awesome things about un/semi-employment

• lunch specials
• ogling the clothes those crazy Cosby kids are wearing
• being able to tell the dithering fellow calling to schedule an interview that yes, I’m free Friday at 10. Also Friday at 11. Also Friday at 2.
• not having to go out in the rain! (only applicable when raining)
• no fluorescent light anywhere
• if I navigate to a website, and it turns out the website is NSFW, it doesn’t matter!
• unlimited gmail chatting
• unlimited bralessness
• blogging while braless. whooohooooo!
• I’m actually fully clothed right now, thank you very much. But I do so love my freedom.

and the walls came tumbling down

Most people have a large capacity for disappointment in the things they love. I think my capacity to be disappointed by Hollywood is larger than most. It’s larger than life. I look at myself sometimes — like when it’s 3 am I’m still groaning on the bathroom floor because my body is furiously rejecting either the citrusy cocktails from the oscar party or the citrus-on-a-wound betrayal of the best picture results — and I ask myself, What are you THINKING? Was last year any different? Will next year be?

For what it’s worth, the Carpetbagger got it right on the nose. However, he was as blindsided by being right as I was by being wrong, and speaks for both of us when he says, “How could so many people be so wrong?” Technically he was referring to the people who claimed victory for Brokeback, but it works just as well referring to all those idiot Academy voters.

When I get nauseous, I get nauseous like you’ve never seen. I don’t just vomit, I suffer, usually for hours. It’s a bit like being horridly seasick only THERE’S NOWHERE TO DISEMBARK. There’s this liquid green medicine (not nyquil) that I take for it & sometimes, when I’m feeling truly pathetic and I don’t have the stregth to get a real glass of water, I’ll fill the medicine cup from the bathroom faucet and sip from that.

I mention this because the last event that reduced me to such a state of Bombay-level big-eyed whimpering misery was watching Revenge of the Sith. (Granted, I had a kidney infection at the time that might have exacerbated matters.)

Also, by the way, guys, in case you hadn’t heard, it’s hard out there for a pimp. Thank God for Jon Stewart. His bemused, cheerfully sarcastic reaction to the performance of that song made my night. As well as everything else he said. He is a god among men, although yes, I am also partial to Terrence Howard (who will be holding in statue of his own in the next 5 years) and George Clooney (tea set material!)

Next year, please, someone tell to sleep through the damn thing. Unless Jon’s hosting again. Anyone want odds on that happening?

this is just to say (to ben)

I have purchased
the boots
that I shouldn’t
have purchased

and which
you will probably
say
are redundant

forgive me
they were Dansko!
black, suede,
and on sale …

esoteria

I love words that begin with vowels and have a certain flow to them: esoteric, erotica, amalgamation, asinine, asymmetrical, illustrative …

Unemployment gives me lots of time to think about such. Though now that I’m doing an internship two days a week, I find my empty time pleasantly framed instead of borderline overwhelming. (Overwhelming: that’s another nice one.) My writing group last night gave me good encouragement on my nahvel, and the weather’s giving me further encouragement to stay in bed today and work on it, like Proust. Maybe I’ll also try hating myself for a while, see if that inspires me.

In that spirit, I’m going to steel myself and watch Crash today. Hopefully I’ll have a better viewing experience than many have had because I have low expectations. Still, since I’m attending the World’s Coolest Oscar Party, co-hosted by my friend the pinochle mistress and the producer of Spamalot, I feel compelled to be as in the know as possible. Not that it matters, since I won’t be able to speak while in presence of such glorious Funny. Actual cast members of the show might be there! Can you imagine?

Among my non-pinochle-playing friends, there’s been a rash of romance. Winter’s on its way out, relationships are on their way in, a new crop of bunnies are born. … Best of luck, guys, as you work towards that Tea Set of your dreams.

ETA: Wow, I’m 10 minutes into the movie and I already want to kill myself with a pool cue. People are racist! Stereotypes are mean yet sometimes accurate! Don Cheadle’s the only reason I’m still watching. If this unsubtle shit wins over Brokeback Mountain I am going to be pissed.

ETA 2: Movie over. I only had to stop it to scream at the characters 3 times. All I can say is, bloody Jesus, I’m glad there’re no Jews in LA.

a diamond in the rough

Trawling my old college newspaper always turns up idiocy of one stripe or another. Usually I view the idiocy in a fond, nostalgic light, but in the case of this badly argued piece, I found myself lacking patience.

The author raises this point: The fundamental questions in the rioters’ collective mind are these: How can public media outlets in secular, minority-protecting societies promote language that debases a major world religion? Why is there no condemnation of this prejudice by governments that protect these societies? The misunderstanding of the publications is ironic, because it is based in an understanding that “free dissemination of ideas and culture” characterizes the mainstream newspapers that chose to print the cartoons. How could they be so pre-ironic?

First off, I object to the use of “ironic” in one sentence followed by “pre-ironic” in the next. Aside from the irritatingly bad writing, it makes me demand, well, which is it? Ironic or pre-ironic?

Secondly, the objectionable material was not “language,” it was a series of cartoons. The visuals are what sent people over the edge.

Thirdly, “collective mind”? What? If such a thing existed, why would this author of all people be elected to decode it? And why would the collective mind get its collective panties in a twist about the debasement of a major world religion when such debasement HAPPENS ALL THE TIME, to ALL religions, and is indicative of, you know, Enlightenment doing its thing?

This leads into the whiny author’s next attempt to rationalize the rioting: according to him (and the top notch, totally with it president of Iran), Islam is treated with contempt in the Western press while Judaism is protected. His proof? That an Austrian was recently given a jail sentence for Holocaust denial — or, as he piously puts it, for challenging Europe’s “dominant narrative.” What’s the submissive narrative, friend? An alien invasion took over the earth between the years of 1939 and 1945, planted phony evidence, abducted 10 million people, and altered our memories so that we only think a genocide and a war took place?

Granted, the sentencing of that fool is straight out of the Dumbassery Textbook for Overreaching (possibly Well-Meaning) Dumbasses. But Austria is one country. Its dumbass decisions belong to it alone and are hardly representative of a Western press where Israel is frequently criticized and religions — again, ALL of them — come up for their fair share of ridicule. Even what the author claims is a sacred cow, the Holocaust, has been pilloried in that Holocaust cartoon contest. Those caricatures have been published already, and to what outcry? Art Spiegelman demonstrated his total lack of care by publishing his own in the New Yorker, although sadly they’re not visible online.

The author finishes up with the repetition of his rhetorical question, “Whose history and culture are protected from criticism?” Cuz he’s a real Perry Mason, this guy. But in trying to pass the buck to the Jews, he abandons his initial point, which was that he was disappointed that violence broke out in a city he loved. A valid and sad comment ridden off the rails by his need to place the blame for that violence somewhere, anywhere, other than on the shoulders of the perpetrators.

Luckily there’s this to boost your spirits. My friend little Adam has donned a cloak once worn by Emily Post — probably obtained over eBay — and become Mr. Manners. His column is a gem and I promise never, not once, uses the phrase “dominant narrative.”

one has to ask

Does a modern world with a postmodern attention span require both a Keira Knightley and a Natalie Portman? Both appear on magazine covers, their brown eyes staring at us from under butch haircuts. You can tell that editors have put the screws to their diminutive, skinny boy-bodies to make them exude sex appeal. In result, there’s a faint whiff of it in the air, but perhaps that’s coming from that Grey’s Anatomy cover in the Entertainment section.

There seems to be enough talent between these two waifs to power one star. Which should it be? Let’s break it down.

KEIRA KNIGHTLEY
20 years old, British. Definitely has the accent going for her. Recently impressed hardened Jane Austen fans with her turn as Eliza Bennett. However, had to work hard to impress them after pathetic performance in Pirates of the Carribean, where Johnny Depp out-sexed her by a mile and a half. Established some “girl next door” cred in Bend it like Beckham, squandered it in King Arthur.

NATALIE PORTMAN
24 years old, Israeli-American. Faked an accent for Closer, where she was thoroughly out-sexed by Clive Owen. Established “girl next door” cred in Garden State (and pedophile’s dream cred in Beautiful Girls.) Sucked the life out of every Star Wars scene she was in, but let’s be charitable and blame the script.

A tricky question? Hardly. The fact that Portman was utterly unconvincing as a stripper gives the edge to Knightley. These days pole skills in our young talented actresses are a must: Lohan, for example, practices three days a week! Plus, Knightley really did make a lovely Eliza. Sorry, Portman. See you on Naboo.
(A tip of the hat to the pros at Fametracker, of course.)

as long as I’m being bitter

I think Justice Alito would find this perfectly acceptable.

hang your head in shame

The terrorists have won because the American press refused to publish the Danish caricatures. Think about THAT over your breakfast cereal. Actually, spit out your breakfast cereal, what’s the matter with you, you heartless oaf! The terrorists have won! Go get your sackcloth and ashes out of the closet and clear some room on the floor.

I actually wasn’t sure which was more ridiculous, this article or another from the NYT about Sasha Cohen, gold medal hopeful, which began a graph by saying, “Though short in stature,” it was quite possible she’d be able to fulfill her dreams. Because we all know Napoleon never accomplished shit.

Frankly, I think Alan Dershowitz and William Bennett are trying to bully me. They’re trying to tell me, the same way the Bush admin. does, that if I don’t agree with his methods in dealing with the middle east, I’m giving aid and comfort to the enemy. You’ll notice he doesn’t call out for criticism Karen Hughes who ALSO condemned the cartoons, or Bush himself for being mealymouthed on the issue. No, he goes straight to the liberals and their media for being faint of heart, because WE’RE EASIER TO PUSH AROUND. We feel guilty, we second-guess ourselves.

Alan, Will, on behalf of a press I have nothing to do with, I sincerely apologize. You’re right. Discretion, tact, and wisdom had no place in this particular situation. We should have added more fuel to the fire (a fire that killed over 60 people, the last time I checked, and was raging fine without us). Although Alan, I gotta say, no offense, but are you sure you’re not lashing out at the libs cuz you’re upset your friend Larry decided to step down?

black history month

You know, when I was in lower skool, Black History Month was a thing. There were bulletin boards, there were projects, there were movies shown and weighty topics discussed. For example, I remember in fifth grade, my really incredible teacher Mrs. Zagone — and now I have to pause to explain that Mrs. Zagone was awesome in part because she took us, her students, seriously. As human beings. When we had a question, she answered it. One answer stuck with me like a sunburn: someone asked, What does an orgasm feel like? And Mrs. Zagone said, It’s like when you really really really want to sneeze, and then you do.

God bless that woman. But we were talking about race. Mrs. Zagone led us ten year olds in exercises that February imagining we were enslaved. She made us put ourselves in that position and then write essays about how we felt. Would we try to stick it out? Would we try to escape? When I pointed out that there was no way we could know, that of course we’d like to think we’d be braver than brave, but we didn’t grow up in that world, beaten down from day one, she made me read my essay to the class.

The popular kids, by the way, never gave me shit for being “smart.” I was never made fun of, not once, and believe me, loquaciousness aside, if you saw pictures of my crazy hair, my sweaters and leggings, you’d know they had just cause. Mrs. Zagone also fostered an atmosphere where being smart was good, where people wanted to be smart.

But we were talking about race! My point, initially, was there aren’t bulletin boards anymore. February, I’m allowed to forget it’s Black History Month, and so are you, unless you’re still in lower school (in which case, what the hell are you doing reading this? And, if you have questions about orgasms, feel free to email.) I’ve read Angry Black Bitch on occasion and found her direct and intelligent. But I haven’t put her on the blogroll til now. Why?

She’s not going on the blogroll because of Black History Month, except to the degree that Black History Month finally and incidentally kicked my ass into gear. (And SHE isn’t really the point here, anyway, which I trust you understand.) I’m tired of feeling scared of black people. It’s exhausting. At college, I took a class from a brilliant black powerhouse of a professor. I attended, I did the reading, I wrote the papers, I talked with her outside of class, I got a good grade, I liked her and she liked me, and I was still scared to death of her!

I assistant-directed a production of For Colored Girls Who Have Committed Suicide …. I was the only white girl involved and my method of blending in consisted, largely, of being as small and unobtrusive presence as possible. The cast gradually did forget I was there, or that I was an outsider, or something: more and more, they talked freely, at a couple points making of people I knew, even making fun of Jews. I said nothing. At the time it felt like an important growth sort of thing, and it was, but in the long run, it didn’t really help.

I’ve learned enough history and media history to know this is a deep-rooted societal problem. But how do you frikkin fix it? Even my leftiest lefty friends (all caucasian) don’t have close black friends, or if they do, those friends are queer. I don’t know a single black-white interracial couple. Is it progress enough for both groups to simply respect each other, interact sometimes and generally leave each other alone? What if that’s just a mask for the deep-rooted fear we don’t want to deal with?

Clearly, I don’t have any answers. I just thought, for the sake of Black History Month, I should bring it up. Face up to it, and say, you know, that I am afraid that an average black person would dislike or resent me, and that makes me defensive as well as more afraid. And it’s not good for anyone.

ready for kindergarten

Mr. Ben and I turned five on friday. It’s a little hard to believe, but, since we could use the situation to justify spending outsized amounts of money on a meal in a fancy Manhattan restaurant, we decided to take it on faith.

The restaurant we picked, after much deliberation, was Annisa. It’s feminist! (True!) The incredible three page wine list includes wine only from vineyards owned and operated by women; the owner of the restaurant is a woman, and so is the star chef. Mr. Ben and I got to sit side by side and order an appetizer to share and a glass of wine each in addition to our entrees and generally we felt like Hiltons. It was awfully nice.

Then we had to go ruin the mood by taking in a showing of the new What If the Confederacy had Won the Civil War? movie C.S.A. at the IFC. Theoretically a Q&A followed the main event but the charismatic young director made it through only two questions before the theater had to usher in the next batch of ticketholders. The IFC must have made a fortune that evening. Three showings to packed houses at $10.75 a pop — they probably took in as much as the movie was made for.

The movie itself was interesting and I encourage you to see it, if it ever comes to a theater near you, which it won’t, or a cable channel, which is more likely, or a college classroom, which is more likely still. It sparks good discussion, for one thing. I didn’t agree with all of the decisions the director made about the way history would have unfolded. For one thing, he seemed determined to hit all the same 20th century high notes: WWII (although he never mentioned WWI,) the Bomb, the Great Depression, the Moon Landing. Many of the same people, in his revision, ran for president. A lot of it’s illogical and/or feels shoehorned in.

But while it may have been less creative to show a 20th century eerily parallel to the one we lived through, it does force the viewer to confront the similarities. A lot of what he does well is highlight those same uncomfortable modern issues Spike Lee did in Bamboozled, another ambitious, flawed film. Except that one I saw on a really bad date.

Happy Presidents Day, everyone. (Where does the apostrope belong there? President’s or Presidents’?) Ugh. Who cares. Can you believe February’s almost over? Soon, friends, it’ll be spring.