Head Staples

There's a serious problem in the world today. I can't fix it. I wish I could, but, sadly, I'm just one woman. And this problem is an avalanche.

What is that problem, you ask? I know. You long to hear about problems because you haven't enough in your own life. You love whining. You love listening to people complain about avalanches, snowballs, and landslides of problems.

So that's why I'm going to tell you. Also, it does me good to get it off my chest. I can barely breathe and it's not just the baby being all selfish with the limited space in my torso and crushing the air out of my lungs (can you believe this baby?!).

The problem is clarity. Let me give you an example. This is from a story I read on a news site:

Meanwhile, C____ H_____ received seven staples in his head after the car nicked his right shoulder as it went airborne into the front porch. Doctors put his arm in a sling. His wife, S____, is still reeling from the experience.

I took the names out, obviously. I don't know these people and besides, I might complain about the entire story and I have nothing against them as individuals. It's the quality of the story itself and lack of a theme. Lack of everything, really.

I know I tread on dangerous ground to criticize someone else's writing. It invites scrutiny of my own writing and I'm sure there are several areas where I could improve, however, I'm not being paid to write. Nor am I part of the machinery of the AP or any of those behemoths producing material for the news agencies.

And I understand that journalists are often given assignments they resent. I'm sure it's crappy to have to create an article from material you don't care about. That's why I'm not a journalist. I did it for a few weeks, loathed it, and quit.

So this paragraph I shared with you. It's so horribly done, I can barely stand it. So C.H. received seven staples in his head, you know, like when I receive a package in the mail. Aside from receive being a terrible choice of words here, what's worse is the stupid doctors apparently didn't realize the real wound was in his shoulder! Where the car nicked him!

Then, of course, the doctors put his arm in a sling. I think somehow that must be related to the shoulder wound, which got scant attention after his head was stapled seven times (for no reason whatsoever). I imagine the shoulder will heal, because of that sling, but I don't know how long his recovery will take. Shoulder-nickings are on the rise, yet no studies have been done to determine lasting damage and whatnot.

I jest. Surely this is no laughing matter, surely. But the poverty of writing skill demonstrated in the article steals the attention. I'm sure you didn't even notice that what happened in the paragraph is that A CAR WAS FLYING THROUGH THE AIR AND NARROWLY MISSED C.H.

Yeah. That's right. It was difficult to determine the exact details, but what I gathered from the badly tangled story is that a family was out in their front yard on Sunday when a vehicle, recklessly careening down their street, bounced off a couple other stationary vehicles, soared through the air over the small gathering (nicking C.H. in the shoulder) and crashed into the house.

But don't expect such a concise summary of what happened in the original story. If you read it (after somehow finding it, bwah ha ha ha), you'll feel like a prisoner of the labyrinth, picking up a scattered trail of breadcrumbs, which lead you nowhere. It's like the minotaur sneezed and you've got to find where the crumbs were originally placed. That's how scattered the details are.

Originally, Ariadne used a ball of thread to help Theseus in the labyrinth. But for my purposes, bread crumbs have an inherent comedic element that thread lacks. Should you find yourself in a labyrinth, I suggest you follow Ariadne's lead.

Of course, you might argue that C.H.'s head injury is implied by the fact that it received seven staples. So there's no need to clutter up the paragraph with unnecessary details like the fact that while his shoulder was simply nicked, his head bore the brunt of the impact. Like, you know, his shoulder was nicked by the passenger-side mirror and his head was smashed by the windshield.

But if that's the case, wouldn't the greater injury demand more attention? And while I agree that it's clever and interesting to leave some mystery in the telling, there's an immense difference between clarity (bringing back my original complaint) and obscurity. And besides, news articles are hardly the place to concoct a mystery for eager readers to solve. We don't read the paper to get the satisfaction of deciphering meaning. That's the job of fiction.

There are more offenses in the original story. Another paragraph:

On Sunday, police say A____ G____ J____, 20, recklessly drove a Cadillac down [a street], hit the H____’s parked Honda Civic, and then hit a tree. That catapulted the vehicle J_____ was driving on top of a Toyota Corolla and Jaguar parked in the P___'s driveway. Then it hit their house, further impacting their lives.

So, there are a lot of blanks in there, but you can just substitute any names in. The Civic was C.H.'s car. In a line before this paragraph, we learn that C.H. and his wife were forced to move in with his wife's parents because they've been having difficult health problems.

The main point of the article seems to be that this couple is living the story of Job. Any possible complication that could happen has happened. And then out of nowhere, a car flies through the air and nicks C.H. in the shoulder (requiring seven staples to the head). It does seem rather implausible, but I'm not questioning that. I am, however, questioning the sentence structure of this paragraph.

First of all, sometimes people TRY SO HARD (bless their hearts) to use active verbs that they sacrifice (once again) clarity for ACTION. As though I read the newspaper to get a rush. Yes, the active voice is great. I agree. But what's even better than that? Making sense.

Maybe there's no way to write this paragraph so that it reads smoother*. There are, after all, several makes and models of cars and about a million names. It's like proper noun city in this paragraph. To complicate matters, the writer appears desperate to relate the sequence of the accident while also making sure to paint an accurate picture of the types of vehicles (very important!), but, not only that, he/she also wants to litter the sentences with exciting words like catapult. I question the use of catapult.

Here's why I question the word catapult. Stationary object becomes a projectile....

The first time I read it (and I had to read the paragraph several times to understand it), the thing that stuck out the most was the Jaguar. One of the main points of this short article is to let readers know that a fund has been established to help these people out. But, then there's a Jaguar in the driveway.

I'm not saying it belongs to C.H. It probably belongs to his wife's parents. And if they can afford a Jag, cool. No big deal. But there's a Jag in the driveway. And then there's a fund where I can donate money to help them out. But there's a Jag in the driveway. A Jag. And it's a Jag. Starting at $50,000 for the low-end models. A Jag. In the driveway.

My point is, it doesn't make sense. I'm not saying the writer should lie about things, but too many unnecessary details weigh the story down and all the active verbs in the world don't help me slog through them. And especially it doesn't increase my sympathy to the point of donating when I read that there's a Jaguar in the driveway.


It's like all the scammers in Nashville. One time, Stoker and I were in a parking lot, sitting in our truck and a van with a family in it pulled up. Stoker was on the phone with a client or his boss, but that didn't dissuade the female driver. She left her van to come to our window and asked us to help her out. She needed money for gas to get to Atlanta. Her husband remained in the van, on his very nice cell phone, and the lady left her van running. She'd been driving around the parking lot. Quite a bit.


We didn't have any cash. She left. My question for scammers like that is, how do you afford that cell phone? It's a luxury. If you have no money, sell what you have. Cut back. It's not that difficult.


So when an article asks for my money, but there's a Jag in the driveway, seven staples to the head and an arm in a sling doesn't illicit enough sympathy for me to donate. Perhaps I'm a cold-hearted jerk (I totally know that's not true, but I had to say it, you know, so I don't look like a jerk), but that's not how the relationship works.


I work hard to earn my living, and yes, I know I'm blessed and that it's not all me. Nevertheless, to make me want to part with (basically) my blood, sweat, and tears, you're going to have to show me that your need is desperate. And a Jag or a cell phone tells me things aren't quite as bad as you're trying to portray.


Anyway. Perhaps the author of the article WANTED me to feel like C.H. doesn't truly deserve my money. If so, bravo. If not, maybe, I don't know, the writer should sign up for some writing courses. Or don't. You're not the only one (you, meaning the writer) suffering. You're in good (or bad?) company. The entire community of journalists is on a swift course downhill in terms of good writing. It's an avalanche.




*Police say A____ G____J_____, 20, drove a Cadillac in a reckless fashion down D____ street on Sunday, careening into C.H.'s parked Honda Civic and a tree, which launched the Cadillac onto two other vehicles parked in the P___'s driveway. But the Cadillac didn't stop until it crashed into the P___'s house where it (describe the damage in a three words). 

The Neverending Story = Best Kid's Show Ever

Oh man.

So.

Someone posted a commented on a blog post I did in 2007 and of course I went to respond. Then, unfortunately, I noticed that a bunch of my old posts from that month were missing their first lines because as usual, I'm an idiot and I got all fancy with the formatting so that when I changed my template (which I do regularly. It's like rearranging the living room), the formatting didn't change and so certain colored fonts mysteriously disappeared.

Very frustrating.

That's when I ran across this post.

Which of course led to this music video:



Can you resist the Neverending Story? If you were born after 1972 but prior to 1990, the answer is that NO. YOU CAN'T. Because it's perhaps one of the single greatest movies for children EVER.

Watching the music video but ignoring all the embarrassing 80s pop hair moments and bad acting of the singers, the clips of Falkor, Atreyu, and even the obnoxious Childlike Empress with her irritating pout (sorry, pouty faces bring out the boxer in me) reignite my longing to help Atreyu overcome the Nothing.

I HATE the Nothing!

But really the Nothing was more than just a scary werewolf who wants to kill you. It's Nothing, man. NOTHING . . . I think you have to smoke a lot of weed to understand it. 

I can't remember Atreyu's horse's name (Artax?), but the scene in the music video where the horse is sinking in the quicksand KILLS me. KILLS ME. I've never had my own horse, but if I had one, there'd be one condition the horse would have to swear to: TO NEVER DIE. And especially, especially to avoid the blasted quicksand. Atreyu's scream as the horse just stands there, sinking, killed me. Yes, yes, I know. After they overcome the Nothing, everything is restored.

Right? It's been so long since I last watched it, I hardly remember the ending.

Now, I know there will be plenty of people who disagree with me. They will say, "No, the greatest kids movie ever was Goonies." Or, "Pish posh. Best movie for kids was Willow*". Or, "Nawwwwww, Dark Crystal. So classic," I would expect to even hear a "No no no no, best kid's movie is Princess Bride."

My only question for those who want to throw out other best kid's movies is, "Does it have a luckdragon?" If it doesn't have a luckdragon, there's no competition**.

The answer is yes, I have always wanted a luckdragon.

All these movies are from my youth, of course, therefore recent films are not even being recognized. So please don't try to judge Then against Now. Because if you do, Now will utterly fail. Movies from Now don't even COMPARE. I'm not sure what they were thinking in the 80s, but something was going on and we were rewarded with shows like Goonies, Princess Bride, and the NeverEnding Story.

These days all they can do is produce crap like Agent Cody Banks. Spy Kids. More like Crap Kids and Agent Crappy Banks. Not to be bitter. I just enjoy substituting random words with the word crap from time to time. It makes me laugh.

Not that crappy kid shows matter to me, yet, because I don't watch them anymore and my first kid is still gestating. But I'll tell you what he's going to watch when he's old enough. NeverEnding Story.

Luckily, the Childlike Empress's fate wasn't in my hands. I have no respect for pouts of this magnitude, especially not perma-pouts, as hers seems to be. 

*Seriously? I mean, "Willow" was good. But not THAT good.
*This can be expressed in an equation: (Film title) + luckdragon = Best Kid's Movie Ever. Conversely, (Film title) - luckdragon ≠ Best Kid's Movie Ever. I know. It's simple. I made it that way on purpose for all those Hollywood execs looking to cash in on family-friendly kid's movies.

Charlie Sheen Becomes Charlie Parker

 Partying like a rock star has been shown to age a person beyond their years. 

It's probably a chicken/egg argument, but am I the only who makes the connection between Charlie Sheen's hedonistic lifestyle and the fact that he played a hedonistic bachelor in Two and a Half Men (aka "the worst comedy series ever to last so long")?

I'm taking the view that he couldn't play such an incorrigible role without it bleeding into his real life. What a miserable guy. I actually feel bad for what an unhappy man he appears to be. I think he thinks he covers it up with his aggressive interview tactics, but it's fairly transparent, isn't it?

Ok, and what about David Duchovny in that HBO show (which I never saw, but heard about) Californication? So he plays a guy with a sexual addiction (amongst other addictions). Several years later, his marriage is falling apart because . . . why? He's got a sexual addiction.

Apparently even birth-control glasses couldn't prevent continued infidelity.

Y'ello? Is there a trend here? Could it be impossible to portray a character with such troubling demons for a long period of time without those attributes seeping into that actor's reality? It doesn't seem out of the question to me, but perhaps I'm superstitious or something.

I often wonder how actors act in films that reek of evil without feeling like they're treading into hell. I guess it comes down to what you call evil. I think the current trend in our culture is that there is no evil. It's just a bunch of people being human. And, you know, that's not evil, man. That's just people, having a human experience, man, which is good, you know?

But, in my opinion, that's just a candy-coated lie. Evil is obviously selfishness. What's more evil than putting your own needs over the needs of others? Even the tribes of American Indians believed in evil, and selfishness was what evil was generally thought to be. This is true, at least, of the Navajo. If someone in your tribe or clan was becoming wealthier than everyone else, that person was obviously practicing witch-craft. They manipulate the wheel of fortune to bring fortune to themselves at the expense of the rest of the tribe.

There are two kinds of evil: selfishness (no illustration necessary); and primordial evil, like Cthulhu. There's no way back from Cthulhu, once you're caught: madness. Selfishness allows for repentance. Here that, Charlie?

Not a bad definition of evil. But, I'm not trying to espouse communism or socialism, because I don't believe that's the answer to the problems of the world (at least, not government forced charity). I'm just making the case that it's not totally old-fashioned to believe in evil. There are lots of forms of it. I'm sure many people would agree that exploiting or hurting children is evil.

So then, why can't I say that Hollywood makes evil movies and wonder how the actors reconcile themselves to participating in such graphic and uncomfortable portrayals of evil? Because I really do wonder. They must have absolutely no conscience. Which is sad, because that's the only way to navigate the often troubling waters of our lives, you know, with Jiminy Cricket right there, guiding us.

I'm personally not comfortable with portrayals of extreme evil on television or film. Shows like Criminal Minds really disturb me. And I'd have to say, in fact, that it's refreshing to me to find out that others are likewise uncomfortable with certain subject matters. For example, Mandy Patinkin, who played one of the profilers on Criminal Minds, left the show after two seasons because he loathed violence on television and was uncomfortable with certain scenes in the show (source).

Mandy sought a six-fingered man as Inigo. As Jason Gideon, he sought criminals who might eat human fingers for breakfast. Which do YOU want to see? The Spaniard on a quest of vengeance? Same with Mandy.

So some people do have consciences! It's really a revelation to me that there are people in show business who have morals. So, thanks Mandy. I honestly wish Hollywood was better at producing fiction that could give me hope, rather than just making me laugh or feel utterly depressed. I must be in the minority, however, otherwise I'm sure the ratings would have shown as much.

At some point, I fully expect to bow out of consuming television and film. I'm almost there. Charlie Sheen's tantrums and embarrassing displays don't help me feel encouraged about what's happening in the entertainment industry. In fact, I'd sort of be happy if the whole system imploded. But I'm sure the executives would only blame piracy, rather than taking a microscope to the trash they're producing and try to fix it.

Eddy Arnold: "Cattle Call"

Sometimes at work I feel a little crazy and neurotic and I can't stand to hear the noises my coworkers make. The constant wheezing sound of the perpetual nose-blower (she "requires" an air filter, apparently being highly allergic to normal air, and seems to fixate on her nose, even though from all indications, there's never anything in it. The sound, you see. It's not a "productive" sound. Like a productive cough, as you're getting over a cold or what have you—yes, I hate it that I've formed opinions about my neighbor's health and her vital signs. It's weird. But that's what happens when someone's blowing their nose all day), and the clickety-clacks of the mad-typer who's always composing lengthy emails to other coworkers comprised of poignant and clever observations, and the constant hacking cough of the smoker (sometimes I'll begin a sweet doze and the smoker will hack and cough out of nowhere, with no warning whatsoever, startling me from my peaceful lucid dreams. It's frustrating, and then I think of Pride and Prejudice when Mrs. Bennet gets mad at Kitty for not timing her coughs well and how the coughs wear on Mrs. Bennet's nerves. My nerves too!).

And today is one of those days. I was suddenly feeling very claustrophobic, and HOT (I think my company believes we'll freeze to death if they don't run the heat at 90 degrees). I can't stand it. So I was melting at my desk and feeling like if I had to listen to the clickety-clack of my neighbor I would explode (or gurgle to death in a pile of ooze, because it's so hot, you see), and that's when I remembered last night.

Last night Stoker was researching the history of the Nashville music scene and he played this one song by a musician everyone but me has probably always known about: Eddy Arnold.

Holy moley. It devastates me in a good way to find out there's always been some awesome musician or singer around being great and I've never known about them. That's the benefit of arriving to the scene late. Like being born in the late 70s and only reaching full maturation (really) the day I hear the artist (because it's like I've never arrived until the day I hear that music). Basically I have everything pre-80s to look forward to discovering over the course of my life.

Last night Stoker played "Cattle Call" and I couldn't believe it. Some people might hear it and scoff. Others probably love it and have a long tradition of hearing it—beautiful traditions of going out to the farm with dad or grandpa and having them sing "Cattle Call" or being forced to listen to it on the 8-track. But I haven't got those experiences.

I have others. But not the "Cattle Call" ones.

How can a guy sing that well? That's my main question. It's absolutely insane to me to hear the recording and know that when he recorded it (he recorded three different versions over a period of about fourteen years....or something. Stoker can tell you. Don't quote me), they didn't have auto-tune. I listened to two versions last night and both were amazing. I guess you'd say it's yodeling, but yodeling has always been awful to listen to, for me. And it's always been like, "Yo-del-eh-eh-hoooooo," which is just about terrible to endure. And I don't think that's exactly what Arnold is saying in the song. He's saying, "Ooooh doooo doooo dooo oooooh oh delo, oh doooo dooo, dwip, deee ooooh, ohhh delop, dooo dee dee." That's an actual transcription. I just sat here and transcribed it, vowel for vowel.

And each . . . cattle call . . . is clear and perfect. It's like clear mountain streams. Unblemished blankets of snow. Something like that. John Denver would be able to describe it better than I can, because it's like "Rocky Mountain High," or "Annie's Song," only it's a guy with a flawless voice and it was recorded in the 50s or something. Take that all you modern singers....

Anyway, so I remembered that I didn't have to listen to my coworkers and all their standard noises because I had this Eddy Arnold album to listen to. I got it last night. After I was slain by "Cattle Call." Thank goodness.

How to Sing the National Anthem

During high school, I read Maggie: a Girl of the Streets by Stephen Crane for an English class. For some reason I picked this book out of a bunch of other choices. I think I was high or something and thought I'd really show my class that I could take the worst possible option and make it rock. I have no idea. There were better options, I remember that. Babbit (ha ha), As I Lay Dying, Slaughterhouse-Five. I really should have picked the Vonnegut book. Maybe I figured I was saving my innocent classmates from having to read a book about prostitution. I was taking one for the team, so to speak. That's how great and unselfish I am. Always thinking of others. Yep.

In any case, I can't remember anything about the story except for one scene. Someone's in a bar with a stage, it seems like, and a performer starts singing the national anthem, and the crowd goes wild. I think they get emotional, take off their hats, and stand up. The song arouses all sorts of patriotism and sentiment, even though, if I remember correctly, the bar is mostly full of what would be considered low-class citizens who were poverty-stricken and of humble means. The point is, the national anthem moved them.

I remember thinking that there was something wrong with my generation back then, after I read that scene and saw how the national anthem could get a crowd going back during Stephen Crane's time—my generation seemed so spoiled that we could only ever think of ourselves and we had to almost be threatened to pay the proper respects to things like the American flag and the national anthem.

Well, maybe it was just that we were teenagers and didn't know any better. We'd never been tested and lots of us had never suffered much. That's what I thought then, and I thought we'd grow up and become good adults, full of understanding, wisdom, and respect.

The problem is that it seems like most of my generation hasn't changed. They're still selfish, egocentric, and ungrateful. Granted, I know lots of people in my age group who are great. They have good desires, they have their heads on straight, they're not totally focused on me, me, me, me (and by me, me, me, I mean, "Like, I'm totally the awesomest. How can I become even more cooler? Perhaps by purchasing these totally sweet jeans from American Apparel or Urban Outfitters and starting a band...etc.").

This is why it's so offensive when a modern singer decimates the national anthem in addition to performing it like they're trying to prove how awesome their vocal acrobatics are. It illustrates a particular selfishness, as though they've never even attempted to understand what happened during the war that inspired the anthem. They've never read how Francis Scott Key wrote the lyrics. They've never tried imagine the historical moment and felt the impact of the battles waged for independence and freedom.

We don't have to lose everything in a war or nearly die in a battle to feel something about the value of our country and its symbols of sacrifice and liberty. All we have to do is have a bit of imagination. If we've lost our imaginations through lack of exercise, then we're truly lost. But I think the majority of us have retained some ability there, otherwise we'd have no emotional connection to any story we read, hear, or see (on TV, you know...yes, TV. I know it seems counter-intuitive because it does most of the work...but it does ask something of us).

What I mean is that Christina Aguilera, if she wants to find redemption from her horribly selfish performance, might decide to study the history of the song. She might read the account found here, and through some kind of inspiration—a muse, a dove, an angel (like a Dickensian ghost of Christmas past, only this one takes her spiritually back to the war of 1812)—she might suddenly realize,

My word, this song, this anthem, isn't about how loud I can screech into a microphone. It's not about those stupid Mariah Carey scales and high notes....it's—it's about fearing that all is lost, that our freedoms and ideals have been robbed during the night of a long battle, a veritable attack on our Capitol. It's about being carried emotionally to the brink of despair, knowing, just knowing our enemies had won, and seconds before caving into sorrow and hopelessness, we see, through the smoke of the cannons and sudden quiet of battle that the giant flag still flies over the fort, far away on land! It's about much more than me. It's about us. And when I sing it, I'm not me. I'm a vehicle for all the voices of all the Americans, their spirits united in me, praising God, or whatever higher power each individual might believe in, for giving us this land and our freedoms. Sort of like a prayer.

Maybe she'll get that. And maybe every singer selected to sing our national anthem can do that. So next time we don't have to listen to them mangle it as they forget the words because they're more focused on sounding awesome....you know, as though how they sing the national anthem might influence us to buy more of their songs or watch their movies or something. I think about the worst that can happen is that if you suck at it, we'll boycott you to death. Because, for pete's sake, that's our NATIONAL ANTHEM. Don't mess with it.

Superhero Fatigue

 Am I the only one who's tired of superheroes?

Just a sampling of recent superhero stuff in the media: No Ordinary Family, The Cape, The Green Hornet (the movie), X-Men, Batman, Watchmen, Spiderman, Superman, and I just heard they're going to remake the TV show Wonder Woman. I guess the time is really right for that kind of move. We haven't had enough of ordinary people with extraordinary powers doing special things out of the sheer goodness of their hearts for humanity as a whole. Motives of pure gold, that's what they have. The rest of us just have to watch and stare in wonder.

I tried to watch The Cape. I think I missed the first fifteen minutes of the show or maybe it was the first half hour. It didn't matter because the last bit I saw was boring, even though it involved a lot of double-crossing and fight scenes and chase scenes and spectacular explosions. It even involved a little boy watching the news as his dad ran from some bad guys one morning, as the little boy ate breakfast in the kitchen with his mom. Then they watched as a cargo trailer exploded. It was being filmed live. And his dad was under that trailer.

I didn't feel a whit of sadness for the family as they hugged and wept. Maybe because I knew the dad was alive? Or maybe because I wasn't invested enough in the show? Perhaps I have a heart of stone. Or . . . it could be that the story just sucked.

I don't know. But often, even when I know the opposite is true ("X is not dead, he's just buried under a pile of debris!" or "X is alive! She's just in a coma!"), I still manage to dredge up a few tears for the poor unsuspecting loved ones who feel the loss of their mother, father, or friend. I'm just following that wise admonishment to "weep with those who weep," and etc. And I'm a sap. Need I say more?

Ok, so I'm a sap. But I'm not mindless. And I'm trying to figure out what the crap is wrong with the networks and all their lame writers who think the public wants MORE superhero tripe. It wouldn't be so bad if the writing was actually good and the stories they were telling us were compelling. But so far I can hardly stand two minutes of No Ordinary Family. It's like the Invincibles. Only the Invincibles was cute and funny, and when it came out, there hadn't been a story about a family with superpowers.

To top it all off, why is it assumed that the public is enamored with the idea of heroes having special powers to assist them in their do-gooding? Can I say that? Do-gooding? Why do we want to celebrate heroes who are endowed with "special" powers and not a normal human who extends his or herself beyond the average and achieves something great, because that's the traditional definition of hero. And anyone can be a hero.

Currently, I suppose, there is this bubbling undercurrent of curiosity regarding the possibility that oh wow, humans have mutated and now all of us have the ability to fly! Or, suddenly I can see through walls! It was all those preservatives in the Twinkies. I ate a lot of Twinkies and it mutated my DNA. And now I'm superhuman. Yeah. It was the BPA. It toyed so much with my estrogen that now I have super-strength. Go figure.

That's what people are thinking. I know it. Sadly, the BPA and Twinkies are not going to mutate us into powerful creatures. And same with toxic waste and genetically enhanced spider bites. They'll just kill us, as bad things do.

For some reason, we'd apparently rather hear stories about morons who develop special powers through accidents that ought to destroy us (which, I guess you would argue, is how the superhero is born—because they're "no ordinary" human, they just become powerful, and not dead . . . ) and do awesome things rather than hear stories about real heroism.

Yesterday I deleted the Jack Handey quote in my Facebook information and put in a quote by James Talmage, and then I tried to fill in the "people who inspire you" section. I typed in "my mom, Stoker, my family," and hit save. Guess what? You can't put that sort of nonsense in (Facebook seems to say). It didn't work even when I typed their names in (so it could link to their pages).

Facebook will not have it. Facebook wants me to put in names of people so it can link my page to those pages of, I guess, people it deems appropriate for me to admire. It wants names like Thomas Jefferson, Ayn Rand, Galileo, and other sundry people who everyone can admire and link to.

I might admire those people, but this is the commercialization of hero-worship.

What bothers me is that I can't choose who I admire and for whom I wish to advertise my admiration. I would like the world to know and the people who know me to know that I'm not fooled by fame*, I'm not a member of some cult of personality, I have seen the reality of what a hero truly is: it is someone who does something very difficult, under the pressure of the possibility that if they fail, the people who matter to them will suffer, and yet they do it anyway. Even if they don't succeed, their sacrifice is noted, their attempt is recorded and the ramifications felt. Those ramifications might simply be the realization, "this person loves me very much," or "this person loves others more than him/herself."

And come to think of it, the only reason a hero ever does anything is because of that: love. But superheroes? I don't really know about them, having never known any personally.

All I know is that I'm done with superheroes. Green Hornet? Not going to see it. More iterations of Spiderman? Won't be seeing them. The new Wonder Woman? Ha. Fat chance. Her costume will probably be strips of tape and a bikini bottom and rather than using any skill, earned or inherent, she'll stop crime with her sluttiness. Bwah ha ha ha ha ha.

In the next few days, I'll be posting about being tired of the following: cop dramas, doctor/hospital dramas, firefighter dramas, law/courtroom dramas, crime scene dramas, serial killer/heinous crime dramas, and slutty housewife dramas. Does that encompass everything on prime time? Oh, dang.




*I really want everyone to admire me for not admiring moronic famous people. It's a defining characteristic of who I am.

"Lie to Me" Almost Ruined Our Relationship

I really like the show Lie to Me. And I was one of the first. That's right. For once in my life, I can honestly say that I've been with the show since the pilot. Usually something happens in the hour-long drama shows to offend me by this point and I've jumped ship. And something almost DID happen Monday night, but it's not grievous enough for me to slam the door in its face, turn off the porch light, and close all the blinds. Yet.

Usually it's the non-lesbian straight-hot-girl kiss that does it. Why? Because it's b.s. It's never in there because it adds to the story. It's deliberately contrived to be in there to titillate a male audience, which is offensive to me. It's like saying, "Hello, I know you're my girlfriend, but want to go to the strip club with me?" I know there are women who do that and that's fine, for them (of course I tend to think they're weak and insecure, but that's just me), but it's not ok for me. I demand civility and gentility and a bunch of other -ilities from the men in my life and if I don't get it, then . . . [fill in the blank].

Many of these shows know the largest part of their viewership is women, and what they end up counting on is the fact that women are not offended by seeing the non-lesbian straight-hot-girl kiss. So they throw it in to garner favor in their male audience, which is small, and which they hope to increase by the tantalizing chance of seeing such forbidden actions on prime-time TV.

If more women were as tough as me, they'd boycott the shows after such gratuitous, pointless, crap and teach the networks a lesson. Because it's not just offensive to me. It's offensive to real lesbians who have real relationships and not flings with women while actually being into men, just to be exhibitionists for men. It's reducing real lesbian partnerships into something that exists only for men, which is, as I understand it, what so many feminists (who often happen to be lesbians) want to escape.

So anyway. I haven't seen any of my pet peeves on Lie to Me. Yet.

But Monday night the show crossed a line. A faint line. Upon further reflection later on, it snowballed into something that could squash my enthusiasm for Tim Roth's character and the intriguing relationships he has with the rest of the characters.

What was it? What could it have been? you ask, holding your breath, sitting on the edge of your office chair.

At the very end, Cal Lightman's adorable daughter has broken up with her too-perfect boyfriend because . . . why? "He doesn't believe in sex before marriage." Tim Roth's character laughs. All this time he's been worried about what his daughter's getting into with the boyfriend and it turns out, the kid won't have sex before marriage. Not even a "is that so bad? Sounds perfect to me," from Tim Roth. Just laughter.

Am I insane that I think most decent fathers are going to be thrilled to find out their daughter has a boyfriend with standards like that? Am I insane to believe that most dads don't want their high school daughter sleeping around? Even in a culture that has determined that lots of sex before marriage—to see if you're compatible, of course—is a great idea, aren't dads a little more protective of their daughters than an "I give you my blessing" to a guy who wants to live with daddy's little girl before they get married?

What bothers me, really, is that this show I love has suddenly decided to twist what a girl wants into what men really want and not what women want. Sex in the City did enough of that. They've lied to women about what we want and a lot of women have bought it. It's not female empowerment to try to be what men are. We're not men. It doesn't empower women to sleep around and not demand commitment. It only serves men when women live like that.

So I don't need Lie to Me, to be trying to sell me some stupid Sex in the City ideology about what teenage girls want. GIRLS DON'T BREAK UP WITH GUYS BECAUSE A GUY DOESN'T WANT TO HAVE SEX BEFORE HE'S MARRIED. And if she does, her problem isn't the guy. It's the commitment. She's got commitment problems.

Ok. And that may be all me and me alone, because I'm not an idiot and lots of other people tend to be when it comes to logic and reason, nevertheless, it's really irritating. It's irritating that Cal (Tim Roth) didn't say anything, because in my opinion, his daughter was looking for fatherly advice, not laughter and best friend sort of crap. No kid in their right mind wants mom and dad to be their buddy. They want mom and dad to be their guide. They want dad to set them straight and show how important they are by pulling them away from the fire, not letting them get burned to a crisp. They want mom to establish rules and stick to the rules, because it makes them feel safe in a dangerous world.

Sure, teenagers pretend to hate it and they push against the boundaries, but until the kid is 18 or not living at home, they deserve to have the guidance of their parents. And even after they're 18 and have moved away, kids go back to their parents for guidance. Advice. Sound reasoning. Etc.

So it bugs me that Cal Lightman just laughed and didn't tell his daughter that a man like Liam (the boyfriend) is decent. That he respects her and sexual relationships if that's what his standards are, and that she shouldn't be breaking up with a guy over that, and oh yeah, she'll have sex before she's married over his dead body, etc. If a show is going to be trying to teach me standards, then it better be decent standards. And not Sex in the City standards, because that's no standards at all. And if I wanted that, I'd watch that show.

I hope Lie to Me straightens up after this and that if they want to do something about Cal Lightman's daughter having sex as a teenager, for pete's sake, show us that the consequences are detrimental. Because that's the reality more often than not. Sex complicates everything. And everyone knows it; if they think otherwise, they're lying to themselves.

How Much Is That Woolly Mammoth in the Window?

I guess there's a news story going around about how scientists are going to try to clone a woolly mammoth. To this I say, "Excellent. Do it."

Some people might cringe and ask if we didn't learn any lessons from Jurassic Park. Well, no, I don't think we did. Jurassic Park was just a movie. A book first, then a movie, and as we all know, morals went out in the thirties. The point of any story nowadays is merely to entertain. And Jurassic Park was extremely entertaining.

Besides, real-life isn't subject to the same laws that stories in books are, which is to say, just because things happen in a book—like, that everything that can go wrong will go wrong—doesn't mean the same will occur for our modern scientists who simply want to clone a gigantic hairy elephant.

I've seen the skeleton of a woolly mammoth up close. They're not that scary. Or tall. And I think they'd be fun to tame for riding purposes, like a horse.

So I say go for it. I would LOVE to drive through the plains and watch herds of woolly mammoths grazing peacefully on the range (they're herbivores, aren't they?), or hike up into the Uintahs and spy a woolly mammoth splashing around in a small pond in the forest, bathing like a cherub out of a renaissance painting—depending, of course, on which habitat this friendly creature will prefer.

Honestly, I think it would be extremely awesome if we could bring back ALL the dinosaurs. I've held the secret belief for some time now that earth-life has been stuck in a cycle: humans reach a technological singularity where they have the bright idea to clone the dinosaurs that died out years ago. Success! The dinosaurs are brought back, but refuse to cooperate with the boundaries we place on them ("Come on, Mr. T-rex. Keep your teeth to yourself and stay behind this Invisible Fence®. Geez!"). They leave the very nice preserves we set aside for their grazing and carnivorous needs, rampaging across the globe, slaughtering all the humans. Then an asteroid. Then, humans manage to come back. Then the humans reach a technological singularity and decide to clone the dinosaurs that died out years ago. Success! The dinosaurs are brought back, but refuse to cooperate . . . and so on.

Which came first? Dinosaurs or the humans? It's really a chicken/egg question. There is no right answer.

And when I think of it, there are only a few glorious deaths I can reconcile myself to if I can't have the luxury of going in my sleep real nice and easy. One is to experience an end-of-the-world disaster movie situation. That would be just fine. I watched the terrible 2012 last night and I'm of the mind that I'd rather die than try to survive the bull crap that movie toyed around with, because really, who'd want to survive with all the jerks on the (spoiler alert!) arks?

My other preferred glorious death would be to survive long enough to have a full menagerie of cloned dinosaurs on the loose that could wipe out the entire human race. That would be kind of fun. So bring on the woolly mammoths!

Seriously. Right now.

Facing Down a Salesperson (and Winning!)

Back in November I sat on my favorite glasses and broke them into a million pieces. The frames were made by Smith before they started doing their own prescription line (I do believe). I had prescription lenses put in and I wore them for seven years or so. I got a lot of compliments. The first time I met Stoker I was wearing them and the only reason I caught his eye was the glasses and my attractive behind.

Kidding of course. There were other reasons.

Smith has a great warranty, but I think I was beyond the time frame, or at least, the damage to the frames was obviously NOT from a manufacturer's defect (unless the manufacturer had used macaroni and paste to construct the frames). So I couldn't send them in and expect much. Or I could, and Smith would probably do something about it, but then I'd feel guilty the rest of my life for taking advantage of a company when I KNEW it was my fault.

To make matters worse, the pair of glasses I got the year before were total crap. I guess it's my fault for being such a sucker half the time, because everything special the eye place (Optique on West End in Nashville) could do to my glasses, they did. Because I let them. Because they're so forceful and they read you a list of what they're going to do and you can't follow what they're saying and then at the end of the list, they say, "Ok, the amount you owe is X dollars." To avoid looking stupid, after all, you've just spent two hours picking out the glasses and wasting their time (you're made to feel; or perhaps you just suffer from a hyper-awareness-guilt), you nod mutely and hand over your debit card.

So the last pair sucked. I got the special aerospace engineered jet-aircraft high tech poly-whatsit plastic/glass so the lenses were real thin and light and didn't turn my ears saggy from all that heavy glass/plastic weighing them down all day. I got the type of glasses with no nose-pinching things just so I don't end up with a skeletal bridge when I take the glasses off. You know what I'm talking about. The only problem is, those glasses with no nose-pinchers are harder to adjust.

That was why the last pair sucked. Thin, high-tech lenses and no nose pinchers. "We'll adjust your glasses any time, for free." You just have to make the time to go in and have them adjusted. Headache city. In short the last pair was too light and fell off my face all the time, and they were crooked even though I had them adjusted the day I picked them up.

I lost that pair. Before I sat on the other pair. So I was wearing the very first glasses I ever owned. A fifteen year old Tommy Hilfiger job (that was back when Tommy was the bomb) or something like that, which, as it happens, also always managed to fall off my face. I have a very small face, I guess.

In November I went in to get new glasses. I spent a few hours picking out what I wanted, then sat down to do business and the lady told me I couldn't get a new pair until January according to my insurance, unless I wanted to shell out $500. No, I didn't want that. But if I'd been AWARE that I didn't get another pair in 2010, I would have canceled the stupid insurance and reinstated it the next year, because I'm devious like that. Who knows if it would have worked. (They pillage me, I pillage them. That's how it works, right?)

January rolls around. I return to the eye place. They pull out the glasses I'd picked before and I sit down to pay for them and talk business. The chicklet rattles off the list of charges fast enough to make an auctioneer jealous, and finishes up with, "The total is $190."

I stare at her for a second, blinking rapidly. "So wait, I owe you $190?"

"Yes, that's correct."

"What exactly is my insurance paying for?"

She sets the paper down and shows me. This paper would have been helpful to see before she read me the charges.

Essentially, my insurance is paying hardly anything and the frames I'd picked out were priced at some astronomical amount. $400 or something like that. And they weren't even the Dolce Gabana kind with diamonds and crap on the stems! In fact, I have no idea what brand they were! Nothing spectacular. Nothing to provoke envy in my enemies. Certainly not worth $400.

"Hmm," I say, "The last pair I bought, seems like my insurance covered more and I ended up paying hardly anything out of pocket."

"Maybe those frames were on sale or they were on the list of frames that your insurance paid more of."

"Where are the frames my insurance will pay more of?" I ask, feeling fleeced. 

She stands and walks to a drawer in a side-table and yanks the drawer out. This is obviously the drawer of cast offs and birth-control glasses and I laugh, remarking as much. To which she only smiles, politely. Originally, when I bought my first pair there, the so-called sale-frames were on display, like the other glasses. They must have learned in the interim that to discourage customers from getting the cheaper frames, they needed some psychological warfare. It almost worked on me. Almost.

I found a decent enough pair that wasn't too repulsive and returned to the desk. "I'll get these."

She goes over the charges with me, again. I still owe too much (for my taste. I've got a lot of expenses this year, you know). The thing that's costing so much is the super-high-tech-weightless polywog crap lenses. So I say, "I don't think I want the special lenses. I mean, what do they even do?"

"They make it so that when someone is looking at you or talking to you and you have your glasses on, they see your eyes instead of their reflection." And it does something with computers. And somehow takes the glare off cars. So, basically, I'm being charged $75 or whatnot for polarized lenses. So other people can see my glorious eyes and not their ugly face. I bought a pair of polarized sunglasses from REI for $20 recently. Something doesn't seem right here.

"I don't want that. Don't do that to my lenses," I say.

"But that puts your lenses under warranty. If you don't do it, they're not under warranty. If you break your lenses today or tomorrow, for example, then you'll have to pay $65 to get new lenses." 

"So you're saying that I can pay either $75 now for a warranty, or $65 should my lenses happen to break?" I'm not making this up. Stoker pointed out that with the $75 you do get the better lens, but still! It's absurd. And in any case, my insurance was only going to pay a $20 of that.

The girl did try to convince me a bit more to get the better lenses, but I won! It was a hard fought victory, too. Those people have a way of making you feel like you don't understand how stupid you're being for not getting the most expensive crap in the world.

Stoker claims I had a deer-in-the-headlights look about me during the battle, but he understood why. When someone talks to you with auctioneer speed and then wants to take your money, there's a level of discomfort. I might have fallen for it two years ago. But I'm older now. Older and wiser.



p.s. Even if I manage to break my lenses next week, I will still be the winner.

The Return, Bad Smells, and Other News

 I've been out for a couple months. Guess I have a problem with being faithful to my blog. I write it for myself, so I shouldn't feel too guilty when I neglect to post...but I do. Don't worry, my unfaithfulness stops with the blog.

First of all, what kept me away was generally feeling like crap. After being married for five years and putting off the inevitable as long as possible, we are going to have a baby. In June! Yep. So of course I was miserable the first few months because as many women will tell you, the first trimester is hell. It's all kind of hellish, but there are days when it's not so bad. The last thing I could do during that time was write. Sitting up was hard too. Reclining was about the only time I could manage to not want to die. But even then: I wanted to die.

I don't want to dwell on all that because it's best when forgotten. Remembering the early misery of the pregnancy makes me want to throw up again. Not that I had too much of that, but enough. Even now. Just the other day I woke up and went into the kitchen. It smelled horrifying in there. It was a siege against my sense of smell. I went to the sink. The drain? I thought, running the water and taking a cautious sniff closer than what might be considered wise.

It could have been the drain. It was hard to tell. The dish cloth? Could have been the dish cloth. The smell permeated the entire room. Finding the actual source was pure detective work. I went to the stainless steel Simple Human garbage can and lifted the lid with the foot lever.

There was no question. A sour cloud of rot engulfed my face and jerked protective tears into my eyes (otherwise my eyeballs would have shriveled like salted slugs). I began gagging immediately. I made it to the sink in time to heave there. "Stoker," I managed through the gagging. "Bleh, bleh, bleh [that's the sound of gagging], Stoker, can you come take the bleh bleh bleh, the garbage out? Please." More gagging.

He came into the kitchen and started laughing but also, he felt bad. I could tell. The sin was his. The night before he made dinner for us (like a sweetheart) and threw out some rotten beans and corn to free up some Tupperware space* and forgot to take the trash out. I think I gagged up the amoxicillin and water I took before leaving the bedroom, which I'd been prescribed for strep throat the week before. If I still have strep, I blame the beans and corn.

Anyway, I might vomit again, recounting that story. Moving on.

Two of my short stories are up for sale on Amazon.com for Kindle devices and another will be live tomorrow sometime. So that's really cool. Life Feeds and The God Machine. Stoker designed the covers (but we got the art from a stock photo site), and I have to say, the kid's a genius. The cover of the next story is my favorite by far. I can't wait for it to show up.

I never want to stop writing, you know. Even once I have kids. I'm definitely looking forward to a new phase in my life, but I don't want to forfeit these things that help me find edification of another type. I love the chance to explore ideas and character through writing stories. It gets easier as I practice and since I think that life is about illumination and understanding, it matters to me to continue, because that's where I find the most insight into the human condition.





*We don't have a garbage disposal, and right now a compost bucket in the house is a BAD BAD BAD IDEA. We had one before the pregnancy.