Present Imperfect

I Had She-Ra's Castle, Too | May 29, 2003

I'm often plagued by the fear that I am The Average American.

Today, this was brought on by my distraction at the sight of a copy of US magazine on the table during a meeting at work. I kept wishing the meeting was over so that I could page through it and see exactly what Ugg-booted celebrity was spotted getting into his/her mammoth SUV in Santa Monica. What the hell is wrong with me?

Last night I was thinking about my childhood and what a good little consumer I was. The Sears Wish Book. My large collection of My Little Ponies. My desire to own a pair of Jordache jeans. How is it possible that I wanted all this stuff when we didn't have cable and we lived 45 minutes away from the nearest mall? How did it manage to seep in? And when did I give up catching salamanders in the woods in favor of drawing crayon-rendered pictures of puffy eveningwear?

I guess it could have just been winter, but I'm embarrassed of my 10-year-old self. Why wasn't she reading more or playing outside? Ian and I did plenty of exploring when we lived with my great-aunt in a big house next to the forest, but once my mother remarried, we moved into "town" and the furthest we ever went was across the street to the Masonic Lodge to turn doughnuts on our bicycles.

I used to think that growing up in a rural environment stunted a child's ability to learn. I guess that was because I was surrounded by such a large number of slack-jawed, truck-driving, Slim Jim-eating moron losers. I was afraid that if I stayed in Meyersdale, that's what I would become. (Though I still thought Slim Jims were tasty.) Now I realize that it would have been much worse if I grew up in the suburbs...except my high school probably would have been better.

When I visited my mom in March, I told her that I always wished I could go to boarding school. She said if she knew that then, she would have found a way to let me go. Now I am haunted by the ghost of the might-have-been-me, if only I'd spoken up one day at dinner and said "mother, I wish you would send me away to Mercersburg Academy, just like that Alison Kroner's mom did." Instead (I don't remember this, but mom insists that it happened), I made fun of Alison Kroner. Why couldn't my mother see that I was just so painfully jealous of Alison's personalized stationery? WHY?!

But then longing for all that just brings me back to square one where Average Americanism is concerned. I'm aspiring to be richer, more powerful and smarter than I really am without actually doing anything about it. The American Dream is no longer one of hard work and perseverance (if it ever was). It is one of rudderless aspiration. America buys US magazine and thinks: "These rich and famous people sure are great. I wish I was rich and famous. Now where are those Doritos?"

There Is No Spoon (And I Have Soup) | May 28, 2003

Well, the long weekend's over and nothing earth shattering occurred. Not even a barbeque, sadly.

Jeremy and I finally went to see Matrix Reloaded on Monday night. It largely sucked ass. The fight scenes were too long, the plot was dubious and Morpheus blathered on so much that every time he was in peril, I not-so-secretly hoped he would bite it. I mean, you don't get to the climax of the film where a very delicate, very time-sensitive plan is about to be executed and then go on for ten minutes about destiny and sacrifice and shit. I mean, would you not just take that extra time before you had to go blow up stuff to double check that everyone brought their walkie-talkies or grappling hooks or whatever?

Well, I can't be alone in the "sucked ass" camp, since the film was only number one at the box office for one week.

Some good news, though: Eric bought us two tickets to see Eddie Izzard at the Wiltern the week before my birthday. Second row. Sweet. Er, Sexie, actually.

On Wednesday, It's $6.99 | May 25, 2003

I went to the car wash on Friday, and while I was waiting, I read the following sign:

Due to heat variations during the wash, any pebble marks, bruises, or fractures in the glass might turn into crack, which is beyond our liability.

Clearly, the California Hand Car Wash in Glendale is missing out on a lucrative business opportunity.

Everybody Does It | May 21, 2003

I can't think of anything interesting to say today, so I'll just resort to a bit of capitalist indulgence.

Here's a list of stuff I want, in no particular order:

an iPod
an iBook, for that matter
a new Casio G-Cool Baby-G watch
a long vacation to New Zealand or Europe
a British Racing Green Mini Cooper
an Oxford English Dictionary
a bag of cheese curds from Wisconsin
a PlayStation 2
a sexy 40-inch plasma television
a pair of red Adidas sneakers just like my blue ones
that David Bowie greatest hits DVD
a new desk
a leather sleeper sofa
a bread maker
a Swedish mattress

She Slammed My Fingers In The Gate to Shelley's Crypt | May 20, 2003

Two things.

Today, I overheard the homeless woman who collects cans and bottles outside our office tell our security guard that god had been good to her.

The other is a story told by my summer studies tutor, Carol Jackson. Carol is a slight, beautiful woman with red hair. Not orange hair, but genuinely RED hair. She told us that when she was a toddler, she fell into a friend's pool and nearly drowned. But her recollection of the event was one of fascination, not fear: As she fell under the water, she looked up, captivated by the motion of the light and water around her hair and billowing dress. She cried when her father pulled her out.

I can't find her anywhere, but I did give her my poster of Wanderer Above the Sea of Clouds because I couldn't take it with me on the plane.

Ladies and Gentlemen...NIGHTJAR! | May 19, 2003

That last post reminded me to post this: a link to the Northamptonshire Wildlife Sound Gallery. I went there to hear the Nightjar.

Sanford is My Pusher | May 19, 2003

Ohhhh... I have a Sharpie-induced headache. Occupational hazard, I guess.

Jeremy and I went to see Winged Migration, the Jacques Perrin (Microcosmos) documentary about bird migration, last night.

Amazing.

Besides the standard "how did they do that?" factor, there was also the uniquely human flight-envy factor. It seems to me that flight is the physical manifestation of the idea of goodness. From religious imagery to secular dream interpretation, flight represents the ultimate, enlightened state. And whether you believe human beings are capable of absolute goodness (or absolute evil), flight seems to be a universally positive notion. Freedom, goodness, oneness with nature and a humbling shift of perspective all characterize flight. If we aspire to be good mentally, intellectually, then physically, we aspire to fly.

Or maybe it's just the Sharpie fumes.

I Said "Good Day, Sir!" | May 16, 2003

"Beware: I bear more grudges than lonely high court judges"
(bcause no Friday would be complete without a quote from) -Morrissey

Oh, how I love the British. The Lord Chancellor's office is taking a public poll to determine whether judges and barristers should continue to wear wigs and gowns in court. The office has provided a sampling of the public with examples of current dress standards and proposed options. You can decide for yourself here.

Personally, I favor more subdued robes and no wigs. I guess some judges and barristers reckon the wigs give them an air of authority. I think they give them an air of ridiculousness. Plus, I'm sure most in the "air of authority" camp are balding older men, as these wigs look completely stupid on women. That said, I feel kind of bad for the wigmakers in Chancery Lane. I mean, when all you know is selling hand-curled horsehair, what kind of career move do you make?

I guess they could come work at Frederick's. We sell lots of robes and wigs.

Save Us, Tama-Chan | May 14, 2003

There's an article in the New York Times today about the Japanese cult Pana Wave Laboratory and its assertion that the world will end tomorrow when the earth's magnetic poles reverse, causing massive earthquakes. To protect themselves and their camp from electromagnetic waves, members of Pana Wave dress entirely in white, drive white vehicles and drape everything (including the trees) in white sheets.

Luckily, there may be a way out! Pana Wave insists that the apocalypse can be avoided if only Tama-Chan, the seal who strayed from the Bering Sea into a Tokyo river last year, is "rescued." They're building pools to house Tama-Chan, just in case.

But Tama-Chan is embroiled in his own controversy, as human foreign residents question the Japanese government's bestowal of a residency certificate upon Tama-Chan when they themselves are not eligible for the same certificate. (Even though they, unlike Tama-Chan, pay taxes and contribute to the labor force.) It should be noted that Friends of Tama-Chan do not protest the seal's resident status, only that they believe in the "equality among mammals in Japan."

Oddly, last night I was contemplating the end of the world. I wrote in my journal that if the world must end (and just about everyone, regardless of religious affiliation, agrees that it must), humanity ends with it, therefore knowledge to be gained from the study of human endeavor (history, literature, architecture, music...in short, the humanities) is finite. Though with each passing moment, the sum total of that knowledge grows exponentially larger. Is it not true that scholars 100 years ago had 100 years less knowledge to accrue? Knowledge to be gained from the study of math and physical science, however, is infinite. That is, the knowledge itself is infinite, but our time to gain it is finite.

Anyway, if Tama-Chan doesn't come to the rescue tomorrow, it's going to be a hell of lot more finite than I posited last night. Maybe I should take the rest of the day off.

Came Up With Lame Title | May 13, 2003

My grandmother used to keep a diary in which she would refrain from using pronouns, list what she had to eat every day and jot down whether or not she had taken a walk. As a tribute to my grandmother, who no longer knows who I am, here is my blog entry for 5/13/03:

Got up a bit late at 7:25. Still tired from helping C&J pack up orders for New York. Got to work at 8:15. Board members with funny hair standing in parking lot. Ate lemon Luna Bar for breakfast. Walked to bank and back. Looked up home town on realtor.com to see how much houses cost there. Found large Victorian with wraparound porch on Broadway for $50,000. Thought this was funny, yet sad. Ate pretzels. Ate mango. Drank water. Sat around on ass reading The New York Times on the Web until deciding to write in weblog in style of Grandma Deal.

Beer, Albuterol and Some Weak-Ass Latin | May 09, 2003

Grrr...argh. Today I am feeling the ill effects of mixing beer. I didn't know that made a difference, but I guess it does. Do not drink Newcastle then switch to Pabst later on. Or just don't ever drink Pabst. It was $2 night and I'm not made of wood.

In other news, I do actually have asthma. I got a real diagnosis from a real doctor and everything. Apparently, you can just suddenly get it. I can now ratchet up my geekiness another notch, thanks to my new inhaler.

Bookwise, I've moved on to The Green Knight, but I'm also reading Boethius. I have a lot of philosophical catching up to do. O fortuna, velut luna, status variabilis and all that.

I believe I did kick off this blog on a political note, but honestly, I can't bear to talk about politics much any more. I thought I could just stick my fingers in my ears and hum for four years, but Dubya has made that impossible, and I feel quite certain that he'll be around another four, since the Democrats can't pull their heads out of their asses long enough to put forth a decent, truly liberal foil to the evil empire.

I hate the idea of any tax cut, but one will pass. I commented to someone at work that I long for a national health care system and she responded by asking me if I wanted to pay even more taxes than I do now. But I don't mind paying taxes. What I mind is knowing that my taxes are not going to worthwhile services and that I will never see a Social Security check. I would gladly pay more taxes for national healthcare and decent schools and free public transportation. What I want, more than some piddly check in the mail, is a letter telling me exactly where my taxes are going. Because when I look around Los Angeles, all I see are people living below the poverty line, too many cars jamming the streets and polluting the air, a laughable school district and a small but exceedingly visible percentage of obscenely rich people who could give half a shit. Will they be hiring a unionized workforce with all the money they get back from Bush? Or will they buy new H2s or stash the cash away in Swiss bank accounts or pay themselves more? How can this logic wash with the very people it exploits? Why does middle America keep electing these oil-soaked cowboys who purport to be "just like them" but are really about as much like them as six-headed aliens from the planet Krablon?

Okay, maybe I can bear to talk about politics. It's just that I keep saying the same things over and over again, and things keep getting worse. I guess the wheel is still grinding downward.

The One Where I Save This Little Kid from Drowning in a Well | May 07, 2003

I'm very sleepy today. I had a bad asthma attack last night and the only thing the stupid doctor gave me to fix it was an allergy pill which seems to have the side effect of making me feel as though I've been hit by a freight train. So I'm going to another doctor tomorrow.

Wow! That's one fucking exciting journal entry. Now do you see why I don't write in this blog more often? Here's just a taste of my week so far: Get up, go to work, come home, watch Buffy DVDs, go to sleep. Repeat. I am fast approaching another "I'm wasting my life" crisis, except I'm too tired to go into full-blown panic mode. Oh well...there's always tomorrow.

This evening, if I can stay awake that long, we're supposed to have a beer with friend Matty. Matty is James Kochalka, only neither of them know it yet.

Maybe It Really Is Tan | May 01, 2003

I'm keeping secrets from you. "You," meaning "me," I think, because as far as I know, nobody reads this but me. I have a double-journal life. I have a bricks-and-mortar journal at home that nobody reads, sometimes not even me, because my handwriting is...not illegible, exactly, but perhaps an acquired taste. I'm never going to be a decent blogger because I don't actually want people to read my journal. This is a simulacrum of a journal. In it, I can tell you lies such as:

I love seafood.
I have a dog named Potatoes.
I was born in Sweden.
My favorite color is tan.

There would be no point in telling lies to the paper journal. The paper journal will not be stumbled across by someone typing my name into a search engine. (My name is also the name of a semi-famous Australian soft-core porn actress, I think.)

Then again, there is equally no point in telling lies to the electronic journal, because people who don't know me will believe that I love seafood and people who know me will realize that this is a lie.

I fucking hate seafood.

Which brings me to another(?) point: There are some seemingly innocent personal preferences the possession of which may result in society deeming you insane. One is the hatred of seafood.

I am not allergic to seafood, but sometimes I pretend I am so that people don't say "how can you NOT like seafood?!" I don't know how I can NOT like seafood, I only know that I do not. My mother also hates seafood. I also hate milk. My grandmother also hates milk. I am simply one in a long line of women who hate food with which the rest of America has a long-standing love affair.

I also hate soda pop. I hate carbonated things. Except beer, but even then I live on ales, which are less bubbly.

I have never eaten Jello. It frightens me—not from a "no hooves and lips" perspective, but from a moving-of-its-own-accord perspective. I welcome hooves and lips in their more traditional hot dog form, though I generally avoid those in favor of hamburgers.

Now my blog entry for the day has degenerated into a discussion of junk food. With myself.