Since I had trouble breathing and other telltale symptoms of an allergic reaction, I spent the last few nights at my grandmother's. This should have connoted an earlier, more reasonable, bedtime, but I became enmeshed in an article that I found online. It was a gushing, but not saccharine, and intelligent interview with the great David Simon, creator of The Wire, in Vice Magazine. In it, Simon discusses numerous topics, including politics, and I found myself astonished by his articulateness and trenchant points. In one snippet in particular, though, I couldn't help but feel beleaguered when he extolled the societal attributes of Greek literature and contrasted it with the exultation of the individual in Shakespeare.
I speak English, so I'm incredibly biased about this. When LNE busts out the Greek literature, I cannot believe that she, or anyone, for that matter, can scan what look like pictograms to me and make sense of it. Truthfully, it's quite impressive that she can grasp what is being communicated there. Furthermore, I understand that restricting myself to Latin-based alphabets severely limits my grasp of linguistics. I'm American, though, and branching out culturally is not exactly what the US is known for. So I felt a little uncomfortable when Simon spoke of his appreciation for Greek literature and the huge debt that The Wire owes it. Let me clarify: my ignorance makes me defensive. I can't do, so I disparage. Not brutishly, but primitively and reflexively. I know this. I've read Medea and the four parts of Oresteia, but I only view them in chunks, rather than the minutiae that make up those larger bits. I do, however, love Euripides, and I'm sure this is because I can make out what he means to say.
I understand the full complications of the whole foreign aspect of the language, and have similar difficulties with the screenplays of both Deadwood and The Wire. The former adheres to a loose proliferation of blank verse not unlike Shakespeare's, while the latter uses a vernacular that shouldn't be that difficult for me to understand, but is. Both shows are in English, but the former is easier for me to hear and process than the latter. I know that there may be a racial implication here, and all I can say to refute it is that I know this. Since I'm not a vapid amoeba, the willingness of my brain to process one brand of English much more easily than the other can't be dismissed. It is what it is.
A similar matter of preference applies to music. Well, good music--you can't talk extensively about why Journey is the best band there ever was without sounding like a complete idiot. You can, though, stand in the parallel camps of Beatles' fans and Rolling Stones' fans and see why the other side thinks the way they do. Both are great, iconic bands. The Beatles expanded the impact of the recording studio while The Rolling Stones modernized blues in a way that previously had not been done, and consequently came out with a different version of something familiar--and as a result etched their own stamp on the genre. I appreciate the technical innovations of Sergeant Pepper's, but I thoroughly enjoy the technique of Exile on Main Street. This is not to say that either band didn't cross over and do what the other began (see: the disturbing subject matter of "Happiness Is a Warm Gun" and the expansive rhythms of "Sympathy for the Devil").
Both television shows depict graphic violence and harsh language. It takes some getting used to both, but I appreciate the grandeur more with Deadwood than The Wire. This is probably because I see a standoff as more romantic than a shootoff. One is dramatic, while the other is just scary. What makes Deadwood interesting is that it adds a poetic bent to these things, and The Wire resists being maudlin by crudely recording a devastating act with the flippant realism of a photograph. Deadwood isn't exactly a book, but its rugged formalism comes across as forced, whereas The Wire's apparent slang ethos actually shows the florid grandiloquence and hard truths of the streets.
Some things are a matter of opinion, but I've always said that subjectivity is objective. I love both shows, for different reasons. The reasons that I love each of these separate things invalidates my own opinion, ironically. Somewhat. Neither is According
to Jim.
R
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Monday, December 28, 2009
A Night in the ER: Cold or Allergies?
For the past few days, I had a premonition that the sore throat that I had would escalate into something more problematic. I take Zyrtec regularly to stave off allergic reactions to the dogs that my mother has, and until recently it worked without a hitch. About a week ago, though, I had to cease popping it due to strange chest pains I had. I switched to Alavert on the advice of my immunotherapy nurse, and didn't have any problems. Then, last night, I had troublesome asthmatic symptoms when I breathed, and I couldn't simply ignore them.
Earlier that night, I had similar symptoms and acquiesced to an ER visit. I don't like emergency rooms, and have always thought of them, unfairly, as repositories where inexperienced interns cut their teeth. Maybe I've seen "ER" too much, but I envision neophyte doctors, like Noah Wyle's Dr. Carter, dispensing expeditious remedies to problems that can't be treated simply with aspirin and bedrest. I didn't immediately pinpoint my absurdly simple treatment because it made sense. Okay, so I had an allergic reaction, and the treatment for that is, I think, Benadryl and epinephrine. Simple, no?
Quick digression: when the doctor told me that I'd get a shot of adrenaline, I immediately thought of Pulp Fiction. In one particularly "trippy" scene, Uma Thurman's Mia Wallace ODs on heroin and requires an adrenaline shot to her heart to revive her. When I heard that I'd need one, I expected a similarly huge needle and a stabbing motion that would allow it to penetrate my breastplate.
Thankfully, this didn't happen. I received two quick subcutaneous shots in my left tricep, and eventually went on my merry way. I hoped that the ordeal was over, but, alas, it was not.
A few hours passed with nary a hitch. After a while, though, the wheezing returned. I tried to ignore it, as I had the night before, but several hours passed before I admitted this was futile. I don't like emergency rooms because I consider them quick resorts for panicky mothers, old people, and/or drug addicts. No matter how much I loathed the idea, I was headed back there. First, I roused my mother awake and told her the unavoidable truth. Then, I tried to alleviate my symptoms by leaving the house and going outside to the back porch. Admittedly, this was a bad idea since it was cold outside and the bench was covered in snow, but I went nevertheless. I had no other options, so I bided my time and waited for a stronger reaction from my exhausted mother.
This came quickly, and I didn't even try to rationalize my rash behavior. I piled into the car, again, and returned to the ER. Again. This was late, so there was no wait, and minimal other patients to wait behind, so I received my own "room." Previously, I sat on a bed parked in the main hallway. Now, though, I had my own partition!
My breathing had worsened in the interim, and the doctor now there heard this. He gave me a breathing treatment that consisted of a medicinal vapor that helped to clear my airway and steroids, which is also a normal treatment for an MS attack but also helps stifle an allergic pathological reaction. My wheezing abated, but I insisted on going to my grandmother's, which must have been a painstaking but unavoidable annoyance for my mother, who drove me.
Eventually, I fell asleep (around 5 am). Now, though, away from contact with "hypoallergenic" dogs (this is a bit of a misnomer, because it really doesn't exist. There are dogs that don't shed, but you can, and I am, still be allergic to errant dander or contact with their saliva.), I began to consider other possible reasons for my symptoms. The most obvious, of course, is the common cold intermingled with the cold air.
I heard this possible diagnosis before, and disregarded it. It has been several years (I think) since I've had a possible cold, so I don't really know the telltale symptoms. Of course, I've had numerous ones in the past, but the absence of them for the last year or two has totally made me forget what they're like.
I'm pretty sure they're like this though, because I've been away from animals long enough to render them irrelevant. My wheezing remains, and I still reach for the inhaler like a true spaz. Once again, my cane comes in handy because it nullifies such dismissive judgments. I just look like a piqued, enervated shell.
I'm fine with that. I'd rather be seen as an old man than as someone for whom a coma would be a cozy respite. At least, that's how I feel about certain nyerds. Is this wrong?
Probably, but I don't give a shit. Where's my inhaler, anyway?
R
Earlier that night, I had similar symptoms and acquiesced to an ER visit. I don't like emergency rooms, and have always thought of them, unfairly, as repositories where inexperienced interns cut their teeth. Maybe I've seen "ER" too much, but I envision neophyte doctors, like Noah Wyle's Dr. Carter, dispensing expeditious remedies to problems that can't be treated simply with aspirin and bedrest. I didn't immediately pinpoint my absurdly simple treatment because it made sense. Okay, so I had an allergic reaction, and the treatment for that is, I think, Benadryl and epinephrine. Simple, no?
Quick digression: when the doctor told me that I'd get a shot of adrenaline, I immediately thought of Pulp Fiction. In one particularly "trippy" scene, Uma Thurman's Mia Wallace ODs on heroin and requires an adrenaline shot to her heart to revive her. When I heard that I'd need one, I expected a similarly huge needle and a stabbing motion that would allow it to penetrate my breastplate.
Thankfully, this didn't happen. I received two quick subcutaneous shots in my left tricep, and eventually went on my merry way. I hoped that the ordeal was over, but, alas, it was not.
A few hours passed with nary a hitch. After a while, though, the wheezing returned. I tried to ignore it, as I had the night before, but several hours passed before I admitted this was futile. I don't like emergency rooms because I consider them quick resorts for panicky mothers, old people, and/or drug addicts. No matter how much I loathed the idea, I was headed back there. First, I roused my mother awake and told her the unavoidable truth. Then, I tried to alleviate my symptoms by leaving the house and going outside to the back porch. Admittedly, this was a bad idea since it was cold outside and the bench was covered in snow, but I went nevertheless. I had no other options, so I bided my time and waited for a stronger reaction from my exhausted mother.
This came quickly, and I didn't even try to rationalize my rash behavior. I piled into the car, again, and returned to the ER. Again. This was late, so there was no wait, and minimal other patients to wait behind, so I received my own "room." Previously, I sat on a bed parked in the main hallway. Now, though, I had my own partition!
My breathing had worsened in the interim, and the doctor now there heard this. He gave me a breathing treatment that consisted of a medicinal vapor that helped to clear my airway and steroids, which is also a normal treatment for an MS attack but also helps stifle an allergic pathological reaction. My wheezing abated, but I insisted on going to my grandmother's, which must have been a painstaking but unavoidable annoyance for my mother, who drove me.
Eventually, I fell asleep (around 5 am). Now, though, away from contact with "hypoallergenic" dogs (this is a bit of a misnomer, because it really doesn't exist. There are dogs that don't shed, but you can, and I am, still be allergic to errant dander or contact with their saliva.), I began to consider other possible reasons for my symptoms. The most obvious, of course, is the common cold intermingled with the cold air.
I heard this possible diagnosis before, and disregarded it. It has been several years (I think) since I've had a possible cold, so I don't really know the telltale symptoms. Of course, I've had numerous ones in the past, but the absence of them for the last year or two has totally made me forget what they're like.
I'm pretty sure they're like this though, because I've been away from animals long enough to render them irrelevant. My wheezing remains, and I still reach for the inhaler like a true spaz. Once again, my cane comes in handy because it nullifies such dismissive judgments. I just look like a piqued, enervated shell.
I'm fine with that. I'd rather be seen as an old man than as someone for whom a coma would be a cozy respite. At least, that's how I feel about certain nyerds. Is this wrong?
Probably, but I don't give a shit. Where's my inhaler, anyway?
R
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Incremental, Indisciminate Improvement (Is Still Progress)
Like the procedure itself, my own personal improvement will take time. I remember when I first had the stem cell transplant and watched Dr. Burt diagram stairs to illustrate the sort of progress I could expect. The good news is that there are no valleys in the rudimentary drawing. The unfortunate but realistic outlook prepared me for the uphill (no pun intended) slog that lies ahead--for the next few years. Furthermore, I have a sneaking suspicion that the study's early findings, which were culled when some of the older, first patients started, in no way should construe expectations. Patience is both elusive and obnoxious, but a necessity.
Small instances of different behavior creep up every so often. To anyone else, I may appear to be the same as I was before I checked into the hospital. I have not emerged from that exercise in suspended animation as a new person. I still have most of my old symptoms. I still have trouble with fatigue, but apparently this is standard when it comes to this thing. To be more explicit, I still also would rather not walk for an extended period of time, and my poor muscle coordination validates suspicion of something wrong pathologically.
However, I've noticed a few behaviors that my body mechanically does in order to expand its sensory parameters. I am much more willing to perform certain motions than I was before. For instance, here in the Midwest ice is a problem from December through mid-March. (It could be more or less than that, and I'm only guessing as to the length of winter.) I've dealt with enough black ice to know that appearances can be very deceiving when it comes to ice and asphalt. Ice forms on roads, and can be so thin, translucent, and hard that it is impossible to discern. It may show up when you assumed it's not there. At this point, I assume everything is black ice, so I cannot be surprised by its existence anywhere. The other day, prior to occupational therapy (in the same place that I had physical therapy), I rolled my eyes at the blast of cold air that hit me once I stepped outside. There was definitely ice outside, but I would not let apprehension regarding its location keep me sequestered. I had an appointment to keep. So, I stumbled cautiously to the car.
I moved easily to the door, and sat down eventually, having traversed the opposite but equally perilous equivalent of hot coals. It was a bitch, but I have only really contemplated the danger in retrospect. One foot moved (moves) in front of the other, and I did this again and again without contemplating the implications of a traumatic incident. This kind of bold, automatic movement happens at various other times, as well. If I'm brushing my teeth and pitch to one side, I will grab a wall or reach a hand out for an available stationary object that I can clutch. Most of the time, I encounter no problems, but every so often a reference point may move. When this happens, my legs shift quickly to prevent me from falling down. (I've said it before, but I have not fallen, and I get asked that question a lot.)
Some exercises in occupational therapy do this as well. Even though I've only been going for a week now, I do things more effortlessly and easily than even I did a few days prior. One exercise, in particular, drives me nuts but I still do it. For one thing, I figure that I have nothing better to do. For another, it actually helps. There's a plain wooden board, not unlike one for cutting, with holes drilled into it. I have to place three different components into each one. First, there's a long, thin stainless steel (all of these things are stainless steel--which gets annoying with the pragmatic magnet at the bottom of the dish that holds them) rod that I stick in the hole (get your snickers out now). Then, a small, thin washer goes over that, followed by a short tube that goes over everything and is the last component to this stubby construction. I switch fingers for each set of pieces, and then I alternate hands at the end of each row.
There are about 25 holes for each hand, and I then remove each bit individually once I finish. My therapist told me that she caught one of her other patients overturning the board in order to expedite the tedious exercise. I get this--I would be lying if I said that I didn't have the same impulse. At the same time, I feel that I'd be cheating myself. Yes, it's annoying and tedious and all of that, but I still do everything to its full completion. Who would I be kidding if I didn't? It's true that it's a pain in the ass, but I can't fake progress at this stage.
That's not entirely accurate. I can, but what would be the point? She doesn't time me, because it would likely be a futile tactic of intimidation. I don't care about the particulars of my progress, but I know that it's there.
R
Small instances of different behavior creep up every so often. To anyone else, I may appear to be the same as I was before I checked into the hospital. I have not emerged from that exercise in suspended animation as a new person. I still have most of my old symptoms. I still have trouble with fatigue, but apparently this is standard when it comes to this thing. To be more explicit, I still also would rather not walk for an extended period of time, and my poor muscle coordination validates suspicion of something wrong pathologically.
However, I've noticed a few behaviors that my body mechanically does in order to expand its sensory parameters. I am much more willing to perform certain motions than I was before. For instance, here in the Midwest ice is a problem from December through mid-March. (It could be more or less than that, and I'm only guessing as to the length of winter.) I've dealt with enough black ice to know that appearances can be very deceiving when it comes to ice and asphalt. Ice forms on roads, and can be so thin, translucent, and hard that it is impossible to discern. It may show up when you assumed it's not there. At this point, I assume everything is black ice, so I cannot be surprised by its existence anywhere. The other day, prior to occupational therapy (in the same place that I had physical therapy), I rolled my eyes at the blast of cold air that hit me once I stepped outside. There was definitely ice outside, but I would not let apprehension regarding its location keep me sequestered. I had an appointment to keep. So, I stumbled cautiously to the car.
I moved easily to the door, and sat down eventually, having traversed the opposite but equally perilous equivalent of hot coals. It was a bitch, but I have only really contemplated the danger in retrospect. One foot moved (moves) in front of the other, and I did this again and again without contemplating the implications of a traumatic incident. This kind of bold, automatic movement happens at various other times, as well. If I'm brushing my teeth and pitch to one side, I will grab a wall or reach a hand out for an available stationary object that I can clutch. Most of the time, I encounter no problems, but every so often a reference point may move. When this happens, my legs shift quickly to prevent me from falling down. (I've said it before, but I have not fallen, and I get asked that question a lot.)
Some exercises in occupational therapy do this as well. Even though I've only been going for a week now, I do things more effortlessly and easily than even I did a few days prior. One exercise, in particular, drives me nuts but I still do it. For one thing, I figure that I have nothing better to do. For another, it actually helps. There's a plain wooden board, not unlike one for cutting, with holes drilled into it. I have to place three different components into each one. First, there's a long, thin stainless steel (all of these things are stainless steel--which gets annoying with the pragmatic magnet at the bottom of the dish that holds them) rod that I stick in the hole (get your snickers out now). Then, a small, thin washer goes over that, followed by a short tube that goes over everything and is the last component to this stubby construction. I switch fingers for each set of pieces, and then I alternate hands at the end of each row.
There are about 25 holes for each hand, and I then remove each bit individually once I finish. My therapist told me that she caught one of her other patients overturning the board in order to expedite the tedious exercise. I get this--I would be lying if I said that I didn't have the same impulse. At the same time, I feel that I'd be cheating myself. Yes, it's annoying and tedious and all of that, but I still do everything to its full completion. Who would I be kidding if I didn't? It's true that it's a pain in the ass, but I can't fake progress at this stage.
That's not entirely accurate. I can, but what would be the point? She doesn't time me, because it would likely be a futile tactic of intimidation. I don't care about the particulars of my progress, but I know that it's there.
R
Sunday, December 20, 2009
We Carry, & Use, A Big Stick Abroad, But Not Here
I saw the great new movie Avatar today, and kept thinking of the travesties that are the Wars in the Middle East.
This came up between stunning displays of CGI that, in the past, have made various movies look comical and completely fake. Both good movies (Minority Report) and bad movies (Armageddon) looked absurd when they tried to show a fantastical image, and Avatar finally found a way to blend technological advancements and film. Nevertheless, the overt theme was the futility of force when placed against a resilient, steadfast society.
It is a fairly explicit theme throughout the movie that outsiders (humans) have no business meddling in another society's civilization. The planet Pandora's Na'vi people share a Native American fondness for beads and loincloths, as well as an ethereal pantheistic understanding. As the big, bad Americans (it's strange to root against America so vociferously) attempt to dominate the society, I was reminded of the violent, ugly plight of Indians. When they were forced to fight for their different civilization, though, in the face of brash American military force, I shifted gears and aligned the Na'vis with Iraqis.
Many people have expressed disgust with the brash entitlement of America, and, therefore, with its politicians. President Bush was perhaps the perfect archetype of an "Ugly American." It never occurred to him to try to empathize with the countries he baited. I am the first person to deride the hypocrisies perpetuated by rulers of a "theocracy," but I also am a staunch proponent of American isolationism. I go as far back as "Common Sense" by Thomas Paine, not merely the Monroe Doctrine that first explicitly advocated a non-interventionist strategy when considering international affairs. Saddam Hussein may have been bad, but it was hardly our concern that he oppressed his own countrymen.
This gave Bush an adequate excuse to invade the country, even though he really wanted to avenge his slighted, but still rich, father. We forgot that Bush, Sr. was a dick, much like Hamlet's father was a violent brute. Both probably deserved the acrimony that came their way, but we could not have surmised that Bush, Jr. could have emulated the vengeful Hamlet. It was a terrible impression that W. put on for our display, and due to his ineptitude thousands of men marched to their deaths.
Now, it is equally discomfiting, in a different way, that Barack Obama insists on throwing more troops into Afghanistan. He has done all of the doleful motions that a President who supports war must do, like honoring dead soldiers' coffins when they land. However, these gestures come across as vacuous, maudlin crocodile tears when he approves an escalation of troop presence in a country whose populace poses a scant threat. Evidently, he has no problem brandishing Theodore Roosevelt's "big stick" when it comes to the Middle East.
What's baffling is that he refuses to engage his own countrymen when it comes to crucial domestic policy. His reticence when it comes to healthcare is frustrating. His attitude of silence when it comes to Congress may be strategic. After all, he doesn't want to do anything that would jeopardize his reelection in 2012. Screw career politicians--by doing everything to cover their own backs, they ironically end up doing nothing. I've got news for Obama, though: treading water may ensure reelection when the opposition looks crazy, but it ultimately puts nothing in your "Win" column. Refusing to play may appear intelligent pragmatically, but it solves nothing.
Legacies of presidents are judged, in retrospect, by what they did. Bush did horrible things--some that are just now coming to light, and doubtless more will surface still--but he DID things. Obama hasn't really done anything. His administration would disagree, I'm sure, and could cite several examples of piecemeal legislation. These are tiny, and everyone craves something substantial when it comes to his mode of laissez-faire governance.
His ardent supporters--myself included--get constantly slapped in the face with his seemingly aloof attitude toward important issues. On the other hand, he has made up his mind to continue fighting a boondoggle of a war whose progress is as unrewarding as someone trapped in quicksand. The US thrashes about in panic and ire, but somehow has forgotten that the primary objective is to leave, and not to get further enmeshed in a suffocating nation-building endeavor that neglects the main target: Osama bin Laden. We hear his name now almost as a trump card that is supposed to nullify any scrutiny.
If we have to hear this load of bullshit when it comes to Afghanistan, Obama should be as fearless when discussing healthcare. Even better still, he should apply the same attitude of determination when it comes to domestic policy. I understand that the President is the "Commander-in-Chief," but this appellation does not apply only to foreign policy.
Obama should step up to the plate and bravely command Congress, and not just the military.
R
This came up between stunning displays of CGI that, in the past, have made various movies look comical and completely fake. Both good movies (Minority Report) and bad movies (Armageddon) looked absurd when they tried to show a fantastical image, and Avatar finally found a way to blend technological advancements and film. Nevertheless, the overt theme was the futility of force when placed against a resilient, steadfast society.
It is a fairly explicit theme throughout the movie that outsiders (humans) have no business meddling in another society's civilization. The planet Pandora's Na'vi people share a Native American fondness for beads and loincloths, as well as an ethereal pantheistic understanding. As the big, bad Americans (it's strange to root against America so vociferously) attempt to dominate the society, I was reminded of the violent, ugly plight of Indians. When they were forced to fight for their different civilization, though, in the face of brash American military force, I shifted gears and aligned the Na'vis with Iraqis.
Many people have expressed disgust with the brash entitlement of America, and, therefore, with its politicians. President Bush was perhaps the perfect archetype of an "Ugly American." It never occurred to him to try to empathize with the countries he baited. I am the first person to deride the hypocrisies perpetuated by rulers of a "theocracy," but I also am a staunch proponent of American isolationism. I go as far back as "Common Sense" by Thomas Paine, not merely the Monroe Doctrine that first explicitly advocated a non-interventionist strategy when considering international affairs. Saddam Hussein may have been bad, but it was hardly our concern that he oppressed his own countrymen.
This gave Bush an adequate excuse to invade the country, even though he really wanted to avenge his slighted, but still rich, father. We forgot that Bush, Sr. was a dick, much like Hamlet's father was a violent brute. Both probably deserved the acrimony that came their way, but we could not have surmised that Bush, Jr. could have emulated the vengeful Hamlet. It was a terrible impression that W. put on for our display, and due to his ineptitude thousands of men marched to their deaths.
Now, it is equally discomfiting, in a different way, that Barack Obama insists on throwing more troops into Afghanistan. He has done all of the doleful motions that a President who supports war must do, like honoring dead soldiers' coffins when they land. However, these gestures come across as vacuous, maudlin crocodile tears when he approves an escalation of troop presence in a country whose populace poses a scant threat. Evidently, he has no problem brandishing Theodore Roosevelt's "big stick" when it comes to the Middle East.
What's baffling is that he refuses to engage his own countrymen when it comes to crucial domestic policy. His reticence when it comes to healthcare is frustrating. His attitude of silence when it comes to Congress may be strategic. After all, he doesn't want to do anything that would jeopardize his reelection in 2012. Screw career politicians--by doing everything to cover their own backs, they ironically end up doing nothing. I've got news for Obama, though: treading water may ensure reelection when the opposition looks crazy, but it ultimately puts nothing in your "Win" column. Refusing to play may appear intelligent pragmatically, but it solves nothing.
Legacies of presidents are judged, in retrospect, by what they did. Bush did horrible things--some that are just now coming to light, and doubtless more will surface still--but he DID things. Obama hasn't really done anything. His administration would disagree, I'm sure, and could cite several examples of piecemeal legislation. These are tiny, and everyone craves something substantial when it comes to his mode of laissez-faire governance.
His ardent supporters--myself included--get constantly slapped in the face with his seemingly aloof attitude toward important issues. On the other hand, he has made up his mind to continue fighting a boondoggle of a war whose progress is as unrewarding as someone trapped in quicksand. The US thrashes about in panic and ire, but somehow has forgotten that the primary objective is to leave, and not to get further enmeshed in a suffocating nation-building endeavor that neglects the main target: Osama bin Laden. We hear his name now almost as a trump card that is supposed to nullify any scrutiny.
If we have to hear this load of bullshit when it comes to Afghanistan, Obama should be as fearless when discussing healthcare. Even better still, he should apply the same attitude of determination when it comes to domestic policy. I understand that the President is the "Commander-in-Chief," but this appellation does not apply only to foreign policy.
Obama should step up to the plate and bravely command Congress, and not just the military.
R
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Metric at Cubby Bear (Psych!)
In the past, leaving a concert early was a preposterous fantasy. Furthermore, bailing prior to the act taking the stage was unfathomable. There have been various instances of waiting an obscenely long time for the main act to take the stage. Neal and I recounted a few such concerts and marveled at our ability to remain patient. We stayed, thankfully, when Patti Smith took forever to mount the stage outside the Tribune Tower at the "Rock the River" festival. We (along with my brother, who I think also attended the aforementioned Patti Smith show) also stretched when Kinky and, finally, The Flaming Lips waited an eternity to play at the Aragon Ballroom for the "Unlimited Sunshine" show. Now, though, I'm reluctant to wait for an extended period of time.
Part of this has to do with an unchecked rudeness that I won't abide. I can cut the band some slack for not being prompt, but nary a whimper for a 9 PM show at 10:30 is just wrong. And rude. If some extenuating circumstance prevented the band from playing within two hours of the time on the ticket, a rep should at least let the crowd know. Otherwise, their (the crowd's)/our ire will not abate, and only proliferate. At the Chicago Theatre, Leonard Cohen emerged within minutes of the ticket time, and Bob Dylan has likewise decided to begin his concerts promptly. There's a bevy of snickers to be heard with regard to these two (because they're old, and they need to squeeze as much time as they can out of their respective dwindling hourglasses, or they want to finish their shows before their early bedtimes, etc.), but they start within the day on which the ticket promises, at least.
Then there's the MS imposition. I might (might) have waited a bit longer, but I can't stay upright for that long with nothing happening to hold my attention. It feels like blood refuses to remain in my extremities for long. My hands and feet get cold quickly, and stay that way unless I lie down and allow the blood to propagate throughout my body. Without such a reprieve, my head will almost float, and not in a good way. Everything on the periphery of my vision melts together like the cryptic letters in Sneakers that change into readable text. Like when the code gets broken, but in reverse.
After an hour, I wondered how I would make it through the whole main set. It didn't take long, though, for me to forget about that. After an hour, I began to plan my exit. The place was relatively full, but I easily could make out the exits clearly.
One word about the Cubby Bear. I will say that, although the normal clientele and location across from Wrigley Field should place it on my list of disregarded things, it's actually not that bad of a place. Of course, it was a skeletal version of what I know that I abhor, but it didn't bother me so much.
I wonder how much of this was the calm result of deflected anger at Metric for making me wait. No matter, because I got the hell out of there before the band could redeem itself.
At one point, Neal commented on how many concerts I've been to. It's true, and I even make up band names if someone rattles off an obscure punk band. Once, during Spring Break, I dragged my friends to an Eyeliners concert in Orlando. Some kid who was trying to assert his "credibility" went through a litany of bands he had seen at the venue, which I don't even remember. Sick of hearing names that I knew I didn't know and never would, and subsequently didn't care about, I started making up band names. "Oh yeah--they're great. Do you like The Metal Batons?" He admitted that he hadn't heard of them, and neither had I.
I've seen Metric before at Metro (my favorite venue), with my friend Jess. Afterward, we agreed that it was a terrific show. This show, a block away at the unfortunately named Cubby Bear, may have been equally as good, but I didn't see it so I have no idea. Nor do I care.
In five years, I'll probably say that I saw the concert. In my mind, at least. Memory is subjective, anyway. At least so hopes the Catholic Church.
R
Part of this has to do with an unchecked rudeness that I won't abide. I can cut the band some slack for not being prompt, but nary a whimper for a 9 PM show at 10:30 is just wrong. And rude. If some extenuating circumstance prevented the band from playing within two hours of the time on the ticket, a rep should at least let the crowd know. Otherwise, their (the crowd's)/our ire will not abate, and only proliferate. At the Chicago Theatre, Leonard Cohen emerged within minutes of the ticket time, and Bob Dylan has likewise decided to begin his concerts promptly. There's a bevy of snickers to be heard with regard to these two (because they're old, and they need to squeeze as much time as they can out of their respective dwindling hourglasses, or they want to finish their shows before their early bedtimes, etc.), but they start within the day on which the ticket promises, at least.
Then there's the MS imposition. I might (might) have waited a bit longer, but I can't stay upright for that long with nothing happening to hold my attention. It feels like blood refuses to remain in my extremities for long. My hands and feet get cold quickly, and stay that way unless I lie down and allow the blood to propagate throughout my body. Without such a reprieve, my head will almost float, and not in a good way. Everything on the periphery of my vision melts together like the cryptic letters in Sneakers that change into readable text. Like when the code gets broken, but in reverse.
After an hour, I wondered how I would make it through the whole main set. It didn't take long, though, for me to forget about that. After an hour, I began to plan my exit. The place was relatively full, but I easily could make out the exits clearly.
One word about the Cubby Bear. I will say that, although the normal clientele and location across from Wrigley Field should place it on my list of disregarded things, it's actually not that bad of a place. Of course, it was a skeletal version of what I know that I abhor, but it didn't bother me so much.
I wonder how much of this was the calm result of deflected anger at Metric for making me wait. No matter, because I got the hell out of there before the band could redeem itself.
At one point, Neal commented on how many concerts I've been to. It's true, and I even make up band names if someone rattles off an obscure punk band. Once, during Spring Break, I dragged my friends to an Eyeliners concert in Orlando. Some kid who was trying to assert his "credibility" went through a litany of bands he had seen at the venue, which I don't even remember. Sick of hearing names that I knew I didn't know and never would, and subsequently didn't care about, I started making up band names. "Oh yeah--they're great. Do you like The Metal Batons?" He admitted that he hadn't heard of them, and neither had I.
I've seen Metric before at Metro (my favorite venue), with my friend Jess. Afterward, we agreed that it was a terrific show. This show, a block away at the unfortunately named Cubby Bear, may have been equally as good, but I didn't see it so I have no idea. Nor do I care.
In five years, I'll probably say that I saw the concert. In my mind, at least. Memory is subjective, anyway. At least so hopes the Catholic Church.
R
Monday, December 14, 2009
Slackers! (not the Jason Biggs movie)
The utter nonchalance of Congress, especially with regard to dismembering Joe Lieberman (who I've never been able to stomach, and who now makes me unremittingly nauseated--which I don't need because MS and chemo aftershocks have taken care of that), is enough to disgust me wholly. It has help, though, in the form of this year's Brief Interviews with Hideous Men and its inescapable forebear, 1991's Slacker.
Richard Linklater wrote and directed Slacker. Then, of course, he went on to such cinematic classics as Before Sunrise (& Before Sunset, which came out nearly ten years later). In case you can't tell, I'll say that, yes, I'm being sarcastic. I can't watch those movies, and bridle whenever I try because of the obscenely pretentious dialogue. Only Waking Life is tolerable, and mostly this can be attributed to interesting animation, which superimposes images onto footage of actors, you know, acting. Nevertheless, I cringe at the mental image I have of Ethan Hawke talking about his dreams to some truly unfortunate woman.
I've said it many times, but nobody--nobody--gives a shit about your dreams. George Carlin, in his last HBO special, It's Bad For Ya, talked about he could not care less when someone talks about his/her kids. Luckily, I've been able to dodge such conversational skids, for the most part, but I have had, mentally, to remind my eyes to water themselves on more than a few occasions when someone has launched into a needlessly long description of a dream. "A gigantic Reese's Peanut Butter Cup?" "Four forks? The hell you say." I've endured my fair share of inane banter--and even produced a ton of it--and not once has a dream been interesting unless A) it involves me or B) there's a ton of blood involved. Those two cross paths more often than I'd care to admit or know, I'm sure.
However, in the hands of Linklater, an interesting exposition ends up mired in pretentious language that is unbelievable. (That is, it is not to be believed.) Nobody talks like one of his characters. Even if someone did, I'd inevitably walk away and refuse to listen to any of the pompous dissertation that always accompanies such bombastic and boring digressions.
Brief Interviews with Hideous Men is a movie directed by John Krasinski (Jim on the US version of The Office, on NBC), based on David Foster Wallace's book of the same name. It's a thoroughly forgettable movie, due in no small part to the turgid dialogue taken from Wallace's stories.
A few years ago, I tried to read Infinite Jest, Wallace's magnum opus and the flagship of his literary output. Of course, I failed. I got a few pages in before I could no longer tolerate his writing. Thankfully, I stopped early because the book is looooong. Writing complicatedly is fine, but there's no excuse for it in dialogue. No one talks like he writes. I've read apologists for the movie explain that Wallace's words were meant for the page and not the screen. This is bullshit, because I've perused his books and I can say, unequivocally, that his words do not become more believable in type. They say never to speak ill of the dead, but I refuse to give Wallace a pass just because he hung himself.
As I watched Krasinski's movie, I kept guffawing to no one in particular. It was a familiar sensation that I last experienced when I tried to watch Linklater's 2006 movie, A Scanner Darkly. It stars, strangely, Keanu Reeves, who I'm sure understood less than half of his lines.
I am not a film scholar, but at least with regard to literature, I can authoritatively say that it's the periphery that counts. Nothing interesting happens on the fringes of the screen of the movie, however. I've seen enough of Wallace's writing to know that the cloying bombast of the movie was the result of a faithful adaptation.
If only Linklater and Wallace spared us their words by being silent, unlike the former's loquacious, effusive, annoying slackers.
R
Richard Linklater wrote and directed Slacker. Then, of course, he went on to such cinematic classics as Before Sunrise (& Before Sunset, which came out nearly ten years later). In case you can't tell, I'll say that, yes, I'm being sarcastic. I can't watch those movies, and bridle whenever I try because of the obscenely pretentious dialogue. Only Waking Life is tolerable, and mostly this can be attributed to interesting animation, which superimposes images onto footage of actors, you know, acting. Nevertheless, I cringe at the mental image I have of Ethan Hawke talking about his dreams to some truly unfortunate woman.
I've said it many times, but nobody--nobody--gives a shit about your dreams. George Carlin, in his last HBO special, It's Bad For Ya, talked about he could not care less when someone talks about his/her kids. Luckily, I've been able to dodge such conversational skids, for the most part, but I have had, mentally, to remind my eyes to water themselves on more than a few occasions when someone has launched into a needlessly long description of a dream. "A gigantic Reese's Peanut Butter Cup?" "Four forks? The hell you say." I've endured my fair share of inane banter--and even produced a ton of it--and not once has a dream been interesting unless A) it involves me or B) there's a ton of blood involved. Those two cross paths more often than I'd care to admit or know, I'm sure.
However, in the hands of Linklater, an interesting exposition ends up mired in pretentious language that is unbelievable. (That is, it is not to be believed.) Nobody talks like one of his characters. Even if someone did, I'd inevitably walk away and refuse to listen to any of the pompous dissertation that always accompanies such bombastic and boring digressions.
Brief Interviews with Hideous Men is a movie directed by John Krasinski (Jim on the US version of The Office, on NBC), based on David Foster Wallace's book of the same name. It's a thoroughly forgettable movie, due in no small part to the turgid dialogue taken from Wallace's stories.
A few years ago, I tried to read Infinite Jest, Wallace's magnum opus and the flagship of his literary output. Of course, I failed. I got a few pages in before I could no longer tolerate his writing. Thankfully, I stopped early because the book is looooong. Writing complicatedly is fine, but there's no excuse for it in dialogue. No one talks like he writes. I've read apologists for the movie explain that Wallace's words were meant for the page and not the screen. This is bullshit, because I've perused his books and I can say, unequivocally, that his words do not become more believable in type. They say never to speak ill of the dead, but I refuse to give Wallace a pass just because he hung himself.
As I watched Krasinski's movie, I kept guffawing to no one in particular. It was a familiar sensation that I last experienced when I tried to watch Linklater's 2006 movie, A Scanner Darkly. It stars, strangely, Keanu Reeves, who I'm sure understood less than half of his lines.
I am not a film scholar, but at least with regard to literature, I can authoritatively say that it's the periphery that counts. Nothing interesting happens on the fringes of the screen of the movie, however. I've seen enough of Wallace's writing to know that the cloying bombast of the movie was the result of a faithful adaptation.
If only Linklater and Wallace spared us their words by being silent, unlike the former's loquacious, effusive, annoying slackers.
R
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Indiana, A Firmly (& Infuriatingly) Conservative State
Yesterday I finished Bill Simmons's painstakingly capacious The Book of Basketball. It chronicles the history of the NBA, for the most part. Simmons frequently lapses into long digressions on any topic (& is prone to romanticizing figures associated with Boston, a city I abhor). I appreciate this, because I'm equally prone to switching subjects frequently. Mostly I vacillate between Sylvester Stallone and Patrick Swayze movies, like Simmons, but I also pontificate dismissively at length about politics, other movies (with and without Hulk Hogan--I've seen No Holds Barred, but also The Dark Knight, if we stick only to Tom Lister, Jr. movies) and music, for the most part. However, one sentence in particular troubled me: "The heart of Indiana doubles as the heart of basketball."
Okay, I, like most everyone else, love Hoosiers and A Christmas Story. I, like (sadly) Boston fans and anyone who, like me, grew up in Indiana, also have a tepid fondness for Larry Bird. There, my association with the state stops. Although I admit that I was glad that Indiana voted for Barack Obama, it still houses many legions of racists, which still shocks me as a viable mindset. It may technically be a blue state now, but most of the votes that changed the political affiliation of it came from urban areas that contain most of the black votes. I watched Brian Williams decree that Indiana was a blue state, but in the back of my mind I kept thinking, with more than a modicum of schadenfreude, about the despicable living room that I spent a night in when I was in high school. These morons used horrible, obsolete barbs that they clearly learned from their equally stupid parents, and I had to bite my tongue. Instead, I listened with a huge awareness of the irony that these idiots clearly had no idea that they displayed.
You see, I grew up in a city just south of Gary, which has an enormous black population. My high school was half black, and I'd never felt a twinge of the deep-seeded racism that they unabashedly displayed. Some members of my family would use certain epithets, so I wasn't wholly ignorant of the existence of racism, but generally I ignored these as blind, "experiential," circumstantial instances of unfortunate, learned thinking.
Gary lies at the northwestern corner of the state, next to Chicago. To boot, it was south of the city limits, so I liked the White Sox and not the Cubs. I still think that you can adequately assess someone's racial attitude based on whether or not they rooted for one or the other. At least, this holds when applied to Indiana denizens. In the city itself, it's a little tougher, but not much. There are hardly any black Cubs fans, for good reason.
Everyone agreed, though, that the Bulls were awesome. More accurately, Michael Jordan was amazing, and Chicago was lucky to have such an iconic player. Even when he was still active, Bulls' fans knew that Michael Jordan stood out among anyone in the NBA. He did things on the basketball court that were inexplicable, and everyone nodded proudly and grinned knowingly when he sank six three-pointers in the first half of Game 1 of the 1992 NBA Finals and shrugged sheepishly after draining the last of these.
This is only one snippet of Jordan's reel of captivating moments. We all watched when the Bulls played a Finals game, so it perturbed me that latent racism could hypocritically transmute into similarly ignorant cheerleading when they played in June. It was as if someone had pulled blinders over their stupid eyes. Some people deserved a dismissive wave of the hand when they proclaimed their allegiance to the Bulls while wearing a Cubs hat and living in the 219 area code.
I love it that Indiana is a blue state, but we must remember that its two senators are Richard Lugar and Evan Bayh. They belong to both political parties, sure, but neither could be called "liberal." Lugar is a Republican and Bayh is a conservative Democrat, which, as I've said, should make no sense. There's a picture of me standing next to Bayh when he came to break ground for a municipal lakefront project for my town. I take pride in the fact that I'm wearing a Miami Hurricanes t-shirt (not because I liked the team, but because I liked the design).
I was young and easily ambushed. Also, Bayh was then the governor, so he could never have noticed that I dressed inappropriately because I doubt he then had the savvy to inspect every photograph that he was in. However, I'm convinced his shirt and tie obscured his wolf's exterior.
Indiana is "The Crossroads of America," because, as I like to say, everyone walks all over it. Then, they leave, which is a shrewd move.
R
Okay, I, like most everyone else, love Hoosiers and A Christmas Story. I, like (sadly) Boston fans and anyone who, like me, grew up in Indiana, also have a tepid fondness for Larry Bird. There, my association with the state stops. Although I admit that I was glad that Indiana voted for Barack Obama, it still houses many legions of racists, which still shocks me as a viable mindset. It may technically be a blue state now, but most of the votes that changed the political affiliation of it came from urban areas that contain most of the black votes. I watched Brian Williams decree that Indiana was a blue state, but in the back of my mind I kept thinking, with more than a modicum of schadenfreude, about the despicable living room that I spent a night in when I was in high school. These morons used horrible, obsolete barbs that they clearly learned from their equally stupid parents, and I had to bite my tongue. Instead, I listened with a huge awareness of the irony that these idiots clearly had no idea that they displayed.
You see, I grew up in a city just south of Gary, which has an enormous black population. My high school was half black, and I'd never felt a twinge of the deep-seeded racism that they unabashedly displayed. Some members of my family would use certain epithets, so I wasn't wholly ignorant of the existence of racism, but generally I ignored these as blind, "experiential," circumstantial instances of unfortunate, learned thinking.
Gary lies at the northwestern corner of the state, next to Chicago. To boot, it was south of the city limits, so I liked the White Sox and not the Cubs. I still think that you can adequately assess someone's racial attitude based on whether or not they rooted for one or the other. At least, this holds when applied to Indiana denizens. In the city itself, it's a little tougher, but not much. There are hardly any black Cubs fans, for good reason.
Everyone agreed, though, that the Bulls were awesome. More accurately, Michael Jordan was amazing, and Chicago was lucky to have such an iconic player. Even when he was still active, Bulls' fans knew that Michael Jordan stood out among anyone in the NBA. He did things on the basketball court that were inexplicable, and everyone nodded proudly and grinned knowingly when he sank six three-pointers in the first half of Game 1 of the 1992 NBA Finals and shrugged sheepishly after draining the last of these.
This is only one snippet of Jordan's reel of captivating moments. We all watched when the Bulls played a Finals game, so it perturbed me that latent racism could hypocritically transmute into similarly ignorant cheerleading when they played in June. It was as if someone had pulled blinders over their stupid eyes. Some people deserved a dismissive wave of the hand when they proclaimed their allegiance to the Bulls while wearing a Cubs hat and living in the 219 area code.
I love it that Indiana is a blue state, but we must remember that its two senators are Richard Lugar and Evan Bayh. They belong to both political parties, sure, but neither could be called "liberal." Lugar is a Republican and Bayh is a conservative Democrat, which, as I've said, should make no sense. There's a picture of me standing next to Bayh when he came to break ground for a municipal lakefront project for my town. I take pride in the fact that I'm wearing a Miami Hurricanes t-shirt (not because I liked the team, but because I liked the design).
I was young and easily ambushed. Also, Bayh was then the governor, so he could never have noticed that I dressed inappropriately because I doubt he then had the savvy to inspect every photograph that he was in. However, I'm convinced his shirt and tie obscured his wolf's exterior.
Indiana is "The Crossroads of America," because, as I like to say, everyone walks all over it. Then, they leave, which is a shrewd move.
R
Monday, December 7, 2009
It's Nice to be Sick
For the past few years, I haven't been sick. Well, I haven't had a typical, run-of-the-mill seasonal cold or flu. Obviously, I had MS, which sucked. Perhaps one of the main advantages to this annoying and cloying malady is that (& I've said this many times) it precludes normal infectious diseases. In the parlance of my beloved football, it's like a wide center who snaps the ball and then stops nearly everything that tries to get through (unless, of course, you're a Chicago Bear, in which case you likely forgot that that's your objective). In addition to attacking anything and everything, including my own body, it staved off the common cold and flu and similar commonplace ailments. Everyone that I knew would catch the flu, but I could shrug at their warnings of "better not get too close."
Actually, I'd use such a warning as an excuse to validate my own reluctance to bask in their company. I still do this, for the most part, but chemotherapy has effectively destroyed my immune system and, thus, my body's main mechanism of defense against pathogens. The other day, I noticed that I had a sore throat--perhaps my first in two years. Or around that. I'm notoriously bad with dates, and this is no exception.
It had been so long since I'd had a cold that I felt surprised when I developed a sore throat a few days ago. "What's this?," I wondered. "Oh, right." It didn't take long for me to recognize the symptoms of illness, but it still shocked me nonetheless. I had grown accustomed not to getting the usual predictable seasonal stuff, so when it happened, albeit routinely, I couldn't comprehend it. With regard to the MS nonsense, I would go for weeks or months with double-vision, unbeknown to anyone else. It wasn't an outward physical manifestation of the internal turmoil that my defectively wild white blood cells (or leukocytes, if you want to get clinical about it) wreaked, so I could get away with acting like nothing was wrong. No one could tell, and since my MS isn't painful, I didn't have to risk displaying a grimace when I'd forget to stifle it.
It still is an uncomfortable feeling to be sick, but at this point I welcome anything that signals a departure from the slog I feel daily and unremittingly. To anyone else, a cold or flu would be a huge drag. For me, though, I'm actually excited to have one, because it means that my autoimmune bullshit has subsided enough to allow my body to be corrupted. I realize that I sound like a psychopath to embrace a cold in such a way, or at least a battered, delusional wife.
"This means he loves me." Actually, it means that he loves himself to an unhealthy degree. Yes, getting sick means some germ has invaded my bloodstream (at least I think that's how this thing works--remember, I was an English major). It also means that my immune system has taken a breather, which is good because it battered me around enough for a good while.
I'm always amazed at the calories burnt by certain despicable people. Why hit when you can nap? I've napped more than enough for this lifetime, though, so I'm content to lie down and get ravaged.
That sounds like a glorification of rape, which disgusts me. One of my favorite songs of the year, by The Raveonettes, decrees that "Boys who rape/Should all be destroyed." I couldn't agree more, but, with regard to commonplace germs, I embrace prosaic disease.
It still sucks to be sick, but this fever means that my body loves me. Ironically.
R
Actually, I'd use such a warning as an excuse to validate my own reluctance to bask in their company. I still do this, for the most part, but chemotherapy has effectively destroyed my immune system and, thus, my body's main mechanism of defense against pathogens. The other day, I noticed that I had a sore throat--perhaps my first in two years. Or around that. I'm notoriously bad with dates, and this is no exception.
It had been so long since I'd had a cold that I felt surprised when I developed a sore throat a few days ago. "What's this?," I wondered. "Oh, right." It didn't take long for me to recognize the symptoms of illness, but it still shocked me nonetheless. I had grown accustomed not to getting the usual predictable seasonal stuff, so when it happened, albeit routinely, I couldn't comprehend it. With regard to the MS nonsense, I would go for weeks or months with double-vision, unbeknown to anyone else. It wasn't an outward physical manifestation of the internal turmoil that my defectively wild white blood cells (or leukocytes, if you want to get clinical about it) wreaked, so I could get away with acting like nothing was wrong. No one could tell, and since my MS isn't painful, I didn't have to risk displaying a grimace when I'd forget to stifle it.
It still is an uncomfortable feeling to be sick, but at this point I welcome anything that signals a departure from the slog I feel daily and unremittingly. To anyone else, a cold or flu would be a huge drag. For me, though, I'm actually excited to have one, because it means that my autoimmune bullshit has subsided enough to allow my body to be corrupted. I realize that I sound like a psychopath to embrace a cold in such a way, or at least a battered, delusional wife.
"This means he loves me." Actually, it means that he loves himself to an unhealthy degree. Yes, getting sick means some germ has invaded my bloodstream (at least I think that's how this thing works--remember, I was an English major). It also means that my immune system has taken a breather, which is good because it battered me around enough for a good while.
I'm always amazed at the calories burnt by certain despicable people. Why hit when you can nap? I've napped more than enough for this lifetime, though, so I'm content to lie down and get ravaged.
That sounds like a glorification of rape, which disgusts me. One of my favorite songs of the year, by The Raveonettes, decrees that "Boys who rape/Should all be destroyed." I couldn't agree more, but, with regard to commonplace germs, I embrace prosaic disease.
It still sucks to be sick, but this fever means that my body loves me. Ironically.
R
Thursday, December 3, 2009
I Radiate & Emanate Stoicism
Every so often, I will do something that causes any witnesses to raise an eyebrow, at the very least. Not "say something," because I do that frequently enough as it is. A breeze might surprise me, or an unexpected shriek from a random source could cause my ears to perk up. At this point (and I've mentioned this before), nearly anything in any forum, and consequently everything, gets disregarded. Unfortunately this fatalism does not apply to emotional ramifications, so I have to be especially vigilant with some bits of my unfiltered internal monologue.
More often than I could exaggerate, I'm sure, I say something that offends somebody who hears it. This doesn't mean that what I say is xenophobic or irrational in any way. If anything, it elucidates the latent caveat that should be inferred, like when I scoff at hair gel. That's about 20% of the time--for the other 80%, I'm probably bitching about the Bears or talking randomly about Nicolas Cage's aimless career, which reads more arbitrarily than a U2 discography (seriously, they all need fearless management to tell them when they have a bad idea).
My bumbling attempts at rudimentary tasks could reduce even the most stone-faced codger to a heap of gasps. In a certain way, my halted actions do just that--they halt--and I/everyone should be grateful for my deliberation in this regard. However, I'm still rash. Don't exaggerate my apparent laziness when it comes to certain things. I refuse to sit still when Fox News lingers on a television screen for too long, and nothing can impede my body as it hurdles toward an untouched remote control if it, or some programming that's similar, stays on the screen.
Sometimes my movements, though, don't go as planned. I could be doing nothing (and anything, again--it's fascinating how one does not abrogate the other) and I could lose my balance. This renders any accusation of inebriation laughable and wholly absurd. I could simply be walking a few dozen feet to a waiting car when I'll begin to pitch to either the left or the right. In this regard, I'm decidedly not partisan.
Rather than emit some form of high-pitched squeal that only dogs can hear, I do nothing. Up to now, nothing unexpected of note has happened. I could imagine that I'd be more skittish if I had something comparable to measure it against, but alas, I have never broken a bone. I have torn my ACL in my left knee, so I recreate the paralyzed feeling of utter abandon that accompanies such a fast traumatic event that a wince is a mere afterthought. All this happens in my head, though. I've never freaked out verbally. At least not by wailing or bursting out.
The fortunate thing about my own personal brand of stoicism is that I can easily separate the voice from the panic. I have dealt with hysterics constantly throughout my life, and so I've learned not to shout or utter a nonsensical emanation. In these situations. Any other time, this could be fair game. When I start to tip and have to summon someone's attention, volume and timbre must be controlled, lest they modulate alarmingly.
This gets transferred. Usually, I'd expect someone to yelp at certain, infrequent, points when my body forgets where it is in space and my brain notices its lapse and reminds the body to compensate. This happens from time to time. I'll be walking simply and then my sense of balance will fail me. I view such instances in a positive light, and think that it's simply an indication of confidence creeping back into my muscle memory. So I've gotten used to occasional moments of faulty movement and see them as a good sign, like my body is trying to recalibrate its place in space. It reminds me of when Robocop had to use his partner's aim to adjust his own. He had to rely on her uncorrupted sight and targeting prowess in order to know where to point, and I do the same thing when it comes to moving. Sometimes I just need a little freedom afforded by relying on someone else's senses.
By doing this, I learn how to move. It feels like I'm taking my first steps sometimes, and in a certain sense I am. It's not as dramatic as a paraplegic standing up, but the sentiment feels similar, although greatly diminished, obviously. You'd never know it, though, because I will never display any sort of satisfactory expression on my face. And when I trip, I won't grimace or pout. The internal frustration suffices. Plus, a tantrum could lead to further abandon, manifested externally and internally.
R
More often than I could exaggerate, I'm sure, I say something that offends somebody who hears it. This doesn't mean that what I say is xenophobic or irrational in any way. If anything, it elucidates the latent caveat that should be inferred, like when I scoff at hair gel. That's about 20% of the time--for the other 80%, I'm probably bitching about the Bears or talking randomly about Nicolas Cage's aimless career, which reads more arbitrarily than a U2 discography (seriously, they all need fearless management to tell them when they have a bad idea).
My bumbling attempts at rudimentary tasks could reduce even the most stone-faced codger to a heap of gasps. In a certain way, my halted actions do just that--they halt--and I/everyone should be grateful for my deliberation in this regard. However, I'm still rash. Don't exaggerate my apparent laziness when it comes to certain things. I refuse to sit still when Fox News lingers on a television screen for too long, and nothing can impede my body as it hurdles toward an untouched remote control if it, or some programming that's similar, stays on the screen.
Sometimes my movements, though, don't go as planned. I could be doing nothing (and anything, again--it's fascinating how one does not abrogate the other) and I could lose my balance. This renders any accusation of inebriation laughable and wholly absurd. I could simply be walking a few dozen feet to a waiting car when I'll begin to pitch to either the left or the right. In this regard, I'm decidedly not partisan.
Rather than emit some form of high-pitched squeal that only dogs can hear, I do nothing. Up to now, nothing unexpected of note has happened. I could imagine that I'd be more skittish if I had something comparable to measure it against, but alas, I have never broken a bone. I have torn my ACL in my left knee, so I recreate the paralyzed feeling of utter abandon that accompanies such a fast traumatic event that a wince is a mere afterthought. All this happens in my head, though. I've never freaked out verbally. At least not by wailing or bursting out.
The fortunate thing about my own personal brand of stoicism is that I can easily separate the voice from the panic. I have dealt with hysterics constantly throughout my life, and so I've learned not to shout or utter a nonsensical emanation. In these situations. Any other time, this could be fair game. When I start to tip and have to summon someone's attention, volume and timbre must be controlled, lest they modulate alarmingly.
This gets transferred. Usually, I'd expect someone to yelp at certain, infrequent, points when my body forgets where it is in space and my brain notices its lapse and reminds the body to compensate. This happens from time to time. I'll be walking simply and then my sense of balance will fail me. I view such instances in a positive light, and think that it's simply an indication of confidence creeping back into my muscle memory. So I've gotten used to occasional moments of faulty movement and see them as a good sign, like my body is trying to recalibrate its place in space. It reminds me of when Robocop had to use his partner's aim to adjust his own. He had to rely on her uncorrupted sight and targeting prowess in order to know where to point, and I do the same thing when it comes to moving. Sometimes I just need a little freedom afforded by relying on someone else's senses.
By doing this, I learn how to move. It feels like I'm taking my first steps sometimes, and in a certain sense I am. It's not as dramatic as a paraplegic standing up, but the sentiment feels similar, although greatly diminished, obviously. You'd never know it, though, because I will never display any sort of satisfactory expression on my face. And when I trip, I won't grimace or pout. The internal frustration suffices. Plus, a tantrum could lead to further abandon, manifested externally and internally.
R
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Kitsch Has Its Limits
I am an advocate for kitsch, across various realms. Rocky movies, Gone With The Wind, and several professional sports franchises have attained a sufficient level of broad acclaim, but objectively these should never entice me. They do, though.
Everyone immediately thinks of the first Rocky as the beacon of the franchise. I'll admit it's good. This was, also, reminiscent of a era of yore when Sylvester Stallone did not challenge Mickey Rourke for the mantle of the most absurd, plastic-looking male movie actor. For my money, though, I'll go with Rocky IV as the most enjoyable and watchful of the bunch, of which there are five. (I'm not counting Rocky V as a full addition to the batch, and am grudgingly accepting Rocky Balboa. The absence of Talia Shire is palpable, but she wisely walked away after the street-fight debacle of the fifth movie, with the HIV-positive zephyr Tommy Morrison. Hence, I'm combining the two as a bruised example of the last installment.) A call I can't make, though, is which 80s movie I like better: that or Die Hard.
The first one was an exciting, relatively comical, action movie. Bruce Willis plays John McClane, a NYPD officer who battles a gaggle of thieves (NOT terrorists) that take over the Nakatomi Building, where his wife, from which he is separated, works in LA. It contains numerous bursts of great dialogue--it's hard not to with Alan Rickman, who insists that he is an "exceptional thief." Bonnie Bedelia is his potentially ex wife, and every time I see her I wonder what happened to her. Hopefully at some point she plays herself tongue-in-cheekly, like Elisabeth Shue did in Hamlet
2, which I maintain is underrated (just ignore the cloying presence of the guy who plays the teacher's pet). You can't hate anything with Steve Coogan--he's like the inverse of Matthew McConaughey.
Lest we forget, though, the last one was riddled with insane CGI effects and the third one, even though it had the always-stellar Jeremy Irons, buckled under the histrionic outbursts of Samuel L. Jackson. Dave Chappelle's impression of him is great in that it appears like an exaggeration. In fact, though, it's spot-on, and maybe even a little understated. (I still like him, though, and always watch The Negotiator when it's on. And, of course, Pulp Fiction is astoundingly great.)
The same early appreciation and later mire plagues U2. I frequently double back on myself, so I understand the possible ephemerality of broad proclamations, but I'll say it--U2 sucks now. This wasn't always the case. Their early albums--from Boy to War--had fist-pumping anthemic songs that reached maybe the broadest expression with The Joshua Tree. They also, though, had interesting sonically experimental songs like "An Cat Dubh."
I draw the line, though, at the vapid messes that the band has cranked out over the last few albums. Besides "Vertigo," How To Dismantle An Atomic Bomb was forgettable. Then came whatever the last one was called, and its unlistenable "Kick Off Your Boots" single. That band has wasted my cache of patience, and it would take a great, great release to make me give it anything more than a dismissive shrug. (LNE, an avowed U2 acolyte, won't even try to argue, or validate whatever the band has done in the last five years, and that's a bad sign for them.)
The Harry Potter books and also the Twilight series, likewise, irk me. The series are beyond trite. I won't even cite examples here because I refuse to look them up. One potential validation of them is that "At least they get kids to read." True, but I doubt that adults--parents and teachers included--asserting their aesthetic value bodes well for the child's intellectual development.
I too read crap when I was younger. In grammar school, I loved RL Stine. I was ten, though, and now wouldn't even think of picking up a Fear Street installment without irony. Now, though, mothers proudly clutch the latest Twilight tome. News Flash: that makes you look dumber than the kid next to you.
John Waters may claim that kitsch has an intrinsic, ironic value, but remember: he directed Cry-Baby and, more recently, Cecil B. Demented. Pink Flamingos may have been interesting once, but its time has passed.
R
Everyone immediately thinks of the first Rocky as the beacon of the franchise. I'll admit it's good. This was, also, reminiscent of a era of yore when Sylvester Stallone did not challenge Mickey Rourke for the mantle of the most absurd, plastic-looking male movie actor. For my money, though, I'll go with Rocky IV as the most enjoyable and watchful of the bunch, of which there are five. (I'm not counting Rocky V as a full addition to the batch, and am grudgingly accepting Rocky Balboa. The absence of Talia Shire is palpable, but she wisely walked away after the street-fight debacle of the fifth movie, with the HIV-positive zephyr Tommy Morrison. Hence, I'm combining the two as a bruised example of the last installment.) A call I can't make, though, is which 80s movie I like better: that or Die Hard.
The first one was an exciting, relatively comical, action movie. Bruce Willis plays John McClane, a NYPD officer who battles a gaggle of thieves (NOT terrorists) that take over the Nakatomi Building, where his wife, from which he is separated, works in LA. It contains numerous bursts of great dialogue--it's hard not to with Alan Rickman, who insists that he is an "exceptional thief." Bonnie Bedelia is his potentially ex wife, and every time I see her I wonder what happened to her. Hopefully at some point she plays herself tongue-in-cheekly, like Elisabeth Shue did in Hamlet
2, which I maintain is underrated (just ignore the cloying presence of the guy who plays the teacher's pet). You can't hate anything with Steve Coogan--he's like the inverse of Matthew McConaughey.
Lest we forget, though, the last one was riddled with insane CGI effects and the third one, even though it had the always-stellar Jeremy Irons, buckled under the histrionic outbursts of Samuel L. Jackson. Dave Chappelle's impression of him is great in that it appears like an exaggeration. In fact, though, it's spot-on, and maybe even a little understated. (I still like him, though, and always watch The Negotiator when it's on. And, of course, Pulp Fiction is astoundingly great.)
The same early appreciation and later mire plagues U2. I frequently double back on myself, so I understand the possible ephemerality of broad proclamations, but I'll say it--U2 sucks now. This wasn't always the case. Their early albums--from Boy to War--had fist-pumping anthemic songs that reached maybe the broadest expression with The Joshua Tree. They also, though, had interesting sonically experimental songs like "An Cat Dubh."
I draw the line, though, at the vapid messes that the band has cranked out over the last few albums. Besides "Vertigo," How To Dismantle An Atomic Bomb was forgettable. Then came whatever the last one was called, and its unlistenable "Kick Off Your Boots" single. That band has wasted my cache of patience, and it would take a great, great release to make me give it anything more than a dismissive shrug. (LNE, an avowed U2 acolyte, won't even try to argue, or validate whatever the band has done in the last five years, and that's a bad sign for them.)
The Harry Potter books and also the Twilight series, likewise, irk me. The series are beyond trite. I won't even cite examples here because I refuse to look them up. One potential validation of them is that "At least they get kids to read." True, but I doubt that adults--parents and teachers included--asserting their aesthetic value bodes well for the child's intellectual development.
I too read crap when I was younger. In grammar school, I loved RL Stine. I was ten, though, and now wouldn't even think of picking up a Fear Street installment without irony. Now, though, mothers proudly clutch the latest Twilight tome. News Flash: that makes you look dumber than the kid next to you.
John Waters may claim that kitsch has an intrinsic, ironic value, but remember: he directed Cry-Baby and, more recently, Cecil B. Demented. Pink Flamingos may have been interesting once, but its time has passed.
R
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