When I came back from vacation, I noticed that the lamp on my piano was not working. So for the past few days I've procrastinated about getting a replacement light bulb. It's a special sort of bulb, so I would have to unscrew it, take it to Target or maybe even the hardware store, try to match it, ugh! Complicated!
Well, today while I was vacuuming, I noticed that . . . it wasn't plugged in. Yup. The bulb is fine.
This happens frequently. I think something is wrong, so I develop a complicated plan A along with plans B and C, and then it turns out to be a non-issue. "Don't worry, be happy" is a mantra that doesn't work all of the time, of course. But sometimes it does help to check the outlet before creating elaborate solutions.
Wednesday, August 06, 2008
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Where should I volunteer?
I like having a lot of free time on my hands, and I do. But I don't want my entire experience of C.G. to consist of sitting on my back porch with a book, and the larger social scene seems kind of pointless. I don't know of any salons or philosophical groups. I'd like to volunteer somewhere I'm useful. The organizations on the poll in my sidebar represent groups I'd like to help. Animals and children - how original, right? Several organizations involve manual labor, which wouldn't kill me. So what do you think, dear friends?
Sunday, June 22, 2008
The meaning of ivy
No matter how practical, if you are a pretender at first you remain a pretender forever. And a pretender is influenced by mood. Each part of my house is furnished not with bare fabric and tangible wood, but with echoes of other worlds and times. Concepts I've assimilated from books and movies cast their interpretation on all around me.
My window panes are old. Inefficient for heating, and so practically inconvenient. But seen from the outside, within a certain frame of vision, they make my house look distinctively not-new, from an era when a visitor's hat might be reflected in the pane.
My garage has ivy climbing the white bricks. The landlord threatens to tear it down, but for now it lends a distinctively academic, settled, and pastoral air to the garage wall.
My porch is screened in and framed by natural wood, with a hammock and a citronella candle. At dusk, it is easy to be transported to a colonial British province, where the netting keeps out malaria carrying pestilences, and the rustling in the trees are not squirrels, but monkeys.
Under my garage is a dank, spidery cellar where I will not set foot. The cellar is completely enclosed in cement, and contains bunk bed frames. It was, evidently, once a fall out shelter. Seeing something like this, in my own backyard, gives my stomach butterflies as I drop into a time where not only might a bomb explode in the middle of Missouri, but one might escape from it ten feet underground.
For some, references to other places and times must not be necessary or desirable. La-Z-Boy furniture is a singular abomination of 21st century America. The large tan boxes in the suburbs do not reflect any previous human dwellings, except those of a homeless people living in a much smaller tan boxes. But the enduring popularity of Pottery Barn, Mission style furniture, and antiquing indicates a consumer yen for more than comfort and practicality.
My window panes are old. Inefficient for heating, and so practically inconvenient. But seen from the outside, within a certain frame of vision, they make my house look distinctively not-new, from an era when a visitor's hat might be reflected in the pane.
My garage has ivy climbing the white bricks. The landlord threatens to tear it down, but for now it lends a distinctively academic, settled, and pastoral air to the garage wall.
My porch is screened in and framed by natural wood, with a hammock and a citronella candle. At dusk, it is easy to be transported to a colonial British province, where the netting keeps out malaria carrying pestilences, and the rustling in the trees are not squirrels, but monkeys.
Under my garage is a dank, spidery cellar where I will not set foot. The cellar is completely enclosed in cement, and contains bunk bed frames. It was, evidently, once a fall out shelter. Seeing something like this, in my own backyard, gives my stomach butterflies as I drop into a time where not only might a bomb explode in the middle of Missouri, but one might escape from it ten feet underground.
For some, references to other places and times must not be necessary or desirable. La-Z-Boy furniture is a singular abomination of 21st century America. The large tan boxes in the suburbs do not reflect any previous human dwellings, except those of a homeless people living in a much smaller tan boxes. But the enduring popularity of Pottery Barn, Mission style furniture, and antiquing indicates a consumer yen for more than comfort and practicality.
If you came over to my house
You would see: my cat, Tiberius.
I’d probably feed you: bean burritos and brownies a la mode. Or local, free range eggs.
And offer you this to drink: rum and Coke or a glass of white wine.
I’d undoubtedly ask if you’d read: Dune.
I’d want to play this music for you: "Honey from the Tombs" by Amy Millan. It's melancholy and lyrical.
I’d want to tell you the latest about: my upcoming trip to Washington.
I’d probably suggest a game of: Scrabble or Settlers of Catan (I can't find anyone to play with me!).
I might show off: the piece of driftwood I found in Puerto Rico that looks like a goose or an elephant depending on how you tilt it.
I might get on the computer and show you: Facebook profiles from the craziest fundies I went to college with.
If it was a long enough visit, I might watch: a documentary like "Commune" or "Jesus Camp," to stimulate discussion.
I’d probably feed you: bean burritos and brownies a la mode. Or local, free range eggs.
And offer you this to drink: rum and Coke or a glass of white wine.
I’d undoubtedly ask if you’d read: Dune.
I’d want to play this music for you: "Honey from the Tombs" by Amy Millan. It's melancholy and lyrical.
I’d want to tell you the latest about: my upcoming trip to Washington.
I’d probably suggest a game of: Scrabble or Settlers of Catan (I can't find anyone to play with me!).
I might show off: the piece of driftwood I found in Puerto Rico that looks like a goose or an elephant depending on how you tilt it.
I might get on the computer and show you: Facebook profiles from the craziest fundies I went to college with.
If it was a long enough visit, I might watch: a documentary like "Commune" or "Jesus Camp," to stimulate discussion.
Sunday, June 01, 2008
Sex and the Ninnies
* WARNING: CONTAINS SPOILERS *
Three friends and I went to see Sex and the City: The Movie last week. No, I was not intending to see it, but who is going to say no to a girls' night out? I didn't hate the TV show when it was on TBS. The episodes were 1/2 hour, sometimes-funny tableaux of New York life, and at 12:30 am, what else is on?
The theater was packed with women in their 20s - 40s. There were a couple heterosexual men there looking like whipped dogs. My friend A. explained to me that some women don't have girl friends, and so must trade movies with their husbands - you go to S & tC, I'll go to that action flick.
Throughout the movie, much of the audience was audibly crying. My dominant desire was to wring Carrie Bradshaw's neck.
I think most of my learned readership has probably not seen the movie so I will summarize. It begins in wish-fulfillment mode. You know those sequels to Disney animated features? The ones with even more songs because there's no plot line and everyone's just happy? Like that. Carrie is marrying Big. They're moving into a Penthouse. She's being photographed for Vogue. Miranda and Charlotte are happily married. Sam is on the west coast with her actor boyfriend. BORING.
Then, since this is a movie that ostensible adults have to watch for over two hours, we get some plot twists. Sam is not fulfilled by monogamy on the west coast. Miranda doesn't have sex with her husband for six months and he ends up cheating. Big explains to Carrie that he doesn't give a horses' ass about the society wedding she is planning. She nevertheless finagles him into going through with it until they're ready to walk down the aisle when he temporarily bolts. When he tries to apologize five minutes later, it's too late: Carrie shuns him and she and Miranda mope around NYC as misused women.
Carrie - unable to deal with the enormity of unpacking her wardrobe - hires a personal assistant - Louise. Louise is portrayed as wise because she rents designer handbags, has a key chain that says "Love," and knows how to route email from Big to the spam box. Also, she is black. Also, she is Jennifer Hudson, and so the poster girl for everyone who wants to love on blacks AND overweight singer/actresses. Could the purpose of Louise be to make S&tC more PC? I only conjecture.
But I'm not really hating on Miranda or Louise here. The only person in the movie that truly disgusts me is Carrie. In the end, Sam decides monogamy is not for her and moves back to NYC on her fiftieth birthday. OK, good for her. There probably aren't any STDs left for her to catch, anyway. Charlotte gets pregnant and acts like the sanest person throughout the movie, except for a lowbrow poop joke at her expense in Mexico. Miranda decides to go back to her cheatin' husband and meets him - rather melodramatically - in the center of the bridge. I have to admit to being slightly disappointed in my girl Miranda. She was my favorite when the TV show was in its early days, and was then distinctly not whiny.
Of course, like all good forty-year-old princesses, Carrie discovers the joys of forgiveness and the irrationality of love and ends up back with her man. Standing in the walk-in closet of their penthouse, Big re-proposes to Carrie and slips a Manolo Blahnik onto her foot. The entire audience lets out an orgasmic "ahhhhhh." Carrie and Big are married at city hall, because Carrie has finally discovered that one can, after all, be married in a non-label vintage suit. Cute.
I don't mind R-rated movies. There are some great ones out there that are gritty, ground-breaking, or bitingly witty. This is not one of them. The message is that you can throw prudence and economy and morality to the wind and still wind up with a fairy tale ending. These adult women have maintained their focus on "love and labels" for twenty years, and we're supposed to think it's liberating. They came to New York, had lots of sex, spent lots of money, and now settle down as expensive versions of June Cleaver. It disturbs me that millions of women think this screwed up fairy tale is some sort of reality.
Three friends and I went to see Sex and the City: The Movie last week. No, I was not intending to see it, but who is going to say no to a girls' night out? I didn't hate the TV show when it was on TBS. The episodes were 1/2 hour, sometimes-funny tableaux of New York life, and at 12:30 am, what else is on?
The theater was packed with women in their 20s - 40s. There were a couple heterosexual men there looking like whipped dogs. My friend A. explained to me that some women don't have girl friends, and so must trade movies with their husbands - you go to S & tC, I'll go to that action flick.
Throughout the movie, much of the audience was audibly crying. My dominant desire was to wring Carrie Bradshaw's neck.
I think most of my learned readership has probably not seen the movie so I will summarize. It begins in wish-fulfillment mode. You know those sequels to Disney animated features? The ones with even more songs because there's no plot line and everyone's just happy? Like that. Carrie is marrying Big. They're moving into a Penthouse. She's being photographed for Vogue. Miranda and Charlotte are happily married. Sam is on the west coast with her actor boyfriend. BORING.
Then, since this is a movie that ostensible adults have to watch for over two hours, we get some plot twists. Sam is not fulfilled by monogamy on the west coast. Miranda doesn't have sex with her husband for six months and he ends up cheating. Big explains to Carrie that he doesn't give a horses' ass about the society wedding she is planning. She nevertheless finagles him into going through with it until they're ready to walk down the aisle when he temporarily bolts. When he tries to apologize five minutes later, it's too late: Carrie shuns him and she and Miranda mope around NYC as misused women.
Carrie - unable to deal with the enormity of unpacking her wardrobe - hires a personal assistant - Louise. Louise is portrayed as wise because she rents designer handbags, has a key chain that says "Love," and knows how to route email from Big to the spam box. Also, she is black. Also, she is Jennifer Hudson, and so the poster girl for everyone who wants to love on blacks AND overweight singer/actresses. Could the purpose of Louise be to make S&tC more PC? I only conjecture.
But I'm not really hating on Miranda or Louise here. The only person in the movie that truly disgusts me is Carrie. In the end, Sam decides monogamy is not for her and moves back to NYC on her fiftieth birthday. OK, good for her. There probably aren't any STDs left for her to catch, anyway. Charlotte gets pregnant and acts like the sanest person throughout the movie, except for a lowbrow poop joke at her expense in Mexico. Miranda decides to go back to her cheatin' husband and meets him - rather melodramatically - in the center of the bridge. I have to admit to being slightly disappointed in my girl Miranda. She was my favorite when the TV show was in its early days, and was then distinctly not whiny.
Of course, like all good forty-year-old princesses, Carrie discovers the joys of forgiveness and the irrationality of love and ends up back with her man. Standing in the walk-in closet of their penthouse, Big re-proposes to Carrie and slips a Manolo Blahnik onto her foot. The entire audience lets out an orgasmic "ahhhhhh." Carrie and Big are married at city hall, because Carrie has finally discovered that one can, after all, be married in a non-label vintage suit. Cute.
I don't mind R-rated movies. There are some great ones out there that are gritty, ground-breaking, or bitingly witty. This is not one of them. The message is that you can throw prudence and economy and morality to the wind and still wind up with a fairy tale ending. These adult women have maintained their focus on "love and labels" for twenty years, and we're supposed to think it's liberating. They came to New York, had lots of sex, spent lots of money, and now settle down as expensive versions of June Cleaver. It disturbs me that millions of women think this screwed up fairy tale is some sort of reality.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Asparagus Hires a Gardener
I think I will hire a gardener. Yes, as in someone to mow my lawn.
Last summer, as you will recall, I had the noble intention of keeping my entire lawn neat with a $29.99 electric weed whacker. Well...three spools of plastic thread later, I think I need a new strategy.
I could buy a lawn mower. This would be more practical than the weed whacker, but I would prefer to get out of yard work completely. Planting vegetables and flowers has a nurturing, genteel, Mother Earth aura to it. But in the United States we are not penalized for failing to plant gardens. We are penalized for failing to mow lawns. But when I mow, I can hear the wildflowers cry. Lawn mowers are essentially "automated, resource-depleting, pointless cow[s]. The suburbs may look verdant, but they are to residential areas what factory farms are to agriculture - monocultures - green deserts.
It may be hypocrisy, but I'd rather pay someone else to destroy nature. We pay people to butcher our animals (well, I don't), pick up our garbage, and bury our dead, so why not mow our lawns? Yet this offends my Rosie-the-Riveter feminism and my working-class sense of independence.
To assuage my guilt, let's do a financial analysis:
Mowing myself:
$200 - lawn mower
$400 - time and misery of mowing ($20/hour X 20 times/year)
$? - hidden costs (gas, repairing lawn mower, medical costs of losing fingers and toes, etc).
$600? - total
Paying someone else:
$500 - ($25/every time mowed X 20 times/year)
$500 - total
Mowing my lawn is worth at least 20 dollars an hour in misery to me, probably more. As you can see, this added to the initial cost of the lawn mower would make mowing my own lawn more expensive than having someone else do it this year. Even next year, surely the hidden costs (at least gas) would exceed the $5 an hour over the misery factor that I'm paying someone else to do it. Does that make since? It doesn't matter - I feel better now. Outsourcing rocks.
Last summer, as you will recall, I had the noble intention of keeping my entire lawn neat with a $29.99 electric weed whacker. Well...three spools of plastic thread later, I think I need a new strategy.
I could buy a lawn mower. This would be more practical than the weed whacker, but I would prefer to get out of yard work completely. Planting vegetables and flowers has a nurturing, genteel, Mother Earth aura to it. But in the United States we are not penalized for failing to plant gardens. We are penalized for failing to mow lawns. But when I mow, I can hear the wildflowers cry. Lawn mowers are essentially "automated, resource-depleting, pointless cow[s]. The suburbs may look verdant, but they are to residential areas what factory farms are to agriculture - monocultures - green deserts.
It may be hypocrisy, but I'd rather pay someone else to destroy nature. We pay people to butcher our animals (well, I don't), pick up our garbage, and bury our dead, so why not mow our lawns? Yet this offends my Rosie-the-Riveter feminism and my working-class sense of independence.
To assuage my guilt, let's do a financial analysis:
Mowing myself:
$200 - lawn mower
$400 - time and misery of mowing ($20/hour X 20 times/year)
$? - hidden costs (gas, repairing lawn mower, medical costs of losing fingers and toes, etc).
$600? - total
Paying someone else:
$500 - ($25/every time mowed X 20 times/year)
$500 - total
Mowing my lawn is worth at least 20 dollars an hour in misery to me, probably more. As you can see, this added to the initial cost of the lawn mower would make mowing my own lawn more expensive than having someone else do it this year. Even next year, surely the hidden costs (at least gas) would exceed the $5 an hour over the misery factor that I'm paying someone else to do it. Does that make since? It doesn't matter - I feel better now. Outsourcing rocks.
Friday, April 18, 2008
More ad analysis
I guess it is kind of my new thing....
I find this Saturn commercial for hybrids mildly off-putting. It seems to equate childbearing with environmental sensitivity. First pairing: wedding ring better than hip-hop bling. Well, OK. Hip-hop music is frequently linked to drugs and violence, fine. Second pairing: olympic cyclist better than steroid-laden body builder. Well, again, OK, steroids are unhealthy for the body like fossil fuels are bad for the environment. Last pairing: kids playing basketball than kids playing video games. Again, childhood obesity is unhealthy and video games are pervasive.
But the second-to-last pairing is the one I find mildly offensive - called "rethink beauty." First shot - two women in their twenties, dressed up, probably models or just women out
dancing. Second shot - equally pretty, slender woman in hospital bed with baby. How is dancing unhealthy? There is no sign that these women are shooting up, smoking, anorexic, or even drinking. Maybe Saturn is referring to Paris Hilton and Britney Spears, but they could have then used an image of a generic actress on the red carpet or in a limo. By the same token, how is having a baby progressive? Maybe using cloth diapers or having a midwife or nursing is. But a baby is another tiny carbon footprint. And is giving birth really uncommon or stigmatized? TLC seems to air nothing but touching baby stories.
I think Saturn could have found plenty of other examples without juxtaposing two value-neutral lifestyles as "bad" and "good."
I find this Saturn commercial for hybrids mildly off-putting. It seems to equate childbearing with environmental sensitivity. First pairing: wedding ring better than hip-hop bling. Well, OK. Hip-hop music is frequently linked to drugs and violence, fine. Second pairing: olympic cyclist better than steroid-laden body builder. Well, again, OK, steroids are unhealthy for the body like fossil fuels are bad for the environment. Last pairing: kids playing basketball than kids playing video games. Again, childhood obesity is unhealthy and video games are pervasive.
But the second-to-last pairing is the one I find mildly offensive - called "rethink beauty." First shot - two women in their twenties, dressed up, probably models or just women out
dancing. Second shot - equally pretty, slender woman in hospital bed with baby. How is dancing unhealthy? There is no sign that these women are shooting up, smoking, anorexic, or even drinking. Maybe Saturn is referring to Paris Hilton and Britney Spears, but they could have then used an image of a generic actress on the red carpet or in a limo. By the same token, how is having a baby progressive? Maybe using cloth diapers or having a midwife or nursing is. But a baby is another tiny carbon footprint. And is giving birth really uncommon or stigmatized? TLC seems to air nothing but touching baby stories. I think Saturn could have found plenty of other examples without juxtaposing two value-neutral lifestyles as "bad" and "good."
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Sexist Language in a Real Estate Ad
It took me several reads to figure out what this line in a house listing meant:
"...This home is not a drive by, stop and see the open great room effect. Wife will be with the family while preparing all the meals..."
Couldn't they just say open floor plan? Is it necessary to conjure up the image of an aproned housewife laboring over three meals a day, enjoying the view of her husband sitting on the couch with the remote? Surprisingly, this house isn't even listed by the Divine Homes realty group.
Even here, such an image is dated. My best Missouri friend's boyfriend cooks all dinners, while my co-worker's husband makes desert every night. Yesterday our campus fire and brimestone streetcorner preacher was railing about the fiery destination of "feminists." To the students' credit, they gather by the dozens to argue with the man. But you can't argue with crazy. You've just got to marginalize them in practice.
"...This home is not a drive by, stop and see the open great room effect. Wife will be with the family while preparing all the meals..."
Couldn't they just say open floor plan? Is it necessary to conjure up the image of an aproned housewife laboring over three meals a day, enjoying the view of her husband sitting on the couch with the remote? Surprisingly, this house isn't even listed by the Divine Homes realty group.
Even here, such an image is dated. My best Missouri friend's boyfriend cooks all dinners, while my co-worker's husband makes desert every night. Yesterday our campus fire and brimestone streetcorner preacher was railing about the fiery destination of "feminists." To the students' credit, they gather by the dozens to argue with the man. But you can't argue with crazy. You've just got to marginalize them in practice.
Monday, April 14, 2008
Winnie the Pooh
Most personality tests based on the works of A.A. Milne put me squarely in the Eeyore and Owl camps, with a bit of Rabbit thrown in for good measure. But there is a definite Pooh Bear me. The me that reads menus BEFORE it goes to restaurants, so it can enjoy the anticipation; the me that makes pancakes every weekend; the me that becomes distracted in meetings by thinking about food, the way some people might think about lovers. But it's not just the food aspect.
I dislike being uncomfortable generally. If there is something better to be achieved by being uncomfortable temporarily (looking better, earning more), I can grin and bear it, but I've never been able to swallow the idea of deprivation for the sake of deprivation. I don't understand why Thomas More wore a hair shirt, or how some people can just forget about food. My apparent ascetic tendencies result from the fact that I do not want what I don't have. Most people may desire meat and television, but I do not. When I want something, if I can afford it and have done proper research, I will buy it immediately. I see no reason to wait for a holiday.
My lack of asceticism sometimes makes me feel prematurely old or strangely young. I like (and have always liked) eating chocolates with an Agatha Christie novel; walking in the woods; swinging. Raves, drag racing, and spin the bottle just sound...uncomfortable.
Even my social relations are influenced by comfort. I give money to charity because I can't imagine how awful it would be to lack dental care or food. I am friends with people because I derive pleasure from their company, and they seem to enjoy mine.
This may all sound rather self-indulgent. Of course, there's always the incalculable calculus concerning how forgoing chocolate today might increase my lifespan later. Maybe some individuals are constitutionally predisposed to think about higher things than food and warmth and comfortable shoes. Even Christian hedonism recently had its day, although granted the main tenet was that enjoying God was the ultimate indulgence. Despite all the foreboding in the Bible about getting too attached to earthly goods, I have a hard time imagining a God who created chocolates and mystery novels and down comforters just to tempt us to sin.
I dislike being uncomfortable generally. If there is something better to be achieved by being uncomfortable temporarily (looking better, earning more), I can grin and bear it, but I've never been able to swallow the idea of deprivation for the sake of deprivation. I don't understand why Thomas More wore a hair shirt, or how some people can just forget about food. My apparent ascetic tendencies result from the fact that I do not want what I don't have. Most people may desire meat and television, but I do not. When I want something, if I can afford it and have done proper research, I will buy it immediately. I see no reason to wait for a holiday.
My lack of asceticism sometimes makes me feel prematurely old or strangely young. I like (and have always liked) eating chocolates with an Agatha Christie novel; walking in the woods; swinging. Raves, drag racing, and spin the bottle just sound...uncomfortable.
Even my social relations are influenced by comfort. I give money to charity because I can't imagine how awful it would be to lack dental care or food. I am friends with people because I derive pleasure from their company, and they seem to enjoy mine.
This may all sound rather self-indulgent. Of course, there's always the incalculable calculus concerning how forgoing chocolate today might increase my lifespan later. Maybe some individuals are constitutionally predisposed to think about higher things than food and warmth and comfortable shoes. Even Christian hedonism recently had its day, although granted the main tenet was that enjoying God was the ultimate indulgence. Despite all the foreboding in the Bible about getting too attached to earthly goods, I have a hard time imagining a God who created chocolates and mystery novels and down comforters just to tempt us to sin.
Wednesday, April 09, 2008
Asparagus goes to the deep South
I took a trip with two friends and a baby to Hot Springs, Arkansas this weekend. I've been whining about the "south" since I moved. But Missouri is very midwestern compared to Arkansas. The first thing I noticed was the disparity in wealth. Many people lived in rusted out trailers, while next door were million-dollar homes on the lakes (all the lakes in this area are artificially made with dams). This is not the way things are in the upper midwest, but it is in PR. Luckily, our condo was spic and span, and spacious, with a modern exterior and a fireplace.
What first disrupted my noetic structure was the sight of Confederate flags fluttering in the air. They appeared not just on the back of pickups, but also flying above respectable banks and in town squares. My jaw dropped, and I began blithering. My less neurotic and better-traveled companions explained the situation to me. Many southerners' ancestors had died in the Civil War; they saw the flag as a historical symbol (and no, they probably had not read the constitutions of the states of the Confederacy); they had guns. I would probably have continued to ride my Yankee high horse if not for the last point.
My friends did not hold my incredulity against me, but rather found the situation funny. Funny enough to surreptitiously purchase a shot glass embossed with the confederate flag for me in a gift shop. A black man checked them out. "What exactly does that symbol mean?" asked my friend. "I don't know. Ask him (motioning to his white co-worker). He's white." The white man did not know either.
My second big culture shock involved alcohol. There was plenty of it flowing in Hot Springs. Sunday afternoon, I had a glass of wine at a restaurant. My friend found the waiter hot, but is in a relationship. She tried to convince me to ask the hot waiter on a date so she could live vicariously through me. I declined. He was short. I thought it odd, though, that he rang me up for an appetizer instead of a drink.
I found out why when I went to Kroger. I was excited to go to Kroger, since they are sadly absent in Missouri. I found the Arkansas a poor reflection of its Ohio counterpart, though. I grabbed a six pack and headed for the register. As I scanned my beverage, suddenly two store employees swept down and grabbed the alcopop from my grocery bag. "We don't sell ALCOHOL in the state of ARKANSAS on SUNDAY," I was loudly informed. Feeling like a criminal, I slunk out of the store. Of course, I was furious. Not only is the law ridiculous (precisely what theology dictates that it's OK to drink previously bought alcohol and shop for other items on Sundays, but not OK to shop for alcohol on Sunday?), but there was not even a ribbon around the booze section in a tourist town to warn me of my wickedness.
So those were my unfortunate experiences (apart from tripping on a table cloth in an art gallery and nearly shattering a glass sculpture). I did enjoy the historic spa treatment, and the botanical gardens, which were already in bloom. Baby and I hung out while my friends took pictures. I don't like all babies. Or even most babies. But this baby was portable, happy, chubby, cute, and smelled good. He rarely cried except when he would roar like a dinosaur at his toys. In the absence of free weights, it was excellent exercise to toss him in the air.
What first disrupted my noetic structure was the sight of Confederate flags fluttering in the air. They appeared not just on the back of pickups, but also flying above respectable banks and in town squares. My jaw dropped, and I began blithering. My less neurotic and better-traveled companions explained the situation to me. Many southerners' ancestors had died in the Civil War; they saw the flag as a historical symbol (and no, they probably had not read the constitutions of the states of the Confederacy); they had guns. I would probably have continued to ride my Yankee high horse if not for the last point.
My friends did not hold my incredulity against me, but rather found the situation funny. Funny enough to surreptitiously purchase a shot glass embossed with the confederate flag for me in a gift shop. A black man checked them out. "What exactly does that symbol mean?" asked my friend. "I don't know. Ask him (motioning to his white co-worker). He's white." The white man did not know either.
My second big culture shock involved alcohol. There was plenty of it flowing in Hot Springs. Sunday afternoon, I had a glass of wine at a restaurant. My friend found the waiter hot, but is in a relationship. She tried to convince me to ask the hot waiter on a date so she could live vicariously through me. I declined. He was short. I thought it odd, though, that he rang me up for an appetizer instead of a drink.
I found out why when I went to Kroger. I was excited to go to Kroger, since they are sadly absent in Missouri. I found the Arkansas a poor reflection of its Ohio counterpart, though. I grabbed a six pack and headed for the register. As I scanned my beverage, suddenly two store employees swept down and grabbed the alcopop from my grocery bag. "We don't sell ALCOHOL in the state of ARKANSAS on SUNDAY," I was loudly informed. Feeling like a criminal, I slunk out of the store. Of course, I was furious. Not only is the law ridiculous (precisely what theology dictates that it's OK to drink previously bought alcohol and shop for other items on Sundays, but not OK to shop for alcohol on Sunday?), but there was not even a ribbon around the booze section in a tourist town to warn me of my wickedness.
So those were my unfortunate experiences (apart from tripping on a table cloth in an art gallery and nearly shattering a glass sculpture). I did enjoy the historic spa treatment, and the botanical gardens, which were already in bloom. Baby and I hung out while my friends took pictures. I don't like all babies. Or even most babies. But this baby was portable, happy, chubby, cute, and smelled good. He rarely cried except when he would roar like a dinosaur at his toys. In the absence of free weights, it was excellent exercise to toss him in the air.
Saturday, March 29, 2008
False advertising?
I drove by a Charter Communications truck the other day with the logo:
"Charter brings your home to life."
Seriously? So our homes were dead before Charter started piping in Vh1 and the Home Shopping Network? I would posit that Charter is in fact hazardous to biological life. I'm only a slave to their internet service, but I know it tempts me to ignore life-giving basics like sleep and exercise, and instead sit inert before a screen. Charter is about as life-affirming as Krispy Kreme. A more truthful motto might be:
"Your attention will inadvertently be drawn to anything bright, loud, and moving."
But I doubt that would sell many subscriptions.
"Charter brings your home to life."
Seriously? So our homes were dead before Charter started piping in Vh1 and the Home Shopping Network? I would posit that Charter is in fact hazardous to biological life. I'm only a slave to their internet service, but I know it tempts me to ignore life-giving basics like sleep and exercise, and instead sit inert before a screen. Charter is about as life-affirming as Krispy Kreme. A more truthful motto might be:
"Your attention will inadvertently be drawn to anything bright, loud, and moving."
But I doubt that would sell many subscriptions.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Reasons to hate me
Statement of Purpose
Lately I've traded in politics for driving tips, but with the impending Collapse of Civilization, I feel the need to leave a record of "I told you so." I also like posting inflammatory ideas that I probably actually believe on my blog.
Opening Dialog
Me: I feel sorry for Obama - I read the transcript of what his pastor said, and I actually agreed with most of it. It's dumb that the prisons are filled with people there on drug offenses.
Co-worker 1: I don't approve of drugs.
Me: Well, alcohol is a legal drug (I think: OMG get yourself a D.A.R.E. shirt and visit the state pen).
Co-worker 2: I'm a Hillary man myself, but it doesn't surprise me that you're an Obama supporter.
Me: Well, I don't actually support Obama because he doesn't talk in specifics.
Co-worker 2: That surprises me, since you're so young (I think: so my age makes me stupid?)
Co-worker 1: I'm a yellow dog, which means I'll vote for the democratic candidate no matter what (I think: so dogs are stupid?)
Me: I've never voted for either major party in a presidential election.
Co-worker 2: So it's your fault George Bush is president?
Me: I couldn't really vote for Kerry - I hate labor unions (stunned silence).
Discussion of Dialog
Yes, folks, I am a maverick, given to independent thought. You can read what Billy Kristol has to say about the sermons of Obama's pastor here. You know, I don't think most people really disagree or would be outraged about his pastor's beliefs on prison reform, racism, and American imperialism. Obama's pastor believes our government's actions are inhumane and anti-biblical. Obama is campaigning on a platform of change. What's so inconsistent about that?
What gets under people's skin is the statement "God damn America." When people say "God bless America" or put it on their bumper sticker, they are not praying. They mean God should bless America because they believe it is a godly nation. It's a political statement. Wright did not believe he was calling down lightening on his own head. He was saying that, given our national actions, God would be just in damning the nation. Conservatives sometimes accuse one of being "ungrateful" to the "fatherland" if you vehemently disagree with the course of the nation. Well, thank you very much, Mussolini, but that sounds rather Roman to me.
Pastors are often skilled rhetoricians. Anyone who has studied rhetoric recognizes that Wright is using antithesis to make a point. It would have been less effective to contrast "God bless America" with "God is not pleased with the actions of our politicians." To bless is the opposite of to damn. Wright intended the statement to be shocking.
He might not have seen that several years down the road, a member of his congregation would be judged by his words. How many of us have attended churches where the pastor says things like God hates sinners, or Women should submit to men, or God bless the public schools and the teachers there doing your work? We may not fully agree with these statements, but we may still attend the church.
At any rate, the widespread knowledge that Obama attends United Trinity Church should put to rest the facile notion that he is Muslim. Unless Americans are too ignorant to know that Muslims consider the Trinity to be a heresy. That's right I said AMERICANS are IGNORANT. Take a look at our rankings compared to other developed nations.
Major Digression: Why I Am Not a Democrat
I just spent four paragraphs defending Obama. Now I'm going to say why I'm not a Democrat: because I think people should have to deal with the shit they get themselves into and stop whining about it. Like jobs. People love to say now that "my job doesn't really define me." Well, to some extent it does. I'm a librarian because I'm a know-it-all. Leeann's in politics because she's an optimist. Brianna's a barista because she's kind of stylish and social. My mom takes care of old people because she's compassionate and my dad takes care of buildings because he's handy. Some of us may want to do other things some day, but we've chosen temporary jobs that we don't hate.
If people go through their entire lives putting together widgets in a factory and hating it, then that is their stupidity and lack of initiative, and they shouldn't get paid $40 an hour because their lives suck. Maybe they shouldn't have gotten their girlfriend pregnant; maybe they should have gone to community college; maybe they shouldn't have gotten into credit card debt. In America today, it's polite to talk about anything except your job. You can bring up procreation and bodily functions and be "edgy" or "relaxed," but if you want to talk about work, you're a snob.
Labor unions generally consist of unskilled workers. Medieval guilds consisted of skilled workers who understood each other and cared about each other because they understood the value of the work they did. Some of my best conversations are with other librarians and academics because, having the same job, we have at least some of the same values.
Many of the societal problems liberals blame on conservatives are caused by the intervention of big government. The production of corn and soybeans (including GMOs) is subsidized by the government, hurting the small farmer and consumers, and helping large, unethical factory farm corporations like Monsanto. Our healthcare mess is exacerbated by the large amount of money paid out -- thanks to a Robin Hood mentality, -- to a certain privileged section of society in Medicaid and Medicare, and cronyism between pharmaceutical companies and politicians. The government allows pharmaceutical companies to patent things they have not even created - like the gene that causes breast cancer.
Conclusion
I was thinking about the Unabomber today. Not sure why. Maybe I was wondering about his prediction that civilization would collapse in 40 - 100 years. Of all serial killers, I probably understand him the best (hey, we're both Michigan alumni!). I mean, I wouldn't kill anyone (except George Bush and Donald Rumsfeld), but I can TOTALLY see myself putting on some pressure to get a manifesto published in the New York Times.
Lately I've traded in politics for driving tips, but with the impending Collapse of Civilization, I feel the need to leave a record of "I told you so." I also like posting inflammatory ideas that I probably actually believe on my blog.
Opening Dialog
Me: I feel sorry for Obama - I read the transcript of what his pastor said, and I actually agreed with most of it. It's dumb that the prisons are filled with people there on drug offenses.
Co-worker 1: I don't approve of drugs.
Me: Well, alcohol is a legal drug (I think: OMG get yourself a D.A.R.E. shirt and visit the state pen).
Co-worker 2: I'm a Hillary man myself, but it doesn't surprise me that you're an Obama supporter.
Me: Well, I don't actually support Obama because he doesn't talk in specifics.
Co-worker 2: That surprises me, since you're so young (I think: so my age makes me stupid?)
Co-worker 1: I'm a yellow dog, which means I'll vote for the democratic candidate no matter what (I think: so dogs are stupid?)
Me: I've never voted for either major party in a presidential election.
Co-worker 2: So it's your fault George Bush is president?
Me: I couldn't really vote for Kerry - I hate labor unions (stunned silence).
Discussion of Dialog
Yes, folks, I am a maverick, given to independent thought. You can read what Billy Kristol has to say about the sermons of Obama's pastor here. You know, I don't think most people really disagree or would be outraged about his pastor's beliefs on prison reform, racism, and American imperialism. Obama's pastor believes our government's actions are inhumane and anti-biblical. Obama is campaigning on a platform of change. What's so inconsistent about that?
What gets under people's skin is the statement "God damn America." When people say "God bless America" or put it on their bumper sticker, they are not praying. They mean God should bless America because they believe it is a godly nation. It's a political statement. Wright did not believe he was calling down lightening on his own head. He was saying that, given our national actions, God would be just in damning the nation. Conservatives sometimes accuse one of being "ungrateful" to the "fatherland" if you vehemently disagree with the course of the nation. Well, thank you very much, Mussolini, but that sounds rather Roman to me.
Pastors are often skilled rhetoricians. Anyone who has studied rhetoric recognizes that Wright is using antithesis to make a point. It would have been less effective to contrast "God bless America" with "God is not pleased with the actions of our politicians." To bless is the opposite of to damn. Wright intended the statement to be shocking.
He might not have seen that several years down the road, a member of his congregation would be judged by his words. How many of us have attended churches where the pastor says things like God hates sinners, or Women should submit to men, or God bless the public schools and the teachers there doing your work? We may not fully agree with these statements, but we may still attend the church.
At any rate, the widespread knowledge that Obama attends United Trinity Church should put to rest the facile notion that he is Muslim. Unless Americans are too ignorant to know that Muslims consider the Trinity to be a heresy. That's right I said AMERICANS are IGNORANT. Take a look at our rankings compared to other developed nations.
Major Digression: Why I Am Not a Democrat
I just spent four paragraphs defending Obama. Now I'm going to say why I'm not a Democrat: because I think people should have to deal with the shit they get themselves into and stop whining about it. Like jobs. People love to say now that "my job doesn't really define me." Well, to some extent it does. I'm a librarian because I'm a know-it-all. Leeann's in politics because she's an optimist. Brianna's a barista because she's kind of stylish and social. My mom takes care of old people because she's compassionate and my dad takes care of buildings because he's handy. Some of us may want to do other things some day, but we've chosen temporary jobs that we don't hate.
If people go through their entire lives putting together widgets in a factory and hating it, then that is their stupidity and lack of initiative, and they shouldn't get paid $40 an hour because their lives suck. Maybe they shouldn't have gotten their girlfriend pregnant; maybe they should have gone to community college; maybe they shouldn't have gotten into credit card debt. In America today, it's polite to talk about anything except your job. You can bring up procreation and bodily functions and be "edgy" or "relaxed," but if you want to talk about work, you're a snob.
Labor unions generally consist of unskilled workers. Medieval guilds consisted of skilled workers who understood each other and cared about each other because they understood the value of the work they did. Some of my best conversations are with other librarians and academics because, having the same job, we have at least some of the same values.
Many of the societal problems liberals blame on conservatives are caused by the intervention of big government. The production of corn and soybeans (including GMOs) is subsidized by the government, hurting the small farmer and consumers, and helping large, unethical factory farm corporations like Monsanto. Our healthcare mess is exacerbated by the large amount of money paid out -- thanks to a Robin Hood mentality, -- to a certain privileged section of society in Medicaid and Medicare, and cronyism between pharmaceutical companies and politicians. The government allows pharmaceutical companies to patent things they have not even created - like the gene that causes breast cancer.
Conclusion
I was thinking about the Unabomber today. Not sure why. Maybe I was wondering about his prediction that civilization would collapse in 40 - 100 years. Of all serial killers, I probably understand him the best (hey, we're both Michigan alumni!). I mean, I wouldn't kill anyone (except George Bush and Donald Rumsfeld), but I can TOTALLY see myself putting on some pressure to get a manifesto published in the New York Times.
Julio Update
Julio went back to Ohio with Mother. He seems to be enjoying his sun porch and larger living spaces.
Back here in Misery, we are experiencing record levels of precipitation, and dude, if it keeps raining, the levy's gonna break.
Back here in Misery, we are experiencing record levels of precipitation, and dude, if it keeps raining, the levy's gonna break.
Saturday, March 08, 2008
Stuff White People (aka hipsters) Like
Micah posted a link to this blog in Facebook. What is really being described here is not white person behavior, but hipster behavior, and the author has it pegged. Hipsters take the environment, nutrition, and diversity seriously; everything else must be ironic.
There was much "advanced white person behavior" going on in Ann Arbor, among people of all skin colors: buying expensive sandwiches, shopping at Whole Foods, raising multilingual children, owning MACs, and pretty much everything else (I'm not going to link because I'm lazy). When I was a nanny, I was told I must use re-usable grocery bags.
I must admit to exhibiting quite a bit of white person behavior myself, such as threatening to move to Canada. I share the hipster love of national broadcasting organizations - such as NPR and BBC. I am a devout fan of Car Talk and All Songs Considered. I even went to an NPR winetasting fundraiser. NPR boosts my ego. Since it is broadcast by the University, which it pretty much the only kulturträger in this corner of the state, it frequently mentions donors I know or events with which I am involved. Yes, in New York City I might be nobody, but here I am part of the NPR inner-circle. My love of NPR troubles me. I hate the State, yet I listen to the U.S. equivalent of Pravda.
Indeed, satire can cause one to become self-aware, but not necessarily to change. Loving NPR may exhibit may not be thoroughly consistent behavior, but what's the alternative? Listening to Rush Limbaugh or the Top 40 stations? I'd rather be a socialist snob than stupid. The same applies to shopping at Target instead of Walmart. It may be a deception in some ways, but it is a deception I enjoy. The merchandise is more pleasingly arranged, it's not as crowded, and it doesn't smell like cow shit.
I spent part of the day walking around Petco with an ironic cherry sucker in my mouth. I bought Julio a harness and a feather on a stick. He is so obese that his fat cells have begun to take over his liver and pancreatic cells, and he ended up at the clinic with a kitty IV in his arm. I think I will have to start dragging his fat ass up and down the alley, because he does not like playing. I also thought about buying him a mouse (2.29 for a spotted one!) and putting it in one of those plastic balls, and letting him chase it around the house, but that seems like the pet equivalent of a Final Solution. Any suggestions for getting him off his sizable stomach?
There was much "advanced white person behavior" going on in Ann Arbor, among people of all skin colors: buying expensive sandwiches, shopping at Whole Foods, raising multilingual children, owning MACs, and pretty much everything else (I'm not going to link because I'm lazy). When I was a nanny, I was told I must use re-usable grocery bags.
I must admit to exhibiting quite a bit of white person behavior myself, such as threatening to move to Canada. I share the hipster love of national broadcasting organizations - such as NPR and BBC. I am a devout fan of Car Talk and All Songs Considered. I even went to an NPR winetasting fundraiser. NPR boosts my ego. Since it is broadcast by the University, which it pretty much the only kulturträger in this corner of the state, it frequently mentions donors I know or events with which I am involved. Yes, in New York City I might be nobody, but here I am part of the NPR inner-circle. My love of NPR troubles me. I hate the State, yet I listen to the U.S. equivalent of Pravda.
Indeed, satire can cause one to become self-aware, but not necessarily to change. Loving NPR may exhibit may not be thoroughly consistent behavior, but what's the alternative? Listening to Rush Limbaugh or the Top 40 stations? I'd rather be a socialist snob than stupid. The same applies to shopping at Target instead of Walmart. It may be a deception in some ways, but it is a deception I enjoy. The merchandise is more pleasingly arranged, it's not as crowded, and it doesn't smell like cow shit.
I spent part of the day walking around Petco with an ironic cherry sucker in my mouth. I bought Julio a harness and a feather on a stick. He is so obese that his fat cells have begun to take over his liver and pancreatic cells, and he ended up at the clinic with a kitty IV in his arm. I think I will have to start dragging his fat ass up and down the alley, because he does not like playing. I also thought about buying him a mouse (2.29 for a spotted one!) and putting it in one of those plastic balls, and letting him chase it around the house, but that seems like the pet equivalent of a Final Solution. Any suggestions for getting him off his sizable stomach?
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