the women's health clinic on Kellogg). I love my parents very much and actually miss them quite a bit, and wouldn't mind living closer, but I don't think I can live any closer geographically to the state of Kansas...

Little known fact: the Pope won't fly over the state because there is a known portal to hell above it. I kid you not. It sounds absurd, and it is absurd, because honestly, the Devil seems like a mover and a shaker that enjoys a good time, and none of those desires would be satisfied by a trip to Kansas. So maybe he uses that portal for a calming vacation? Or maybe it's the portal to the "nothing ever happens, Waiting for Godot" version of Hell...

Other fun statistics about Kansas:

It is scientifically proven to be flatter than a pancake. The terrain of your average cake of pan is hillier and more slopping than the entire average terrain of Kansas.
The state has not once, but twice voted to change the high school education standards to either not require the teaching of evolution or require the teaching of intelligent design.
In the 2004 election, only a single county in the state was blue. ONE.

I could go on, but it depresses me. The nice thing about going to Kansas is it allows me to re-aline my liberal principles, especially in regards to the Opinion Line on the daily Op-Ed page. It is an anonymous call in line that yields the most backwards, ignorant hateful opinions I have ever heard. It's like the highlight of my day. I promise to return with some doozies. Here are some that I found online today, for your amusement (my comments are in italics):

Press 1 for English. Press 2 for deportation. Here is the ignorance and hate I spoke of.
• • •
I admit that my dog gets out. He is a good dog, but he doesn't look like he is good, and I'm sorry for the people who have to encounter him. umm....ok? why did this get in the newspaper?
• • •
When Wichita has a thunderstorm, run the weather ticker across the screen and let people know what's going on. Don't come on television acting as if it's a major weather issue, such as a tornado. This is an ongoing issue with the citizens of Doo-Dah, whether or not the weathermen should break into a show to report on the weather. Now, to be fair to the writer of this comment, the weathermen in Wichita treat every storm as though it was the end of the world. It gets very dramatic, with our NBC affiliate weatherman, Dave "Armageddon" Freidman sending ridiculous messages to his wife through the camera, like "Honey, I won't be home tonight, tie the cat to the oven and lock the kids in the basement". This is all pretty unnecessary, because Kansas is really flat. REALLY flat. Which means you can pretty much see a storm rolling in for like, 6 hours. That's why when it gets to be "tornado season" up here, I just laugh and laugh. There is nothing like a Great Plains storm, where the sky turns green, the barometric pressure drops so fast you'd think you were in a horror movie, and you literally feel as though the contents of heaven are being flung upon you by an angry God. The storms up here are child's play in comparison. I once had a tornado warning happen while I was in my freshman dorm, which was essentially a large cement box that went 9 stories into the air. All the little weather lemmings went running down the stairs into the death trap that was the basement of the dorm, so about 2000 freshman in a n area designed to hold broken down cardboard boxes and the frozen food-type product that masqueraded as dinner. I took one look and the sky and said no way is there a tornado out there. Count me out of the clausterphobic dance party.

So enough about Kansas. It's like shooting fish in a barrel. Really dumb fish in a really boring barrell.

The Rodeo

2006-06-22T14:29:00.000-05:00

I, contrary to popular belief, can be talked into "country" pursuits when they masquerade as opportunities to engage in a healthy consumption of kitsch, americana, and white trash baiting. All of these desires were satisfied in spades by the wonder that is the Buffalo Rodeo, Buffalo,MN. What started out as a joke last year became an obsession this year. Last year, when my good friend Ali asked me if I wanted to attend a Rodeo in her neck o' the woods, I thought I had misheard her. I don't go places that smell like feces and only sell domestic beer. Not to mention the limiting footwear choices available to a rodeo attendee. BUT. I thought it would be a hoot, because as anyone who knows me well can tell you I find nothing quite as rewarding and soul soothing as making fun of the unfortunate dressers/hair/republicans/soccer moms of this world. A Rodeo promised untold heights of mulletdom, big ass ugly hats, shitkicking, Bush supporters, fried cheese curds, and if I was really, really lucky, zubaz. I was in!

The Rodeo last year did not disappoint, my friends. I was pointing and laughing from the word go. To my left was a Billy Ray Cyrus Mullet making out with a Pamela Anderson Boobs. To my right was a guy in shitkickers sans teeth ogling preteens in short-shorts. And dead straight ahead was a "beer" tent selling only Coors Light! I was in liberal-elitist-superiority-complex heaven! The evening of course began with a salute to our fearless leader and his cavalcade of atrocities. I personally feared for my safety and the safety of my companions during my pointed, post-colonial diatribe against the obligatory (and, let's face it, masterbatory) moment of "God loves the USA best of all" required at all events held outside the metro (I should clarify that I do support the military, my own father being a navy man. In fact, I have so much respect for the military that I'd rather not see them getting killed in some little man's grudge match waged because Papa Bear never loved him-Here's my deal with the Star-Spangled bullshit: There is a difference between patriotism and nationalism kids, and this is it: reasoned debate versus blind faith. Let us not forget that Nationalism put the N in Nazi. And these spectacles of Republican circle-jerking repulse me at the deepest level, because people are singing "Proud to be an American" while not taking the actual time to question and examine what it means to be an American, and what exactly we have to be proud of. It's such an adolescent statement to say "I'm proud to be an American, where at least I know I'm free." At least. And how free are we exactly, at this point in time? NSA wiretapping, Guantanamo detainees in their own personal version of Dante's Inferno.... I'm so in love with this country that it makes me weep in anger and frustration. In the words of Ralph Ellison:

Personally, I am too vindictively American, too full of hate for the hateful aspects of this country, and too possessed by the things I love here to be too long away.

Anyway, I digress....) So once we got through the terror of me possibly being torn to pieces by rabid Toby Keith-listening-Neo-Cons the fun really began. Once that first cowboy straddled his bucking bronco, banging out of the gate and whipping around like a life-size rag doll, I was hooked. These were hot men on big horses being thrown on to the ground with alarming force. It was both arousing and strangely cathartic, seeing grown men broken and bleeding, inches away from getting kicked in the head... I should mention that men were on my shit list at this moment in my life... but mostly I was impressed. These cowboys were real athletes in a way that makes baseball players look like the laziest bunch of motherfuckers to ever put on a jockstrap. This was a lot of violence for very little reward, and while some may call it barbaric, I found it much less barbaric than something like football. How much skill does it take to run up behind another guy and fall on him? Or boxing, where the main point is to knock your opponent around until they are quite literally retarded? Here, it's man against beast, and generally the beast wins. It's aggressive and adrenal and fast and close. It's like sex, but with horses.

um, that came out wrong.

ANYWAY. After the Rodeo itself was over, came the hootenanny... it may have been a hoedown, I was unclear as to the distinction. There was a live country band, dancing, and of course, more "beer". I would have been satisfied with just the athleticism and majesty that was the rodeo, but observing the redneck in his natural habitat, in a mating ritual was no less than fan-fucking-tastic. I didn't last long at the hootenanny- i think I was emotionally drained from all the laughing.

This year, however, I vowed it would be different.

I came prepared to embrace the white trash, the swillish beer, the mullets and most of all, the hootenanny. Unfortunately, we arrived too late to participate in the Bush-a-Palooza.... I think Ali did that on purpose. It was rainy this year, but the beer was as cold, the clothes as loud and garrish, and the spectacle of man on horse satisfying in just as many ways as before. But the hootenanny, friends, was where the fun really began. First of all, there were a bunch of army guys at the dance who had a night off. There was some disturbing wedding ring removing from one of our nation's finest, but other wise this bunch was out to party, and very focused on accomplishing that mission. There was one female soldier in the bunch that just kept getting asked to dance by this old guy... i think it was a fetish. There was a drunk middle-aged woman in stonewashed jeans and a bad perm (she was like the anti-milf) that literally got tossed from soldier to soldier in a desperate attempt to keep from dancing with her. The woman would not give up, she was like a drunk, dancing Terminator, and any man in uniform was her Sarah Conner. It was pathetic in that really really funny way...don't judge me, you know you would have laughed. The band played country favorites and a little bit of Johnny Cash, and I danced like I hadn't danced in years. There is nothing more freeing than dancing in the middle of a group of people who you know for a fact you will never, ever see again. After the hootenanny died down, we went onto another bar where I saw a cute, goofy looking guy sitting to the side, clearly enjoying himself in the way that people that think their current activity is completely ridiculous and contrary to their typical activity tend to enjoy themselves. It was clear that he was not a saturday night bar-hopper, but found it fun and funny to participate as a guest star. We were on opposite sides of the bar, so there was no convenient way to flirt with him, so I chose the direct approach (big surprise). At the end of the night when they brought the lights up I took a business card, wrote my cell number on the back, walked over to him and said, "Hi, I'm Hala, you seem interesting. If I seem interesting, give me a call. "

10 minutes later, my phone rings.

In which it occurs to our heroine that the last post was rather vapid and this title conceit is getting a bit old...

2006-06-22T12:40:00.000-05:00

So it does occur to me that the last post was rather vapid, whiny, and "My Super-Sweet 16"-esq. So I will follow it up with a treatise on American Consumerism (capital C... get it, capital? Like as in money...hehehehehhrmmm....). The thing is that I, like many of us I imagine, fight a daily war between what I need, what I want, and what I am told I need to want. Our society is based on material desire, our advertisements are built on the assumption that we are in and of ourselves not enough. So why should I want celebrity skincare for my birthday instead of something I actually need, like clean clothes and a legally registered vehicle (ok, bad example, Kiehl's is actually a great product and I do need to wash my face and feel good about my healthy, dewy skin)? The fact of the matter is that those things would make my life easier, but not necessarily any happier, and we are taught that happiness is the lynchpin of "goodness". The vapid stuff would make my life happier (supposedly, and for an undetermined length of time), but at the same time not at all contribute to it's ease, as I would still have to get my car tags renewed etc....

I'm not sure why I am complaining about this at all, as these are the inconveniences that make up adulthood. I guess the answer is that I don't really want to be an adult yet, which is why for my birthday, I am going home to see my parents. Part of this was pouting because 2 of my best friends were going to be out of the country, part of it was a preemptive strike against the possible lameness of not having any plans. Of course, now that I've told people that I am going out of town, they are all like "Awww, we could have taken you out". I always do this! I always assume that no one will plan anything for my birthday and then make my own way lamer plans just to avoid feeling like a loser. I don't trust people enough to give them the opportunity to surprise me, which really, is a metaphor for my whole life... more on that later. But when I am honest with myself it was mostly a very real desire to be taken care of for a weekend. No one spoils and pampers quite like your parents when you haven't been home for literally 6 months.

In which our heroine decides that her dry cleaning is an excellent Birthday Present...

2006-06-22T11:42:00.000-05:00

So, I have reached the point in my day where my mind begins to wander, and it wanders, of course, to deficiencies in my life, sometimes emotional, mostly material. Today's topic is the sad fact that the things I want for my birthday are grocieries and to be able to pick up my dry cleaning, which has been languishing away at White Way Cleaners for going on 2 weeks. I usually do dry cleaning once a year, but at a wedding I spilled god knows what all over my favorite green dress (those of you who were at my b-day last year: that green dress) and so wanted to get it taken care of right away. Along with this I brought like 4 comforters or duvet covers that my cat had so sweetly vomited all over, oh, decades ago. I had kept them locked up, thinking that eventually I would come up with the money to have them all laundered, and then in a fit of "I'm a grown up, dammit, I shouldn't have to wait to have clean linens", I just took the whole mess into the cleaners. Thankfully they did not demand payment up front, as I had about -$36.17 at the moment of delivery. So, this years birthday list is thus:

1. Cash Money
2. License Tag Renewal
3. New Cell Phone (as mine is freaking out... this may or may not have something to do with the fact that I took an unhinged paperclip and tried to clean out all the gunk from underneath the key pad, thereby poking out electrodes and nearly electricuting myself... we may never know.. plus, the paint is peeling, how is that even possible- who paints a cell phone?)
4. Medical bills (Health Partners is the devil... who does not wear prada, but orthopedic loafers and double charges me for the priviledge of waiting an hour to be told I am a hypocondriac)
5. A Pony

Pathetic! Remember the days when we wished for tiara's and autographed NKOTB tapes? Transformers and My Little Ponies? A new car or a pool party? Beer? Now I'm hoping for enough cash to pay a parking ticket. Boo. Boooooo!

What I really really want is a bunch of Kiehl's skin care, because it makes my skin look AMAZING. But I don't need it. I can continue washing my face with a rock, like they did in olden times.

In which our heroine opens up the floor...

2006-06-21T20:50:00.000-05:00

So, now that I've officially announced my blog to the people I know, I guess I'm committed. What I'm really looking for is ideas, connections, ways to take the thoughts swirling around in my head and make some tangible art/meaning out of them, with a little help from my friends. So please, whatever you think this blog should be, it can be. Tell me what you're looking for.... (that goes for strangers too....)

Primal Penguin Rage (aka Rage Against the Penguin Machine)

2006-06-21T20:23:00.000-05:00

A Neurotic Little Penguin Approaches Her Golden Birthday....

2006-06-21T15:13:00.000-05:00

I will be 24 on the 24th of June, folks. The big 2-4. Quarterlife. How did this happen? As any good student of the Post-Modern would do, I have decided to channel my neurotic energies into a blog. For the purposes of this post that should read: avoid work by typing quickly and appearing to be hard at it. As I look back on my short tenure in life, I am bewildered, which is apparently a popular state to be in. Since my friends have all grown weary of my obsessive and insistent dissection of the minutiae of my life, it seems I have nowhere to spew my addled ramblings but on the good citzens of cyberspace. So here is where I shall unload it all, my disappointment with dating and all things boy, my disillusionment with the "career" opportunities for myself and the other geniuses I have managed to befriend, and my utter disgust with the political and social climate of the American Experiment at this juncture.

This blog is not for the faint of heart. Abandon all hope, ye who continue reading....

So on monday night I went to Cash-a-Roake. For those of you in the Sin Cities (aka Minneapolis/St. Paul) this was held at Lee's Liquor Lounge, between downtown and north Minneapolis. It is a dive in the truest, most blessedly dingy sense of the word, with 3 dollar drinks and bad, brown paneling. Anyway, Cash-a-Roake is a live band playing only Johnny Cash songs which you can sing along with. Was there ever a better idea ever? I went alone (I literally called every single human being I know and couldn't get a single one of them to even pick up the damn phone), but the thing about something like Cash-a-Roake is that you have to work to not make new friends... or if not friends, at least drinking buddies. And really, is there an important distinction? I think not. Cash-a-Roake occurs every monday, and I do believe you'll be able to find me there, drinking my $4 whiskey and soda, singing along with the Man in Black.