Frustration, In a Sentence

My kingdom for a stapler that works reliably and doesn't jam! My kingdom, I say!

Losing It

Portland thinks she's Austin this week. It was in the upper 70s today, and will be tomorrow as well. I have my bedroom windows wide open in hopes that it will cool down enough so I can sleep, and the frogs are really active tonight, which means that I'll have to eventually close the window so that I can block out some of their amorous noises. I finally saw one, and it wasn't even 2 inches long, which makes the gigantic noise they make all the more strange.

This is an unseasonable reminder that summer is just a few months away, and as I listened to the sounds of people doing yard work, and kids playing outside today, it suddenly remembered the 4th of July. I don't mean that I had a memory of a particular 4th of July. I mean, I remembered that such a thing exists. I had completely forgotten all about it.

That's a weird thing to totally forget about.

Anxious Dreaming

You know that super common dream? The one in which your teeth fall out, or crumble in your mouth, or suddenly become crooked? "Experts" interpret that dream (which occurs across cultures) as either being about a sense of powerlessness (assuming that teeth are a symbol of power) or about some sort of public embarrassment or shame. I have the teeth crumbling dream rather often, and, to me, it just seems similar to all of the other anxiety dreams I have. (Because, in terms of dreams I tend to remember, there are only 2 categories: anxiety dreams and wish fulfillment dreams.)

Anyway, the other night I had a dream which I thought seemed like a variation on the tooth dream. I was driving my car and I very lightly bumped something--like maybe the branches of a tree. I then got out of the car to check the hood, and I noticed that this very slight contact had taken off a bunch of paint. I reached down to touch it and paint started flaking off into my hand--although it wasn't really flaking, because the paint seemed very thick, and almost wet. So it sort of came off in clumps.

The feeling was exactly the same feeling I have in the tooth dream though--that things around me are disintegrating, or decaying. I feel an overwhelming things-will-never-be-right-again feeling.

Holy, Holy, Holy

The closest coffee shop to home is Peet's, down at the bottom of the hill. This is fine with me, because of all the chain coffee shops, I find Peet's to be the most acceptable. BUT, there is something really weird about my Peet's, which is that, for some reason I have yet to understand, it is always teeming with male seminary students.

Now, before I get too far into this post, I want to make it clear that this is not an anti-religion post, nor is is an anti-Pastor Jack post (because, Marcus, you are my baby cousin and if you start blowing hard I can always just tell you to shut it, or distract you by talking about my love affair with If Lucy Fell, or I can bring up the topic of degnoming).

What I want to talk about here is the super weird culture that this creates in the coffee shop. First of all, it is full of dudes hugging, offering to buy one another drinks, and talking about how much they love one another. There are really large, really well-worn bibles on most of the tables. You hear the words, "secular," "outreach," "blessing," and the phrase, "God's will" a whole lot more than you do in most other contexts. There is also a LOT of conversation about mission trips, particularly to Mexico. These conversations are often interrupted by the appearance of yet another seminary student, or sometimes a pastor, and conversation ceases for another round of hugging, I-love-you-man-ing, and discussion about what everyone's mothers and sisters (and wives!) are currently up to. Sometimes the hugs are preceded by an enthusiastic clap shake--you know, the shake that starts like a low-5, but ends in a vigorous shake. Weird.

I don't hate these guys because they are Christians, or because they are evangelists (although I am careful about what I read in front of them because I am sort of terrified about them noticing me and starting a conversation with the phrase, "Do you know G--?"). I sort of hate these guys because, if they weren't seminary students, they would be philosophy majors. They would have equally annoying conversations about Nietzsche and Hegel and Kant and his cows. Instead of having spiky hair and wedding rings, they would all wear black and sport tribal tattoos. They wouldn't carry around bibles, but they would carry around really beat up notebooks that they might journal/do pen and ink drawings in.

Both groups of guys are sort of annoying, but in totally similar ways. I'm more used to hanging out in coffee shops with the Nietzsche guys, and I'm less worried about them trying to convert me (I've got mad philosophy skills that I can shut them up with anyway), so I can tune them out more easily. But I find it almost impossible to grade the huge stack of student essays I have in front of me with the chattering of seminary guys in the background.

inexplicable

Today I was driving up Foster, and I saw two small goats tethered and eating grass on the sidewalk.

Naked Conversation

For Christmas my parents got me a gym membership, which, in an unexpected turn of events, I absolutely love. Someone should have explained to me a long time ago that the gym is a lot like the coffeeshop. You go at more or less the same times. You see more or less the same people. You have your routine. You can be somewhat friendly, or somewhat standoffish, basically by employing (or not employing) your earphones.

There are two things that differentiate the gym from the coffeeshop. One of them is no big deal. Sweat. Sweat is gross, but ultimately sort of negligible. The other is hard to get around. Nudity. Here's the thing. It seems like common sense to me that you should avoid other people while nude in semi-public. You should avoid really looking at them, and definitely avoid touching them in any way, and under NO circumstances should you speak to them. This, however, turns out not to be as obvious to other people as I would like it to be. Seriously. What can you need to say to me (a stranger) that cannot wait until you are appropriately covered?

Thanksgiving Films

OK, so last week the time off afforded me the opportunity to see 2 movies. I made one really good choice, and one really bad one. Actually, I didn't make the first choice (since it was Mikey J's idea), so I really just ultimately chose badly.

Zack and Miri was the good choice (credited to Mikey J). It is a very, very funny movie. We both laughed a lot. Since I know you people do not care enough to read a long review, just let me make the following observations:

1. Jason Mewes is a babe. I didn't just start thinking this. I have always even thought that Jay was really hot (which is weird, cuz that guy would NOT be my type in real life. AT ALL). But I swear that he's actually getting better looking as he gets older.

I don't like to think too much about what is behind my attraction to Jason Mewes, because, if I am honest with myself, it is for all the kinds of reasons that reflect badly on my gender. He is really screwed up. His characters are really screwed up, but Mewes himself is also really screwed up. He is also, from all accounts, a dog (with regard to his dealings with women). But, and this is where I sort of start to hate myself, he seems super, super vulnerable. It is my understanding that he lives with Kevin Smith more than he lives anywhere else--because he needs to be watched over a little, and Smith and his wife provide some sort of stability for him. The point is this--it is that mixture of bad boy/vulnerable boy that makes him sort of irresistible. I know that this is messed up thinking, and part of the reason that we don't have a woman in the White House (because, let's be honest, Bill is an older, puffier, better-educated, Southern Jason Mewes).

All rationalization aside, Jason Mewes is hot.

2. We are getting really old. It is hard to tell from looking in the mirror, but seeing certain other people age makes it impossible to deny. Traci Lords looks OLD. Part of it is hard livin'--I get that. But it still made me feel old.

3. This film requires me to write a sentence that I never expected/wanted to. That sentence is: "Justin Long is a great comedic actor." Seriously. His character is--by far--one of the funniest things in the film. Seth Rogan's reactions to him are equally priceless.

4. It is very, very strange, but also very, very pleasing, when Seth Rogan opens his mouth and Kevin Smith comes out. It's almost too much of a good thing, if you know what I mean.

5. I love Kevin Smith THIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIS much. I don't care how many unwatchable films he makes. When he makes a good film, I just love him THIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIS much more.

***

And then I saw the new Charlie Kaufman film Synecdoche, New York. I should not have done this. I always WANT to like Charlie Kaufman films, both because I sort of believe it is a thing-to-do, but also because, in theory, I like the idea of Kaufman. But in reality, I always either end up mildly disappointed (Being John Malkovich) or downright horrified (Eternal Sunshine*). S, NY is a horrifying movie. If you haven't seen the press, here is the story in a nutshell. Philip Seymour Hoffman plays a theatre director who decides to stage an epic piece of avant-garde theatre after his wife leaves him and he receives a MacArthur genius grant. The idea of the theatre piece is to recreate reality--and to that end he casts someone as himself, and as the people (women) in his life and makes art until it kills him (and everyone around him). This takes a very, very long time. Long enough that I seriously considered walking out of the film, and long enough that 3 (smarter) couples actually DID.

Here's the thing. The idea behind the film is cool. The casting is interesting (except for Catherine Keener. I hate her. What is everyone's thing with her anyway?) and Hoffman is really, really wonderful, which is weird, given the fact that I hated his character so much that I wanted him to die, die, die (and the faster the better). Kaufman is smart, and he tries to make smart movies. But I can't stand them.

And I think that I've figured it out. Kaufman is a smart guy who is tortured by the kind of thoughts and the kind of knowledge that smart people are always tortured by. He's aware, self-conscious, thoughtful. And, like people who are these things tend to be, he is miserable because of it. His films are all about the pain of feeling and thinking deeply, about the tedium of obsessive thinking, about the hopelessness of insight.

I don't think I'm as smart as Charlie Kaufman, but I am familiar enough with the challenges of having a critical mind that I don't want to relive it in my art. The cyclical, obsessive thinking of Kaufman's characters only serves to irritate (and perhaps even trigger) my own cyclical, obsessive thinking. This is not therapeutic, nor does it offer any sort of escape. It is an irritant.

Imagine that you are walking around all day with a blister. Worse yet, it is a blister that you have had since you began walking at 11 months. You spend most of your days trying to manage the blister. You baby it--rotate your foot as you walk so as not to aggravate it. You think about ANYTHING other than how much your blister is bothering you. And then once every few years you walk by a store that sells pebbles. And you think to yourself, "I like the look of those pebbles", so you walk in and buy yourself one and then stick it down your shoe. Now you have a pebble in your shoe (and YOU put it there). With every step, you are reminded of the pain you are currently in, the pain that you are ALWAYS in (because even without the pebble you have that damn blister), and the fact that you are to blame for the increased pain you are feeling, because you bought the pebble and stuck it in your shoe.

That's what it feels like to sit through a Charlie Kaufman film.

*I don't get what people LOVE about this movie, by the way. It's nightmarish.

The Election

Thank G-- it is over.

2012 is too soon. I need at least 10 years off from political ads.

Behind the Curve

Am I the only person in America who didn't know that the Hall and Oates song "Maneater" was written about Kelly LeBrock?

I feel like a pop culture fraud.

Officially.

I Don't Want to Get Pissy, But

OK. So first of all, I want to thank you if you are reading this. I think that most of you know how very, very pleasurable I find writing the blog, and how much I like the fact that you read. And comment. I especially like it when you comment because it means that this can continue to be a way for us to keep in touch.

But I am begging you--all of you--please don't criticize the grammar or the spelling in these posts. Part of the joy of writing in this format is that I don't have to worry so much about those internal editing voices. This is good for me. If I have to start worrying about you guys being the grammar and proofreading police, I'm not actually going to want to write any more. And I want to keep wanting to write. Also, please consider the following points:

1. You can bitch all you want about the content of my posts. That's great.

2. I wouldn't criticize your blog (if you have one, or if you were to have one), on the basis of your grammar, punctuation and spelling. I really wouldn't. That isn't my style.

3. I do try to proofread several times before I actually post. I don't always find my own mistakes. And sometimes I'm doing other things alongside the blogging, and I'm a little distracted. I am not trying to offend anyone's sensibilities. Not only that, but I DO think about you all a lot when I'm writing, and I try to produce content that most of you will like. And I try not to offend anyone either. So I am attentive to audience, whether you appreciate it or not.

4. You do not have to read the blog. Seriously. If it annoys you, or pisses you off, or bores you (Marcus), just don't read anymore. But please don't make me feel badly about writing. Reading is not a requirement of any of the relationships I have with any of you.

5. I am sorry that I don't have a sense of humor about this. But I really don't.

OK, that's it for now. My apologies for how un-fun and un-entertaining this post is--but sometimes a little editorial moment is necessary.

Thanks again for being my audience. I do appreciate it more than you can know.

This is a Rant

I hate the TSA. And I don't care if someone from "Homeland Security" (don't even get me started on that freaking rhetoric) who is paid to do nothing but troll the internet for "dangerous" "anti-American" speech finds this and puts me on some sort of list or starts some kind of file. Because airport security in this country is COMPLETE bullshit.

I submit the following story, with digressions:

Today I flew back to Austin. It is my greatest desire to get through security without incident or without having to converse in any way with anyone who works for the TSA. So I go out of my way to travel clean--to wear simple and minimal clothing and shoes that slide off. To have only one carry-on with nothing that will raise any alarms. To have all my documentation at the ready. But I have some kind of security problem every time I fly. And it is always ridiculous.

Last time I flew was in March, when my Frontier flight was canceled and everyone on it was rerouted onto different airlines and I had to scramble to find someone to take my class and proctoring shift the next morning, and a trip that should have taken 6 hours ended up taking 24. But EVEN BETTER, since the TSA has a policy to flag any tickets that are purchased within 48 hours of a flight (or something like that) all of us, who had already been dicked over by our airline, were subjected to full searches of our persons and our carry-ons (and most likely our checked luggage too). But I had booked that flight 2 months in advance of the trip. The airline arranged my alternate flight. There is no way to override TSA policy in that situation? It has to happen all the time.

Anyway, I told you this was going to be full of digression. That is not the story I wanted to tell. It is just proof that The Man is always after me when I want to fly. And keep in mind, I do not want to fly to Austin anyway. So being hassled just adds injury to insult.

Here was the problem today: apparently my pants had too much metal on them. I set off the metal detector when I walked through it. Knowing that I didn't have any metal in my pockets or otherwise on my person, I told the guy that I thought it was the buttons and snaps on my pants. He told me that was impossible, and then asked me multiple times if I had anything in my pockets (NO, I told you, NO) and also multiple times if I had had a knee or hip replacement. (Jesus, I think I'd remember that.) So I had to submit to a full pat down thing. And I hate that. I'm not a real touchy girl. As many of you know, I'm not even a hugger with my closest friends, and I have been known to do some damage to the kidneys and/or the junk of guys that think that they can touch me in a crowd at a show. I sure as hell don't want to be felt up in public by some strange TSA worker--and, no, it does not help that they only have females search female passengers (I don't want to be touched by a woman TSA employee any more than I want to be touched by a man TSA employee), and, no, it doesn't make it better if you offer to do it in private. I. Don't. Want. Your. Hands. On. Me.

It was not pleasant the first time it happened at PDX this afternoon (and, by the way, it was my pants, idiot who told me that was impossible). But then--

My layover (because there is no such thing as a direct flight from Austin to Portland) was in San Jose. The San Jose airport has three separate concourses, which are in three separate buildings. I was flying in on Alaskan, but out on American, so I had to go from building "C" to building "A". Which I did. Without stopping. I did not get anything to eat. I did not stop in a restroom. I got off the plane and went directly to building A.

So then I had to go through security again. And, once again, I had a problem with security that wasn't my fault, but was due to the fact that San Jose has an outdated and impractical facility. I told the guy at the metal detector what had happened in Portland. I told him that I didn't stop anywhere between the first concourse and the second. I told him that he could look at my paperwork. That I really, really did not want to be searched again. But he informed me that he had to and that, after all, this was for my safety too and wasn't I pleased to know that airport security was so thorough? (The answer to this is no. Because I am of the belief that most of this crap is just for show. If someone wants to bring down another plane on American soil, I believe that they are going to find a way to do it. I think that security "policy" is completely reactionary, and therefore 99% ineffective at prevention. As such, I think that it's only purpose is to make stupid people feel safe. Some days I even feel sympathetic to that crank Alex Jones and might even agree that the only other possible purpose of these policies is to brainwash the American people into believing that they should give up their civil liberties in order for the government to "save" them from terrorists. But I usually only go that far on a day when two different TSA employees insist on touching my breasts in public. Oh yeah, and another thing. They tell you that they are only going to touch the inside of your thighs and your breasts with the back of their hands. Like that makes it less creepy and undesirable.)

Anyway, the second woman came to search me and I was less than cooperative. Actually, I think that I scared her. Because I was really, really pissed. She offered to take me into a private room and I told her that it was not necessary, that my problem was not that I was being searched in public but that she was touching me unnecessarily and I. Do. Not. Want. To. Be. Touched. Then she had the audacity to act like that was unreasonable of me.

Hey, and guess what? I didn't have anything dangerous on me. I didn't have any plans to disrupt or endanger any other passengers or employees of the airlines. I am not a member of any far right or left wing religious or political group (in fact, I think that you will find that I sort of shy away from group affiliation of any kind). I don't know a damn thing about chemistry. I'm not a drug mule. I, in fact, have never had any illegal substance in my hands ever.

It sucks. It's a violation. And it doesn't help keep anyone safe--especially not the twins.

Today Is Your Birthday

I have just finished making the annual birthday mix for Dr. Awesome, the awesome doctor. He turned 33 today (yesterday, technically) and I had to miss his soiree at the home of the Moody Blues Bros. due to packing. That is sad. But my guess is that they had a great time, even without me.

I'm not totally happy with this mix. In spite of the fact that Dr. A and Mikey J. were just making fun of me for including a Frank Black song on every mix I've ever made (and this is not strictly true--those of you who got a copy of the 2007 mix know that I didn't include any Frank Black), there is, in fact, a song from Show Me Your Tears on this mix. There are also three covers. That wasn't on purpose either. But one of them is particularly good--the Future Bible Heroes covering "Don't You Want Me." But I'm sure that I'm losing my touch and that is sad.

Anyway, happy birthday to my favorite partner in crime. I'm glad that we got to spend some time together before I have to return to Austin (yuck) and you get swallowed up by Long Island.

And yes, I did say packing. Tomorrow (today, really) I leave the sunny, breezy 80 degree perfection of the PDX summer for Austin, where the weather is less than desirable.

Once I'm there, I'll write a little about what comes next. And I'll finally post Rose Festival pictures. I know you want to see some Rose Festival pictures!

It's My Problem, Not Yours

I have what I know to be an irrational intolerance for male grooming. I don't want to see it happening, I don't want to hear about it happening. I don't even want to see the results if they are sort of obvious. I get embarrassed, for example, by a guy getting a radically new 'do, or doing something new with his facial hair. I don't ever want to comment on it--because I don't really want to have to acknowledge that a) the dude did something that required thought and effort on his part and that b) I have noticed it.*

Male vanity seems really unmanly to me. It isn't that I don't appreciate general male grooming--I just really don't want to know about it. I know that this is weird and unrealistic and sort of broadly messed up. There are all sorts of complicated reasons that I feel this way, but I won't go into it here, because it won't help my cause at all.

The reason I bring this up is to explain how I have to sort of suck it up when I go to Bishop's to get my hair cut. Given my distaste, it makes more sense for me to go to a really girly salon so that I am less likely to have to deal with men being groomed, or talking about grooming. But I like the bottle of beer and the loud punk rock and my stylist with the big Hebrew tattoo, so I make the sacrifice.

Sometimes it isn't worth it.

Like Wednesday. I signed in and then sat down with my book--Michel Faber's The Crimson Petal and the White. This was sort of a bad choice. It is neither light enough to read without much attention, nor engrossing enough to make deep concentration in a public space easy. I found myself drifting often--staring off into space, or accidentally listening to the conversations between the stylists and their clients. To make matters worse, an older woman came in and, I think feeling that I was less rock n' roll than the other waiters and therefore more safe, sat down directly next to me when there were more than enough seats for everyone waiting to have at least a seat in between. (Lest you think that I am being too sensitive about my personal space--when I sat down my stylist asked me if I had come with the woman and when I said no, she gave me a that's-weird-huh? kind of look.) Anyway, my awareness of the woman's closeness, coupled with my awareness of the fact that there were plenty of other seats she could have chosen, made me too nervous and self-conscious to read.

All of this led me to outright eavesdropping. The male stylist in front of me drew a young, blond, sporty rock n' roller. I had already noticed this guy, because he was silly. The stylist asked the guy what he was thinking about doing with his hair and the guy answered:

"I was kind of thinking about that thing that all the European soccer players are doing now. You know, parted to the side, a little long in back, lots off the sides and a little length on top. Sort of like a fauxhawk with a mullet." The stylist nodded like this was totally reasonable request and like he knew exactly what the guy wanted and he pulled out his razor and started cutting away.

Readers, I wanted to laugh aloud and cry at the same time. I wanted to crawl under my chair. I wanted to be anywhere else. I started thinking about my "happy place" (the same place I think about when I am trying not to cry at a funeral, or when I feel an anxiety attack coming on).

Is this a "thing"? Does everyone know about this 'do except for me? Who are these guys that they are on the same wavelength about some fad among European soccer players? How do dudes get this kind of information? Is this some kind of conscious thing among said athletes? Or is it a manifestation of the collective unconscious? Do women know about this phenomenon? Do they like it? Am I supposed to like it? (Because I DON'T.) Ahhhhhh!!!

See what I mean?



*The exception to this is if the grooming is done as a goof. An obviously ironic 'stache is funny, and not embarrassing. This may seem counterintuitive, but I already conceded that this is an irrational quirk.