the load less carried... or should be

I've been carrying around an extra suitcase everywhere I go for the past few days.  This, of course, is a metaphor.

I'm not one of those people who starts sentences with, "my therapist says..." and I never want to be that person.  So, I will simply say that lately it has felt like I have been traveling through life in slow motion listening to a fight going on in my head and a certain person agrees with me.

That's some schizophrenic shit right there.

In my mind, there is a critic; a really high-strung one who comments on everything I say and everything I do.  This critic has got something to say about simply everything, from how I wear my hair to all the decisions that I make, big and small.  Something as simple as an invite to a party or happy hour turns into a heated debate in my mind and, given the right fuel, can bring me to tears.  It may seem like I am being dramatic, alas, it is 100% truth.  I welled up yesterday when I was invited to go to City Island with some friends.  There were, in my mind, a million factors to be considered: how we were getting there, who was going, how long we would stay, whether I could handle being around everyone for that long, my bathing suit unready body.  So, I decided to stay home and there were a million factors to weigh there too... you could see the challenge.

I feel like I'm willing to change.  I'm willing to hear how I could be wrong.  I try to be happy and do the right thing, yet still, I am hindered.  All by a critic who lives in my head.

Today, I moved one of my student's seats and his reaction was the usual, "why me?  you always move me!"  This is the same student that looks for all the things that go wrong; he will do something nice and then throw a fit when he doesn't get praised because he feels like he is always caught in the 'wrong' and never in the 'right'... which sucks.  I get it.  But at the same time, it's a self-fulfilling prophecy.  There's a dialogue going on in his mind, too, and that inner voice is telling him that the world is against him.  So, when he doesn't get the praise or he gets his seat moved "again," he feels justified for being angry.

Is this the way I'm walking around?  Because it sucks.

And it doesn't help that I feel like a pregnant woman.  Not an adorable pregnant woman who looks like she's not pregnant until you see her profile.  I'm talking the cankled, weighed-down, fanning herself, too heavy to get up and walking everywhere leading with her stomach pregnant woman... completely burdened, physically.

I also hate this fucking weather.  It is hell on Earth, pea soup, swamp-ass, sweating-under-sunglasses, too-fucking-hot-for-shoes weather.  Mad props to people who live in Key West... then again, you could always just jump in the ocean.  Mad props to us city-dwellers without a car.  I will take clouds and 65 over sun and 90 any day of the week.

The moral of the story is this:  don't always assume you've got people all figured out because chances are, you are more wrong than mayor bloomberg's mother for giving birth to him.

My two cents.

brother, can you spare a dime?

This evening, after my awesome-amazing-super-fun-time class about Japan, I went into this little place called chickpea to get some dinner.  As I was waiting in line to say that I wanted the hummus platter with the mushroom and almond falafel and bulgur wheat, this man comes in the door and starts asking this woman if she has a quarter.  She said "no" and when I heard, "Ma'am, do you have quarter?" I knew he was talking to me.  I said no because unless I have one right in my pocket, there's not a chance.  But this man made me think, what the hell does he need a quarter for in this generation?

As all four of us in the restaurant said no to his demand for $.25, he proclaimed that there were dead people outside and that he guessed since none of us could cough up a measly coin, he'll just let the dead people stay dead.  Before you go imagining a frantic man, freaking out over dead bodies, don't.  He was calm as could be, which made the whole scene that much more bizarre.

There are two thoughts going through my mind as I recall this experience that happened only a few short hours ago: 

1. Was he really in need of a quarter to place a call with a pay phone?  I don't understand.  Everybody has a cell phone.  AND even if you don't have a cell phone, calling 911 on a pay phone is free.  And pay phones, by the way are still wildly abundant throughout NYC.  It's funny because I never notice them and this weekend, on my commute to and from my class, I started picking them out and taking note of the fact that we still have plenty of pay phones around... just in case.

And if said people were, in fact, dead, wouldn't there be other people around the extremely busy East Village neighborhood we were in.  He probably would have had a relatively easy time asking one of them to call 911 if they were in the presence of the dead people.  Why did he need to run into chickpea and ask us one by one for a quarter?  It was odd.

2. I'm tired of people being so manipulative.  How could you put that on us, the patrons of chickpea?  We're just trying to purchase some falafel and you're telling us it's our fault that those dead people won't have a chance of living?  I had the worst experience yesterday with a manipulative man who worked at a third party AT&T store.  He basically talked me in circles and used the slimiest ways possible to get my information and make it really really hard for me to back out of buying a new iphone.  The thing is, my old iphone was purchased at the end of 2009 and was starting to split in half.  I did, in fact, need a new one.  But this guy didn't even wait for me to say I wanted to do it before he started looking up my account, photocopying this and that and started to run my card.  Psychologically, it's proven that when a salesman starts the process or puts something in your hand, it's that much harder for you to turn around.  And I felt like I'd been had.  I felt vulnerable and weak.  So, I left this third party shop with one shiny new iphone and zero pride.  I did, however learn a valuable lesson: fuck manipulative people.

And this wandering- pondering has brought me to my final thought: what would this guy have done with that quarter?  Was he saving up for a forty?  Was he going to make a phone call?  Was he going to save the dead people's lives?  Would he have grabbed my wallet and run had I been so kind (and foolish) to go fishing around for that quarter?  Why did he really need the quarter?

 Because, believe me, when I left the shop five minutes later, there was not a dead person in sight.

a call for chivalry

Tonight, as I was leaving the gym, this guy was talking on his cell phone. I was in front of him as we walked in sync down the stairs and by the time we got to the door, he was so close behind me that I just held the door for him as he busted through and entirely ignored the fact that he had cut me off and that I had held the door open for him. So, I did what I always do in that situation: I said, "you're welcome!" in a clear and assertive voice, forcing him to look at me and acknowledge the fact that he hadn't said "thank you" and also, to acknowledge the fact that he had cut off a woman.

A few weeks ago, I had class in the city early one Saturday morning, and so, toting my large bag full of my books and wallet and everything else I need for my class, I made my way down to the subway platform to wait for my train to carry me off to midtown. I was right in the front of the doors as they opened, an extremely desirable place to be, and I made my way in and headed straight to an open seat, when a guy, without daring to look up at me, cut me off and sat in what should have been my seat. Well, I did what I felt was necessary in that situation and stared at him for the duration of the ride, delighting in his obviously careful aversion of my eyes. Rude. It would be rude had it been a woman; but even more rude that this was a man doing that to me.

I give you one final story. I'm again heading to the city. I make my way down the stairs and get in place to be next in line to swipe myself through the turnstile when a guy, holding a girl's hand, shoved in front of me and swiped their cards. I was taken aback a bit, so I looked at them and said, "by all means, please, go ahead!" Bitchy? Yes. Necessary? Totally. But I wasn't done. I, somehow, managed to beat them down the stairs and into the car, which made me happy. Then I decided I would openly stare at them; not an angry or disapproving stare, but a purely observing, unreadable kind of stare, as if I were watching the penguins at the Bronx Zoo. The guy finally came over to me and said, "I guess chivalry really is dead, huh?" I said, "it doesn't have to be."

I'm no dummy. I'm entirely aware that times are different and women fought hard for equality and so then, with it, chivalry has apparently taken a nose dive in popularity. Then there are those people who argue about rigid gender roles and expectations that accompany those roles. I know that some people are thinking that my preconceptions about a man holding a door for me or the whole 'ladies first' philosophy is ridiculously outdated, but I think it's not quite so simple. It's not that I want to be home cooking and cleaning and not being able to make a living for myself so that a man has to take care of me and treat me like the fairer sex, it's something else. It's something deeper. It's a need I have to show that I can do it but to have men still acknowledge that I am a woman and to treat me as such.

My coworker is one of the kindest men I have ever met in my life on this Earth. He treats each and every person with respect and he always holds doors for women, jumps to take heavy loads out of our hands as we're walking down the hall, comes in willingly to drill a hole in our plaster walls to hang our clock, and always lets female students enter and exit rooms first, saying 'ladies first.' Is he a sexist? Absolutely not. He's a gentleman. He makes life brighter for people that he comes into contact with. Instead of looking out for himself, he looks out to take care of his coworkers and, with it, comes that warmth of knowing that someone is noticing you and looking to make your burden, whatever it is, a little more bearable.

The last day before spring break, my classroom-mate and I had to put away all our valuables because our floor was going to be redone. One of my former students, an eighth grade boy, was in the room looking to help out. Eighth grade boys have a way of coming in one day without warning and towering over me, by the way. One minute they are little pipsqueaks and then, out of the blue, boom! They're looking at the top of my head and speaking to me in a deep man's voice. It's unreal. Anyway, we have one of those heavy duty printers and so, I said, "Matthew, you know, I work out quite a bit. I could totally handle that printer on my own," to which he replied, "right, or I could just do it for you since it's the right thing to do!" I loved that he was looking to help in this way and I acknowledged how appreciative I was to have him there while I picked up the heavy and bulky printer and lugged it over to the cart to be moved into another room.

And there it is. Acknowledgement. It's nice to know that someone is there to help if you need it. Trust me, I would never survive a day in the 1800s where women were expected to do such difficult work, giving birth, raising kids, staying home and cooking and cleaning and tending to everyone while you were invisible and lacked any rights. I would have been burned at the stake. I would have been called a witch and burned alive. I know it. And so, maybe, when I think about it that way, we're not so bad off, are we? I mean, it's not like it was better to have your father trade you for four goats to the farmer down the street. Is that chivalrous? Not really. I get to fend for myself, make my own living, show off my strength of spirit and body and when a guy forgets that I'm a lady, I totally have the right to remind him. Not so bad, really. And to all those guys who are always chivalrous: we ladies thank you even when we act like we don't need it... it's nice to know it's there.

manifest destiny

east coast vs. west coast

the inner dialogue that has been happening since circa 2008

EAST COAST PROS (NYC):
rap! kidding but not
break dancing on friday afternoons at the Union Square subway station
mega-movies... so many awesome movies
history galore
i don't need a car
proximity to my family
so many museums
art
star sightings
fashion
my friends
my living situation
i walk to work
my students are hysterical
cultures residing in such close proximity
ny is REAL-- in your face
food- all of it
my gym
architecture
if you can make it there (here) you'll make it anywhere!

So the thing about NYC is that it is amazing; no doubt. There is something about it; the energy, the amount of things I have going on, the classes I take, the fun I have, the people I meet. I love it. But on the down-side, I really do miss nature. I also totally miss having space for my things, both at home and at school. And I'm also pretty sure my dog would not really miss Brooklyn.
Taking the subway can either be really awesome or it can really suck. The amount of stairs I climb in a day, every day is ridiculous. The subway is draining and occasionally you'll get to sit near someone who barfs or thinks it's ok to clip their nails.
Walking around NYC, I find myself thinking about fresh air; sweet air. I want to smell trees. I want to smell lavendar and ocean, pine. I smell urine, garbage, and car fumes normally. Except for two nights a week that I get to smell the bread baking at the Polish bakery a few doors down.


WEST COAST PROS (LA):
nature
weather
cleanliness
space
finn can get more exercise
i'll have a car to take road trips
i can take finn swimming and camping
proximity to the beach
i would probably have a ton more space in my school- a middle school with a bell system and lockers and teachers have their own classrooms
healthier living
people are more eco-conscious/ friendly
laid back
sunny
mmmm... mexican food
lemon trees
palm trees

I think mentally, I might need it. The thing that scares me about LA, though, is the lack of community. Nobody walks around. Also, Charles Manson lived there. That fact kind of freaks me out. I know I'm being silly and, yes, I'm kind of kidding, but it's still a bit chilling. People in California generally aren't as dirty as New Yorkers. I wake up and walk through trash and that is a total downer. Sometimes I'll walk out my door and there will be garbage left behind on my stoop. Not cool. That's the thing about LA; more space that is YOURS. But then again, I meet lots of cool people because we're all so crowded in... It's a good thing and a bad thing. However, I am thirty-five. I need room to breathe. Yes, I'm thinking mentally and physically, the westward migration might need to happen sooner than later. I'm sure the universe will open a door and send me a signal.

i got mad love for you, shorties.

This afternoon, I went to see one of the classics play on the big screen: Francis Ford Coppola's The Outsiders. A young Matt Dillon, Rob Lowe, Emilio Estevez, Tom Cruise, Ralph Macchio, Patrick Swayze, and C. Thomas Howell played across the screen with that youthful glint in their eyes. I always well up at the tearful reunion of the brothers after Pony, Dally, and Johnny Cake played heroes and rescued those children from the burning church. It also brings me back to when I was fourteen, same age as Pony, and had to act out that scene where Darry just hit Pony and Pony goes to the park to get Johnny to run away with him. We all know what happens then. My friends and I acted that scene out for a project we had to do in English after reading The Outsiders.

I had to be Johnny. Not in a bratty way, but I needed to because I was the underdog in those days, just like poor Johnny. Johnny would have understood me. I would have understood him. And so, I simply had to be Johnny in that scene. My friend decided to play Pony and she was so not a Ponyboy, but that is beside the point. As I sat in the dark theater remembering a younger me acting out the part of Johnny, who would have so gotten me, I got to thinking how my favorite characters change with age. Pony became my favorite for a little while because, let's face it, he's gold. And he's one of those characters that will always be gold. He's a handsome dreamer. But, as an adult, my favorite Outsiders character remains to be Sodapop. And for very different reasons.



Sodapop is everything I am not and wish I could be: wild, reckless, carefree, charming. I am none of those. If you consider showing up late for my Body Sculpting class on Tuesdays wild and reckless, then... well I can't even do that. I am there early every Tuesday. In order to be wild and reckless, I believe that you also need to be charming to keep people from being angry at you. Soda oozes that reckless-babe-who-can-woo-you-with-a-smile qualities in abundance. I believe that if Soda were a real person, I would fall madly in love him.



Another character that gets to me is Conrad Jarrett from Judith Guest's Ordinary People.

"...Everywhere he looks, there is competence and good health. Only he, Conrad Jarrett, outcast, quitter, fuck up, stands outside the circle of safety, separated from everyone by this aching void of lonliness; but no matter, he deserves it. He does not speak to anyone. He does not dare to look his classmates in the eye. He does not want to contaminate, does not wish to find further evidence of his lack of worth."

I want to gather him up in my arms and protect him from his thoughts. To me, Conrad is one of the more real characters ever to take residence in a book. I can see him. I can practically feel his heart beat. And maybe, I can relate with him too.

In that part of the story where he is in the library when he feels someone starting at him, he starts to fill up with anger and guilt as she openly continues to stare. Then, he sees the woman in the parking lot and there is this exchange:

"...'Oh, sorry.' Then she straightens up. He has caught her off-guard, but she is still more poised than he, and this close, he can see her face: small, delicate features, the casual elegance of a painter or a dancer, a beautiful pointed nose. She smooths her hair back from her face. "I embarassed you in there, didn't I? I'm sorry.' She shrugs her shoulders. 'You're very good-looking. But I'm sure you already know that."

Conrad is shocked and goes home and studies himself in the mirror for the first time since he can remember. The thought that someone can be thinking something good about him doesn't even enter his mind. That's how broken he is in this story.


And speaking of broken, let's talk about another classic literary genius: Holden Caulfield. I love that Holden is a kid just trying to do kid things like go on dates and yet, he also orders scotch in the hotel bar when he gets thrown out of school. The only thing in Holden's world that is pure is his little sister, Phoebe. Everything else is broken. Nothing is gold except Phoebe. When he goes to her elementary school and sees Fuck you written in the stairwell, he freaks out because he doesn't want kids to have to see that. And I love the part of the book that describes his trips to the Museum of Natural History: everything stays just as it was, the squaw is still laying out the same number of fish from her catch years ago when he was a kid. The same number of ducks still fly in the same direction. Every time I go to the Museum of Natural History, I think of Holden and wish that his life could have been easier. Maybe, in my mind, I'm thankful Holden's out there in the literary world and we're sort of holding each other up in this weird way in my mind.

Here's to Soda and Johnny and Pony, Conrad and Holden. I got mad love for you, Shorties!

world is to oyster as foliage is to __________.

The world is our oyster!
People say that all the time:
"What are you doing this weekend?"
"I don't know; the world is my oyster!"
Ok. I lied. No one says that in real life.
Ok. I lied again. I say it. I say it often. When I say it, it's often because this part of me believes that the world is my oyster and everything is just there for the taking. If I want to have a crazy night out, I can do that. If I want to hop on a train and visit some random city, I can do that too. The truth is, I don't do those things as often as I'd like to. I say "the world is my oyster" to try to motivate myself. It's like a gentle reminder, "life is short; really live." But here's the thing: I fear I don't know exactly what that means.

If you were to talk to members of my family, they'd say I was a wild child who can't be tied down; or as my father says, "you get antsy. I give you another year before you move again." My grandmother has this old school phone book and by my name, there are phone numbers and addresses in the double digits. I left my Long Island home and never looked back. I went to many different colleges and stayed up late nights and did things that just wouldn't be allowed in the real world, I studied in London, backpacked for almost a month, interned in Alaska, moved across the country to Oregon, then six years later, moved back east to NYC. I was directed into a major that would allow me to mostly always be in high demand, while I could still practice what I want to really do. I got mostly all the jobs I interview for (as a kid and as an adult). And then it all just sort of stopped. Life in the fast lane seems to be over. I have taken off my helmet.

I woke up two Novembers ago and realized I hadn't used my passport in over a decade. Granted, in that time I was playing on the west coast, but I remember coming back from London with that feeling. I had been bitten. I wanted... no needed to see more. The word AGAIN came to mind and it's funny because just as I was about to write it, I looked over at a print I have hung on the wall next to my bed. It says AGAIN on a roughly drawn blue sky above roughly drawn green grass; the colors are rather jarring. I hung that print on my wall a few years ago and have sometimes looked at it, thinking, that's actually not that pleasing to look at... why did I buy that? Should I take it down? But I never do. And just now, I realized why it's there.

While I may look back at my life and think there's little I would change, the truth is, when I was in it, I didn't see things that way. Right now, I work at this rock and roll middle school with kids I enjoy seeing. I live in one of those rare apartments that is comfortable to live in and to pay for. I have a roomate that is so easy to get along with and fun to have around. I have Manhattan just a hop and skip away. I have wonderful people who work right across the street from me. I have friends from different areas and times of my life to hang around with. And while none of this might be life in the fast lane material, it is what it is for now. Who knows where my next trip will be? Who knows what will happen in two years, two months, or two days from now? I think the saying, the world is your oyster, really is just a reminder to take chances in your life and jump on opportunities without having too much fear. But it doesn't mean that every day and night has to be epic. And that's what I seem to forget. Because, really, if you're cracking oysters every day and every night, you will be tired and your stomach will hurt. You need these periods of rest to counter the crazy.

"as strange as a clockwork orange"

The movie, A Clockwork Orange, slapped me right in me gulliver. It did when I was 17-years-old, watching it in my friend's basement with my high school boyfriend and a bunch of other droogs (nadsat for friends). It did when I watched it in college, when I was oh, so very much more mature. It really messed with me when I read the book and it did last night at the midnight showing here in Brooklyn. That movie has a lot to say and I saw things differently this time around.

For one, I never noticed how incredibly sexy Alex is. Not when he was wearing his mask and about to perform a little in-out with that poor woman in her own home with her helpless husband watching; God, no! But, in general, I was always so overtaken with his nihilistic, id-like state of being. Alex DeLarge was very much a despicable character, no? Well, no. This time around, I noticed that for as fucked up as a person he is, he is quite likeable; quite refined, actually. And quite charming when he isn't cutting people with his walking stick/ knife... Actually, most sociopaths are capable of extreme charm- but for personal gain. They're likeble, fun, and charismatic. Weird, eh?

Alex is actually a man of refined taste. He loves Beethoven's ninth and has extremely fine taste in clothing. When he's out with his droogs for a night of the ultra-violent, he wears a crisp white collared shirt with eyeball cuff links, suspenders, white pants, black combat boots, and a bowler hat. He wears cute white tighties with blue trim underneath it all. When he skipped school, he put on this floor length purple jacket with a crazy collar and carried a walking stick. When he was sentenced to jail time, he went in wearing a lovely navy suit and those amazing leather ankle boots that looked so hot on guys in the 60s...


As I walked home with my friend, I searched for words to put my thoughts to. I tried to say, for as fucked up as those violent scenes were to watch, in a way, they weren't. I couldn't explain it. Today, I read a little bit about it and found that they used the word "detached" to describe the rape scenes and the other ultra-violence in the movie. And, yes, detached is the right word, I would say. Set to sunny music, we see things through Alex's eyes, and thus, we see it in a way that makes it seem ok. Because for him, it is ok. Chilling. Genius, really.

I also never noticed, as a teenager, the amount of filth that abounded in their world. The world where the misfits were really keeping in line with what the government wanted: people off the streets; no place to commune or get together or to start rebellions or revolutions. The kids made that possible by scaring everyone off the streets, from the drunken homeless man they ruthlessly beat in the movie version to the man carrying books from a library that they beat and tore at in the book version. This story was supposed to have taken place in the early 2000s (I swear I saw 2001 written somewhere when he went to that extremely cool, psychadelic-looking record shop/ mall while he skipped the school) and the book was written in the 60s, when the USSR and the US were positioning themselves as the superpowers of the world. Therefore, A Clockwork Orange is this strange mix of consumerism/ pop-culture and totalitarianism; garbage and Municipal Flatblock 18A comingling. There are murals on the walls with grafitti: dicks and the words, Suck it and See coming out of a guy's mouth. And his home is a hallucinogenic wonderland with the brightly-colored, highly stylized wallpaper, furniture, and decor. His room is very neat, highly ordered, Ludwig Van Beethoven peering at him from his shade as he curls up with his pet snake for a bit of shut-eye.


It is so very hard to make a despicable character one that we become endeared to. In A Clockwork Orange, that happens, as a government experiment goes awry and the media turns Alex's story into headlines. The government, hurriedly, undoes what they've done and become allies with Alex. We, the watchers, almost feel relieved that he has been "fixed." Wait a minute. Fixed means he's super evil again. What? I'm happy about this? Why? Well, because this whole movie is about free will verses totalitarian control. And violence, as fucked up as it is, is an aspect of free will. Without violence, Alex can't even function in this ficticious world.

The acting, the soundtrack, the cinematography, the finely-detailed costumes, the storyline, and the set design all come together and remind me why Stanley Kubrik is such a genius. And that scene where Alex is scratching his ass, walking down the hall in his blue-trimmed tighties brought to light how incredibly hot the then 28 year old Malcolm McDowell was... holy smokes. I might go buy one of those movie posters.

wildly uncomfortable movie moments

Sometimes, when I'm watching a movie, that thing will happen where I notice that I am literally squirming, taking peeks around the room just to get away from the movie, and exhaling rather... uncomfortably. This is what the writer and the director wanted. This is what I call a wildly uncomfortable movie moment.

I like them and I don't like them. Sometimes, I acknowledge its existence as a necessary part of the plot or character development. Other times, usually if it is happening too often or goes on way too long, I will get up and walk out of the movie. Where do I draw the line? Well, if I deem the movie good, I will want to grin and bear it. If not, I'm out.

As most of you know, I love lists. They give my life, my likes and dislikes, my things to do- today, tomorrow, before I die, a sense of order. Don't we all enjoy categorizing; Making sense out of chaos? So, here is a list of wildly uncomfortable movie moments, in no particular order:

Enter the Void (2009)
Directed by Gaspar Noé

I went to see Enter the Void this past summer with a friend of mine at the IFC. I wanted to see it because I heard it was quite a cinematic experience. I'm all for cinematic experiences... but not in this way. Watching this movie felt like the emotional and visual equivalent of being force fed tablespoons of fish oil while someone is punching you repeatedly in the stomach and yet somebody else is showing you their open flesh wound. Gross, right? While the whole movie made me wildly uncomfortable, the scene that really pissed me off was the scene where the newly reunited brother and sister are sitting in their tiny Tokyo apartment at dawn after staying up all night partying. Needless to say, they are fucked up beyond belief. They are hanging out talking and Alice's boob is just hanging out of her shirt. There's this sexual tension between the two throughout the movie and it just grosses me out beyond belief. Usually, in any movie, it's weird sexual tension between family members that makes me want to throw up in my mouth. Stupid prostitute sister and drug addict brother. Go on the righteous path, will you? If this movie set out to make me angry, it succeeded.



Shame (2011)
Directed by Steve McQueen

I saw Shame last week in the theater. The protagonist, who is completely unlikeable, lives a life of sexually hedonistic solitude. He really enjoys getting his rocks off. More than most people. Come to think of it, he's not even enjoying it as much as indulging in something that is a habit... it's like watching a chain smoker have her cigarette; it's more out of habit and necessity than it is enjoyment. In Brandon's isolated world, the only people to enter his apartment are prostitutes, online playmates calling out of his computer screen, and the girls he brings home from bars. But, one day, he comes home and walks into his bathroom to find his sister (played by cutie-pie, Carey Mulligan) in the shower. They have a surprised, 'what are you doing here!? You scared the shit out of me!' exchange and then... the uncomfortable brother-lingering-while-sister's-naked-in-the-shower. I don't know if my family was extra prudish, but we just didn't do that! And so, another inappropriate, incestuous moment, compliments of Shame. All in all, I didn't want to walk out of this movie the way I did with Enter the Void. Most of the movie wasn't quite so painful to watch. And, like my friend said, the movie did a good job of conveying the bleakness of the characters through their surroundings. I mean, NYC gets way more sun than we saw in this movie...



Damnation (1988)
Directed by Bela Tarr

Yesterday, I saw that a movie called the The Turin Horse was playing in the city and I read some reviews. The writer said this movie will have half the audience bored to tears and walking out of the theater and the other half mesmerized. I went on to look at what other movies this director has made and fixated on it all day. I needed to see Bela Tarr's movies. I rented Damnation and watched it a few hours ago. I really liked it. It was bleak but beautiful. It was mesmerizing how long a take was and, for me, it made me ask questions. I imagined the boredom these people must feel as the rain poured down each and every day in this boring, nothing town. There was one scene toward the very end, where the protagonist (again, not very likeable; more pitiful) was walking along some small lake, in the heavy rain, getting soaked and dirty. This detail alone was enough to make me uncomfortable, but then, he comes across some stray dogs. There are stray dogs all over this town. Mangy, tough dogs that just troll around looking for food. Well, this dog clearly didn't want this guy around and starts barking ferociously at him. What does the guy do? He barks back. At first it was funny, but then, in Bela Tarr style, it continued for a long period of time. With each set of barks, he got louder, and crazier, getting on all fours and circling around the dog, showing his teeth and barking wildly. I thought, for sure the dog was going to bite his face off... then I remembered the conversation he had earlier with his lover; he felt like he was going to soon go mad. The dog backed off, probably sensing his madness...


Young Adult (2011)
Directed by Jason Reitman

I saw Young Adult in the theater with some friends semi-recently and I very much liked it. I didn't, for one second, not believe Charlize Theron's character. I thought she was amazing in it, as was Patton Oswald. They made a fabulous team. She was quite a delusional alcoholic, clinging tightly to her faded glory, determined to get her high school boyfriend back, despite the fact that he is happily married. There were many scenes that had me thinking, 'No! Mavis, what are you doing?!' The one that had me cringing though, was when she finally had her delusions dashed for real and she lost her shit on her ex-boyfriend's wife. His wife, by the way, is the type of girl we all either want to be or want to hang out with... she's a drummer for a band that she plays in with her mommy friends, wears vintage rock t-shirts, and is so incredibly nice to the cold and crazy Mavis. The things Mavis said to her in front of the entire party made it pretty obvious she's got some issues. This made for a wildly uncomfortable movie moment.


Happiness (1998)
Directed by Todd Solondz

In 1995, Todd Solondz changed my entire world. He made it better. He did this by allowing Welcome to the Dollhouse to play in movie theaters across America and then created dvds of this amazing movie. Three years later, he directed another one titled Happiness. This one lacked the charm that Welcome to the Dollhouse had in abundance, but it had one thing for sure: a wildly uncomfortable movie moment. Come to think of it, I'd venture to say this entire movie is just one long wildly uncomfortable movie moment; And yet another moment of incestuous discomfort. But this time, the characters involved are father and son. The father, it is early on revealed, is a gay pedafile. His son is a total nerd. One day, the two of them have a "heart-to-heart" that happens sometime after the father drugs and molests his son's friend during an innocent sleepover. In this heart-to-heart, the son asks the dad what does cum mean? So, the dad goes on to explain what it is and asks Billy if he's tried playing with himself, complete with asking him if he wants him to show him how... It is done in the most fucked up of ways. It's like, if you put the TV on mute and just watched, it would seem like a heart-warming father-son talk... and then you remember the back-story and you listen to the words that are coming out of the son's mouth and you just think... EW... WHAT THE FUCK!?!?


I'm happy this post is ending on Happiness (no pun intended). That movie, with all the inappropriate penis talks involved, really should win the most uncomfortable movie moments award... and this movie has a lot of these awful moments.

all's silent

sounds of silence...
all's quiet here at home.
there's the pitter patter of finnegan walking up and down the hall, coming to the couch, stretching his neck to prop his head on the couch to make sure everything is still status quo. then he pitter-patters back to his bed.
there's the sound of Aimee playing words with friends on her ipad on the other side of the couch.
outside, there is a dog barking.
a motorcycle just zoomed by.
a car alarm is going off. now it stopped.
the keys click rapidly beneath my fingers making those satisfying little clicking noises that I love so much... the faster the better.
someone needs to get their brakes checked... either that or it's a volvo.
the refigerator is deciding to hum at this moment. it moans and churns in two-beat succession... cha-la...da na. cha-la... da na. cha-la... da na.
aimee takes a breath as she begins to click in her word.
a skateboard is skidding past my building.
latin music comes and goes quickly in a car.
a truck with a diesel engine squeaks to a stop, puts it in gear, and goes again.
my phone tweets like a bird to alert me that someone is texting.
someone is laughing as, yet another skateboard rolls by.
aimee's words with friends makes another pleasing sound; a sort of chime and then bubbles popping.
engine revving up hard.
phone-bird tweets again, it clicks when i unlock it.
a loud conversation passing and, another skateboard.
my shirt makes a scrunching sound as i rub my shoulder.
my downstairs neighbor is drilling... just for a moment though.
slow squeak outside, maybe a bicycle?
a cackle.
a car.
music.
a gaggle of loud skateboards this time.

on this busy, lively street, it's amazing what i would consider to be quiet.

Daughter of A Teamster Man

Being the daughter of a Teamster has shaped me in a few ways.
1. I'm ridiculously pro-union. When people petition in the streets to open up more charter schools in my neighborhood, I fire back at them that, "fuck no, I won't sign your petition. I work for the Board of Education and am in a UNION. Will you be protected by a Union? No? So sad..."
2. It solidified my decision when I moved to NYC and had a few choices of where to work. Two of those choices were a charter school in Harlem (what the fuck was I even thinking going to that interview?) and one was an interview in Mamaroneck that I got because a childhood friend of mine slipped my resume on her principal's desk. I would have made a shit ton of money, but I would not have a Union behind me.
3. Every time I see a Teamster's jacket or hat on somebody, I immediately feel a connection with him (I've never met a Teamster woman thus far, though I'm sure they're out there somewhere) and sometimes will even say to the guy, "my dad is a Teamster!" and there's that kindred kind of... thing.

Unfortunately, in our messed up world, Unions are fast becoming a thing of the past. These stupid charter schools don't offer their teachers a Union and they phrase it in a way that makes it seem like a Union is a bad thing. It's a fucking great thing; are you kidding me?! I have a Union rep at my school that will go and talk to my boss for me about issues that scare the crap out of me. And sometimes, the news comes back good for us. They bargain for things that benefit us, the workers, and they stand up for us so no one can decide that we are working overtime and not being compensated for it. When people work in non-Union jobs, they usually end up getting pushed around and one person cannot make a difference. A bunch of people can. A handbook can.

I feel like, for as corrupt as he may have been, Hoffa or a Hoffa-esque person needs to revitalize Unions throughout this country. We have become a nation of pansies who would rather watch and vote for the next American Idol (I do not watch American Idol) than stand up for what will truly affect our future and the future of today's children. Hoffa, we need you to rally people because I don't have it in me! I'm not the natural-born leader that you were. And, hey, having those mob connections probably helped, big time. You got the job done because when push came to shove, nobody fucked with my dad and his Teamster buddies.