My mom watched How to Lose A Guy in 10 Days while I was working a few feet away the other day, and I could hear every note as it sounded on cue:

Enter beautiful people who are destined to be together.
Begin wistful dialogue with age-appropriate friends.
Start the witty banter and hijinx surrounding the first meeting.
Observe sexy signals delivered flawlessly by the female lead, and sweet words men never say delivered by the male.
Activate sequence of zany dates and interactions that might be mortifying if they weren't so coated in sugary sweetness.
Initiate complications and concerns from the outside world impinging on the wonderful romance.
Set the scene for the big disagreement between the lovers (leave room for misunderstandings to remain).
Roll sad, heartstring-plucking music as the leads become utterly miserable without each other.
A few choice tears fall, just enough to prove their suffering without mussing their makeup.
Closeup for the choice that one of them makes to take a wild leap of faith.
Embark on the most outrageous sequence yet, in which all obstacles are overcome and all transgressions are forgiven, even legal ones.
End with the happy couple riding off into the sunset together.

The same old song with the same old tune and none of it has ever rung true to my experience. ( Read more... )

Michael Jackson was one of the glittering music gods of my childhood, shining in a constellation that came to include Prince, Madonna, Cyndi Lauper, Tina Turner, Boy George, Billy Idol, and many other fabulous musicians and showmen.  These were truly "glitterati," covered in brilliant makeup, wild hair, glimmering jewels and flashy fabrics.  How they shine in the multicolored lights of memory!  "Larger than life," everyone says, and that's how they seemed to my tender young mind.  They were the people that helped me keep living through the darkest days by giving me a heaven of sound in which to escape my daily hell.

Following years taught me that those gods were indeed mortal, and not just getting older - Michael Jackson's story grew darker with each new chapter.  He revealed how he was mistreated as a child, driven right out of childhood and into the fast lane of success by his father.  His plastic surgery grew more evident and more disturbing, and gone was the face of the sweet young black boy he'd been.  His marriages and the births of his children were painfully awkward, but none of that impinged much on his appeal.  The real divide between Michael and his public was the one thing that will never be resolved for many, and something that was difficult for me to consider: the allegations of child abuse.

( Read more... )

Sometimes someone writes something that explains how you feel so perfectly, so completely, that even if it's sad, you feel grateful.  Because you're not alone.

Sometimes the words you write aren't enough.  They get stuck.  They fall short.  This is where someone else steps in and speaks for you, even when they think they're just speaking for themself.

And this is where love for an author begins - the place where their words touch your life.

I dreamt that I was at a generic teaching location at night, finishing up, and it wasn't in the best neighborhood.  I was glad to move on but I'd never taken the freeway in that area at night before.  Once I got on the road, I was a mess; I forgot to turn on my blinkers, I hit my emergency lights on accidents, and a big, long truck went around me with great speed.  I couldn't figure out which exit I should go to.  A cop pulled up behind me and turned on the lights, so I had to get off the freeway and drive a little to find a place. 

It just so happens I ended up outside a big apartment building I'd never seen before, where Matt Stone and Trey Parker, the creators of South Park, were having Christmas festivities.  They convinced the cops to shine me on and invited me inside.  Trey's mom was a conglomeration of several women I've known (and Arlene from True Blood, strangely enough) and very friendly, and for some reason, Trey had a shriveled little brother named Alvin ("We got him on film doing an impression of Alvin from the chipmunks, you know?  It was great!").  Matt and Trey had a lot of detail to them and remained fairly consistent, although Matt was super skinny and tall when I hugged him, almost like a rubber man you could pull upward.  His heartbeat was loud and excited. 

I remember hugging Matt and meeting Trey's kids, and I remember how festively this high ceilinged apartment was filled with Christmas decorations.  I recall wishing for more decorations at my place and feeling glad that my mom's been giving me a few new things each holiday season.  (She finds that cutest things on sale!)  I felt happy, genuinely festive, and I woke up hearing the theme song for Team America: World Police in my head.

So I've got the DVD in while I wake up.  Fuck yeah!

I've had the same phone number since I started paying for my own phone line when I was about 19 years old.  I've always had a land line and I've clung to it even though it is benefiting me less and less.  I think the time has come, however, to admit that my land line is redundant and to put that trusty old number to rest.

( Read more... )

I wake up, tumble out of bed, start the coffee.  Sit in front of the computer and have a look at the news.  Schwarzenegger's talking about selling off real California real estate - including San Quentin Prison, of all things - to get some cash flow 2 to 5 years from now. 

What the hell is happening here, people?  Everywhere I turn, I'm hearing about deficits and shortfalls, and it's not like this is new.  We've been hearing this for how long?

And how much money is still being funneled every day to the war in Iraq? 

No, everything will not be fixed by bringing the troops home.  Not even I am so optimistically liberal as to claim that.  But the larger idea holds firm: we have been hemorrhaging astronomical amounts of money for decades pursuing poor plans, and we've known it.  It's been on the news.  Studies have been done, numbers have come in.

( Read more... )

I went into my favorite used bookstore this week to sell a pile of books I've been meaning to get rid of all year.  Once I'd unloaded all I could for store credit, I took a stroll down the wonderfully familiar aisles to see what I could find.  The basic layout of Brand Books hasn't changed that much over the years, and what alterations have been made have been done in subtle stages to offset the shock.  I fell in love with the shop upon first entering when I was twelve years old; I used to walk there regularly and get lost in the stacks for hours, reading bits as I went.  After this many years, I think I have those pathways imprinted on my heart. 

But old habits die hard.  When I was very young, we didn't have much money for entertainment.  I dabbled and experimented with books through the library and had to save up money for the few I knew I wanted to keep.  When I first started buying books at Brand, my mother got really upset because she thought I'd wasted money on things I wouldn't be using again, and because novels seemed expensive for non-essential items.  But I eventually convinced her that the prices were great and the books would get read. 

( Read more... )

It seems like the last month has been a test of my mettle in many respects; the relative calm of the earlier part of 2009 appears to have worn through.  Things have been going wrong on an all-too-frequent basis, much of it beyond my control, with one worry following closely on the heels of another.  I know that things could easily be worse and times are difficult for many people, but dealing with what's been on my plate has been enough for me.  I have been weighed, tried, and anything found even remotely wanting has been brought into sharp relief by the scrutiny.  I've scrambled to make corrections and amends, fighting to keep my sense of humor and my sense of self-forgiveness every step of the way.  I was the tyrant captain of my ship for years, and the slaves aboard were all me; I won't return to that.  But it's not enough for me to simply scrape by; my students deserve better, and I want to do better than that, as well.  I'm just not sure how much more I can do.  At the end of the day, I am what I am, I do all I can and give all I've got, and that will have to be enough.

My mom and I are scheduled to go see one of her childhood pastors preach at a local church this Sunday.  My mom hasn't attended a regular church service in years and I'm an agnostic - but I can't help thinking there might be some comfort in it.

Many years ago, I discovered a great collection of movie music through my local library called The Great Fantasy Adventure Album.  I loved it so much that I acquired a copy for myself, and for years after, it became my standard studying music.  I cannot tell you how many papers I wrote while listening to these songs (though I ended up adding one theme I couldn't live without, from the Last Starfighter). 

I winced when I tried listening to it right after I took the exam for my Master's degree last May - not because I hated it, but because I immediately associated it with academic work, and I'd had more than enough at that time.  I think that today is the first time I've listened to it all the way through since then and I am absolutely elated; I've even been doing work for my classes while it runs and it feels entirely natural.  I think I'll be putting it on while I grade papers and prep class activities because I have to admit, I have always done my best while it's played.

So out of my long established affection, and as a nod to the upcoming anniversary of my Master's exam, I'm going to post the lineup here:

1. Cid: Fanfare and Entry of the Nobles

2. Hook: Main Themes

3. T. Rex!

4. Jurassic Park: Main Themes

5. Splitting Hairs

6. Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves: Main Titles

7. Henry V: Opening and Closing Titles

8. Willow: Main Themes

9. Seventh Voyage of Sinbad: Overture

10. Theabyss: End Titles

11. Clash of the Titans: Main Titles, Love Theme, And End Titles

[added] Theme from the Last Starfighter

12. Rocketeer: To the Rescue and End Titles

13. Beetlejuice: Main Titles

14. Total Recall: Main Titles

15. Princess Bride: Main Titles

16. Wizards and Warriors: Main Titles

17. Conan the Barbarian: Anvil of Crom

18. Hunt for Red October: Hymn to Red October

19. Cybergenesis

20. Terminator: Theme

21. Jurassic Lunch

I saw this for the first time on YouTube last summer and it spurred me to watch the whole film. I love claymation and Twain, so I enjoyed the movie, but this small section stood out from the rest.

For years, I've been going to the same place for a haircut, and it's always had the same sign: basic haircut, $7.  And there's always been some reason why my haircuts cost more - invariably $12 - even though I was getting basic trims of one to two inches.  No washing, no styling, no blow-drying.  $12.  I know my hair is thick and long, but I haven't asked for much.  Not like when I was a teenager and I got a tight spiral perm that took an hour to roll.  That woman earned her fee, let me tell you.

( Read more... )

1) I didn't really need to print out all the tickets that were sent, since the attendants only seemed interested in the confirmation number. We ended up with Kimba, Vince, Marshall, myself, Jim, Nicole and Ryan spread across three cars. One car just told my name and got in. The other had the confirmation number and was let up. For me, they scanned one (or was it two?) of the tickets.

( Read more... )

The language of spam emails is an interesting stew intended to bypass security and hook straight into our fears and vices.  It's a special form of communication all its own, designed for mere nanoseconds of attention, almost the way that I'm told head shots are made for microseconds of consideration before being thrown in the trash.  Precious blinks of time mean the difference between a scream in the dark and a sale (or a password leading like a map to buried treasure).  There's no time for love, Dr. Jones, or subtlety - or, in some cases, coherence.  The hook must be driven deep into that subconscious part of our brain that responds before processing.  Fight or flight.  Spend or save.

( Let's have a closer look, shall we? )

Coffee with Patty this morning consists of: Starbucks Italian Roast, sugar (the real stuff, thank you very much), hazelnut liquid creamer, with a side of two eggs over-medium and two slices of toast.  After sleeping like a rock, this is a good way to start the day.  It's pretty quiet outside and an ever so slight breeze is filtering through the blinds.  I watched an episode of The Simpsons on Hulu.com to warm things up, and have just turned to Fark for my morning news. 

It seems some folks are upset at a recent Carl's Jr. commercial featuring a beautiful Padma Lakshmi practically making love to a Western Bacon Cheeseburger.  Dan Neil points out just how bad the Western Bacon is - 720 calories worth of dietary naughtiness wrapped in 1,410 milligrams of salt - and just how much fast food and Lakshmi's body size don't go together.  And it's not that he doesn't make perfectly good points.

But come on, guys, let's not miss the obvious: Who hasn't wanted to make love to a fresh fistful of Western Bacon Cheeseburger?  That savory barbeque sauce, delectable melted cheese, and mouth-watering meat gets you groaning with pleasure, licking your fingers, and scraping the cheese off the paper.  Just admit your twisted, perverted desires for beef you filthy, fat, slobbering American.  Feel guilty once the orgy of consumption is over and you're left amongst the empty wrappers - but pony up to the drive thru window first. 

Remember: what happens at the drive thru stays at the drive thru. 

Besides, you'll be able to cover your ass so your diet plan won't be ruined.  You'll just skip meals the rest of the day and pile on extra veggies for the rest of the week to make up for it.  You'll go to Trader Joe's or Whole Foods and buy the stuff that's good for you and you'll dutifully sit down to properly proportioned meals.  You'll go to the gym a few more times and no one will need know about the hour you spent wallowing with that juicy whoreburger. 

But brush your teeth to get the smell of meat and cheese out of your mouth first.  That's a dead giveaway.

( Click here for much, much more - and juicer, too! )

In my dreams last night, I was at Disneyland, walking, perhaps on Main Street, and on a bench I caught sight of Sariah.  She was sitting in a black shirt and blue jean shorts, with the long blond hair she had during the years I knew her.  She was leaning back against a wall, resting.  And I stopped cold in my tracks and started trying to catch my breath. 

There were tears trying to get out but they were caught, to such an extent that I couldn't breathe.  It wasn't an asthma attack; it was tears.  I felt myself go to my knees, and I got my hands on the ground beneath me.  It was the closest thing I've imagined to a panic attack but when I looked back to the bench, she was gone. 

That was disturbing, too.

I woke up shortly thereafter.  I knew I would remember it.

The mix CD I made for my car today:

Duran Duran - Come Undone
Depeche Mode - Only When I Lose Myself
Marilyn Manson - Eat Me, Drink Me
Tor Linlokken - Dragon
Goloka - Sleepless in Warsaw (late night re-work)
Massive Attack - Inertia Creeps
Costanza - I Am Ready
Massive Attack - Teardrop
Michele Adamson - I See Myself
Tool - Disposition
Unkle - Invasion
Massive Attack - Protection
Juno Reactor - Song for Ancestors

Chuck Palahniuk makes me want to write.  Not necessarily to publish or to make money, but to capture in words those things that go through my mind and don't make it out of my mouth.

For as much as I talk, both personally and as a professor, there's a lot that doesn't make it out of my mouth.  Too much, my mom would probably say.  Just enough, is the way I tend to feel.

But Chuck makes me want to get it down, get it out, get it in front of me.  Rather like when you've had too much to drink and you know you'll feel better after you've vomited all you've got - dinner, liquor, hope and all.  You'll be cleansed.  On the way to being normal again.

Chuck makes me want to dissect the tangles of my fears and dreams and look at the pieces of my life.  It's not that I expect they'll make any kind of ultimate sense.  I just want to caress the edges of my puzzle pieces, turn them around, see if they make a more pleasing pattern in another order. 

( And if you're interested, click here for more. )

It's 5:47 this moment, and I just got up out of bed 20 minutes ago.  I was tossing and turning all night before that.  I just thought I heard a catfight outside and when I went to the blinds to have a look, I saw a black shape struggling in the swimming pool.  My first thought was, shit, a cat's fallen in there, and I stepped outside fully expecting that I'd have to book it barefoot down to the pool with a broom or something - only to find three ducks.  Fucking.  And quacking, because two males were trying to mount one female who didn't seem to be making much of a fuss.  That, ladies and gentlemen, was my introduction to Friday.

But how I really started my Friday was coming to in the dark out of a thin sleep and thinking: Sariah's not really dead, is she?  And another voice in my inner dialogue saying, It's not real for you yet.  Wait.

( Read more... )

Talking with Nathan yesterday, he told me, "You don't know how to just be lazy any more."

My first thought was: "What do you do to be lazy?"  But I realized how ridiculous that sounded in about .5 seconds - you don't have to do anything to be lazy, that's the point, you stupid woman - so I said, "I don't?"  I'm not sure if it really sounded like a question.

I knew he was right.  Of course, I didn't want to admit it.  I wanted to think that I'd learned how to relax again while my life was falling apart at the end of last year.  I knew it was a dirty lie.  Those moments when I did relax were precious because they were relatively few.  I learned how to relax only in relation to a workaholic; I spent my weeks in a flurry of activity, most of my weekends working, but I stole some hours for myself for the first time in years.

( Read more... )

So I think I found a new anthem on the radio while I was driving to work this morning.

Cage the Elephant - Ain't No Rest for the Wicked

I was walking down the street,
When out the corner of my eye
I saw a pretty little thing approaching me.
She said "I've never seen a man
Who looks so all alone,
Could you use a little company?
If you pay the right price
Your evening will be nice,
And you can go and send me on my way."
I said, "You're such a sweet young thing
Why you do this to yourself?"
She looked at me and this is what she said,

"Oh, there ain't no rest for the wicked,
Money don't grow on trees.
I got bills to pay,
I got mouths to feed,
There ain't nothing in this world for free.
I know I can't slow down,
I can't hold back,
Though you know, I wish I could.
No there ain't no rest for the wicked,
Until we close our eyes for good."

( Read more... )