Once again, I'm looking for a job. I think the Universe is trying to tell me something. What is it, do you think? I feel like my entire life has been a series of moving and looking for a job. I mean, except, of course, when I was a child and lived with my mom. At that time, I was pretty lucky to have some kind of something resembling stability. Since I turned 18 and left home, I've had nothing of the sort. An insistent roller coaster ride. That's what life is.
Yes, yes, I know I should count my blessings. At least the country I live in isn't in uproar and we're not constantly wondering what our national boundaries are, like some countries. Or are we? I mean, is the U.S.-Mexico border, really a border? And what about that hilarious U.S.-Canada border?
The borders, they're just laughable. I can't help it. Right now I feel like busting up. It's all a bunch of pantomiming, this false sense that there's a division between Mexico and the U.S. Take, for example, when Stoker and I were coming back from Cabo San Lucas. In the airport in Mexico, their customs consisted of a line with some men in something resembling an official uniform, who told us to push a button, one person at a time. If the light flashed green after you pushed the button, you were okay, move along. If it turned red, you were not okay and you had to be searched. Stoker and I split up and went in different lines. Green for me, okay, go ahead. Red for Stoker, not okay, bludgeon him on the head. Just kidding, they're not that serious about customs.
They opened our bags. Actually, I think we switched the bags before they looked through it because Stoker had the bag with all our dirty laundry in it, and no one wants to air their dirty laundry in a Mexican airport. Ha ha. The officials did something resembling a baggage search, and whatever we had in there was okay. No drugs, no fruit, no illegal firearms, that sort of thing. So they let us go free, much to their dismay. They were so hoping for the chance to detain some unlucky American.
Yeah, so anyway. The job search is promising. I'll keep everyone updated. Perhaps the next thing you'll know, I'll be some top record executive raking in the dough.
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
Monday, October 02, 2006
Rock City: Not So Rockin'
I hurt my back on Friday. I was at work, lifting a case of water, and I twisted while lifting. Something you shouldn't do. But who knows that kind of stuff? Really. Is it so strange to think that my body is invincible? Aside from all the typical aches and pains that I regularly complain about to Stoker or my mother, I'm in good health. And I think I'm tough and buff and athletic and all that stuff that's not true about me anymore, but has essentially carried over from my youth, which ended at 27 (an aribitrary age that I picked by virtue of it not being 28). So I pick up a case of water, hefting it around like it's not a struggle, like it weighs about the same as my kitten, Sobek. But it doesn't. And I twisted (everyone told me after it happened: no no no, you shouldn't twist while lifting. Never, never do that).
So I tweaked something in my back and I was down for the count. Well, not really. I kept lifting things and working and trying to sit or stand, neither of which were very comfortable. Once I got home, lying down also wasn't comfortable and 800 mg's of Ibuprofen didn't seem to help, nor did the intermittent icing and heating.
This all led me to call my boss at 9:00 pm (Friday) to tell him I wouldn't be working on Saturday. Then I went to the grocery store to get some more powerful drugs, which they don't have at a grocery store, but I hoped perhaps they had started selling Lortab as an OTC without my knowledge. They didn't. But while I was there I picked up some other groceries. Then I went home.
Surprisingly, the walk did me good. My back felt somewhat better. Or maybe the 800 mg's of Ibuprofen had finally kicked in.
So the next day, Saturday, Stoker had off. And he had Sunday off too. And I had Saturday (called in*, remember?) and Sunday off. Hmmm. What does one do in a case like this? (I know, the average couple usually has the weekends off together. This hasn't happened for Stoker and I since we got married and moved to Arizona. I swear it.) One goes to Chattanooga. I know, you're thinking: why wouldn't you go to Chattanooga? It's obviously the thing to do. And you're right. So we went to Chattanooga.
We did all the things you would do in Chattanooga. We went on the Incline Railroad, a legendary railroad car that goes up a very steep mountain, known as Lookout Mountain (which, as they tell you while you're riding in the railroad car, is the southern most tip of the Appalachian Mountain range). And we went to Rock City.
What is Rock City, you might ask? Well, if you've driven anywhere in the south and especially if you've driven along I-24 towards Chattanooga, you've seen the billboards and barns imploring you to See Rock City. So we did. I imagined, from Stoker's description (based on what others had told him and what he'd read on the internet) and from the brochure, that it would be something akin to Zion National Park. If you've seen the brochure for Rock City, you'll notice that it mainly features cool images of giant boulders that you have to squeeze between and a cool waterfall and a great view of the valley below. And certainly there are those things.
Except the waterfall is man made. And the neat swinging bridge isn't quite as cool as the brochure makes it out to be (I know, that's the purpose of advertising). And there are freaky fake gnomes everywhere and all the places have fairy tale names. Literally. One of them, I think, is actually Fairy Tale. And there's this horrible section of the path (the path is paved with flagstones and it's pretty much the only way through it), a tunnel, wherein there are tiny scenes depicting gnomes mining, all lit up with black lights, and ocean coral glued to the ceiling. There are also scenes from fairy tales, like Hansel and Gretel, also lit up with black lights. Did I mention this portion of the path is freaky? I'm not quite sure why it's there or what to make of it, save the creators are trying to acheive some kind of Small World type of thing. Why? I don't know. They should simply embrace the rocks of Rock City instead of trying to be a theme park.
All in all, I'd have to say save your $15 (yes, that's the price of a measly walk through a freakish garden) and go to Zion National Park if you want to see a real wonder of the world. Admission to Zion's is much cheaper and it's all real. Seriously. My complaint is that the natural beauty of Rock City hasn't been exploited so much as it's been turned into something carnivalesque.
I'll allow that someone with children might get a kick out of Rock City. I guess that's the only time I could potentially justify a visit. Even then, I'd skip the freaky tunnel. Had I gone through it as a six-year old I think I'd come away a bit frightened, and probably would have had nightmares. Yes that's right. Nightmares.
*Interestingly, in Nashville they call it "calling out" when you call in sick. In Utah, where I'm from, they call it "calling in."
So I tweaked something in my back and I was down for the count. Well, not really. I kept lifting things and working and trying to sit or stand, neither of which were very comfortable. Once I got home, lying down also wasn't comfortable and 800 mg's of Ibuprofen didn't seem to help, nor did the intermittent icing and heating.
This all led me to call my boss at 9:00 pm (Friday) to tell him I wouldn't be working on Saturday. Then I went to the grocery store to get some more powerful drugs, which they don't have at a grocery store, but I hoped perhaps they had started selling Lortab as an OTC without my knowledge. They didn't. But while I was there I picked up some other groceries. Then I went home.
Surprisingly, the walk did me good. My back felt somewhat better. Or maybe the 800 mg's of Ibuprofen had finally kicked in.
So the next day, Saturday, Stoker had off. And he had Sunday off too. And I had Saturday (called in*, remember?) and Sunday off. Hmmm. What does one do in a case like this? (I know, the average couple usually has the weekends off together. This hasn't happened for Stoker and I since we got married and moved to Arizona. I swear it.) One goes to Chattanooga. I know, you're thinking: why wouldn't you go to Chattanooga? It's obviously the thing to do. And you're right. So we went to Chattanooga.
We did all the things you would do in Chattanooga. We went on the Incline Railroad, a legendary railroad car that goes up a very steep mountain, known as Lookout Mountain (which, as they tell you while you're riding in the railroad car, is the southern most tip of the Appalachian Mountain range). And we went to Rock City.
What is Rock City, you might ask? Well, if you've driven anywhere in the south and especially if you've driven along I-24 towards Chattanooga, you've seen the billboards and barns imploring you to See Rock City. So we did. I imagined, from Stoker's description (based on what others had told him and what he'd read on the internet) and from the brochure, that it would be something akin to Zion National Park. If you've seen the brochure for Rock City, you'll notice that it mainly features cool images of giant boulders that you have to squeeze between and a cool waterfall and a great view of the valley below. And certainly there are those things.
Except the waterfall is man made. And the neat swinging bridge isn't quite as cool as the brochure makes it out to be (I know, that's the purpose of advertising). And there are freaky fake gnomes everywhere and all the places have fairy tale names. Literally. One of them, I think, is actually Fairy Tale. And there's this horrible section of the path (the path is paved with flagstones and it's pretty much the only way through it), a tunnel, wherein there are tiny scenes depicting gnomes mining, all lit up with black lights, and ocean coral glued to the ceiling. There are also scenes from fairy tales, like Hansel and Gretel, also lit up with black lights. Did I mention this portion of the path is freaky? I'm not quite sure why it's there or what to make of it, save the creators are trying to acheive some kind of Small World type of thing. Why? I don't know. They should simply embrace the rocks of Rock City instead of trying to be a theme park.
All in all, I'd have to say save your $15 (yes, that's the price of a measly walk through a freakish garden) and go to Zion National Park if you want to see a real wonder of the world. Admission to Zion's is much cheaper and it's all real. Seriously. My complaint is that the natural beauty of Rock City hasn't been exploited so much as it's been turned into something carnivalesque.
I'll allow that someone with children might get a kick out of Rock City. I guess that's the only time I could potentially justify a visit. Even then, I'd skip the freaky tunnel. Had I gone through it as a six-year old I think I'd come away a bit frightened, and probably would have had nightmares. Yes that's right. Nightmares.
*Interestingly, in Nashville they call it "calling out" when you call in sick. In Utah, where I'm from, they call it "calling in."
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Crazy? Yes, please.
Owing to my dramatic personality, I broke up with one of my friends. That's the deal; I basically sent her a long goodbye in the form of an email. Who does that kind of thing? Often, I can hardly stand myself.
I thought my days of sending emails in the heat of the moment -- usually at night -- were over, because now I'm married and I generally sent those kinds of emails to boyfriends who were either breaking up with me or had already broken up with me, or who I was in the process of breaking up with. I'm a stayer, so they were usually breaking up with me, something I'm very grateful for because otherwise I might be with one of them still. And I'd rather be with Stoker, who, as expected, is still perfect for me.
But just because I'm married does not mean that I don't need friends. I may not need them every day and may not call them as often as I did when I was single. But I love them, still. And in some ways I wish I could call them as often as I did when I was single. But that would be pathetic. Part of the problem with that is also scheduling. When I have time to call them, they are busy. When they call me, I'm either working or having a rare moment with Stoker (who works between 60 - 70 hours a week; another reason I need my friends: I get lonely) and he comes first, naturally. And were my friends married, I'd expect their spouses to come first.
Anyway, I guess the thing with this friend (who I essentially broke up with) is that I had deluded myself into believing that she put as much importance on our friendship as I had. We all know that relationships are give and take. When one person feels like they're giving more than the other, something's wrong. And the both of you better address it. This kind of thing works better when it's an intimate relationship because it's weird to have two friends discussing a relationship. That's the beauty of friendship. You don't have to do things like that because you both obviously feel like things are going well. You don't have to have a DTR. Or a state-of-the-union. If a friendship isn't working, you both just fade out of each other's lives without much being said. It just happens.
That's why everyone who knows anything thinks friendship is a beautiful thing. It is the relationship that is chosen and not held together by marriage or biology. It exists purely for itself. It is completely voluntary and when it goes sour it is such a sad thing. But for all these reasons, that it is voluntary, that it is not held together by anything except pure will, it is the relationship that is not so much discussed. You don't go to counseling if it's not working. You don't usually say to your friend, "This isn't working for me," or "You don't call me enough," or "I want out," or "I feel jealous about your other friends," because if you did, you'd seem somewhat cuckoo.
Which, I guess is what I must be. Because basically I said many of those above sentiments to the friend I broke up with. But I'm a jealous person. I get jealous over the stupidest things. I suppose that's because I inhabit the world of ideas. I think about things. And my moon is in Scorpio, a very jealous sign. I didn't say to her you don't call me enough. Or I want out . . . at least not in those terms. I said I'm leaving. And I said this isn't working. And something about feeling jealous.
I know I look like a very small person. And I feel like one. And I feel sad, like I've lost my best friend. But she was probably only my best friend in my head and not in her own perception of the relationship. Because a best friend would have behaved like one. A best friend would have been aware of me, and so often she wasn't. And maybe I'm blind or simply ignorantly patting myself on the back, but I thought I was aware of her.
I'm full of shit, aren't I. You'll notice that's not a question. The thing is, I have many friends that I keep in touch with. None of them ever made me feel like I'm not quite as important as their other friends. But in this friendship, I nearly always felt that way. And perhaps that's just my perception. But that's the only one I have.
I'm going to go now and have my pity party by myself. I've been very depressed lately. Depressed and stressed. My job is ending soon and I don't have another lined up and to top it all off, this sick Egyptian I work with asked me to be his assistant and that just depresses me more. He's always borderline sexually harassing me, I'd have to be insane to consider taking his offer of being his assistant. Yeah right. But that's the only lead I have on a job. And then in my great, dramatic way, I go and end a friendship. Who the hell does that?
I thought my days of sending emails in the heat of the moment -- usually at night -- were over, because now I'm married and I generally sent those kinds of emails to boyfriends who were either breaking up with me or had already broken up with me, or who I was in the process of breaking up with. I'm a stayer, so they were usually breaking up with me, something I'm very grateful for because otherwise I might be with one of them still. And I'd rather be with Stoker, who, as expected, is still perfect for me.
But just because I'm married does not mean that I don't need friends. I may not need them every day and may not call them as often as I did when I was single. But I love them, still. And in some ways I wish I could call them as often as I did when I was single. But that would be pathetic. Part of the problem with that is also scheduling. When I have time to call them, they are busy. When they call me, I'm either working or having a rare moment with Stoker (who works between 60 - 70 hours a week; another reason I need my friends: I get lonely) and he comes first, naturally. And were my friends married, I'd expect their spouses to come first.
Anyway, I guess the thing with this friend (who I essentially broke up with) is that I had deluded myself into believing that she put as much importance on our friendship as I had. We all know that relationships are give and take. When one person feels like they're giving more than the other, something's wrong. And the both of you better address it. This kind of thing works better when it's an intimate relationship because it's weird to have two friends discussing a relationship. That's the beauty of friendship. You don't have to do things like that because you both obviously feel like things are going well. You don't have to have a DTR. Or a state-of-the-union. If a friendship isn't working, you both just fade out of each other's lives without much being said. It just happens.
That's why everyone who knows anything thinks friendship is a beautiful thing. It is the relationship that is chosen and not held together by marriage or biology. It exists purely for itself. It is completely voluntary and when it goes sour it is such a sad thing. But for all these reasons, that it is voluntary, that it is not held together by anything except pure will, it is the relationship that is not so much discussed. You don't go to counseling if it's not working. You don't usually say to your friend, "This isn't working for me," or "You don't call me enough," or "I want out," or "I feel jealous about your other friends," because if you did, you'd seem somewhat cuckoo.
Which, I guess is what I must be. Because basically I said many of those above sentiments to the friend I broke up with. But I'm a jealous person. I get jealous over the stupidest things. I suppose that's because I inhabit the world of ideas. I think about things. And my moon is in Scorpio, a very jealous sign. I didn't say to her you don't call me enough. Or I want out . . . at least not in those terms. I said I'm leaving. And I said this isn't working. And something about feeling jealous.
I know I look like a very small person. And I feel like one. And I feel sad, like I've lost my best friend. But she was probably only my best friend in my head and not in her own perception of the relationship. Because a best friend would have behaved like one. A best friend would have been aware of me, and so often she wasn't. And maybe I'm blind or simply ignorantly patting myself on the back, but I thought I was aware of her.
I'm full of shit, aren't I. You'll notice that's not a question. The thing is, I have many friends that I keep in touch with. None of them ever made me feel like I'm not quite as important as their other friends. But in this friendship, I nearly always felt that way. And perhaps that's just my perception. But that's the only one I have.
I'm going to go now and have my pity party by myself. I've been very depressed lately. Depressed and stressed. My job is ending soon and I don't have another lined up and to top it all off, this sick Egyptian I work with asked me to be his assistant and that just depresses me more. He's always borderline sexually harassing me, I'd have to be insane to consider taking his offer of being his assistant. Yeah right. But that's the only lead I have on a job. And then in my great, dramatic way, I go and end a friendship. Who the hell does that?
Monday, September 18, 2006
JJ's
In a few minutes, I'll be heading to JJ's. It's my new favorite place. I should always have a favorite place. It makes life worth living.
JJ's doesn't look like much from the outside, but inside it's gorgeous and clean and chic. They have coffee, espressos, energy drinks and my favorite Steaz Green Tea Sodas. And to nibble on? Imported chocolates. To read? A plethora of magazines (to buy).
Unfortunately, it's frequented by the rich college kids who bring their Mac laptops and set them up on the coffee tables and listen to itunes while they conduct "research" on the internet and write their fifteen page papers that are very important and pressing. They have to, you know, write those papers so that they can graduate and start out as CEO's of major corporations.
I'm being sarcastic. What those students probably don't know is that they'll start at an entry level position, maybe making $12.50 an hour, where they'll slowly work their way up the depressing corporate ladder. Or they'll look and look and not find a job in their chosen field and so they'll work for temp agencies while they wait for a law firm to hire them. Or maybe that's just what happened to me and I'm a cynic.
It's just depressing. I get so depressed looking at them with all their expensive clothes and computer gear and ipods and bags and taste. They have no idea what they're in for. Unless they know someone. Because it's really about who you know, not what you know. If they only knew . . . .
But anyway. I have to hang out at places like JJ's because I'm essentially single, again. Single while being married. Because Stoker works 15 hour days and even on his days off he wants to go to into the studio for some reason. Isn't that weird? Hmmm. Maybe he's not really going to work . . . .
Just kidding. Now I'm getting depressed. Again. Seriously, he has a demanding job. He does work. And very often I go into the studio to see him and hang out. I was there, just last night, after I left good ole JJ's. I sat in the studio while he recorded this pretty good, though somewhat pathetic, guy, who is convinced this album is going to be HUGE. Maybe it is. You never know. It's not like bands know their album is going to be HUGE while they're making it. Right?
Sigh. I'm leaving.
JJ's doesn't look like much from the outside, but inside it's gorgeous and clean and chic. They have coffee, espressos, energy drinks and my favorite Steaz Green Tea Sodas. And to nibble on? Imported chocolates. To read? A plethora of magazines (to buy).
Unfortunately, it's frequented by the rich college kids who bring their Mac laptops and set them up on the coffee tables and listen to itunes while they conduct "research" on the internet and write their fifteen page papers that are very important and pressing. They have to, you know, write those papers so that they can graduate and start out as CEO's of major corporations.
I'm being sarcastic. What those students probably don't know is that they'll start at an entry level position, maybe making $12.50 an hour, where they'll slowly work their way up the depressing corporate ladder. Or they'll look and look and not find a job in their chosen field and so they'll work for temp agencies while they wait for a law firm to hire them. Or maybe that's just what happened to me and I'm a cynic.
It's just depressing. I get so depressed looking at them with all their expensive clothes and computer gear and ipods and bags and taste. They have no idea what they're in for. Unless they know someone. Because it's really about who you know, not what you know. If they only knew . . . .
But anyway. I have to hang out at places like JJ's because I'm essentially single, again. Single while being married. Because Stoker works 15 hour days and even on his days off he wants to go to into the studio for some reason. Isn't that weird? Hmmm. Maybe he's not really going to work . . . .
Just kidding. Now I'm getting depressed. Again. Seriously, he has a demanding job. He does work. And very often I go into the studio to see him and hang out. I was there, just last night, after I left good ole JJ's. I sat in the studio while he recorded this pretty good, though somewhat pathetic, guy, who is convinced this album is going to be HUGE. Maybe it is. You never know. It's not like bands know their album is going to be HUGE while they're making it. Right?
Sigh. I'm leaving.
The Pope, Muslims and a Delicious Stew of My Thoughts
It’s been blogged to death, and covered so thickly in the press I think the general public is in danger of suffocating. But I have to put my proverbial two cents in (in case you haven’t been able to tell, I love the word proverbial. Yes, I just love the idea of things being proverbial) regarding the poor Pope and the angry Muslims. I can just see him, poor Mr. Pope, offering an apology and having it not be enough. No, the angry protestors won't rest until he's given up a pound of flesh and perhaps a pint of blood. And I can just see the protestors violent at the suggestion that Islam promotes violence.
The cool thing about America is the freedom of speech. At least, the idea of freedom of speech, which in this annoying global society isn’t real at all. And probably, on lots of levels, it’s not a one hundred percent guaranteed freedom in America, either. Were it real, groups like the ACLU wouldn’t actually exist. As an aside, I typically hate the ACLU because invariably they take a side and it’s usually the side of the minority (which is good, if you’re the minority they’re representing). But anyway, I don’t want to open that can of worms. My point is that freedom of speech is golden. I think people should be able to say what they think without fear of being sued and be able to print the truth, whether it’s what I agree with or not, without fear of enraged protestors rioting in the streets.
Ultimately the beauty of living in this cold, cruel world is the diversity of opinion, culture and beliefs. Somewhere in it there is room for the warmth of understanding that occasionally happens between different cultures and various peoples. Even within the Muslim world there are different factions and groups with varying degrees of orthodoxy. What I don’t see is how the Muslim agenda of converting the entire world or killing them is any different than say, Hilter. Or the KKK. Or any group of people that wishes to eradicate another group of people because of race or ideology. So if the Muslims succeed in killing all non-believers, there would still be the different factions within Islam. They don’t have one great Islamic leader.
And what would happen without diversity of religion and ideas? Boring.
So about the Pope. I respect his intentions (see the full transcript of his speech). I doubt he knew the ramifications. And I don’t think it’s fair to try to blame him for violence or deaths that may occur as a result of rioting, angry protestors. If that logic works, then you have to say that smokers are responsible for global warming and all manner of smog, and that when a commuter kills someone in a fit of road rage, it’s the fault of everyone else on the road because they are there and so on. Everyone has the chance to choose. People are culpable for their own actions.
About the rioting Muslims. They are quick to anger and they are quick to find any excuse to riot, protest angrily, bomb, and kill others. The Pope’s apology was not enough for them, and I kind of think it will never be enough because the point isn’t to make him submit, but to have a visible reason to be angry at Westerners and infidels. So they have a scapegoat about why they’re angry. I understand being angry and annoyed about something someone else said, things public figures say, or the things that are sometimes printed about my religion (which is misrepresented in the press quite often). But I don’t riot. I get pissed and then I let it go.
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
Thoughts on "On Beauty" pt. 2
Moving right along with my contentions or complaints, whatever you want to call them:
2) Smith uses big words for no apparent reason. And she uses obnoxious adverbs to describe how people say things. Words like gnomically, which you think you’d be able to figure out from its context. But no, you can’t because it’s an adverb, describing the way in which the son, Levi, has said the following, “‘Nothin’, Dad. It’s just what it is’” (22). Yes, I know what a gnome is, but what the hell does a gnome have to do with how the kid said what he said? Any normal person would resort to a sad, over-used word like didactically or sententiously because the average person would have a glimmer of what that would mean.
Another awkward word she used was proscenium. Does anyone know what that word means? Is it the new slang? I had to look it up, but I feel that were she a careful author, I could have figured it out (again) from the context. No such luck. This is the sentence it came from, “Howard came out from behind the proscenium and into his marriage” (11). I’m not sure what she means by that. Does Howard live in a theater? I mean, I’m just basing that assumption on the definition of the word. Maybe the OED has a different definition for it. I have no idea, as the OED’s online dictonary is not FREE (stupid OED). Or perhaps she means ‘curtain’ but wanted to sound intellectual and so used an archaic word.
3) It bothers me when a man tries to write from the female perspective, and vice versa. Smith attempts to describe the world as a man views it. I don’t think she can. Although, you’d think what with the whole male-gaze thing going on, it would be easier for a woman to get away with writing from the male perspective. In Smith’s case, I don’t think she achieves it. At least not in the first 45 pages. For example, Howard is talking to his son Levi, who is “topless to the waist”*, when “Levi released a deep, vigorous laugh that in turn flexed that extraordinary stomach, creasing it like a shirt rather than real flesh” (23). Let’s be honest, would a man who is not gay look at another man’s naked stomach and think to himself, “That’s extraordinary.” Let alone the man’s own father? I’m just saying. The detail of the boy’s stomach would be a tad more fitting were it a told from a woman’s perspective.
But maybe at the end of the book, the big twist is that Howard is really a woman who has been masquerading as a man.
The thing is, I don’t fancy myself a critic and I don’t want to be critical of this book. I want to like it. But I can’t. There’s too much that offends my sensibilities. And I don’t want to be critical because she’s at Harvard. And so many other critics** praised the pants off the book. Perhaps I’ll discover that all these things I’ve complained about are tools the writer is using to convey some important message. If that were the explanation, I’d have a difficult time not scoffing and saying that’s bull-shit.
In the event that Zadie Smith and I become real good friends someday, in the future, I’ll tell her I had jet-lag when I tried to read the book. And I was on prescription pain-killers for a root canal I’d had recently. And when I wrote this blog entry, I’d mistakenly thought I was supposed to take the pain-killers with alcohol. And then I’ll apologize profusely, should she ever discover that I was the cruel blogger who lambasted On Beauty***.
I might keep reading in the hopes that it gets better, or I become more forgiving. Then again, I might throw the book away. Or give it away, along with David Sedaris’ Me Talk Pretty One Day. Yeah, I didn’t like that one either.
[see part 1]
* Yes, that’s how Smith describes it. It’s redundant right? The definition of “topless” pretty much refers to ‘to the waist.’ Unless you’re topless to the collar bone. Or the nipple. I mean, what gives? Or is it simply a British-ism? That’s another thing, later when Howard is in the motherland, he starts calling things fags (cigarettes) and jumpers (sweaters) a lot. Out of the blue he’s suddenly extremely British. A tool? Or the author’s insecurity?
** They were paid off.
*** In my dreams. I’ll never have the honor of meeting
a published author. That is an honor, right?
Thoughts on "On Beauty" pt. 1
I bought a book yesterday. On Beauty, by Zadie Smith, who I had never heard of until that moment. I began reading it today with an open mind and much hope of a good novel. Frankly, I’m disappointed.
After a little research, I’m somewhat daunted to have the (perhaps uninformed) opinion of the book and her writing. She is: a) a British writer (I foolishly worship the British. It’s their accents); b) 3 years older than me (this proves that I’m lazy. On Beauty is her third book. How many books do I have? None.); c) she’s a Radcliffe Fellow at Harvard University; d) when I Google her name, there are 1.35 million results (compared to the paltry 85 when I Google my name).
So, how can I find her writing so crappy when Harvard adores her enough to bring her into their flock? With all the acclaim, how can I think she sucks? I don’t know. That’s the point. I’m confused.
Let me explain why I think the book is so terrible.
1) In the opening scenes, after the emails from the oldest son of this family, there is some kind of secret argument going on between the husband and wife. Or perhaps it’s not secret and I’m just daft. What happens is that the reader (me) can’t really tell it’s an argument because there are lots of metaphors and conversations. Smith seems to be attempting to capture the familiarity and intuitive way a family works. She does a lot of describing of the small, unimportant details (or, I would think they’re unimportant), like every single action a character engages in while speaking.
At one point the mother, Kiki, has been arguing with her husband and starts talking to the younger son. Suddenly she bends at the hips. The author is about to launch into a description of how Kiki is retying her head-dress. But the structure of the sentences in the paragraph is incredibly awkward. Maybe I’m wrong but we read one sentence at a time. You can’t just cut stuff off. In the middle of an idea. It’s uncomfortable to read. How she bends at the hips. Then tips her head forward and releases her hair. Personally, it would have been smoother to combine those ideas, so the reader isn’t left with this image of Kiki bending at the hips for no good reason.
Plus Kiki and Howard (the husband), are immediately at incredible odds with each other. Suddenly Kiki is asking Howard why he’s displaying so much animosity towards the family. And we, as readers, have no idea where her indignation at Howard has come from.
Or, it could just be me. Maybe I’m the only one who didn’t know why Kiki was angrily throwing stuff into her bag out of the blue and saying things to Howard in short, clipped sentences.
So far, the only thing beautiful about this book is the cover, which is indeed classy.
[see part 2]
After a little research, I’m somewhat daunted to have the (perhaps uninformed) opinion of the book and her writing. She is: a) a British writer (I foolishly worship the British. It’s their accents); b) 3 years older than me (this proves that I’m lazy. On Beauty is her third book. How many books do I have? None.); c) she’s a Radcliffe Fellow at Harvard University; d) when I Google her name, there are 1.35 million results (compared to the paltry 85 when I Google my name).
So, how can I find her writing so crappy when Harvard adores her enough to bring her into their flock? With all the acclaim, how can I think she sucks? I don’t know. That’s the point. I’m confused.
Let me explain why I think the book is so terrible.
1) In the opening scenes, after the emails from the oldest son of this family, there is some kind of secret argument going on between the husband and wife. Or perhaps it’s not secret and I’m just daft. What happens is that the reader (me) can’t really tell it’s an argument because there are lots of metaphors and conversations. Smith seems to be attempting to capture the familiarity and intuitive way a family works. She does a lot of describing of the small, unimportant details (or, I would think they’re unimportant), like every single action a character engages in while speaking.
At one point the mother, Kiki, has been arguing with her husband and starts talking to the younger son. Suddenly she bends at the hips. The author is about to launch into a description of how Kiki is retying her head-dress. But the structure of the sentences in the paragraph is incredibly awkward. Maybe I’m wrong but we read one sentence at a time. You can’t just cut stuff off. In the middle of an idea. It’s uncomfortable to read. How she bends at the hips. Then tips her head forward and releases her hair. Personally, it would have been smoother to combine those ideas, so the reader isn’t left with this image of Kiki bending at the hips for no good reason.
Plus Kiki and Howard (the husband), are immediately at incredible odds with each other. Suddenly Kiki is asking Howard why he’s displaying so much animosity towards the family. And we, as readers, have no idea where her indignation at Howard has come from.
Or, it could just be me. Maybe I’m the only one who didn’t know why Kiki was angrily throwing stuff into her bag out of the blue and saying things to Howard in short, clipped sentences.
So far, the only thing beautiful about this book is the cover, which is indeed classy.
[see part 2]
Monday, August 28, 2006
Imaginary Conversations with Bastet
We’re going to Utah on Saturday to visit family. I’m excited about that. I’m a homebody, for those of you who don’t know that about me.
The strange thing is that I’m a homebody for this home here, now, the one I’ve made with Stoker and our two cats. I’m nervous about leaving it behind. Nervous about leaving the cats. We’ve arranged to have a trustworthy friend (Kevin) take care of them, but I’m the kind of person who projects my thoughts into their beautiful little minds. Perhaps, I think, they’ll worry. They’ll wonder when I’ll come home. They’ll be waiting for me, to see me, to have me open the door and come inside and feed them a tiny bit of tuna fish as their evening dinner. And I won’t open the door for many days. Will they worry? Do cats worry? I know, I know. I’m ridiculous. But that’s me.
I wish I could call them up and talk to them. Tell them that I’ll be home soon and have them understand that I haven’t left for forever.
Bastet: Hello?
Me: Basty?
Bastet: Yes, this is Bastet. Who is this?
Me: It’s your mom. It’s me.
Bastet: Ah yes. Where the hell are you?
Me: I’m in Utah visiting my mom. How are you doing?
Bastet: I’m starving. Where’s my treat?
Me: Kevin is supposed to be stopping by to check on you and give you your treat. He hasn’t been there yet?
Bastet: Kevin? Who the hell is Kevin? I haven’t seen anyone all day. I’m hungry and Sobek [the kitten we adopted] is bugging the hell out of me.
Me: I just wanted you to know I miss you and that I’ll be home before you know it.
Bastet: All I know is I miss my treat. Man, I’m starving.
Bastet has an attitude. I’m sure that if she could talk she’d say things like ‘hell’ and ‘damn.’ Perhaps a well-timed f-bomb when Sobek startles her. No, I’m kidding. Bastet is very regal and classy. She’d never stoop to cursing. But I do.
I’m not quite sure why I made her so unfeeling about our relationship. I suppose because it wouldn’t be funny to read about a cat telling her owner that she misses her. It’s much more humorous to have the relationship seem one-sided. But I know she loves me and will miss me. I like to think, anyway.
As this weekend approaches, I feel myself becoming more anxious, nervous and stressed. And I don’t want to go. At least, a part of me doesn’t want to. Like I said, I don’t want to leave the cats. I worry about the most impossible things happening. Like that Kevin won’t be able to come by and feed them because he gets in a car accident or something and so the cats starve. My mind goes so far as to supply images of them trying to scratch their way through the pantry door to get to their food. Or, the apartment burns down and no one is around to care enough to rescue them. Or there’s a tornado. Or an earthquake. Or some kind of enormous gas crisis and the airline can’t buy gas to fuel the plane and so we’re stuck in Utah.
It’s ridiculous. I know. Where do I get these ideas? Don’t ask me. A friend told me, recently, that these are things I can’t change so don’t worry about them.
But she’s wrong. I can change them, right? I can simply refuse to travel ever again.
Stupid, real stupid.
The strange thing is that I’m a homebody for this home here, now, the one I’ve made with Stoker and our two cats. I’m nervous about leaving it behind. Nervous about leaving the cats. We’ve arranged to have a trustworthy friend (Kevin) take care of them, but I’m the kind of person who projects my thoughts into their beautiful little minds. Perhaps, I think, they’ll worry. They’ll wonder when I’ll come home. They’ll be waiting for me, to see me, to have me open the door and come inside and feed them a tiny bit of tuna fish as their evening dinner. And I won’t open the door for many days. Will they worry? Do cats worry? I know, I know. I’m ridiculous. But that’s me.
I wish I could call them up and talk to them. Tell them that I’ll be home soon and have them understand that I haven’t left for forever.
Bastet: Hello?
Me: Basty?
Bastet: Yes, this is Bastet. Who is this?
Me: It’s your mom. It’s me.
Bastet: Ah yes. Where the hell are you?
Me: I’m in Utah visiting my mom. How are you doing?
Bastet: I’m starving. Where’s my treat?
Me: Kevin is supposed to be stopping by to check on you and give you your treat. He hasn’t been there yet?
Bastet: Kevin? Who the hell is Kevin? I haven’t seen anyone all day. I’m hungry and Sobek [the kitten we adopted] is bugging the hell out of me.
Me: I just wanted you to know I miss you and that I’ll be home before you know it.
Bastet: All I know is I miss my treat. Man, I’m starving.
Bastet has an attitude. I’m sure that if she could talk she’d say things like ‘hell’ and ‘damn.’ Perhaps a well-timed f-bomb when Sobek startles her. No, I’m kidding. Bastet is very regal and classy. She’d never stoop to cursing. But I do.
I’m not quite sure why I made her so unfeeling about our relationship. I suppose because it wouldn’t be funny to read about a cat telling her owner that she misses her. It’s much more humorous to have the relationship seem one-sided. But I know she loves me and will miss me. I like to think, anyway.
As this weekend approaches, I feel myself becoming more anxious, nervous and stressed. And I don’t want to go. At least, a part of me doesn’t want to. Like I said, I don’t want to leave the cats. I worry about the most impossible things happening. Like that Kevin won’t be able to come by and feed them because he gets in a car accident or something and so the cats starve. My mind goes so far as to supply images of them trying to scratch their way through the pantry door to get to their food. Or, the apartment burns down and no one is around to care enough to rescue them. Or there’s a tornado. Or an earthquake. Or some kind of enormous gas crisis and the airline can’t buy gas to fuel the plane and so we’re stuck in Utah.
It’s ridiculous. I know. Where do I get these ideas? Don’t ask me. A friend told me, recently, that these are things I can’t change so don’t worry about them.
But she’s wrong. I can change them, right? I can simply refuse to travel ever again.
Stupid, real stupid.
Monday, August 21, 2006
Steal this Car Stereo!
My truck was broken into last night. I found it this afternoon (see flickr site for photos). What do you do?
Because I was disoriented, I probably touched everything inside. Obviously I was crying, but out of frustration, not because I was sad. I was enraged. I wanted to destroy something, or more accurately, the someone who had done this.
At first I thought I’d forgotten to lock my doors, but then I noticed that the lock had been broken out. The console was ripped out, the vent was on the floor, the change from the ash tray was everywhere. Why hadn’t they taken that? I wondered. Several of my cd’s in their plastic cases were still in the door pouches or boxes (who knows what those things are called). I guess the bastard thief doesn’t like Van Morrison, Of Montreal, Garth Brooks or Beirut. All the stuff from my jockey box, or the case beneath the arm rest, was strewn everywhere. I wonder what he was looking for (I’m stereotyping, the thief was clearly male. Girls don’t break into cars. Right?).
I called Stoker and cried to him on the phone. I’m under the impression of myself that I’m not one to cry often. So when I tell you that I was crying, I rely on the fact that you know this about me and you know that I was unusually upset to be crying. Stoker knows this. And he understood that I was crying from rage and frustration. Not because I missed my stereo.
Though I do. What is life without talk radio or music? Just an angry internal monologue of my thoughts, being annoyed that I’m hitting every possible red light, being annoyed at the stupid school bus full of stupid children throwing trash out the bus window, angry at the line of traffic keeping me from my destination—Starbuck’s to turn in an application, to get another job, to earn extra money, to rid us of debt, to pay for the small life we live. The not even middle class life we live. Why steal from me? I have so little.
And what I have, I have paid for. I have earned. This is why I’m enraged. This month is my last payment on the truck. I was feeling thrilled to have that out of the way, to be planning other places to spend that money. So what happens? Murphy, that bitch, tosses a proverbial wrench in the works.
Or I could not let it get to me. As I write this, the event is hardening into my past, a thing to take care of. A thing to let go. And with it the anger. But not the lesson.
Or you’d think I would have learned from my last lesson, from the last time a car stereo was stolen from me. You would think I would be a miser about keeping the faceplate of that stereo close to me. Yes, I let my guard down and it was destructively taken from me. What I’m worried about isn’t the stereo. I’m bitter that the rest of the truck was damaged in the theft.
But at least the bastard didn’t break the window to get to his meager prize of my five-year old stereo that will probably get him, at the most, $50 from a shitty pawn shop. That’s a generous estimate.
The cop dusted for finger prints, but I’d touched too much in the truck for it to do any good. When I found myself at the crime scene initially, I was so distraught I didn’t think the police would dust for finger prints, or even care really. I figured that if I did call the cops, they’d take the report and not really look into it.
The strange thing is that before this happened, I took the stance that government shouldn’t interfere with people’s personal lives: if some loser wanted to take drugs, let him! It’s a personal choice, I thought. And I don’t take drugs. I just figured the war on drugs was a waste of police time and tax payer’s money. But now, now I blame this theft on drugs. And I say let’s throw the loser drug users in jail. Drug users don’t work (according to the cop). They get money for drugs by stealing. They steal from me and other average people who work hard within the system to pay for their small lives.
I’m really frustrated about this.
Also, I say to hell with pawn shops. I blame them for the dross of society. They encourage crime. I’ve always thought that you could judge a town by how many pawn shops they have. And this theft only reinforces my negative opinion about pawn shops.
And I’m tossing into that lot, Payday Loans, Check n’Go’s, EZ Loans and all businesses of that ilk.
The ironic thing was that when I got to Starbuck’s, because I did go there with the console and all its pieces hanging out, “Me and Bobby McGee” was playing inside. When I left, some Carly Simon type song about greeting the day with a smile was playing. It was depressing.
Because I was disoriented, I probably touched everything inside. Obviously I was crying, but out of frustration, not because I was sad. I was enraged. I wanted to destroy something, or more accurately, the someone who had done this.
At first I thought I’d forgotten to lock my doors, but then I noticed that the lock had been broken out. The console was ripped out, the vent was on the floor, the change from the ash tray was everywhere. Why hadn’t they taken that? I wondered. Several of my cd’s in their plastic cases were still in the door pouches or boxes (who knows what those things are called). I guess the bastard thief doesn’t like Van Morrison, Of Montreal, Garth Brooks or Beirut. All the stuff from my jockey box, or the case beneath the arm rest, was strewn everywhere. I wonder what he was looking for (I’m stereotyping, the thief was clearly male. Girls don’t break into cars. Right?).
I called Stoker and cried to him on the phone. I’m under the impression of myself that I’m not one to cry often. So when I tell you that I was crying, I rely on the fact that you know this about me and you know that I was unusually upset to be crying. Stoker knows this. And he understood that I was crying from rage and frustration. Not because I missed my stereo.
Though I do. What is life without talk radio or music? Just an angry internal monologue of my thoughts, being annoyed that I’m hitting every possible red light, being annoyed at the stupid school bus full of stupid children throwing trash out the bus window, angry at the line of traffic keeping me from my destination—Starbuck’s to turn in an application, to get another job, to earn extra money, to rid us of debt, to pay for the small life we live. The not even middle class life we live. Why steal from me? I have so little.
And what I have, I have paid for. I have earned. This is why I’m enraged. This month is my last payment on the truck. I was feeling thrilled to have that out of the way, to be planning other places to spend that money. So what happens? Murphy, that bitch, tosses a proverbial wrench in the works.
Or I could not let it get to me. As I write this, the event is hardening into my past, a thing to take care of. A thing to let go. And with it the anger. But not the lesson.
Or you’d think I would have learned from my last lesson, from the last time a car stereo was stolen from me. You would think I would be a miser about keeping the faceplate of that stereo close to me. Yes, I let my guard down and it was destructively taken from me. What I’m worried about isn’t the stereo. I’m bitter that the rest of the truck was damaged in the theft.
But at least the bastard didn’t break the window to get to his meager prize of my five-year old stereo that will probably get him, at the most, $50 from a shitty pawn shop. That’s a generous estimate.
The cop dusted for finger prints, but I’d touched too much in the truck for it to do any good. When I found myself at the crime scene initially, I was so distraught I didn’t think the police would dust for finger prints, or even care really. I figured that if I did call the cops, they’d take the report and not really look into it.
The strange thing is that before this happened, I took the stance that government shouldn’t interfere with people’s personal lives: if some loser wanted to take drugs, let him! It’s a personal choice, I thought. And I don’t take drugs. I just figured the war on drugs was a waste of police time and tax payer’s money. But now, now I blame this theft on drugs. And I say let’s throw the loser drug users in jail. Drug users don’t work (according to the cop). They get money for drugs by stealing. They steal from me and other average people who work hard within the system to pay for their small lives.
I’m really frustrated about this.
Also, I say to hell with pawn shops. I blame them for the dross of society. They encourage crime. I’ve always thought that you could judge a town by how many pawn shops they have. And this theft only reinforces my negative opinion about pawn shops.
And I’m tossing into that lot, Payday Loans, Check n’Go’s, EZ Loans and all businesses of that ilk.
The ironic thing was that when I got to Starbuck’s, because I did go there with the console and all its pieces hanging out, “Me and Bobby McGee” was playing inside. When I left, some Carly Simon type song about greeting the day with a smile was playing. It was depressing.
Friday, August 11, 2006
John Denver: Relief During Troubled Times
In light of recent events in the world, I am doing three things:
1) Listening to John Denver. He calms me. Reminds me of home. Makes me feel comfortable again, and relatively safe. I love the song “Fly Away.” It reminds me of my sister.
2) Obviously the world is a dangerous place and feeling safe is more about your state of mind and how prepared you are for an emergency, rather than actually being safe. Dangerous things are unplanned for, generally. Even when a person puts themselves in a risky situation, they try to do it safely, like with rock climbing. It’s not safe to climb up the face of a rock wall, but you still give yourself safeguards (most climbers do. The ones who don’t, die climbing at some point)—ropes, harnesses, anchors. In light of these things, I’m figuring out how to be prepared for an emergency. For Stoker, for our cats, for me. I have some water stored up and something of an emergency kit with extra clothes, medicine, blankets, matches, etc. But I know it’s not enough. I heard an ad on the radio today for a web site maintained by Homeland Security. I’m looking at it, thinking about what I need to do to become more prepared.
Being LDS, emergency preparedness is not a new thing. Growing up, my parents often went to a place called the dry-pack cannery something something, where they helped dry- pack (I guess) and in exchange, they received a discount price on dry-packed food. This food was stored in (surprise) the storage room in our basement along with other sundry items, such as our dress-up clothes and Christmas decorations. Also, regularly, as in monthly, leaders counseled having at the very least, a 72-hour kit ready (for the mathematically impaired, that’s 3 days) for emergencies. What I didn’t realize then was that meant my mom had to have enough stuff for her five daughters, her husband, and herself. That’s a lot of stuff. It was a good thing we had a storage room.
When I got into college, the same counseling from church leaders persisted. In wards full of single people living in apartments and student housing, we were counseled to be ready for emergencies. Where was I expected to keep it? In my small closet? Obviously I didn’t do anything about it. I figured in an emergency, I’d find my way home, whether in a car or by bicycle. Or on foot. This was dumb thinking. 1`
And I can't get by on that anymore, being that my mother’s house is 1600 miles away. Plus I’m 28 and responsible. For Stoker, myself and our cats.
Whatever you are, Christian, agnostic, Buddhist, peace of mind comes from being prepared for anything. You can’t know what will happen, but you can do your best to be ready for what might come next. Leaning on the government, your church, your parents, doesn’t bring the satisfaction of knowing that you have done whatever you can to be ready.
3) And finally, I’m listening talk radio, trying to make sense of what’s going on. I prefer Glenn Beck, who, in
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