We've now been introduced to the two characters Kim and Thomas. A relationship between the two has been implied, while not fully established. We now examine Thomas' character in more depth, particularly his self proclaimed gift of having a cross cultural sixth sense.
Consider this as you read: does this story seem to be a criticism of or a celebration of anthropology?
A quietness came over Tom, a phenomenon that had happened only a very few times in his life. It was a sort of reverie that he couldn’t explain, an unfettering of the mind, a liberation of the soul. And it always preceded what Tom liked to think of as inspiration, a lucid vision of what he was meant to do in the coming moments. The first time that he recalled it he had been about seven or eight, sitting in the school cafeteria with a Chinese foreign exchange student, that sickening smell of tan noodles rising from his plate; another time had been waiting for the late bus home from school, and he had been offered a ride home by a Nigerian man. Tom liked to think of his forcing Chang Lee to pour ketchup on his noodles as another fall of the Berlin Wall; smaller yes, unpublicized as well, but to Chang Lee, equally as important; likewise, he’d understood the extreme danger of even exchanging glances with the Nigerian man that snowy afternoon, and his decision to report him to the crossing guard had been absolutely warranted. He knew Nigeria’s past, ripe with insurrection and violence; and anyway, how could he have known that his mother had arranged the ride? Tom had a “cultural sixth sense,” something that could not be taught, nor learned, but something that allowed him to merge seamlessly into any crowd, from any nation, at any time.
Walking purposefully to the computer, he googled ‘South Korean, supplanted, audacity’. Nodding knowingly at the 6,899,435 results, he clicked on ‘refine search’ and added ‘passive aggressive’. It took an unusual mind to understand the deep relationship between cultural anthropology and psychology, and Tom had understood it from day one- once again, he could only explain it as intuition.
The results were more than he’d hoped for. Smiling, he leaned back and scanned the list expertly. There were a few towns, generally rural, that produced an unusually audacious breed of South Koreans. It seemed that property regulations had been dissolved with the spread of communism, and in one particular village, all housing and privacy had become obsolete. Before long, neighbors would find friends and enemies alike sleeping on their floors and eating their food with not even a trace of shame. This same village was liberated from the communist regime by NATO forces in the late 90’s, and the entire population was transplanted to select areas of the world due to a tragic oil leak (which also rid the world of the already dying Silga Bird). With their unbending reverence for reputation along with their deep-seeded brazenness, this strange breed of Asians found themselves shunned by the capitalist and selfish masses, who were anything but supportive of the odd and unexpected Diasporas. Meager attempts at mental rehabilitation funded by certain international organizations had only left these ambiguous immigrants with an unshakeable sense of entitlement. Furthermore, Korean clan systems were highly topographical, and the surnames were strongly indicative of the micro-cosmic patria from whence they arrived. These facts meant two things: Tom could retrieve the most likely/ possible surnames of the cyber criminal in question, and he could locate his/her whereabouts. Voila.
Bingo. The three hundred or so inhabitants of Xian Cho had been sent via freightliner and then a shipped in a small fleet of Greyhounds to a small mountainous village in (none other than) his own native Wyoming. From there, it was assumed that the refugees had sought employment after realizing that they would not subsist off of the vegetable gardens sprouting on window sills, roofs, and in small back yards. Further, it had been primarily the male populace that had ventured out, leaving the women and children to tend to the peppers, tomatoes and squash- this only meant one thing- Tom’s good friend was a man.
Tom jotted down his progress in a trembling font:
“1) S. Korean, 2) from Xian Cho (look up derivatives of this name, possible attempts at Americanization- Johns? Johnson? John Joe?), 3) Male, (his projected height and skin tone given diet of squash, tomatoes, peppers, and noodles), 4) computer savvy, 5) relation to possible employment, w refugee visa”
Carefully folding up the list, Tom placed it next to his computer. It seemed as if it had been only moments, but he was surprised to see that it was already 5: 30- din din time! His stomach answered with a growl, and Tom raced down stairs to the smell of his favorite dish- mac and cheese.
Stay tuned for the next episode!
Monday, December 13, 2010
Thursday, December 9, 2010
'Thomas' Episode 2, Kim Jang Yung
We now introduce Episode 2 of our miniseries 'Thomas'. As you read, you may want to consider these questions:
How is Kim Jang Yung connected to Thomas- if he is at all?
Does Kim strike you as sinister or friendly?
Do you sense something ominous in the future of Kim or Thomas?
Kim Jang Yung opened the door to his small flat, and entered nimbly, the door hardly making a sound as it eased shut across the vanilla carpeting. Sing Chow, his graceful Siamese, leaped silently onto his shoulder as he pulled dry rice noodles from his cupboards. It felt good to be home. Out there he lived under the heavy stares of his coworkers, was becoming worn by their intolerant murmers (“Do they think I can’t understand them?), and it only began to fade when he settled before the soothing glow of his 26” HP monitor. He knew he was untraceable, invincible in the endless expanse of the internet. No one murmered or stared online. He was sdued19, raceless, faceless, androgynous and odorless. There was no loud laughing in cyber space, an American trait that he found particularly irritating. He’d summed them up quite cleverly if you asked him: They laughed, and they forgot. But they would not forget him: not tonight, anyway.
Enjoy!
How is Kim Jang Yung connected to Thomas- if he is at all?
Does Kim strike you as sinister or friendly?
Do you sense something ominous in the future of Kim or Thomas?
Kim Jang Yung opened the door to his small flat, and entered nimbly, the door hardly making a sound as it eased shut across the vanilla carpeting. Sing Chow, his graceful Siamese, leaped silently onto his shoulder as he pulled dry rice noodles from his cupboards. It felt good to be home. Out there he lived under the heavy stares of his coworkers, was becoming worn by their intolerant murmers (“Do they think I can’t understand them?), and it only began to fade when he settled before the soothing glow of his 26” HP monitor. He knew he was untraceable, invincible in the endless expanse of the internet. No one murmered or stared online. He was sdued19, raceless, faceless, androgynous and odorless. There was no loud laughing in cyber space, an American trait that he found particularly irritating. He’d summed them up quite cleverly if you asked him: They laughed, and they forgot. But they would not forget him: not tonight, anyway.
Enjoy!
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
'Thomas': A Miniseries
Since I don't have time to blog these days, I thought that I would share with you, my eleven followers, a story written by me and my brother a ways back. I'll do a bit at a time so that you have time to 'digest' the story (pardon the pun).
Tom sat stunned: another email from sdued91@hotmail stared back at him, unread. The subject was the familiar, “hello, u!”. Scratching his sweat pants, he leaned back in his chair, thoroughly unsettled. Who could possibly have the nerve to hack into his personal email not only once, but continuously? He pondered the possibilities, and given his cultural anthropology background, he concluded that this sort of audacity was only found in South Korea or a small tribe in western Tanzania (who would’ve thought his degree would be used for this!?).
Pushing himself out of the chair, he shuffled over to the bookshelf thoughtfully, and pulling out a well worn Introduction to Cultural Anthropology book thumbed through the pages.
‘Ah’ he said softly, stopping at a page and running his finger down it. ‘Yes, yes , yes…” He walked back to the computer and sat down, putting on a pair of bifocals. ‘Arranged Marriage… Avunculocal Status… Audacity.’ He stopped, whistled under his breath, and looked back at the email.
“This can’t be right,” he muttered to himself, running his hand absentmindedly through his thinning hair. He felt a cold sweat burst on his forehead.
Stay tuned to find out what out what happens to Thomas, the budding anthropologist. The harrowing series of events that Thomas will soon be rattled by will keep you on the edge of your seats! And there was no pun, I just wanted to confuse you.
Tom sat stunned: another email from sdued91@hotmail stared back at him, unread. The subject was the familiar, “hello, u!”. Scratching his sweat pants, he leaned back in his chair, thoroughly unsettled. Who could possibly have the nerve to hack into his personal email not only once, but continuously? He pondered the possibilities, and given his cultural anthropology background, he concluded that this sort of audacity was only found in South Korea or a small tribe in western Tanzania (who would’ve thought his degree would be used for this!?).
Pushing himself out of the chair, he shuffled over to the bookshelf thoughtfully, and pulling out a well worn Introduction to Cultural Anthropology book thumbed through the pages.
‘Ah’ he said softly, stopping at a page and running his finger down it. ‘Yes, yes , yes…” He walked back to the computer and sat down, putting on a pair of bifocals. ‘Arranged Marriage… Avunculocal Status… Audacity.’ He stopped, whistled under his breath, and looked back at the email.
“This can’t be right,” he muttered to himself, running his hand absentmindedly through his thinning hair. He felt a cold sweat burst on his forehead.
Stay tuned to find out what out what happens to Thomas, the budding anthropologist. The harrowing series of events that Thomas will soon be rattled by will keep you on the edge of your seats! And there was no pun, I just wanted to confuse you.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Glorified Hot Dogs
I'm impressed by nothing. This is because everything's just a glorified banality. For example, Beamer's are just a glorified invention of the wheel. Hollywood is the glorified popular kids in high school, caviar is glorified hard boiled eggs, and a $20,000 bottle of wine is just glorified grapes. The President himself is just a glorified geeky high school valedictorian. Kid Rock is a glorified high school drop out, Pamela Anderson is glorified white trash- you see where I'm going. And I'm not alone in this. A woman who works in the deli in Wegmans shares my sentiments- when P requested a link of gourmet sausage, she referred to it as a 'glorified slim jim.'
However, I learned something very interesting today, which opened my eyes to the fact that there was in fact one thing left that I was impressed with, and that like everything else is just a glorified something or other. This last link to my sense of childlike wonder is, or was, sushi. Sushi, the bread and butter of the intellectual elite, the looming wall which separates the blue from the white collar. The ability to use chopsticks akin to being able to distinguish Liszt from Bach, Madame Butterfly from Salome. So when my brother called me and told me somewhat breathlessly that sushi is just a glorified hot dog, he unwittingly completely shrouded my world view in the haze of skepticism.
So this is the story- apparently we've got sushi all wrong. A man from Japan told my brother's friend, who in turn told P, that sushi in Japan was kind of a regular food, like a sandwich or- I'm sorry all of you hipsters!- a hot dog. For one thing, the blue collar Japanese who actually ate sushi didn't even use chopsticks (so don't feel bad if you, like me, find it especially cumbersome to balance that unwieldy chunk of rice all the way from the plate to your mouth- it's unrealistic)- they ate it with their hands (which is what you've done, I'm sure, when no one was looking).
It brings a smile to my face to imagine the first Japanese person who decided to introduce sushi to Americans. He probably thought that he would open a sushi stand on the corner of a street, and sell rolls of sushi in a little cardboard trough along with a drink. Imagine his surprise when the somber Americans reverently tried his glorified hot dogs, awkwardly attempting to grasp the pieces between two chopsticks with minds of their own. Man, he must have gotten a laugh out of that. And like any wily businessman, he went right along with it.
'YES, FANCY FOOD IN MY COUNTWY! MUCH MONEY! VELLY NICE!'
And so the sushi trend began.
Which brings me to money making project # 2,678,065. Why not introduce hot dogs to people in Japan as if they are a delicacy. They have to be cut up and only eaten with a knife and fork which you'd better know how to use if you are cool and cosmopolitan. Only Americans will be able to work at the restaurants, and they will grill the hot dogs in a little row behind a glass window. That is, until some big mouth American comes over and tells everyone that hot dogs are just glorified sushi.
Just so that I give credit where credit is due, all of this is based on a four minute conversation that me and P had earlier today.
However, I learned something very interesting today, which opened my eyes to the fact that there was in fact one thing left that I was impressed with, and that like everything else is just a glorified something or other. This last link to my sense of childlike wonder is, or was, sushi. Sushi, the bread and butter of the intellectual elite, the looming wall which separates the blue from the white collar. The ability to use chopsticks akin to being able to distinguish Liszt from Bach, Madame Butterfly from Salome. So when my brother called me and told me somewhat breathlessly that sushi is just a glorified hot dog, he unwittingly completely shrouded my world view in the haze of skepticism.
So this is the story- apparently we've got sushi all wrong. A man from Japan told my brother's friend, who in turn told P, that sushi in Japan was kind of a regular food, like a sandwich or- I'm sorry all of you hipsters!- a hot dog. For one thing, the blue collar Japanese who actually ate sushi didn't even use chopsticks (so don't feel bad if you, like me, find it especially cumbersome to balance that unwieldy chunk of rice all the way from the plate to your mouth- it's unrealistic)- they ate it with their hands (which is what you've done, I'm sure, when no one was looking).
It brings a smile to my face to imagine the first Japanese person who decided to introduce sushi to Americans. He probably thought that he would open a sushi stand on the corner of a street, and sell rolls of sushi in a little cardboard trough along with a drink. Imagine his surprise when the somber Americans reverently tried his glorified hot dogs, awkwardly attempting to grasp the pieces between two chopsticks with minds of their own. Man, he must have gotten a laugh out of that. And like any wily businessman, he went right along with it.
'YES, FANCY FOOD IN MY COUNTWY! MUCH MONEY! VELLY NICE!'
And so the sushi trend began.
Which brings me to money making project # 2,678,065. Why not introduce hot dogs to people in Japan as if they are a delicacy. They have to be cut up and only eaten with a knife and fork which you'd better know how to use if you are cool and cosmopolitan. Only Americans will be able to work at the restaurants, and they will grill the hot dogs in a little row behind a glass window. That is, until some big mouth American comes over and tells everyone that hot dogs are just glorified sushi.
Just so that I give credit where credit is due, all of this is based on a four minute conversation that me and P had earlier today.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
A Brilliant Madness
I've been dreading my required algebra class all summer. It was one of those things that would hit me like a mack truck at 2 in the morning- how in the world am I going to do MATH with a one month old and insane two and a half year old? Within minutes I would be seething at... you guessed it- Joe. No matter what my problem is, I can always trace it to Joe. Don't feel bad for him. He simply thrives on his position as my scapegoat, imagining himself as forging ahead against all odds with a quiet and humble dignity- a beacon for the down trodden and abused the world over.
As it turns out, however, I'm actually really liking algebra. How I've changed from my sullen sixteen year old self, who sat in the very back of the math class drawing pictures on the desk between itching my head and falling asleep from the half dozen pills my friend and I would take before school (I still don't know what they were- any ideas?). While my teacher in high school was a drab Polish woman who attempted to liven up the class by describing the wrong solutions to equations as 'no such animal', my teacher now is a computer, who cheers me on personally when my answers are correct, and who gently chides me when my answers are wrong. Although sometimes I feel uncomfortably like a character in an H.E. Wells novel, for the most part I enjoy the cold objective personality of my new teacher. I know that it's encouraging 'Fantastic!'s and 'Well Done"s do not stem from pity, and that its polite reprimands don't come out of a personal dislike of me. It simply wants me to learn algebra.
And learning it I am. In fact, I stayed up until 12:30 AM figuring out an algebra problem. I finally forced myself to go to bed, veritably dragging myself away from the computer, and fell asleep feeling fulfilled and purposeful. I felt a certain affinity to William Nash, the Nobel Prize winning mathematician whose journey to insanity and back was portrayed in the movie 'A Beautiful Mind'. I mentioned this the next day to my brother. Knowing my chameleon like personality, he suggested that I run away with this idea and take on the role of an eccentric mathematician; by scrawling algebraic equations onto place mats at restaurants and onto any glass surface (2x+3=27, etc.), by throwing furniture out the window, by being rude and distracted with people and by slowly losing my mind. I'm not sure if he has my best interests in mind, but this kind of life certainly sound much more interesting than mine. Who wouldn't want an invisible Ed Harris showing up unexpectedly at their side, barking exciting orders at them?
Yes, anthropology has lost its thrill. No more earth colored clothing, long brown hair and sensible shoes for me. Who cares about different cultures when you can solve the mysteries of the universe with NUMBERS? Next time you see me, expect my hair to be tousled, my outfit to be a random selection of ill fitting clothes, and don't be taken aback if I seem rude or distracted, or say insulting but on the mark things. I am in the lonely world of numbers and equations, in which moments of brilliance are followed by an incomprehensible darkness. A brilliant madness.
Well, at least until the end of the semester.
As it turns out, however, I'm actually really liking algebra. How I've changed from my sullen sixteen year old self, who sat in the very back of the math class drawing pictures on the desk between itching my head and falling asleep from the half dozen pills my friend and I would take before school (I still don't know what they were- any ideas?). While my teacher in high school was a drab Polish woman who attempted to liven up the class by describing the wrong solutions to equations as 'no such animal', my teacher now is a computer, who cheers me on personally when my answers are correct, and who gently chides me when my answers are wrong. Although sometimes I feel uncomfortably like a character in an H.E. Wells novel, for the most part I enjoy the cold objective personality of my new teacher. I know that it's encouraging 'Fantastic!'s and 'Well Done"s do not stem from pity, and that its polite reprimands don't come out of a personal dislike of me. It simply wants me to learn algebra.
And learning it I am. In fact, I stayed up until 12:30 AM figuring out an algebra problem. I finally forced myself to go to bed, veritably dragging myself away from the computer, and fell asleep feeling fulfilled and purposeful. I felt a certain affinity to William Nash, the Nobel Prize winning mathematician whose journey to insanity and back was portrayed in the movie 'A Beautiful Mind'. I mentioned this the next day to my brother. Knowing my chameleon like personality, he suggested that I run away with this idea and take on the role of an eccentric mathematician; by scrawling algebraic equations onto place mats at restaurants and onto any glass surface (2x+3=27, etc.), by throwing furniture out the window, by being rude and distracted with people and by slowly losing my mind. I'm not sure if he has my best interests in mind, but this kind of life certainly sound much more interesting than mine. Who wouldn't want an invisible Ed Harris showing up unexpectedly at their side, barking exciting orders at them?
Yes, anthropology has lost its thrill. No more earth colored clothing, long brown hair and sensible shoes for me. Who cares about different cultures when you can solve the mysteries of the universe with NUMBERS? Next time you see me, expect my hair to be tousled, my outfit to be a random selection of ill fitting clothes, and don't be taken aback if I seem rude or distracted, or say insulting but on the mark things. I am in the lonely world of numbers and equations, in which moments of brilliance are followed by an incomprehensible darkness. A brilliant madness.
Well, at least until the end of the semester.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Calliope's Lost Her Mind...
My sister and I have a theory that every girl, no matter how pretty or promising, will inevitably turn into a big butted, opinionated woman bustling past her husband in a pair of pilled stretch pants and a Tweetie Bird sweatshirt complaining about money and carrying a load of laundry on her head. (That is, unless you're wily enough to score a David Beckham or soulless enough to score a Donald Trump.) This ghastly woman is both my nemesis and my oasis, as her resignation to her bleak existence signifies the end of all of the restlessness and anxiety inherent to the golden days of youth, when success is still a possibility. I see subtle signs of her emergence- I find myself complaining more and more and becoming extremely frugal. In fact, now that I think about it I pretty much am that woman, and it's only a matter of time before appearances catch up with me.
This same sister (who I will keep anonymous at her request) also shares my eagerness to do as little as possible without appearing mentally ill. While complaining to her about an assignment for an illustration class in which I had to draw a picture of my family, she suggested that I take advantage of the current 'anything goes' state of the art world and turn in a piece of abstract art.
'Just draw four triangles.' She said.
Not a bad idea. We discovered that I could even go the extra mile and create a piece of performance art. Imagine the expressions of my online fellow students as they watch a video of a plump, pasty, chestnut haired thirty year old covered in shaving cream throwing herself onto the floor over and over again and heaving herself up each time. At the end, she remains lying on the floor in a depressing heap, and a bag of chocolate chips is thrown at her by someone off camera. She remains lying there for four or five minutes, the screen wavers and turns slightly sideways as someone struggles to figure out how to stop the recording, and the words: 'Existential Portrait of My Family' appear. An A+ for originality! What raw energy! What an utterly unique glimpse into not only the artist's family, but into the concept of family itself! God I love the art world, if only there was anything even slightly original after Duchamps was clever enough to place an old toilet into an art gallery.
I actually had my work in a show last year. I just felt like it was one of those things that I had to do before I died- not to be macabre about it. It was great fun, dampened only by my wondering on the way there exactly how one acted at their own art exhibit, and the appearance of a very strange, short man with disconcerting eyes who seemed to stare at me an awful lot. This same sister also mentioned that he seemed to be staring at her a lot as well, and that she felt as if she were in a David Lynch movie. It's hard to explain his eyes, they seemed to integrate the expression of a bird and a second grader. As disconcerting as his presence was, it was strangely comforting as well- in the crowd of strangers who expected something of me, there he was, two sharp eyes slightly below my chin following me unabashedly, with a gaze that conveyed nothing and clearly expected nothing. I'm glad that my sister saw him also, or I would be inclined to think that perhaps that I'd been given one of the odder guardian angels (which would explain a lot), and for whatever reason he had chosen that time and place to reveal himself to me. At any rate, whatever I was expecting of my art show, I certainly hadn't imagined anything remotely like my experience with that elfen little man. Eventually he receded into the crowd, but the magnitude of revealing my art to the public for the first time has been somewhat eclipsed by the memory of the disturbing gaze of that odd little creature. Such is life.
Well, back to my school work. I think that I'm just going to draw a picture of the four of us for my class- when it comes down to it I'm far too unoriginal for the contemporary art world. But seriously, what if when the Pope had commissioned Michelangelo to design the Sistine Chapel, he had dangled two loaves of bread from the ceiling and declared it to be symbolic of eternity? Or if Leonardo da Vinci had performed a short skit titled the 'Mona Lisa' for his colleagues, the climax of which was him dumping a jug of wine over his head, instead of painting his masterpiece? Call me old fashioned, or maybe it's just the eminently practical bug butted lady coming out in me, but it's just all so ridiculous.
This same sister (who I will keep anonymous at her request) also shares my eagerness to do as little as possible without appearing mentally ill. While complaining to her about an assignment for an illustration class in which I had to draw a picture of my family, she suggested that I take advantage of the current 'anything goes' state of the art world and turn in a piece of abstract art.
'Just draw four triangles.' She said.
Not a bad idea. We discovered that I could even go the extra mile and create a piece of performance art. Imagine the expressions of my online fellow students as they watch a video of a plump, pasty, chestnut haired thirty year old covered in shaving cream throwing herself onto the floor over and over again and heaving herself up each time. At the end, she remains lying on the floor in a depressing heap, and a bag of chocolate chips is thrown at her by someone off camera. She remains lying there for four or five minutes, the screen wavers and turns slightly sideways as someone struggles to figure out how to stop the recording, and the words: 'Existential Portrait of My Family' appear. An A+ for originality! What raw energy! What an utterly unique glimpse into not only the artist's family, but into the concept of family itself! God I love the art world, if only there was anything even slightly original after Duchamps was clever enough to place an old toilet into an art gallery.
I actually had my work in a show last year. I just felt like it was one of those things that I had to do before I died- not to be macabre about it. It was great fun, dampened only by my wondering on the way there exactly how one acted at their own art exhibit, and the appearance of a very strange, short man with disconcerting eyes who seemed to stare at me an awful lot. This same sister also mentioned that he seemed to be staring at her a lot as well, and that she felt as if she were in a David Lynch movie. It's hard to explain his eyes, they seemed to integrate the expression of a bird and a second grader. As disconcerting as his presence was, it was strangely comforting as well- in the crowd of strangers who expected something of me, there he was, two sharp eyes slightly below my chin following me unabashedly, with a gaze that conveyed nothing and clearly expected nothing. I'm glad that my sister saw him also, or I would be inclined to think that perhaps that I'd been given one of the odder guardian angels (which would explain a lot), and for whatever reason he had chosen that time and place to reveal himself to me. At any rate, whatever I was expecting of my art show, I certainly hadn't imagined anything remotely like my experience with that elfen little man. Eventually he receded into the crowd, but the magnitude of revealing my art to the public for the first time has been somewhat eclipsed by the memory of the disturbing gaze of that odd little creature. Such is life.
Well, back to my school work. I think that I'm just going to draw a picture of the four of us for my class- when it comes down to it I'm far too unoriginal for the contemporary art world. But seriously, what if when the Pope had commissioned Michelangelo to design the Sistine Chapel, he had dangled two loaves of bread from the ceiling and declared it to be symbolic of eternity? Or if Leonardo da Vinci had performed a short skit titled the 'Mona Lisa' for his colleagues, the climax of which was him dumping a jug of wine over his head, instead of painting his masterpiece? Call me old fashioned, or maybe it's just the eminently practical bug butted lady coming out in me, but it's just all so ridiculous.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
'Some are born to sweet delight...'
Ok, I seriously can't think of a thing to say. I've started about seven or eight blogs and have trailed off of each one. A bad case of blogger's block.
Soooo- what's happened. Let's see if I go through with this.
Looking out the window the other morning, I saw the entire Vietnamese family across the street gaping to the left of my house. Apparently the two little Russian boys were beating the crap out of each other. Victoria Hui was both shocked and horrified, and was making violent hitting motions to me across the street to convey the 'badness' of the two little scoundrels. One thing is certain- Victoria Hui would NEVER allow such behavior in her household. Victoria has warned me time and again that the Russians are 'TROUBLE'. Because Victoria is my elder, and because it was my daughter's car that they were fighting over, I dutifully walked over and stared at them, but not being able to think of a thing to say (not to mention the fact that they wouldn't understand it anyway) I smiled and walked back to my house. Boys will be boys, Victoria, boys will be boys.
Sunday morning Joe emerged from the bed room in a vest and white t-shirt with a stately and virtuous air about him. He announced that we were going to church, and I complacently agreed. Why not? Joe obviously had a preconceived notion of what a 'religiously minded man' was like, and entered the church with a somber air- giving my family what my sister described as 'a silent nod'. He gave me a crumpled five dollar bill to put in the collection basket (which he later accused me of taking credit for) and sat reverently through the service. Another sinner bites the dust.
I took my mom to Piper's first doctor's appointment because I couldn't drive yet (it was a week after she was born). My mom is not... status quo (for example, when a well meaning friend took her to a talk by Jane Goodell, everyone stood up and started clapping at the end. My mom remained sitting grimly in her seat, being a staunch opponent of evolution). Anyway, when the doctor asked me if there were any medical conditions in the family, I answered that Piper's father's half brother was slightly autistic, at which my mom burst into uncontrollable laughter drawing a bewildered look from both the doctor and myself. Does anyone know what's funny about that? Is nothing sacred?
Myla (aka the Bride of Chucky) has been acting like a psychopath lately- a bad case of sibling rivalry. It's a good thing that Piper is still pretty much a tabula rasa because she would probably not be able to emotionally bear the diabolical hostility aimed at her, or her several close brushes with torture and maybe even death. It doesn't seem fair that Myla enjoyed such a tranquil and enjoyable babyhood while poor Piper is always being poked and strategized against. Piper's future seems bleak indeed- 'Some are born to sweet delight, and some are born to endless night.' Rest assured my little Piper B.- Mommy's got your back. And Norma Bates, Mommy loves you no matter what.
Speaking of 'Some are born to sweet delight' and Asians, my brother P (for the sake of anonymity I will not disclose his name HAHA) is the luckiest, most Asian white guy I've ever met. Not only does he jet set around the world and catch more breaks than Paris Hilton, he gets along swimmingly with and most importantly is respected by Victoria. While Victoria regards me as a fool ('YOU LAUGH, YOU FORGET!!!) , she has the utmost regard for Pete- for his abrupt mannerisms, loud voice, moccasins, subdued fashion sense and grey Honda. She UNDERSTANDS P, and P understands her. It was P who explained to me that Victoria was my elder, and that it was blatant disrespect to disregard her opinion of the Russians. It was also P who assured me that I should give her grand children ice cream cones in return for her giving Myla an ice cream cone, and it was P who revealed to me the Vietnamese concepts of reciprocation and family honor. Thank you P, for serving as an ambassador to Little Vietnam across the street.
Wow, I finished a blog! The fact that I'm avoiding my online classes might have something to do with it. Not that I don't love them- they're very accommodating to my solitary nature. I'm planning on getting my doctorate online, teaching online and finally becoming the Dean online of an online school- all without any sort of human contact. I can't wait for graduation, a ceremony that I've always avoided in the past- I've bought the Pomp and Circumstance CD which I will play in my room while I type in my valedictorian speech to all of my faceless fellow students wearing my special cap and gown! In short, I am never LEAVING my ^%&*% HOUSE AGAIN!!!!!
Soooo- what's happened. Let's see if I go through with this.
Looking out the window the other morning, I saw the entire Vietnamese family across the street gaping to the left of my house. Apparently the two little Russian boys were beating the crap out of each other. Victoria Hui was both shocked and horrified, and was making violent hitting motions to me across the street to convey the 'badness' of the two little scoundrels. One thing is certain- Victoria Hui would NEVER allow such behavior in her household. Victoria has warned me time and again that the Russians are 'TROUBLE'. Because Victoria is my elder, and because it was my daughter's car that they were fighting over, I dutifully walked over and stared at them, but not being able to think of a thing to say (not to mention the fact that they wouldn't understand it anyway) I smiled and walked back to my house. Boys will be boys, Victoria, boys will be boys.
Sunday morning Joe emerged from the bed room in a vest and white t-shirt with a stately and virtuous air about him. He announced that we were going to church, and I complacently agreed. Why not? Joe obviously had a preconceived notion of what a 'religiously minded man' was like, and entered the church with a somber air- giving my family what my sister described as 'a silent nod'. He gave me a crumpled five dollar bill to put in the collection basket (which he later accused me of taking credit for) and sat reverently through the service. Another sinner bites the dust.
I took my mom to Piper's first doctor's appointment because I couldn't drive yet (it was a week after she was born). My mom is not... status quo (for example, when a well meaning friend took her to a talk by Jane Goodell, everyone stood up and started clapping at the end. My mom remained sitting grimly in her seat, being a staunch opponent of evolution). Anyway, when the doctor asked me if there were any medical conditions in the family, I answered that Piper's father's half brother was slightly autistic, at which my mom burst into uncontrollable laughter drawing a bewildered look from both the doctor and myself. Does anyone know what's funny about that? Is nothing sacred?
Myla (aka the Bride of Chucky) has been acting like a psychopath lately- a bad case of sibling rivalry. It's a good thing that Piper is still pretty much a tabula rasa because she would probably not be able to emotionally bear the diabolical hostility aimed at her, or her several close brushes with torture and maybe even death. It doesn't seem fair that Myla enjoyed such a tranquil and enjoyable babyhood while poor Piper is always being poked and strategized against. Piper's future seems bleak indeed- 'Some are born to sweet delight, and some are born to endless night.' Rest assured my little Piper B.- Mommy's got your back. And Norma Bates, Mommy loves you no matter what.
Speaking of 'Some are born to sweet delight' and Asians, my brother P (for the sake of anonymity I will not disclose his name HAHA) is the luckiest, most Asian white guy I've ever met. Not only does he jet set around the world and catch more breaks than Paris Hilton, he gets along swimmingly with and most importantly is respected by Victoria. While Victoria regards me as a fool ('YOU LAUGH, YOU FORGET!!!) , she has the utmost regard for Pete- for his abrupt mannerisms, loud voice, moccasins, subdued fashion sense and grey Honda. She UNDERSTANDS P, and P understands her. It was P who explained to me that Victoria was my elder, and that it was blatant disrespect to disregard her opinion of the Russians. It was also P who assured me that I should give her grand children ice cream cones in return for her giving Myla an ice cream cone, and it was P who revealed to me the Vietnamese concepts of reciprocation and family honor. Thank you P, for serving as an ambassador to Little Vietnam across the street.
Wow, I finished a blog! The fact that I'm avoiding my online classes might have something to do with it. Not that I don't love them- they're very accommodating to my solitary nature. I'm planning on getting my doctorate online, teaching online and finally becoming the Dean online of an online school- all without any sort of human contact. I can't wait for graduation, a ceremony that I've always avoided in the past- I've bought the Pomp and Circumstance CD which I will play in my room while I type in my valedictorian speech to all of my faceless fellow students wearing my special cap and gown! In short, I am never LEAVING my ^%&*% HOUSE AGAIN!!!!!
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
My Dormant Gloria Steinem
My brother, sister and I are chock full of 'get rich quick schemes'. Everything from lightweight, foldable carseats to selling packs of home rolled cigarettes outside of the local methadone clinic have arisen like promising bubbles into the stifling air of our financially challenged worlds and popped almost immediately. Unfortunately, the most practical steps we've taken towards achieving these ends have been planning our interviews on Barbara Walters concerning our ingenious inventions.
'Well, Barbara, I was always the quiet type in school, but I was always thinking- one of those 'still waters run deep' kids.'
'Yes, Barbara, the idea just came to me from out of nowhere. A stroke of genius as they say. Other than that I'm a pretty normal person.'
I myself have taken the extra step and planned my public persona to a T. I will be a decisive, steely eyed business woman with a collection of quietly expensive business suits. I will own a top of the line Maserati, and have a spacious office with a huge shiny chrome desk. I have a vivid daydream of myself on the line (one of many lines) with a family member, brusquely getting them out of trouble with a $100,000.00 check which I scribble absentmindedly with one hand while silencing a thin, sleek Blackberry with the long, red fingernail of another.
Until my ship comes in, however, this shrewd business woman will have to lie dormant and put up with a small apartment, a car which neither I or my mechanic could believe passed the yearly inspection and the harsh reality of waking up to an apologetic yet firm National Fuel man coming to turn off the gas. Sometimes I find myself wondering why she refuses to come out and rescue me from my financial woes. The closest she's come to revealing herself to the world was the day after I decided to become an art therapist, which happened to be a holiday. My brothers and sisters stared at me aghast as I confidently clacked through the house in a pair of high heeled, knee high boots and made, as my brother described it, 'normal conversation' at the dinner table. What they didn't understand was that this was not a facade- this was the first glimpse of the business woman inside of me, my true self. Everything else about me was the facade- my mismatched clothes, my odd conversational skills, my apathy and my smudged eye makeup. Unfortunately, my business woman self retreated back inside of me the next morning, when any goal beyond a cup of coffee seemed utterly pointless to aim towards and art therapy seemed as lame as any other pastime- not to mention a hell of a lot of work.
So, I go on quietly through life, remembering even in my darkest hours the words of Langston Hughes:
'Hold on to dreams, for when dreams die
Life is a broken winged bird that can't fly...'
I quietly nourish the business woman inside of me in a variety of ways; by making shrewd, albeit minor financial transactions with others, by silently referring to acquaintances as 'colleagues', by owning a shiny black plastic organizer for my bills, and by speaking in a clipped bark to customer service representatives. I feel sure that I will need her one day, and it is this assurance that pulls me through the good times and the bad.
'Hold on to dreams, for when dreams go,
Life is a barren field covered with snow.'
'Well, Barbara, I was always the quiet type in school, but I was always thinking- one of those 'still waters run deep' kids.'
'Yes, Barbara, the idea just came to me from out of nowhere. A stroke of genius as they say. Other than that I'm a pretty normal person.'
I myself have taken the extra step and planned my public persona to a T. I will be a decisive, steely eyed business woman with a collection of quietly expensive business suits. I will own a top of the line Maserati, and have a spacious office with a huge shiny chrome desk. I have a vivid daydream of myself on the line (one of many lines) with a family member, brusquely getting them out of trouble with a $100,000.00 check which I scribble absentmindedly with one hand while silencing a thin, sleek Blackberry with the long, red fingernail of another.
Until my ship comes in, however, this shrewd business woman will have to lie dormant and put up with a small apartment, a car which neither I or my mechanic could believe passed the yearly inspection and the harsh reality of waking up to an apologetic yet firm National Fuel man coming to turn off the gas. Sometimes I find myself wondering why she refuses to come out and rescue me from my financial woes. The closest she's come to revealing herself to the world was the day after I decided to become an art therapist, which happened to be a holiday. My brothers and sisters stared at me aghast as I confidently clacked through the house in a pair of high heeled, knee high boots and made, as my brother described it, 'normal conversation' at the dinner table. What they didn't understand was that this was not a facade- this was the first glimpse of the business woman inside of me, my true self. Everything else about me was the facade- my mismatched clothes, my odd conversational skills, my apathy and my smudged eye makeup. Unfortunately, my business woman self retreated back inside of me the next morning, when any goal beyond a cup of coffee seemed utterly pointless to aim towards and art therapy seemed as lame as any other pastime- not to mention a hell of a lot of work.
So, I go on quietly through life, remembering even in my darkest hours the words of Langston Hughes:
'Hold on to dreams, for when dreams die
Life is a broken winged bird that can't fly...'
I quietly nourish the business woman inside of me in a variety of ways; by making shrewd, albeit minor financial transactions with others, by silently referring to acquaintances as 'colleagues', by owning a shiny black plastic organizer for my bills, and by speaking in a clipped bark to customer service representatives. I feel sure that I will need her one day, and it is this assurance that pulls me through the good times and the bad.
'Hold on to dreams, for when dreams go,
Life is a barren field covered with snow.'
What's 'really going on'
I don't know which I love more- conspiracy theories, or the people who believe in them. There's nothing to brighten up a dull life like thinking that perhaps there is an Ed Harris- esque secret agent/ general tracking your every move through a hidden and deeply complex survellience system. And there's nothing quite like speculating with an avid consiracy theorist, confirming old suspicions and being introduced to new delightfully horrifying possibilities.
I've traced my interest in these theories to my oldest sister Gen, whose pot induced paranoia finds a perfect outlet in the alleged presence of an all seeing, top secret government agency. In fact, my first experience with this new and exciting level of reality took place years ago during one of Gen's brief and usually disturbing pitstops home from the Dead tour. Feeling complacently cool walking down the street with my fashionably bedraggled sister, I had not yet learned to be continuously wary of Gen's ability to pull the proverbial rug out from under my feet, and was as usual completely unprepared for the world that I was about to enter via her hallucinigenic enhanced mind. After a vigorous toke, Gen nudged me and pointed to a telephone pole.
'You see those boxes up there?' She asked in a strained voice, a musky little curl of smoke escaping from her peirced nose. Exhaling the rest if the smoke in a long stream , she looked at me with all earnestness through red, glassy eyes.
'Those are cameras that the President put up there. He watches everything that you do.'
Being who I was, and still am to a certain extent, I took this startling news at face value. It was both shocking and deflating, as I was an accomplice right then to an illegal activity. I pictured a grainy black and white movie of us breaking the law being transmitted at that very moment to the Oval office, where George Bush sat in front of rows and rows of small monitors evocative of the television section of Walmart. Leaning forward, he zoomed into our faces using a small controller and nodded slowly and disapprovingly. I was now blacklisted.
As usual, Gen's mind had immediately moved onto other things, leaving me alone with the implications of a nosy, all seeing government- casual 'facts' or statements on the part of Gen, which to me were earth shattering news, was an alarming pattern in our relationship. (She had no idea that I, an already unstable eleven year old, was considering the easiest and most painless way to commit suicide after her informing me that everything about me (my astrological sign, a strand of my hair, my initials, my birthday) pointed to my unique role in history as being the future 'bride of the Antichrist' (an entirely different story in itself)). Likewise, she had no idea that her information regarding the President's cameras not only engrained itself into my mind. It would later on both form and pricelessly enhance my adulthood, as the initial discomfort I felt at my walks down the long, monotonous road of my youth being observed from telephone poles developed into a ghoulish fascination with what is 'really going on'.
As a conspiracy theorist in today's world, it is not only my pleasure but my duty to reiterate to any willing audience what I have learned from 'Jesse Ventura's Conspiracy Theory' TV show, taking the liberty to fill in obvious discrepancies with my own ideas. I fritter nights away watching Youtube videos about 9/11, relishing the outrage that I feel for the United States government. And kudos to Gen, who was in fact far ahead of her time for 1995, as the internet, cell phones and the especially diabolical GPS, the conspiracy theorists' sure fire evidence that something is terribly, thrillingly amiss, were twinkles in the eye of the CIA.
I've traced my interest in these theories to my oldest sister Gen, whose pot induced paranoia finds a perfect outlet in the alleged presence of an all seeing, top secret government agency. In fact, my first experience with this new and exciting level of reality took place years ago during one of Gen's brief and usually disturbing pitstops home from the Dead tour. Feeling complacently cool walking down the street with my fashionably bedraggled sister, I had not yet learned to be continuously wary of Gen's ability to pull the proverbial rug out from under my feet, and was as usual completely unprepared for the world that I was about to enter via her hallucinigenic enhanced mind. After a vigorous toke, Gen nudged me and pointed to a telephone pole.
'You see those boxes up there?' She asked in a strained voice, a musky little curl of smoke escaping from her peirced nose. Exhaling the rest if the smoke in a long stream , she looked at me with all earnestness through red, glassy eyes.
'Those are cameras that the President put up there. He watches everything that you do.'
Being who I was, and still am to a certain extent, I took this startling news at face value. It was both shocking and deflating, as I was an accomplice right then to an illegal activity. I pictured a grainy black and white movie of us breaking the law being transmitted at that very moment to the Oval office, where George Bush sat in front of rows and rows of small monitors evocative of the television section of Walmart. Leaning forward, he zoomed into our faces using a small controller and nodded slowly and disapprovingly. I was now blacklisted.
As usual, Gen's mind had immediately moved onto other things, leaving me alone with the implications of a nosy, all seeing government- casual 'facts' or statements on the part of Gen, which to me were earth shattering news, was an alarming pattern in our relationship. (She had no idea that I, an already unstable eleven year old, was considering the easiest and most painless way to commit suicide after her informing me that everything about me (my astrological sign, a strand of my hair, my initials, my birthday) pointed to my unique role in history as being the future 'bride of the Antichrist' (an entirely different story in itself)). Likewise, she had no idea that her information regarding the President's cameras not only engrained itself into my mind. It would later on both form and pricelessly enhance my adulthood, as the initial discomfort I felt at my walks down the long, monotonous road of my youth being observed from telephone poles developed into a ghoulish fascination with what is 'really going on'.
As a conspiracy theorist in today's world, it is not only my pleasure but my duty to reiterate to any willing audience what I have learned from 'Jesse Ventura's Conspiracy Theory' TV show, taking the liberty to fill in obvious discrepancies with my own ideas. I fritter nights away watching Youtube videos about 9/11, relishing the outrage that I feel for the United States government. And kudos to Gen, who was in fact far ahead of her time for 1995, as the internet, cell phones and the especially diabolical GPS, the conspiracy theorists' sure fire evidence that something is terribly, thrillingly amiss, were twinkles in the eye of the CIA.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
My Beloved Black Shoe
More about me- - -
I'm in a very dysfunctional relationship with my baby daddy, I'll be the first to admit it (although my family and friends are a very close second). It's actually shockingly cliche, and involves money, bars and kids (you can fill in the blanks, I'm sure). The gravity of my situation only truly struck me when I found myself on my porch yelling 'Well, move out to your stupid shack in Angola you $%#@*! See if I care!'- shortly after the receiving end of this scathing declaration had finished a stint in the slammer for a DWI. It was then that the boundaries between being broke and being white trash seemed just a little too fuzzy. I found myself thinking as I slammed the door (leaving it unlocked for the culprit to slink back in, of course), 'How did I get to this point? Further, if I keep heading in this direction, I will be living in a trailer park drinking Red Dog in only a matter of time' I call it the Gervaise syndrome.
I've put up with far more than any righteous Ani DiFranco era female ever should have with Joe. He also claims that he has put up with far more than he should have with me, pointing out my tendency to lose things and my moodiness which resembles that of Kathy Bates' character in Stephen King's 'Misery'. I find it difficult to understand how these compare in any way with him returning home at 10:30 in the morning while I spend the night in a cold fury, or taking the car out again and again when his blood alcohol level is through the roof and his license is already suspended AND we had a six month old baby (he inevitably got arrested and sentenced to a year in jail). All of this Joe casually brushes off as minor flaws eclipsed by his otherwise exceptional character. And since he sticks to his opinions like a leech, to my impressionable mind they often take on a sort of realism, no matter how absurd. How trying it must be for this stellar character indeed, my emerging unexpectedly from dark doorways with a strange gleam to my eyes and tears streaming down my face, and my 'losing things'.
My Achilles heel with Joe is my tendency to laugh inappropriately. Even after he's done something particularly outrageous and infuriating, I find myself fighting back a ghastly smile while in the midst of berating him. Often, I will pretend to rage out of the room only so as to let out some desperate giggles. The truth is, I really can't find it in myself to expend the energy of full fledged anger on him and his ridiculous exploits. It also doesn't help that Joe himself is hilarious, and since he has me laughing more than he has me crying, sometimes both at the same time (which points to some sort of abnormality of my own, I will admit) it's basically a losing battle on my part.
Don't get me wrong, Joe's far from a monster. He's more of a character, and although he is continuously pulling off shockingly self centered escapades, his quirky personality is pleasantly stimulating enough that I can't bring myself to pull the plug on our relationship. For the truth of the matter is, I will never find another Joe. There's always another sensitive artist out there, or upright businessman, or macho jock. But find me another testosterone driven maniac who I will come home to find tears trickling down his face as he plays a sentimental song on repeat? Or a beer drinking, football watching machismo who refers to himself as 'the li'l guy' and threatens to 'wobble down the street with all of his possessions in a hanky on a stick' if I don't give him a snack? Or a taciturn grouch who has the ability of making me laugh hysterically with just one look? Or someone who holds within themselves the capabilities of both lying on a couch for 24 hours straight requesting snack after snack and working a twelve hour day in the burning sun consuming nothing but a bottle of water? It's all just so amusing. Give me another Joe, and I'll kick this one right out the door.
I'm in a very dysfunctional relationship with my baby daddy, I'll be the first to admit it (although my family and friends are a very close second). It's actually shockingly cliche, and involves money, bars and kids (you can fill in the blanks, I'm sure). The gravity of my situation only truly struck me when I found myself on my porch yelling 'Well, move out to your stupid shack in Angola you $%#@*! See if I care!'- shortly after the receiving end of this scathing declaration had finished a stint in the slammer for a DWI. It was then that the boundaries between being broke and being white trash seemed just a little too fuzzy. I found myself thinking as I slammed the door (leaving it unlocked for the culprit to slink back in, of course), 'How did I get to this point? Further, if I keep heading in this direction, I will be living in a trailer park drinking Red Dog in only a matter of time' I call it the Gervaise syndrome.
I've put up with far more than any righteous Ani DiFranco era female ever should have with Joe. He also claims that he has put up with far more than he should have with me, pointing out my tendency to lose things and my moodiness which resembles that of Kathy Bates' character in Stephen King's 'Misery'. I find it difficult to understand how these compare in any way with him returning home at 10:30 in the morning while I spend the night in a cold fury, or taking the car out again and again when his blood alcohol level is through the roof and his license is already suspended AND we had a six month old baby (he inevitably got arrested and sentenced to a year in jail). All of this Joe casually brushes off as minor flaws eclipsed by his otherwise exceptional character. And since he sticks to his opinions like a leech, to my impressionable mind they often take on a sort of realism, no matter how absurd. How trying it must be for this stellar character indeed, my emerging unexpectedly from dark doorways with a strange gleam to my eyes and tears streaming down my face, and my 'losing things'.
My Achilles heel with Joe is my tendency to laugh inappropriately. Even after he's done something particularly outrageous and infuriating, I find myself fighting back a ghastly smile while in the midst of berating him. Often, I will pretend to rage out of the room only so as to let out some desperate giggles. The truth is, I really can't find it in myself to expend the energy of full fledged anger on him and his ridiculous exploits. It also doesn't help that Joe himself is hilarious, and since he has me laughing more than he has me crying, sometimes both at the same time (which points to some sort of abnormality of my own, I will admit) it's basically a losing battle on my part.
Don't get me wrong, Joe's far from a monster. He's more of a character, and although he is continuously pulling off shockingly self centered escapades, his quirky personality is pleasantly stimulating enough that I can't bring myself to pull the plug on our relationship. For the truth of the matter is, I will never find another Joe. There's always another sensitive artist out there, or upright businessman, or macho jock. But find me another testosterone driven maniac who I will come home to find tears trickling down his face as he plays a sentimental song on repeat? Or a beer drinking, football watching machismo who refers to himself as 'the li'l guy' and threatens to 'wobble down the street with all of his possessions in a hanky on a stick' if I don't give him a snack? Or a taciturn grouch who has the ability of making me laugh hysterically with just one look? Or someone who holds within themselves the capabilities of both lying on a couch for 24 hours straight requesting snack after snack and working a twelve hour day in the burning sun consuming nothing but a bottle of water? It's all just so amusing. Give me another Joe, and I'll kick this one right out the door.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
The Plump, Complacent Artist
I read an article a while ago titled 'Hipsters on Foodstamps'. This perked my interest because I am on food stamps and the hippest I've ever been was during the grunge era of the late 90's, during which I apathetically found myself riding the crest of the fashion wave. 'Is it possible I could be cool again?' I asked myself when I saw the title, and proceeded to read on.
As it turns out, there's a small population who find that their art degrees are impractical in the long run. After graduating, these staunch bohemians find themselves jobless yet unwilling to commit to a main stream, corporate job. The old 'starving artist' phenomenon. So they fall back on good old Uncle Sam who provides them with a certain amount of money for food each month. Good for them, as far as I'm concerned- what fool would turn down free food?
What really struck me about food stamps being utilized by these artsy hipsters is that it very well could signal the end of the perennial 'starving artist'. In it's place would be the plump, well fed and unemployed artist, or as my brother said, the 'plump complacent artist'. Just think how food stamps could have changed not only the history of art, but the history of the world! Van Gogh's gaunt self portrait may very well have been two tormented eyes staring out of a healthily rounded face. Hitler might not have become so catastrophically embittered by the need to sell his unpopular painted post cards. Perhaps Dylan Thomas would not have been driven to his fatal alcoholism if he had had access to comfort food, in turn providing the world with even more of his breath taking prose. Interesting stuff to think about, what might have been...
On another note, reading this article helped my own self confidence tremendously. Ever since being strongly encouraged to go on food stamps by my thoroughly practical sister (just picture the forceful decisiveness of an elementary school nurse behind the facade of a thin, fashionable blonde) after noticing that all that I had in my fridge was a half gallon of milk, a small part of me died every time I flashed my EBT card to the cashier. I would sheepishly scan the checkout lines for a very specific type of cashier, this being a person of a minority race, preferably over fifty, and so obviously absorbed in their own misery that they had no energy to judge me and my poverty.
Not anymore. As a Hipster on Foodstamps, I no longer have a problem unloading my groceries in any checkout line I please. In fact, I feel a certain affinity for the more cutting edge cashiers. I proudly swipe my blue benefit card, all the while staring the heavy lidded youth sporting their trademark stiff diagonal bangs and skinny jeans straight in the eyes.
As it turns out, there's a small population who find that their art degrees are impractical in the long run. After graduating, these staunch bohemians find themselves jobless yet unwilling to commit to a main stream, corporate job. The old 'starving artist' phenomenon. So they fall back on good old Uncle Sam who provides them with a certain amount of money for food each month. Good for them, as far as I'm concerned- what fool would turn down free food?
What really struck me about food stamps being utilized by these artsy hipsters is that it very well could signal the end of the perennial 'starving artist'. In it's place would be the plump, well fed and unemployed artist, or as my brother said, the 'plump complacent artist'. Just think how food stamps could have changed not only the history of art, but the history of the world! Van Gogh's gaunt self portrait may very well have been two tormented eyes staring out of a healthily rounded face. Hitler might not have become so catastrophically embittered by the need to sell his unpopular painted post cards. Perhaps Dylan Thomas would not have been driven to his fatal alcoholism if he had had access to comfort food, in turn providing the world with even more of his breath taking prose. Interesting stuff to think about, what might have been...
On another note, reading this article helped my own self confidence tremendously. Ever since being strongly encouraged to go on food stamps by my thoroughly practical sister (just picture the forceful decisiveness of an elementary school nurse behind the facade of a thin, fashionable blonde) after noticing that all that I had in my fridge was a half gallon of milk, a small part of me died every time I flashed my EBT card to the cashier. I would sheepishly scan the checkout lines for a very specific type of cashier, this being a person of a minority race, preferably over fifty, and so obviously absorbed in their own misery that they had no energy to judge me and my poverty.
Not anymore. As a Hipster on Foodstamps, I no longer have a problem unloading my groceries in any checkout line I please. In fact, I feel a certain affinity for the more cutting edge cashiers. I proudly swipe my blue benefit card, all the while staring the heavy lidded youth sporting their trademark stiff diagonal bangs and skinny jeans straight in the eyes.
Monday, August 9, 2010
Well, I had my second daughter five days ago, so I'm pretty much home bound for a while. Which reminds me of something I forgot to put in the 'interests' section of my profile: after taking two anthropology courses, I've taken the liberty of referring to myself as an 'anthropologist' and observing the different mini- cultures in my immigrant friendly neighborhood in what I like to think of as a 'scientific' light. Apparently, according to Victoria, the 'kind but rude' Vietnamese woman across the street, I am '...VERY STRONG'. (The caps lock conveys her forceful way of speaking, I hope.) Further, Vietnamese women 'STAY IN BEDROOM FOR ONE MONTH AFTER BABY, BECAUSE OF THE WIND'.
Fascinating. I'm beginning to think it's not a bad idea, although I don't know what the wind has to do with anything. I will have to look up the correlations between cultural behavior and weather.
Soooo, other than checking little five day old Piper every few minutes for SIDS and amusing my cheerful, cheerful little two and a half year old Myla, I was as ready as I would ever be for an invitation to read my sister's blog (sent via email the day after she'd insisted that in no way, shape or form were any of us- my brothers and sisters and I- going to be able access it, and that there was no use in begging). So I took the bait. And of course, as all of us anti- social recluses know that one outgoing gesture eventually leads to a complete invasion of our precariously sealed little worlds, upon reading her meanderings (which were, incidentally, pretty interesting) and commenting to her on them, she casually suggested that I become her 'follower'.
Waaaait a minute here. Rewind. Back up. Your FOLLOWER? Red alert! And what does this 'following' entail? Some sort of power shift, obviously. Unspoken, maybe never referred to aloud, but a definite shift in the likewise precarious balance of inter- personal relationship. If I'm your 'follower', then what does that make you? Ooooh no, very smooth, but I'm not that easy. While everything else in my life and personality may have dissolved into chaos long enough ago that I've simply given up trying to remember non- compartmentalization, I have retained my independent frame of mind. And I plan on keeping it.
Needless to say, after a few seconds of outrage, I shrugged and clicked on the 'Become a Follower' button. And decided to write my own blog, in which she could become my follower as well, and hopefully bring any sort of leverage lost in my decision back to me. What's independent thinking anyway- so American. And ultimately not necessarily as conducive to a healthy society as more of a 'collective' mindset. Ask any anthropologist.
Fascinating. I'm beginning to think it's not a bad idea, although I don't know what the wind has to do with anything. I will have to look up the correlations between cultural behavior and weather.
Soooo, other than checking little five day old Piper every few minutes for SIDS and amusing my cheerful, cheerful little two and a half year old Myla, I was as ready as I would ever be for an invitation to read my sister's blog (sent via email the day after she'd insisted that in no way, shape or form were any of us- my brothers and sisters and I- going to be able access it, and that there was no use in begging). So I took the bait. And of course, as all of us anti- social recluses know that one outgoing gesture eventually leads to a complete invasion of our precariously sealed little worlds, upon reading her meanderings (which were, incidentally, pretty interesting) and commenting to her on them, she casually suggested that I become her 'follower'.
Waaaait a minute here. Rewind. Back up. Your FOLLOWER? Red alert! And what does this 'following' entail? Some sort of power shift, obviously. Unspoken, maybe never referred to aloud, but a definite shift in the likewise precarious balance of inter- personal relationship. If I'm your 'follower', then what does that make you? Ooooh no, very smooth, but I'm not that easy. While everything else in my life and personality may have dissolved into chaos long enough ago that I've simply given up trying to remember non- compartmentalization, I have retained my independent frame of mind. And I plan on keeping it.
Needless to say, after a few seconds of outrage, I shrugged and clicked on the 'Become a Follower' button. And decided to write my own blog, in which she could become my follower as well, and hopefully bring any sort of leverage lost in my decision back to me. What's independent thinking anyway- so American. And ultimately not necessarily as conducive to a healthy society as more of a 'collective' mindset. Ask any anthropologist.
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