Jess and I picked up season 1 of Lost yesterday.
We watched it from 6 pm until 3 in the fucking morning. 11 episodes back-to-back.
Then she woke up and finished the season.
Monday, December 1, 2008
Saturday, November 29, 2008
No Great Mischief
While in the throes of paper-writing bliss, I was reminded how much I loved this beautiful gem: Alistair MacLeod's 1999 novel, No Great Mischief. Composed as a fictional memoir, this book chronicles the stunning history of the exiled clann Chalum Ruidah from the Highlands of Scotland. Set in the modern landscape of Cape Breton (Canada), our narrator Alexander MacDonald relates his own story, which he finds is inextricably linked to his family's past.
It is about legend. It defines the depths of family bonds. It explores the continuity of history.
It looks at loyalties, it looks at perseverance.
It is melancholic. It is elegaic. It made me cry.
Read it.
Friday, November 28, 2008
Fiber: Friend or Foe?
Let me set the scene:
Jess and I are in Gabriel Brothers, a discount store à la TJ Max (but rating slightly higher on the cheap-and-crappy grid). We are surveying rows of tacky stilettos, and there is a girl about one yard to our right doing likewise.
And then, out of the blue -
Jess farts. She just rips a huge one, as if she were alone in the privacy of her home. Not in a public store with people standing an arm’s length away.
“Whoops. Didn’t see that one coming.”
At this point, I can’t take my stifled laughter anymore so I shuffle into the next aisle leaving Jess to deal with her own debacle. But that’s just the thing: to Jess, audibly passing gas in public is as natural as a big shnozz on a Jewish mug. Nothing to be ashamed of. Just part of who we are
She doesn’t leave the aisle until she is satisfied with her perusing. Why should she? There is nothing to embarrassed about here.
As roommates, Jess and I have shared the same bathroom for a number of years. Admitedly, it did not take us long to grow comfortable with holding conversations while one of us was on the toilet and the other in the shower or at the sink. I dunno - is that weird? I don’t like to think so. You know, the way people talk about sexual encounters as if they were just another everyday interaction, you would think it strange to be so hush-hush about other (albeit, less exaulted) bodily functions.
I was watching an episode of Sex and the City (alright, alright) and Carrie is lying in bed with Mr. Big when she accidentally lets one loose. She freaks. She is so mortified that she can’t even face him for a while. I sort of get it…but not really. For crying outloud, if you’re having sex with someone you should be ok with a tiny nitrogen release.
My mom tells me that she did not fart in front of my father, even after they were married. I say that’s what led to the divorce. Of course, I say this in jest - but still, I could never marry a man if I couldn’t pass gas in his presence.
News flash: EVERYBODY farts. Poops. Vomits. Hacks up mucous on occasion, even. There is no need to tip-toe around the fact that we are human beings, and with that comes our physicality.
And yes, sometimes there is more evidence of that than we desire.
A couple weeks ago, Jess and I were leaving a friend’s house at around 3 am. As we approached Jess’s car that had been parked on the street, we noticed an unidentifiable object lying on the windshield.
"What the fuck is that?"
"I can’t see from over here."
"Holy shit! hahahahaha - someone put fucking shit on my car!"
A substantial heap of poop, wrapped in a coffee filter, sat atop the driver’s side of the windshield. Our reaction was not one of disgust or anger, but rather uncontrollable laughter. We’re still unsure if it was animal or human feces, and we have no clue as to what could have provoked such an act. Jess’s car has no bumper stickers. There is no evidence that she is a university student. Maybe she parked in someone’s usual spot. Maybe it was just the upshot of another boring, drunken tirade in a backwoods Ohio town. Regardless, we appreciated the hilarity of the situation.
Disgusting. OK. I’ll give it that. But c’mon, people.
Gas is just gas. Poop is just poop.
And a lil’ flatulence never killed anyone.
Jess and I are in Gabriel Brothers, a discount store à la TJ Max (but rating slightly higher on the cheap-and-crappy grid). We are surveying rows of tacky stilettos, and there is a girl about one yard to our right doing likewise.
And then, out of the blue -
Jess farts. She just rips a huge one, as if she were alone in the privacy of her home. Not in a public store with people standing an arm’s length away.
“Whoops. Didn’t see that one coming.”
At this point, I can’t take my stifled laughter anymore so I shuffle into the next aisle leaving Jess to deal with her own debacle. But that’s just the thing: to Jess, audibly passing gas in public is as natural as a big shnozz on a Jewish mug. Nothing to be ashamed of. Just part of who we are
She doesn’t leave the aisle until she is satisfied with her perusing. Why should she? There is nothing to embarrassed about here.
As roommates, Jess and I have shared the same bathroom for a number of years. Admitedly, it did not take us long to grow comfortable with holding conversations while one of us was on the toilet and the other in the shower or at the sink. I dunno - is that weird? I don’t like to think so. You know, the way people talk about sexual encounters as if they were just another everyday interaction, you would think it strange to be so hush-hush about other (albeit, less exaulted) bodily functions.
I was watching an episode of Sex and the City (alright, alright) and Carrie is lying in bed with Mr. Big when she accidentally lets one loose. She freaks. She is so mortified that she can’t even face him for a while. I sort of get it…but not really. For crying outloud, if you’re having sex with someone you should be ok with a tiny nitrogen release.
My mom tells me that she did not fart in front of my father, even after they were married. I say that’s what led to the divorce. Of course, I say this in jest - but still, I could never marry a man if I couldn’t pass gas in his presence.
News flash: EVERYBODY farts. Poops. Vomits. Hacks up mucous on occasion, even. There is no need to tip-toe around the fact that we are human beings, and with that comes our physicality.
And yes, sometimes there is more evidence of that than we desire.
Case in point:
A couple weeks ago, Jess and I were leaving a friend’s house at around 3 am. As we approached Jess’s car that had been parked on the street, we noticed an unidentifiable object lying on the windshield.
"What the fuck is that?""I can’t see from over here."
"Holy shit! hahahahaha - someone put fucking shit on my car!"
A substantial heap of poop, wrapped in a coffee filter, sat atop the driver’s side of the windshield. Our reaction was not one of disgust or anger, but rather uncontrollable laughter. We’re still unsure if it was animal or human feces, and we have no clue as to what could have provoked such an act. Jess’s car has no bumper stickers. There is no evidence that she is a university student. Maybe she parked in someone’s usual spot. Maybe it was just the upshot of another boring, drunken tirade in a backwoods Ohio town. Regardless, we appreciated the hilarity of the situation.
Disgusting. OK. I’ll give it that. But c’mon, people.
Gas is just gas. Poop is just poop.
And a lil’ flatulence never killed anyone.
Thursday, November 27, 2008
I love watching Holiday marathons on TLC!
Today is Thanksgiving.
I am alone. So I am making myself a steak. Deal with it.
(Turkey and drunk relatives are never all they're cracked up to be anyways)
I am alone. So I am making myself a steak. Deal with it.
(Turkey and drunk relatives are never all they're cracked up to be anyways)
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Lost in Translation
Despite my pretentious airs (I do apologize for those) and attachments to all things literary, I tend to avoid contemporary literature the way one would avoid lunch-dates with the in-laws or scheduling that overdue appointment with the gynecologist. So, why pooh-pooh these potential greats?
They’re scary.
Contemporary lit is scary because, well, it’s unfamiliar terrain. I feel safe with my classics – they’ve been identified as such because smart men with doctorates and expensive cars have deemed them so, and you know what? I trust those smart men. It’s this everyday, new stuff that we’re not so sure about.
Cue English 416: Modern World Literature.
This has been my saving grace this semester. So far, I’ve encountered Japanese, African, Polish, and Canadian writers…and there are more to come. All of them published post-1960. My favorite book thus far: Lost in Translation: A Life in a New Language by Eva Hoffman, an autobiography published in 1989.
OK. Here’s the gist – Eva migrated from Poland to Vancouver, Canada with her family when she was 13 years old (1959). She struggles to forge a new identity in her foreign environment, but finds it near impossible under the unwieldy weight of the English language. During her college years, Eva finds herself in the United States (Texas) where she continues to toil under a false identity, along with her counter-cultural American peers.
This book is chock-a-block with Eva’s shrewd insights – this girl has a keen understanding of relationships, the nuances of cultural rituals, the effects of a lingering nostalgia. Her description of what she refers to as a generation of “willed in-articulation” is spot-on. While her long-haired, drug-riddled peers welcome Eva without question, she still grapples with their fragmented sense of identity, their rejection of articulated clarity.
Also, I could not get over the fact that English was Eva’s second language – she handles the language masterfully and deftly – it is smooth and luxurious writing, while retaining the capacity to cut through even the most frozen sympathies with its razor-sharp emotional sword.
Hoffman is funny, perceptive, poignant. Definitely a worthwhile read – it’s not difficult to get through, but it is packed with profound insights that you won’t want to skim over lightly.
I could write a blog devoted entirely to this book, but I won’t. And I won’t go into a laborious explication (just yet, anyways). But I will leave you with a few words from Eva, herself, regarding her struggle with a new language and her subsequent loss of identity in the foreign landscape of North America:
Does Eva finally learn to navigate through this foreign setting? Will she ever penetrate the particular nuances of this new language and culture, while salvaging her fragmented sense of self? I’d love to divulge that delicious mystery, but I’m sorry – you’ll have to read to find out.
They’re scary.
Contemporary lit is scary because, well, it’s unfamiliar terrain. I feel safe with my classics – they’ve been identified as such because smart men with doctorates and expensive cars have deemed them so, and you know what? I trust those smart men. It’s this everyday, new stuff that we’re not so sure about.
Cue English 416: Modern World Literature.
This has been my saving grace this semester. So far, I’ve encountered Japanese, African, Polish, and Canadian writers…and there are more to come. All of them published post-1960. My favorite book thus far: Lost in Translation: A Life in a New Language by Eva Hoffman, an autobiography published in 1989.
OK. Here’s the gist – Eva migrated from Poland to Vancouver, Canada with her family when she was 13 years old (1959). She struggles to forge a new identity in her foreign environment, but finds it near impossible under the unwieldy weight of the English language. During her college years, Eva finds herself in the United States (Texas) where she continues to toil under a false identity, along with her counter-cultural American peers.
This book is chock-a-block with Eva’s shrewd insights – this girl has a keen understanding of relationships, the nuances of cultural rituals, the effects of a lingering nostalgia. Her description of what she refers to as a generation of “willed in-articulation” is spot-on. While her long-haired, drug-riddled peers welcome Eva without question, she still grapples with their fragmented sense of identity, their rejection of articulated clarity.
Also, I could not get over the fact that English was Eva’s second language – she handles the language masterfully and deftly – it is smooth and luxurious writing, while retaining the capacity to cut through even the most frozen sympathies with its razor-sharp emotional sword.
Hoffman is funny, perceptive, poignant. Definitely a worthwhile read – it’s not difficult to get through, but it is packed with profound insights that you won’t want to skim over lightly.
I could write a blog devoted entirely to this book, but I won’t. And I won’t go into a laborious explication (just yet, anyways). But I will leave you with a few words from Eva, herself, regarding her struggle with a new language and her subsequent loss of identity in the foreign landscape of North America:
“But mostly, the problem is that the signifier has become
severed from the signified. The words I learn now don’t stand for things in the
same unquestioned way they did in my native tongue. ‘River’ in Polish was a
vital sound, energized with the essence of riverhood, of my rivers, of my being
immersed in rivers. ‘River’ in English is cold – a word without an aura. It has
no accumulated associations for me, and it does not give off the radiating haze
of connotation. It does not evoke” (Hoffman, 106).
“What has happened to me in this new
world? I don’t know. I don’t see what I’ve seen, don’t comprehend what’s in
front of me, I’m not filled with language anymore, and I have only a memory of
fullness to anguish me with the knowledge that, in this dark and state, I don’t
really exist” (108).
Does Eva finally learn to navigate through this foreign setting? Will she ever penetrate the particular nuances of this new language and culture, while salvaging her fragmented sense of self? I’d love to divulge that delicious mystery, but I’m sorry – you’ll have to read to find out.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Backstreet's Back, Alright!
So the boys are back together, after all. And with them returns the blogging itch.
But don't run for the hills just yet.
Since my blogging routine has been put on ice for a considerable length of time, it may take a while to warm up the smug bantering muscles. Just getting this introductory paragraph out is making me ache all over. No joke. So, I zapped the trusty (and ever so infantile) livejournal long ago. Not that anyone was lamenting its demise. Now that I've finally made the decision to take this writing business seriously (are you laughing yet?) blogger.com seemed like a great way to stretch my limbs. Keep my game in tip-top shape, so to speak.
I'm feeling loose and limber already. We're having such fun, aren't we?
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