Life, Death, Goofing Around, and Checking Your Head.

I've said many times that listening to terminal cancer patients give their perspective on things is one of the best parts of my current job. It's not my primary role, but I get to sneak a few listening-to-anecdotes in as long as I get my actual work completed quickly.

So, last night, I dreamed that I got to goof around and play house-rules hockey with the Beastie Boys shortly before Adam Yauch's death, and got to hear him talk informally about the whole "thoughts on life and mortality" thing.

In the dream, I was given an impression of gratitude for getting to be creative and silly with friends full-time, getting the chance to morally and philosophically grow as a person, and getting to have a family. Basically stuff that actual Adam Yauch's said in plenty of ways in real life, so it wasn't a creative stretch on my part. I was also given permission to keep my shoes on, because fuck if I can play hockey with skates on. I am clumsy.

It was a teaching dream. While what I was directly told was "these are my thoughts about my life, as I've had the chance to live it," it was still intended to be constructive sharing. I was a student, learning from how another person's lived.

Even though the dream was about the death of one of my all-time favorite punk bassists and cultural line-blurrer within hip-hop, it was a positive experience. My brain really brought out the good material on this one, when picking out what to show me while asleep, you know?

I was left with a peaceful feeling, and the impression that life will get sweeter once I construct a professional/lifestyle niche that will give me more time to be creative, and to visit and help my family. Don't waste the time that I have, and so on, et cetera, yadda-ya, yabba dabba doo.

I was also left with the sense that dude, I need to learn how to make homemade caramels, because that shit is awesome. And I should also try to find a pair of novelty sunglasses with shark fins on them. Really.

And maybe volunteer for hospice at some point, because if I really CAN stay socially pleasant for the other person during end-of-life conversations, there are probably a lot of folks who would like an ear to bend.

Did someone say "it would be nice to have some female-written gonzo?"

And then this fucker, this pig face coming out from the wallpaper is trying to stare me down, and all I can think is how much I powerfully desire the essential, basic human right to some goddamned time travel. To run back to my mother, when she was younger than I am now, and to convince her to take more acid while pregnant.

She never so much as drank coffee while I was in the womb, gave up all the keen vices of her generation--apart from Led Zeppelin, thank the fucking gods plural--and I was born with no ability to TOLERATE THESE KINDS OF SITUATIONS!!!!!!

Sure, I was raised by the generation wedged between the beat generation and the blank generation. Sure, I can respect the Dylans. I have seen answers and candles alike blowing in the wind like a fart full of confetti.

But no idealism or brilliance, no good ideas or bad ideas gone sexy could truly prepare me for the grave disappointment and terror to which I am now grievously subjected.

Paranoia? Fuck paranoia. This makes paranoia look like a candy brain tumor, easily removed and twice as cuddly. No. I fear that my amygdala is going to fucking explode, and take the rest of my brain with it, like so much wet and soupy shrapnel. That the next time I blow my nose, my childhood memories are going to fly out, gray and deprogrammed.

And I end like everything ends, like everything ends for us, with a Hollywood quote from a comforting movie: "Fuck the doomed."

Poem: My Pretty XBox

My pretty XBox hums and glows.
It gives me movies, shows and games.
My love of XBox grows and grows.
So much I ought to feel ashamed.

I recline in my room for hours,
nursing on its flashing lights.
My body atrophies and sours.
Lovely days, beatific nights.

But I assert with confidence,
that there ARE worser ways to be.
You should have seen the sloth I was,
when I still had cable TV.

Poem: Helping Friends Move

This is a poem that I sort-of coughed up by accident, while thinking about how I feel today. It has been a lovely weekend of work and loafing.

Helping Friends Move

Of burning muscles, burning throat.
The noble sorrows which I gloat.

I helped my friends move boxes there.
Both up and down infinite stairs.

An act of love, camaraderie,
I gave my yesterday to thee.

But focusing now on my health,
I give today all to myself.

Redirecting From Lance Armstrong to Jackass

Time to immortalize another overlong Facebook comment that I made a few hours ago!

The Associated Press posted a Facebook link to some news coverage of allegations that Lance Armstrong used and encouraged the use of performance-enhancing drugs.

A discussion question preceded the link:

What do you think of allegations that Lance Armstrong and leaders of his team encouraged and took part in a doping program? Does this latest revelation change your views on the cycling great?

Here is my response:

I wish I cared more because I like fair play and sportsmanship as principles.

But professional sport is an entertainment industry that doesn't usually captivate me. I'd rather marvel at how clever a well-written video game or book is than watch an exaggerated human body perform an extremely difficult physical task. As an audience member, "brains" hold my attention better than "brawn."

Well... Except for the show Jackass, I guess.

But that show is like a meditation on the outer boundaries of consent (a dude cheerfully consenting to being bitten by a snake or baby alligator) and mortality (what bodies are like after being bitten by a snake or baby alligator). Sort of like a playful bonus combo of light psychological and medical research. So I guess I even like my favorite "sports program" for nerdy, cerebral, nerdy, nerdy reasons. Because I am a huge nerd.

O Tenenbaums

Nerd alert!

Today's Beatific Gonzette piece isn't to commemorate an overlong Facebook comment that I'm proud of OR to say something about an Associated Press article, or EVEN to wish over and over again that David Lynch and Mike Patton would do a musical comedy show together. (With Crispin Glover?!?! Oh, wish, wish, wish.)

Today's Beatific Gonzette piece is still completely self-indulgent, but in honor of it being Christmas Eve, my thoughts are of trees and carols, oh tenenbaum, oh Boo Boo Tenenbaum, oh Royal Tenenbaum, and just like that we're on the subject of J. D. Salinger and Wes Anderson.

Much like my "Oh shit! Ted Raimi?!?" moment of joy when going through Twin Peaks for the first time earlier this year (I paused the show and ran out of the room to locate and tell my husband), I had an "Oh shit! I'm reading a Wes Anderson movie?!?!" moment when reading my first Salinger this summer.

Which is a silly and backwards reaction to have, I know.

But also a holiday-appropriate subject to write about, as the short season of intensive gift-giving is a perfect time to meditate on how cool books and movies--inexpensive gifts but awesome gifts--are. Doubly appropriate because it's a holiday season for appreciating friends and family. Wes Anderson movies remind me of my sister and our mutual friends and J. D. Salinger books remind me of my luminescent friend Abigail, who loaned me three of his books while insisting that I actually read them. (If you're reading this, hi Abby!!!).

I haven't finished reading them.

But I did read most of Nine Stories before having such a strong "this is awwwwwesoooooome!!!" reaction that I had to put the book down and run around my little apartment. In my most personal life, I am a dork.

I know that I'm not the first person to want to write about the ties between the movie The Royal Tenenbaums and Nine Stories. But this is my blog, I have a bit of travel time to kill, and I'm going to write about it.

In the short story The Laughing Man, the singular female character Mary Hudson wears a trademark fur coat, even when committing acts of minor athleticism, just like Anderson's film character Margot Tenenbaum. (While Margot was seen escaping school in her coat, Mary played center field in hers.) Both Mary and Margot also made cigarette use into a full affectation. Both used presence and absence like a private Morse Code. And both existed in their respective stories during bittersweet relationships with men.

In the short story Down at the Dinghy, a woman named Boo Boo Tenembaum feigns idyllic military connections to impress her child enough to keep the little boy from running away from home in a tiny boat. I would normally love to go through this story point-by-point with good attention, "vocally" enjoying each direct or psychological connection that this story shares with Wes Anderson's Royal Tenenbaums. But tragically, I am nearly at my holiday destination and I am horribly carsick from road-blogging as a vehicular passenger, and I need to stop writing for the day.

I hope that your holidays freakin' rule, Dear Reader. (Also, I dare you to search for "Yule Goat" on Wikipedia today or tomorrow.)

Quick Response to "Who Holds Responsibility For Ills of the American School System?"

As I've been known to do on this blog, I'm reusing one of my overlong Facebook comments for blog content.

This is my response to a question posted by the Associated Press. "Who do you believe holds the most responsibility for low test scores, poor graduation rates and other ills of the American school system?"
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It's complicated!

1. The dominant American culture doesn't value or use academia enough to make education seem useful or "cool" to children. For one example, there is a huge anti-science movement among many American adults. To really pursue an education might feel disloyal and frightening to the children raised in anti-science American families. (I've actually seen this happen before.)

2. Uninteresting, condescending, boring textbooks are also part of the problem, because they often (unintentionally?) discourage the critical thinking skills that a quality education would need to foster. The book "Lies My Teacher Told Me" critiques American public school textbook content quite well.

3. A lack of interest in the world outside of the United States is another aspect of American adult culture that is very likely to reduce children's interest in academic learning. It encourages by example an attitude of "I only want to know the bare minimum of what I need to get by" and discourages healthy curiosity.

The closest thing I can think of to an easy solution would be to support funding for publicly available, immensely fascinating learning materials that children can find for themselves, without any reliance on adult assistance. Probably through television? I like the way that Mythbusters uses the basic language and methods of hypothesis testing in an accessible way. I like the way Alton Brown describes molecular structure. It would be nice to have similar programming prepared to cover a wider variety of academic subjects, so that viewers could absorb a decent basic education passively. Something that children and adults can enjoy together.

To successfully influence children, we need to influence everyone.