Everything I Learned in College (and More) is Already on Wikipedia

A few months ago, I was just settling down for my customary post-graduate mid-afternoon nap when I was stirred back to wakefulness by a text from my friend: What caused the fall of the Roman Empire?

Not an emergency text, to be sure. Not even a time-sensitive text--the Roman Empire had been fallen for quite some time; surely, my friend did not need to know immediately? But then I got to wondering just how long ago it fell, for surely it depends on who you ask. Did she mean the fall of the Western Roman Empire (which fell some time in the...5th century CE), or did she mean the Eastern Roman Empire (which became the Byzantine Empire and which fell...later)? My first impulse was to text back "the Goths" and be done with it, back to my blanket burrito and happily entering the land of careless dreams. I punched the words in with decisive force, plopped my head back onto my downy pillow, and held my thumb over the "Send" button in gleeful anticipation of the flying unicorns that would soon occupy my brain.

But then, I realized that she would not have asked me unless she expected a solid answer. I had studied ancient civilizations in college, and it was surely upon that knowledge that she expected me to draw now. She could get this information from any cheap website--of course she required my personal touch! My department in college had been a small one, and we often lamented the lack of interest in the ancient world among our college contemporaries. During our marathon nights of translating Latin, we would bemoan the probability that, in a few years, no one would care that we could read Catullus. As I lay in my bed at home, having just completed my hard-won degree and eagerly anticipating the reward of sleep, I realized that now was my chance. Now, I could finally be a representative of my major to the ignorant masses, a beacon of light to the inquisitive darkness. I pulled my thumb back sharply and cleared the text message with haste, horrified at what I had almost done.

With a renewed sense of purpose, I sat up in bed and thought about how best to answer. I thought about all those lectures on Roman civilization, all those classes translating Latin and learning about the peculiarities of Roman emperors and...my brain hit a wall. Huh. I must be sleepy. Perhaps, I decided, I should clarify which time period she means? So I sent my friend a text asking if she meant the fall of the Roman or the Byzantine Empire? I was really asking for her to realize what a can of worms her question had opened. This was a question with a lengthy answer--I wanted to impress upon her the magnitude of her idle text and inspire her to let this cup pass from me. Roman, she texted back, a simple answer that implied, "Why are you making this difficult?"

I lay my phone down and closed my eyes. Think, I told myself, remember....The Romans were already weakened by...?...when they were invaded from the North by Goths....I snickered to myself as I imagined black-clad teens slumping into Rome and declaring it defeated, they guess....Ok, no, seriously, what caused the decline of Rome? 

"Your empire is against my religion."

I eyed my notebooks piled haphazardly in the corner of my room, a monument to the moment I had first arrived home and unceremoniously dumped everything school-related on the floor, vowing never to return to it again.Within those pages, I was sure, the answer must lie. I wriggled myself out of my cocoon and slithered to the corner lethargically. A degree in classical civilizations, apparently, did not mean the information remained in your brain. I heaved a sigh as I flipped through the most likely candidate, ignoring my doodles and searching for telltale words like "decline," "defeat," "Goths," or "Byzantine," anything to indicate what had caused this magnificent edifice to crumble. This was too much work for a simple text message, but it was my burden to bear, and I would gladly bear it. But no matter where I looked, I could find no word that would attest to this happening. Did I miss class that day? Did I just not care to write anything down? I willed wisdom into the geometric shapes that bordered my pages, but the ink would not spill.

Cursing my foolishness, I put away "Roman Civilization" and turned next to "Mythology." Sometimes, myths evolved to explain the goings-on in the real world. No myth explaining the end of Roman culture immediately  came to mind, but it was worth a shot. Five minutes and 100 pages later, I snapped the notebook shut. Nothing there. "Gender and Sexuality"? Nope. Maybe the Greeks had something to say about this? I dived for "Greek Civilization" with a rising sense of panic in my chest, but as I flipped through my notebook, I knew with perilous certainty that the Greeks had slipped out of the collective consciousness by the 5th century CE. I threw my last chance into the corner with the other hopefuls, and stoically sat on the carpet for several minutes. Where had I gone wrong? Was it the failing of my classes, or my note-taking abilities, or both, that the answer was not embedded somewhere in these rumpled pages?

I had failed. My friend had asked a simple question of me, and I could not answer her. What was my degree worth if, after all this, I could not provide a pat answer to the most oft-asked question about the Roman Empire? Didn't she want, instead, to know how to properly pronounce "Veni, vidi, vici?" I glanced around my floor in defeat, as if the contours of the carpet would stir some forgotten information inside of me. Eventually, my gaze settled on the feet of my desk, and followed them upward to rest, inevitably, on my computer. Artemis, she was called, for the Roman goddess of the hunt. What cheek, I thought, to have named my computer for the avaricious way in which I would use her to pursue knowledge. I had been hungry to learn about the ancient world then; now, I was just a poor post-grad sitting on my bedroom floor in my parents' house, unable to summon an iota of knowledge and desperately longing for my daily nap.

I cast my eyes upon my Judas notebooks. I glanced up at my computer. I looked at the floor. Computer again. One more time, the notebooks. Back to the computer. I knew what I had to do. I dragged myself up until I was kneeling, at eye level with the screen. To sit in the chair would be to formalize what I hoped would be a covert action, something no onlooker would recognize as web-searching even though I knew I was all alone. I pushed the power button, and the screen came alive all too quickly, as if it knew what I would resort to and had made itself ready. I opened the browser and typed in slowly, mournfully, "w-i-k--"
"Wikipedia.org"? It finished with irritating promptness. I clicked on the link it provided.

The time had come. The search box was empty. The cursor was blinking. It was waiting for me. With heavy fingers, I typed the words I had never hoped to type, "Decline of the Roman Empire." Immediately I was transported to a world of quick links, lengthy paragraphs, outlined headings. I skimmed the page and a world of answers came rushing in. I picked up my phone and clicked out, "overexpansion, inflation, gothic invasions, weakened army, rise of Christianity," a humiliating task made all the more difficult by T-9 Word's refusal to cooperate. When my friend finally texted back, she let out a "haha" of laughter. She was laughing? My self-confidence lay in pieces on the floor next to my useless notebooks, and she was laughing? I read on. I can't remember exactly what she said because I blocked it out, but it was something to the effect of, "I knew you would know."

She knew I would know. She knew the thousands of dollars my parents and I had scraped together over the years to pay for college would surely fund the answer to her question. She knew.

I flopped back onto my bed, twisting left and right to wrap myself in the long-forgotten blanket burrito, and fell asleep with the image of my computer in my brain, an unfailing ally in the never-ending quest for knowledge I should already have.

Octobeard

For some reason, the term "Octobeard" inspired me to create this:

Basically, a stuffy British gentleman with seven peg legs, who also happens to be an octopus. I don't know.

Work While You Whistle

Back in the glory days of Nickelodeon, I used to watch Rocko's Modern Life. My parents often wondered what was so enthralling about a listless wallaby with weird friends and weirder neighbors. As an intrepid 8-year-old, I dared them to answer what wasn't. With a name like "Rocko" and a TV show dedicated to your ahead-of-the-curve existence, how could you be boring?

As it turns out, the adult version of me is in much greater agreement with the parents (just more proof that the inevitable is slowly, but surely, unfolding.) What do I remember about the show fourteen years later? Almost nothing. What did I gain from those countless hours of lying stomach-down on the couch in front of the TV, cross-eyed and drooling like Spunky? Hardly anything. A bad back, maybe.

There is, however, one small nugget from the show that I have held on to all these years, one tiny clip that has colored the way I approach one of the most routine and mundane aspects of life: house-cleaning.

After such an inspiring rendition, one might almost be galvanized into action, possessed, as it were, with the desire to purge one's house of whatever funk had dared accumulate. As soon as I saw this episode, I was naive enough to believe that cleaning could be this fun. Even though I was well into the banal swing of cleaning for money by that time, I somehow forgot every experience up until that point and hoped I could will a similar experience into being. I soon learned that it would never happen. 

When I next cleaned my bathroom, the whole town didn't clean with me, and there certainly wasn't any singing involved. If I tried to insert a jazz square as I scrubbed out the tub, I would wind up on the floor covered in Comet instead of sporting my best jazz hands. I was devastated. Not even the $4.00 allowance I received each weekend upon completion of my chores was enough to abate the continual disappointment. 

I have had to live with that disappointment every day of my life since seeing that episode. There are times when I overcome, however. Life's not all fun and games, after all. The dust mites aren't going to roll themselves out from under the bed (though they've been down there so long I wouldn't be surprised if they were ambulatory by now.) I don the proverbial rubber gloves, buckle down, and scrub the hell out of that sink. It is at these times that I overcome, that I am able to steel myself to clean with a bitter resolve. But then Center Stage comes on TV and I have to start all over again.

The magic starts at 3:10.

Thanks, Center Stage. I knew I would never be a dancer, but did we really have to add "Merry Mirror Maid" to the list? At least Enchanted is a bit more honest. There may be choreography and a sweetly singing princess involved, but no amount of minced words can eclipse the image of sewer rats cleaning your toilet. 

Enchanted was subversive. It understood the tendency to glorify cleaning and spit in that tendency's face. And then made it clean it up. But what is with all the attempts to make us forget how irksome, insipid, and downright depressing cleaning can be? Why set us up for disappointment when we're all going to discover the truth eventually? I like to think it's because, someday, we'll climb that mountain of dirty dishes and reach the top to find that the joy was in the struggle all along. We'll see.

The struggle to face the facts of cleaning can seem like a Sisyphean effort, but at least no movie or TV show has ever tried to glorify fumigation. That untainted reality is still ours to embrace.

What Do You Do with a B.A. in Napping?

Hello, ranks of The Unemployed! After creating my first playlist of unemployment background music, I realized that show tunes were equally, if not better, suited for the role. Think about it: what better way to highlight your despair than with a full orchestra and ensemble cast?

This playlist has the same basic progression as the one before, but it's got a tad more flair. Enjoy!

1) Out Tonight -- Rent
2) Let's Go Fly a Kite -- Mary Poppins
3) I Won't Grow Up -- Peter Pan
4) What Do the Simple Folk Do? -- Camelot
5) Part of Your World -- The Little Mermaid
6) Something's Coming -- West Side Story (and we all know how THAT ended up for Tony)
7) I Whistle a Happy Tune -- The King and I
8) I'm Not That Girl -- Wicked
9) If I Were a Rich Man -- Fiddler on the Roof
10) You've Got to Pick-a-Pocket or Two -- Oliver!
11) I'd Be Surprisingly Good For You -- Evita
12) When You're Good to Mama -- Chicago
13) Close Every Door -- Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat
14) Climb Ev'ry Mountain -- The Sound of Music
15) Hakuna Matata -- The Lion King

Eat, Pray, Love, Leave: Orientalism Still Big Onscreen : NPR

I recently saw Eat, Pray, Love and left the theater with a greater understanding of only the first third of the mantra. I believe the emphasis was meant to be on the "Pray, Love" part, but I found greater meaning in the heaping plates of spaghetti than in any recreation of Western moments of Zen.

Thumbs up d-_-b

For those of you who have not seen the movie or read the book, Eat, Pray, Love follows Liz as she travels through Italy, India, and Bali. The journey is meant to be a year-long process of self-rediscovery after a difficult divorce, but somehow turns into a contrived re-telling of everything we've ever allowed ourselves to believe about the East.

Here's a long overdue article about the subject of Orientalism and how it manifests itself subtly, and sometimes not so subtly, in our subconscious:

Eat, Pray, Love, Leave: Orientalism Still Big Onscreen : NPR

Thumbs down q-_-p

Doctor Who's Gonna Protect Me in My Sleep???

I almost didn't sleep last night because I was afraid a child in a gas mask was going to appear in my doorway asking if I was his mummy. Allow me to explain.

I have two friends who are big into TV shows. In high school, I had to start watching some of the shows they watched just to understand what they talked about half the time. In the process, I discovered some truly wonderful shows. They have never steered me wrong, and I have them to thank for my devotion to Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert. And Joss Whedon. And "The Office." And "Parks and Recreation." The list goes on.

So when they asked me yet again at a recent dinner if I had started watching "Doctor Who," I felt the time had come to reorganize my priorities and settle in for the long haul--David Tennant is pretty cute, after all. But I couldn't just jump into season 2, oh no. According to Meaghan, I would at least have to watch two episodes from season 1 first: The Empty Child, and The Doctor Dances.

I should have known right then that this was going to end badly. Any cinematic exposure to an "empty child" is best avoided because, let's face it, it's probably one of those freaky children in horror movies that are covered in blood because they've just murdered your dog and are moving toward you slowly and mechanically, holding the knife that they are also going to fillet you with and unable to understand why this disturbs you. If exposure to said child cannot be avoided (or is carelessly pursued by a naive viewer), at least do not let it occur when you are all alone in your room at midnight.

That said, I opted to watch this episode in the most frightening conditions possible. I waited till midnight, turned on my desk lamp, and sat down to watch one 41-minute show on my laptop with headphones. I thought to wait till midnight because by then my parents would be asleep and I wouldn't miss out on talking with them. I turned on my small lamp so I could see the midnight snack I was eating and thereby avoid spilling a bowl of cereal in my lap. And I wore the headphones to be a considerate daughter and keep the noise level down for my sleeping parents. I did all these potentially dangerous things because, hey, it's "Doctor Who" and this show is supposed to be pretty funny and I seriously doubt that "empty child" means what I think it means. Oh no. Oh no no no no no.

As it turned out, the "empty child" was this little horror:

Here's how it went down: I settle into my room at 12:05 AM, giddy with anticipation of British humor and Mini-Wheats. Lamp on, headphones in, door closed (for which I would be very grateful later), and I hit play. The episode is set in London in 1941, complete with German air raids and lounge singers and OMG is that a child on the roof? Is it...is it wearing a gas mask? Good God, this can't end well. At least I thought to close my door. 

The episode progresses. It turns out this little thing can tap into any speaker system, whether it is functional or not, and project his eerie voice to whomever he wishes, never deviating from his incessant and haunting question, "Are you my mummy?" NO, FREAK! GO AWAY!!!

The episode continues. More gas mask zombies are created, and they move in tandem. I begin to regret that I turned on my desk lamp, because there is just enough light to see objects behind me reflected in the screen, and as I move, they move. I think about turning the light off, but that would make the empty child even more likely to appear in my room. I make a compromise with myself--keep the light on, grab the pillow. 

A few more minutes pass by. I begin to over-identify with the motley group of kids on the run from this child, especially the leader, Nancy. I become aware that wearing headphones means I have no auditory cues as to what is going on in my room. For all I know, the empty child could be here, now, certain that I am his mummy and standing right behind me. I think about taking out my headphones, but that would mean that the freaky voice of the empty child would actually permeate my room instead of remaining contained within my computer. I leave the headphones in. 

More minutes tick by. The Doctor goes to a hospital and discovers that OMG they're not wearing gas masks, their faces have BECOME gas masks! As it occurs to me that this is the most torturous 41-minute episode ever, I decide I must tough it out to the end to get some closure. Otherwise, I know I'll have nightmares. But guess what? The episode ends on this cliff-hanger: an entire hospital-full of gas-masked zombies corner The Doctor, Rose, and Jack, a veritable choir echoing the eternal phrase (sing along if you know it), "Are you my mummy?" And scene!

Skip to 7:35. It's a hoot.

Betrayed, lied to, I sit in my chair at 12:46 AM a tense and horrified mess. What do you mean, "To be continued...?!?!?"  There's no going to sleep after this. I know what I must do. "The Doctor Dances" it is.

Yet another 41 minutes later, it is revealed that Nancy actually was the little freak's "mummy" after all! Girl, if your sweet face had just fessed up an hour ago, I wouldn't have had to go through this ordeal! Why, Nancy? WHY?!?!?

Stop looking so innocent! YOU did this to me!

The rest of the episode is important, I suppose, but I remain fixated on Nancy's betrayal and convinced that if I look outside my door, I will find a hoard of these zombies marching steadily up my stairs, hoping to appeal to my maternal instincts. If that happens, Nancy, I'm holding you responsible. 

After checking the stairs, I take a deep breath and turn out the light. I wait. No sounds. I scooch further into my bed. Still no sounds. I open my eyes suddenly to catch the zombies off-guard. But no zombies. I am beyond exhausted by this point, and decide that if going to sleep means spending the rest of my life with a gas mask for a face, I might as well be well-rested for it. I am finally able to ease into a restless sleep full of old schoolmates, hidden doorways, and pregnancy...I don't know.

Me Write Good!

Remember that leather journal I mentioned? The one that brought me back to (journaling) love? Well, I didn't mention it before, but it also inspired me to write haikus and stuff. Yep, yours truly is a poet, and I thought it only fair to expose y'all to the glorious pieces that represent the zenith of my poetic career. I suppose the "reelistic expectation" at work here is my fantasy of having the few scraps I toss out be eagerly devoured by an over-appreciative audience, and then I somehow become famous and move to Italy where I picturesquely sit in my Tuscan villa with a pen in hand and a smile on my face as I realize I've achieved everything I ever wanted. We'll see.

It seems I was most inspired to write these morphological masterpieces when I was experiencing incredible physical or psychological discomfort. For example, this first haiku was written in the seventh hour of my plane ride to Thailand:

The smell of old air,

Scattered packets everywhere,

I must wash my hair.

I think it captures the desperation of the moment in a succinct manner, but I didn't get to fit in everything. If I had been given one more seven-syllable line, I probably would have included "I must read 'A Jewel So Rare.'" For serious, my sister and I were reading it on the plane. Out loud. Sometimes salacious literature is best consumed within earshot of the elderly, ya know? And I know haikus technically don't have to rhyme, but it just turned out that way. I think it gives it a little something extra.

This next one was written about the pub on the kibbutz I stayed at in Israel. I was on an archaeology dig, so of course people got schwasted every night:

O bright light on the horizon,

Drawing me in like a moth to the flame,

You buzz me each time.

Clearly I was buzzed when I wrote this haiku because it in no way conforms to a haiku's structure. Gotta lock that 5-7-5 thing down.

This last piece is an ode I wrote to Mr. Speedo Man, the shameless European who swam at the hotel pool in Jordan every day. His scant Speedo alone might have made Paris Hilton blush, but the stretching he did by the deck, and eventual removal of said Speedo (on the pool deck) soon sent me and the gang into a tailspin of eye-clawing. The only way I could cope was to write an ode:

To the man of the tiny Speedo--

You redefine the limits of Speedoian modesty.

Your legs ever pale,

Your face nonchalant,

Your posture unassuming

As you slip off what you are not.

Our looks of abhorrence

Bear not on your composure

As you casually cross your legs

Under your insufficient towel.

Your previous calisthenics

On the balcony in plain view

Were but a mere taste

Of the unwanted treat you would later provide.

Mr. Speedo Man,

Our Mr. Speedo Man,

We know we cannot change

Your free and open ways.

So if you must continue,

O Mr. Speedo Man,

With your cheeky displays,

At least keep your legs crossed.

For a second there, I thought I had also failed to write a real ode, but dictionary.com says an ode is of "enthusiastic emotion" and "irregular metrical form." Well, I *enthusiastically* requested Mr. Speedo Man keep his irregular form far away from me. Bam!

Travelers, be warned: a Speedo sighting can occur at any moment. Always carry pepper spray...for yourself.

And make no mistake, I will continue to write abominable haikus full of awful-tude as long as I possibly can. Let's just hope I have less disturbing, more inspiring subjects in the future.

Love Stories, Of a Sort

I first fell in love with journaling when Disney's The Hunchback of Notre Dame came out. Like many other girls my age, I desperately wanted to be Esmeralda and was convinced that if I just got the right dress, a goat, and a tambourine, I could renounce this provincial life and freely roam the streets like the vagabond I aspired to be.

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FREEDOM!

I even asked my mom if I could be Esmeralda for Halloween that year, which probably translated in her brain as, "I wanna be a sex bomb, mommy!" Somehow, she agreed to look for costumes with me, none of which fit, since I was too tall to feasibly pass for a 7-year-old gypsy (I believe my mom encouraged me to dress up as a fully-covered ghost after that.) When my birthday rolled around a few weeks later, my consolation prize was a squashy plastic journal with Esmeralda dancing on the cover.

It was magnificent! The perfect size and weight, it sat comfortably in my hands as if eagerly awaiting the chance to be my confidante. I was immediately captivated by the plastic lock. It signified power--only I had the key, ergo only I could open the lock. All my journal entries would forever be safe within the confines of this vault.

I was mightily grateful for that lock when I rallied myself to write my first entry: "Friday is my birthday and I'm 8 years old and I got the Magic School Bus Explores the Solar System. It is really neat. 'Totally cool!' I said when I saw It." No one could know what unspeakable secrets I held within my heart.

Eventually, I learned that journals are a safe place for sharing your crushes. On November 26, 1996, I confessed: "There's boy in my class named Sam. I have a huge crush on him. He seems to like me alot too. Were perfect for each other." Note the lack of exclamation points and the poor grammar. Sometimes strong emotion just doesn't translate.

Almost a year later, I realized that confiding in my journal about my crush had not done anything significant to change my present situation. It was August 1997, and Sam still hadn't confessed his undying love for me. To encourage the universe to get moving on my behalf, I decided that this particular secret bore repeating: "There's this boy in my class named Sam. I Like himalot. I don't know if he likes me though. I'm hoping he'll like me alot in Fourth grade." Hint hint, Journal. "Like" is capitalized.

I am not entirely sure which came first, Sam moving away or The Lock Incident, but I soon lost faith in the transformational powers of my journal. Surprisingly, simply writing down things like, "I like Sam and he will love me" had not brought such occasions about. On top of that, I discovered that my plastic lock was not the impregnable trap of steel I had imagined it to be. After watching Harriet the Spy open a lock with a hair pin, I decided to test the lock on my journal. Surely my lock would not give way so easily.

It snapped open in two seconds. I sat on my bed, mouth agape, the ink-soaked pages of my secret life fluttering freely in the breeze.

I had trusted this journal, told it things about The Magic School Bus no one else knew, and it had possessed the potential to betray me the entire time?! I would never journal again. 

That sentiment was short-lived when I began receiving gift journals en masse. They piled up in my bedroom, a luminous array of checkered plastic, smiling moons, and matte finish. Oh, I dabbled in them to be sure, even venturing to test one more time if my confessed love for Sam would somehow secure our future together. It didn't. My third failure was one too many, and I became a journal floozy. I went from journal to journal, stopping to write a few pages' worth then moving on the next morning. I can't tell you how many journals I have that are mostly empty. But that was how my heart was: mostly empty.

And then, one fine day, my sister gave me the journal that changed it all. This one wasn't like the others--this one was special. This one was leather-bound. It looked just rugged enough, even the pages were a light tan instead of a garish white. And on the inside was an elegantly written message from my sister. There was no getting around it; this one was mine. 

Notice the lack of a lock.

I had that journal for five years. To this day, it is the only journal that I have completely filled, cover to cover. I took it everywhere--it taught me to love journaling again; it gave me the chance to be myself; it was my way back to journal-monogamy. It set me free. 

I've moved on to another journal now, but not a day goes by I don't think about that old leathery rascal, and what it meant to me. I may still not have a goat or a tambourine, but...*dramatic pause*...I do have my freedom.

I'm Surprised People Even Talk To Me

In case you haven't already guessed because I hide it so well, I am a fantasy geek. Every now and then I'll slip some sci-fi or children's lit in there to spice things up, but I am primarily addicted to swordplay, horses, and vaguely British accents. When I was younger, all my reading had convinced me that I could find a portal to another world, so of course I spent hours clawing at thin air to break through. Nothing happened.

I then surmised that it was something I would have to be patient for, something that would come to me on victorious wings of salvation when I had proved myself worthy. In the meantime, I would have to learn the ins and outs of fantasy world life so that I would be prepared. This meant not only digesting the classics, like Lord of the Rings and the Chronicles of Narnia, but also looking for those insignificant details in other fantasy novels that would SURELY BE USEFUL AT SOME POINT. (Note that I am deliberately not including at what age I came to these conclusions.)

This meant memorizing that the magic of a halfblood is stronger than the magic of either the elven or human parent (according to The Halfblood Chronicles, of course), or that the trouble usually comes from the East. Adventure lies to the North, don't be surprised if an animal starts speaking to you, and if you must undertake an epic journey, you're gonna need the right sword--but don't worry, it'll come to you in some form or another.

A certain friend of mine might advise me at this point to "keep the geek contained," but I prefer to give it some air. After all, at some point we all must embrace our true identity--how else would Aragorn have become King of Gondor???

I admit that I still read fantasy novels religiously, but more out of an appreciation for the imaginative genre and less out of a certainty that I am studying for my future. Just to switch it up, though, I recently decided to read a real book (and by "real," I mean one that could feasibly take place in the real world as it exists, without the added benefit of dragons or whatever). Now that I've graduated college, best get with the program and start paying more regular visits to Responsibility Town, right?

I chose to read "One Day" by David Nicholls, a book that had already passed through the eager clutches of my sister and mother. Though my sister had prepared me for a certain amount of identification with the main character, I was not expecting to feel like this:

Since reading this one book, I have gained a lot of insight into my habits and the personalities of other people in my life. Not to say that I am a generally clueless person who has never read another book, but it got me thinking about the importance of balance.

To put it in Star Wars terms, I realized you must bring balance to the Force. If you are your own personal galaxy (and believe me, some of the people I know fully subscribe to that notion), you must allow both Jedi and Sith to exist. Otherwise there wouldn't be a never-ending franchise. Feed your passions but also subject yourself to some situations you don't typically enjoy: practice your lightsaber technique and be there to cradle your dying mother in your arms. The tension of opposites can produce quite inspiring results (unless you're Anakin).

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Moral of the story: don't be Anakin. He's a punk. Either go whole-hog Vader or don't even bother.

Even Darth Vader reads his Jane Austen.

How Fluorescent Lights Almost Ruined My Day

I'm not a particularly sensitive person when it comes to bright lights--I can challenge the sun to a two-second staring contest without sunglasses, if need be. But if there is one thing I cannot abide, it is fluorescent lighting. It's not content to overwhelm your sense of sight alone, oh no. It takes over your entire brain until there is nothing nor has there ever been anything but fluorescent light. If it had a personality, it would be the hyperactive nephew at family gatherings that you conspired to knock out with spiked juice. Fluorescent. Lights. Ruin. Everything.

Allow me to explain: I got up at an ungodly hour yesterday morning for a dentist appointment. That was merely the first in a projected series of errands throughout the day which included clothes-shopping and a faraway doctor's appointment. I did not complain, I did not even grumble despite the severe lack of sleep I had gotten the night before. I was the paradigm of tooth responsibility. I grabbed my keys and kissed my parents goodbye as I hopped off to the dentist like a real adult.

But then, I remembered that I had no gas in my car. "Never fear," I told myself, "You can still make it in time! You're responsible. And a fast driver." So I nipped on over to the local Chevron and ignored the palpitations in my already struggling heart as I spied the price of gas. "Being an adult means paying for your own gas. YOU CAN DO THIS." So I grabbed my purse and high-tailed it into the store to pay for my pump. Thus began Encounter Number One.

The dramatic change in light from the gloomy day outside to the fluorescent pandemonium inside made me bitter and disoriented. As I blinked to let my eyes adjust, I noticed there was no one at the counter. "Where are they? I am in need of assistance!" The fluorescent lights began to send tiny little hate atoms into my brain, and I found myself despising whoever was so lax that they couldn't bother to stand behind a gas station counter at the exact moment I needed them there. Not a lot to ask. Finally, I heard footsteps and whipped around to see a uniformed woman shuffling toward me from the bathroom. She smiled cheerfully (clearly immune to the fluorescence), apologized for the delay, and was thankfully quick to take my money. As I returned to the natural morning gloom outside, I settled into a minor stew of self-loathing. I was vulnerable to this intangible thing. It made me irrational and snappy with its false brightness, its poser sunlight. I would not falter again.

I got to my dentist right on time, an unexpected treat that lifted my spirits slightly until I was brought into the back to be greeted by...fluorescent lights (Encounter Number Two). "No problem!" I assured myself, "You can watch TV!!!" But those pernicious lights cast a glare on the TV that could not be ignored...and nothing good was on, anyway. Still, I resolved to stare at that TV come hell or high water. That's when my dentist came in and tipped my chair back so far that I swear my feet were higher than my head. What was there left to look at from this angle but--you guessed it--the fluorescent lights. I closed my eyes and started breathing deeply.

I was at the dentist to get my tooth sealed, a process which apparently required one half of my face to be numbed. Upon seeing that his patient had closed her eyes and was attempting to suck in the entire room's air supply at once, my dentist made the logical conclusion that I was very nervous. What did this mean? More novocaine! This was something I figured out later, as I sat in my room and dribbled down the left side of my body. At the time, I didn't realize what he was thinking because my eyes were closed and I was in a yogic trance. The procedure was short and left a vaguely sour taste in my mouth, which I was completely unable to rinse out because I no longer possessed the capacity to spit. I shuffled out of the brightly lit office a defeated person.

My ambitious plan to spend a solid 3-hour chunk shopping for professional clothes (lest my shabby wardrobe relegate me to the ranks of The Unemployed forever) was foiled. I could not go anywhere looking like a twenty-something stroke victim, least of all to a chic outlet store. I resolved to sit at home and wait it out. When the gnawing hunger in my stomach could no longer be ignored, I attempted to slurp down a peach. It did not go well. Closing my mouth had become a complicated process akin to drawing the strings of a pouch together, without the strings. I wiped myself off and sat alone in the dark silence.

At 12:15 p.m. I decided to bite the bullet (if only figuratively) and go shopping before my doctor's appointment. There was still a telltale snarl to my upper lip when I tried to smile, but the novocaine had mostly worn off. I would just have to be brave, and never find a reason to smile. I arrived at the store with little more than an hour to buy a smashing outfit, a time limit that set me flurrying through the displays like an F5 tornado. When I had gone, the people in the surrounding area looked something like this:

I hurried to the dressing rooms and was met by a rather awkward (but smiley) attendant to whom I attempted to seem inscrutable and dissatisfied--the secret of my paralyzed face must not be revealed. Once I was securely in the dressing room, I was unsurprised (and furious) to see that my own private fashion show would be lit by none other than a fluorescent light. Encounter Number Three had begun. I steeled myself for all the doubt and self-loathing that would inevitably ensue as I tried on clothes in lighting that was practically designed to accentuate one's less attractive features. I probably got the right sizes the first time around, but the fluorescent lights made me second guess how I looked, which was: frumpy, ill, and radioactive. I would have to venture into the land of people again. My inability to canvas the store thoroughly in one go meant that I returned to the same dressing room with the same attendant a grand total of THREE times, a harrying go-round that elicited several apologetic smile-growls from me. Once I had found the right attire, I blindly dumped the rejects in the attendant's outstretched hands, muttering "I won't be back, don't worry," while attempting to hide my face. I bought my clothes quickly and left. 

Somehow, I was right on time to the doctor as well. This appointment was not with my usual doctor, so I had to drive a whopping 45 minutes just to get strange bumps on my wrists checked out. As I waited in the doctor's office for his arrival, two very important things happened at once: first, I realized with glee that the novocaine had FINALLY worn off and I no longer had to growl at people by default; second, I registered with the hopeless acceptance of a shark attack victim that I was being bathed in fluorescent light. Encounter Number Four...

The doctor took a long look at my wrists (a longer process than normal because I'm sure the fluorescent lights made the bumps look possessed and cancerous). Finally, he leaned back in his chair with the satisfied sigh of one who has just beaten his long-time rival at chess. I just had a bone spur. It was nothing to worry about. I probably didn't even need to see him. Come back if it gets bigger. I almost cried. I had braved the throng of people to shop for clothes because the doctor's appointment had put me on a tight schedule. I had resolved to keep this appointment despite my stubbornly slack face because I wanted to be a responsible adult. I had subjected myself to fluorescent light for the fourth time that day because I wanted to give my wrists a fighting chance. And now I find out they were fine all along??? YOU'RE TEARING ME APAHT, DOCTAH!!!!

I stumbled home in a haze. How could my day have unraveled like this? I felt like my entire being had been poked and prodded by some invisible little shit that delighted in my misery. I shut myself in my room and rocked back and forth for a while. I lay on my bed and stared at the ceiling. I switched my desk lamp on and off to make sure it hadn't suddenly switched to fluorescence behind my back. I emerged from my hidey-hole for dinner and conversation with the parents, and I forgot about my traumatic day. For a while. 

When I returned to my room to get ready for bed, I saw my new clothes on my chair and remembered how much I liked them. When I was brushing my teeth, I noticed that my tooth didn't hurt anymore. When I pulled up my covers, I did so with a flick of the wrist that was no longer condemned. And I had gas in my car! Against the odds, despite the best efforts of those heinous lights, I had succeeded in acting like a responsible adult! Fluorescent lights had no power over me! I had been victorious!!! 

I fell asleep with a self-satisfied, fully functional smirk.

To Sleep, Perchance To DIE

I'm having one of those nights: it's 1:45 a.m. and I have to get up at 6:45 because I actually have things I have to do tomorrow (why was 8:15 a.m. your only available time slot, Dentist? WHY??) but of course I can't sleep the night before such a big day. I maintain that it's the fault of the single bag of Lipton tea I had with dinner tonight (so deceptively CAFFEINATED!!!!), and not the fact that I succumbed to the steely grip of my intended 20-minute nap for 4 hours earlier today.

On top of all of this, the tickle in the back of my throat that has become the fire-breathing monster I knew it would be. I swear, I could feel the exact moment that I went from "under the weather" to "HALP MAH" as I lay in bed: the tickle started to tingle, and then somehow my nose itched, and then my brain was fuzzy and warm (in a these-are-the-perfect-conditions-for-bacteria kind of way), and THEN it veered south and I swear I felt my ribcage rebel and decide to compress my heart. To balance out this dramatic change in events, I flopped onto my back in an attempt to give my heart a fighting chance, but that only made the tickle worse so now I was coughing, which OF COURSE made my eyes hurt in a way that can only be solved by thrusting your fingers between your eyes and ignoring how stupid you look.

On top of the on top stuff, "thoughts" keep invading my brain like I suspect the bacteria is. Apparently, "sleepy time" to my synapses means "Hi ho, hi ho! It's off to work we go!" and I'm left in the same irritated state that I would be if I were actually watching Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.

Absolutely nauseating.

Why won't my brain obey me and just turn off?! I've decided--I must construct some kind of brain fence to ward off the endless buzz of random words and pictures that poke at me endlessly. But how? Thoughts at night are so unappreciated; they seem insignificant and harmless, but really they have the potential to keep you awake for HOURS. They're like some kind of...idea infantry, attacking on all fronts and making you believe, "Hey! That's a good idea, I should write it down before I forget!" And before you know it, you've got the light on and a pen in your hand and suddenly there's no hope for a quiet, restful night.

How must Maleficent have felt when Prince Phillip stormed the castle? Here she was, just trying to even the score (because old grudges against royalty are always worth upholding), but not even revenge served sixteen years late could be fulfilled properly because here's this wilting flower peacefully sleeping, thanks to these stupid little fairies determined to take the edge off of everything she's ever wanted. So, she'll just have to live with the knowledge that her super awesome dark magic didn't quite do the trick this time, but here's this little tool Phillip who doesn't even know the girl he's in love with, he's just spied on her in the forest and danced with her against her will, but surely that's enough basis for a stable relationship, right? So why not go attack the giant dragon guarding the castle where this "one true love" sleeps and just trying to protect the last shred of her dignity? THAT SEEMS LIKE A GOOD IDEA. I bet that by the time she was in dragon form, Maleficent was all, "Eff this, I just want to go to sleep, too!" And then she was impaled by a magic sword.

Forecast for the rest of the night: cloudy with a chance of artificial lighting and resentment.

Unemployment: An American Pastime

I've been in a British funk for weeks. And it's serious. I'm talking thinking in a British accent, serious. Like, I've been repressing the urge to spout "Wanker!" and "Bollocks!" at random people. I've even had to make sure I'm not driving on the left side of the road by accident. It's odd, considering I've never spent any time in England.

There's also been a strange confluence of movies on TV or in my Netflix queue (queue!) about unemployed miners and steel workers in Northern England (Billy Elliot, Brassed Off, and The Full Monty), and I've been lapping them up like a fine cup of Earl Grey. So I'm not sure if it's a cause or symptom of my recent onset of British Fever, all these movies, but either way, I don't want it to stop.

It might be the unemployment aspect that I'm connecting to, and not necessarily the British thing, because I've just created a playlist of songs for The Unemployed. Yes, we have a title now, with capitals and everything, because if we can't have a legitimate occupation with business cards, we're damn well going to call ourselves something (though I imagine that, the day I get a real business card of my own, I will stare at it with the same intensity as Patrick Bateman.)

For anyone in the same boat (or you sympathizers out there, you might get a kick out of this, too), here is the wound-licking playlist I've come up with to get me through the long, lonely days. There's a progression, you see: it goes from "Sleep is my job now..." to "Ok, I should look for a job now" to "I can has job now?" to "Where the #@$% are all the jobs now???" to the projected outcome of "I can't, I have a job now." Needless to say, most of the artists are British.

1) Sitting on the Dock of the Bay -- Otis Redding
2) Rudie Can't Fail -- The Clash
3) I Just Don't Know What To Do With Myself -- The White Stripes
4) I Want You To Want Me -- Cheap Trick
5) Paperback Writer -- The Beatles
6) I'm Not Down -- The Clash
7) Help! -- The Beatles
8) Money -- Pink Floyd
9) Career Opportunities -- The Clash
10) Cream and Bastards Rise -- Harvey Danger
11) Alabama Song (Whiskey Bar) -- The Doors
12) Under Pressure -- Queen
13) Take a Chance On Me -- ABBA
14) Clampdown -- The Clash

Huh. After counting a few times, I have come to the very brilliant conclusion that there are actually more American artists than British. That makes sense--unemployment has become the theme song of America anyway. I suddenly have a craving for apple pie...

Billy Elliot: The Vindication

It was only a matter of time before I figured out a way to work The Clash into a post. I know the title says "Billy Elliot" and all, but I honestly don't think I could do the movie justice. I recently re-watched it with my family (though they deny ever having seen it in the first place, even though I know for a FACT that they did) and I am pleased as punch to say that what I had originally thought was a depressing throwback to the "hard times in Britain" is actually a very poignant, realistic, and--dare I say it?--magical adaptation of life in 1984 Northern England for a working class family during the Miners' Strike. I must have been 12 or so when I first saw it, so I forgive myself for hating it a little bit.

Basic premise: 11-year-old boy trades in boxing mitts for ballet shoes, much to the chagrin (that was for you, Stephenie Meyer) of his father and older brother who work in the local coal mine. Aside from the struggle of his family to accept, or even attempt to understand, Billy's unorthodox pastime is the inhospitable backdrop of their socioeconomic status. His father and brother, as members of the union, have been on strike for God knows how many months, and finances are wearing thin. While struggling to fill the roles of protectors and providers, the last thing they are prepared to indulge is the foppish whim of an 11-year-old boy.

What I remember from the first viewing: (1) Billy's Angry Dance. I believe I might have even been a bit frightened by the unbridled passion in his high kicks--perhaps because we were relatively the same age when I first saw the movie, and I just couldn't imagine myself (or any guy my age, for that matter) dancing with such abandon against a brick wall like that. Upon the second viewing, however, I was grinning like a bloody idiot the whole time. It's amazing the way your perspective on youth can change when you no longer are a youth.

(2) The Tension. As is true of any family that must work for a living, there are many different currents that cut across and parallel one's sense of self-worth and accomplishment. I remembered the dejection that accompanied the father's unemployment and the raw idealism that fueled the brother's. I didn't remember how potently the aging grandmother figured into Billy's life, but sure enough, while his father and brother are away protesting the mine, Billy is perfecting the routine of feeding his grandmother breakfast in bed. And refreshingly, I remember the complete non-tension of discovering that his best friend is gay. Though it strikes the father and brother a bit off balance, it is nothing to Billy to teach his friend the basics of ballet while he wears a tutu.

(3) The Riot Scene. This scene was memorable for two reasons--the first, that despite his somewhat abrasive demeanor, Billy's brother is actually quite adorable, even when he's running from the law (for my dissection of the double standard, click here); the second (which was originally the entire reason for this post), that I have been vindicated in my love for The Clash! When I first watched Billy's brother duck through private homes and clotheslines to escape the police after a protest gone wrong, I remembered feeling that the scene was inherently terrifying. Its only saving grace was the rather remarkable background music which had an appropriately edgy, but comforting, swagger to it. When the time came for the second viewing of this scene, I was practically shushing everyone in the vicinity for fear I would miss a single note of this incredible song, whatever it was. Almost on cue with the music came a rush of validation, for the song was none other than:

LONDON CALLING!

I can now admit that, despite my frequent professions that I love The Clash (which is true), I have felt a pervading undercurrent of self-doubt: "I'm a fraud, I don't actually like their music, they're too scrappy for a clean-cut person like me, anyway," blah blah blah. No longer an issue! I was first introduced to The Clash when I was 16 years old by an older brother figure, and I have often wondered if it was out of some allegiance to this relationship that I held on to the high. But as I was pinned to my seat once again by the compelling scene, I was relieved to note that even at 12 years old, I knew London was drowning and I, I lived by the river!

In conclusion, this is a fantastic, heartbreaking movie with a spot-on soundtrack, one to watch when you're older than Billy; otherwise, you might just feel the need to kick up your own heels against a brick wall. But that might not be a bad idea. There's a certain poetry to watching this movie first as a child, then as an adult.

Jaws

In honor of the impending Shark Week on Discovery Channel, and in salute to one of my GREATEST FEARS EVER, I have decided to dedicate this post to Jaws. I have had the pleasure of watching this film a great many times (once in Italian), and my most recent viewing has left me with two potent feelings: satisfaction and fear.

This film is so well done that it makes a mockery of every other monster flick. Anaconda, anyone? I assume I am not spoiling anything by giving away that the shark finally eats it. Literally. But what makes that ending so satisfying is, of course, the heroic struggle that the characters go through to get to that point. Old news. Everyone loves a good old-fashioned heroic struggle, especially if it's particularly arduous. That way, we get to sit at home in the comfort of our pajamas eating yesterday's pie and watching a rain-soaked Everyman struggle to succeed, and somehow feel good about ourselves. I'm sure we all felt as if we had personally fired that fateful shot into the tank of compressed air. But after watching this movie last night (in my pajamas, eating yesterday's pie), I have begun to appreciate just how complex a movie about a shark can be.

Let's start with the title: Jaws. Simple. Smooth. Straightforward. And yet terrifying. It doesn't matter what creature these jaws belong to, all we need to know is that this set of teeth exists somewhere in the world, and far be it from us. Even the fact that the title is "Jaws" and not "Teeth" says something: these are not just any teeth--these teeth will chomp you dead. It certainly stirs some primal fear in me. And when you really get down to it, aren't we all just afraid of being eaten in one sense or another?

And then there's the shark itself. I didn't realize this until I watched a documentary on the making of the movie, but the shark doesn't actually make an appearance until at least halfway through. We see plenty of people being dragged under, blood blossoming in the waves, their torn appendages floating about. But the shark remains aloof and mysterious, and that is the key. The only thing worse than seeing a shark swim by is to not see a shark you know is swimming nearby. Knowing the enemy relieves much fear (and let it be known that the only thing I fear more than sharks is dark, open water at night where there could be sharks).

And then there's the characters: Chief Brody (played by Roy Scheider), Matt Hooper (played by Richard Dreyfuss), and the infamous Quint (played by Robert Shaw). When I was younger, I perceived that Brody lacked confidence, Hooper was fussy, and Quint was grizzly. Now that I'm a bit older, those observations still hold true, but are much more rounded out.

Let's start with Brody. I think that when I was younger, I fell victim to what most of us experience: a preoccupation with failure. I find it interesting that all I could remember about Scheider's character was that he didn't know how to tie knots. I had completely forgotten that he was a darn good chief of police! Brody spends the first half of the movie on land where he is comfortable and competent. He is the voice of reason to the willfully ignorant mayor, constantly working to protect the islanders in spite of their own disinterest. But his competence gets swallowed up by the larger task at hand. He can close the beaches, but ultimately, someone must kill that shark. As a landlubber, Brody does not desire to go anywhere near the shark-infested water; however, since he commissioned Quint's ship, the police chief must hop aboard. It is at this critical juncture that his role as protector on land must give way to the rough-hewn direction of Quint.

Quint is the paradigm of brute masculinity. If his imposing figure and steely glare are not enough to stop you in your tracks, just watch him drink a beer. He knows the water like you imagine he would know a woman (in the biblical sense). He knows he is right, and woe betide you if you get in his way. He's the stereotypical manly-man. We learn later in the movie that his obsession with sharks grew out of his experience on the USS Indianapolis, a scene that still gives me chills. Shaw's character is a study in extremes, particularly in the identity of the masculine and the lengths to which humans will go to reconcile some haunting experience from the past. His brutal death is a rejection of the extreme in favor of the happy medium, as exemplified by Dreyfuss' character.

Matt Hooper is a smart, self-assured oceanographer with the means to pursue his goals. One night on the water in search of the shark, he surprises Brody by admitting that he pays for the boat, the gadgets, anything that strikes his fancy because he comes from a wealthy family. Better yet, he knows how to use the equipment, thereby proving he is not just a privileged dolt who wants to play in the paddling pool. He knows what it means to have a "shark problem," so it is no surprise that he and Quint continually butt heads. Hooper possesses the cautious demeanor of Brody as well as the know-how of Quint, but while Brody is eager to accept any help he can offer, Quint is quick to sneer at his smooth hands. It is only until they compare scars that Hooper and Quint can reach some kind of understanding.

I find Hooper's character quite interesting. He has the somewhat cavalier attitude that accompanies knowing your craft, but after he stumbles across the tooth of a Great White (and the one-eyed head of its victim) during a scuba dive, he begins to take things a bit more seriously. As he prepares to enter the shark cage at the end of the movie, he takes their finned foe so seriously he can barely spit. Thus far, Hooper has relied on his tools to help him, but the end of the movie reveals that his character extends far beyond that. He is forced to escape the shark cage when it is savagely attacked, thereby effectively stripped of everything but his wetsuit. Hooper's value does not lie in his toolkit but in his ability to be both cautious and worldly. He is the middle road between Brody and Quint. His role is to survive.

If nothing else, the scene where Brody blows up the shark is unforgettable. Picture it: the boat is sinking, the shark has already devoured at least one of the trio, somehow Brody has managed to feed it a tank of compressed air, and all that he can do now is hope to blow it up before he gets eaten. And it's headed right for him. I have to say that this scene is just so...stylish. Let me explain. Brody had previously sent a tank of compressed air rolling down the deck, only to have Hooper cluck about how dangerous that was, and to have Quint condescendingly tell him he should ask which rope to pull next time. Shooting the tank of air to the tune of "Smile, you son of a --" is a resolution of more conflicts than just the shark problem. (1) It is Brody's confrontation of his fear of water: as he literally sinks into it, water is certainly the last thing on his mind. (2) It is his application of newly acquired knowledge: he is able to rectify his past mistake by controlling the conditions under which the tank explodes and making it work for his benefit. (3) It is How Brody Got His Groove Back: the extreme environment pushes him to find his old swagger (and swear like a sailor) as he is ultimately forced to rely on his skills as a policeman. (4) Lastly, it is how the different representations of masculinity are resolved: Brody combines a bit of Quint's cavalier attitude and Hooper's "savoir faire" with his own protective impulses. Because it is Brody and not Quint who finally kills the shark, the ending proves that multiple displays of masculinity can be resolved within one person. To be masculine is not necessarily to be completely rash or authoritative. Rather, it is masculine to be brave (Quint), authoritative (Hooper), and cautious (Brody) when appropriate. Brody proves that to be masculine is to turn your weaknesses into strengths when necessity dictates.

So, as I said, this movie left me feeling both satisfied and fearful--satisfied because of the sheer brilliance of the storyline. And why fearful, you ask? Because I gleaned this nugget of truth from the script: most people are attacked by sharks in 3 feet of water 10 feet from the shore.

Happy swimming!