LaurieWrites

He only hears what he wants to.

Please note that my interest in Lisa Loeb dating back to "Stay" indicates that I am in need of this lunatic to help me C.H.O.P.s away the gay.   Still pondering the whole "Ted Nugent (loincloth)" bit, and the fact that sweet baby Elton got a "really gay" in parens whereas none of the other comfortably out folks did.

It's awesome to spread hatred in the name of God, isn't it? What a waste of bandwidth. And what a sad, sad thing.

Guilty

Reason #147 why I occasionally feel guilty because I am a bad person:

My current set-up at home is such that I often go to the cafe at Borders to work on writing projects. I spend money so I don't feel guilty about taking up the space, not that I should anyway because I spent hundreds of hours underpaid on the clock for this place when I worked here, so I figure they can put me up and let me jack their electricity for life as kind repayment.

I love the concept of "The Third Place," and for me bookstores and coffee shop-type places are that spot. It's where I've fallen in love with ideas and people, made some of the friends who sustain me, and also where I escape from my peculiar version of reality. I can plug into a laptop, an iPod, and somehow to myself. Occasionally I invite other people along for the experience, but mostly it's just my thing. Scattering my ashes indoors would be gross, but this is where I'd hold my own personal wake when I die, so I'm hoping my family will be down. I should probably tell my sister, at least.

The thing is, that although I know it's not a library, there are sort of unwritten rules of engagement in spots like this, that differ depending on the day and time. You do not come here to rock out. You also do not come here to drink, or to get disorderly or in any other way ridiculous. It's not a diner and it's not a bar, and considering the extensive amount of caffeine consumed, it's generally a pretty chill environment (there are exceptions to this, and that's cool too. I've been in a few party-centric cafe environments, but that's generally not my thing.)

One evening a few weeks ago I was working on something or the other at Borders, in a room full of people who were basically doing the same thing. Nursing, pre-med and other kinds of science students always proliferate, who you can identify by their anatomy coloring books and the looks of total misery on their faces. Lots of freelancers hang out, too, in a variety of fields from what I can tell from passing by laptop screens. Of course, the usual suspect writers and designers are here, because who can afford or really needs office space at this point?  I guess I consider them my tribe.

Anyway, into this space walked a family, with a relatively chill little person, probably two or three years old. He was chill, at least, until his mother (perhaps grandma, I couldn't tell) placed the XYLOPHONE that she had apparently just purchased for him on the table, gave him the mallet, and bade him to BEAT THE LIVING SHIT OUT OF IT.

I couldn't believe my eyes or my ears. All around me, heads shot up like prairie dogs out of their holes, jarred out of whatever their thought process or muttered conversation might have been, to the dissonant clanging on a substandard XYLOPHONE. (Did I mention xylophone? And why Borders sells them is another question - and rant - entirely.) The child produced terrible noises from this thing for a few minutes, oblivious to the death stares that should have been totally directed to his caretaker and not him, because what did he know? And then he stopped, clearly losing interest.

"HERE!" she bellowed, shaking the mallet (I think that's what you call it? I used to know but I can't remember and obviously am shaking with such rage from remembering this that I can't be bothered to look it up.) in front of his face, and forcing it into his hand again. He resisted for a minute, and then I guess decided that if Mom thought it was such a swell idea it must be, and hey, she was encouraging him to make noise, so BAMBAMBLANGBLANGBAM, there he went. This went on for probably fifteen minutes, in a room that had been previously collegially busy, with people coming and going, but by no means had the monkey with the cymbals arrived yet.

Why would someone do this? I just don't understand. I don't know if people just don't care if they disturb people, or they have a point to prove, or feel that people shouldn't go to coffee shops with any expectation of peace, and that it's a spot for spontaneous, horrible expressions just like any other. I have no idea. And as I sat there and looked at this child repeatedly grow tired of this toy and put it down, and his mother essentially entertain herself at his and others' expense by making him cause a racket, I felt terrible for how irritated I was. I felt like a cranky old lady who was thinking things like, "MY parents would never have done that" (because they wouldn't have. It just wouldn't have happened in my universe) and "MY child would never do that" (because he wouldn't. Are you kidding? Noise at home: cool within reason. Noise where it makes strangers hate you, BEFORE it's school-sanctioned? No dice.)

I write this because I'm sitting here again (and yes I know I'm the one with a problem, thanks), and a nearby grandfather is standing in the middle of several people who are studying, incessantly shaking a rattle that must have been produced at General Motors, because it's almost as large as an automobile. The baby doesn't like it, and is screaming because he hasn't yet grasped the great gift it is to sit in a bookstore cafe, TOTALLY STILLL, because he appears to be a year old and ought to be somewhere where he can crawl around and do his thing. This person has no concept of the people in his environment, or he doesn't care. His arm must be getting tired by now, but I think he's just fucking with me, personally? Don't you? Because it's all about me. And you. So next time you think to bring your random musical instrument to the bookstore (of, for God's sake, that stupid Bluetooth device that makes you talk to the CEILING, REALLY LOUD, so I have to hear all about stuff I really don't want to know and I'll hate you so much against my will that I imagine you disintegrating into the floor) please don't. Please.

Spam Hits the Spot

There's so much I could talk about but I've got too much going on to really focus. I hate when that happens.

Here's a tiny sampling of my favorite subject lines from the RIDICULOUS amount of spam I've been getting in my e-mail since the virus from hell invaded a couple of weeks ago. I find some of these way more funny than I ought to, but....well...whatever.

By the way, while trying to remind myself of a nifty Spam (imagine annoying trademark doohickey here) slogan, I learned the amazing fact that people who live in Hawaii are the nation's most excessive consumers of this stuff. Why, Hawaii, why? I do love the line, "Whether you actually eat it, or store it for emergencies," though. I cannot imagine an emergency short of being trapped somewhere for days with no other rations that would drive me to this action. But I guess I should shut up because I am not at ALL buying trouble, hear me Universe? No tests of what would drive me to Spam consumption, kay?

Now here's some newfangled Spam, the kind that doesn't come in a can:

*"Upgrade your penis."

Really! Really? How does one accomplish THAT feat? Feed it Godiva chocolate and buy it a fur coat? Add an external hard drive? BAHAHA! Upgrade your penis. What a world. Okay, I did not intend to add commentary. That just sort of happened. Back to the subject lines.

*"Skorr a trip to the SuperBowl"
*"Undeliverable: Eighteen Filet Mignon"
*"And trust me, if you're humanity's last hope against the Decepticons, you don't want to be carrying extra weight"

The Decepticons require excessively long spam subject lines, apparently.

*"The Guy I'm About to Mention Played in the 'Best Rock 'n Roll Band of All TIme'".

Really, really doubtful.

*"She Will Die From Desire When She Smells UltraAllure Pheromones on You"

This includes the awesomEST content of an email ever: "Tired of screwing HORES because the normal women won't sleep with you? With our Ultra Allure Pheromones you can get the sexiest chick in the world. You think there is nothing special about your friend, but he is always surrounded by the prettiest women. Maybe he is using Ultra Allure Pheromones." Or maybe he just knows to put the "W" in "Whore" where it belongs, you ass. I know that's a sure path to my love and affection, right up there with being called "normal". Thank God. (And now I'm going to get some sweet Google hits, for sure.)

The next six came in quick succession, apparently competing for band name titles. I'm a fan of the first option, actually.

*Advisable Beige
*Beltway Indifferent
*Tumor Headmaster
*Accordion Autobiographical
*Fellowship Bootstraps
*Postdate Hearing Aid (So you can hear your disgusted, over-it-all utterances and the mocking of your friends amplified I suppose. Neat.)

Then we went back to the sad, sad truth:

*"Do You Want Your Dick Be Even More Attractive Than Your Face?"

I am just saying, if that's the case, I am so sorry.

Blog for Choice

Because yesterday was the first day of school, and therefore I've been missing lots of details that it's been a good idea to remember, I missed Blog for Choice Day.  It's almost two days late now, but I figured I'd mention it here in any event, because I think that on another night where the television was full of the manufactured thoughts of a puppet leader, it's important to have and share your own, based on your own experience in these United States, and not manufactured by any opinion poll.

I struggle with the reality of abortion and my pro-choice stand because I honestly believe, as well as I can believe anything, that as a childless, liberal, single woman I would not choose this for myself, especially now when, if you imagine my "biological clock" and persistent maternal impulses, you could conjure an image of Big Ben and not be remotely close. And to me that makes the issue of choice the central factor. It doesn't really matter what I would do. I don't believe that I would choose it, although one of my most solid and long-lasting beliefs is that it's foolish to say that we'd know what we'd do in any situation in which we've never found ourselves. How in the bloody hell do you know? Especially as I age, the "nevers" and the "couldn'ts" dwindle ever more rapidly, because even a tiny bit of wisdom can tell you that on a day when you're in a mood, you'd either burn down the house or think you could hit the stage and go head to head with Beyonce. You just don't know what you'd do, or what you'd be driven to do, if you were motivated enough. Our human house of cards is built on supposition and odd genetic wiring, along with a healthy dose of what we've picked up from our families and friends and whatever institutions we've been exposed to on the way.

A friend of mine told me several years ago that she started dating her husband when he was married to someone else, in a relationship that had crumbled almost when it started. She told me because we'd just heard a person we worked with state emphatically that he would NEVER do something, something I can't at all remember now. "I never say never anymore," she said, "because I NEVER thought I'd date a married man. But when we met, that was it. It was the right thing to do, although I would have never thought it would be."

So there went her nevers, and I've had my own fall apart, that's for sure. A couple of years ago, a friend asked me to state that I would never re-enter a relationship that had caused me significant pain. I couldn't say that, and more powerfully, I didn't want to. I could see all the reasons why, but knew my own foolish and well-intentioned (and a little bit stubborn, yes) heart well enough to know that I'd have to follow it, and I wasn't presumptuous enough to think I could predict what it would say. Good thing, because I was right.

I was exposed to the Catholic church from a little girl on up. Somehow my corner of it never pushed us into pro-life marches and like activities, although I'm sure somehow if I looked intently back through the haze of the past four decades I could pick up countless messages that maybe I'm blocking now. We often prayed for the souls of the unborn, in petitions in Mass and in prayer services, but to my mind, what was wrong with that? Might as well pray for them as anyone, I can imagine I reasoned, as life taught me young that it wasn't always easy out here, and we all need whatever  prayers people take the time to pray for us. These prayers  did not equate, for me, an indictment of anyone else, although in a sense that's what they always are.

I've always been repelled by pro-life protesters, with their posters of dismembered fetuses and live little children standing there next to parents waving them. I don't see the point, and I've never felt that intimidation, even in this age of "shock and awe" was the way to go for any kind of lasting change. Sometimes when I drive by my office on the weekends, they're camped out at a clinic nearby, standing or sitting in their lawn chairs out by the road, serving, I'm sure they believe, as a message or a witness to passersby and the women entering to do what they probably think they need to do to survive. And when I see them - especially, I'll admit, the men - I want to respond in unhelpful, rageful ways. I want to make profane gestures. I want to ask them if they've walked this road, or helped anyone else do it. I want to ask if they've adopted children themselves, or believe they're speaking as the mouthpiece of a God that none of us should have the hubris to assume we can represent. But I don't.

I've supported two friends through the process of making a choice that was the right one for them, with mixed feelings myself, each time, because the thought of abortion itself leaves me sad and cold, I'll admit. Partial-birth, in particular, is tough for me, because I do believe that to be the death of a human being, and I don't understand why anyone would do it short of the threat of death.

I hate the whole idea, honestly, but I also hate the reasons why I know it exists, the forces and suffering that leave human beings desperate and afraid, or perhaps even simply numb to what they're experiencing. I also believe that it's very important that women, who are often used around the world as spiritual and physical dumping grounds for anger, discrimination and mistreatment, who mother their own children and grown adults on a daily basis, have some kind of power to choose their own way. I've worked with immigrants to this country whose husbands have denied them access to birth control, so families live in poverty in depressed areas with eight children because this is what "God wants". These are the supposed gifts of his will. I don't buy it.

And whereas my body and soul doesn't at all agree on a visceral level with so much that abortion represents, I refuse to become the arbiter of someone else's gray area of right and wrong. And I'm also mindful that the choice I believe I'd have made, or would make today, is done in the context of an education that has led to relative financial stability, sexual and emotional relationships entered into mindfully and respectfully, and warm support from a family who would support me and a child regardless of whatever decision I make. This is a pretty good stacked deck. Not everyone has this, and even if she does, I have no idea what motivates her and helps her make her decisions. I might not agree with it, and it might often make me sad, but she gets to choose. The alternative just doesn't work. 

Take heart

It's all roses from here on out.   At least until next year, but that's a long way away.

In other news, I've found another way to waste my time and have guiltless fun doing so.  A fantasy music league! I can be in some sort of fantasy league that doesn't involve sports, and pretend to be an A&R person, all for like ten dollars. I love the Internet, just a little bit.

I started my Black & White Processing photo class tonight. It involves view cameras with 4x5  negatives, and twin lens reflex cameras, which I can't load to save my life. It's also going to make saving money a shining impossible dream for the next three months. I'm scared to death that I'm not going to get it, but I also have that good nervous energy about it that I had when I started my first photography class, so maybe that's a good sign. I'm also taking digital photography, which should be a blast. In one of the moments of synchronicity that have graced my life lately, my friend Andrew and I were sitting in the deli eating brunch a couple weeks ago, and we were talking about my photo program, which he'd graduated from. The tables at the Parkway are very close together, and we are neither of us quiet people. Just aren't, and nor could we be accused of being bland or even altogether inoffensive conversationalists, just sayin'. Anyway, this girl at the table next to us started talking to us, and it turns out that she's taking the digital class I'm enrolled in. We were all amazed by the coincidence, and she was cool so it was nice to talk to her and now she'll know someone in the class already, which she seemed to enjoy. And now I'm just convinced that she's going to be my new best friend and we're going to stroll around endlessly talking about our lives and taking pictures of each other. Or, maybe not, but at least I'll have a new person to talk to. And then a couple of days later, Andrew couldn't stand not being a part of this elite club, and he signed up too. I think this is going to be fun.

Representative chat:
Him: We're in a CLASS TOGETHER.
ME: Yes.
Him: We can get COMPUTERS NEXT TO EACH OTHER. HEEHEE.
ME: And giggle like the school girls we are.
Him: And giggle like the little school girls we are.
ME: Nice. Looks like that'll happen.
Him: I'll wear pigtails and my short skirt.
ME: Again?

I'm missing the first night of class,  because I don't miss a Chili Peppers concert and the opportunity to see Anthony Kiedis in his little arm socks for anyone or anyTHING, yo.

A seat had better be saved for me in that classroom, though, or some big tall guy is getting his pigtails chopped off.

Speaking of photographs, I submitted to JPG again. Vote for "Street Peace" if you're feeling charitable. I don't think it's a bad shot. Also, I put a photo of my leg on Flickr.  I guess I have to give up my Miss Thirtysomething Maryland crown, now. Oh, the shame.

And speaking of photos, here's some from what finally looks like winter, 'round here, where we definitely do stay up very, very, very, very late:

I worked on my syllabus all day Sunday at Caribou Coffee while it snowed. These girls had a rockin' snowball fight outside and I caught it through the window.

I took my picture in a case full of buddha statues, because that just seemed like good karma that I totally need at this point.

Trees. Snow. Windshield. Art? Crap? Toss-up.

My dog in a golf shirt that he appears to have outgrown over the holidays. I'll refrain from asking you how cute he is, because you would surely go on for such an embarrassingly long time time that I'd have to stop you, and does the world really need any more small, awkward moments? I thought not.

And that's all, I think. I might actually try to sleep now.   

 

True Love

Valentine's Day is a matter of weeks away. I'd totally send this if I'd already met the smashingly cool person he needs to be at this point to warrant the time or attention. Meanwhile, it's here because it's awesome.

Oddly Comforting

My parents, a complete conversation:

"Joe, have you seen that "Ugly Betty"?"

"What's that?"

"Have you SEEN that "Ugly Betty"?"

"No."

"Me either."

The Wii Goes On

Sorry about that. I really couldn't help it.

It was brought to my attention that I was so overwrought by the overall concept of freakish death and dismemberment and looking up "nanotechonlogical whatever the hell that was" on Wikipedia to no avail that I messed up the links for the stories below. So here's the correct one for the "Wee for a Wii" death, which I'm sure had you on the edge of your seat. (However, like there's an easier phrase to Google, right?) Actually, I found a new article, because I'm lazy and it's the first link I hit.  But it's better, because it's from the London Times, and I do love me some British media and learning about the many new reasons they have to think we're morons.

This article is also better because it indicates that so many people have hurt themselves or their furniture with their cool new toy (when they actually don't die before they get it) that a site has been set up called Wii Injury.com to, as they say, "share the funny and dangerous side of owning a Nintendo Wii console." Look, I'm well aware that life is a daily gamble as it is. And if I have to set up a website to help me protect myself from my video games, I need to step AWAY from the electronic instrument of death. But I still highly recommend the Wii Sex video (scroll down a bit...and it's not that bad at all, but still not at work, silly!) especially to any woman who has ever dated any sort of gamer, particularly those who have had to go to some, er, extensive lengths for some ATTENTION, PLEASE!

It would be funnier if it weren't, like those stupid beer commercials say, so very, very true. 

Two thumbs

I've seen a lot of movies lately, primarily because I felt like last year my moviegoing attempts were really more of a lackadaisical thing, and there's nothing I need more than to really, really focus intently on another leisure activity at the expense of actually oh, say, making more money or volunteer work. 

First I saw "Notes on a Scandal" weekend before last. I knew very little about it going in, which I actually prefer. I like reading books and seeing movies about which I have very little backstory. The movie was great, although I can't imagine a film that stars Cait Blanchett and Judi Dench sucking. What are the odds? "Ooh, look! Cait and Judi! I bet this movie blows!" right? Right, considering they probably get scripts hand-delivered to them by Harvey Weinstein driving his OWN car. It was well-acted (duh), nicely filmed, and very creepy - intensely psychological and dark and British and reflective of some of the basest human instincts that don't involve bloodshed. And what always gets me about stuff like this is that even when the characters are a stone's throw over the line from crazy, it's quite easy to see how none of us are really too far ourselves. I learned that when I worked in mental health counseling for a very short time. Lots of the people in my groups had been toddling along leading kind of benign left of center lives when something happened that tripped a cord and there she went. I mean, hopefully most of us are far enough away not to ever go over the edge, but eh...human brains are weird and unpredictable. Throw some stress, self-involvement, depression and bad luck into the mix, and who knows what you'll get? Usually nothing this wacked, but it just got me thinking. And thinking, because it was still in my head a couple days after. Out, out, Dame Judi. Leave me alone! Pull on your galoshes and go on up to the pub. I've got stuff to do!

Like Meryl Streep, Judi Dench is an attractive woman who is powerfully able to transform her physical appearance without the aid of much makeup. Give her a crappy hairdo and some frumpy (really, really terrible - terrible terrible) clothes and she's another person, like I wouldn't be if I did the same thing. Her facial expression and gait change, and her voice is different without being markedly so. It's amazing. Cait Blanchett, on the other hand, is one of the most gorgeous people I've ever seen, and even though I'm very comfortable with and attached to my unfortunate attraction to men, I was distracted by my desire to reach through the screen and touch her pretty hair throughout the film. Jesus. Just grossly, unfairly beautiful and talented. Cradle gifts, God love 'em.

Last week I saw Freedom Writers, which I then saw fit to defend here  and here. I really like that we can discuss such topics on Blogher in a productive, flame-free way. People just think different things based on their experiences, so it's interesting to read along and contribute if you feel like it.

I read the Freedom Writers Diary years ago when I worked at Borders, and I was interested to see how the project would translate to film. I do not like Hillary Swank at all - as an actress, I mean, as I have no idea what she's like in real life of course. I find her screen presence grating and whiny, and am one of the only people I know who did not like "Million Dollar Baby." I thought it was manipulative and ridiculous, actually. But this movie I liked, for the sole reason that it showed young people actually using the written word for some good purpose. And whereas I can see the arguments I've linked to above that the movie was just another excuse to show the "white liberal teacher swooping in to save the day," I found it less about that than I did about these kids finding their way, regardless of who was there as a catalyst. It's often hard and painful, actually, to observe the trouble that kids have stringing a sentence together, and I'm in that position a lot. As a person who would shrivel up without the outlet I have, and who knows what a bonus it can be to be able to get your point across in writing, it's doubly hard and sometimes difficult to understand. This is the  Freedom Writers Foundation that Erin Gruwell, the teacher in real life, set up. I'm hoping to use their resources somehow in the work that I do. And all lack of interest in Swank aside, I give her credit for putting her money behind this project, because it least it could have some redeeming value, as well as going into the "Entertainment Weekly" hopper.

And yes, I know we don't need another "Dangerous Minds," but this movie was different. And also it made me cry, and had pretty good music, and proved to me again that Patrick Dempsey is way overrated.

Yesterday I saw El Laberinto del Fauno (Pan's Labyrinth). Damn. Eek. Violent as all hell. I wasn't expecting that. Again - limited backstory, which in this case was a very good thing because I'm not sure I would have been down with it otherwise. I saw the preview earlier in the month and was drawn in, plus had heard such good things about Ivana Baquero who plays the little girl Ofelia. These things are all true. She is an amazing actress, and although people always say, "Wow, and so young," I think there's really no better time to be able to disappear into a story or another character than when you're a child. It gets harder with the road miles sometimes, you know? Children are way more capable than adults of morphing into many different voices and characters, and she definitely does that here. That said, the story is fascinating, and the film itself (location, effects, cinematography, music) is too. It isn't a pretty little fairy tale, though, so don't go in expecting that - if you want to expect anything at all.

I want to see "The Painted Veil", next, and "The Queen", too, and many more movies this year with subtitles, because I feel good about letting the language I don't understand seep into my brain while I'm reading along. I will not, however, be seeing "Norbit", a new horror show whose preview I was subjected to before "Freedom Writers", and about which Eddie Murphy should be very, very ashamed. Any awards he receives for "Dreamgirls" should be revoked, and he should be made to give every cent of the money he makes off of this new film to some program supporting women of color, or send it to New Orleans for the hurricane rebuilding, because it's a shame to think it would make him any wealthier.

Jesus, Mary and Joseph!*

There's some weirdness afoot this week. I mean, really.

First of all, if you're feeling down and blue, don't read this.  On second thought, if you're feeling all perky and happy, don't read it either. Although I linked it. I'm so kRaZy. But seriously, as if we don't have enough existential bullshit and other stuff like, you know, taxes, and work, and does anybody even LIKE us, and will we EVER be happy, or whatever, now we can add "rogue black holes" to the list. And of course, I'm going to wake up screaming thinking about a nanotechnology disaster or a particle accelerator mishap.

(That was via Tracey, who always does give good link, bless her heart.)

But this I found all by myself. To die in a "Wee for a Wii" contest? That just sucks, dude. How do you even justify that? I mean, "I died because I drank too much water because I wanted a video game that let me swing pretend bats at my television?" No. fucking. fair.

But not as much as this, which is just beyond insane.   I can safely say that I've never wanted to get out of anywhere that bad, and I really hope that man was fleeing certain death, because to trade anything less for this alternative would be, well, as bad as it actually seems to have been. A PLANE WHEEL! He climbed into a plane wheel and thought he'd survive. I guess I have to give him credit for hoping, but still.

And on a much less serious, merely "Wow, that's weird, but what do you expect, it's Dayton?" note, the goodness that is Idolator  tips us off to The Devil Wears Prada.   Not the film, in this case, but a "hardcore/metal/Christian" band - remember, I said Dayton - who found themselves among the other worst band names of 2006. They also have a "song" called "HTML Rulez DOOD". Thinking about this amalgamation of terror (take that, Georgie B.) makes my teeth hurt. (But not as bad as "Guns 'n Rosa Parks. And Osama bin SARS, who dub themselves "electronica/death metal/comedy,"  which I think would make a great tagline for my site. See? Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Say it with me!)

Okay, so now that I've got all that out of my brain, I'm going to go listen to some soothing music and read about acts of generosity and kindness, and people not dying and no rogue black holes sucking me up, just not quite yet. You be careful out there.

*"Jesus, Mary and Joseph" was an exhortation reserved by my grandmother for that which was particularly shocking or off-putting, which was multipurpose as it may have been applied to a particularly ignorant Wheel of Fortune contestant, or a bloody war. I find it satisfying, and because of her lifelong devotion to the Lord, not at all blasphemous.