Crush Utility

Many things that seem uncool or just downright pathological can actually serve a function. Pessimism may have helped humans survive the last ice age, even though it's hindering my ability to thrive in the current age. Impossible crushes may help me by fulfilling the desire to have a crush. If I must have crushes, it's better to have an obviously hopeless crush than to have a tantilizingly hopeful crush, so long as one is aware that there is no absolutely no chance, and this is the tricky part.

Three Good Things

Three good things about this weekend were:
1. Visiting the Eastern State Penitentiary
2. Seeing Control Room
3. Hosting kick ass improv show

Oh yes, and no children threw rocks at me.

Contacted by Duchess Harris

As if to prove those freaky Disney animatronic Small World kids right, Duchess Harris has commented on Ashyknee's Time Killer.

Readers of this blog may remember a few references to Duchess Harris. Ms. Harris is, of course, a real human being, but because of her many accomplishments, she is also a symbol of the kind of person that many in women in my family would like me to be. So, whether or not it is entirely just and even though I have never met her face to face (although I've seen her speak on my college campus when she was a student there), she has been mentioned by name in my blog, along with other accomplished scholars, politicians, and stars.

That mention also placed Ms. Harris in the company of puerile celebrity crushes, copulating frogs, man skirts, and the never ending mayonnaise debate. What can I say? I'm no scholar. I'm just a woman with a blog. But then, Ms. Harris is not a politician or a movie star, and she never bothered me on a bus.

My comments about her life outside of her work were thoughtless, regardless of their nature. For that I apologize.

Duchess Harris, PhD, I hope you don't mind my blog, and I hope you will forgive my poor judgement. You wouldn't have been mentioned by name if you hadn't achieved so much. I have deleted some portions of comments referring to you that, while not negative, may have been questionable internet content.

(I'm not touching yesterday's make out picture. If you can tell who those people are from that angle, then you have every right to know what they were doing!)

Vicarious Thrills

I snapped this beauty in Prospect Park. A photographer at the picnic egged me on to move in closer. I'll admit it was fun. Guess that makes me kind of a perv. But hey, if you get it on in public, you're asking for it, right?

Black Enough at Harvard

When I was in college, I noticed that for all the diversity (remember I'm from MN and diversity is relative), everyone was pretty much the same.

I found this fun article, Top Colleges Take More Blacks, but Which Ones? in the New York Times about everyone's favorite topic, affirmative action. It's the same old song: too many immigrants, bougie kids, and the light skinneded, only now even the bougie kids are losing ground. Here's a cut:

There is also wide disagreement about what, if anything, should be done about the underrepresentation of African-American students whose families have been here for generations. Even Professor Gates, who can trace his ancestry back to slaves, and Professor Guinier, whose mother is white and whose father immigrated from Jamaica, emphasize different ideas.

"This is about the kids of recent arrivals beating out the black indigenous middle-class kids," said Professor Gates, who plans to assemble a study group on the subject. "We need to learn what the immigrants' kids have so we can bottle it and sell it, because many members of the African-American community, particularly among the chronically poor, have lost that sense of purpose and values which produced our generation."

In Professor Guinier's view, there are plenty of other blacks who could also succeed at elite colleges, but the institutions are not doing enough to find them. She said they were overly reliant on measures like SAT scores, which correlate strongly with family wealth and parental education.

"Colleges and universities are defaulting on their obligation to train and educate a representative group of future leaders," said Professor Guinier, a Harvard graduate herself who has been studying college admissions practices for more than a decade. "And they are excluding poor and working-class whites, not just descendants of slaves."

The root of the problem (outside of the 500 years of history thing) is that poor kids go to crap schools. And if you go to a crap school, you'll be lucky to get a high school diploma, never mind succeeding in an elite college or university. My brother attended an elite school with an "inner city kid" from Brooklyn, and smart as he was (he was damn fine, too), that kid just didn't have the skills. He's doing all right now, but he had to leave the institute without a degree. I can only imagine the disappointment. I've talked to others who were stars in their public school, but nearly tanked in college.

So until we beef up elementary and secondary education, there'll just be a diversity of sameness in the elite schools and a dumbing down of the other higher education institutions.

Will somebody please tell me why I read these damn novels?

During the Cold War, my dad devoured spy novels. His shelves bowed under the weight of Ludlum and le Carre paperbacks. He even did a little Tom Clancy, as I recall, in spite of the politics. So I'll just blame my genes for not letting me put down this damn Patrick O'Brian book. I'm now on The Ionian Mission, the eighth of these soggy novels and I still don't know what the heck half the words mean, between the aft and the poop. Back in high school history class, I slept through much of the Napoleonic wars unit(maybe I was in love or going through some internal growth spurt). I'm from the prairie. It's all I can do to remember where Mauritius is and when they refer to The Cape, I couldn't tell you which continent its on. Maybe that's why I love these books. They have nearly nothing to do with my life.

Of course, there's more to the books than boats. There's espionage, promiscuous widows, political debates, drug abuse, animals telling you what's on their minds ("An egg!"), "painfully beautiful" boys breaking hearts in both sexes, fake Chinese poetry, and debauched sloths.

And just imagine the hats!

But maybe I should go out and get some fresh air or something.

Today is Tuesday, You Know What That Means!

Memnon Rides the Bus

I boarded the Chinatown bus moments before it was scheduled to leave for Philly. The man seated behind me took it upon himself to let me know it was okay to recline my seat. God help me, I reclined. Some stupid force within me compels these regrettable actions, some fear of my own power and my right to be left alone. And men like this one know--probably by some equally pathological, symbiotic instinct-- that they can talk to me and I will listen.

So this guy asks what I'm reading. I show him the book, The Surgeon's Mate. Then he shows me his, Shades of Memnon, written by none other that himself, Gregory L. Walker. Turns out Memnon is yet another African hero wiped from the pages of history, only to be redeemed by a man sitting behind me on a cut rate bus. Not only does Mr. Walker show me his book, complete with labels stating it had been optioned for film, but his lamented press clippings and another clipping lambasting the movie Troy for not having any Africans in it.

This man nearly snuffed out any respect I may have had for him and his cause by presuming to teach me that history gets re-written by those in power. "Gee, brother, I had no idea that people of African decent are portrayed negatively in the media. I was feeling so down about us that I almost sat in the back of the bus out of lowliness. But now I can hold my head high because of Memnon. Thank you."

Walker pointed out another label on his book. Apparently, he has created a new genre, African historic fiction, and has designed a logo to go with it. He proudly pointed out the black woman in the logo. She is reaching over everything, he said. It looked more like she was bending over everything so she could do it doggy style. But whatever.

Then he asks me my name, where I live, where I work. I wish I would have lied, or quoted The Surgeon's Mate. It has a great line about how question and answer does not make for "liberal conversation."

In spite of his choir preaching, presumption, and his questionable theory that Africans are the only truly heroic people because we didn't try to take over anyone else (oh really?), I had to admire Mr. Walker. I agree that youth of today could use some Africans in their historical fiction. He told me his idea for a book about 2 black pirates who were brothers, that actually sounded cool (because pirates are cool, and what could be cooler than a black pirate but 2 black pirates? Maybe if one of them was a ghost), and I recommended that he read this awesome book. At least this guy is writing. At least this guy has passion.

There was one thing he didn't have. As we pulled into Philly, he tapped me on the shoulder(ew) and said "Sister, do you have a phone?" Heroic.

Prospect Park, Brookyn, U.S.A.

On Saturday, I returned to my old stomping grounds for a picnic, hosted by my college friend and his Special Lady, in one of the best places on earth. Boggle and Frisbee. More details to come.

If I were a space alien looking to get a good sample of humanity, I'd scoop up Prospect Park in my flying saucer's tractor beam and take it back to Andromeda with me.

Swallow My Gift, Qui Qui

Damn you, Quiconque, and your sadistic hateration! Keep your condiments away from my wholesome hobbies and international cinema appreciation! If I could get my hands on you I'd sit on you, force you to watch Monsters Ball, and make you listen to this song over and over again!

My Name Ain't Condoleezza

It turns out that guy number 2 from the spring street experience is a poor reader(among other things) or just oblivious. My profile said I'm looking for a left of center guy. Maybe he took the word as an indication of global position, always relative. Anyway, after a tolerable dining experience, in which he droned on about conference calls and failed to name any hobbies or interests, we were walking around the city when an eager young man in a DNC t-shirt asked us if we wanted to beat Bush in November.

(simultaneously)
Me: Yes!
Guy #2: No!

And then, would you believe, he whips out his Republican party membership card. Yes, he's a carrier! Sorry, but I just can't swing that way.

Regretably, I held his hand after much cajoling. If I'm hanging out with white people and someone else doesn't like it, then they can fuck off, but with this guy, the dirty looks from my brotherly loving neighbors made me feel, well, dirty.

This guy wants to go out with me again. Perhaps I'll reply with this quote from Elvis Costello:
"Good manners and bad breath will get you nowhere."

Yeah, well, dating makes one bitchy.

Benefits of the Global Economy

So much for those pessimistic anti-globalization poo-pooers. Not long ago, I would have had to cross an ocean to get my hands on this quality entertainment product. Now that it's the information age, I'm living sans frontieres! Not even region code can stop me from completing my noble mission.

Walk from DC to NY? Piece of Cake!

Last night I survived The Day After Tomorrow. The Day After Tomorrow had all the post cold war millennial disaster movie ingredients:
an estranged gifted son
ex spouse reconciliation
White House wavering
a renegade scientist
cheesy computer graphs illustrating the coming disaster
a prophetic homeless man
romance in the ruins
a lovable dog
plus, the appeal of that whole "the last shall be first" thing.

I don't know whether to criticize Dennis Quaid and Iam Holm for agreeing to be in such a goofy movie or praise them for their ability to deliver the vapid dialog with total gravitas and conviction. Perma-smirker Jake Gyllenhaal is excused. I mean, he's still just a teenager. (Please!) The film's stupidity shouldn't suprise anyone, but it still pissed me off. I will give the movie props for featuring my new favorite agency, NOAA and Tamlyn Tomita's noble beak.

To be fair to DAT, I am not a disaster movie lover. Some of the most painfully idiotic films ever made fall into that genre. Even a cheesy disaster movie can stress me out. All the manipulative devices start to work on me, in spite of my cynicism. My heart sinks for the first line soldiers who get blown away like so many insects. My hand waves warning to the people who chose the sure path to death because they didn't want to listen to the hero. My chin quivers at acts of martyrdom. Worst of all, some of these movies just scare the bejesus out of me.

Still, being from Minnesota, I felt that I definitely would have an advantage in Day After Tomorrow World. Any Minnesotan would tell you only a fool stands outside during a tornado. Also, thanks to the fine public schools we had in Minnesota (at least when I was a kid), I know how to swim, tread water, and I understand the value of dressing in layers.

The best disaster movie in my book is The Poseidon Adventure, starring one of my mom's secret fave raves, Gene Hackman.

High Seas Adventure

I survived the crossing of Market Street, 6:11 p.m. Tuesday, June 15, 2004.

(picture from NOAA. They've got lots of fun stuff!)

Um, Is This Going to Go In Your Blog?

After I confessed to doing improv comedy*, I figured I had nothing to lose, so also told my new friend that I have a blog. When we finally met for coffee he asked, with some trepidation, if he was going to be mentioned in said blog. So with apologies to my new friend, here's a brief play by play for the masses.

Truth is there ain't much to tell at this point. We met, we drank coffee, we ate, we walked, we talked. He paid for dinner. That and the armpit anxiety makes a date. He's a good guy--funny, articulate, likes dogs, plays guitar, smokes, likes Y Tu Mama Tambien and Ace Ventura. Anyone who can spend more than four straight hours hanging out with me deserves some kind of praise. I don't know what kind, but some kind.

P.S. If I never mention him again in this blog, don't ask.

*"Ladies, improv will not get you laid."
from Jill Bernard's workshop

The Volume of My Weekend Glass

I saw the new Harry Potter flick with Yoko on Friday night, but I left my new Ann Taylor loft purchase on the floor of the theater.

A strange man made unsettling comments about my lipstick as I rode the Broad Street Line on Saturday, but I was on my way to a tasty kabob lunch with Melba.

Some unruly underarm hair and nervous indecision forced me to change shirts a half a dozen times, so I was late for my coffee with a new friend; but coffee lead to dinner and some excellent conversation.

On Sunday, another a little hood rat decided to throw rocks at me; but she and her little gang were frightened off by a huge, intimidating, yet neighborly man who got my back.

At last, I stopped putting off housework and scrubbed out the kitchen and bathroom, but my landlady told me she plans to raise my rent.

This guy (let's call him Kangaroo Jackass), who has maybe spoken 3 words to me, had the gall to send me a scolding email for the way I treated his girlfriend (let's call her Batgirl) when I asked her to leave the improv group; but, if there is any justice in the world they will have a terrible breakup because Batgirl is a psycho bitch from hell and he is Kangaroo Jackass.

Overheard at Cool Hot Spot

Cool Person: Hey, what are all the hipsters doing this Friday, June 18th at 8 p.m.?

Hipster: I believe they'll be taking in some of that new improvisational comedy from Elaschtick and the Rare Bird Show at 8 p.m. at the Community Education Center.

Cool Person: That's at 3500 Lancaster Avenue, near the picturesque Drexel Campus, isn't it?

Hipster: You know it. Tickets are just five dollars.

Cool Person: Wow, that's cheaper than certain beers I've purchased.

Hipster: Ha ha ha! But how will I get to this Community Education Center?

Cool Person: http://www.libertynet.org/cec/map.html

Hipster: That Powelton Village, it's like the Amsterdam of Philadelphia it's so cool.

I am Curious, Green

Thanks, Melba, for helping me code my new blog template.

"When they finally put you in the ground"

Would they just bury the man already? I swear they ought to make concert style T-shirts that say REAGAN, the Fairwell Tour, with a list of the cities where they've flown his body.

The person I asked to leave the improv group just sent me a l'esprit d'escalier email which mostly served to remind me why she got the boot in the first place. Her esprit was lame as usual. Ugh. Can nothing be put to rest?

Bad Admin, Bad!

Sometimes I let a few administrative details slip my mind.

Recent Oddities

Ataulfo mangos are like butta!

"I thought it would be funny if the boy died," said one of the members of my improv group during a scene post-mortum at rehearsal last night.

One of our librarians felt so comfortable in my office that he decided to change pants in it as I tried to eat my lunch. He then went on to recommend a very topical book on skirts.

I wasn't the only one who got freaked out by the screen gems logo.

Get Your Sex Traits Strait--Beards & Skirts

The prevalence of goatees on the men of my generation sent me around the internet hoping to find a nice chart of the history of men's facial hair trends. While that search failed, I did find this book, One Thousand Beards: A Cultural History of Facial Hair and I'll be darned if our library doesn't have a copy!

Yes, facial hair, like many male things, both attracts and repulses me, but at least I'm not this person:

Reviewer: thepeskyangel (see more about me) from Nottingham, UK
I, for one, find body hair of any description totally abhorrent, so I found this book one of the most difficult and challenging reads of my life. Peterkin's description of hair follicles, for example, borders, at times, on the pornographic.
I had to skip the chapter where he waxes lyrical about the curl-to-density ratio of pubic hair because I became too nauseous to carry on reading.

Did perversity drive the pesky angel to read the book in the first place, or some misguided attempt at aversion therapy?

Nothing Much

Every Saturday morning my mom calls me to make sure I'm not dead. When she asks me what's new, I usually say, "Nothing much." And as I say those words, I believe them, when really lots of stuff is happening.

A new librarian started here today, and while he seems like a nice guy, he does want people to call him Dick. In principle, I believe that people have the right to be called whatever they want. In practice, this will be difficult to do with a straight face.

Speaking of funny names, I watched my second horse race this weekend, the Belmont. Everyone in the room was rooting for Smarty Jones, but he came in second. Hey, that's pretty good. He definitely had the best name out of all the horses. Rock Hard 10 and Purge are bad names for any animal. I learned many exciting horse facts. For instance, horses have a patriarchal herd structure.

Speaking of patriarchy, who should finally croak but dear old Ronald Reagan, the man who presided over my adolescence? The sight of his wizened face, cold eyes and shilaced Big Boy hair no longer touches off the same visceral rage in me as they did when I watched is first inaugural address and almost cried. I hope he rests in peace. But more than that, I hope his death doesn't rev up the W campaign too much and they'd better not put his face on the dime. Reagan voted for FDR, you know.

Speaking of votes, I wonder if I will chose to date either of the 2 guys that I've been emailing thanks to spring street networks internet dating. I wonder if either one will chose me. Again, there is no escape from identity issues, least of all in internet dating. I must get over the frustration of reading an interesting profile of an African-American guy only to notice that he prefers not to date African-American women. Other than that, these profiles are starting to look alike. There's a LOT of bald guys with goatees out there.

Identity is Okay

The five minutes of sound and fury that inspired the previous post have been replaced by a hopefully longer lived satisfaction with my current identity concept craze, ENTP.

Getting an identity from an online human resources test has everything thing else --astrological sign, race, birth order, region, religion, body type-- beat. Those horoscope scrolls from the vending machines were cool, but ENTP is the best. This label explains so much.

(I must mention the fastidious intern who is at this very moment obsessively scrubbing the mouse on the computer that she shares with other interns. As she does this at least once a week. When she first started working here, she requested a bottle of rubbing alcohol so she could give her workspace a proper swabbing. At least she stopped talking about Jesus. This ain't exactly Oral Roberts University. Now she is humming tunelessly. Time to put on the headphones.)

The Burning Question: Ethnic Pride, who needs it?

Generic Global Person says,"I am from Earth and I love football and coca cola!"



Ashyknista says, "It's time for the Ashy Nation to rise up and meet her destiny in an Ashy land for Ashy people. Vive L'Ashystan!" (portrait by Shasta Red)

It's not so much of a burning question, more of an itchy question.

I know asking about the value of ethnicity is a bit like asking about the value of toenails. Nearly everybody's got them, so you might as well enjoy them and be proud of them. You don't have to paint them, but it would be a lot more fun if you did. Yet, after reading A New History of India and seeing No Man's Land, I wondered, does ethnicity serve some purpose beyond providing me with a variety of lunch trucks to chose from and providing other people with excuses to blow each other up?

Of course, ethnic pride didn't stop my brother and his wife from playing nice.

After recounting about her visits to her grandparents family compound in Southie for the annual St. Patrick's Day parade, my sister-in-law said with a nostalgic sigh in her voice, "I guess my kids won't get the full Irish experience." Is this such a bad thing?

I know my brother won't be asking our parents to dig out our Great Blacks in History flashcards from the 70's for the my nephews, either. Is that such a loss?

Without events and rituals, manufactured as they may be, will my nephews' identities languish in some consumer culture limbo with no one to relate to but perhaps (and so remotely) the cast of Mucha Lucha?

Oh, my people!

Cherry Hill Girl Talk

Last night I took the commuter rail out to Cherry Hill to hang out at my friend's spilt level and see some women I used to improvise with. I'm getting pretty good at admiring hardwood, a new paint job, and a stylish Italian sofa set without choking on my words. My friend and her husband have actually managed to capture a bit of the original mod feeling of the house. I even managed to complement the lawn. Perhaps I'll be a homeowner myself one day.

It was all babies, pregnancy and engagement rings (my parlor chat skills failed me here so I concentrated on the chicken) as we gorged on take out Chinese from the Voorhees strip mall. It would have been stereotypical girl talk, except the conversation often turned to bodily functions. One friend said that childbirth killed all her qualms about bodily function talk at the table. Ironically, in this circle of friends, it's the mannish gals like me who are the most squeamish. So much for suburban stereotypes in that most suburban suburb.

Sex is Gross at the Movies

You may recall this list of cinema's worst sex scenes. Here is another which contains the best worst sex scene ever!

I'll Buy That for a Dollar or Life Lacks the "Lubitsch Touch"

Romance is best left in repertory film screenings or the classics section of the video store. In reality, it's just annoying.

A couple of cheapskates have responded to my spring street personal ad with "winks." You can't "wink" back. If you want to reply, it'll cost you one credit (about a buck). I replied to one guy, but I don't know about the other. My gut says a dollar is too much to pay to send an email to anyone who wears a pleather(could be leather, but still) baseball cap. Call me sexist and classist, but these guys seem weak and cheap. Or they could be on to something.

Maybe I'll try winking.

Anorexic Fish?

My roommate entrusted me to feed her goldfish while she is away in Europe, but when I sprinkled the prescribed amount of fish flakes into their tank, they just kept chilling in the corner. When I get back tonight, those flakes had better be gone! Perhaps I will contact Sonya for help.