Random snippets of conversation overheard while out and about:
Overheard on college campus:
Girl #1, with arms crossed over her chest, to Girl #2: I forgot my bra...in my car.
Overheard on college campus, part 2:
Boy: I set my chest hair on fire once.
Girl: On purpose?
Overheard in a Friendly's restaurant bathroom:
Little girl from inside stall to mother standing outside stall: OK, I'm pooping!
More as circumstances allow.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Monday, July 30, 2007
Daily horoscope
This morning, I woke up, got the coffee going, and went to the door to retrieve the morning paper. I opened the door and looked down expectantly at my doormat, but alas, no paper. This is the second time in a week that my paper boy didn't come. Yes, I have an image of a 12 year-old boy earning a little spending money, riding his bike and hurling my paper up 3 flights of stairs so that it lands perfectly on my doormat.
I called the office to let them know that once again, my paper didn't arrive. They apologized and said they'd send someone out right away. Gotta love smallish towns. Around 11AM, there was a knock at my door. I opened the door and there stood the world's oldest man, holding my paper. I was crushed. No future hall-of-famer earning a little extra cash, no bike with a bell on the handle-bars, no freckles, no chewing gum, no cap, no impish grin. Nope, just Grampa, permanently stooped into a curve. I took the paper and thanked him for coming all the way out (from the nursing home, or maybe the grave.) I watched to make sure that he made it back down the stairs. Then I thought, "Well, if the climb up didn't kill him, he should be OK on way down."
About an hour later, I settled on the couch with my lunch and read the news of the day. Here is my horoscope, exactly as printed in the paper:
Strange things are afoot if you should find yourself lurking around a convenience store. Remember that you probably don't need the tantalizing wares of unhealthful repute.
I read it several times, and have finally accepted that it says just that. Call me crazy, but this doesn't sound like a prediction to me. It sounds like a pregnant woman's conscience. It's like those fortunes you get in fortune cookies - the ones that say, "Drink more water for a clear complexion." This isn't a fortune. It's advice. They should call them advice cookies, because calling them fortune cookies is just false advertising.
But, back to my non-horoscope: I must admit that "strange things" would be "afoot" if I found myself "lurking around a convenience store." First of all, I don't lurk. Second, I don't go to convenience stores. Something about the convenience of it all gives me the creeps and makes me feel lazy. I'm someone who prefers to get my Starbucks beans at Starbucks, not a bookstore. I like to get my books at a bookstore, not Cracker Barrel. I'm going to stop now because I'm starting to sound like Andy Rooney. You get the point. I don't want a steak at Waffle House.
Finally, if I want to be tantalized by "wares of unhealthful repute," I'm certainly not going to a convenience store. "Unhealthful repute" takes on a whole new meaning in those places. Which wares are they referring to? The hot dogs that date back to the Kennedy adminstration? (Seriously, you can chop them open and count the rings.) Or maybe they mean the doughnuts and bearclaws that you could bounce quarters off of. They probably mean the vat of soda in a cup so big, you need two hands and a forklift to get it off the counter. Call me a snob, but none of this sounds tantalizing. Certainly not tantalizing enough to violate my "no lurking" policy.
Anyway, I'm relieved to report that apparently nothing was afoot today, as evidenced by the fact that I did not lurk at a convenience store, leering at the "wares of unhealthful repute" that I probably don't need.
I called the office to let them know that once again, my paper didn't arrive. They apologized and said they'd send someone out right away. Gotta love smallish towns. Around 11AM, there was a knock at my door. I opened the door and there stood the world's oldest man, holding my paper. I was crushed. No future hall-of-famer earning a little extra cash, no bike with a bell on the handle-bars, no freckles, no chewing gum, no cap, no impish grin. Nope, just Grampa, permanently stooped into a curve. I took the paper and thanked him for coming all the way out (from the nursing home, or maybe the grave.) I watched to make sure that he made it back down the stairs. Then I thought, "Well, if the climb up didn't kill him, he should be OK on way down."
About an hour later, I settled on the couch with my lunch and read the news of the day. Here is my horoscope, exactly as printed in the paper:
Strange things are afoot if you should find yourself lurking around a convenience store. Remember that you probably don't need the tantalizing wares of unhealthful repute.
I read it several times, and have finally accepted that it says just that. Call me crazy, but this doesn't sound like a prediction to me. It sounds like a pregnant woman's conscience. It's like those fortunes you get in fortune cookies - the ones that say, "Drink more water for a clear complexion." This isn't a fortune. It's advice. They should call them advice cookies, because calling them fortune cookies is just false advertising.
But, back to my non-horoscope: I must admit that "strange things" would be "afoot" if I found myself "lurking around a convenience store." First of all, I don't lurk. Second, I don't go to convenience stores. Something about the convenience of it all gives me the creeps and makes me feel lazy. I'm someone who prefers to get my Starbucks beans at Starbucks, not a bookstore. I like to get my books at a bookstore, not Cracker Barrel. I'm going to stop now because I'm starting to sound like Andy Rooney. You get the point. I don't want a steak at Waffle House.
Finally, if I want to be tantalized by "wares of unhealthful repute," I'm certainly not going to a convenience store. "Unhealthful repute" takes on a whole new meaning in those places. Which wares are they referring to? The hot dogs that date back to the Kennedy adminstration? (Seriously, you can chop them open and count the rings.) Or maybe they mean the doughnuts and bearclaws that you could bounce quarters off of. They probably mean the vat of soda in a cup so big, you need two hands and a forklift to get it off the counter. Call me a snob, but none of this sounds tantalizing. Certainly not tantalizing enough to violate my "no lurking" policy.
Anyway, I'm relieved to report that apparently nothing was afoot today, as evidenced by the fact that I did not lurk at a convenience store, leering at the "wares of unhealthful repute" that I probably don't need.
Saturday, July 28, 2007
Random observations
Over the past few days, I've accumulated a random assortment of observations that I'll submit for your review and possible amusement.
1) Last week, my dissertation research focused on Georgia history. There's really nothing like reading southern history. You just never know what you'll learn. For example, I learned that the state of Georgia didn't ratify the Bill of Rights until 1939. That's right, 1939. More than 100 years after our forefathers added the amendments to the US Constitution, apparently ignoring Georgia's obstinate objections. So, why bother to ratify the Bill of Rights in 1939? Well, apparently, the Great Depression was pretty darn great and depressing in Georgia. Bad enough that the state finally ended its 100 year temper tantrum and agreed that perhaps, the right to bear arms wasn't so bad after all.
2) In a related story, the local paper carried a report about a camp for 8-18 year olds. At the week-long camp, young kids learned how to fire guns safely. According to the report, one camper picked up a spent shell casing and held it to his nose, "because he likes the smell of gunpowder." I wondered if Yankee Candle has found a new market - "New scent from Yankee Candle: Gunpowder. Your eight year-olds will love it." Well, probably not Yankee Candle. Maybe Southern Redneck Candle. At least it would be a safer way for this youngster to indulge his olfactory predilections.
3) The other day, I went to the local grocery store. As I drove past the stores in the attached strip mall, a young man stepped off the curb right in front of my car. I slammed on the brakes, squealing to a stop. He looked startled, waved to me, then walked off, with his tub of vitamins, or whatever he bought at the "get muscles NOW" store. I drove on, thinking, "Why bother with vitamins if you're just going to walk out in front of cars?" Perhaps he's hoping to get so buff that he can just bounce off of cars. It's going to be one hell of a testing period for him.
4) Children don't like Target. I don't know why parents insist on torturing their children by taking them there. Denying them toys "because you just got one yesterday," forcing them to ride in carts with larger siblings who hog the whole seat, not letting them pull the price tags off of unpurchased merchandise, forcing pre-pubescent boys to trail along through the women's underwear (OK, that one IS unreasonable). I've never been around so many miserable children in my life.
5) Speaking of underwear, it's called underwear for a reason. If your clothes don't cover your undergarments, your clothes are too small. Even if it's hot and humid out, your clothes, at a bare minimum, should cover your underwear. This is what I thought as I looked at a woman in short, short, short shorts, a tank top and a black bra. I don't know this woman and there's no good reason why I should be able to tell you what color her bra was. And, her shorts were camouflage print. Given the brevity of the garment, I'm left wondering what she hoped to accomplish. Seriously. Is it really helpful if the six inches from her waist to the bottom of her hips disappear in the woods? People, animals, and whatever else she encounters are still going to see the hot pink tank top and the bottom half of her ass hanging out of the shorts.
6) And finally, speaking of camouflage, someone in my apartment complex owns a camouflage row boat. What's the point of that? Unless you're planning to keep the boat on the shore or in the woods, why paint it camouflage? And if you're not going to take it out on the water, you could have a camouflage bench and accomplish the same thing. Do they think people will look out on the water and wonder why there's a big bush floating down the river? Or maybe fish will look up and think, "Whew, I thought that was a boat, but no, it's just a bush. I think I'll swim closer and get that fat worm magically suspended in the water." I just don't understand why you'd want a camouflage boat.
1) Last week, my dissertation research focused on Georgia history. There's really nothing like reading southern history. You just never know what you'll learn. For example, I learned that the state of Georgia didn't ratify the Bill of Rights until 1939. That's right, 1939. More than 100 years after our forefathers added the amendments to the US Constitution, apparently ignoring Georgia's obstinate objections. So, why bother to ratify the Bill of Rights in 1939? Well, apparently, the Great Depression was pretty darn great and depressing in Georgia. Bad enough that the state finally ended its 100 year temper tantrum and agreed that perhaps, the right to bear arms wasn't so bad after all.
2) In a related story, the local paper carried a report about a camp for 8-18 year olds. At the week-long camp, young kids learned how to fire guns safely. According to the report, one camper picked up a spent shell casing and held it to his nose, "because he likes the smell of gunpowder." I wondered if Yankee Candle has found a new market - "New scent from Yankee Candle: Gunpowder. Your eight year-olds will love it." Well, probably not Yankee Candle. Maybe Southern Redneck Candle. At least it would be a safer way for this youngster to indulge his olfactory predilections.
3) The other day, I went to the local grocery store. As I drove past the stores in the attached strip mall, a young man stepped off the curb right in front of my car. I slammed on the brakes, squealing to a stop. He looked startled, waved to me, then walked off, with his tub of vitamins, or whatever he bought at the "get muscles NOW" store. I drove on, thinking, "Why bother with vitamins if you're just going to walk out in front of cars?" Perhaps he's hoping to get so buff that he can just bounce off of cars. It's going to be one hell of a testing period for him.
4) Children don't like Target. I don't know why parents insist on torturing their children by taking them there. Denying them toys "because you just got one yesterday," forcing them to ride in carts with larger siblings who hog the whole seat, not letting them pull the price tags off of unpurchased merchandise, forcing pre-pubescent boys to trail along through the women's underwear (OK, that one IS unreasonable). I've never been around so many miserable children in my life.
5) Speaking of underwear, it's called underwear for a reason. If your clothes don't cover your undergarments, your clothes are too small. Even if it's hot and humid out, your clothes, at a bare minimum, should cover your underwear. This is what I thought as I looked at a woman in short, short, short shorts, a tank top and a black bra. I don't know this woman and there's no good reason why I should be able to tell you what color her bra was. And, her shorts were camouflage print. Given the brevity of the garment, I'm left wondering what she hoped to accomplish. Seriously. Is it really helpful if the six inches from her waist to the bottom of her hips disappear in the woods? People, animals, and whatever else she encounters are still going to see the hot pink tank top and the bottom half of her ass hanging out of the shorts.
6) And finally, speaking of camouflage, someone in my apartment complex owns a camouflage row boat. What's the point of that? Unless you're planning to keep the boat on the shore or in the woods, why paint it camouflage? And if you're not going to take it out on the water, you could have a camouflage bench and accomplish the same thing. Do they think people will look out on the water and wonder why there's a big bush floating down the river? Or maybe fish will look up and think, "Whew, I thought that was a boat, but no, it's just a bush. I think I'll swim closer and get that fat worm magically suspended in the water." I just don't understand why you'd want a camouflage boat.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Motherhood Survey
Last May, I came across this survey. Now, I don't have any children, but I know plenty of people who do (for instance, my mother has children). I read this survey with some interest, and noted my reflections in brackets.
Woman's Day/AOL motherhood survey
04/20/07
1000 mothers responded to this survey are published in the May 8, 2007 issue of Woman’s Day magazine. Here are the top answers in each category.
If stay-at-home moms got a paycheck, how much should they earn annually?
35% responded: $50,000
[$50,000?? That's it?? Now, to be fair, we don't know that the other choices were, but c'mon! ]
What was/is the most challenging stage of your child’s life for you as a mom?
31% responded: When they were teenagers
What stage was/is the most enjoyable?
39% responded: Ages 1 to 3, full of first steps and big accomplishments
[So, have all the fun you can with your young children, because apparently, you're in for a long, long road ahead. And so are your children, as they will have experienced their "big accomplishments" by age 3. Maybe that's why they're such miserable teenagers.]
Forget about dishes or household chores: If your husband were able to spend more time at home, how would you use that time?
39% responded: Just enjoying being a couple
[For wives, this meant talking, sharing personal feelings, holding hands, gazing into each other's eyes. Husbands, on the other hand, thought this meant sitting around watching sports, drinking beer, and scratching themselves, with their wives sitting nearby.]
Who’s the hottest celebrity mom?
40% responded: Angelina Jolie
Pick the celebrity dad you’d most like to have kids with.
37% responded: Johnny Depp
[Duh. I don't even want children and I'd have children with Johnny Depp.]
Which TV mom is most like you?
49% responded: Debra Barone from Everybody Loves Raymond
[Just imagine if a bunch of Peg Bundys responded to the survey.]
What’s your ultimate goal for your children?
83% responded: That they get into good colleges and have rewarding careers
[And stop mooching off their parents!]
Rate yourself as a mother:
65% responded: I do the best I can.
[Wonder what the other choices were. "I stink at it." "I have no maternal instincts and my children would be better off raised by wolves."]
Are moms better off today than they were in the 1950s?
45% responded: We may have different challenges than our mothers did, but we’re not any better or worse off.
[And Betty Friedan just turned over in her grave. Thanks, second-wavers. Good to see your efforts weren't in vain.]
If you work outside the home, what’s your primary motivation?
52% responded: We need the money.
[Other choices - "I need to get away from my children." "I need adult contact." "I'd go bat-shit crazy if I had to stay at home full-time."]
What’s the most difficult thing about being a mom?
52% responded: Making time for myself—I sneak into the bathroom just to have a moment alone.
[I don't ever want to have a life where I have to sneak in the bathroom just to have a moment alone.]
When it comes to your kids, do you have a favorite?
84% responded: No. I love my kids equally.
[Seriously, what were the other options? "I love my first born, but that second kid has got to go."]
Do you and your husband share the responsibilities of child-rearing equally?
39% responded: I take care of their daily needs, but we make the major decisions about our children together.
[Other choices: "No, he does everything." This choice scored a negative percentage from respondents.]
Moms have spoken. Things are different, but not better. And, they want to have kids with Johnny Depp. Interesting that the magazine doesn't ask if they'd rather have kids with Johnny Depp or their own husbands. Probably best to let that sleeping dog lie.
Woman's Day/AOL motherhood survey
04/20/07
1000 mothers responded to this survey are published in the May 8, 2007 issue of Woman’s Day magazine. Here are the top answers in each category.
If stay-at-home moms got a paycheck, how much should they earn annually?
35% responded: $50,000
[$50,000?? That's it?? Now, to be fair, we don't know that the other choices were, but c'mon! ]
What was/is the most challenging stage of your child’s life for you as a mom?
31% responded: When they were teenagers
What stage was/is the most enjoyable?
39% responded: Ages 1 to 3, full of first steps and big accomplishments
[So, have all the fun you can with your young children, because apparently, you're in for a long, long road ahead. And so are your children, as they will have experienced their "big accomplishments" by age 3. Maybe that's why they're such miserable teenagers.]
Forget about dishes or household chores: If your husband were able to spend more time at home, how would you use that time?
39% responded: Just enjoying being a couple
[For wives, this meant talking, sharing personal feelings, holding hands, gazing into each other's eyes. Husbands, on the other hand, thought this meant sitting around watching sports, drinking beer, and scratching themselves, with their wives sitting nearby.]
Who’s the hottest celebrity mom?
40% responded: Angelina Jolie
Pick the celebrity dad you’d most like to have kids with.
37% responded: Johnny Depp
[Duh. I don't even want children and I'd have children with Johnny Depp.]
Which TV mom is most like you?
49% responded: Debra Barone from Everybody Loves Raymond
[Just imagine if a bunch of Peg Bundys responded to the survey.]
What’s your ultimate goal for your children?
83% responded: That they get into good colleges and have rewarding careers
[And stop mooching off their parents!]
Rate yourself as a mother:
65% responded: I do the best I can.
[Wonder what the other choices were. "I stink at it." "I have no maternal instincts and my children would be better off raised by wolves."]
Are moms better off today than they were in the 1950s?
45% responded: We may have different challenges than our mothers did, but we’re not any better or worse off.
[And Betty Friedan just turned over in her grave. Thanks, second-wavers. Good to see your efforts weren't in vain.]
If you work outside the home, what’s your primary motivation?
52% responded: We need the money.
[Other choices - "I need to get away from my children." "I need adult contact." "I'd go bat-shit crazy if I had to stay at home full-time."]
What’s the most difficult thing about being a mom?
52% responded: Making time for myself—I sneak into the bathroom just to have a moment alone.
[I don't ever want to have a life where I have to sneak in the bathroom just to have a moment alone.]
When it comes to your kids, do you have a favorite?
84% responded: No. I love my kids equally.
[Seriously, what were the other options? "I love my first born, but that second kid has got to go."]
Do you and your husband share the responsibilities of child-rearing equally?
39% responded: I take care of their daily needs, but we make the major decisions about our children together.
[Other choices: "No, he does everything." This choice scored a negative percentage from respondents.]
Moms have spoken. Things are different, but not better. And, they want to have kids with Johnny Depp. Interesting that the magazine doesn't ask if they'd rather have kids with Johnny Depp or their own husbands. Probably best to let that sleeping dog lie.
Monday, July 23, 2007
NEPIW Reflections
Yesterday, I survived my second yoga class without incident. Since nothing blog-worthy came from this outing, I thought I'd reprise an account of President's Day in the northeastern post-industrial wasteland (NEPIW). I should preface this entry by saying that things happen in the NEPIW that don't happen anywhere else (a thought I've always found comforting). In my five years there, I honed an "eyes forward at all times" approach; but, there were times when the downright weirdness of the place seeped through. The following is one of those times:
This morning, I had a plan to celebrate President's Day. I was going to chop down a cherry tree, free some slaves, start a bunch of government agencies with 3-4 letter acronyms that don't spell actual words, tape all of my conversations, have an affair with an intern, then, to round out a busy day, I was going to invade an unsuspecting country. Well, time got away from me and I didn't get to any of these things. But, there's always next year.
Yesterday, I made my weekly trip to the grocery store and left wondering why I can't just manufacture my own food at home. All the way through the store, I trailed along behind this really annoying middle-aged couple. They plodded along, pushing one of those enormous carts. I'd work my way around them, then turn the next aisle and there they'd be, in front of me again. I started to think they were aliens who could teleport, sent to annoy earthlings in grocery stores.
The final straw was when I turned down the last aisle and they were throwing a roll of paper towels back and forth down the aisle. I'm not making this up. He was at one end, and she at the other, and they were tossing a roll of paper towels like a football back and forth. I almost shouted, "What the hell is the matter with you people?!! I have been locked up in my apartment non-stop for 5 days, trying to articulate some sort of meaningful argument for my dissertation and do you see me throwing paper towels in the grocery store? No. No, you don't."
I finally extracted myself from this couple of freaks, after following them through the frozen food section. I got in line behind a woman who was wearing a winter coat, a spring/summer skirt and sandals. Open-toed, full-on, sandals! She didn't even have pantyhose on. It was snowing outside. Snow = cold. The woman was buying a bunch of organic food - you know, no preservatives, no additives, no taste. I proudly put my meat, frozen processed food, cookies, and 10% real juice on the belt behind her "food."
As she purchased her food, she felt the need to narrate her every move - "I'm swiping my Wegmans card..I'm swiping my credit card, I'm paying with credit!" Again, I wanted to explain that although I'd been cooped up without human contact for 5 days, I was appropriately attired with real shoes and socks on. But, what do I know. Maybe eating organic food makes your feet really hot.
Stay tuned for more tales of "Crazy, Potential Aliens in the NEPIW."
This morning, I had a plan to celebrate President's Day. I was going to chop down a cherry tree, free some slaves, start a bunch of government agencies with 3-4 letter acronyms that don't spell actual words, tape all of my conversations, have an affair with an intern, then, to round out a busy day, I was going to invade an unsuspecting country. Well, time got away from me and I didn't get to any of these things. But, there's always next year.
Yesterday, I made my weekly trip to the grocery store and left wondering why I can't just manufacture my own food at home. All the way through the store, I trailed along behind this really annoying middle-aged couple. They plodded along, pushing one of those enormous carts. I'd work my way around them, then turn the next aisle and there they'd be, in front of me again. I started to think they were aliens who could teleport, sent to annoy earthlings in grocery stores.
The final straw was when I turned down the last aisle and they were throwing a roll of paper towels back and forth down the aisle. I'm not making this up. He was at one end, and she at the other, and they were tossing a roll of paper towels like a football back and forth. I almost shouted, "What the hell is the matter with you people?!! I have been locked up in my apartment non-stop for 5 days, trying to articulate some sort of meaningful argument for my dissertation and do you see me throwing paper towels in the grocery store? No. No, you don't."
I finally extracted myself from this couple of freaks, after following them through the frozen food section. I got in line behind a woman who was wearing a winter coat, a spring/summer skirt and sandals. Open-toed, full-on, sandals! She didn't even have pantyhose on. It was snowing outside. Snow = cold. The woman was buying a bunch of organic food - you know, no preservatives, no additives, no taste. I proudly put my meat, frozen processed food, cookies, and 10% real juice on the belt behind her "food."
As she purchased her food, she felt the need to narrate her every move - "I'm swiping my Wegmans card..I'm swiping my credit card, I'm paying with credit!" Again, I wanted to explain that although I'd been cooped up without human contact for 5 days, I was appropriately attired with real shoes and socks on. But, what do I know. Maybe eating organic food makes your feet really hot.
Stay tuned for more tales of "Crazy, Potential Aliens in the NEPIW."
Saturday, July 21, 2007
Writer's Conference
Yesterday, I attended a writer's conference here in town. The conference aimed to create a community of writers. From what I could tell, they managed to create a community of people who are trying desparately to avoid, or get out of, a "real job."
While waiting in line to register, I was privvy to several conversations. It's my favorite time to eavesdrop because you can't not hear the people around you when you're in line. The man in front of me was telling the woman in front of me all about the many writers conferences he'd been to. He'd been to one in Myrtle Beach. He'd been to one in Jacksonville. I thought, "When do you ever find time to write?" About then, the woman got a phone call so I couldn't learn more about all the fascinating conferences this fellow had attended.
As I waited, I turned my attention to the people behind me. I'm not sure how their conversation started, but I joined in at, "I went to college in western Massachusetts." I turned and asked, "Where?" She named the "other women's college" and I divulged that I had attended "the women's college." We graduated the same year, and she made a comment about living in a small world. (Side note: For the rest of the day, I had "It's a small world, after all" going through my head, thanks to my new friend.)
After the first speaker, my "sister" and I struck up a conversation. As I recanted the abridged version of "my life to date," I mentioned that I had escaped from a northeastern post-industrial wasteland. She stopped me to ask where. When I told her, she replied, "That's where my family is from. We make a pilgrimage there as often as we can." As Mickey Mouse's voice blared "It's a small, small world" in my ears, I said, "Well, that's ironic, because I just made an exodus from there," thus allowing Bob Marley to momentarily drown out Mickey Mouse.
We made our way to the first of four workshop sessions. Each round, I could choose from eight workshops. The organizers decided to make the selection process more challenging by providing only the session titles. Most were self-explanatory. For example, "Working with Agents" and "What an Editor Wants" were pretty obvious. Others were more challenging. For example, "The Ghost that Got Into My House" and "SLAM!" left me perplexed. I decided to forgo "Villanous Smells" all together.
At the end of the day, we all gathered for the last speaker. He's a fellow who writes cookbooks with vignettes about his experiences. He started his talk by describing his first books about bread. It was late in the afternoon and I thought, "Mmm, bread." I tuned back in as he said something about bread being a metaphor for life, but he'd lost me at "bread." In what was supposed to be an inspirational send-off, he told of his travels to find the perfect pizza. I thought, "Mmmm, pizza." Then, he transitioned from pizza to cheese steak. As he described watching this guy make the perfect cheese steak in Philadelphia, I almost cried, "Stop it! You're killing me over here!" Meanwhile, my new friend somehow got past the food references to grasp his broader message about mission.
If only he'd talked about anything but cheese steak and pizza, then I too could have found inspiration. As it was, I was inspired to order pizza for dinner, which I'm guessing was not his main point.
Friday, July 20, 2007
Ant Protests
This morning, in my research, I came across a typo in the May 14, 1960 issue of the Savannah Tribune. On the front page, there's an article about the mayor's quasi-legal city ordinance directed at black protesters. The headline announces: "Ant-Picketing Law Passed By City Council."
I'm not really sure how to work ant discrimination into my work. I'll have to look for more city government efforts to squash the ant protest. One thing's for sure, the ants had straight picket lines. Maybe if the ants had formed an effective coalition with other insects, they could have achieved their objectives - whatever those were. Eating at lunch counters? Building homes in any neighborhood they chose? Ending ant-ist stereotypes - as in "he's got ants in his pants"? Freedom of assembly - especially at picnics?
I'm not really sure how to work ant discrimination into my work. I'll have to look for more city government efforts to squash the ant protest. One thing's for sure, the ants had straight picket lines. Maybe if the ants had formed an effective coalition with other insects, they could have achieved their objectives - whatever those were. Eating at lunch counters? Building homes in any neighborhood they chose? Ending ant-ist stereotypes - as in "he's got ants in his pants"? Freedom of assembly - especially at picnics?
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Life's Little Successes
I recently read a review of "In Celebration," a play that opened on London's West Side. The reviewer makes the following comment about Orlando Bloom's performance: "It's not a challenging role but he remembers his lines and doesn't bump into the furniture." On the surface, this may seem like a slap in the face, but after careful consideration, I've decided that the reviewer may be on to something. Maybe we expect too much from ourselves. Maybe, as we climb into bed at night, we shouldn't focus on what we didn't do, but instead we should pat ourselves on the back if we "remembered our lines and didn't bump into the furniture."
Case in point: Yesterday, I went to my first yoga class. Although I am extremely uncoordinated, I managed to keep up with the instructor, except a few times when she was in downward facing dog, and I was still in high push up position. I learned that it's an easy mistake to correct, just stick your butt straight into the air. If only all of life's mistakes were this easy to correct, or could be remedied with this solution.
I stayed right with the instructor as she lifted her leg while in downward facing dog. I even managed not to giggle. I find that it's hard to giggle when you can't breathe. I stayed right with her as we literally tied ourselves into tight little balls. However, despite my growing confidence, I stopped short of balancing on my hands while tied up in a ball. I saw her do it and thought, "I thought I'd have to buy tickets to Cirque de Soliel to see that kind of thing." The most amazing part of this whole display came when she continued to instruct, all the while balanced on her hands, tied in a tight little ball. "Do what's comfortable for you but don't limit yourselves," she said in the same soothing voice, straight into the floor, "Try to create space between your rib cage and your pelvis. Settle into the stretch." I thought, "If I settle any more, you're going to need to call the paramedics to untie me." Then, just as amazingly, she uncoiled in a slow fluid motion, not like a spring that's been released, which was my uncoiling strategy. I'm happy to report that I did not say "Boiiing!"
Now, I could beat myself up about not even trying to balance on my hands while tied in a ball, or my ungraceful "release." But, I'm not going to do that. Instead, I'm going to remember that for the majority of the class, I "remembered my lines and didn't bump into the furniture." It helped that there wasn't any furniture - but hey, it's a metaphor. Work with me.
So, I offer this advice - focus on the little successes in the day. If Orlando Bloom isn't enough inspiration, think of the woman in yesterday's blotter. Seems she was run over by her own truck. She stopped the truck and got out. The truck started moving and as she tried to get back in, she fell. Under the truck. She was taken to an area hospital and treated for unspecified injuries.
As you climb into bed tonight, don't think about all the things you didn't do, but instead drift blissfully to sleep thinking, "Sure, I didn't do those things, but I wasn't run down by my own vehicle." Unless you were. In which case, I'm sorry.
Case in point: Yesterday, I went to my first yoga class. Although I am extremely uncoordinated, I managed to keep up with the instructor, except a few times when she was in downward facing dog, and I was still in high push up position. I learned that it's an easy mistake to correct, just stick your butt straight into the air. If only all of life's mistakes were this easy to correct, or could be remedied with this solution.
I stayed right with the instructor as she lifted her leg while in downward facing dog. I even managed not to giggle. I find that it's hard to giggle when you can't breathe. I stayed right with her as we literally tied ourselves into tight little balls. However, despite my growing confidence, I stopped short of balancing on my hands while tied up in a ball. I saw her do it and thought, "I thought I'd have to buy tickets to Cirque de Soliel to see that kind of thing." The most amazing part of this whole display came when she continued to instruct, all the while balanced on her hands, tied in a tight little ball. "Do what's comfortable for you but don't limit yourselves," she said in the same soothing voice, straight into the floor, "Try to create space between your rib cage and your pelvis. Settle into the stretch." I thought, "If I settle any more, you're going to need to call the paramedics to untie me." Then, just as amazingly, she uncoiled in a slow fluid motion, not like a spring that's been released, which was my uncoiling strategy. I'm happy to report that I did not say "Boiiing!"
Now, I could beat myself up about not even trying to balance on my hands while tied in a ball, or my ungraceful "release." But, I'm not going to do that. Instead, I'm going to remember that for the majority of the class, I "remembered my lines and didn't bump into the furniture." It helped that there wasn't any furniture - but hey, it's a metaphor. Work with me.
So, I offer this advice - focus on the little successes in the day. If Orlando Bloom isn't enough inspiration, think of the woman in yesterday's blotter. Seems she was run over by her own truck. She stopped the truck and got out. The truck started moving and as she tried to get back in, she fell. Under the truck. She was taken to an area hospital and treated for unspecified injuries.
As you climb into bed tonight, don't think about all the things you didn't do, but instead drift blissfully to sleep thinking, "Sure, I didn't do those things, but I wasn't run down by my own vehicle." Unless you were. In which case, I'm sorry.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Losing teeth in MS
I've decided to complete the Memphis-Mississippi story. I'd gone to Mississippi on a quest - to conduct oral history interviews with former civil rights activists. After a week in Greenwood, I was finally ready to leave Mississippi. I just had to make it through one more afternoon. So, I decided to make a second attempt to find Money, Mississippi. Money is a place only historians would want to find. And, this historian failed. At least I got a good story out of it.
I headed out of Greenwood on a long flat highway bordered on both sides by cotton fields. Following my trusty map, I turned right onto a 2-lane road that ran straight into the cotton field. Brimming with confidence, sure I was going to be the only person who'd ever successfully found Money in Mississippi, I blazed a trail in my Kia Rio. When the road narrowed, my confidence waned. When the road turned to dirt, I hit the brakes. As I turned around, I felt something more than chewing gum afloat in my mouth. "Oh shit!" I said, as anyone would in this situation. I ran my tongue along my teeth and discovered that my gum had pulled a crown off of my back tooth. Luckily I didn't swallow the crown. Imagine choking to death on your own crown in the middle of a cotton field on a second failed attempt to find Money, MS - oh the tragedy.
As I held the now-detached crown with the gum still hanging on, I thought, "How am I going to put this back in? Superglue?" I got back on the main road and did what anyone would do in this situation, I called a friend in New York. To her credit, she eventually stopped laughing and suggested that I call the insurance company and then find a dentist. So, I called the insurance company - the northeastern-based insurance company. The woman on the other end listened to my story and replied, "We don't have any providers in Mississippi. We don't have any in Tennessee, we don't have any further south than Pennsylvania." I said, "You understand that I'm holding my own tooth in my hand, and I'm in the middle of a cotton field." She was unsympathetic. I said, "You've been completely unhelpful." I stopped short of telling her that although Pennsylvannia is geographically south of New York, it is not "the South."
I returned to Greenwood, back to my new friends at the Hampton Inn where I learned two things: dentists don't work on Friday afternoons in Greenwood and there's tooth cement at CVS. I got some of that, glued the crown back on, and off I went to do an oral history interview. It was at that moment that I became an historian! All weekend, I ate like I was in a nursing home - only soft foods, please. On Monday, my parents' dentist took pity on me and the gaping hole in my mouth and recemented my tooth for a nominal fee.
Fast forward one month: In an effort to avoid work of all kinds, I decided to rewatch the Lord of the Rings movies - the extended versions and extra features. In one of the "making of" documentaries, Peter Jackson gushes about Viggo Mortensen's committment to his portrayal of Aragorn. At one point, he said that a fellow actor broke one of Mortensen's teeth during one of the many fight scenes. Seems the guy hit Viggo in the mouth with a sword. According to Jackson, Mortensen insisted on putting the tooth part back in place with superglue and carrying on with filming.
At that point, I put down my ice cream and said, "Oh my god, that's exactly what I thought when I was holding my tooth in my hand in the middle of a cotton field in Mississippi." This can only mean one thing - Viggo and I are clearly meant to be together. Our tooth odysseys will create a bond stronger than enamel. Our love will shine brighter than tooth bleach! Our bond will fill the cavities of our broken hearts!
And I hadn't been drinking.
I headed out of Greenwood on a long flat highway bordered on both sides by cotton fields. Following my trusty map, I turned right onto a 2-lane road that ran straight into the cotton field. Brimming with confidence, sure I was going to be the only person who'd ever successfully found Money in Mississippi, I blazed a trail in my Kia Rio. When the road narrowed, my confidence waned. When the road turned to dirt, I hit the brakes. As I turned around, I felt something more than chewing gum afloat in my mouth. "Oh shit!" I said, as anyone would in this situation. I ran my tongue along my teeth and discovered that my gum had pulled a crown off of my back tooth. Luckily I didn't swallow the crown. Imagine choking to death on your own crown in the middle of a cotton field on a second failed attempt to find Money, MS - oh the tragedy.
As I held the now-detached crown with the gum still hanging on, I thought, "How am I going to put this back in? Superglue?" I got back on the main road and did what anyone would do in this situation, I called a friend in New York. To her credit, she eventually stopped laughing and suggested that I call the insurance company and then find a dentist. So, I called the insurance company - the northeastern-based insurance company. The woman on the other end listened to my story and replied, "We don't have any providers in Mississippi. We don't have any in Tennessee, we don't have any further south than Pennsylvania." I said, "You understand that I'm holding my own tooth in my hand, and I'm in the middle of a cotton field." She was unsympathetic. I said, "You've been completely unhelpful." I stopped short of telling her that although Pennsylvannia is geographically south of New York, it is not "the South."
I returned to Greenwood, back to my new friends at the Hampton Inn where I learned two things: dentists don't work on Friday afternoons in Greenwood and there's tooth cement at CVS. I got some of that, glued the crown back on, and off I went to do an oral history interview. It was at that moment that I became an historian! All weekend, I ate like I was in a nursing home - only soft foods, please. On Monday, my parents' dentist took pity on me and the gaping hole in my mouth and recemented my tooth for a nominal fee.
Fast forward one month: In an effort to avoid work of all kinds, I decided to rewatch the Lord of the Rings movies - the extended versions and extra features. In one of the "making of" documentaries, Peter Jackson gushes about Viggo Mortensen's committment to his portrayal of Aragorn. At one point, he said that a fellow actor broke one of Mortensen's teeth during one of the many fight scenes. Seems the guy hit Viggo in the mouth with a sword. According to Jackson, Mortensen insisted on putting the tooth part back in place with superglue and carrying on with filming.
At that point, I put down my ice cream and said, "Oh my god, that's exactly what I thought when I was holding my tooth in my hand in the middle of a cotton field in Mississippi." This can only mean one thing - Viggo and I are clearly meant to be together. Our tooth odysseys will create a bond stronger than enamel. Our love will shine brighter than tooth bleach! Our bond will fill the cavities of our broken hearts!
And I hadn't been drinking.
Monday, July 16, 2007
Kids' Toys
The following is a tale of one aunt's devotion to her nieces and nephew. It is not for the faint of heart or the weak of spirit.
Last month, I shopped for my nephew's birthday present. He turned 2 years old. Because I lived in a northeastern post-industrial wasteland, my toy store options were extremely limited. I started my quest at Target where I encountered the worst selection of toys ever. All I wanted was a truck or a ball - the 2 things that my nephew is "into" these days. All the trucks lit up, drove on their own, mowed down everything in their paths, and growled. None were appropriate for 2 year olds. My nephew will have to wait another year before he can try to remotely control a rampaging battery-powered death machine.
So, I went to Toys R Us. I hate Toys R Us. I always feel like a rat in a maze, a comercially-driven toy-filled maze. I found the trucks and chose one of the dump variety, one that did not need batteries and seemed solid enough to survive a two year old boy's destructive tendencies. Then, I went in search of little gifts for my nieces.
Little girls' toys are terribly disturbing. One niece is "into" Barbies. After walking down the Barbie aisle, I decided that she'll have to learn to live with disappointment. It was the pregnant Barbie that really did me in. Not kidding. Pregnant Barbie wears a short mini-dress and holds an infant. I was unclear whether Barbie had pulled a Britney Spears and was having 2 kids in one year, or if you were supposed to put the infant under her minidress so she could give birth. Either way, very disturbing. Then, there were all the other Barbies - stay at home Barbie, Domestic Goddess Barbie, Fashion Barbie - in skimpy attire, all ready for the red carpet, because apparently this is a worthwhile life ambition these days. I blame Paris Hilton, for this and any number of other things.
My brother and sister-in-law strictly forbid me from buying toys that make noise. Who can blame them, after the Chicken Dance Elmo and Hokey Pokey Elmo Christmas a couple of years ago. I'm surprised they'll still let me in their house with wrapped packages. Anyway, I broke this cardinal rule and got Disney princess toy cell phones for the girls and fled that part of the store.
On my way out, I spotted a Mega Blocks Pirate Ship. It plays pirate songs and makes ocean noises. Guess what my nephew go for his birthday. No trucks for him, it's pirates, baby! Jack Sparrow and Will Turner not included. I checked.
The pirate ship was big. Big enough that I had to use an entire roll of wrapping paper and go through 3 different boxes and several kinds of packing material before I had it ready to ship. The box barely fit in my little Honda. I manhandled the thing into the post office, stood in a long line, and finally got to the counter where I learned that because the box was so big, I had to pay a surcharge. Grand total for shipping was more than half of what I paid for the gift. Grand total with wrapping paper and card, as much as the gift. The look on my face - priceless.
From now on, I'm using Amazon for all toy purchases.
Last month, I shopped for my nephew's birthday present. He turned 2 years old. Because I lived in a northeastern post-industrial wasteland, my toy store options were extremely limited. I started my quest at Target where I encountered the worst selection of toys ever. All I wanted was a truck or a ball - the 2 things that my nephew is "into" these days. All the trucks lit up, drove on their own, mowed down everything in their paths, and growled. None were appropriate for 2 year olds. My nephew will have to wait another year before he can try to remotely control a rampaging battery-powered death machine.
So, I went to Toys R Us. I hate Toys R Us. I always feel like a rat in a maze, a comercially-driven toy-filled maze. I found the trucks and chose one of the dump variety, one that did not need batteries and seemed solid enough to survive a two year old boy's destructive tendencies. Then, I went in search of little gifts for my nieces.
Little girls' toys are terribly disturbing. One niece is "into" Barbies. After walking down the Barbie aisle, I decided that she'll have to learn to live with disappointment. It was the pregnant Barbie that really did me in. Not kidding. Pregnant Barbie wears a short mini-dress and holds an infant. I was unclear whether Barbie had pulled a Britney Spears and was having 2 kids in one year, or if you were supposed to put the infant under her minidress so she could give birth. Either way, very disturbing. Then, there were all the other Barbies - stay at home Barbie, Domestic Goddess Barbie, Fashion Barbie - in skimpy attire, all ready for the red carpet, because apparently this is a worthwhile life ambition these days. I blame Paris Hilton, for this and any number of other things.
My brother and sister-in-law strictly forbid me from buying toys that make noise. Who can blame them, after the Chicken Dance Elmo and Hokey Pokey Elmo Christmas a couple of years ago. I'm surprised they'll still let me in their house with wrapped packages. Anyway, I broke this cardinal rule and got Disney princess toy cell phones for the girls and fled that part of the store.
On my way out, I spotted a Mega Blocks Pirate Ship. It plays pirate songs and makes ocean noises. Guess what my nephew go for his birthday. No trucks for him, it's pirates, baby! Jack Sparrow and Will Turner not included. I checked.
The pirate ship was big. Big enough that I had to use an entire roll of wrapping paper and go through 3 different boxes and several kinds of packing material before I had it ready to ship. The box barely fit in my little Honda. I manhandled the thing into the post office, stood in a long line, and finally got to the counter where I learned that because the box was so big, I had to pay a surcharge. Grand total for shipping was more than half of what I paid for the gift. Grand total with wrapping paper and card, as much as the gift. The look on my face - priceless.
From now on, I'm using Amazon for all toy purchases.
Sunday, July 15, 2007
The Gym, Part 2
This week, I returned to the gym for my physical assessment. The assessment turned out to be an enormous sales pitch for the gym's personal trainer services. The assessor clearly had a schtick that he was determined to get through and by the end, I'd be convinced that the only way I'd ever get into any shape at all would be to pay over $100/month (on top of the gym fee) to have a personal trainer. He and I were not on the same page. He had a tough job. He failed.
For the assessment, he used a machine to evaluate my upper arm, my thigh, and my stomach. He also tested my ability to pull on a metal bar attached to the floor, and to stretch my hands toward my feet. When I extended my hands well beyond my feet, he said that my flexibility was great - so we wouldn't be working on that. I said, "But that's the only thing I can do!"
I thought the personal assessment would include instruction on the machines - helping me learn which machines do what, helping me figure out what I should do. Nope. He didn't even let me near any machines. He said that because I hadn't worked out before, I couldn't start with any weights. That's right, part of his sales pitch was to make me feel like a huge loser who can't even use the fancy gym's fancy equipment. No, instead, I had to do humiliating exercises like walking like a crab in the middle of the gym, right beside the enormous dog. It was my worst nightmare come true. When I told him that I felt really self-conscious, he said, "Oh, everyone starts like this. You're doing fine. No one is even paying attention." Then, a really beautiful man walked by. He glanced in my direction, as I was squatting and crabbing, and turned away. I think I saw him smirk. If I could have straightened up, I would have. If I'd been able to walk to the door, I would have done that too.
I refused to pay for personal trainer services after that. I left the gym, legs burning and dignity in tatters. Yesterday, I gathered all of my courage and walked into the women's only part of the gym. With some support from the kind woman at the desk, I overcame my fear of the elliptical machine. OK, so I wasn't as smooth as the girl down the row, but I didn't fall off or get twisted up in the machine, and I considered this a definite step in the right direction.
I glanced down the row a couple of times and saw the young woman taking a drink of water, wiping sweat from her brow with a towel, changing the settings on the machine - never breaking stride. Confidently, I thought, "I can do that." I let go of the arm bars, leaned forward and almost lost my balance. I fished around for the bottle, finally got it but despite several valiant attempts, I couldn't get the bottle to meet my mouth. There I was, pedaling away, arm bars swinging wildly beside me, mouth open, trying desparately to get the bottle to my mouth. When I hit my nose, I stopped trying.
Next up, yoga class. I don't think I'll tell them about my coordination issues.
For the assessment, he used a machine to evaluate my upper arm, my thigh, and my stomach. He also tested my ability to pull on a metal bar attached to the floor, and to stretch my hands toward my feet. When I extended my hands well beyond my feet, he said that my flexibility was great - so we wouldn't be working on that. I said, "But that's the only thing I can do!"
I thought the personal assessment would include instruction on the machines - helping me learn which machines do what, helping me figure out what I should do. Nope. He didn't even let me near any machines. He said that because I hadn't worked out before, I couldn't start with any weights. That's right, part of his sales pitch was to make me feel like a huge loser who can't even use the fancy gym's fancy equipment. No, instead, I had to do humiliating exercises like walking like a crab in the middle of the gym, right beside the enormous dog. It was my worst nightmare come true. When I told him that I felt really self-conscious, he said, "Oh, everyone starts like this. You're doing fine. No one is even paying attention." Then, a really beautiful man walked by. He glanced in my direction, as I was squatting and crabbing, and turned away. I think I saw him smirk. If I could have straightened up, I would have. If I'd been able to walk to the door, I would have done that too.
I refused to pay for personal trainer services after that. I left the gym, legs burning and dignity in tatters. Yesterday, I gathered all of my courage and walked into the women's only part of the gym. With some support from the kind woman at the desk, I overcame my fear of the elliptical machine. OK, so I wasn't as smooth as the girl down the row, but I didn't fall off or get twisted up in the machine, and I considered this a definite step in the right direction.
I glanced down the row a couple of times and saw the young woman taking a drink of water, wiping sweat from her brow with a towel, changing the settings on the machine - never breaking stride. Confidently, I thought, "I can do that." I let go of the arm bars, leaned forward and almost lost my balance. I fished around for the bottle, finally got it but despite several valiant attempts, I couldn't get the bottle to meet my mouth. There I was, pedaling away, arm bars swinging wildly beside me, mouth open, trying desparately to get the bottle to my mouth. When I hit my nose, I stopped trying.
Next up, yoga class. I don't think I'll tell them about my coordination issues.
Saturday, July 14, 2007
Blotter
One of my favorite activities is reading the local paper. I don't mind admitting that the local paper is one of the main reasons why I moved back here. I love the local paper, especially the Blotter and the Editorial Page. There, amidst the news of the day, you're sure to find a little nugget, a little snippet so unexpected that you'll have to read it twice, maybe three times.
For example, in today's blotter, police responded to a burglary in progress at a house under renovation near the university. When police got there, they easily found 3 students hiding inside. Apparently, the students were not very good at hiding. Maybe they were hindered by the fact that they'd been drinking and it was 3AM. As police hauled them out of their "hiding" places, the students assured police that they weren't burglarizing the house. No, they were just curious about the renovation. That's right, of all the possible explanations for their behavior, these geniuses went with "curious about the renovation." They were so curious that they decided to down a few cold ones and go check it out - at 3AM. Our crack police force didn't fall for it and charged them with prowling and loitering.
But, in what easily qualifies as my favorite blotter entry of all time, police stopped a 21 year old man because he was driving erratically at 2AM. The man, "whose breath smelled of alcohol," offered the officers $800 to let him go immediately. The officers declined and arrested him instead. As they drove him to the police station, "the officer saw the man reaching into the back of his pants and putting something into his mouth." Naturally, the officer asked what the man was doing. And here's his response, exactly as reported in the blotter. "The man said he was eating feces to foil a DUI breath test." Turns out, police found residue of a pill in the man's mouth.
While the story is easily strong enough to stand on its own, I know there's a punchline in there somewhere. So far, I've come up with, "Gee, I've heard of shit for brains, but never heard of shit for breath." Or, "That's certainly a new twist on 'potty mouth.'" Or, "Guess he was just talking shit."
I don't know who writes the Blotter, but they're not paying him or her nearly enough.
For example, in today's blotter, police responded to a burglary in progress at a house under renovation near the university. When police got there, they easily found 3 students hiding inside. Apparently, the students were not very good at hiding. Maybe they were hindered by the fact that they'd been drinking and it was 3AM. As police hauled them out of their "hiding" places, the students assured police that they weren't burglarizing the house. No, they were just curious about the renovation. That's right, of all the possible explanations for their behavior, these geniuses went with "curious about the renovation." They were so curious that they decided to down a few cold ones and go check it out - at 3AM. Our crack police force didn't fall for it and charged them with prowling and loitering.
But, in what easily qualifies as my favorite blotter entry of all time, police stopped a 21 year old man because he was driving erratically at 2AM. The man, "whose breath smelled of alcohol," offered the officers $800 to let him go immediately. The officers declined and arrested him instead. As they drove him to the police station, "the officer saw the man reaching into the back of his pants and putting something into his mouth." Naturally, the officer asked what the man was doing. And here's his response, exactly as reported in the blotter. "The man said he was eating feces to foil a DUI breath test." Turns out, police found residue of a pill in the man's mouth.
While the story is easily strong enough to stand on its own, I know there's a punchline in there somewhere. So far, I've come up with, "Gee, I've heard of shit for brains, but never heard of shit for breath." Or, "That's certainly a new twist on 'potty mouth.'" Or, "Guess he was just talking shit."
I don't know who writes the Blotter, but they're not paying him or her nearly enough.
Friday, July 13, 2007
Memphis
Last August, I hit the open road and headed to the Mississippi Delta on a research trip. On the way, I stopped in Memphis, TN. Here's a reprise of my reflections from that visit:
Yesterday, my travels took me to Memphis, TN. I drove four hours across western Tennessee. For anyone planning to make the same trip, there's lots of kudzu and not much else. I’ve rented the world’s cheapest rental car – a Kia Rio. Since getting the car, I’ve been singing my own version of the Duran Duran song: “Her name is Rio, and her engine is from a lawn mower.” It's the kind of car where you hit the accelerator and you can almost hear the engine respond, "Oh, you gotta be kidding me!"
Anyway, today, I went to Graceland and the National Civil Rights Museum. It was Memphis in August. It was hot as hell. I was really looking forward to Graceland, expecting lots of colorful Elvis fans. Elvis Week starts in two days after all. That’s the time of year when Elvis fans gather to mark the King’s death. Today, there were precious few crazies. The only near-crazy was this British woman who warbled "All Shook Up" in the Trophy Room. There we were, serious tourists, crammed into this small dimly lit space with all the gold records and Grammys, quiet as church mice, listening intently to our audio tours, and all the sudden, without warning: “I’m in love, I’m all shook up…” at full volume. I just about jumped out of my skin. Talk about all shook up.
Besides that, it was just me and the Harley dudes and dudettes reminiscing in front of the Vegas jumpsuits. “Remember when he wore that outfit in Vegas…” For my taste, there was too much Elvis worship and not enough Elvis realism. I realize the family has an image to protect, even if it’s totally fabricated, but to display his badge from the federal narcotics enforcement branch (a gift from Nixon) and not to mention Elvis’s drug use is just sad. As we went into Graceland, a little girl in front of me asked her dad how Elvis died. He diplomatically responded, “He had a heart attack.” I decided not to add, “Yeah, kid, after years of stress and strain, his heart finally said, 'Check, please.'”
Graceland is first and foremost a shrine to bad 1970s home furnishing. We can all be thankful because anyone else who had this stuff in their homes has long since traded it in for Ikea. You can’t go upstairs at Graceland because that was Elvis’s private space when he was alive so out of respect, the family maintains it that way. It just seems silly to say, “Here’s his parents’ bedroom on the first floor, and their bathroom. Go ahead, look around, invade their privacy. You can’t see Elvis’s room – but here’s the bed and dresser, complete with oversized ceramic tiger statue on top.”
After picking up some more tacky souvenirs (pose-able Elvis doll), I headed to the Lorraine Motel, now the National Civil Rights Museum. On the way, I got lost and ended up crossing the Mississippi River into Arkansas. I quickly turned around, afraid I'd get stuck in Arkansas, which has always been my worst nightmare.
I have to say that I wasn’t particularly interested in seeing King’s (the real King) last hotel room, but I did want to see the motel in its surroundings – since you only ever see the picture after he’s been shot. Once I got there, I decided to go inside, I'd come all that way after all. The non-profit that runs the museum has done a nice job of telling the movement story, but it all felt unsettlingly voyeuristic to me. You can look into the hotel room, carefully preserved to show what it looked like right before King went outside to the balcony. There are ghosts there, I don’t care what you say. I wanted to yell, “Stop! Don’t go outside!” But, of course, he did go outside.
The non-profit has also purchased the boarding house where James Earl Ray stood in the bathroom with a high-powered rifle. I didn’t spend much time there. They have all of his personal effects, including the rifle. I didn’t need to see that. To stand where he stood, looking at the motel balcony, and thinking about that rifle and the hate that went along with it was just too much. Then, I saw the actual bullet pulled out of King's body. I left, and was glad to put the place behind me.
As I drove on to Greenwood, Mississippi, I thought about King and Elvis – and Memphis’s tourism industry built on lost promise. I think the key to Graceland and the Lorraine Motel is that you have to be able to block out the end of the story. To see Elvis go from a reasonably sensible, healthy person to a bloated paranoid shell was just depressing. And the Lorraine Motel was beyond depressing – it was sickening and unsettling.
Am I sorry I went? No, but I’m not in a hurry to go back.
Yesterday, my travels took me to Memphis, TN. I drove four hours across western Tennessee. For anyone planning to make the same trip, there's lots of kudzu and not much else. I’ve rented the world’s cheapest rental car – a Kia Rio. Since getting the car, I’ve been singing my own version of the Duran Duran song: “Her name is Rio, and her engine is from a lawn mower.” It's the kind of car where you hit the accelerator and you can almost hear the engine respond, "Oh, you gotta be kidding me!"
Anyway, today, I went to Graceland and the National Civil Rights Museum. It was Memphis in August. It was hot as hell. I was really looking forward to Graceland, expecting lots of colorful Elvis fans. Elvis Week starts in two days after all. That’s the time of year when Elvis fans gather to mark the King’s death. Today, there were precious few crazies. The only near-crazy was this British woman who warbled "All Shook Up" in the Trophy Room. There we were, serious tourists, crammed into this small dimly lit space with all the gold records and Grammys, quiet as church mice, listening intently to our audio tours, and all the sudden, without warning: “I’m in love, I’m all shook up…” at full volume. I just about jumped out of my skin. Talk about all shook up.
Besides that, it was just me and the Harley dudes and dudettes reminiscing in front of the Vegas jumpsuits. “Remember when he wore that outfit in Vegas…” For my taste, there was too much Elvis worship and not enough Elvis realism. I realize the family has an image to protect, even if it’s totally fabricated, but to display his badge from the federal narcotics enforcement branch (a gift from Nixon) and not to mention Elvis’s drug use is just sad. As we went into Graceland, a little girl in front of me asked her dad how Elvis died. He diplomatically responded, “He had a heart attack.” I decided not to add, “Yeah, kid, after years of stress and strain, his heart finally said, 'Check, please.'”
Graceland is first and foremost a shrine to bad 1970s home furnishing. We can all be thankful because anyone else who had this stuff in their homes has long since traded it in for Ikea. You can’t go upstairs at Graceland because that was Elvis’s private space when he was alive so out of respect, the family maintains it that way. It just seems silly to say, “Here’s his parents’ bedroom on the first floor, and their bathroom. Go ahead, look around, invade their privacy. You can’t see Elvis’s room – but here’s the bed and dresser, complete with oversized ceramic tiger statue on top.”
After picking up some more tacky souvenirs (pose-able Elvis doll), I headed to the Lorraine Motel, now the National Civil Rights Museum. On the way, I got lost and ended up crossing the Mississippi River into Arkansas. I quickly turned around, afraid I'd get stuck in Arkansas, which has always been my worst nightmare.
I have to say that I wasn’t particularly interested in seeing King’s (the real King) last hotel room, but I did want to see the motel in its surroundings – since you only ever see the picture after he’s been shot. Once I got there, I decided to go inside, I'd come all that way after all. The non-profit that runs the museum has done a nice job of telling the movement story, but it all felt unsettlingly voyeuristic to me. You can look into the hotel room, carefully preserved to show what it looked like right before King went outside to the balcony. There are ghosts there, I don’t care what you say. I wanted to yell, “Stop! Don’t go outside!” But, of course, he did go outside.
The non-profit has also purchased the boarding house where James Earl Ray stood in the bathroom with a high-powered rifle. I didn’t spend much time there. They have all of his personal effects, including the rifle. I didn’t need to see that. To stand where he stood, looking at the motel balcony, and thinking about that rifle and the hate that went along with it was just too much. Then, I saw the actual bullet pulled out of King's body. I left, and was glad to put the place behind me.
As I drove on to Greenwood, Mississippi, I thought about King and Elvis – and Memphis’s tourism industry built on lost promise. I think the key to Graceland and the Lorraine Motel is that you have to be able to block out the end of the story. To see Elvis go from a reasonably sensible, healthy person to a bloated paranoid shell was just depressing. And the Lorraine Motel was beyond depressing – it was sickening and unsettling.
Am I sorry I went? No, but I’m not in a hurry to go back.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
The Gym
I've recently relocated to a college town, one where the school's mascot is ubiquitously displayed. Everywhere you go, the bulldog is watching you - in the frozen food section in the grocery store, peeping out of flower beds, standing guard over mailboxes, shamelessly advertising every business in town, and splayed across chests and other body parts. Everywhere.
Knowing this, I'm not sure why I was surprised when I saw the mascot in my new gym. This one tops all other facsimiles I've seen around town. It's a huge replica of the school mascot that you can rock-climb. No, really. It's easily 2-stories high, concrete, and has hand and foot grips all over it. You can climb straight up the dog's ass if you'd like. I had to sign a waiver that absolved the gym from any responsibility if I climbed on and subsequently fell off the dog. How many gyms offer the opportunity to climb up a dog's ass? I love this town!
Yesterday, as I signed my life away to the gym, I watched as a woman tried to climb the dog's front leg. She made it about halfway up, so her feet were barely off the ground. Then, she seemed to run into some trouble and couldn't figure out how to extend her body upward. She just hung there, like a tick. A tick dressed in a black unitard. I have to admit that I was more embarrassed for the dog.
This is the first time I've ever joined a gym and I have to say that so far, it has exceeded all my expectations. Yesterday, the fellow who showed me around asked me what brought me into the gym. I considered responding, "Well, my ass is slowly creeping down the back of my legs and I'd like to stop its decline before it hits my ankles. Meanwhile, my mid-section and upper arms are taking on the consistency of cheez whiz. I'd prefer gouda. Can you make my mid-section gouda?" In the end, I went with, "Well, there are parts of me that aren't as firm as they used to be."
I've decided to save my comedy routine for after I've survived the elliptical machines.
Knowing this, I'm not sure why I was surprised when I saw the mascot in my new gym. This one tops all other facsimiles I've seen around town. It's a huge replica of the school mascot that you can rock-climb. No, really. It's easily 2-stories high, concrete, and has hand and foot grips all over it. You can climb straight up the dog's ass if you'd like. I had to sign a waiver that absolved the gym from any responsibility if I climbed on and subsequently fell off the dog. How many gyms offer the opportunity to climb up a dog's ass? I love this town!
Yesterday, as I signed my life away to the gym, I watched as a woman tried to climb the dog's front leg. She made it about halfway up, so her feet were barely off the ground. Then, she seemed to run into some trouble and couldn't figure out how to extend her body upward. She just hung there, like a tick. A tick dressed in a black unitard. I have to admit that I was more embarrassed for the dog.
This is the first time I've ever joined a gym and I have to say that so far, it has exceeded all my expectations. Yesterday, the fellow who showed me around asked me what brought me into the gym. I considered responding, "Well, my ass is slowly creeping down the back of my legs and I'd like to stop its decline before it hits my ankles. Meanwhile, my mid-section and upper arms are taking on the consistency of cheez whiz. I'd prefer gouda. Can you make my mid-section gouda?" In the end, I went with, "Well, there are parts of me that aren't as firm as they used to be."
I've decided to save my comedy routine for after I've survived the elliptical machines.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Elizabethtown and Garden State
I’ve decided to write a review of two movies: Elizabethtown and Garden State. I wouldn’t be the first person to suggest that these are not two movies, but the same movie with different casts and different settings. The storyline is the same: emotionally-numb boy returns to family’s home because a parent has died, boy meets quirky girl who “reawakens his spirit”, boy goes on a “journey” (catch word for “learning an obvious life lesson that the rest of us learn without a lot of hoopla”), boy resolves everything that’s wrong with his life, boy ends up with quirky girl. The main difference between the movies is that Orlando Bloom is much better looking than Zach Braff, and Garden State has some genuinely funny moments.
Here’s what I want to say about these movies: they seem to be offering a social statement about a larger non-problem in US society, namely, the angst of the mid-late 20 year old male. Poor Andrew Largeman (Braff) and Drew Baylor (Bloom) can’t get their lives together. Braff’s character medicates himself to forget his “loser-ness” and Bloom’s character deals with a colossal failure at work by throwing away all of his belongings (never breaking a sweat, by the way) and designing a ridiculously complicated suicide machine using a kitchen knife and an exercise bike. Then, a parent dies. Each character returns home, New Jersey in Braff’s case and Kentucky in Bloom’s case. I think we can all agree that Bloom gets the better end of this deal. No one (except Bruce Springsteen) wants to go to New Jersey, and the food and whiskey are better in Kentucky. And, Bloom is still much better looking.
In each case, both characters meet quirky girls who are “totally present,” code for experiencing every day without plans for the next. Natalie Portman’s Samantha pulls Braff out of his funk, and Kirsten Dunst’s Claire does the same for Bloom. Neither girl has a career, neither girl has any ambitious plan of their own. So, how do these underachieving miracle workers help? Well, they listen to the ramblings of these poor, angst-ridden young men and respond with complete non-sequitors, or pithy statements like, “Well, you failed. You failed, you failed, you failed, you failed. So what?”
What can we learn from this? Well, first, it seems no one is listening to angst-ridden 20-something year-old boys, if they turn to these complete strangers for comfort. You know why no one else is listening? Because these guys are BORING! And, they’re pathetic! “Oh, poor me, I can’t get my life together. Why can’t I get my life together? Why didn’t I have a good relationship with my dad? Why don’t I have any real friends? Where’s the instant success I was promised? Why is life so haaarrrddd?”
But, wait, I stand corrected. Someone is listening to these boys. Hell, I watched both movies so now I’ve listened to them. But, I would imagine the primary audience for these movies is adolescent girls. What’s the message for them? In a nutshell, your job is to listen, and be equal parts goofy and unambitious. If you can do these things, you’ll be a suitable muse for your angst-ridden (very good looking) boyfriend. As a result, he’ll come to rely on you for all of his happiness, since he’s completely incapable of dealing with his own problems without your cheerful insights into his psyche. If you think he’s going to help you do anything with your life, ha! Joke’s on you! You’re supposed to be fulfilled because you’ve cured this guy, and he’s professed his love for you. That’s it. Game over. You win. Except you’re really not any better off. Well, you might get to make out with Orlando Bloom, but don’t pay any attention to that. Just start thinking of a way to top the map/scrapbook with soundtrack project (see E’town), because if you can’t, your guy is right back where you found him, wallowing in unfounded self-pity.
All of this is, of course, very gendered. What if you’re an ambitious, cynical, angst-ridden 20-something woman? Well, there’s no way that you’re supposed to go find some quirky, unambitious, “totally present” boy. No, you’re supposed to find Mr. Has-His-Shit-Together. The implication is that if Mr. Angst meets Ms. Quirky, they won’t end up in a tent, living on Coors and cereal. But, if Ms. Angst meets Mr. Quirky, only bad things can happen. Because quirky girls are charming, but quirky boys are lazy and dangerous.
Now, a word about the soundtracks. Every review mentions the soundtracks. Cameron Crowe personally selected the tunes for E’town and I don’t know who found the dirges in Garden State. At least E’town has a couple of upbeat (relatively) tunes. No wonder these people are depressed. A little Abba goes a long way, folks.
Here’s what I want to say about these movies: they seem to be offering a social statement about a larger non-problem in US society, namely, the angst of the mid-late 20 year old male. Poor Andrew Largeman (Braff) and Drew Baylor (Bloom) can’t get their lives together. Braff’s character medicates himself to forget his “loser-ness” and Bloom’s character deals with a colossal failure at work by throwing away all of his belongings (never breaking a sweat, by the way) and designing a ridiculously complicated suicide machine using a kitchen knife and an exercise bike. Then, a parent dies. Each character returns home, New Jersey in Braff’s case and Kentucky in Bloom’s case. I think we can all agree that Bloom gets the better end of this deal. No one (except Bruce Springsteen) wants to go to New Jersey, and the food and whiskey are better in Kentucky. And, Bloom is still much better looking.
In each case, both characters meet quirky girls who are “totally present,” code for experiencing every day without plans for the next. Natalie Portman’s Samantha pulls Braff out of his funk, and Kirsten Dunst’s Claire does the same for Bloom. Neither girl has a career, neither girl has any ambitious plan of their own. So, how do these underachieving miracle workers help? Well, they listen to the ramblings of these poor, angst-ridden young men and respond with complete non-sequitors, or pithy statements like, “Well, you failed. You failed, you failed, you failed, you failed. So what?”
What can we learn from this? Well, first, it seems no one is listening to angst-ridden 20-something year-old boys, if they turn to these complete strangers for comfort. You know why no one else is listening? Because these guys are BORING! And, they’re pathetic! “Oh, poor me, I can’t get my life together. Why can’t I get my life together? Why didn’t I have a good relationship with my dad? Why don’t I have any real friends? Where’s the instant success I was promised? Why is life so haaarrrddd?”
But, wait, I stand corrected. Someone is listening to these boys. Hell, I watched both movies so now I’ve listened to them. But, I would imagine the primary audience for these movies is adolescent girls. What’s the message for them? In a nutshell, your job is to listen, and be equal parts goofy and unambitious. If you can do these things, you’ll be a suitable muse for your angst-ridden (very good looking) boyfriend. As a result, he’ll come to rely on you for all of his happiness, since he’s completely incapable of dealing with his own problems without your cheerful insights into his psyche. If you think he’s going to help you do anything with your life, ha! Joke’s on you! You’re supposed to be fulfilled because you’ve cured this guy, and he’s professed his love for you. That’s it. Game over. You win. Except you’re really not any better off. Well, you might get to make out with Orlando Bloom, but don’t pay any attention to that. Just start thinking of a way to top the map/scrapbook with soundtrack project (see E’town), because if you can’t, your guy is right back where you found him, wallowing in unfounded self-pity.
All of this is, of course, very gendered. What if you’re an ambitious, cynical, angst-ridden 20-something woman? Well, there’s no way that you’re supposed to go find some quirky, unambitious, “totally present” boy. No, you’re supposed to find Mr. Has-His-Shit-Together. The implication is that if Mr. Angst meets Ms. Quirky, they won’t end up in a tent, living on Coors and cereal. But, if Ms. Angst meets Mr. Quirky, only bad things can happen. Because quirky girls are charming, but quirky boys are lazy and dangerous.
Now, a word about the soundtracks. Every review mentions the soundtracks. Cameron Crowe personally selected the tunes for E’town and I don’t know who found the dirges in Garden State. At least E’town has a couple of upbeat (relatively) tunes. No wonder these people are depressed. A little Abba goes a long way, folks.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Renters Insurance
I've recently moved back to the southland and have almost completed the process to erase all traces of my existence in the northeast. As a part of this seemingly never-ending process, I updated my renters insurance. The other day, I received my updated policy in the mail. I usually don't read the paperwork, preferring a "need to know" relationship with my policy - if nothing happens, I don't need to know. But, the other day, I decided to flip through the policy, just to see what's what.
Here are the highlights from the "Causes of Loss Covered: Descriptions and Limitations" page [I've noted my reflections in brackets]:
4. Earthquake: One or more earthquake shocks that occur within a 72 hour period will constitute a single earthquake. [It might seem like lots of earthquakes, but it's only one.]
5. Explosion: no limitations [Even it's caused by an in-home meth lab?]
6. Smoke: We will not cover smoke damage from agricultural smudging or industrial operations. [What's agricultural smudging? I'm picturing a cow scooting across the ground, but I don't know how this generates smoke, unless the cow is moving really fast.]
7. Aircraft: This includes self-propelled missiles and spacecraft. [Whew!]
10. Theft: We will not cover property lost or misplaced. [OK, first, this wording sounds like Gilbert and Sullivan. Next, if you're absent minded, this renters insurance will be of no help to you.]
13. Falling objects: We do not cover loss to property contained in a building unless the roof or an exterior wall of the building is first damaged by a falling object. Damage to the falling object is not covered. [Mental note to self: Don't throw the TV out the window.]
14. Sudden and accidental tearing apart, cracking, burning or bulging [All of these sound like medical problems, not covered under renters insurance.]
17. Volcanic eruption: This does not include loss caused by earthquake, land shock waves or tremors. [Last time I checked, there aren't any volcanoes nearby, so I think I'm safe.]
Then, causes of loss not covered:
1. War
2. Undeclared war
3. Civil war
4. Insurrection
5. Rebellion
6. Revolution
7. Warlike act by a military force or military personnel
8. Discharge of a nuclear weapon will be deemed a warlike act, even if accidental. [So, if someone fires a nuclear weapon, intentionally or not, my renters insurance will not cover any damages. I don't think I'll care at that point.]
[Wait, they're not done...]
9. Nuclear reaction, radiation, radioactive contamination, whether controlled or uncontrolled, however caused - is not covered.
I've certainly learned a lot from this. I've learned that my stuff won't be covered a war zone or near a nuclear facility. Frankly, I think that would be the least of my worries if I lived in a war zone or near a nuclear facility. I've also learned that my stuff is covered if my apartment is hit by a self-propelled missile, but not if military personnel fire the missile in a warlike act, and not if it's a nuclear missile. So, if a civilan leisurely fires a non-nuclear self-propelled missile and happens to hit my apartment, I'm covered. That's a relief. If a spacecraft falls from the sky onto my apartment, my stuff is covered, but the spacecraft is shit out of luck.
I'm feeling safer already.
Here are the highlights from the "Causes of Loss Covered: Descriptions and Limitations" page [I've noted my reflections in brackets]:
4. Earthquake: One or more earthquake shocks that occur within a 72 hour period will constitute a single earthquake. [It might seem like lots of earthquakes, but it's only one.]
5. Explosion: no limitations [Even it's caused by an in-home meth lab?]
6. Smoke: We will not cover smoke damage from agricultural smudging or industrial operations. [What's agricultural smudging? I'm picturing a cow scooting across the ground, but I don't know how this generates smoke, unless the cow is moving really fast.]
7. Aircraft: This includes self-propelled missiles and spacecraft. [Whew!]
10. Theft: We will not cover property lost or misplaced. [OK, first, this wording sounds like Gilbert and Sullivan. Next, if you're absent minded, this renters insurance will be of no help to you.]
13. Falling objects: We do not cover loss to property contained in a building unless the roof or an exterior wall of the building is first damaged by a falling object. Damage to the falling object is not covered. [Mental note to self: Don't throw the TV out the window.]
14. Sudden and accidental tearing apart, cracking, burning or bulging [All of these sound like medical problems, not covered under renters insurance.]
17. Volcanic eruption: This does not include loss caused by earthquake, land shock waves or tremors. [Last time I checked, there aren't any volcanoes nearby, so I think I'm safe.]
Then, causes of loss not covered:
1. War
2. Undeclared war
3. Civil war
4. Insurrection
5. Rebellion
6. Revolution
7. Warlike act by a military force or military personnel
8. Discharge of a nuclear weapon will be deemed a warlike act, even if accidental. [So, if someone fires a nuclear weapon, intentionally or not, my renters insurance will not cover any damages. I don't think I'll care at that point.]
[Wait, they're not done...]
9. Nuclear reaction, radiation, radioactive contamination, whether controlled or uncontrolled, however caused - is not covered.
I've certainly learned a lot from this. I've learned that my stuff won't be covered a war zone or near a nuclear facility. Frankly, I think that would be the least of my worries if I lived in a war zone or near a nuclear facility. I've also learned that my stuff is covered if my apartment is hit by a self-propelled missile, but not if military personnel fire the missile in a warlike act, and not if it's a nuclear missile. So, if a civilan leisurely fires a non-nuclear self-propelled missile and happens to hit my apartment, I'm covered. That's a relief. If a spacecraft falls from the sky onto my apartment, my stuff is covered, but the spacecraft is shit out of luck.
I'm feeling safer already.
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