Total Perspective Vortex
What really happened to Trillian? Theories abound, but you can see what she's really been up to on this blog. If you're looking for white mice, depressed robots, or the occasional Pan Galactic Gargleblaster you might be better served here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/cult/hitchhikers/guide/.
Don't just sit there angry and ranting, do something constructive.
In the words of Patti Smith (all hail Sister Patti): People have the power.
Contact your elected officials.
Don't be passive = get involved = make a difference.
Words are cool.
The English language is complex, stupid, illogical, confounding, brilliant, beautiful, and fascinating.
Every now and then a word presents itself that typifies all the maddeningly gorgeousness of language. They're the words that give you pause for thought. "Who came up with that word? That's an interesting string of letters." Their beauty doesn't lie in their definition (although that can play a role). It's also not in their onomatopoeia, though that, too, can play a role. Their beauty is in the way their letters combine - the visual poetry of words - and/or the way they sound when spoken. We talk a lot about music we like to hear and art we like to see, so let's all hail the unsung heroes of communication, poetry and life: Words.
Here are some I like. (Not because of their definition.)
Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Smart Girls
(A Trillian de-composition, to the tune of Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys)
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Smart girls ain’t easy to love and they’re above playing games
And they’d rather read a book than subvert themselves
Kafka, Beethoven and foreign movies
And each night alone with her cat
And they won’t understand her and she won’t die young
She’ll probably just wither away
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
A smart girl loves creaky old libraries and lively debates
Exploring the world and art and witty reparteé
Men who don’t know her won’t like her and those who do
Sometimes won’t know how to take her
She’s rarely wrong but in desperation will play dumb
Because men hate that she’s always right
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Life(?) of Trillian
Single/Zero
Thursday, February 28, 2008 He Gives Good Head There are a few aspects to my job which can lead me to some bizarre phone calls and web searches. Consequently I sometimes discover products which defy logic or explanation. This is just too darned good to keep to myself. I wish I would have had these for President's Day.
You've heard of Lincoln Logs? I present to you: Lincoln Lollipops.
Lincoln apparently tastes like orange. He's delicious! Honest!
"Mr. Owl, how many licks does it take to get to the temporal lobe of a Lincoln Lollipop?"
You can make up your own sick jokes about his head, bullet holes and where they have to insert the stick.
In poor taste, you say? No! He's delicious! Honest!
Laugh all you want, someone, somewhere is making money on these. Somewhere there's a salesperson earning commission on them. Somewhere there are people working in a factory, punching into a time clock, earning money producing them.
You could also pass them off as a generic Amish guy so they'd be great for your next barn raising or Witness viewing party.
Should you want to order a case for your next party you can find them here.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
I don’t mean to brag, but…I had awesome tickets for the sold out Foo Fighters show.
Shame I didn’t get to go to the show.
What? Why, Trill, why? You may ask imploringly wondering what’s wrong with me besides my foot and ankle.
Well, it finally happened. Not even the lure of great seats for a great sold out show is enough to persuade any of my friends to spend time with me.
Okay. To be fair two people really, really wanted to go and would have gone but had other obligations. A mother on dialysis is slightly more urgent than great seats for the Foo Fighters. And going to China for your job is kind of important and kind of more cool than great seats for the Foo Fighters. So to qualify and to be clear, I do have two friends who would spend time with me, with or without the Foo Fighters.
Okay. Still. I know a ton of people. Some of them are even friends. Most of them are of concert going and Foo liking age. I offered the ticket free, no cost and I’d pay for parking. But the reasons filed in. They didn’t want to venture out on a Monday night. They couldn’t get a sitter on a school night. Traffic would be murder on a Monday night. It would be a really loud show and they hate going home with ringing ears.
I know. Lame.
The Foo Fighters for crying out loud. Dave Grohl. Nirvana? Ringing any bells? Amazing, for the “industry,” seats. I mean, c’mon, isn’t that jump-at-the-chance worthy?
Sure. I dig music. A lot. Especially live shows. Especially good live shows.
Sure. Nirvana was the voice of my confused, disoriented and prematurely weary and jaded generation.
But c’mon, putting all of that aside, fantastic free seats to a great concert. I thought I’d feel guilty because I only had two tickets and a lot of people would want to go. I started with the friends I know to be serious Nirvana/Foo fans. The problem there? They’re married. And she didn’t want to go. The PTA fundraiser was the Saturday prior to the concert and she was busy focusing on that. Apparently she can’t handle more than one event in the span of three days. He really wanted to go. He gave me the, “OMG, you’re the coolest friend ever, this is a dream come true, it’ll be a blast! I’ll pick you up after work, we can grab dinner on the way, Foo Fighters! Foo Fighters! OMG” reaction I thought I’d receive from all of my friends. I could hear him jumping around with glee as he scampered down the hall.
Then there was silence on the other end of the phone. Then a meek and dejected little voice said, “Holly says I can’t go.” Pause on both ends of the phone. Then, “If I give you money will you buy me a t-shirt?”
I’m not stupid. I do not interfere in my friends’ marriages. And I don’t think she’s jealous of me, in fact I’m pretty sure I’m the last person she’d suspect if she thought her husband were cheating on her. (rightfully so) I don’t think she was worried about what might happen when we were all pumped up at the arena banging our heads to the tunes of Foo. I think she just did not want to be involved with concerts “like that” and didn’t want him to be “involved” either. She’s been on this whole, “we’re grown-ups for crying out loud” kick lately. She's become very quick to dismiss and scoff at people who don’t “act their age.” Every time she hears about someone doing something she deems inappropriate she rolls her eyes and says, “we’re grown-ups for crying out loud.” She doesn’t out and out call them childish, or immature, and in fact I’m not entirely what the exact implication is other than she’s disdainful of a lot of rudimentary activities. I’m starting to compile a list of things she deems inappropriate for grown-ups. So far it includes: Renting, snowboarding, fast food, cars older than two years, paying (for anything) with cash, inexpensive purses and shoes, painting/working on your home yourself, Pez, buying clothes on sale at the end of the season, and apparently now I can add going to concerts, even the Foo Fighters, to the list. And by the way, she used to be (and I thought still was) a huge Nirvana fan, but maybe not. Maybe she’s left that behind now that she’s magically transformed into a grown-up.
And she’s dragging her husband into being a grown-up, too. Therefore he was not allowed to attend the concert with me. I’m apparently a threat. Not to her marriage or her husband’s fidelity, but to his maturity.
So I made more phone calls, sent more emails, and came up with: Nothing.
So I thought, “well, Trill old girl, it’s a sad day when you can’t find anyone to go with you to a concert, but here it is. Might as well give both tickets to people who would like them.” So I called my grown-up friend again and told her I couldn’t find anyone to go with me and she and her husband could have both the tickets and I even offered to babysit. I know! I know! What am I, a saint or something? How could anyone refuse, right?
Wrong.
She reiterated that the PTA fundraiser was the Saturday night prior to the concert (on Monday night) and she couldn’t go. And then listed the traffic, loud noise and school night excuses. Yes. This from a woman who used to go to live punk shows, hit the after hours bars, go home, take a shower and go to work. Okay, sure, we’re all more grown-up than that, now. Those days are over. Happily. But. There is a happy medium, right?
Apparently not.
Yes. I couldn’t give the tickets away.
Well. That’s not entirely true. I know a few people at work would have jumped at the tickets, but I’d sooner sit chained to a chair with tubes venting Giorgio perfume in my nose while wearing a twine thong-backed scratchy polyester lace teddy in a locked room with Celine Dion piped in on loud but tinny speakers while images of animal torture are projected on the walls than give the tickets to anyone at work. (and yes, that’s one of my versions of Hell)
I toyed with going to the show alone. I do go to shows alone. But to smaller, in-town shows. Glorified bars with no chairs, so overcrowded it's almost pointless to go with anyone anyway. It's hot, loud and crowded. If you're alone no one really notices. And people do go alone to those kinds of shows. I'm not alone in going alone to those kinds of shows. A lot of people go to check out a band on their own. Well. Okay, maybe not a lot, but people do it. But people don't generally go to arena shows alone, and they certainly don't go to special fantastic industry only seats at arena shows alone. Much as I wanted to go to this show, I didn't want to go alone. I go to movies alone. I go out to eat alone. I go to galleries alone. I go to museums alone. I take moonlit walks on the beach alone. (Anyone catch the eclipse the other night? Wowee, that was really cool.) I travel alone. So what's the big deal about going to an arena show alone? I dunno. I guess I have to draw the line somewhere and apparently I draw my out-there-on-my-own line at going to a sold out Foo Fighters concert.
In the end I gave the tickets, both of them, to the brother of a of a friend of a friend. He took his girlfriend and they had a great time. Woo hoo for them. I’m glad someone was able to use them and enjoy the show. It would have been a shame to let them go to waste.
Apparently I earned some karma points for that.
I’m not sure how karma works, it’s open for debate whether or not I scored good or bad karma.
Because I'm going to see Grand Funk Railroad next weekend.
Yes, “We’re comin’ to your town, we’ll help you party down” Grand Funk Railroad.
And again you ask, imploringly, more urgently, more concerned, What? Why, Trill, why?
Because I’m a really, really, really good sister.
Here’s the lesson I learned and here’s why I think I’m a grown-up, even more-so than my disdaining friend.
My sister is several years older than me. Putting the huge age gap aside, we’re also as different as two people could be. I find it difficult to explain or believe that we share any common DNA. But such is often the case with sisters, regardless of the age difference.
One of her favorite bands is Grand Funk Railroad. I have no idea why. Why doesn’t matter. She likes them and that’s that. I happen to be visiting the weekend GFR is playing a gig near her. Yes. They’re going to her town, they’ll help her party down.
When she discovered the coincidence of my visit and the GFR show she asked me to go with her.
My immediate reaction would be to laugh and recite the above Celine Dion scenario.
But in light of my recent trouble trying to find someone to go with me to the Foo Fighters, I caught myself before I verbalized my disdain for the band and aging rockers trying to cash in on their former glory. This is important to her. It means something to her. I have no idea why, but it matters to her and she wants to go. I’m sure she feels the same way about me wanting to see the Foo Fighters. Though to be fair to me, Dave Grohl doesn’t try to cash in by touring under the name Nirvana and he writes and performs new songs. He's evolved and evolving. There are some young Foo Fighers newbies who don’t even realize Dave Grohl was in Nirvana. (I know, I found that difficult to believe, too, but I work with two of them. Young little whipper snappers didn’t have a clue.)
Do I want to spend an evening with a bunch of aging hippie stoners listening to some of the original members of Grand Funk Railroad regurgitate the same songs they've been playing since 1973? Of course not. (See above, ghastly perfume, scratchy thong teddy, chains, locked room, animal torture, Celine Dion) But. I would have really liked for someone to make the “sacrifice” and go with me to see Foo Fighters. I don’t have a lot to look forward to, at the moment and in life in general. I’m either doing something at work or for work, volunteering to help other people/animals, or home alone. My friends are married, most with children, and they’re busy. They have lives and friends which include and revolve around being married and having children. So the little treats, a concert here and there, a night out with friends, is a big deal to me. Sure, the music (hopefully) is good, but the socializing and camaraderie aspects have become equally important. I don’t take those aspects for granted anymore. Other than work and volunteering, I spend a lot of time alone. I am lonely. I fill as many hours of the days as I can with work and helping other people, and I “get” a lot out of that, but, I go home: Alone. I’m sharing and giving of myself, but I’m not sharing my life with anyone, and that can get really lonely sometimes. The few opportunities I have to connect with friends are becoming ever more elusive, and at the same time ever more crucial.
My sister’s situation is a little different. She has friends, friends who have children, friends who are divorced, like her. She’s not alone and (I don’t think) as lonely. But. Since I’m going to be in town anyway, she wants me to go with her. She knows, as converse as the logic seems, that I’ll look after her. That if she has too much to drink (or smoke) I won’t let anyone take advantage of her. She knows I’ll be the designated driver. She knows I’m the responsible one who will look out for her so she can cut loose and have a good time at her concert.
I know, I know. Given all that kettle of sibling fish I should say no and refuse to go with her. But. Fresh on the heels of my concert going disappointment I couldn’t make myself say no. Yes, I’m being charitable. No, she’s not taking advantage of me. She hit me up for this at exactly the right time. A week sooner or later and I wouldn’t have agreed to go with her. But I’m a grown-up and I do things I don’t want to do for the sake of others. Unlike my friends who, in spite of their admonishments other people, haven't learned this lesson about being a grown-up. And yes, it's a night out and one Saturday I don't have to spend alone. It's not the Foo Fighters, but s'all good.
And who knows? I might have a good time. It’ll be good for a laugh. A room full of aging stoners tripping out to that dreadful and way too long I’m your captain song. I'll take a crossword to work on during that song. (Seriously, what is the point of that song? Why is it so long? Is it a metaphor for an LSD trip?)
Maybe I'll even make a shirt to wear to the show with the Homer quote emblazoned across my boobs: “Mark Farner’s wild, shirtless lyrics. The bong-rattling bass of Mel Schacher. The competent drumwork of Don Brewer.” I'm a grown-up, but I'm not above being irreverent and ironic.
1:52 PM
Monday, February 25, 2008
There's a ton of existentialism in The Simpsons. And that is the beauty of a good episode. When the writers nail it, they really, really nail it brilliantly. They lampoon it, but to do so they clearly have to know it, have experienced it, and therefore also sympathize with it while lampooning. They make fun of Homer, but, they take him just to the brink and then make us realize in many core ways we're no different than Homer.
You’re sitting there thinking, “Whoa, Trillian, I beg to differ with you on that. I am in no way like Homer Simpson.”
Okay. Great! Good for you! Congratulations. You apparently have a rewarding and fulfilling job you love, working for bosses who are kind and truly care more about their employees than the company bottom line. Apparently there aren’t any sycophantic yes people following senior management around like drooling puppies at your workplace. Apparently you don’t struggle to make financial ends meet. And when some wind-fall does come your way, you don’t struggle between paying off your credit cards/putting money away for the kids’ college/replacing the car that’s nearing the 150,000 mile mark and gasping for repairs. You must have great neighbors you love having next door. So you don’t know what it’s like to have obnoxious neighbors who bug the crap out of you, but are basically good people so you feel guilty about finding them obnoxious and you’re stuck living next door to them anyway so there’s nothing you can do but deal with them. You never feel the desire to get away from your life and the pressure at work and home by doing something you know you shouldn’t do. You never want to avoid going home or responsibilities at home or work. Wow. Lucky you. Can we do a life swap for a few weeks?
The rest of us will just be over there living our less than perfect lives beating our head against walls and feeling despondant over the zeitgeist around us.
There are classes in The Simpsons - mostly cultural studies classes. What someone, perhaps me, needs to do is create a course on existentialism found in modern life and compare and contrast the duality and conflict and struggle of the American people as evidenced by the FOX network airing complete opposite programming, both long time American favorites The Simpsons and American Idol.
As a people we're depressed, confused, bored and most of us know this ship is sinking. We've been tuning into The Simpsons for almost 20 years (depending on when you count the debut – on Tracy Ullman or when they got their own show) to get our schadenfreudistic pleasure from laughing at The Simpsons. All the while (most of us) knowing full well the reason we find it funny is because we're one or two steps away from that life ourselves. They’re taken to an extreme, but the themes ring true. We laugh, but most of the time deep down, much as it might pain us to admit, we're laughing with them, not at them. And that's a key element. Crazy as they are, we understand, we sympathize. We, well, we care. It’s a kind of self effacing schadenfreude.
But then "we" turn around and tune in to American Idol. Mind numbingly stupid, offensive, formulaic, ridiculously self absorbed recording industry vehicle and swindle on the American public. "We" love to sit and laugh at the bad contestants. We sit there waiting for last week's favorite to stumble on a difficult tune, turn in a "pitchy" performance or wear an unflattering outfit or hair style. It’s schadenfreudistic pleasure without the self awareness and sympathy that’s behind the schadenfreudistic comedy of the Simpsons.
The duality and conflict of the popularity of these two shows with overlapping viewership is interesting on a sociological level.
Is it marketing baby, marketing?
In the case of The Simpsons, no. The Simpsons defies all television marketing and demographic logic. Pop culture phenomenon? Maybe at first. But really they’ve always been more of a noumenon. Sure, there are sight gags and low brow jokes which don’t require a lot of gray matter. But the sight gags, low brow jokes and “eat my shorts” bit would have only given The Simpsons a couple of seasons. Even on FOX. But, as their 20th year approaches (or is here, depending on your opinion of anniversary date) it’s time to give them (the writers) credit for brilliance unrivaled. They’ve gone beyond phenomenon. Those days are over. The phenomenon ended when the last Eat My Shorts t-shirt was sold in the mall.
It’s time to give them credit for being something more than a pop culture phenomenon. Something more than a noumenon. In the Bartman/Eat My Shorts t-shirt heyday, yes, it was marketing, baby, marketing. People were wary of this new network, FOX (rightfully so). Mainstream dolts thought it was a cartoon with a bratty kid. Kids didn’t really understand a lot of the humor, and it was on Sunday night and they had to get ready for school the next day. Were it not for the interest in, and success of Married with Children, another early FOX success story, The Simpsons may not have ever hit their stride and found their niche. Married… aired on Sunday nights and quickly found an audience. That all important 22 – 36 year old demograph. If you write it smart, funny and hip enough, they will come. And oh, sure, the few people who knew who Tracy Ullman were at the time eagerly tuned into her show and saw the original segue bits which were The Simpsons. And oh, sure, a few of those people liked The Simpsons and were interested to see if it could flesh out into a full ½ hour show on its own. Poor Tracy Ullman. Brilliantly funny, but her show was axed and the little yellow cartoon family still airs on FOX Sunday night 20 years later. So yes. In those days it was marketing, baby, marketing. The Married… crowd and few Tracy Ullman fans got hooked on the Simpsons, word spread, and voila, marketing, baby, marketing. Phenomenon, baby, phenomenon.
But those days were 20 years ago. Those original Bartman and Eat My Shorts t-shirts are so old they’re considered kitschy retro, ironic vintage, and funny nod to the ‘80s. (And you have to hope Groening and clan had the foresight to nail down a hefty licensing agreement. I, for one, would love to see the original contract between Groening and FOX. How hungry was he and how desperate were they? I’m guessing it’s a far cry from the dubious FOX contract American Idol contestants are forced to sign.) Twenty years and a lot of brilliant (and admittedly, some very lame) episodes later, The Simpsons is as sharp and layered as ever. There is something for everyone. It takes us to the edge of insulting our intelligence and then soothes our synapses with profound societal and sociological insight. Basically: Just like real life.
Yes, really. Think about it. One of the standout episodes is the flashback to how baby Maggie came into being. Things were going well for the family so Homer could finally quit the drudgery and demoralization of his job at the power plant and pursue his dream career: working at a bowling alley. Okay. Maybe your dream career isn’t working at a bowling alley, but, we all have a “bowling alley” dream career. If I had a bazillion dollars and could quit the monotony, agony and demoralizing job I call my career, I would love to have a rock shop – go around collecting rocks, tumble and polish them and serve the rock hounding public. No. There is not a big rock hounding public and no one ever got rich selling rock tumblers and rock tumbling supplies. It’s debatable that anyone in the rock hounding trade has ever been able to keep a roof over their head and food on the table solely on their rock work. Logic and practicality and a need to survive keep us from our “bowling alley” dream jobs. And along came baby Maggie, more expenses and Homer had to eat humble pie, swallow his pride and dreams, deal with reality and return to work at the power plant. So much for his dream job. Did he resent Maggie? Probably. But this is Homer and he’s not capable of connecting lofty concepts like resentment and existentialism. Instead when old Burnsy gives him an office plaque reading Don’t Forget: You’re Here Forever, Homer covers it up with photos of Maggie so it reads: Do It For Her. Awwwwwwww. Homer redeems himself for a moment there.
We know about existentialism and see it so clearly and cleverly and funnily woven into the episode. Others unfamiliar with existentialism see it as a touching moment of tenderness for Homer. Either way, stupid as Homer is often portrayed, these moments of existentialism/tenderness redeem him to us. He’s human and he’s not as stupid as he usually seems. Whether or not we want to admit it, we’re Homer. Homer, rightly or wrongly, has learned to enoble the void, deal with his life, exert free will, by finding escape and camaraderie by drinking at Moe’s. Maybe you don’t drink, but you probably do something to exert your free will, a way to escape the monotony of your life and justify your diversion by counting off the ways in which your life sucks, demanding job, financial stress, unfulfilling relationships. You may not sit on a bar stool, but we all have diversions which we use to ignore our responsibilities. I swore I’d keep religion out of this but there are people (probably not reading this blog) who use religion as their escape and a way to avoid the realities, monotony, and fears of their lives. I find it ironic that they exert their “free will” by doing and believing exactly what their church tells them to do or believe. But hey, whatever gets you through the night. The rest of us drink (where everybody knows our name), or take drugs (Cymbalta? Prozac? Zoloft? Lexapro? Paxil? Elavil? Remeron? Nardil? Wellbutrin? Effexor anyone?), spend a little too much time at the gym (and insist it’s for health benefits), go shopping (credit card debt and mortgage foreclosures are at an all time high, we didn’t get there by spending quiet evenings at home with the family), spend inordinate amounts of time online (thank you, Al Gore, we love the internet), take vacations we really can’t afford (hey, we all need a break, so what if it takes five years to pay for it? Enjoy it while you’re young!), stick our noses in books (can you really read too much?!) watch television we know is bad and don’t really even like that much…
American Idol, yes, that’s a pop culture phenomenon. Well. Depending on which definition of phenomenon you want to use. If you use the “an object or aspect known through the senses rather than by thought or intuition” then yes, it’s a phenomenon. It relies solely on sensory response. What the viewers hear and see on the screen before them, and why they tune in two or three nights a week, season after season, has little to do with logic or cognitive intelligence apart from the senses. Someone sings badly or looks “funny,” the judges scoff, criticize and make fun of them, further stimulating the viewers’ ears and eyes, viewers laugh. It’s very basic, low maintenance, little effort entertainment. There isn’t a lot a gray matter involved in any aspect of American Idol. It’s a cheaply packaged, heavily marketed insult to intelligence and swindle on the music listening public. So the fact that it has endured several seasons is a phenomenon. There’s no noumenon aspect to it whatsoever. It’s cheap, formulaic, rudimentary and forgettable. (Quick! Who won third season?! If you are proud to assuredly shout out the correct response in seconds without the aid of Google you are at the wrong blog.) Oh sure, I can see the guilty pleasure aspect of it, I can see the “eh, there’s nothing else on and I had a really rough day at work” aspect to it, I can even see the “wow, he/she is really cute” aspect to it. But we’re not talking culture. We’re not talking insight. We’re not talking about anything we can relate to on any significant level. (Unless you are a future Idol hopeful, in which case I suggest you do a lot more than study the weekly episodes.) It’s throw-away entertainment, trash television. And that’s fine. Nothing wrong with that. Hey, I’ve been known to watch Gilligan’s Island. Trash television does serve a legitimate purpose. We can’t be all intelligent and insightful all the time.
What’s disturbing about American Idol is that people, many, many people, take it very seriously. And not only do they take it seriously, they think it’s real. They believe in it. They spend the money to call or text in their votes week after week. And these are not innocent children. Many adults buy into it and love it. Think it's harmless entertainment. Lemmings.
Lambs to the slaughter.
Historically a new century is a little shaky on its legs for the first few years and then big things start happening. Innovations, politics (revolts, overthrows, wars), cultural renaissances and the like get into full swing. So sure, when it debuted in the early ‘00s, Idol and all its global iterations was “typical” new century, not sure what the heck is going on here entertainment. In other words: Vaudeville.
Vaudeville had its place and laid a foundation for better things to come. (Insert dissertation on the popularity of The Three Stooges and the decline of Western civilization here) But it’s now 2008, people! C’mon! The lethargy from the hangover of the ‘80s is no longer a valid excuse. Culture is lacking. Big time. Our zeitgeist called and it wants us to do somethinig.
For the purpose of this blog we’ll call culture art, literature, music, movies, theatre, dance and food. I do firmly believe politics and religion are cultural, as well, but I’ll save that for another day or a five volume book. I included food because food has become a form of entertainment, elevated (or demoted, depending on your point of view) to something much more than nutrition to keep our bodies working.
There’s a good book on this very topic by Joe Queenan. Published in 1999, Red Lobster, White Trash and the Blue Lagoon is a good starting point for the study of the dumbing down and numbing of minds in terms of culture in “our” time. It was an apt and telling look at culture in the post-‘80s confusion and hangover.
I laughed when I read it, knowingly, sadly and sometimes guiltily. I remember thinking it was a good summarization of the end of the 20th century. I tucked it away and thought it would be funny to look back and re-read it ten years later. I remember thinking surely things would change for the better in the coming years of the new century. I predicted I would get a kick out of reading about the woeful state of zeitgeist in the '90s written by as a lament against that very zeitgeist.
I cheated. I didn’t wait for ’09. I picked it up again last weekend.
I was so, so, so wrong back in 1999. And American Idol embodies all of what’s wrong and all the ways I was wrong.
Back in '99 I gave “us” too much credit. I relied on history to salve my fears and concerns about the state of the world, culture, and life in general. I thought surely, as in the past, the new century would bring changes - exciting, maybe sometimes scary or weird, but changes.
Heck, I thought my own life would bring changes. I'd met a great guy and I was falling very deeply in love. I didn't know it then but I was on the brink of being egaged and planning a life and future with the man I trusted, loved, liked and thought would always be there for me and with me. I was generally happy with the direction my life was taking.
And now here I am. My personal life story mirrors society's and culture's story: Things looked promising, it seemed like we were smart and moving forward, the future didn't look ridiculously wonderful, but it didn't look bad, either. It seemed like we were finally getting a grip on reality and were dealing with it and even having a few laughs about it. And yet, here we are. 2008. My life has changed very little for the better and a lot for the worse. Ditto society or culture.
And yes, the century is young.
Yes, it’s unfair to judge the century when we’re only eight years into it. But. Um. In case you haven’t noticed, things aren’t really “happening” out there in the world.
Obviously the biggest issue this century is 9/11 and the subsequent political weirdness. (Bush, Iraq) Yes. I’ll grant us that. 9/11 was a hard punch in our collective gut. I’ll cut us a lot of slack for ’01 and ’02. Looking back, I can suspend my personal music tastes for a minute and theorize about the advent of American Idol in 2002 and why it was so popular. It had a ‘90s kind of cultural diversity/melting pot quality. They were a nice group of diverse kids, but none of them were “too” diverse. There was something for everyone, but none of them were too much of anything. They were safe, edgeless. They played in Peoria and in East LA. They were as generic as the pop songs they were given to sing each week. They were non-threatening. The biggest threat to our fragile and sensitive hearts was Simon Cowell and his scripted, badly delivered criticisms. Which could explain why “pathetic” seemed like such harsh and shocking criticism to off-key warbling.
That was then. This is now. Bush is in his second term, Hussein is gone but the murder continues in Iraq, no one seems to be concerned about North Korea. Political life goes on and on and on. Are we so caught up in the monotony of nothing changing that we aren’t demanding more from our culture? Surely “we” are not happy with the political landscape, continued death toll and apathy toward real threats.
I know, I know. We’re just little citizens, we can’t change the world. True enough in a lot of respects. But. Not at all true in others. Believe me. If no one tuned into American Idol for just two weeks, FOX would axe it faster than you can say Greg the Bunny. We can’t change the world, but we can change the channel. We can create something new and different.
For crying out loud, Castro, Fidel swutting Castro, stepped down, willingly, from his dictatorship in Cuba. Um. Things are happening. It’s time to move on with our culture. Where are our Impressionists, Surrealists, DaDaists, Expressionists? Where is our Charlie Chaplin and Rudolph Valentino? Where are the Scot Fitzgeralds, the Gertrude Steins? The Rachmaninoffs, Debussys, Ravels? Heck, I’d settle for a Gerswhin. Maybe the century is too young to judge. It’s too soon to tell. It’s only 2008, give it a chance, right? Well, yes, right.
But. What’s emerging in culture? I don’t see much. And I’m “out there.” I go to live concerts and hear the new bands. I go to galleries and see the new artists. I read. A lot. I watch so many movies my mailman has a special place in his bag for my Netflix deliveries. I try new restaurants.
And what do I see, hear and taste? A lot of safe, edgeless corporate backed generia.
I don’t know why. But I know it bothers me. And it explains the continuing success of American Idol. Maybe it’s a new, higher breed of existentialism. Maybe we’re so apathetic and tired and in an anti-depressant stupor that we just gave up and accepted our generic corporate sponsored fate. Rent Idiocracy for this century’s answer to Orwell’s 1984. The truth is out there but very few people realize it pertains to them. American Idol seems harmless, but what it’s doing to society as a whole, in terms of disposable “culture” and the over marketed mind-numbing of society is cause for concern.
And yet, if you tune into FOX on a Sunday night when there’s not a NASCAR race or football game, you’ll find a safe oasis in the cultural desert. If the writers of The Simpsons can not only do it, but keep it on the air successfully for 20 years, there must be other people out there who can do it, too.
But who…who has the insight and the ability to reach a global audience…who can get past the corporate sponsors and small minded, bottom line watching producers, agents and publicists? Who can prevail without marketing or media spin? Who? Who can do this? We are here, we are out there, but we’re not represented.
Well, not so fast with the decline of humanity.
There is one thing I forgot to mention.
Blogging, baby, blogging.
Blogging is the cultural renaissance of the 21st century. Well, at least thus-far. It’s all we have to show for ourselves. And frankly, the quality of blogging is declining. We need to inject some new life into it or it, too, will soon become an American Idol generic vehicle for corporate sponsors and marketing.
Right now, blogging is power to the people. But sadly, a lot of blogs, perhaps even some you read, are “sold out” to sponsors. I have never pimped out this blog and I never will. Sure, I could use AdSense, I could make a few pennies for click throughs, but I’m not doing it for money. I still have no idea why I do this, but, I know for certain it’s not for money. I’m in marketing for crying out loud, if I wanted to make money on a blog I could. I think. I mean, I hope I could. But. I’m not quite desperate enough to sell all my ethics, morals and principles. And words. And thoughts. The second a blogger opts to make a penny via their blog, is the second they sell out. I’m not saying it’s wrong, I mean, sometimes there’s honest public service involved. And yes, I link to books, and music, and art, and movies. And maybe some of you even buy my recommendations. So yes, just “as bad” in terms of marketing. But. I’m not making any money on it. It’s simply one friend telling another about a book or band or artist. It’s true independent press. And that’s really cool. And that’s about all we have going for us thus far this century. And that's why, even though my medical bills are staggering and at my current rate of repayment won't be paid until 2012, I won't pimp out the blog. Rest assured. There are no sponsors, agents or producers here.
But even blogging and corporate sponsored blogging has me concerned. There are official American Idol blogs on the FOX website, but all The Simpsons have is an email newsletter. D’oh.
I’m a history buff and a sociology dork. So this will come as no surprise to anyone. I like to look at vintage advertising. Sure, it’s good for a laugh, the novelty aspect of times gone by can be very humorous. When you look at turn of the 20th century advertising you’ll see a lot of dubious products which fall into the category of snake oil.
Do I think everyone was so naïve back then that everyone bought these products? No. And I hope 100 years from now people don’t think that I, and everyone else, believed what they saw and heard on infomercials and bought the products. The same was true then as it is now: If a product is good all you need is a little brand awareness to nudge a segment of the population into plunking down money for it. And under the umbrella of brand awareness and target market grew the concept of image and branding. Some of this is simple logic: You’re not going to sell hair growth tonic by using a bald spokesman. But there’s a bud of a deeper message which came into full bloom in just a few years. Image. Those lovely Coca-Cola Gibson Girls and the beguiling Maxfield Parrish beauties on GE calendars were selling a fantasy, a stylized image which suggested that these products were used by these lovelies and if you are, or want to be, lovely, too, surely you will buy into this product and be part of the fantasy.
Okay, that’s an easy concept in marketing. And it’s interesting to look back on those days and read and see what was popular, what was held up as important, socially significant. You know what you see advertised back then? A lot of highly stylized illustrations of beautiful people hawking products which will make the buyer more beautiful. Times haven’t changed that much. It’s all about image and beauty. Or so the advertising of the day would have us believe. They didn’t have television back then, so, there were no “reality” shows. And no Jerry Springer or Maury Povich to serve as an ode to the common man. Or woman. Unfortunately we are leaving that legacy to future generations. They will be able to look at more than print advertising for a peek into our life and times. And we’re leaving them American Idol. Do you want your grandchildren to think you watched and listened to that pabulum? Do you want them to assume you voted for your favorite Idol? Do you want them to think you liked Ryan Seacrest? No? Feeling helpless about this?
You’re not. Thanks to Al Gore and modern life, you have a tool. Blog. Blog to your heart’s content. Blog your brains out. Let’s look at it another way. American Idol = bourgeois. Blogging = a voice against mainstream fodder, the bourgeois. You can sit back in an existentialist funk, or a anti-depressant haze, or credit card shopping frenzy, or, you can blog.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
The v word day is tomorrow.
I toyed with the idea of taking the day off work and hermitting myself away at home, not even opening the door to retrieve the mail, until February 15. That’s the best, or only way I can come up with to avoid the onslaught of flowers, balloons, fluffy pookie bears and whatever else is popular to disrupt offices on Valentine’s Day.
I know. I know, okay? I know. I know how that sounds.
Bitter old shrew of a spinster.
I know.
A female love Scrooge.
Maybe it’s time to throw up my arms in defeat and admit that’s what I’m becoming. A good, solid, caring, loving long term relationship remains evasive and eludes me, so I don’t want anything to do with the International Day of Marketing Love.
Not making love, marketing love. Note the difference. If other people want to pimp out their emotions, sell them for the price of a bouquet of roses and fluffy red pookie bear with devil horns, well, that’s their business.
Yes, I am cynical about Valentine’s Day. Bitter about it? No. Envious, resentful or otherwise jealous of people who are sent tokens of love and affection on this day? No. But unfortunately I am single and I do not buy into Valentine’s Day.
It’s A = B, B = C so A= C. And in this case, A = Single, B = Distaste for the International Day of Marketing Love, and C = looking like a bitter, resentful, jealous shrew of a lonely old spinster.
For the record if I had a boyfriend my choice would be that he wouldn’t buy into it, either. I like him to be enlightened and mature and agree with my point of marketing view on the whole thing. I’d like him to have enough respect for his feelings, my feelings and our relationship that he wouldn’t feel a need or pressure or obligation to pimp it out to a bouquet of roses. But, on the other hand, if he felt truly moved to do something for me on February 14, well, I mean, I’m not going to go all ungracious recipient on him.
I’ve tried it all, every coping technique. Embracing and accepting it. Making fun of it. Celebrating my singleness on it. Pretending not to notice it. One year I even weighed the pros and cons of suicide. I decided it would be cliché, and I certainly didn’t want Valentine’s Day to win and claim another lonely victim. And none of the others “work” either. There’s no ignoring it, but I can’t really accept it, either. No matter how much I hate it, no matter how much I see through the marketing hype of it, no matter how stupid and insignificant I think it is, it still calls attention to the fact that I am the only one in the office who doesn’t receive something from a partner, or the only one who doesn’t have special plans for that evening. It makes me conspicuous in the absence of flowers, pookie bears or plans for the evening. I’m singled out of a crowd of happy couples. Couples wherein the men have been threatened, hinted to, marketed to, guilted into and otherwise cajoled into “celebrating” Valentine’s Day.
I can guarantee that we’ll have a high absentee rate on Friday. Valentine’s Day is Thursday. The following Monday is a holiday. You do the math. So much for that project on a tight deadline.
Ooops, there’s Scrooge again. Send in the ghosts of Valentine’s past, present and future and then…on second thought, let’s skip the trip down memory lane.
Suffice it to say Valentine’s Day has never been good to me. I was the kid with the most creative and best looking Valentine’s Day card box. I won a prize every year for my artistically designed and crafted card box. But for all it's glorious artistic merit, it would remain almost empty by the time the Valentine's Day party got into full swing and everyone tore open their boxes to dig into their Valentine's cards from classmates. A few of my girl friends would give me a card with a kitten or Barbie on it, but that was it. My parents were very strict about this sort of thing. They made me give a Valentine to every kid in my class. And my mother would usually get the really good Valentine’s card kits, the ones with the candy you attach to the card. I had to give one to everyone. Even stupid bratty Renee. Renee teased me about this. She’d tell her posse that I was so desperate to get a Valentine I gave fancy cards to everyone. I was so embarrassed and ashamed of my measly card acquisition that I’d lie and tell my parents I left “all” of them at school. I made it sound like I had a lot. I mean, it’s a white lie, and not even really a lie, I did leave all of them at school. It’s just that “all” of them were usually only two. They were so strict about me giving everyone in my class a Valentine that I didn’t want them to know other kids didn’t do that and that their well intended lesson in altruism left me looking stupid and pathetic. I’d instead quickly swing the conversation to my triumph in the box design contest. Oh yes. Valentine’s Day is just a big decorated shoe box full of fun, isn’t it?
The present is much the same and the future’s not looking any different.
I that ghost of Valentine's Days past just haunted me, I’ll be like Scrooge and learn valuable life lessons! Take the lesson my parents instilled in me and give everyone, friend and foe, a Valentine.
Go ahead! Take the whole week off! Enjoy yourselves! Here, have a heart shaped box of chocolate, overpriced wilty roses and edible undies! God bless us, every one!
Actually, now that I think about it, the love Scrooge wouldn't be a bad idea for a Lifetime original movie. Or maybe even a cineplex hit starring Drew Barrymore. Now that the writers' strike is over maybe I should consider that possibility. What was their final deal? Quite a tidy little sum of money to churn out the pabulum they produce in the form of television and movies.
I was very tempted to take February 14 off from work and just hide in bed with a book. No internet, no mail, no television, nothing that could in any way let Valentine’s Day into my home. You know, like the Grinch tried to do with Christmas.
Yes. Not only am I love Scrooge, I’m the love Grinch.
And yes, I know the lessons from those stories. So I know it’s better to acknowledge it, accept it, and be happy for those who enjoy it. That’s enlightenment, right?
So I’m not taking the day off work. And I might even make treats for the gang at physical therapy. Yes. I intentionally scheduled a physical therapy appointment on Valentine’s Day. Hey, emotional pain, physical pain, might as well make a day of it.
What I need are some snappy come-backs for the catty remarks and sad puppy eyes I get because I don’t have anything delivered to me and no special plans for the evening.
Come-backs that don’t sound bitter and shrew-like. I don’t want to answer the question asked about me behind my back. (“What’s wrong with her? Why isn’t she married or with someone?”) A bitter or shrew-like retort would only solidify the theory that I’m a horrible, awful person no man can tolerate for more than one date. Which does actually appear to be the case, but I don’t think it’s because I’m bitter or shrew-like. At least not on the first date. All ideas for a response to the "Where's your Valentine, Trillian?" asked by one of the catty bitches in the office who know darned well I don't have anyone romantic in my life would be very welcomed. It can't sound mean or bitter or defensive, but it can't sound overly humble or pathetic, either.
So to all the singles out there, rock on, solidarity, it’ll all be over in a day or two.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
There comes a time in woman's life when she wants her daddy.
That time came for me when I was defeated by a pipe wrench and hot water shut off valve.
I didn't think I was in over my head. Really. I've lived in a lot of vintage apartments. I've helped my dad with lots of household repair and improvement projects. When I was little I was the extra hand that was just small enough to hold a hard to reach part in place while my dad's bigger and confident hands would tighten, loosen, or otherwise adjust the part I was holding. I learned a lot holding various household, automotive and garden parts while my dad repaired, replaced or just tinkered with them. I learned the difference between home improvement and home repair. I learned that accurately and efficiently hammering a nail is 1/10 muscle, 1/10 skill, 1/10 good eyesight and 7/10 physics. I learned what molly screws are and how and when to install them and when to use screw anchors. I learned how to wire a ceiling lighting fixture. I learned to always shut off the main water valves before messing with anything under the sink. I learned that sticking your tongue between your teeth so it peeks out of your mouth increases concentration in tricky situations where skill and patience are required. And I learned some really good swear words and the appropriate time to use them.
I also learned that 8:00 PM on a Sunday night is the best to start a home improvement project.
I thought I learned that Sunday "afternoon" projects are fraught with problems and are in general a very, very bad idea. I thought this because on more than one occasion we started our Monday mornings with no water or no electricity or no heat or no car. My dad would intend to work on these projects after church on Sunday. But then there was Sunday dinner, and then the football game which was supposed to be a snooze would turn out to be a riveting game which would go into overtime, but, a man of his word and a man who never learned his lesson about starting projects on Sunday "afternoon," he'd say, "It'll only take a few minutes." What I know now, as an adult, is that this was like a kid writing a book report on A Tale of Two Cities on Sunday night when he hasn't even cracked the spine of the book. It seems do-able, two cities, a tale, how hard can it be?
The problem was not my father's skill level, or lack thereof. The problem was that inevitably he would need something from a hardware or automotive store. This was in the olden days before home improvement super stores. There was a hardware store, an auto parts store and a lumberyard. Very specific places for very specific items. And none of them were open after 4 PM on Sunday. (And in the case of the lumberyard in my home town, not open at all on Sundays) I know! That's like, weird! Inconvenient or what?!
And my dad worked on Monday mornings. And usually had a big Monday morning meeting he couldn't miss. So. Staying home to finish the home repair/improvement was usually not an option. Which meant my dad would stop at the store on the way home from work, get whatever he needed to finish the project, and Monday night would be spent on the Sunday "afternoon" project. Meanwhile, those of us at home on Monday were left to deal with whatever inconvenience was created by the Sunday "afternoon" project.
I blame the NFL.
My mother blames the entire male gender.
There were a few times she called in a specialist to finish or re-do my dad's handiwork before he got home after work on Monday. This really, really angered my dad. My dad cannot stand paying someone to do anything around the house. It's not that he's cheap. It's a point of pride with him. His house, his family, he provides for and takes care of both. And, well, yeah, those specialists are vultures who take advantage of people who don't know any better.
But a few times a specialist would actually do something clever or skillful and my dad would be impressed. He'd say something like, "Oh, well, see, that's a new (whatever, some complicated sounding device) that's only available to the professional trade. Us regular Joes don't have access to that sort of (complicated sounding device)."
I always felt sorry for the poor sap who came to our house to do a repair. If my dad was there he'd hover behind, next to or over the repairman. And watch. Like a micromanaging foreman. And when the bill was presented my dad would scrutinize it as if it were a sworn affidavit. He'd cross examine the repairman over every detail. Even though he'd been present during the entire operation and saw firsthand everything that had gone into the repair.
Meanwhile my mother would trot off to get her purse, return, swiftly pull out her wallet or checkbook, pay the guy while my dad was still cross-examining him, and then purposefully, poignantly, snap her purse closed in my dad's direction. This was the signal that the home repair was complete and there would be no more discussion of the subject. The words not needed to be spoken thanks that that purse snapping closed were, "Ohfergodsake shut up and leave the poor man alone and don't ever try to install a new bathtub at 9PM on a Sunday night and if you want dinner on the table and clean laundry you'll call a professional next time we need something done around here." I think my mother chose a particular style of purse specifically for it's poignant closing latch capabilities.
That's what I thought I learned from my dad about Sunday afternoon projects.
But apparently I am my father's daughter.
Because around 10:00 PM on a Sunday night I decided it would be a good time to see if I could remove the ugly vanity in my bathroom.
It seemed easy enough. I read the how-to guides and conferred with my dad on three phone conferences. I consulted the This Old House website. This Old House is sacred in my family. I grew up watching it. Some families gather around and bond over touching shows like The Waltons or Family Ties. My family bonds over This Old House. Over the years my dad has ordered episodes on VHS so that he could use them as a reference guide for replicating the project. Most of the time, though, he just takes notes during the show. You know how some people like to show off how smart they are by shouting out the answers on Jeopardy? My dad likes to show off his DIY skill by talking about the project before they actually do it on the show. "Ahh, yes, they're going to have to install a new water heater. They'll probably go with one of the new tankless systems..." or "Uh oh, that old furnace is going to be a pain to remove, they're going to have to bust through the cellar wall to get that out of there, might as well wait on the landscaping until after that project and that looks like a weight bearing beam in front of it..."
I bought the tools the guy at the home improvement super store said I'd need. I thought I was ready and well versed and that this project would be a snap.
I was so, so, so very wrong. And worse, it was 11 PM in my parents' time zone when I discovered I'd underestimated the skill required for the job. It was too late to make an SOS call to my dad. If I call after 10 PM they get all jumpy scared because no one calls after 10 PM unless it's very bad news. Since they're both in ill health I didn't want to stress them out with a late phone call. My dad needs all the rest he can get right now and I didn't want him fixating on my home improvement project all night. I frantically emailed my brother photos of my situation thinking he could talk me through it. He was stumped, too. And the home improvement center closed at 9 PM. So I was on my own with this one.
That's a scary feeling. I've never been on my own with these kinds of projects. My dad or brother or guy at the home improvment center have always been there for me. If I couldn't figure it out, or got in over my head, I had some good resources for advice.
I dejectedly dropped the pipe wrench in an admission of defeat.
All those years, all that time spent helping my dad...what good did it do me? I didn't learn the most important lesson: Do not begin home improvement/repair projects on a Sunday evening.
There's an entire industry build around after hours in-home service. Anything can be done, or re-done correctly, at any time on any day or night.
If you're willing to pay.
I wasn't.
The really ridiculous part of all this is that I was merely "looking" at the vanity. I wanted to uninstall it to see what the floor is like underneath it. I wanted to see how difficult it would be to replace it and if my hopeful replacement would be attachable to the existing water lines. I don't actually have the new replacement vanity, nor was there anything wrong with the water or sink. This was simply a fact finding mission.
And I really botched it. Badly.
I had to brush my teeth and wash my hands and face in the kitchen. Not a big deal. But eerily reminiscent of the time my dad decided to replace a sink on a Sunday night. The upshot of it was that we didn't have water in the entire house until Monday night.
Okay, it wasn't that bad. I had water in the kitchen and I could take a shower. I'll hand it to my dad. He didn't paint himself into too many home repair/improvement corners, but boy when he did the resulting discomforts in the house were huge and required a team of trained experts to fix. And in fairness to my dad, there was usually an underlying issue or problem which wasn't evident when he began the job. You know, go to replace a sticking light switch, discover it was sticking because a wire was too tight, go to loosen the wire and discover it's not grounded properly...and so on until the entire room needs to be re-wired.
There's another lesson I learned from my dad. Well, kind of an addendum to the Sunday "afternoon" project lesson. When it comes to home repair/improvement, things are rarely what they seem. A sticking light switch is rarely just a sticking light switch.
Very good and valuable lessons. And yet did I learn anything from them? Apparently not. I couldn't sleep. All I could see was the vision of my mother snapping her handbag shut after paying a repairman. Over and over and over she snapped it at me.
I sheepishly (and sleepily) called my dad the next day. Told him my dilemma. Emailed him photos.
I should back up here a minute. When I bought my condo my dad was happier and more excited than I was. I just desperately needed a place to live ASAP and happened to hit the home loan market at the right time and happened to qualify for low income mortgages. I wasn't really thinking about all the home improvement possibilities apart from some paint and new lighting fixtures. Keeping a roof over my head and a place to sleep was pretty much the only thing I was thinking about at the time. My dad, on the other hand, was gleefully anticipating all the fixing up "we" could do now that I owned a home of my own. My dad told me to make a list of all the projects I wanted to tackle in my place, then prioritize them. Eventually I did, but it's taken a while. I'm still not used to the idea that I am paying a mortgage and therefore I can do whatever I want to my home. Maybe if I hadn't spent most of the year in agony with my foot and recovering from surgery I might have been more focused on my new place. But with the medical expenses mounting higher every week, the last thing on my mind (or in my budget)is home improvement projects. But my dad remains eager. One of the reasons he's down about the long haul of cancer treatment is that he can't travel and therefore cannot come over to help me with projects around the condo.
I'm still compiling the list of projects and priorities. It changes and grows every week. Before cancer his, every time he came over he arrived with his tool boxes. Together we removed a scary, ugly, ill operating ceiling fan, fixed the water pressure in the kitchen, repaired an window that wouldn't open and re-installed the air conditioner so it sits level and doesn't sound like a jet engine revving. Not bad for only a couple of short weekend visits. I know he's itching to dig into the big stuff, the good stuff. New flooring and a radiant heat element in the bathroom, new cabinets and a dishwasher in the kitchen. I know it's bothersome to him that cancer has knocked him down and left him recuperating and weak in a recliner. I finally have my own place, a place loaded with projects for him to get his hands on, and now there he is stuck on the sidelines only able to offer phone advice.
I hate cancer. It makes me mad. My dad and I were finally going to have some projects to work on together. My mother told me he's been talking up my condo to all his friends. "Right on the Lake! You should see her view! Yessirree, with a little elbow grease and some help from dad she'll have a real gem of a home on her hands..." He finally has something to brag about me other than school and grades and university degrees. He gets to feel vital and useful, I get to have some great help and free advice, we both get to spend time together. S'all good. And then stupid, mean cancer came along.
But, at least I have him to give me phone advice. He told me what I needed to pick up on my way home from work. I made the trip to the home improvement center. I called him from there to verify my choice. I knew what I needed but I wanted him to feel part of the process, needed, useful. I called MAF. He came over and with my dad talking us through the re-installation we got it back (almost) to its original position. I can brush my teeth and wash my hands and face. I'm not touching it again.
My mother was cool. She didn't laugh at me. Too hard.
I narrowly escaped having to call in a professional. It was too close for comfort. There won't be a next time. If it involves a pipe wrench I'm not touching it.
Wednesday, February 06, 2008
Thank You for Not Smoking
You can choose your friends but not your neighbors.
Good fences make good neighbors.
Love thy neighbor.
Even if thy neighboreth is negligent and nearly burneth down the entire building?
I'm "lucky." Most of the people in my building are either single, young working stiffs like me, or senior citizens. There are a few students who live in studio condos rented out by the owners. Generally a quiet, affable group of people.
Except for the inconsiderate jerk who lives next door to me. I don't think he has a job because he's always home. I know he's always home because he plays his stereo, with amps at 11, from 8PM - 2:30 AM every night. Yes. Really. Every night. And during the day, too. I think he only turns it down (hardly ever off) for a few hours here and there to sleep. I've only seen him a few times. He's a middle aged, balding but long haired heavy metal dude. He wears ripped jeans (with ubiquitous trucker wallet), worn out concert t-shirts and slippers. Yes. Slippers. To the grocery. Whatever, dude. Rock on. I've asked him nicely to turn down his stereo after midnight. (more than a fair request, I think) He refuses to comply. I can turn him into the condo management. I haven't done that yet. I don't want to be that woman. But. Still. It may have to come to that.
But other than headbanger dude, I like my neighbors. We have a nice, friendly atmosphere.
Which is why I was more than a little freaked out to get a phone call at work during the middle of a really bad winter storm that there was a fire in my building and if at all possible it might be a good idea for me to get home to inspect my unit before the fire crew left.
If you've never received a phone call like that, well, you're lucky. It's a very, very strange experience. An out of body experience. You hear the words, you know what they mean, yet you hear them as an echo in a canyon, like someone is yelling to someone else. Because surely this cannot be happening to you.
Through heart racing panic I asked if everyone was okay. Yes. Everyone who was home got out. Mrs. Tang? What about Mrs. Tang? She's in a wheelchair. Yes. She's fine. The pets, the animals, what about the animals? All okay.
Okay. Well. Then. That's all that really matters.
The echo asked me if I have condo insurance.
At that point my life didn't flash before my eyes, but the contents of my life did. Oh sure, they're just things, blah blah blah, but, they're my things and I don't have many things so I quite value the few things I have. I need them.
Yes...I have insurance...
Good, good, that's good. Because some of the residents don't and...
At that point I said, "I'll get there as fast as I can, I'll find out the details when I get home."
The rest is kind of a blur. The bus took forever to get anywhere near home, and once it was four blocks from my building it was re-routed down a side street because the police and fire department had several blocks closed off because of...the fire. I limped up to my building like in a dream state. Several fire trucks, four ambulances, police cars everywhere. I finally made it through the crowd, showed my license, and made it into the building. The first thing I saw were two enormous firemen in full gear coming toward me with axes, like a slow motion movie trailer for Backdraft except without the wall of flames behind them. One of the more surreal moments of my life.
Mind you, the fire was struck a few hour before I got there, but, there was a thorough building search, an investigation, and forms to fill out by the residents. Those of us who were displaced would need to sign forms to get any kind of assistance.
You heard me. Displaced. Assistance.
I'm lucky. I only have smoke smell damage. I'm hopeful with a few days of open windows and a lot of laundry, maybe a new coat of paint, I'll be in good shape.
The fire completely demolished a unit on the floor below me. There are eight units per floor. Everyone on the floor below me as well as two units on my floor (directly above the fire) and most of the units on the floor below the fire have serious water and smoke damage. They can't live in their homes for the foreseeable future because everything is ruined. I saw some of the meagre boxes and bags of salvaged items from the surrounding units. Bleak. The unit where the fire originated is completely burned out. Don't knock on wood for luck, knock on 12" thick concrete. The only reason I had a laptop to pack in my "staying with a friend" kit is because my building was built with super industrial thick concrete everything. I've been cursing and vexing this concrete everything as I attempt to do some home renovations. But now my tune has changed.
What's cool about my building is that in the midst of a horrible winter storm we all rushed home, checked our homes and began compiling items for our less fortunate neighbors. Someone's pastor showed up with pizza, pop and a couple boxes of donated shampoo, soap, toothbrushes, cleaning supplies and gloves, hats and scarves. One of my neighbors heard that Bounce dryer sheets soak up smoke smell, so we all began dropping trails of Bounce all over the building.
I had a walk-through with one of the fire department guys. He said the damage was minimal and I would probably only need to spend one night displaced. Another crew will make daily reviews to assess safety issues and who can or cannot dwell in their dwelling.
The fire guys were super nice. When they saw me limping along with my cane they gave me special permission to ride in the freight elevator with "the guys." Yeah. I got to ride with the fire crew guys. I liked my fire crew guys. They're the kind of firemen you'd expect to see in public service announcements for fire departments. Or beefcake fundrasier calendars called "The Men of FD 480." Big. Strong. Rugged. Focused. But would risk their life to save a kitten. You know the type.
When I gathered up my "staying with a friend" necessities and loaded up everything I could find for my neighbors who now have very little (and in at least one case, nothing) and a box of dryer sheets, I looked out the window. Night was falling and the snow and ice were really coming down. I'm lucky. For once, I'm lucky. My place smells like a paper plate caught on fire. A day with the windows open, maybe a sheet or two of Bounce, a couple loads of laundry, and everything will be okay. But below me and down the hall from me lives have been turned upside down and thrown out into a winter storm.
I like my neighbors.
Yes, even inconsiderate jerk headbanger slippers to the grocery dude. On my long bus ride home my mind raced through all the possibilities. And I kept landing on headbanger. He smokes pot. Not often, at least not often that I notice. But. I do notice. And I have suspected he's not quite, um, well, "right." As in there was a freak accident at a Metallica show when he was 20 and he hasn't been quite "right" since.
When I found out the fire started a floor below me I was actually relieved for my neighbor. I knew he'd be the first suspect on everyone's mind. When I moved in and people would ask me what unit I bought, they'd say, "Oh. Next door to (headbanger dude)." And give me a sympathetic apologetic look of understanding. He has a reputation. Well, I mean, he has earned it. Still, I was relieved he wasn't at fault.
Little by little I started hearing comments like, "It's Paul's place." I don't know Paul. At least not by name. I probably know him by sight. But I haven't quite connected all the names and faces yet. People were kind of saying "Paul's place" with a knowing attitude. Like they all figured it was headbanger dude or Paul. Paul was at work when the fire broke out in his place. He left a space heater running.
Ah yes, the dreaded space heater. Why do they even make those things? Whenever you hear about a tragic fire in winter, sure as tornados will hit trailer parks, it's always a space heater. And user negligence.
There's an irony here.
A few weeks ago I got a notice that there was going to be a fire inspection in every unit in the building. I've been having some ongoing issues with wiring in my bathroom. I've been having issues with finding and electrician who will actually show up to fix the problems. So. I was under tremendous pressure to get this wiring problem resolved before the inspection (and really, I've been trying to get a qualified electrician to show up to fix it, but this is a small job and these guys are not exactly eager, much less reliable. I am learning so much about home ownership.) I spent a lot of money to get an electrician to actually show up on a weekend. He did, and in the nick of time I got my wiring problem resolved before the fire inspection. That was a couple weeks ago. And yet just a few weeks later fire ravaged several peoples' lives. I cannot even articulate how happy I am that I paid the insane fee and got that wiring fixed before this happened.
MAF came to my rescue and I'm cozy in his spare bedroom. He and his partner made me a great dinner, we had a few drinks, and I'm fine.
Except I'm worried and upset about my displaced neighbors. For once I'm not the one suffering the brunt of a tragedy, and yet it still hurts. These are nice people. These are not wealthy people. They're young and old and on tight budgets. We all know we live in this building because it was the most we could afford. The younger among us are hoping the value holds or increases so we can maybe sell and get a bigger place in a few years. The older among us just hope they can afford to live out their years relatively comfortable in their little abode. And then this happens.
Fire tragedies strike anywhere, I know that. But. When you share your walls with many other people, you put your life and your possessions in their hands. A space heater? Seriously, a space heater? Headbanger amps at 11 slipper dude seems like Mr. Rogers now. Rude and inconsiderate is one thing. Negligent and risky is another thing entirely.
I'll happily listen to Gwar and Danzig all night long if the alternative is living next door to a guy who a) uses space heaters, and b) is irresponsible enough to leave them on when he's not home. I'm mad at this Paul person, this neighbor in my building of otherwise basically nice, responsible people. Who let him in here? Yes, I feel sorry for him. His condo is completely burned out. There's nothing to salvage and the restoration, well, I'm not sure even Ty Pennington and crew would want to tackle this project. After all, tearing it down and starting over isn't an option. So yes, irresponsible and negligent as he was, I do feel sorry for him. I'll help him, along with all the other neighbors who have damage and are displaced from their homes. But. My deeper sympathy and compassion is with the people who are not at fault. They didn't leave a space heater on when they weren't home. And yet they have water, smoke and lots of other damage to their homes. Two doors on my floor were demolished, shards and splinters of wood all over the floor. The fire crew obviously used those axes to gain access to the units directly above the fire. A small dog lives in one of those units. She was saved by the firemen and their axes. The dog's person, my neighbor, said he didn't care that he doesn't have a front door. The firemen could have axed through his walls and he wouldn't have cared as long as his dog was okay. I get that. I understand completely. But reality hits, and bites, because even if he could stay in his home (he can't due to smoke and water damage) he doesn't have a front door. He was just so relieved his dog was okay that the reality of what's next hadn't really sunk in yet. I have a lot more sympathy and concern for him (and his dog) than I do for negilgent, irresponsible Paul.
I'm trying to figure out why. I never really thought about degrees of compassion. I mean, compassion's compassion, right? You care or you don't, right?
Well...apparently there's some gray area. For some bizarre reason I was relieved my rude jerk headbanger neighbor wasn't at fault for the fire. Apparently there's part of me that feels sorry for him. Okay, yes, there, I said it. I feel sorry for him. He's in his 40s or early 50s and is life consists, from what I can tell, of living in a two room studio apartment listening to '80s and '90s metal at deafening volumes, smoking pot and going to the grocery in his slippers. Yes, I know, for some people that is living a dream, but it's got to get old once in a while. So, yes, I do have compassion for him.
But then there's Paul the negligent space heater neighbor. Was it just one moment of irresponsibility? One error in judgment, an innocent mistake? Probably. And let's face it, regardless of blame, his home is, well, gone. He's paying the heaviest price in all of this. But, others are paying heavy damage prices, too.
It comes down to forgiveness. WWJD? and all that. True compassion is blind to blame. I'm guessing when I return to my building and see the damage to his home I'll be so filled with sympathy that I'll be as sympathetic to him as I am to the blameless neighbors. (and for the record, yes, again, yes, I do feel sorry for him and I did contribute to the box of donations for him) But calls attention to the fact that living in a mult-unit building puts all the residents at the mercy of each other. Like it or not, we're a connected community. We share walls, and yes, like it or not, when those walls are damaged we have to share our lives with each other. We're only as safe as the most negligent resident, there's no I in T-E-A-M and all that. Yes, I'm trying to find enlightenment in cliche business motivational pith.
9:41 PM
Tuesday, February 05, 2008
Trillian Endorses...
In honor of Super Tuesday I'm going to publicly announce my endorsements.
I know, I know, I try really hard not to get political on here. (Except in the case of King Daley.)
But what the heck. It's 2008. What not?
I'm campaigning, contributing time, real effort and money to the cause.
The problem is that there are lots of causes and not all candidates are supportive of the causes I call worthy. What to do, what to do...
Vote with your conscience not a party affiliation and spend your time and money helping the causes which mean something to you. Be the change you want to see the in the world and all that pithy rhetoric. Take the time to find out how the candidates vote on issues which directly impact you, your city, your friends and family and the causes which are important to you. It's not horrendously difficult. The voting record and remarks of every congressperson and senator is public record and can be found here. Happy hunting and I hope your favorite politicians haven't said anything to embarrass you. The truth can be so disillusioning.
In the spirit of endorsements, here are mine.
Alley Cat Allies - Feral feline colonies are a thorny issue. Some cats prefer to remain independent. And it's not for us humans to catch, cage and trap them. But. They live in a human world, which means they suffer injury, cruelties and hardships of a human world. Alley Cat Allies respects feline independence and feral cat communities with several plans specific to the cat(s)' needs. Spaying/neutering, immunizations, health care, and intervention for high risk animals to name a few. Bonus for all the cat h8ers out there: Alley Cat Allies supports spay/neuter programs, so there are fewer cats for you to h8.
Apple- Well, I mean, you know, how could I not endorse Apple? If I had a son I'd name him Steve Wozniak iSon Jobs McIntosh. I'd call him iTosh. Or Woz for short. Or maybe Steve. Whichever. So yeah, it's probably a good thing the whole motherhood thing didn't happen for me.
Applesauce - Yes. The tart mushy stuff. You don't hear much about applesauce. It doesn't get a lot of press. That's a shame because it's a healthy snack with dozens of cooking uses. Let's hear it for applesauce.
ASPCA/RSPCA - Helping animals escape harm, injury, and death by enforcing a zero cruelty policy for 142/182 years. That that Michael Vick.
CASA- Helping abused and neglected children find safety and an advocate in the court system. You don't have to have a child live with you - there are loads of volunteer needs at all levels. You can make a very positive difference in a child's life and future.
Museums - Yes, you know, those places filled with old and weird stuff? The places you went on school field trips? Yeah. Those places. And not just art museums. (Though I love art museums and wholeheartedly endorse them, they tend to get all the publicity.) Sure, here in Chicago we're lucky. We have the Art Institute, The Field Museum, The Museum of Science and Industry, the Museum of Contemporary Art, The Shedd Aquarium, the Museum of Holography, the International Museum of Surgical Science...but I bet your town has at least one museum. Or historical society. Or a room in the basement of city hall or a display case in the library. So go check it out, take a look, learn something.
NRDC - Natural Resources Defense Council. Kind of like the ASPCA but with a broader spectrum which includes all natural resources. Very strong advocate for environmental issues. Long before Al Gore discovered Power Pointless and got a Nobel Peace Prize for inventing Global Warming, the NRDC was a thorn in politicians' side regarding environmental issues and how oil, manufacturing, pollution and a lack of industrial responsibility directly impacts the environment. They act as a watchdog on the bills and lobbying which effects natural resources. Get on their email list and you will be very informed of what's going on in the environmental world around you - and what your elected officials are doing to instigate or prevent natural resource abuse. The NRDC is a direct link between us, the people, and legislation impacting natural resources. Wanna keep tabs on how much your elected officials really care? Hook up with the NRDC. What you find out about your elected officials may shock and appall you (sometimes politicians bend the truth a bit, especially during a campaign year), but it's the first step to being informed. And information is good.
Online Dating - Okay, no, it hasn't led to a long term committed relationship for me, but, so far in my office alone there have been four engagements/three marriages as a result of online dating. Considering the majority of my coworkers have been married for years or are gay, those four online dating successes represent a large statistic of note. It can work. And I can vouch for the fact that if used properly most of the credible sites can at least lead to meeting a few decent, intelligent people you would otherwise never have a chance to meet.
Physical Therapists - I have to disclaim this endorsement. Good physical therapists. I had a so-so physical therapist who helped a little when I broke my ankle. Her personality annoyed me, but she did help me get back on my feet. However, she didn't really do much of anything I wouldn't have done on my own. Well. Eventually. But now I have an amazing physical therapist helping me through what's turning into an horrific ordeal with my foot surgery. She is working directly with my doctors, not just sending an email report. She even went to a few appointments with me. She's advocating for me and truly helping me deal with the Rube-Goldbergian nightmare I've been living for the past year. She knows her stuff, she knows how bodies work and she knows what's wrong with mine. And she has an innovative plan for helping me walk again and more importantly, she's helping me alleviate pain without serious medication. Hey, I'm all for serious medication, especially for pain, but when it's not doing anything except causing liver damage and mental issues I can't condone it. Enter: A good physical therapist.
Tesla Motors - 100% electric. 100% gorgeous design. 100% worth the price tag. Good for the environment. Good for the future of product design. Good for America. Rock on. (I keep hoping if I keep mentioning them on the blog someone will just, you know, give me one to drive.)
ZipCar - Until someone gives me a Tesla, I'm a proud Zipster. Actually, even if someone gives me a Tesla I'll remain a Zipster. a) I believe in, support and thoroughly endorse the idea and business model behind ZipCar, and b) Face it, there are times in everyones' lives when an SUV is handy. A trip to IKEA, a move across town, taking four 150 pound dogs to the vet. Going to Costco. It doesn't warrant the price and gas guzzling bad-for-the-environment purchase of an SUV, but, it would be handy two or three times a year. Enter: ZipCar. Wheels, even SUV wheels, only when you want or need them. I ♥ ZipCar.
10:00 PM
Saturday, February 02, 2008
It's Groundhog Day. Yipppeeee!! I love Groundhog Day.
You're sitting there thinking, "Huh? I mean, I know Trill's got some funny quirks but this is kind of a weird one, even for her. And aren't there animal rights implications to Groundhog Day?"
Hear me out on this. I'm not superstitious or a farmer or whatever you'd call the whole Groundhog Day thing.
1) The groundhogs they use for the "official" proclamation are treated pretty darned well and have a better life expectancy than groundhogs living in the wild. Am I okay with "taming" and exploiting wild animals? No, not really. But. Given the choice between giving some groundhogs a really cushy comfy life v. the thousands of groundhogs who are killed in roadside accidents, well, I'd have to go with the perspective that "taming" and exploiting few is saving a few who would otherwise have a life expectancy of about 2 years at most.
2) There's one huge red downer of a non-holiday holiday that gets all the attention in February. Since February 14th is a stupid, overmarketed, depressing (to some of us) day, I love to revel in the oft overlooked non-holiday holiday in February: Groundhog Day. While people are getting all hopped up high in anticipation of Valentine's Day, I'm all hopped up high, too, but in anticipation of Groundhog Day. The disturbing and telling fact that I'm all hopped up high on a chubby rodent called upon to forecast the fate of weather while other people are hopped up high on a cute little cherub bringing romance does not escape me. Given the state of my lovelife a chubby weather predicting rodent is the most excitement I'll be getting in February.
3) I have an annual tradition on February 2.
I watch Groundhog Day. The Bill Murray movie. Sometimes I even throw a little party. This year is a party year. I'm making rodent and weather related treats. He saw his shadow this year, so I'll be making snowflake cookies and mitten shaped brownies this afternoon. There will be warm libations like peppermint schnapps in hot chocolate and hot buttered rum. I've got fuzzy socks, mittens and Chapstick® as party favors. If Phil hadn't seen his shadow I'd be whipping up sunshine cookies and flower shaped brownies, serving margaritas and Hurricanes and sending people home with beach balls, rattan beach mats and suntan lotion. Yeah, that's the down side of a Groundhog Day party, you have to be prepared for either prediction. Still, after you do a few of these parties you get the drill down to a science.
There are two types of people in this world: Those who hate Groundhog Day and those who think it's layered and brilliant. I'm in the latter group. It's one of my all time favorite movies.
Oh sure, the first time I saw it the obvious comedic aspects were great. Time passed, I got a little older, a little wiser, a little more aware and depressed about the monotony of life, feeling stuck in a place where you don't really fit in, where you're accepted on the surface levels and manage to get along, but inside you know something's wrong, something's weird, something's not right. You're not alone but you're lonely because, well, really you are alone because you can't make anyone, not even one special person understand what's happening to you. Every day feels the same, you do everything you can to change it, and yet you can't quite escape the monotony. So you try everything you can think of to deal with it. You try to mock it. You try to accept it. You try to end it. And yet, sure as I've Got You Babe is one of the all time chirpiest guilty pleasure camp songs ever recorded, you wake up the next morning and face it all over again.
The more years that pass since the first time I saw Groundhog Day, the more I identify with it. It's still funny to me, and that's the crucial aspect of the movie. It would be a horrendous downer, brilliant, but a downer, like Eternal Sunshine... And therein lies one of the great aspects of the revisions to the original screenplay and Bill Murray. This situation, real or metaphoric, sucks. Bad. It really sucks. Suicidally bad. But. If you squint hard enough at it, there is a humorous aspect to it. Schadenfreude except you're not laughing at the misfortune of others, you're laughing at your own misfortune and misery. Maybe that's not a healthy psychological technique, but, it can lighten the load enough to keep the lure of an overdose of pills and alcohol under control. So, clinically healthy or not, seeing the funny side of your own misery can save your life. Bill Murray was perfect casting for this. He's funny, but not over the top funny. He's charming, but not sugary, dull charming. He's got bite, he gets it. He can be annoying, cynically mean, and doesn't suffer fools lightly, but, he's funny. And he does have it in him to be less annoying. We know that from the get-go. We see that he's a jerk, but there's depth to him and his character, there is a possibility for redemption and maybe even salvation. And he's funny. I mean, his lines and his delivery of those lines is funny. Quietly, intelligently, darkly, deeply funny. (Yes, as we know, I'm a huge Bill Murray fan and he and I had quite a little thing going there for a while. But still. He's fantastic in this movie. Oh, and, I've decided to use blog labels where appropriate. So instead of linking to previous Bill Murray posts, if you're interested in my history with Bill Murray, you just go to the end of this post, click on the "Bill Murray" link and all my previous Bill Murray posts will magically appear before you. It's better than "search this blog" because the I've chosen which posts are relevant, whereas search will bring you every post where the words are written. In this case of Bill Murray, for instance, only the posts about Groundhog Day or my history with Bill Murray will appear when you click on the label link. If you search Bill Murray you'll get all those and other random posts where he's mentioned offhand and not really relevant. (Though you could argue in this case, given my bizarre psychology with Bill Murray, all references to Bill Murray could be relevant.) Anyway, I've jumped on the label bandwagon. I ♥ tags. I ♥ the internet. Al Gore, The Future owes you so much, things we can't even dream of right now, we owe you everything for inventing the internet.)
The end, the theme of change and redemption triumphing and love conquering all, well, yeah, I mean, that's Hollywood for you. And this isn't alternative indie theatre Eternal Sunshine..., after all. It's mainstream '90s cineplex Groundhog Day. The isolation and depression themes are pretty heavy for the cineplex, so a chirpy little ending was required to keep viewing audiences from going home, examining the drudgery of their lives and killing themselves. And I never get the impression that Bill/Phil is going to live a life of kittens and rainbows even after he wakes up on February 3rd with Andie MacDowell. He may live a life less alone and with more personal insight, but there's no indication that poof! he's now going to live every day in a high-on-life giddiness. He's elated, of course, and life will never be the same, but, let's face it, even with deeper understanding and a special someone, life is still life and we are who we are. A little less loneliness and isolation can go a long way to assuaging the pain of solitary existence, but, better than average perception of life leads to cynical insight, no matter how fulfilled you are on a personal level.
And as for the "sweet" predictable ending, well, really, even the loneliest and most cynical among us want Bill/Phil to realize he was a pompous jerk with a bad attitude about women. We want him to realize that he needed to learn a few lessons about himself, "grow as a person." We want him to want Andie MacDowell for the right reasons. And we figure, hey, if it can happen to Bill/Phil, maybe, just maybe, if we keep trying, keep growing, one day the monotony and loneliness of our own life will ease. Maybe we'll find a way to be understood and accepted, at least by one special person and then we won't feel so isolated and lonely. If Bill/Phil can learn and grow and eventually succeed and escape, albeit with a lot of trial and error, certainly we can, too.
So. Happy Groundhog Day. If you haven't seen the movie in a while, I recommend it. Give it another viewing now that you're a little older and wiser than the last time you saw it. There's a 15th anniversary DVD out this year. (I know, 15 years?!! Really??? It's been 15 years??? Crap, talk about the monotony of life dragging on and on and on...) Oh, and, on the DVD there's great commentary by Harold Ramis and the original screenplay, "The Weight of Time." (Which is more dark and plays on the themes of loneliness and isolation.)
