It is on right now on Flix. This is the kind of film they don't make any more. Compared to Breakin', it features more kids and white women. And more mimes. And the plot is more aggressive (heck Ice T is in the movie). Ozone, Turbo, Kelly and the gang use their dance skills to stop a local developer from tearing down their community center to build a shopping center. The developer gets an assist from a gang of dancing thugs who harrass Ozone and the gang throughout. This movie takes place in an era when gangs fought with dance, before they realized the efficiency of guns.
The scene of the movie, when the gang visits Turbo in the hospital after he fell down some stairs while...its too ridiculous to summarize why he ended up breaking his leg. But, the scene after is a classic:
Saturday, September 6, 2008
Thursday, September 4, 2008
"What Have I Done?"
I have nothing to say about the vapid, mean-spirited speech from the lightweight #@ on the GOP ticket. The speech was devoid of ideas and solutions for the country. What struck me the most the look on that kid's -- Levi -- face. You know that a year ago he was sitting around with his meathead friends saying, "I am totally going to nail the governor's daughter, dude."And the look on his face was definitely one of "what have I fucking done."
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Crime And Punishment
Until I recently became a victim of crime, I used to be someone who believed that a healthy combination of rehabilitation and deterrence is the proper way to punish a criminal. But, then it happens to you. You feel violated. Cliches like "how could this happen to me?" run through your head. At night, you scream into your pillow, "Why? Why?"
I sat on a line, waiting and waiting. I let the authorities know what happened. They did their best to make the situation workable. Then, I asked, "What was the balance on my [lost] Smartrip card? Should be $18 or so."
"It was last used at 1PM today, and you have a balance of $13." Son of a bitch! I had lost my Smartrip card at some point yesterday. And some asshole found it and decided to use it. They knew there was money on the card. They knew it was not their money. It was my fucking money (ok, my government public transportation subsidy...but still!)
Don't they chop off your hands in Saudi Arabia if you steal. Seems an appropriate pennance for the scoundrel who decided to take me for a free ride.
I sat on a line, waiting and waiting. I let the authorities know what happened. They did their best to make the situation workable. Then, I asked, "What was the balance on my [lost] Smartrip card? Should be $18 or so."
"It was last used at 1PM today, and you have a balance of $13." Son of a bitch! I had lost my Smartrip card at some point yesterday. And some asshole found it and decided to use it. They knew there was money on the card. They knew it was not their money. It was my fucking money (ok, my government public transportation subsidy...but still!)
Don't they chop off your hands in Saudi Arabia if you steal. Seems an appropriate pennance for the scoundrel who decided to take me for a free ride.
Monday, August 18, 2008
Human Rights
At the Rick Warren panderfest, each candidate was asked, "At what age do babies get human rights?" McCain said, "At conception." As someone who is mostly anti-abortion (but not necessarily anti-choice, a distinction that is for another day), I found the answer to be profoundly silly, because the premise of the question was silly. Is the human right to "live" different depending on whether you are a baby or a death row inmate? If committing a crime is the basis for taking away life, isn't more accurate to say that the life is a privilege, not a right? Not something that is innate or immutable, but something that can be taken away? And if it is a privilege, who determines access to the privilege? The state? A mother? God? What role should the state play in determining that?
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Let Them Eat Antenna
The government is spending an inordinate amount of money on (1) advertising and (2) subsidies for set top converters for folks who still have antennaed tvs when the conversion to HD broadcasts occurs next year. How much? Try $1.5 billion. By my count, there are about thirty-three people who still don't have cable and receive TV signals over the airwaves. So, the government is basically spending about $47 million for each of these Luddites to be dragged kicking and screaming into the 21st Century. By contrast, school districts spend, on average, about $8701 per pupil. Even if you think I am exaggerating about the number of people who still get their tv via the airwaves, query whether the per viewer spending for the HD conversion is more or less than the per pupil education spending in this country.
Monday, July 21, 2008
MetaNews -- Tastes "Great," Less Filling
I am watching Campbell Brown on CNN. She hosts "CNN Election Center," a typically insipid political chat show. I am watching her discuss Barack Obama's trip right now. So, does his trip lend itself a substantive discussion of the deteriorating political and security situation in Afghanistan? Of course not. She just spent fifteen minutes on whether the trip itself is a "photo-op."
To provide insightful analysis, she has on some doofus named Lars Larson, who is a fill-in host for Michael Savage, who is busy spending his days "savaging" kids with autism. Along with him on the panel are sone weak-wristed liberal kid and Gloria Borger, who is made up like an urban geisha. It is all whether Obama or McCain are "winning" or "losing" based on the "fawning" Obama is receiving for his trip. In fact, towards the end of the program, there was a five minute piece on how much of a "photo op" the trip was.
There was not any reporting on the hours and hours of substantive discussion between Obama, Kharzai, Maliki, Petreaus, Crocker, etc. Too challenging for Brown and the circus of intellectually deformed misfits she surrounds herself with.
"They're fawning all over him," Brown kept screeching periodically. Or she would spit out that Obama was on his "world adventure." Adventure? Going to Jalalabad, an increasingly dangerous region near the Pakistan border, to meeting with regional Afghan leaders and military officials is like hiking the Appalachian trail.
Conservative connections? She screws Dan Senor, former Coalition Provisional Authority spokesperson, routinely. Not a big deal since they are married. But, you are what you eat. If I am what I eat, I just became a handful of spanish nuts.
There is little doubt that Ms. Brown's thinly veiled contempt arises from the notion that Obama is too "uppity." And, thus, standing up for all misunderestimated grads of schools like hers, Regis University (whose sister school for women is of course called, the Lee Griffith Women's College).
To provide insightful analysis, she has on some doofus named Lars Larson, who is a fill-in host for Michael Savage, who is busy spending his days "savaging" kids with autism. Along with him on the panel are sone weak-wristed liberal kid and Gloria Borger, who is made up like an urban geisha. It is all whether Obama or McCain are "winning" or "losing" based on the "fawning" Obama is receiving for his trip. In fact, towards the end of the program, there was a five minute piece on how much of a "photo op" the trip was.
There was not any reporting on the hours and hours of substantive discussion between Obama, Kharzai, Maliki, Petreaus, Crocker, etc. Too challenging for Brown and the circus of intellectually deformed misfits she surrounds herself with.
"They're fawning all over him," Brown kept screeching periodically. Or she would spit out that Obama was on his "world adventure." Adventure? Going to Jalalabad, an increasingly dangerous region near the Pakistan border, to meeting with regional Afghan leaders and military officials is like hiking the Appalachian trail.
Conservative connections? She screws Dan Senor, former Coalition Provisional Authority spokesperson, routinely. Not a big deal since they are married. But, you are what you eat. If I am what I eat, I just became a handful of spanish nuts.
There is little doubt that Ms. Brown's thinly veiled contempt arises from the notion that Obama is too "uppity." And, thus, standing up for all misunderestimated grads of schools like hers, Regis University (whose sister school for women is of course called, the Lee Griffith Women's College).
Monday, July 14, 2008
Her Powers Failed Her
The women's women's superhero competition took place this weekend, pitting the strongest supernatural women of the world against each other. It is important to clear one thing up at the outset. Many women think that Ms. America is this country's representative superhero. She's not. "She" is the winner of the annual competition to be Captain America's wife for a year. No superpowers; just lots of low self-esteem.
No, the female superhero representing the United States is Ms. U.S.A. After months of brutal bloodsoaked domestic combat, Ms. U.S.A. conquered and killed hundreds of women for the opportunity to take on the greatest female superheros from other countries.
Despite the United States being considered a "superpower," when it comes to supernatural combat, that title is a misnomer. The Nordic nations have dominated many competitions, which is not so surprising given the fact that many of them are the descendants of brutally effective Norse gods. Puerto Rico has produced many winners as well, but surprisingly these effective superheros are unable to secure modest goals such as stopping the bombing in Vieques (I imagine one of these women being able to easily catch one of the bombs and throw it back at the planes that launched them). Much less Puerto Rican independence.
If you have the time, you have to check out the timeline of winners and world events available on the Ms. Universe cite. The organizers helpfully explain how the competition winners were responsible for key world events. For example, did you know that in 2004, Australian Jennifer Hawkins won; months later Saddam Hussein was found hiding at an isolated farm near Tikrit. Coincidence? The pagent officials hint otherwise. In 2001, Denise Quinones wins the pagent; later that year terrorists strike the WTC and Pentagon. Coincidence? The pagent timeline hints otherwise.
As noted above, the Americans have failed to show up on numerous occasions. This year's Ms. U.S.A. Her powers include "the wave of megavanity." But, there are side effects. Namely a massive loss of balance. She unleashed her powers at a crucial moment during the competition, only to be felled by the flipside of her powers. Notwithstanding the fall, she managed to kill Ms. Trinidad & Tobago, Ms. Austria and Ms. Bhutan:
No, the female superhero representing the United States is Ms. U.S.A. After months of brutal bloodsoaked domestic combat, Ms. U.S.A. conquered and killed hundreds of women for the opportunity to take on the greatest female superheros from other countries.
Despite the United States being considered a "superpower," when it comes to supernatural combat, that title is a misnomer. The Nordic nations have dominated many competitions, which is not so surprising given the fact that many of them are the descendants of brutally effective Norse gods. Puerto Rico has produced many winners as well, but surprisingly these effective superheros are unable to secure modest goals such as stopping the bombing in Vieques (I imagine one of these women being able to easily catch one of the bombs and throw it back at the planes that launched them). Much less Puerto Rican independence.
If you have the time, you have to check out the timeline of winners and world events available on the Ms. Universe cite. The organizers helpfully explain how the competition winners were responsible for key world events. For example, did you know that in 2004, Australian Jennifer Hawkins won; months later Saddam Hussein was found hiding at an isolated farm near Tikrit. Coincidence? The pagent officials hint otherwise. In 2001, Denise Quinones wins the pagent; later that year terrorists strike the WTC and Pentagon. Coincidence? The pagent timeline hints otherwise.
As noted above, the Americans have failed to show up on numerous occasions. This year's Ms. U.S.A. Her powers include "the wave of megavanity." But, there are side effects. Namely a massive loss of balance. She unleashed her powers at a crucial moment during the competition, only to be felled by the flipside of her powers. Notwithstanding the fall, she managed to kill Ms. Trinidad & Tobago, Ms. Austria and Ms. Bhutan:
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Mixed Nuts
I have had arguments and fist fights with other men. In arguments, I wield logic. In physical altercations, I use my fists and legs. To anyone who may try and fight me, I will tell you right now, I won't try and punch you in the face. I'll kick your knees and try and take your legs out. No legs, no punching power. You are more likely to have shatter knee caps than a black eye if you choose to fight with me.
Everyone has their own style. A gay friend of mine in law school once revealed his unique, possibly effective way of fighting: he said he'd bite his opponents eyes out. I am not sure that is physically possible, but it sent a chill down my spine and made me think twice of scrapping with him. And, as anyone who has actually been in a fight knows, it is 80% mental.
I have never thought about grabbing a man's testicles and detaching them from his body. Castration is what you do to child molesters and eunuchs. Not to someone you disagree with. As a man, you know that it is wildly irresponsible to dream about detaching man's testicles from their body. Jesse Jackson's dreams of ripping Obama's balls off is the stuff of deranged, violent fantasy. Or Japanese porn. One of the two.
Everyone has their own style. A gay friend of mine in law school once revealed his unique, possibly effective way of fighting: he said he'd bite his opponents eyes out. I am not sure that is physically possible, but it sent a chill down my spine and made me think twice of scrapping with him. And, as anyone who has actually been in a fight knows, it is 80% mental.
I have never thought about grabbing a man's testicles and detaching them from his body. Castration is what you do to child molesters and eunuchs. Not to someone you disagree with. As a man, you know that it is wildly irresponsible to dream about detaching man's testicles from their body. Jesse Jackson's dreams of ripping Obama's balls off is the stuff of deranged, violent fantasy. Or Japanese porn. One of the two.
Monday, July 7, 2008
The UnHillarys
I have been stoned by baboons. Note, I said "by" and not "with." The latter would have been decidedly more enjoyable than the true horrer I faced. And, no I am not encouraging monkeys to smoke; I am very well aware that providing tabacco products is illegal in certain states. It is yet another reason why Vermont is known as the "no fun" state.
What is my point? I can take criticism pretty easily (I am not sure what was worse, the baboons throwing rocks or flashing their inflamed asses at us to underscore the point they were making by throwing rocks). But, I find it considerably harder to deal with unintended encouragement. And, therefore I find myself befuddled by the pro-PUMA comments Ted has left on my post about the comments on the noquarterusa.net website. I appreciate the traffic for traffic's sake. And I appreciate Ted taking the time to post not one, but two comments.
But, I hadn't realized that I was being ambivalent. So perhaps I should clear something up: I think a significant percentage of the people who post on noquarterusa.net are, for lack of a better term, lunatics. Those quotes from my previous entry, I found them crazed, not profound. Blinded by anger and irrationality, the authors of those comments spewed some of the most venemous, incoherent nonsense I have ever seen on the web. They were driven by a hatred of Obama that is beyond pathological.
In the interest of fairness, I visited the site "Ted" recommended "PUMAs 4 Palin." I cannot figure out what, from the two sole posts that say nothing substantive, would compel anyone who agrees with the Democrats on policy issues to vote for Alaska's grossly inexperienced freshman governor. Frankly, my cat's asthmatic wheezing is more meaningful than anything I read either on the blog or, for the most part, in the comments. Palin was an inconsequential local, elected official who won largely because the incumbent Republican governor was awash in corruption and may be indicted some day. She is nothing more than Republican blank slate who, troublingly, appears to hate polar bears.
If it isn't obvious, I am not trying to convince any of these sociopaths to vote for Obama, because they are Republicans masquerading like Clinton supporters to gain publicity and to sell the knuckleheaded, lazy reporters (like the nihilists at Politico.com) looking for a story to write during an exhausted presidential campaign a fabricated tale of Democratic disunity. And as someone who has many Republican friends, the noquarterusa, Hillaryis44 sociopaths are in no way representative of conservative ideals. Just their own, in some cases bigoted, depravity.
Hopefully that clears things up. But enough of that. The anti-Obamaites on these sites love to compare him to Chauncey Gardiner from "Being There." By engaging them, I fear I am not heeding the words of another character in that movie, Ben Rand: To raise your rifle is to lower your sights.
What is my point? I can take criticism pretty easily (I am not sure what was worse, the baboons throwing rocks or flashing their inflamed asses at us to underscore the point they were making by throwing rocks). But, I find it considerably harder to deal with unintended encouragement. And, therefore I find myself befuddled by the pro-PUMA comments Ted has left on my post about the comments on the noquarterusa.net website. I appreciate the traffic for traffic's sake. And I appreciate Ted taking the time to post not one, but two comments.
But, I hadn't realized that I was being ambivalent. So perhaps I should clear something up: I think a significant percentage of the people who post on noquarterusa.net are, for lack of a better term, lunatics. Those quotes from my previous entry, I found them crazed, not profound. Blinded by anger and irrationality, the authors of those comments spewed some of the most venemous, incoherent nonsense I have ever seen on the web. They were driven by a hatred of Obama that is beyond pathological.
In the interest of fairness, I visited the site "Ted" recommended "PUMAs 4 Palin." I cannot figure out what, from the two sole posts that say nothing substantive, would compel anyone who agrees with the Democrats on policy issues to vote for Alaska's grossly inexperienced freshman governor. Frankly, my cat's asthmatic wheezing is more meaningful than anything I read either on the blog or, for the most part, in the comments. Palin was an inconsequential local, elected official who won largely because the incumbent Republican governor was awash in corruption and may be indicted some day. She is nothing more than Republican blank slate who, troublingly, appears to hate polar bears.
If it isn't obvious, I am not trying to convince any of these sociopaths to vote for Obama, because they are Republicans masquerading like Clinton supporters to gain publicity and to sell the knuckleheaded, lazy reporters (like the nihilists at Politico.com) looking for a story to write during an exhausted presidential campaign a fabricated tale of Democratic disunity. And as someone who has many Republican friends, the noquarterusa, Hillaryis44 sociopaths are in no way representative of conservative ideals. Just their own, in some cases bigoted, depravity.
Hopefully that clears things up. But enough of that. The anti-Obamaites on these sites love to compare him to Chauncey Gardiner from "Being There." By engaging them, I fear I am not heeding the words of another character in that movie, Ben Rand: To raise your rifle is to lower your sights.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Dario Revisted
Danny D has pointed out that I have been a little harsh in my assessment of Dario. Was he lip syncing? I'll take Danny D at his word, but I am almost 100% sure that the dude doing the sign language for Dario at the Capital Pride performance was faking. Seriously, what does the arm movement from the "cabbage patch" mean to deaf people?
Frankly, I was just happy my second experience at a predominantly gay place/event went better than my first. Regardless, Dario accomplished one mission: he made me interested in knowing more about him. A guy whose musical collection is more of the Hugh Masekela, Fela Kuti, Mulatu Astatke and Mos Def vein wanted to know about this young purveyor of synth pop.
Finding information about Dario is surprisingly harder than I thought. There were significantly more Darios on the web than I had anticipated. Dario Francitti takes up a lot of the Dario oxygen in the web. I had allocated myself an hour to research Dario, and Francitti distracted me for 45 minutes of it. What can I say, we share two things in common: we like to drive fast and want (and in his case does) want to [insert what ever verb you deem appropriate for a newly married man] Ashely Judd.
To narrow the search, I entered "Dario singer" on Google and ended up with this clown. His hypnotic cube had me wanting to kill the Moors or whatever it was the Gypsy Kings song he was covering was instructing me to do. I took a crap after listening to his (their?) cover of "Me and Mrs. Jones;" I am not sure if the two events were connected or not.
Probably the coolest Dario I came across was Dario Moreno, who despite the latin sounding name was a Turkish Jew who won fame in France doing bossa nova. I wished he had been my dad.
I admit I am a computer illerate, but eventually I found Dario's web site again. According to Dario's bio, he "seemed destined for greatness at the early age of three." That is impressive. The only time I felt destined to be anything was when I was appointed the class grammarian by my 9th grade English teacher. After that, I thought I was destined never to get laid.
Being able to sing is a rare commodity. M is a phenomenal singer. She has no idea whether I can sing or not. She's never asked, taking my gutteral speaking voice as evidence enough that it wouldn't be worth finding out. About the only thing I sing well is the Michael McDonald part of the duet he did with Patty Labelle, "On My Own."
Dario has made it onto several programs, has put out a couple of albums, and has performed with some major artists. Something I will never can or will do. I, on the other hand, have won a read-a-thon when I was 8, once hugged Mikael Gorbachev (af, told Spike Lee he has to "step it up on the next movie," once got into an nearly violent stare-off with Bob Dole, and sat together with Oliver North on a long uncomfortable flight from Salt Lake City to D.C. Significance? We report, you decide.
Frankly, I was just happy my second experience at a predominantly gay place/event went better than my first. Regardless, Dario accomplished one mission: he made me interested in knowing more about him. A guy whose musical collection is more of the Hugh Masekela, Fela Kuti, Mulatu Astatke and Mos Def vein wanted to know about this young purveyor of synth pop.
Finding information about Dario is surprisingly harder than I thought. There were significantly more Darios on the web than I had anticipated. Dario Francitti takes up a lot of the Dario oxygen in the web. I had allocated myself an hour to research Dario, and Francitti distracted me for 45 minutes of it. What can I say, we share two things in common: we like to drive fast and want (and in his case does) want to [insert what ever verb you deem appropriate for a newly married man] Ashely Judd.
To narrow the search, I entered "Dario singer" on Google and ended up with this clown. His hypnotic cube had me wanting to kill the Moors or whatever it was the Gypsy Kings song he was covering was instructing me to do. I took a crap after listening to his (their?) cover of "Me and Mrs. Jones;" I am not sure if the two events were connected or not.
Probably the coolest Dario I came across was Dario Moreno, who despite the latin sounding name was a Turkish Jew who won fame in France doing bossa nova. I wished he had been my dad.
I admit I am a computer illerate, but eventually I found Dario's web site again. According to Dario's bio, he "seemed destined for greatness at the early age of three." That is impressive. The only time I felt destined to be anything was when I was appointed the class grammarian by my 9th grade English teacher. After that, I thought I was destined never to get laid.
Being able to sing is a rare commodity. M is a phenomenal singer. She has no idea whether I can sing or not. She's never asked, taking my gutteral speaking voice as evidence enough that it wouldn't be worth finding out. About the only thing I sing well is the Michael McDonald part of the duet he did with Patty Labelle, "On My Own."
Dario has made it onto several programs, has put out a couple of albums, and has performed with some major artists. Something I will never can or will do. I, on the other hand, have won a read-a-thon when I was 8, once hugged Mikael Gorbachev (af, told Spike Lee he has to "step it up on the next movie," once got into an nearly violent stare-off with Bob Dole, and sat together with Oliver North on a long uncomfortable flight from Salt Lake City to D.C. Significance? We report, you decide.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Meanwhile, At The Pro-Hillary Sites
Some selected comments from noquarterusa.net, the principle "PUMA" blog out there:
- "Shameless Michelle Obama got by on affirmative action." In other words, successful black women are innately dumb and need state help to mask their literacy. I don't remember Hillary initimating that during her campaign.
- "Obama is learning the art of deception from the best. Hitler’s methods to come to power were very similar. (I am not compering him to Hitler, only the methods.)" Because Obama is only Hilterian, not actually Hitler himself.
- "BO is a classic sociopath with a narcissistic ego structure." I know they are talkng about Obama, but *sniff* I feel like they are talking about...ME!
- "Obama is considered by his zealots to be the Son of God."
- "He’s not a Christian he’s a nation of islam groupie."
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Monday, June 16, 2008
Signs
M and I went to the Capital Pride festival to meet a friend of ours. After about an hour of wandering around and checking out the booths, we made our way to the stage area. Just in time to catch the lip-syncing excellence of American Idol sensation, Dario. At least that is how he was introduced.
Don't remember Dario? Neither did I. Other than him saying he was on the show, there is no evidence to support this claim. The next day we did some research and came across Dario's website. Here is how his bio begins:
"There are few individuals that you meet in life who stand out against the sameness of the American music establishment. This special and unique person offers a refreshing alternative to the norm---a strong character, a driven personality to succeed, an uncompromising passion for their music, and a special charisma on stage which truly shines, touches, and envelopes the audience in a distinctive way."
Except for the rather obvious abuse of adjectives, I have no idea what is going on in that paragraph. Still doubt how popular he is? His biography also notes: "He’s graced the covers of over 9 International magazines and appeared on numerous television programs, which include the red carpet events for the Grammies and The American Music Awards." An odd sentence structure to be sure. It is unclear whether he has been on the red carpet at the "Grammies" or at a red carpet event related to the "Grammies."
Anyway, long story short, he was abysmal. But, the refreshing surprise was the guy signing Dario's "hits" for the "crowd." Such as his smash "Be." Or "Lies." Dario takes a minimalist approach to his songwriting.
But, the sign guy breathed life into the songs by adding his own moves to emphasize the grooves of the song. Imagine, you are deaf. A guy is signing you a song. The sign guy has an incredibly difficult job, to be sure. He's gotta throw something into the signing to convey the groove. And the signer delivered. In a far more compelling way than Dario.
Don't remember Dario? Neither did I. Other than him saying he was on the show, there is no evidence to support this claim. The next day we did some research and came across Dario's website. Here is how his bio begins:
"There are few individuals that you meet in life who stand out against the sameness of the American music establishment. This special and unique person offers a refreshing alternative to the norm---a strong character, a driven personality to succeed, an uncompromising passion for their music, and a special charisma on stage which truly shines, touches, and envelopes the audience in a distinctive way."
Except for the rather obvious abuse of adjectives, I have no idea what is going on in that paragraph. Still doubt how popular he is? His biography also notes: "He’s graced the covers of over 9 International magazines and appeared on numerous television programs, which include the red carpet events for the Grammies and The American Music Awards." An odd sentence structure to be sure. It is unclear whether he has been on the red carpet at the "Grammies" or at a red carpet event related to the "Grammies."
Anyway, long story short, he was abysmal. But, the refreshing surprise was the guy signing Dario's "hits" for the "crowd." Such as his smash "Be." Or "Lies." Dario takes a minimalist approach to his songwriting.
But, the sign guy breathed life into the songs by adding his own moves to emphasize the grooves of the song. Imagine, you are deaf. A guy is signing you a song. The sign guy has an incredibly difficult job, to be sure. He's gotta throw something into the signing to convey the groove. And the signer delivered. In a far more compelling way than Dario.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Lording of the Rings
I've added a ring to my left hand. I now wear two rings, two more than I've ever worn. When I first got engaged, I was wild over my ring, but it still felt strange. I would play with it a lot, taking it on and off. I would take it off to wash the dishes or take a shower, and a lot of times, I would forget to put it back on. By the time I got used to it, it was time to put on another.
Don't get me wrong, I love my rings, and what they represent. I love that they advertise the fact that I'm committed to another person, but sometimes they feel so... much. Ostentatious, even. Do people I know think of me differently now? Like I'm showing off? What snap judgments do people I'm just meeting make? Sometimes I want to tell them, "I am not my rings!"
I'm thinking of toning it down to just one, but I haven't decided. I do love looking at my diamond.
She blushes.
Don't get me wrong, I love my rings, and what they represent. I love that they advertise the fact that I'm committed to another person, but sometimes they feel so... much. Ostentatious, even. Do people I know think of me differently now? Like I'm showing off? What snap judgments do people I'm just meeting make? Sometimes I want to tell them, "I am not my rings!"
I'm thinking of toning it down to just one, but I haven't decided. I do love looking at my diamond.
She blushes.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
History
I find it greatly distressing that Barack and Michelle Obama resurrected the terrorist fist bump. Serious historical scholars know that the fist bump originated during biblical times, first seen when Pilate gave Herod a pound after authorizing the cruxifiction of Christ. I guess they didn't teach that at the Indonesian madrassa Obama attended as a boy.
Monday, June 9, 2008
I Want My 2.5 Hours Back
Life is short, and every moment that passes is one that is gone forever. The producers of Sex in the City owe me a significant part of my life back. And I don't take credit.
The movie was consumerist porn, with the main characters using materialism to make their special claim to vapidity. I think I came down with carpel tunnel syndrome from twisting my wrist so often to see what time it was.
The question I have for my wife and female friends is this: what is it about these women that you relate to? Here is what I took out of the movie: you should buy nice shoes, a Louis Vitton bag is apparently more important than the situation in Darfur, being dumped four times by the same guy makes for a compelling story, and that your friend shitting her pants is pretty funny. The latter I get, the rest...
The movie was consumerist porn, with the main characters using materialism to make their special claim to vapidity. I think I came down with carpel tunnel syndrome from twisting my wrist so often to see what time it was.
The question I have for my wife and female friends is this: what is it about these women that you relate to? Here is what I took out of the movie: you should buy nice shoes, a Louis Vitton bag is apparently more important than the situation in Darfur, being dumped four times by the same guy makes for a compelling story, and that your friend shitting her pants is pretty funny. The latter I get, the rest...
Sunday, June 8, 2008
It's Been A Long Time...
...I shouldn'ta left you... But seriously, it's not my fault. The past few weeks have been a whirlwind. My little sis graduated from B-school (yay R!), Joseph K. and I got married, we went on our honeymoon, and spent our first weekend back in domestic-ville. I can neither confirm nor deny that we might have spent over half the weekend at Pottery Barn, Crate & Barrel, and Whole Foods. The wedding was amazing. I am clearly biased, but I must admit, I have never been to a better party. The music was tight and the drinks were free-flowing. More importantly, they were shared with a fantastic crowd of people. I want to go back to 5/20 and start it all over again. When married people say, "Enjoy it, it goes by so fast", listen to them! The best part was getting to bond with my siblings and bridesmaids. I don't know what I've done in my past lives to deserve such love, but it must have been good.
The Dominican Republic was beautiful. We stayed at an all-inclusive resort. It was lavishly decorated and the service was impeccable, but I don't think I would repeat the experience. There's something weird about going to another country but feeling like you're still in the U.S. Everything at the resort catered to the American palette, so much so, that if we hadn't booked an off-campus excursion, we wouldn't have tasted Dominican food at all! In any case, the staff was attentive, and overall we had a great time.
Joseph K. made roast lamb marinated in mango curry sauce (yum!) tonight. Bigger props to him for taking me to see SATC last night. I love being married!
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Twelve Days
I am ready to bundle my old clothes and donate them. Then, to paint the walls in the house. I want bright colors. I want to buy a big, glorious couch and sink into it. I want to read Junot Diaz on that couch. I want to host a dinner party and use my new cookware to prepare the meal. Then I want to serve it on my new plates and drink wine from my new glasses. I want Joseph K to be there. Throwing away old t-shirts, dipping his roller into the paint tray, and hovering over me while I saute the chicken. Always.
Friday, May 9, 2008
The Cat Is Stealing Money From Us
Literally. We left some cash on the coffee table in the basement to pay the air conditioning technician. When I came downstairs this morning, I saw that ten dollars was missing. When I went looking for it, I found it underneath a newspaper in the cat's hiding place. I wish I was making this up. And, yes, the cat may very well be able to read, but that is too much to contemplate right now.
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Tonight's Drinking Game
I will drink a quart of vodka every time Hillary utters her bastardized Obama line "Yes she can" during her Indiana victory speech (yes, of course she's going to win Indiana; the only people making it seem dramatic are news channels who have an interest in driving up ratings).
Thursday, May 1, 2008
A Little Woozy, A Little Bluesy
I am sitting at Busboys and Poets, enjoying a mint tea and the sounds of people. A high school student scribbles x's and y's, murmuring equations. A young woman studies anatomy and reads longsounding names from index cards. I sit between them, perpetrating, checking my email and editing an article. I miss being a student. Scratch that. I miss feeling like a student. Feeling like your future is open and unknown, every day an answer to the ever-present question, "What will I do when I grow up?" Damn. I am grown up. So what am I doing?
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
April Is The Cruelest Month
Every year around February, I start asking people when they remembered spring coming the year before. "Didn't it come early last year? March?" I ask hopefully. Those who know me know that I hate winter. I hate coats, long sleeves, and closed-toe shoes (although I do love a scarf).Every year, around April, I get fooled. You know that saying, "Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me?" Well, shame on me every year since I moved to this weather deficient area of the universe. Why do I do this to myself? Why do I think that the 70 degree weather that surprises us mid-April is going to stay, when every year it's followed by weeks of rain/cloudiness/45 degrees and windy? Why do I cast aside my boots in favor of flip-flops with such joy and abandon when I know I will be fishing them out of the back of my closet in a few days? Because I want summer to come. I love summer. I just love it. I love melting ice cream and bbqs -- watermelon dribbling down your chin and running through the sprinkler -- sitting on the grass and feeling the sun on my face. And man, do I love the beach.
T.S. Eliot famously wrote that April is the cruelest month. I think it's because he lived in the D.C. metro area.
Monday, April 28, 2008
The Breast Whisperer
I was reading the Sunday Post when I came across this troubling article about a "lactation consultant" who calls herself "The Breast Whisperer." The subheader was "Part Detective, Part Cheerleader, A Popular Lactation Consultant Aids Stressed-Out Moms." Detective? Like Cesar Millan, will the breast whisperer teach a breast not to jump on guests when they come over? Moreover, where was this major when I was in college? The whole "take women's studies to get dates" bit yielded mixed results. This seems like it would have been a sure thing.
This just strikes me as another example of the commodification of women's insecurities. There are way too many industries built on convincing women that something is wrong with them and that they have to pay exhorbitant amounts not necessarily to fix them, but to convince them they at least tried. So, baby will take to the breast if baby is hungry. If not, baby can drink out of a bottle. What? They say babies who breastfeed do better in school and are healthier? Well, it is never too early for kids to learn that their dopey choices can have lifelong implications.
This just strikes me as another example of the commodification of women's insecurities. There are way too many industries built on convincing women that something is wrong with them and that they have to pay exhorbitant amounts not necessarily to fix them, but to convince them they at least tried. So, baby will take to the breast if baby is hungry. If not, baby can drink out of a bottle. What? They say babies who breastfeed do better in school and are healthier? Well, it is never too early for kids to learn that their dopey choices can have lifelong implications.
Saturday, April 26, 2008
On Becoming
A few years ago, Friday night would mean happy hour, followed by more boozing, topped off with some carousing. This Friday night, the most exciting thing I did was to try and give the cat her asthma medication. I feel a mid-30s crisis brewing. What exactly does that mean? Wearing more Abecrombie & Fitch and saying "bitches" alot (regardless of the sex of the people referenced)?
Thursday, April 24, 2008
What I Did Yesterday
Wednesday nights, from late spring through summer, I play softball. It is my job to do the game recaps. I try and make them somewhat interesting (in the past I have referenced anyone from Nietzsche to the Muppets), not just a who scored what, how. Below is the intro of the recap of yesterday's game:
As a four year veteran of the [office's] softball teams, I have become at peace with the fact that we may never be good. The somewhat absolute truth about our chances on the softball field -- for those new to this office, they are poor -- can be comforting. Kind of in the way an old, favorite sweater is. In the end, you know you are probably going to lose, so just enjoy a nice spring day and try not to get into trouble for drinking remarkably beer-like beverages on the Mall.
Some folks on the team, though, come into every season thinking "this might be the year." Sorry, I have to be a wet blanket. That is not the audacity of hope; that is the insanity of hope. The kind of hope that has people spending thousands of dollars over their lifetime playing the lottery. And losing 99.99% of the time, wining $5 dollars every now and then. Sometimes the payoff can come from hard work; ultra longshot aspirations that would require some sort of divine intervention creates false expectations. It reminds me of the old joke: a guy is talking to God and asks him what a million years is to him. God says a second. The guy asks God what a billion dollars is to him. God says a penny. The man asks God for a penny. "Sure," God says, "In a second."
Yet, yesterday's game provided dangerous grist for the hopemongerers on our team: a crushing 22-6 victory for [our team] over [the other team]. I don't know much about them either; I just wish we could play them every week. They could be the Washington Generals to our slightly better Washington Generals.
As a four year veteran of the [office's] softball teams, I have become at peace with the fact that we may never be good. The somewhat absolute truth about our chances on the softball field -- for those new to this office, they are poor -- can be comforting. Kind of in the way an old, favorite sweater is. In the end, you know you are probably going to lose, so just enjoy a nice spring day and try not to get into trouble for drinking remarkably beer-like beverages on the Mall.
Some folks on the team, though, come into every season thinking "this might be the year." Sorry, I have to be a wet blanket. That is not the audacity of hope; that is the insanity of hope. The kind of hope that has people spending thousands of dollars over their lifetime playing the lottery. And losing 99.99% of the time, wining $5 dollars every now and then. Sometimes the payoff can come from hard work; ultra longshot aspirations that would require some sort of divine intervention creates false expectations. It reminds me of the old joke: a guy is talking to God and asks him what a million years is to him. God says a second. The guy asks God what a billion dollars is to him. God says a penny. The man asks God for a penny. "Sure," God says, "In a second."
Yet, yesterday's game provided dangerous grist for the hopemongerers on our team: a crushing 22-6 victory for [our team] over [the other team]. I don't know much about them either; I just wish we could play them every week. They could be the Washington Generals to our slightly better Washington Generals.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Sticky Air
M and I have both been struggling the last week with an ailment that appears to be allergic in nature. We are both phelgmy. Both of us acknowledge that there is something in the air in the house, but we have been gutting it out.
Then, Bish (the cat) was diagnosed today with asthma. Before I go into that, there really should be a "lemon law" for pets you adopt at the local animal shelter. We adopted Bish and her brother Bennie in November. Cost -- $200 in adoption fees. Within a month, Bennie became bloated and lethargic. Trip to the vet -- $500 -- for xrays, blood tests and an evaluation. He was diagnosed with FIP, a fatal incurable feline disease. We had him put to sleep. His sister, Bish, had a blood test ($150) and tested negative. A few months later, she was throwing up and we took her back to the vet. Xrays and a blood test later ($400), she was diagnosed with FIP too, but the disease is not advance and for all intents and purposes she was fine.
Until she started having labored breathing. We took her back to the vet today. After xrays ($170), we found out she has asthma and needs an inhaler ($150).
"I think her asthma is a wake up call. We need to change the furnace filters and clean the air ducts. The air in this house is not clean." Frankly, I think the cat's asthma is not that big a deal. I had asthma when I was a kid, and I am convinced it made me stronger. I took to smoking better than other teens.
Hiring a company to so all this will probably cost another $150. So, the cat(s) has cost us -- some $1700. The pleasure of cleaning up her poop and piss, feeding her, and having her fill the house with shredded toilet paper every day hardly makes it a bargain. Honestly, I am not sure where the cat is getting the toilet paper from. We have put all the rolls in impossible to reach places. I am convinced Bish must have a Costco membership where she bough an 85 count package of single ply (comfort is not important to her as she shreds it) Charmin.
I have no clue where to begin finding a good heating/cooling system service company. In the old days of the yellow pages, it was easier. You just turned to the heating/cooling section and the company with the bigger ad was obviously the best.
Now, you do a search and who knows what turns up. So I tried to use some aggregator site called "Service Magic." I input my data and the service requested. Within a minute, I was flooded with calls. Who to choose now? The professional sounding woman who left a 1-800 number or the hard-working foreign guy who gave me both his work and cell number? Definitely ruled out -- the creepy guy who breathed very hard.
Then, Bish (the cat) was diagnosed today with asthma. Before I go into that, there really should be a "lemon law" for pets you adopt at the local animal shelter. We adopted Bish and her brother Bennie in November. Cost -- $200 in adoption fees. Within a month, Bennie became bloated and lethargic. Trip to the vet -- $500 -- for xrays, blood tests and an evaluation. He was diagnosed with FIP, a fatal incurable feline disease. We had him put to sleep. His sister, Bish, had a blood test ($150) and tested negative. A few months later, she was throwing up and we took her back to the vet. Xrays and a blood test later ($400), she was diagnosed with FIP too, but the disease is not advance and for all intents and purposes she was fine.
Until she started having labored breathing. We took her back to the vet today. After xrays ($170), we found out she has asthma and needs an inhaler ($150).
"I think her asthma is a wake up call. We need to change the furnace filters and clean the air ducts. The air in this house is not clean." Frankly, I think the cat's asthma is not that big a deal. I had asthma when I was a kid, and I am convinced it made me stronger. I took to smoking better than other teens.
Hiring a company to so all this will probably cost another $150. So, the cat(s) has cost us -- some $1700. The pleasure of cleaning up her poop and piss, feeding her, and having her fill the house with shredded toilet paper every day hardly makes it a bargain. Honestly, I am not sure where the cat is getting the toilet paper from. We have put all the rolls in impossible to reach places. I am convinced Bish must have a Costco membership where she bough an 85 count package of single ply (comfort is not important to her as she shreds it) Charmin.
I have no clue where to begin finding a good heating/cooling system service company. In the old days of the yellow pages, it was easier. You just turned to the heating/cooling section and the company with the bigger ad was obviously the best.
Now, you do a search and who knows what turns up. So I tried to use some aggregator site called "Service Magic." I input my data and the service requested. Within a minute, I was flooded with calls. Who to choose now? The professional sounding woman who left a 1-800 number or the hard-working foreign guy who gave me both his work and cell number? Definitely ruled out -- the creepy guy who breathed very hard.
So Long, Farewell...
One of my favorite movies is, The Sound of Music. I love this movie. I love that the networks play it on Easter every year. I love Maria's non-nonsense short hairstyle. I love watching the moment Maria and the Captain realize they're in love. And I love the endless goodbye the children give to their father's guests as they reluctantly make their way up the steps of the Von Trapp mansion.The past few weeks have felt like the endless goodbye, but not between people, but rather between a person (me) and her car.
Back up: Joseph K. and I recently purchased new cars. He, out of necessity, me out of not wanting him to have a new car and not me. In my defense, my car was 11 years old. It ran well, but after tooling around in Mr. K's new ride for an afternoon, I started seeing my Red Devil as a lover whose flaws had been startlingly revealed. Fast forward: I have a new car.
Since we are a twosome, with no need for three cars, we decided to donate the Red Devil to charity. The minute I made the call to have my car picked up, I started getting nostalgic: Remember the times she drove me across the country? What about all the times she was enlisted by my auto-deprived friends for trips to IKEA or the grocery store? I remember the first moment I saw her. I had wanted her for so long, looking lustily every time I saw her pass me by, driven by someone else. Finally, she was mine. And now, 11 years later, she is not.
The actual process of letting her go was excrutiating. I called the charity. They told me they needed her title. Of course, I didn't have it, so another week went by -- the RD left undriven as I flaunted my new wheels in front of her. Title arrived. Re-scheduled the pick-up a week later. Took RD's plates 0ff (SOB!) in preparation for her tow. Towing company didn't come. Said they would come the following day. RD sitting there. Looking at me. Don't you love me anymore?
Oh RD! How much do I love you? I've always been able to rely on you. You've never given me any trouble. I've known you longer than I've known some of my best friends. You've seen me cry, watched me dine, heard my deepest secrets. You're going to make someone really happy.
This morning, I left for work in the new car. I got halfway down my street and looked back one last time. I saw my youth and all my memories. I turned the car around, walked back into my house, found my camera, and took the picture you see above. It's been an amazing ride. Auf wiedersehen, goodbye.
Monday, April 21, 2008
Rain, Rain Go Away
I happen to have the world's most amazing sister. As evidence, I point to the lovely gift she gave me for Christmas that Joseph K. and I cashed in last Sunday -- a romantic picnic for two at an area vineyard.I had booked the picnic a couple of weeks ago, thinking it would be nice for the two of us to get away for an afternoon and sun ourselves among the grapes. Unfortunately, Mother Nature was not advised of our plans, and dumped an unmerciful amount of rain in and around our metro area. Undeterred, Joseph K. and I forged ahead, always ready to get our drink on.
After an hour's drive through the mid-Atlantic region's version of a monsoon (seriously, it was bad) we arrived at the Veramar Vineyard, soaked. Luckily, the winery had hosted a wedding the night before, and the tent was still up, so we got our picnic outside. It may not have been sunny, but it was quiet. We feasted, watched the rain, and reflected. Happy to be alone together.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Ode to Joseph K
When I was a girl, I decided I was not the marrying kind. Marriage was for women with no ambition, no spark. I, on the other hand, had DREAMS. I imagined myself blissfully single till at least 35, traipsing around the globe, leaving one conflict zone for another, romancing Nigel (the dashing British relief pilot I had met at an ex-pat bar), always leaving but promising to come back with a wink and a smile. I would settle in Manhattan, and eventually share my three-bedroom apartment with Nigel, never marrying, but happily co-habitating. With this fantasy in mind, I carefully charted out my career: law school, domestic non-profit, international NGO, the U.N.
Four years into my stint at the non-profit, and still at the beginning of my career, I found myself emotionless. For four years, I had thrown all my emotion into work, crying over it, wrestling with it in my head, having nightmares about it, leaving nothing for myself. Was this what I wanted for myself? A life of devotion to "the cause," pumped by a cold heart? Moreover, where was Nigel?
I never found Nigel. Never worked abroad, never drank whiskey at an ex-pat bar. But I did find a sweet, loyal, solid man who makes me feel like the girl who had dreams of being something bigger than herself. Who makes me feel like I can still run away at a moment's notice. And I'm marrying him.
M, who decided long ago that she was not the marrying kind, is getting married. And she can't fucking wait.
Four years into my stint at the non-profit, and still at the beginning of my career, I found myself emotionless. For four years, I had thrown all my emotion into work, crying over it, wrestling with it in my head, having nightmares about it, leaving nothing for myself. Was this what I wanted for myself? A life of devotion to "the cause," pumped by a cold heart? Moreover, where was Nigel?
I never found Nigel. Never worked abroad, never drank whiskey at an ex-pat bar. But I did find a sweet, loyal, solid man who makes me feel like the girl who had dreams of being something bigger than herself. Who makes me feel like I can still run away at a moment's notice. And I'm marrying him.
M, who decided long ago that she was not the marrying kind, is getting married. And she can't fucking wait.
The Third Time's The Charm
This new blog is the journey of "us." M and Joseph K, a word and two letters. We are forty days away from our wedding.
In the interest of full disclosure, this is not the first time I have been engaged. I was engaged once before, a few years ago. Whenever M raises this, I always jokingly tell her, "Yeah, I was engaged before, but as you know the third time's the charm." I don't think she's been amused the 47 times I have made that joke. Surprisingly, it gets me every time.
So I reveal a secret to her and you today: I was engaged another time. Years ago. When I was nine, my parents were visiting a family friend and brought me along. They had a daughter, and they dumped me on her.
We sat around staring at each other at first. Finally she announced, "I have a Snoopy Snow Cone Machine." Then, I wanted to be her friend. I disarmed her with my charm. "Make me one."
She refused unless I agreed to marry her. I said fine. As I was trying to enjoy my Snoopy Snow Cone (cherry, of course), she tried to kiss me. This older cougar (she was 11 ) was aggressive, physical. I was up to the task and wriggled out of her grasp. She fell, broke a nail and lost it.
As I drove home, drowning out my parents yelling and licking the residual cherry syrup off my fingers, I thought about what just happened. She just didn't get me. At 9, I just wasn't the settling type. Now, with M, I'm ready.
In the interest of full disclosure, this is not the first time I have been engaged. I was engaged once before, a few years ago. Whenever M raises this, I always jokingly tell her, "Yeah, I was engaged before, but as you know the third time's the charm." I don't think she's been amused the 47 times I have made that joke. Surprisingly, it gets me every time.
So I reveal a secret to her and you today: I was engaged another time. Years ago. When I was nine, my parents were visiting a family friend and brought me along. They had a daughter, and they dumped me on her.
We sat around staring at each other at first. Finally she announced, "I have a Snoopy Snow Cone Machine." Then, I wanted to be her friend. I disarmed her with my charm. "Make me one."
She refused unless I agreed to marry her. I said fine. As I was trying to enjoy my Snoopy Snow Cone (cherry, of course), she tried to kiss me. This older cougar (she was 11 ) was aggressive, physical. I was up to the task and wriggled out of her grasp. She fell, broke a nail and lost it.
As I drove home, drowning out my parents yelling and licking the residual cherry syrup off my fingers, I thought about what just happened. She just didn't get me. At 9, I just wasn't the settling type. Now, with M, I'm ready.
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