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, May 28, 2009
It's times like these I wish I had a boyfriend/husband/man/mojo.
Instead I'm alone in a hotel suite with arguably the best view in the city drinking shots of I don't know what.
Alone.
Along with the shots is a card telling me: "Weather: Forecast for tomorrow, rain, high 74°. Did you know that the Art Institute of Chicago hold the largest collection of Impressionist paintings outside the Louvre in Paris? Located at the south edge of Millennium Park the Art Institute opened it's present site on Michigan Avenue in 1893 atop the rubble from the Great Chicago Fire.
PLEASANT DREAMS."
Seriously.
"...atop the rubble from the Great Chicago Fire.
PLEASANT DREAMS."
200 people dead. 70,000 homeless. An entire city burned. Pleasant dreams! Sauret and Monet for everyone!!!
I dunno. I guess the intention is nice...
Even more surreal is that knowledge that in a few months there's a good chance I may be homeless.
I wonder if the AIG people felt this way? Or the ancient Romans? Speaking of burning cities...
A dire, horrible destiny is knocking on the door but duty calls. Last gasp or spend money to make money? I dunno. I want to care, but I dunno.
For now I have shots of the unknown and a fabulous view.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
I’m going to say this to the world because apparently some people don’t get it.
If
you’re married and
your spouse works and
your company is going to lay off employees
do NOT go around saying things like: “Thank goodness (my spouse)’s job looks secure.” Or “If they let me go I’m going back to school. It won’t be easy but we can manage on (my spouse)’s salary for a year or two.” Or, to an unmarried coworker, “Well. You can always move home with your parents.” Or, “You don’t have children to feed. You aren’t responsible for anyone but yourself. Losing your job only affects you and you can find another job easier than those of us who have kids and have to pay for a babysitter when we go on interviews.” Or, “Gee, Trillian, how will you manage if you get laid off? Do you think you’ll be able to sell your condo?” Or, “Guess you’re going to wait to have that surgery, eh, Trillian? Better be sure you’re going to have a job and health insurance to pay for it! Boy am I glad I don’t have to worry about health insurance because (my spouse) has great health insurance.”
No matter what your marital/parental status, losing a job is awful. It sucks. Especially right now when new jobs are difficult to find and most people who are laid-off can expect 12 – 15 months of unemployment.
If you’re fortunate enough to have a spouse or partner who’s working and you can manage on that lone salary, great. I don’t begrudge you for it. But if you start bragging and flaunting it I will begrudge you for it. In fact I might even start saying out loud the things I keep to myself. Like how that wonderful health insurance card carrying husband of yours groped my boobs at the company party two years ago. And no, he wasn’t drunk. Or I might say something like, “Wow, you are lucky Jeff has a good job and can pay your mortgage. I guess you better stop cheating on him on business trips, eh David? Boy, that’ll be a shame, remember that guy you met in DC a few years ago?! No more catting around for you!”
Yes, I am fully aware that saying those sorts of things only makes me look bitter and immature. Are you aware that by stating the obvious about your spouse/partner and two income family you look smug and arrogant?
Don’t rub your single/zero coworkers’ noses in your stink of smugness about your spouse/partner and their income/health insurance/secure job. We’re all under a lot of stress. Pointing out the obvious only breeds contempt and ill-will.
And speaking of pointing out the obvious, yes, I know it seems like I’m stating the obvious. Apparently not. Because the second my company announced the possibility of lay-offs I have heard so much insulting talk regarding who “should” and “should not” be laid off that it’s become open, unhushed conversation.
At least once a week someone says to me “People without kids should be laid off before those of us with children. It’s only fair.”
Fair.
Right.
Okay.
Let’s play fair, then.
Remember all those times, parents, that you left at 4:30 on the dot, like always, even though we were in the middle of a huge project on a tight deadline? You had to pick your kid up from day care so you couldn’t stay to help on the project. Was it fair to the other people who had to stay late and even later because they were down a person who left to pick up their kid from day care?
Remember when it was time to schedule vacation days and you got to choose dates first because you have to work around the kids’ school schedule? Was it fair that the childless people had to schedule their vacations around your vacations because of your kids?
Remember when that nasty flu bug was going around and your kid was projectile vomiting and couldn’t go to school and you didn’t want to “waste” a sick day or vacation day to stay home with your sick child so you brought him to the office? Was it fair that you exposed everyone in the office to your child’s illness and infected 15 people who then had to take sick days because of your kid’s illness and your refusal to take a sick/vacation day?
Remember when your client in Miami needed someone ASAP, in August, and you couldn’t go because you have kids and couldn’t arrange for anyone to take care of them on short notice? Was it fair that someone else had to cover for you, deal with your client, change their plans and work schedule, to schlepp to Miami, in August, because you couldn’t find anyone to watch your kids for a couple days?
I know, I know. Bitter and immature.
A lot of people are having a good time planning my future for me. I kid you not, these are exact quotes spoken to me by coworkers.
“Trillian, your mother is having a hard time, you spend so many weekends with her anyway, if you get laid off you can move in with her and you two can keep each other company.”
“You love school so much, you can get financial aid and get another degree! That’s what I’d do if I were you. Just ride out this recession in college.”
“Your condo is so small you can rent it or maybe even sell it to a student with rich parents.”
“Sell your condo and take your severance and travel. Buy a car and just travel to visit all your friends and family. It’s a great opportunity, you’re single, no responsibilities, I’m jealous of you. You can travel and do whatever you want.” (For the record, my severance would barely pay my mortgage (and nothing else) for three months, and I don’t have enough equity in my condo to make a profit from selling it.)
“You can free lance, or open your own business!”
I’ve heard more plans for my future but you get the idea. People in my office want me to be laid off and have loads of ideas for me. These ideas are not attempts to help cheer me or help me, they’re attempts at assuaging their guilt for thinking and hoping I get laid off instead of them. If, in their mind, I have a future mapped out, there’s no reason to feel bad about me being laid off instead of them. They can even justify feeling jealous of me and my future post lay off. A few of them are also hoping that I’ll volunteer to be laid off so they’re dropping suggestions about a glorious future for me thinking it’ll persuade me to volunteer to go, thus reducing the chance of them losing their job.
I realize there’s a component of wistful thinking, too. With a spouse and/or kids, you have to consider other people in your plans for the future. You might even feel a little held down, prevented, from pursuing an idea for your future.
But that’s your issue, your dream, your future. Not mine. Don’t project your hopes or issues onto me. For all you know I love my job and never, ever want to leave it. For all you know I want my future to be at this company doing this job. Maybe I am living my dream future.
And it’s certainly not justification for hoping I get laid off or suggesting that I volunteer to be laid off.
And yes, married people, yes, I know. There are single people going around making you feel guilty about your two income household. I know. I know. I personally don’t say anything to anyone, but, if I were to say anything about it all I can do is point out the obvious: If I lose my job and can’t find another one in a matter of two months, I lose everything. I will have to move in with my mother.
The point is, no one “should” be saying anything about anyone else’s life or future or job prospects. It’s nasty, gossipy and completely pointless to speculate and pontificate about who “should” or “should not” lose their job.
No one should lose their job, but it’s a reality right now. A lot of people are unemployed and a lot more people are going to be unemployed. Desperation and fear are driving most of the comments and discussions. I think (hope) we all realize that.
So please, married/partnered people, please, don’t add smug comments about your spouse’s/partner’s income, health insurance or any nest egg you’ve built together thanks to your two incomes.
6:23 PM
Monday, May 18, 2009
Somewhere in the metro Chicago area is a man I want to thank.
He is nameless and nearly faceless to me. I have no idea who he is, how old he is, or whether or not he’s a creepy perv or sarcastic jerk.
But I owe him gratitude.
He made my day.
Heck, he made my month.
Perhaps a sign of my progressing years, another trip completed around the Sun, another year spent in solitude and loneliness taking a toll on me.
But hey, for me, now, I’ll take what I can get and like it. Even if I “shouldn’t.” Even if it came from a creepy perv hanging around train platforms ogling women. I’ll take it. The fact that a man, any man noticed me and ogled me, for real or in jest, is huge for me.
When I think, “Nobody wants me,” I now can console myself that, in fact, someone does want me, or at least wants to make fun of me by giving me an uncompliment.
That’s making some assumptions, of course, but again, I’ll take what I can get and cling to it like plastic wrap.
The thing is, the guy had no idea the depths his comment reached or what it meant to me.
And that’s the point. It meant little to him, and perhaps he’s a creepy perv whose intention was to provoke disgust, anguish or fear. But he had no clue who he was talking to when he “complimented” me. He could not have known two words said in passing to a stranger would do so much for her psyche. A small, perhaps routine, perhaps creepy gesture netted psychological results saving someone from a pit of despair, at least for a day. Which is why it’s nice to say or do something nice for someone, anyone. It’s one of those oft-learned and retold lessons, but when it hits home the poignancy is polarizing.
Things are rough in Trillville. There’s a high likelihood I’ll be unemployed in a few months. If that happens, if I can’t land another job ASAP, I will lose everything in a matter of a few months. No job = no mortgage payment = no mortgage payment = homelessness. I’ve known this is a real possibility for several months. Like almost everyone else, I am all too aware that my job and income are precariously balanced on the precipice of disaster. I accept this. I haven’t made total peace with it, but I accept it. It reaches far, far beyond anything in my control. I’m doing everything in my control to help my company. I’m doing everything in my control to prepare for unemployment. And beyond that…there’s nothing I can do except accept it. But there’s more than a little stress, there. And then the 6 week sickness. And my mother trying to manage without my dad. And my lack of companionship. And my foot and ankle. Stress. Stress. Stress. Stress. (Oh, and my waning vices, anyone? Anyone? Anyone have any good ideas for new vices? Stress relieving vices?)
So, I pulled on a skirt and donned my sneakers for the commute this morning in my Monday morning funk. Another weekend alone, another weekend in the office, another weekend feeling guilty about not spending it with my mother, another weekend just existing, just getting by, just running around going nowhere I really want to be. Fast. Blah blah blah. My personal act of defiance, one of my last gasp gestures of appearance, was to don a knee grazing skirt and sneakers without socks.
Since my surgery I don’t wear skirts very often – or anything that reveals the scar on my ankle that looks like a shark sunk his teeth into me. I certainly do no go bare legged. At the gym I’ve taken to wearing those socks that come up high around the ankles, a la 1987. The socks might look dorky but I figure better to give people a snicker than to gross them out by baring my purple/red scar.
But this morning I felt a mix of defiance and apathy. “So what?! I have nasty scar on my ankle and foot. So what! Deal with it, world. Life is ugly. My ankle and foot are proof of that.” I don’t feel that emboldened very often so I rolled with it.
As I walked to the train station defiance waned and self consciousness waxed. I laughed at myself. “Oh pluuuuheeze, like anyone even pays attention to you. As if some man is going to be beguiled and captivated by you until he sees the scar. The big purple scar only adds to the whole big ugly package…it’s icing on the cake. Get over yourself. No one wants you, anyway, what do you care if you put a big ugly scar on display for all to see?”
Just another day in Trillian’s head.
Got on the train, lost in anonymity. Deep in thought going over my to-do list for the day, prioritizing my tasks and projects, completely forgetting about the legs and scarred ankle on display. I had to switch trains so I got up to exit the train. As I exited the train and rushed to catch the train on the other side of the platform a man’s voice said, “Nice gams.” A) I assumed he was talking to someone else, B) I was in a hurry. So I didn’t hesitate or turn to see who gave the “compliment.”
Settled onto the next train and stood through the three stops to my destination. When I got to my station I exited the train. As I headed up the crowded stairs the same voice from behind me said, “Really nice gams.”
This time I was kind of afraid to look behind and below me to see and/or acknowledge the man who was “complimenting” my gams. I assumed he was some creepy train perv but I didn’t want to confirm that. I wanted, just for a minute, to revel in a fantasy where a normal guy is so beguiled by me that he compliments me.
When I got to the top of the stairs I decided to end the fantasy and see if he a) was in fact “complimenting” me and b) just how awful he was. I sneaked a look at the crowd behind me. Two men several paces behind/below me and a lot of women. It had to be one of those guys and, I think he had to have been talking to me because the other women were behind him. And if he was gay and complimenting the other guy, well, I’m not sure how he would have known about said gams because both men were wearing trousers.
And they both seemed, you know, normal. Ish. Not old. Not creepy. Not pervy.
So.
There you go. Apparently some man, one guy in this entire city, thinks I have nice gams.
Rock on.
Here’s the thing. That guy could not possibly know how rare a compliment is for me. He could not possibly know how low my self esteem is about my looks. He could not possibly know about how I’ve been hiding my legs and scar for over a year. He could not possibly know that of all the gams on all the women in the city that I was the one who really, really needed a compliment. Even if he was a creepy perv. Even if he says it to women on the train every day. Even if he’s got some kink for scars. Even if it was sarcastic. It doesn’t matter. It gave me a much needed morale boost.
Will I go around proudly displaying my shark-bite-esque scar, now? Probably not. I mean, it is gross. But. For now, today, I’m feeling less self conscious and more “legit.” Yes, I have a nasty scar. But someone thinks the gams are nice. All that painful physical therapy and conditioning is not going unnoticed. I do it for my health and strength, but, you know, having someone notice the physical results is kind of nice. I never thought about it – during all those sessions with the therapist and on the treadmill I never once thought, “Oooooo, check out my gams!” I think, “Stronger. Stronger. Get stronger. Work through the pain. Get stronger.” Especially now that I’m relegated to flat, sensible shoes I especially do not think about the state of the appearance of my legs. But there, in sneakers, flat and well supported, a man noticed and complimented my legs. Wow.
I know. I’m pathetic.
Well. Actually. No. Pathetic would be fantasizing about which man paid the compliment and hoping for another chance encounter and daydreaming about a life with that guy. I am not doing any of those things.
So I’m only mildly pathetic. Garden variety sad.
But here’s why I’m sharing this. It’s the power of words. You never know what’s going in peoples’ lives. Taking two seconds to pay a compliment could make a huge difference in their day. I don’t know if the guy saw my scar or not. Since I don’t know his vantage points I have no idea if he saw it. So it’s impossible to know if he could have guessed at how self conscious a woman might be about a scar like that or if it even mattered to him. Assuming he did see it, well, then he was either being sarcastic or very nice. Since he wasn't recoiling in horror and disgust I have to assume he didn’t see it, or notice it. And that is what buoyed my spirits.
On the few occasions I’ve revealed my ankle (and scar) at work or in public – in a skirt or dress – someone has felt obligated to make a comment about it. They range from, “Are you going to get plastic surgery for that?” to “It’s rude to make us all look at that, you shouldn’t wear skirts or dresses.” to “Wow, that’s really not healing very fast, is it?” to “Does that hurt as much as it looks like it does?” to “Have you tried that scar treatment stuff?” to “Gawd, what happened to your foot?”
(No. Whatever. No. Yes. Yes. Long story.)
Of all the random comments a random stranger could make, the “nice gams” comment was exactly the one I needed to hear most this morning. There’s no way he could have known that. And that’s what makes the serendipity sweet.
I believe in the whole pay it forward thing. Call it karma. Call it good-will. Call it whatever you want, it's just nice to be nice to someone for no reason. You don't have to go overboard, just a couple of complimentary words. Or, even, gasp, please and thank you.
Seriously. When I'm standing in check out lines I'm shocked at how offhand and rude cashiers are. Yes, okay, yes, some cashiers are great. But let's say it's not a great cashier. I fully realize ringing up Kleenex, watch batteries and Mentos is not a dream job. But would it take so much time and effort to say thank you to a paying customer? I'm not even asking them to look up or, gasp, make eye contact. I'm just asking for a two second acknowledgment of the fact that I chose to shop in their store. And it shouldn't be forced, a speech the manager tells them they have to say. It should be sincere gratitude. Nothing huge or showy, just "Thank you." And in return, how about "You're welcome?" Huh? I know, I know. That's the next thing on my list. "You're welcome."
When someone says thank you, the response is, "You're welcome."
When was the last time you heard those two words? I've been keeping track and lemme tell ya, it's been a while since I've heard "you're welcome." When was the last time you said it?
It's just civility. And I am well aware that I sound like some uptight old shrew.
But the whole gam thing and the affect it had on me underlines how rare civility among strangers is. So I'm going to make more of an effort to randomly compliment strangers. I decided if I have to garner a reputation, why not have it be a reputation of civility? I'm not sure I can pull off a "nice gams" kind of compliment. That's for professionals, way out of my league, but I can aspire to it. Start out small, maybe a "great jacket" or "cute bag" and work my way up to "nice..." I dunno. I can't hear myself saying, "Nice lips" or "nice hands" or "nice roguish smirk" to a guy on the train, but maybe, maybe with practice it becomes easier. We'll see.
1:53 PM
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Whew. Okay. Glad that's over.
I don't have to deal with LOST for a while.
It's kind of like a troubled relationship. There are problems...I'm losing interest...but when it's good, it's really good so I think there's something salvageable there. And there's no denying the physical attraction. I mean. You know. Let's be honest, this relationship is mostly physical.
Plus I know what the alternative is and I'd rather be in a mediocre relationship than none at all.
What I need is a couple new vices to give me the strength and confidence to end things with LOST.
That's really what the issue is for me. Vice.
I used to have some good vices. I kept the list short in order to really indulge in the vices. Really wring the most vice out of them. If you have too many vices it's difficult to dedicate yourself to them as fully as necessary to make them, well, vices. Better to have a short list and indulge in them with passion and zeal.
I enjoyed my vices. I was proud of my vices. I embraced my vices virtuously.
Loud rock and roll. Decadent (scandalous) shoes. Lusting after men. Vodka.
Often all at the same time.
I like speed, too. Fast cars, fast boats, fast bikes, fast ice skates. I used to have two speeds: Fast and off. Then my gearbox was updated to include neutral. Which was good. The speed thing was, um, well, not always safe. And learning to accept and embrace neutral came in especially handy when I broke my ankle and foot. And since then I've come even further in seeing the merits of a more steady, even pace.
Ahhh, maturity.
Though.
I still like to drive fast. And if my foot were magically healed I would lace up the blades and hit the ice faster than you can say Chuck Yeager.
But I have more gears, now, and I'm happy with that.
Yep. I kissed the speed vice good-bye.
Shoes? Yeah, well. Not so much. I took three boxes of decadent shoes with scandalous heels to the charity shop a few months ago. 18 months post-surgery with another surgery looming it was obvious those shoes with their three and four inch heels, straps and balance challenging designs would not make it out my door anytime soon, if ever. One day I realized they were mocking me. Sad reminders of another woman, someone who is no longer me. And poof! just like that, away went my decadent scandalous shoe vice.
I have long feet so my gift to the charity shop in a predominantly gay neighborhood was surely well received. I feel alternately happy and sad that my former instruments of delight and passion are undoubtedly on drag club stages. I mean, you know, someone should enjoy them, it would be a shame to let them go to waste. And not that there's anything wrong with that. But. I dunno. They're my shoes. They made me happy. Sublime, even. No matter how ugly I looked or felt, no matter how utilitarian my clothes were, I put on a pair of my decadent shoes and I felt baaaaaad. I felt confident. I felt worthy. I felt a lot of things. Yes. My shoes made me feel things. I know that's wrong. Passions "shouldn't" be stirred, self worth should not be gained, and confidence should not be had from things, inanimate products bought at stores.
But that's vice for you. Which is why my shoe vice was perhaps my truest, purest vice. It was just wrong on every level. And it encompassed many of the deadly sins: Lust, gluttony, greed, envy, sloth, and pride. Find a way to throw in some wrath and you've got a vice full of sin.
Funny, though, I don't feel virtuous now that my shoe vice is no more. Though it's given way for another vice and wrath is coming into play.
I'm not sad someone else is wearing them, I'm jealous. The shoes I wear now are best described as sensible, sturdy, supportive and comfortable. They have to accommodate my orthotic insoles. Mainly I wear the same pair of industrial strength supportive sneakers. They're not cute or funky or hip or fashionable. They're industrial strength sneakers. Serious shoes for serious support, balance and shock absorption. If I were a runner I might get some nods of approval from other runners. But I'm not. I'm a limper whose biggest marathon is the trek to and from the train station.
I'm jealous of the girls I see wearing decadent scandalous shoes. And I resent the drag queens undoubtedly wearing my shoes. I'm mad that I can no longer wear my shoes. And I'm mad that someone else gets to enjoy my shoes. Wrath: The other vice.
I take a lot of medications, now. I try to keep them to a minimum but unless it's the weekend and I can spend the majority of the day with my foot elevated on ice, medication is required. I don't think I'm addicted to pain killers - I can, and do go without them. I wait until the pain is absolutely unbearable before I take them. Acupuncture was helping, a lot. Acupuncture rocks, by the way. But it's too expensive to have done a regular basis so pain meds and anti-inflammatories are the alternative. My foot runs a fever, yes, my foot has a climate all its own, so I have to ice it and/or take something to reduce the fever. The reason I'm sharing all this is that it's the reason why my booze vice has come to a screeching halt.
Mixing alcohol with those kinds of medication (almost any kind of medication for that matter) just ends up causing more problems. So as long as I need those medications there's no alcohol crossing my lips.
Okay. Full disclosure. I'm a cheap drunk. I enjoy a glass or two of wine because I like the flavor. Ditto champagne. I've never imbibed in those libations with the purpose of getting drunk or even buzzed. The second I start to feel a little zippy on wine or champagne is the second I stop drinking it.
Vodka and rum on the other hand...see...the thing is...I like mixed cocktails. And the problem, the vice, in that is that by the time you realize you're feeling the affects of the alcohol in those drinks you've probably had one too many. Fortunately for me one too many is typically the third one. So. While I wholeheartedly enjoy throwing back a few drinks on a night out in my decadent shoes at a loud rock concert, three or four is my outer limit. And it doesn't require a lot of alcohol to get falling down drunk in those shoes. So my booze vice was actually kind of lame.
But I miss it. I've never needed alcohol. It doesn't give me confidence or lower my inhibitions. But I like it. I enjoy a drink or two now and then. I didn't think it would be a big deal to forgo alcohol. And it's not - I don't crave it or get the shakes when I see a Captain Morgan billboard. But it's a simple pleasure of life that's been taken away from me.
So that leaves loud rock and roll and lusting after men. Unfortunately standing around for three- four hours at a small, dingy concert venue is problematic for me, now. Even in my sensible, sturdy sneakers with orthotic inserts. Consequently my loud rock and roll vice is limited to blaring it in a car or through my headphones. (I would never in a million years blare my stereo to annoying levels. I'm not that kind of neighbor.) My friends, even my died in the wool rocker friends, are all mature adults, now. They don't like to go to concerts much these days. Even when they forget they're mature adults and consider going to a concert, the reality of their mature adult lives imposes itself on them and limits their ability for a night out at a concert. Let's say my foot is feeling okay and I'm packin' medications. The likelihood of my friends being able to get a babysitter and the desire to come "all the way" into the city is slim. If I want to go to a loud rock and roll show I'm on my own. And while there's a certain intrigue in the aloof chick on her own at a dingy club with a loud rock band, I'm not that chick. Especially not with my sensible sneakers and bottled water and fever reducing medication.
Poof! There goes another vice.
Men. Lusting after men. Well. There it is. One of the few vices I have left. I used to do a lot of my lusting at concerts. (see above, dingy bars, alcohol) Nothing makes my libido thump like a guy with a loud guitar and attitude. I know, I know. But I'm talking purely about lust. It's porn for me. Personality, stability, ability to function before 2 in the afternoon are not factors. And I don't act on that lust. It's a visual treat for a few hours. Then I go home and forget about him. Or them. Life porn.
LOST, for all it's stupidity and frustration, has filled that void. It's man-o-rama. Every week it fills my lust bank. And that makes me feel like me. One of my vices, one tiny piece of me still exists. So I cling to it. I cannot wait for LOST to end because, well, it's trying too hard and I'm bored with it. Yes. Really. For all the twists, turns and weirdness of this season, I'm bored with it. It's just, well, overkill. The big "Jacob" issue? Meh. Whatever. And much as I like me some grimy Josh Holloway, bloodied and swollen Josh Holloway just doesn't it do it for me. Sayid's intensity, which used to be soooo beguiling, is turning annoying. The Jin and Desmond scenes have been great this season, but they've been too sparse to really sink my libido into. (well, okay, there was that one Desmond episode that fueled my lust bank for a few weeks...but more would have been better...keep in mind I'm very, very, very single and it's, um, been a long time, so it doesn't take much to fill my lust bank, other women, normal women, surely are not getting enough Desmond and Jin) And Charlie, poor Charlie, gone. Charlie arrived in my life at the perfect time. Just when I had to curtail my loud rock shows at grimy clubs, along came Charlie. A grimy, guitar slinging rock and roll guy. Like an angel sent from Saint Hendrix himself. And then they killed him.
So. Yeah. LOST. I love it and hate it. And it's over for several months.
And poof! there goes another vice.
So now I'm thinking I need to either forgo vices altogether or come up with some new vices.
The thing is, I need to be passionate about them. And in trying to sort out my passions I realized: I'm boring. Virtuous, but boring. My passions are, well, not exactly sinful. Some of them are even, gasp, healthy.
So I'm shopping for vices.* I don't have enough money (or desire) to gamble. I hate cigarettes. Snarkiness? Yeah, I could be a mean girl. Any given day in my life presents enough material to last me a vice-filled lifetime of snarkiness. I come in contact with lot of stupid and irritating people. But I dunno. Doesn't that put me on the express train for bitterness? And bothersome as some of these people are, I'm not passionate about snarking out most of them. We'll put it in the maybe column. If all else fails, if no other vices pan out I'll revisit snarkiness.
I could get on board with sex but, um, well, that vice requires a partner in vice and this is me we're talking about. So. Yeah. So much for that. If the fate of my vice lies in sex I'm doomed to virtue.
Vices, anyone?
*For those playing along at home: Score another band name. That's two in one week. I'm on a roll. "Friday, May 15, Shopping for Vices with Transistor Radio Discontentment Doors open at 8."
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Observing…reporting…apologizing…
On behalf of 28,000 of the 29,000 population of my hometown, I apologize for using federal government money to beautify two miles of a road leading into my hometown. $719,000 seems like a lot of money for new street lights and trees to us, too. And yes, while not the latest, coolest, greenest street lights, the road already has perfectly bright, functioning lights. And some darned nice trees, too. This is an established community with decades-old trees lining the streets.
But the federal government is giving my hometown the money, so, heh heh, the city councilmen are not going to look that gift horse in the mouth!
Okay, sure, that street could actually use repair. Potholes, a disintegrating shoulder and not-so-functional drainage ditch on that stretch of road need repair. But the $719,000 can not be used for road repair. It must be spent on beautification improvements.
I visited my hometown last weekend. I drove into town on the section of road that will be beautified. The oak and maple trees are budding, dotted by lilacs, magnolias and flowering cherry trees. And daffodils line a good portion of the road. It was pretty darned beautiful. The mind boggles at what $719,000 will do to further beautify those two miles of road.
Please, please believe me when I say most of the townsfolk think this is a ridiculous waste of money. They are outraged at the required “beautifying allocations” while a few miles down the road, the next town over, there is a smaller town in bankruptcy hit hard by job losses and foreclosures, dealing with a suddenly large homeless population. My hometown is rich in comparison and would love to help their neighboring town. $719,000 isn’t a lot of money, not enough to solve the neighboring town’s problems, but, it would help.
There are people living in their cars or camping in a park in RVs and tents, feeding their kids on food from church food banks…and 10 miles away there’s a town spending $719,000 on street lights and trees. For a two mile section of road that already has street lights. And trees. And flowers.
I know. I know. Life is not fair. And money is allocated differently…from different budgets…different constituents…but…still.
Multiply this example of government spending weirdness across the country and you begin to understand my concern and the puzzling choices in project funding.
$719,000 works out to ~$25/per resident. What if everyone who lives in my hometown gave $25 to the neighboring town? I know, I know. Life is not fair and why should people pony up $25 to offset the ridiculousness of the $719,000 street lamp and tree windfall that they didn’t even request or know they were getting?
Generosity? Love they neighbor? The Golden Rule? Karma? Because it’s the right thing to do?
Perhaps you’ve been spared such a stark example in contrasts. Lucky you. Ignorance is bliss.
People in my hometown are upset by this. And it’s embarrassing. Those two miles of beautified roadside are going to be a showy taunt to anyone visiting from the impoverished town. “Nah, nah, the government likes us better, they gave us money to beautify our road.”
My mother is embarrassed to go to the grocery in the neighboring town. She prefers that grocery because it’s smaller and easier for her to manage. And they carry the brand of cottage cheese she likes. She was holding her head high, happy to do her part to help the neighboring town’s economy. Now she’s ashamed to represent the town with the $719,000 street lights and trees. She wishes she could apologize to the people in the neighboring town.
My mother’s thoughtful that way.
And I think most of us are thoughtful that way, too. But it’s hard to apologize to, well, an entire town.
So: Sorry. I’m sorry. My mother’s sorry. Her neighbors are sorry. The people in her church are sorry. The nurses in her doctor’s office are sorry. They didn’t vote for, or even know, they were the recipients of $719,000 street beautification funds until the trees showed up and the city council touted the new environmentally correct street lights.
2:25 PM
Monday, May 11, 2009
A few months after my dad died my mother decided it was “time.”
Time to start going through years of possessions she and my dad accumulated.
So at least two weekends a month I travel to my parents' house to help my mother sort through their life. There's a limit to how much and how long we can keep working. Some days, some things, well, it's just hard. Emotionally draining. Other days we get in a zone, a place of "this is good, it feels good to let go of this stuff."
While not pack rats in the traditional sense, my parents have always selectively kept things. My mother is “in charge” of her family’s heirlooms so she has china, silver, crystal and various items from the old country that no one really wants but no one wants to part with, either. As the older relatives died off, my parents’ house became the repository for anything “of value” or that “should be kept in the family.”
“We,” my mother’s family, aren’t clinging to these things symbolically hanging onto our roots in the old country. We’re just weak, spineless cowards who don’t like feeling guilty. We have a sense of respect and hence a sense of duty to hang onto these things. They were important to our parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles so they should be important to us, too, right? I mean, those people lugged that stuff thousands of miles to their new home in a new country. Obviously it was important to them.
When I talk to other children of immigrants I hear that my family isn’t unusual in this respect. We're very much like other children of immigrants when it comes to possessions. It tends to go one of two ways. 1) We don’t have the sentimental attachment to life in the old country, but we have sentimental attachments and respect for our elders. So we feel obligated to hang onto the things that were so important to them. Stories of people surviving perilous journeys of immigration arriving with nothing but the clothes on their back and player piano or trunk full of antimacassars. Or 2) We think our relatives were nuts for dragging certain objects from the old country and smirk at the thought of our family “treasures” and have no problem selling them to the highest bidder on eBay or giving them to a charity shop. (Seriously, anyone want a gross of antimacassars?)
One good thing about being the heir of immigrants who arrived with literally nothing is that there are no objects from the old country hanging around. My dad’s family was one of those families. Nothing. His parents had nothing in the old country so they traveled light on the journey to America. They had to start fresh.
Unfortunately, that resulted in a different kind of possession accrual. My dad never begrudged being a poor immigrant child and he never said or seemed like he felt deprived a happy childhood due to a lack of things. But, lemme tell ya, there is a psychology there. On the plus side, my dad was the most generous person I’ve ever known. The second he started working and earning a paycheck he started giving to people less fortunate. Children's charities, especially. He was all about donating not only money but also time, food, books, toys, clothes, shoes, summer camp, sports uniforms, pet food - anything a kid needs or wants - my dad gave. He never said this, but I know it was his humble childhood that compelled him to make things a little nicer for kids in similar situations to his. That’s the plus side of the poor immigrant child psychology. On the negative side once my dad had a little money in his pocket he splurged on stuff. Usually little presents for my mother or us kids, but, he indulged whims. Books. Toys. Tools. Records. And unfortunately my dad was “handy.” If something broke he’d fix it. If someone else had a broken something my dad would take it off their hands and fix it. If that doesn’t sound like a problem to you, perhaps you know of a use for a hi-fi that plays 33 RPM at 41 RPM? Or maybe you know what to do with a reconditioned outboard motor?
Then there’s the stuff that’s still “good” but not necessary or useful. 20 gallons of paint in various shades of cream and white. Snow chains for car tires. Carburetors. Transistor radios (AM only).
Welcome to my life. Some of the stuff gives my mother and I a good laugh as we lug it to the trash or to the charity collection center. Other stuff is just, well, hard. My dad did listen to those transistor radios. When he worded in the yard he’d have one of them blaring away a ball game.
I have to admit, much as those swutting transistor radios were the embodiment of my seething teenage angst over my very weird and square parents, there’s something about listening to a baseball game on a transistor radio on a cloudless summer afternoon as lawn mowers buzz in yards down the street and barbecues are fired up that’s, well, I dunno. Good, for lack of a better word. Several years ago I was shocked to discover one of my emotional happy places is a cloudless summer afternoon in my parents' backyard, complete with baseball game being announced from a tinny transistor radio.
But what really, really embodied my transistor radio discontentment* and embarrassment was when my dad listened to the marine and shipping report. Twice weekly the local AM station had a guy who read the shipping and marine reports. Perhaps you read The Shipping News or saw the movie. Perhaps you thought that was some made up thing or quirky Canadian thing. Guess again. I gave my dad the book after I read it and his reaction was, “Oh boy! Shipping reports!!!” He was disappointed that the book wasn’t comprised of lists of, well, actual shipping reports. I dunno. Don’t ask me. He seemed otherwise normal. At least to people who didn’t live with him.
My dad could strip down and repair a transistor radio in minutes flat. He had spare parts aplenty. All of us kids went through a rite of passage: At age 11 we were given a transistor radio kit. So we could build our own transistor radio. Even my sister, who somehow almost always escaped science toys, nerdy how-to kits, and helping with anything mechanical, even my sister was given a transistor radio kit.
When I turned 11 other kids at school were getting Walkmen. I got a transistor radio kit. Now do you see where all this psychosis and contempt for transistor radios comes from? Getting a clearer picture and some sympathy for me? Imagine an 11 year old kid now, today. All the kids have iPods. The 11 year old kid is looking forward to her birthday hoping, longing, knowing that her fervent desire, the one present she wants, the only present she’ll ever need for the rest of her life, is looming on the close horizon. She’s been getting straight As, doing extra chores, not arguing with her brother...it seems like all systems go for her birthday wish. She sees the box wrapped and waiting for the big day. The size and shape of boxes that hold iPods. She daydreams and fantasizes about all the songs she’ll download and how cool she’ll look with her iPod, like the other kids at school. The birthday finally arrives. The family gathers ‘round. She excitedly rips open the paper while her parents lovingly watch. He fingers, shaking with anticipation, pull out what she was sure was an iPod and finds...a portable CD player. And not just a CD player, not even a Sony® Discman, but a build-your-own discman.
Yeah.
Insert a Walkman in place of the iPod and a build-your-own transistor radio kit for the CD player and welcome to my 11th birthday. In Hell.
You might think, given my traumatic pre-adolescent experience with transistor radios, that I would take special glee and joy at throwing away all my dad’s transistor radio parts. That the catharsis would be a sweet victory for me. Or, you might think that now, all these years later, I have developed an appreciation for the lessons my dad was trying to teach me. And that I’d be nostalgically attached to those transistor radio parts. But nope - neither. I’m somewhere in the middle. My brother and I keep discussing them, though. Every now and then he’ll send me an email. “I was thinking, don’t throw out all the parts, yet...”
The hardest possessions for me are the books and records. My mother and I just can’t go there, yet. Those were my dad’s favorite things. Hers, too. They shared a love of books and music. Their first real date was to dinner and, I kid you not, a library. And no, they weren't teenagers or college kids at the time. For their second date (yes, there was a second date, even after the first date was at a library, tell me these two weren't a match made in Heaven) my dad upped his game, packed a picnic and took my mother to a concert in a park. I know, awwwww. Together they enjoyed a lifetime of reading and music. And passed it along to us kids.
Over the years I’ve come into possession of a few of my favorite albums. My dad occasionally cleansed and purged his albume collection. I’d visit them and there’d be a stack of records waiting for me on my bed. That’s how I acquired this gem. I was honored and excited to see this waiting for me when I visited my parents a few years ago. I bought a special frame for it and everything. It's hanging in my entry hall, the first work of art people see when they enter my home.
This is one of my favorites for many reasons. Not the least of which is that it's recorded using the Dynagroove system. I recently discovered my dad didn't part with one of his treasured albums when he gave me this. He and my mother have three copies of it. (My parents are big Peter Sellers fans, ditto Henry Mancini.) I don't feel "bad," I'm just happy they gave me one of the coveted copies.
Last weekend, though, my mother said, “I was thinking. Maybe we could go through the holiday records.”
So we did.
Some we kept - Bing, The Chipmunks, Johnny Mathis, Elvis, The Beach Boys...I mean, those are sacred and they’re not going anywhere unless it’s over my dead body.
But then there are the lesser knowns. Let me back up for a minute. My dad was “bad” when it came to albums. At least once a week he’d spend his lunch hour at a record store. And typically he came home with at least one album. You do the math. Once/week for a lot of years = a ton of records. Adding to the fray was that back in the ‘60s and ‘70s records were a popular give-away or gift-with-purchase.
Yes.
Like many families we have the entire Firestone holiday album collection.
My dad didn’t like Firestone gas. He said it made the engine knock. He especially did not like our local Firestone station. He didn’t like the way the manager looked at my mother. (turns out my dad’s instincts were bang on, that Firestone manager was later arrested for lewd behavior with a minor, he groped two teenaged girls employed to work the cash register). But during the holidays he’d lower his principles, go to the Firestone station and fill ‘er up just so he could get the holiday album. (In the back seat a wee tot marvels at this phenomenon and voila! a marketing career is born.) I remember those Firestone holiday albums because until a few years ago (when the motor for the good hi-fi finally broke irreparably) those albums were played in the holiday music rotation. My dad would always complain about Firestone gas and engine knock and then a snide comment about the groping Firestone station manager.
However. When my mother and I went through the holiday albums we came upon a couple I don’t remember. Which is weird because, well, as you’ll see for yourself, they’re holiday classics.
We weren’t Kentucky Fried Chicken people. In fact we weren’t fast food people. But I’m guessing like the Firestone holiday albums the lure of a free album was too much for my dad to resist. I shudder to think what he had to eat to acquire this album. But it was so worth the clogged artery.
Note the issue date: 1968. Harland Sanders himself wrote a holiday greeting on the back of the album. I assume he’s alluding to Viet Nam in the greeting when he waxes sentimental and says, “I think of the world at large, hoping that some of the compassion we feel during this season will flow out into the rest of the year, not only for the sake of our country, but for friends and enemies.” Wow. Nice bit of diplomatic posturing there, Colonel. Thinking of future franchise opportunities in Viet Nam, I wonder?
And then there’s the album to end all holiday weirdness. I’m sure my dad got this at work (note the AC logo and sponsor lingo). I’m sure it was his inability to turn down a free record that caused this anomaly to appear in his record collection. I’ll let it speak for itself.
And no, my parents never displayed the album as if the Osmonds were our own personal family.
My parents didn’t like the Osmonds. My mother liked Andy Williams, though. And family lore has it that my parents would change the channel when the Osmonds appeared on the Andy Williams Show. My mother felt sorry for the kids, “Those poor boys aren’t getting to have a normal childhood.” She felt it was child labor and the parents were profiting from them. To wit, the album itself is pristine. Not a scratch on it - I'm guessing it was never played.
I plugged in and revved up the "bad" hi-fi**, taped an extra nickle on the needle arm and gave it a spin. Like my parents, but for additional reasons, I'm not a big fan of the Osmonds, young or old.
But playing their 33.3333 RPM recording on a hi-fi spinning at 41 RPM is comedy gold. Unfortunately one of my nieces took possession of my dad's portable tape recorders so I can't share this Very Special Holiday Moment with you in a manner befitting its station in life. You'll have to use your imagination and take my word for it.
*Transistor Radio Discontentment = awesome band name.
**Funny how the bad hi-fi, relegated to the basement because it turns too quickly and requires a stack of nickles on the needle arm to keep the needle in the grooves, became the only hi-fi once the good hi-fi broke beyond repair. There's a metaphoric lesson in there somewhere.
11:13 AM
Friday, May 08, 2009
So, we have this free commuter paper, The RedEye. It’s a daily rag filled mostly with advertising and a few news lite pieces. Not articles. Pieces – a few words about such heavy hitting topics as Kim Kardashian’s butt and the best bars in Wrigleyville. Occasionally they try to pretend they’re a real newspaper and run a big “in-depth investigative report” on something like parking meters or the spending on L station upgrades or lack of pothole repairs in the city. But even those pieces are written at about a 5th grade comprehension level. I understand the point of the commuter paper is to give commuters something to read while they’re trapped on a bus or train. I understand that the New York Times, Wall Street Journal and even our own Tribune fill the niche for real news, real reporting, real depth, real “we’re not going to insult your intelligence” writing. I get that. The lite commuter rags aren’t trying to compete, they’re just offering an easy on the brain alternative for morning commute caffeine challenged minds. (Hence (I believe) the name RedEye) And if The RedEye’s advertising revenue helps the Tribune stay afloat, then hey, rock on, I’m all for it.
But. Ugh. I picked one up today and I vowed the same thing I vowed the last time I picked one up: Never, ever again. My IQ dropped 10 points in the 8 minutes I wasted “reading” it. Drew Peterson’s arrest got a full page. Well. ¾ of a page (including a large photo of some guys milling around in what I assume is Drew Peterson’s garage). There’s a side-bar timeline and a sub-article with quotes from Kathleen Savio’s and Stacy Peterson’s families. Yes, I want Peterson arrested and for once I’m actually thrilled that Illinois has the death penalty. But. The article offers very little – less than what I heard in the 90 second report on the morning news, in fact.
And then I continued on through the RedEye and discovered something truly newsworthy. Something so shocking I am appalled that other news agencies aren't reporting this. Thank goodness I picked up a RedEye this morning! In case you haven’t heard the news I’ll tell you. Sometimes people judge other people, dates especially, by the songs on their iPod. I know! I know! OMG!!! And the in-depth report tells about how iTunes doesn’t keep secrets. Those recently played and most played tabs can reveal a lot about the owner of the iPod. I better delete that Scissor Sisters song ASAP!!!! Why isn’t this on the front page of the New York Times? Holy crap, this is BIG news!!!! Great investigative reporting there, RedEye. This is so new and important that it even has a name: Playlistism.
Sure, I mock. (by the way, I’ve been threatening it for a long time but I’m thinking of really changing the name of the blog to iMock) And this is an extreme example of the ridiculousness masquerading as news or a feature story. But still. C’mon. Unless you’re my friend’s great-aunt Dory who’s been in and out of a coma for the past 10 years, you know that iPods and iTunes reveal all. And if you’re trusting or dumb enough to let a date or your snarky friend’s husband have access to your iPod or iTunes then you know to be prepared for the consequences. My friends have been teasing me for two years about my love for Better Luck Next Time because I let one of my friends burn some cds from my iTunes. As he was holding the keys to the kingdom he abused the power. Not only did he tell my friends about some of my stupid songs, he blogged about it. Repeatedly. My iTunes has become a regular feature and subject of ridicule on his blog. Whatever. I have no shame. S’all good.
Sorry. I digress. The point is that this article isn’t even anecdotally interesting. It’s not even blog worthy. It’s old, it’s stale. That article might have been funny or interesting or at least snicker inducing 7 or 8 years ago when iTunes was newer and fewer people used it – or were aware of all the features. Kudos to the article, though, they did give passing mention to the well-known and oft lampooned fact that music collections have long been a source of concern and insight. (Best. Example. Ever: Backyard scene in Shaun of the Dead when the guys debate which LPs to hurl at the attacking zombies. 'Sign o' the Times'? Definitely not. The 'Batman' soundtrack? Throw it.) You used to have to gain access to a person’s home or car to see their cd (or album/8-track) collection. Typically you were past a first or second date before the entire collection, in all it’s glory, shame and weirdness was revealed. Now, with iPods, you can find out on the first date if their taste in music is a deal breaker. (For the record, I’m willing to delete the Scissor Sisters for the sake of a man. And maybe that’s the better, at least more current angle – “What bands or songs would you delete in order to impress a date?” Or "which LPs would you hurl at attacking zombies" for the vinyl people.)
I have a lot of respect and sympathy for the newspaper industry. It’s gotta be hard to compete with cutting edge news like that. And sadly, I mock not. I’m sure loads of people read that iTunes “warning” story this morning and thought it was relevant or interesting. They probably sat there smugly thinking, “I do that. I sneak a peak at a date’s iPod and judge them on their music. I’m not alone, they wrote an article about it so it’s okay, I’m hip and current and that’s what people do, see? There’s even an article about it.”
I don’t see credible newspapers as dinosaurs who didn’t keep up with technology, I see them as a candle making factory at the dawn of electricity. It’s not their fault Al Gore invented the interweb. And in many (most) cases, newspapers or the main reporting agencies, were among the first to jump on the web and post news releases and launch websites. Long before you could buy your Gap chinos online (1997) you could check in with API and Reuters. Back in ’01 most of us first heard about the 9/11 attacks via online news”papers.” We were just getting into work and checking out our morning news when the first reports and photos hit the news sites. In ’01 it was already normal for us to go to online news sites, part of our daily routine.
However, some of us, ahem, remain selective about the news and reporters we “really” read. Sure, I hop all over the place online, I read all kinds of “news” and articles. Some of it very interesting and well written, but much of: Utter, intelligence insulting crap. Big Foot investigative reporting not-withstanding, you have to dig through a lot of sensationalized lowest common denominator mainstream celebrity-heavy drivel with no real substance or significance.
I still subscribe to newspapers. Call me a neanderthalic boob. I like reading a physical newspaper. Especially on Sundays. And before you dismiss me as an untrendy, tree-raping fogey best left behind by evolution, let me just pose this question: Have you bought or picked up a People, In-Touch, Okay! or Us? How about a porn or sports magazine? Yes? Back at you, you untrendy, tree-raping fogey best left behind by evolution. Celebrity gossip, porn and sports sites are the highest hitting and most prolific subjects of websites. There’s absolutely no need for those physical magazines to exist. How are they staying in business while so many newspapers are folding? I think it’s a recipe with a lot of ingredients. But from a marketing perspective I can provide this: Many of the celebrity, porn and sports websites provide some “news” or features, just enough to tease and titillate would-be readers into buying the magazine for more photos or more “in-depth” interviews.
This would never fly with real news stories. In fact it would be not only be silly but unethical. Harken back to 9/11 again. If the news sites said, Enquirer style, “New York under attack!! Commercial jetliners hijacked!! Buy our afternoon edition for more details,” with a photo of a jet crashing into the WTC, we would have not only been scared and angry at the newspapers, but we would have potentially been in danger. Later, we could have protested or even had a good legal team sue the news sites by twisting the “Imminent lawless action” clause to suit our purposes. Telling us just enough to scare us witless but not enough to make safe decisions. Taking the legal threat out of it, journalists, credible news sources, “should” operate under a code of ethics. Their job is to inform the public. Just the facts. Investigate the issue, get the facts, report them, and let us, the readers take it from there. Obviously some newspapers have biases – political and otherwise – and that’s always source of contention among warring newspapers and readers. Me? I’m a Tribune kind of gal. I’m not always crazy about the slant of some of the political writers, but, generally I’m down with the reporting and choice of stories covered by the Tribune.. And the writing is, well, generally better, than other papers in Chicago. Sometimes the writers at the Tribune use big words and complex grammar structure. It requires more than a 5th grade reading level to follow along. Call me an elitist snob. Go ahead. I don’t care. If high school level vocabulary and reading comprehension skills make me an elitist snob, then I’m guilty and proud of it. I will pick up the Sun-Times…sometimes. I wrote a Haiku about it when I first moved here. Anyone remember that?
Newspaper arrives. Thunk of Tribune at the door. Sometimes the Sun-Times.
I know! I know! Why didn’t I win some sort of prize for that? Oh yeah. Right. I keep forgetting. I’m not actually brilliant in real life.
So, anyway. I’m saddened by so much of what’s happening to industries and companies and the talented, hard working people who are ensnared in company demises. I can’t even speak about Detroit. The pain is too difficult, too deep, too layered, too complex, too sad for me. I love Detroit. I love the people of Detroit. I love the auto industry. (Yes, even Chrysler.) And it just: Hurts. It hurts. Obviously I have deep personal attachments – family and friends – affected by what’s “happening” to the auto industry in Detroit. I’ve lived a lot of places, lived and learned in places around the globe, but Detroit is home. I always have one foot in Detroit. So. That whole thing is disturbing me. Deeply. I shed tears over it. If you’ve spent more than a few days in Detroit you might understand – Detroiters are a breed to themselves. There are slackers and loud mouthed nincompoops, yes. Yes. We have Madonna and Eminem and Michael Moore. But we also have Aretha and Iggy and Mitch Albom. And that’s the Tau of Detroit – don’t ever, ever try to generalize or compartmentalize it. Heck, don’t try to understand it. Just roll with it.
And then there’s the newspaper industry. Talented, intelligent people. Observing, investigating and reporting. I mean, news reporting, good news reporting matters. I have nothing but sympathy for the industry. I get irate and upset at the pervading dumbing down of society at large. People care more about People than people. I was at an ‘80s themed event a few weeks ago (don’t ask). You know how sometimes you hear a song you thought you knew, but suddenly it’s like hearing it for the first time? Yeah. Let’s talk Depeche Mode for a moment. I know, I know. Speaking of secrets best left kept in the privacy of iTunes. But here’s the thing: Maybe it was the couple glasses of cheap red wine, but when I heard New Dress at that event I was shocked at the relevance and poignancy to the world right now. That song was written 20 years ago. Nothing’s changed. (Except Princess Diana. She’s changed a lot since then.) But other than that, things have gone along on the same course and are now worse. I’m not calling Depeche Mode genius prophets of doom. But. I do have to give them more credit than I have in the past. Perhaps you’re unfamiliar with the song or lyrics.
“Jet airliner shot from sky Famine horror, millions die Earthquake terror figures rise
Princes Di is wearing a new dress”
In black townships fires blaze “Prospects better” premier says “Within sight are golden days”
Princess Di is wearing a New Dress”
Substitute “Lil Kim’s boob slips out of her dress” in the Princess Di line and voila! headlines ripped from the pages in 2009.
The duality of social commentary about celebrity obsessed society and the newspapers’ feeding the obsession delivered in a melodic pop song popular at dance clubs is inspired. Dance away your cares to a tune pointing out the tragedy of the demise of intelligence and awareness. But it is a sad comment on society in general. And the newspaper industry. Good, credible reporters are “out there” observing, reporting, risking their lives to tell the world the facts, to make us aware, to give us information to present to our elected officials…to make us concerned and care about what’s happening in our world. But do “we” really care? Not so much. Collectively, not so much. Collectively we’re a generation away from the future portrayed in Idiocracy. (Mike Judge: Real Man of Genius, Prophet of Doom)
Newspapers, real newspapers offering real news, news we should care about very much, are disappearing faster than you can say entertainment tonight. But go to any grocery and every checkout line will be strewn with celebrity “news” magazines.
“But Trillian,” you say, “I get my news online.” Okay, yeah, I know, me, too. But. Be honest with yourself. Do you go news websites and read the articles or do you skim through the headlines and only go to the links that catch your interest? Again, nothing “wrong” with that. I do it, too. And no, I don’t read every article in the newspaper. But. As I read the paper, and flip through the pages, I see and read all the headlines to all the stories. Especially in Section 1, the daily local, national and world stories. Do I really want to read an in-depth report on Russia’s issues with NATO? Well, probably not an in-depth report, but I certainly want to know if something’s brewing there and what in the world is going on in Georgia and how that relates to Russia’s intentions regarding NATO. If I hadn’t read the newspaper, Section 1, and seen that article I would have been oblivious. I went to Reuters.com and yes, yes, there’s an article about it but you’d have to know to look for it. You can’t Google or search box a subject or news story if you don’t know you need to seek information. And that’s the problem with online news. You, me, we, tend to look at the highlights or links that catch our interest and/or Google or search box topics that are of interest to us. Did the Wings win last night? What is Drew Peterson’s bail? Is it going to rain tomorrow? (Yes, $20 million, no.) And along the way we get diverted. One link leads to another, and another, and the next thing you know you’re looking at the Moist Towelett online museum. Russia? Georgia? NATO? Yeah…not so much. The opportunity for diversion is HUGE online. In a newspaper? Not really. Apart from advertising or the op-ed page, Section 1, at least, is current, relevant news. It forces you to stay focused on, well, the news at hand.
I’m sad about a US without newspapers. Sad from a nostalgic standpoint, but more from a “we’re getting really dumb” standpoint. Stuff that matters doesn’t as much anymore. I know we’re not all apathetic. I know I’m not alone in my sorrow, fear and dread. But there aren’t enough of us to keep the presses rolling. There aren’t enough of us to keep the stupid links off the real news sites. In the war between relevant news and celebrity gossip the news that has a real and lasting impact on our lives is losing battles all over the internet. The real news is there, but it’s repressed by celebrity fodder and pointless, shallow “features” about, well, nothing actually relevant. (Want to know what every single girl needs? If you’re expecting big insight and centuries hidden secrets revealed, don’t hold your breath. The big news is that single women should have at the ready a sexy outfit, a good haircut, friends, confidence, a financial plan, a willingness to travel and lust for adventure and her own stereo. Ummmmm, this is news? This is advice? This is why brain cells are dying. If you’re over the age of 11 and aren’t being raised Amish you probably already figured out that you “need” those things, single or otherwise.)
So, reporters, real reporters, I salute you. And on behalf of the human race I apologize for our collective stupidity. I hate that your industry is suffering. I hate what it will mean for our future. I hate that our human brethren are apathetic, lame, lazy and have such short attention spans. I wish I knew how to fix it. I wish I had some good ideas instead of contempt and loathing. For what it’s worth, I’m still buying your papers and I will continue to do so until the bitter end.
12:34 PM
Wednesday, May 06, 2009
Step 1: Gain a lot of weight. The kind of weight that takes years to amass – 300 – 350 pounds. This requires diligence and determination, but those extra Big Macs and triple whip mochachocalottas will all be worth it in the end.
Step 5: Eschew all cleaning products for 7 days. No soap, no shampoo, no after shave, no hand soap, no laundry detergent, no toothpaste, no mouthwash, not even a moist towelette.
Step 6: Take an early morning run. With your added girth you will work up a good sweat in no time at all, but soldier on and get really, really sweaty. In your unwashed state of being you’ll get really ripe.
Step 7: Procure overly sweet hazelnuttamochachocawhipochino in paper cup.
Step 8: Go to a crowded L train platform during the morning commute.
Step 9: Wait for an overcrowded train to arrive – one heading toward downtown to ensure more passengers and more crowds at each subsequent stop.
Step 10: Push through the crowds boarding the train. This will be easy because you’ll be sweaty and smelly and people will quickly move out of your way. You’ll be like Moses parting the Red Sea. Splash overly sweet hazelnuttamochachocawhipochino on other passengers.
Step 11: Scan the train car for an empty seat. But not just any empty seat. You want the seat available next to the woman dressed in corporate dress code business attire, the woman who is obviously on her way to an important meeting or job interview.
Step 12: Shoulder your way past the women boarding and eyeing that available seat. Splash overly sweet hazelnuttamochachocawhipochino on anyone who gets in your way.
Step 13: Plunk your sweaty girth into the seat. Be sure to smoosh your new seat-mate’s hip and thigh as you do this. You’re essentially going to be sitting on her lap anyway, so assert your size and weight. Think: Alpha Dog. You want to dominate. You want to pin down, subvert and ensnare your new seat-mate. Spill overly sweet hazelnuttamochachocawhipochino on your seatmate as you plunk down into the seat.
Step 15: Fold your arms across your stomach girth such that your elbows rest on your seatmate’s boob.
Step 16: Slurp overly sweet hazelnuttamochachocawhipochino then lick the splashes on the side of the cup. Summon your inner Gene Simmons. Chicks dig big, long, fat tongues. Slowly, tantalizingly, tease your seatmate with your tongue slurping/licking prowess. She might wince or even give you a dirty look but she's just playing the coy coquette. Inside she's burning with desire. Or rage. Either way you've invoked emotion. S'all good. There's a thin line between love and hate.
Step 17: Commence air drumming. Feel the rhythm. Be the rhythm. You are Keith Moon. Nevermind your overly sweet hazelnuttamochachocawhipochino. If it splashes and spills, so what? Did Keith Moon ever worry about spilling anything? No, he did not. And nor do you.
Step 18: When your victim/seatmate attempts to leave reach out and hit your air cymbal thus blocking her departure and further spraying your sweat and scent on her. Along with overly sweet hazelnuttamochachocawhipochino.
Step 19: Bask in the knowledge that the scent of your BO and overly sweet hazelnuttamochachocawhipochino will require a decontamination chamber to remove from your victim/seatmate. Rest assured that decontamination chambers are not readily available to most office workers. Your scent will stay with your seatmate all day. And you will live forever in infamy as one of the most annoying people to ever use public transportation.
12:41 PM
