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.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
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.
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.
Sunday, May 22, 2011
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:
Here is my response:
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.
Friday, December 24, 2010
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.)
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.)
Saturday, December 11, 2010
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?"
*******************
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.
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?"
*******************
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.
Saturday, October 2, 2010
My Bittersweet Love of Automobiles
From an early age, travel by automobile has been one of my surest delights. Flying down a road, scenery blurring as it whips past like film speeding through a broken projector. Loud music in surround sound--four or more speakers!--synching up with this sensation of epic, unnatural movement. And to have my hands on the steering wheel? My feet on the pedals? Oh, it's beautiful. While other girls (and men, women and boys) may fantasize about horses, I dream almost exclusively of being at the sheltered helm of metal steeds. Few pleasures can match a road trip or long commute.
More than clothing, more than food, more than craft supplies or books, gasoline is frequently my largest financial indulgence--bordering on a vice or guilty pleasure.
But the guilt! I'm not without a geological education. It was one of the subjects I overindulged in, in college. Environmental geology. Even after my interest officially wandered into neuroscience and psychology, the possible AND certain consequences of environmental ne'er-do-welling weighed heavily on my mind. Does the bioaccumulation of PCBs and other industrial contaminants--passed from mother to child in utero--contribute to our higher rates of autism? Cancer?
This brings me back to the "guilt" part of guilty pleasure. I burn more gasoline than necessary.
It seems like whatever industry exhales or discards has a tendency to turn around to bite us medically, if often in ways too complicated and indirect to get the general public excited about.
Some products, some substances have only obscure, unclear consequences. Not so with my beloved gasoline.
The combustion that soothes my character degrades my lungs, spoils the natural sunscreen in the sky (no small concern for a ginger!), requires environmentally AND politically sketchy geological extraction, may encourage war, certainly fouls up the delicate and increasingly unstable systems responsible for the sort of weather our species requires, and et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.
I mean, our climate now acts like an alcoholic parent! Spoiling us and beating us--sometimes to death--with terrifying unpredictably.
But still, I return to the subject of my car. My modest little vehicle. My metallic pet. The charming metal box that hurls me from work to home, from home to friends' houses, and always to see my family.
The internet and telephone can help me see and talk with people too far to walk to and too obscurely located to bus or train to. But in-person visits are still much preferable to the telecommute, and time spent at the helm of a car is such a pleasure in itself, that I still fail to join my gasoline-free friends in their medically and morally superior lifestyle.
Woe is me, the sinner who does not bike to work. (Yet.) I dream of guilt free cars, of limitless, safe propulsion. No toxic batteries or airborne, particulate exhaust.
My fantasy is that the wretched and finite nature of fossil gasoline will not take the beauty of the automobile down with it.
More than clothing, more than food, more than craft supplies or books, gasoline is frequently my largest financial indulgence--bordering on a vice or guilty pleasure.
But the guilt! I'm not without a geological education. It was one of the subjects I overindulged in, in college. Environmental geology. Even after my interest officially wandered into neuroscience and psychology, the possible AND certain consequences of environmental ne'er-do-welling weighed heavily on my mind. Does the bioaccumulation of PCBs and other industrial contaminants--passed from mother to child in utero--contribute to our higher rates of autism? Cancer?
This brings me back to the "guilt" part of guilty pleasure. I burn more gasoline than necessary.
It seems like whatever industry exhales or discards has a tendency to turn around to bite us medically, if often in ways too complicated and indirect to get the general public excited about.
Some products, some substances have only obscure, unclear consequences. Not so with my beloved gasoline.
The combustion that soothes my character degrades my lungs, spoils the natural sunscreen in the sky (no small concern for a ginger!), requires environmentally AND politically sketchy geological extraction, may encourage war, certainly fouls up the delicate and increasingly unstable systems responsible for the sort of weather our species requires, and et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.
I mean, our climate now acts like an alcoholic parent! Spoiling us and beating us--sometimes to death--with terrifying unpredictably.
But still, I return to the subject of my car. My modest little vehicle. My metallic pet. The charming metal box that hurls me from work to home, from home to friends' houses, and always to see my family.
The internet and telephone can help me see and talk with people too far to walk to and too obscurely located to bus or train to. But in-person visits are still much preferable to the telecommute, and time spent at the helm of a car is such a pleasure in itself, that I still fail to join my gasoline-free friends in their medically and morally superior lifestyle.
Woe is me, the sinner who does not bike to work. (Yet.) I dream of guilt free cars, of limitless, safe propulsion. No toxic batteries or airborne, particulate exhaust.
My fantasy is that the wretched and finite nature of fossil gasoline will not take the beauty of the automobile down with it.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
A Moment of Neeeeerd Rage!!!
OK, there is NO WAY I'm the only comic book nerd out here who finds it massively creepy that at the end of Iron Man 2, Tony Stark and Pepper Potts hook up.
I'm sorry, but no. It is simply not OK.
In the first COMICS, Ms. Potts used to throw her little gold-digging self at her rich boss, but he would always snub her for whatever supermodels were already in his car. Largely because he was hiding a physical disability and secret robot habit and didn't want anybody too close to his personal life for longer than a weekend.
And in later comics, Ms. Potts wised up, realized that her boss was a flaky drunk and married the limo driver instead, as nature intended. Never once hooking up with her boss!
In IMMEDIATE comics, yeah, she did. After being widowed and after she thought Tony was going to die soon. But it was too brief to be much of an affair, and then he jumped straight into bed with his other primary female ally, because he thought he was dying and could burn a few bridges on the way out. Being a party boy and all.
Now, I love the Iron Man comics. The Iron Man Civil War collection is something I re-read frequently. I love the weird social and psychological dynamics of the title, the love-hate friendships that start to resemble family, the fantasy of wealth... It's even fun to imagine what the weight of the world must feel like when it's resting on mentally unstable, brilliant shoulders.
But dude! Hollywood should NOT have turned one of comics' best awkward male-female friendships into a "the guy gets the girl because main characters always hook up" scenario. Part of the fun is that he never really does.
OK, nerd moment over for now.
I'm sorry, but no. It is simply not OK.
In the first COMICS, Ms. Potts used to throw her little gold-digging self at her rich boss, but he would always snub her for whatever supermodels were already in his car. Largely because he was hiding a physical disability and secret robot habit and didn't want anybody too close to his personal life for longer than a weekend.
And in later comics, Ms. Potts wised up, realized that her boss was a flaky drunk and married the limo driver instead, as nature intended. Never once hooking up with her boss!
In IMMEDIATE comics, yeah, she did. After being widowed and after she thought Tony was going to die soon. But it was too brief to be much of an affair, and then he jumped straight into bed with his other primary female ally, because he thought he was dying and could burn a few bridges on the way out. Being a party boy and all.
Now, I love the Iron Man comics. The Iron Man Civil War collection is something I re-read frequently. I love the weird social and psychological dynamics of the title, the love-hate friendships that start to resemble family, the fantasy of wealth... It's even fun to imagine what the weight of the world must feel like when it's resting on mentally unstable, brilliant shoulders.
But dude! Hollywood should NOT have turned one of comics' best awkward male-female friendships into a "the guy gets the girl because main characters always hook up" scenario. Part of the fun is that he never really does.
OK, nerd moment over for now.
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