Antonio Fargas, Unsung Genius

Any actor who can evoke true pathos while playing a character named Doodlebug in Cleopatra Jones must have some touch of genius in him.

Pouting, Crying, and Shouting

Thanksgiving is 2 days away and already I'm starting to go Grinch. As I should have learned when I first read How the Grinch Stole Christmas, you just can't stop that mother from coming. The same goes for New Year and my birthday. Last year, I tried to face down the end of the year holiday onslaught with a my-way-or-the-highway attitude. I threw myself headlong at Christmas and got nothing but bruises to show for it. Bracing myself won't do. I can either side-step it or redirect it's force.

I must find a good strategic defense against holiday misery.

1. Be Selfish
I don't want to. I really want Christmas to be about giving, but I don't have much to give and very few people want what I've got. Perhaps I will purchase some holiday CDs and one of those tinsel trees from UO just for me.

2. Limit Mother
I established a four day Mom limit years ago. It is okay to ignore Mom. It is okay to tell her to get off my back. It is possible to be kind to Mom without sacrificing my sense of self. If she gives me another gift that I know she'd originally purchased for herself months ago with no thought as to it's appropriateness for me, I will try not to make a face.

3. Keep Expectations Low
If I ever mass produced a holiday card, it would contain this bit of wisdom that my father shared with Mom after a holiday meltdown. "Baby, you know Christmas always sucks." Mom had worked herself up into a frenzy laying out a fancy table for me and Dad, which was a total pearls before swine operation. Then she tried to play the Vienna Boys Choir or some crap on the stereo, when all of the sudden one of Dad's raunchy blues CDs got in the mix and she just lost it.

Getting excited about Christmas is risky because it's all tied up with other people. If only the other people could be removed from the equation, but they cannot. If it weren't for others, there would be no holiday.

The only thing I'm really looking forward to this Christmas is The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou, but even that could suck. Bill Murray could let me down, so I'm not going to get too fired up.

4. Screw the Children
When the first nephew popped out, I thought, oh boy, now Christmas will be fun again because we can bask in a little one's wonder and joy. Nope. I have never seen a nephew at Christmas. No basking allowed. Now I just send the boys a check and trust it'll go to their education.

You might say that these 4 defense strategies will actually make Christmas worse, that they are antithetical to the whole season. Well, you're right. If enough people in your family circle shrink back from the holidays, then everyone else's holiday is in jeopardy. It's a holiday black hole.

My holidays are smaller than yours. If you can afford big holidays, either emotionally or financially, then take them. They're yours.

Stray Ham and other Misplaced Foods

Mrs. Ass stopped by on Sunday morning to drop of a ham. It seems that stray hams often wind up in her possession and she has to redirect them to non-kosher homes like mine. She had time to stay for tea before she drove back to the burbs in her new egg shaped hybrid car.

The food was exactly where it should have been at Yoko's afternoon no scrabble scrabblefest.

Later, I wrote a story about a campus nighttime breakfast for the school paper. Yes, I'm writing for the school paper, even though I graduated a zillion years ago. You can't get any writing jobs without clips--published writing samples--and it takes clips to get clips. I'm lucky I can write for the university paper (or so I keep telling myself), otherwise I'd be clipless.

Tragic Film Festival

This weekend must have been one of the most miserable in home entertainment history.

It began on Thursday with Casino, then continued downward into Friday with The House of Sand and Fog (the most tragic film I've seen since Remains of the Day, which I refer to as "a slow fork in my heart.") and The Magdalene Sisters (faith-based social services my butt).

I tried to take a palette cleansing break with Win a Date with Tod Hamilton, but Ms. Bosworth's pluckless performance didn't help. (Perky is not enough.)

On Sunday night, I just happened to tune into none other than Touching the Void.

I enjoy cinematic suffering, but some directors go too far. I can take Scorcese. I can even do Todd Solondz. Lars von Trier, however, is beyond my threshold. I want to see suffering endured and overcome and suffering as the result of foolishness. Suffering celebrated for it's own sake usually just pisses me off.

At A Bar

Last night at a restaurant bar that I frequent, I talked with:
-A white man who claims to transend race and history
-A black republican erotic video fan
-A dancer who dreams of owning a mansion in Louisiana where he will run a company out of the former slave quarters in the back
-A former black panther party leader and skeet shooting expert
-People who have been stitched, stapled, and glued back together
-A small linguist who said I had natural talent in that field because I quickly explained to the white man the probable reasons why we say Moscow instead of MOCKBA and Germany instead of Deutchland.

lack of adequate imagery

These people said,"Speaking recently about the myriad dangers facing humanity, director-provocateur Werner Herzog cited ‘the lack of adequate imagery’ as one of the most troubling."

Lemon-y Fresh Pledge

I pledge to make 5 job contacts each week until I find a new job.

Thanks for your support.

the final documentary project

Lawd help me. I must chose a new idea for my final doc project. I know one woman who juggles balls of flame and another who goes to sheep trials with her dog. I guess I could do something about one of those people. If neither of those ideas pans out, I could be forced to make another "personal and poetic" documentary video for my final class project. Or I could go out into the world with the camera and shoot without asking for permission.

I am considering doing something illustrating the process of the self (yeah, I'm not sure what that means, either. There's a great conceptual quagmire danger there.)

It's hard to really share my thoughts and feelings, to communicate my excitement for things. For instance, I cannot simply show my student worker footage of a pudding shaped like an island in the Pacific and expect her to understand why this is good and wondrous.

Faced with this gap, I think it doesn't matter what video I make or what I write. But then, if it doesn't matter, why not do it? Why not throw myself into a project that I love? Why not make crap if I love crap?

If I cannot go out into the world and report, then I have no choice but to look inward and bore the hell out of everyone!

I love documentary!

Reminder to Self: Be Excited

What was it I was supposed to be doing again? I was excited about doing something, if only I could remember what it was. It's too easy to forget goals. I think if I don't find a better job by January, I'll take a second one just for a few months. Maybe I can do temporary paralegal work at night.

I was up until 3 a.m. this morning finishing the latest documentary video. As per assignment, it's a short using only archival footage. Unfortunately, under such strictures, it's hard to come at the project with a firm concept or structure already in place. You can't really know what you're doing without wading through the footage, but by the time you figure things out, the assignment's due. My video stinks, but hopefully no more than the other students' work. We shall see.

Shooting video has made me too aware of the constant machine buzz that surrounds me in every building.

Politixar

In the name of spoiling fun by thinking too much I bring you this handy chart of Pixar politics and philosophy. Perhaps some of you better educated folks can play along by telling the rest of us the names of the thinkers associated these philosophies.

The Incredibles: Supermen and superwomen are forced to conform to the mediocre masses and live a lie of equality.
OR
Greed and conformity force minorities to assimilate.

Finding Nemo: Fish accept death.

Monster's Inc.: The need to maintain a growth economy drives the the well-meaning energy industry capitalist to exploit human children and monster workers. Government bureaucrats are annoying but necessary to protect us. Workers, Interspecies tolerance and technological innovation save society.

Toy Story II: Cool looking toys are cute and funny. Oh, wait. Toys learn to accept pain and death as part of life. Androgynous female toy overcomes heartbreaking same-sex relationship by hooking up with extremely masculine toy.

A Bug's Life: A visionary misfit overcomes his ego to help his matriarchal collective fight fascist oppressors. A young matriarch becomes self-empowered.

Toy Story: The illusion of self is shattered. A toy in a meaningless universe learns to construct a meaningful existence as a surrogate father. Other toy overcomes jealousy for sake of surrogate son and community. Toys pin murder on other toy based on circumstancial evidence. Heroic cowboy toy is rewarded with sex from female toy.

Swingline Cinderella

Can a day go by without some kind of stapler drama? No wonder it takes all my will not to call in sick every morning.

DVD Replaced, Commentary Still Missing

Campus scholars can sigh with relief now that the library has replaced its missing signature edition 2 disc Gladiator DVD. I figured I'd better check it out before it goes missing again.

Sorry, Mr. Scott, but Gladiator isn't so entertaining without commentary from Mom. If you'd ever met my mom, a small, plump, bookish African-American lawyer and grandmother with a taste for Talbots, it might surprise you to know that a few of years ago, Ridley Scott's celebration of violence and dirt was her favorite rental. I came home for some holiday and she said let's watch it. I said sure, not knowing that she'd already seen it many times, sort of. Dad retired to his room as soon as we started watching the film, although I imagine he was the one who let it into the house in the first place. Mom had kept it way past its due date, but she'd always doze off before the third act so that she had to watch it from the beginning over and over again.

Naturally, Mom would talk during the movie, making insightful comments about Maximus: "I like him."--Emperor Commodus: "Oh, he's bad."-- The dog: "I like the dog." --The scene at the burnt-up farm where snot runs out of Russell Crowe's nose: "Good acting." -- the African Guy: "He's cute, too." All this done in the same furtive delighted way she would eat sweets (she has diabetes), as if some invisible hand was hovering above ready to wrap her knuckles with a spoon.

I never found out if Dad liked Gladiator.

Miracle on the Delaware

I just found out about the Prelinger Archive. Check out this swell gem.

I Don't Like to Finish

I don't want to finish Moby Dick. It's just too good.

I wish I didn't have to finish the birth documentary. I was really getting into staying up over night and finding cool archival b-roll type stuff, but it was already overdue. When I showed it in class last night, this artsy guy asked me if I was trying to make the video gross on purpose. Dude, it's about a woman describing the birth of her son. There was only one bloody image on screen for less than 3 seconds. Don't be such a wimp.

Also not fun, giving a class presentation on The Fog of War. I couldn't figure out the controls on the room's dvd player, and all the while, I had to stop myself from pointing at the screen and saying, "Ya see? Amazing! Look at that!" I had a film professor who would sometimes screen segments of film and say "cut" at every edit point. Maybe I should have done that.

This morning I made one of my student workers watch a bit of The Fog of War. She said, "That guy's going to hell." I now believe it is my duty to force this student to watch scenes from movies I enjoy. It's for her own good. This is the kid who says things like "Independence Day is the best!" and can't let a week go by without mentioning Newsies.

They Came From Bags: Cornography

Rice, Corn, Butter, Finger
One of my student workers told me she didn't quite approve of junk foods trying to taste like other junk foods, such as cotton candy flavored lollipops and bubble gum ice cream. I am neither for nor against such things in principle. For me, it's all about the execution.

I was about to grab my usual seven eleven snack, popycock, but my heart desired something lighter. There they were, The Rice Krispie Popcorn and the Butterfinger Popcorn. I chose both -- the ultimate in greedy indecision.

Rice Krispie Popcorn delivered all the label promised, the mellow marshmallow, the tender toasted rice things over a popcorn crunch base. Unlike a lot of caramel corn snacks, it didn't get my hands all sticky. Too bad it looked like upchucked chowder, a problem which I overcame by mindlessly scarfing it down without a second look.

Butterfinger Popcorn, however, was a disappointment. It sort of tasted like it's coated in the crispity stuff (anyone know the proper name for that compound?), but there was no chocolate. It wasn't even chocolat-y. Crispity without chocolate does not a Butterfinger make. So it was not scarf worthy and I never bothered finishing the little bag.

They Came from Bags: Dang Panang

Prepare yourselves for the most positive Shameless Consumer new product reviews to date.

Dang Panang
I spotted Trader Joe's Tuna in Red Panang Curry Sauce at the sample counter. Even though they weren't giving out any samples of the stuff, and in spite of my reservations about off the shelf meat products, I figured that for less than 2 bucks, it was worth a shot.

Like Tastybite meals, Trader Joe's Tuna in Red Panang Curry Sauce is magically sealed into a metallic bag. Apparently there's no irradiation involved. I simply snipped it open and poured the contents into a dish. Oh joy! It didn't smell fishy like canned tuna (I have only tasted canned tuna twice in my life, the smell repels me so). After a quick irradiation of my own, lunch was ready. It was delicious. The tuna's texture was a bit stringy, like overcooked chicken, but the sweet, mildly hot succulent sauce made up for that. The sauce could hold it's own against any served by the average Thai restaurant, at least in my city.

The greatest flaw was the product's lack of complete mealness. The portion was a bit too small for this big strapping American. They could have thrown in a little packet of rice in for the worker on the go, but I could have easily added this tuna to some noodles or a salad for a fast dinner.

Interesting Articles

"Mourn" from the Nation

From a real jaw dropper article in the New York Times:

"I almost did not vote for George Bush because he started that war in Iraq, and that was a terrible mistake," Mr. Gillett said. "But then I figured, now that we're in it, we'd better stay with him."

Another drop in the Glass

Also, I survived eight years of Reagan (yes, the democrats had the legislature), the recession under George I, and the Newt Gingrich nightmare, too. I don't buy anything Bush says about healing the rifts in this nation. It's going to get uglier. But here are some reasons for hope.

-in 2000, plenty of students on campus sported Bush buttons. This year I've seen only one.
-There was a very effective backlash against Newt.

I can't think of any more good ones off the top of my head. Oh wait.

-People really like that Obama guy.

Got anymore?

The Glass is 49 Percent Full

Okay, I've been thinking this over. I'm a Midwesterner, darn it. And I'll be damned if I'm going to let anyone make me feel like a freak in my own country.

The typical red state blue state graphic looks bad and fails to illustrate, for example, that large as it is, hardly anyone lives in Montana. Better to look at this nifty graphic for a clearer picture.

Yes, we must keep fighting, but the thing is, urbane types, the weirdos aren't as weird as we'd like to think. Half of the people who live in any big blue city are actually from someplace else.

Yes, I live in a big East Coast city, listen to NPR, read subtitles and enjoy eating fancy little pieces of raw fish; but practically all my relatives live in the South, (yes, Alexandria, VA counts)go to church and a good chunk of them would say they are born again. My grandma's concept of wildlife is linked to how good it tastes. My cousin and his wife even like to shoot guns and do "donuts" in their pick-up trucks. Yeah, I think they're goofier than Barney Fife, but they're my people, too. And it looks like people like me are going to have to deal with people like my relatives and set the record straight on some serious stuff, especially since it's people like my relatives who are on the front lines of our wars (One cousin is still in the navy--though she never learned to swim. Another served in the army during Iraq War I).

Of course most of my relatives didn't vote for Bush. They're not that goofy.

Pretentious people like me are going to have to learn to have empathy with traditional people so that we can work together. We must stop doing things like this.

It's not easy talking to people who have been repeatedly exposed to some messed up memes or what they would call powerful notions. These memes are like neurotransmitter blockers that prevent good sense from getting into people's brains. For example, I was sitting around with a bunch of relatives in grandma's living room in Elvisville when someone brought up the evils of Harry Potter. None of the locals in the room could dare challenge that notion and be tainted with witchcraft. I could, and did, say, "If the biggest evil you're dealing with is a children's book about wizards, then you're pretty lucky." Some people were upset at this outburst of reason, but others were relieved. The meme spell had been broken for them and hopefully they would feel more free to openly enjoy books and avoid things that might actually harm them.

At Least I Can Go Home Again, Sort Of

My small hopes for happy election results were in vain, but at least I can go home again. This morning I feared that my still beloved home state in the much maligned middle America would go red. If it went red, where could my heart rest then? I timidly checked the NYT website to see if I could go home again and found some small solace. It was blue. Perhaps it wasn't as blue as it was when Reagan failed to take it, but it was blue.

My thin tolerance for certain boneheaded beliefs is at an all time low. How will the changes that our right wing leaders continue to palm off on us affect my life? One very important yet invisible effect on me is growing alienation. I still want to believe that I should feel at home in my own country. But who are these people? Who are my neighbors outside of my university district? Who were the neighbors I grew up with in my midwestern suburb? I do not trust these people.

About 10 years ago, I joked that I didn't want to live in a "spelt bread enclave." Now I guess I'll have to set up permanent residence at the corner of Spelt and Soy, and only venture out of the reservation for the occasional cheeseburger.

Voted

To spite my restless sleep and the talk on the radio of lawyer legions preparing for showdowns, voting was simple as pie. Or cake (the school that is my polling place was having a bake sale). There were no long lines and only a few irritating pamphleteers.

Now begins my post-voting political hibernation. I hope that by the time I emerge from my cave tomorrow that we will have elected some people to public office.

Rusty and Lukewarm

I was a bit rusty at my first employment interview in over 4 years. My interviewers were pretty much in the "hey there...yep" mode. I stayed friendly inspite of the lukewarm atmosphere, but I didn't want to risk trying to break through their reserve with too much enthusiasm and come off like some infomercial host. The best I can say for myself was that I didn't offend anyone's senses. My portfolio, for instance, did not include any blog posts about nipples. We shall see.

I Heart Halloween v. Co-Ed Sluts

I'm glad I saw I Heart Huckabees this weekend. The movie didn't always work, but I was entertained from brain to toe. How come foreign actors make such good Americans (Mr. Law's occasional accent flubs notwithstanding)? No, it's not because we're a nation of imigrants. I smell a commonwealth conspiracy.

Zanti recently brought up the issue of sexy Halloween costumes. My old college roommate and I strolled through the alma mama campus and another campus on Saturday and saw many young women in disguises. Their costumes weren't sexy; they were slutty. Not only were the traditionally sexy costumes (nurse, maid, etc.) pushed beyond call-girl limits. The Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz was in an ass waving mini-crinoline. The lady cops could barely breathe for the skin-tight uniforms. Even the young lady soldier wore daisy duke fatigues. Hey, librarians and admin assistants who are tired of stereotypes. At least you're not nurses. We saw 2 separate "nurses" in pink vinyl uniforms. I guess that would make it easier to rinse off the blood, but where do you put the stethoscope? Of course, my friend and I clicked our tongues at the post-feminist non-feminist youth of today, even though she and I wore our share of sleazy outfits in college. Back then, it was all about showing legs. The baggy fashions of the times prevented us from bulging out of vinyl.

Earlier that evening we saw a couple dressed as cow and cowboy.