I Know Why the Caged Mule Neighs

Study of the Midwest in Motion

Haiku/Gesundheit (Volume XXXVI)

on taking my second lunch break in three months

this is what i call
the quiet before the maelstrom
breath found and then lost

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on seeing three cop cars arrive at wal-mart just before midnight

this is contrary
to everything he stands for
elmo says be nice

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people around here have too much money

when i think 'rolls royce'
i don't think 'bumper stickers'
that looks tacky, man

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nothing screams irony quite like a missed photo opportunity

i stand with george bush
(sign beneath an advert for
'annihilation')

Portrait of a Dry Erase Board

Hero

"And that's your father when he was a police officer," she said, pointing to a newspaper cutout of her son.

"Why was he in the paper?" the four-year-old asked.

"Well, you see that girl?" She points to the teenager standing awkwardly next to her son, decked out in his blue uniform.

"Yeah."

"Well. Her house was on fire, and your daddy got there before the fire department. So he climbed the tree outside of her window, pulled her out of the window and carried her down the tree."

The four-year-old gasps, smiling so big his eyes almost shut. He sucks in a gutful of air and tries to speak.

"My dad's a SUPERHERO!!!"

He jumps up, does his best Mr. Incredibles impression, and then sits back down, putting his hand on his grandmother's knee.

"Show me more pictures, Mamaw."

Turtles an Oscar Oversight

If you allow that we went into Iraq too late, too clumsily, and for all of the wrong reasons...

That still doesn't detract from the fact that Saddam Hussein is responsible for some terrible atrocities. I remember the first time I saw a photograph from Saddam's 1988 "campaign" against Kurdish Iraqis. It looks a little like this: a baby, maybe 6 or 7 seven months old, wrapped tightly in a pretty blanket. Mouth frozen open, head thrust back. And the body of his/her mother extended atop. As residents in Kurdistan, they'd been victims of poison gas attacks orchestrated by Saddam's regime.

But that was one of the more "peaceful" deaths afforded to this ethnic minority during the 1980s. In many instances villages were raided, civilians were slaughtered, and the children left standing were generally orphaned.

And that's what Turtles Can Fly (2005) is about. Kurdish children displaced by Saddam's army (though if we are to believe the chronology, much of the inciting action took place in the late 1990s); most of them without parents and many, even, without aunts, uncles or even grandparents. They're alone at a refugee camp near the Turkish border, and so build a network wherein they look after each other. The oldest of these kids, Satellite (Soran Ebrahim), is essentially the leader of the pack.

He's bossy, a braggart and generally quite annoying for the viewing audience. But the younger kids look up to him and, when you get right down to it, he genuinely cares for them and even risks his life, on more than one occasion, to save one of "his kids."

You can't help but like Satellite as a result. Even as he insults the armless boy or lies to the village elders... even as he shouts for the little kids to help him build bunkers, and barters for weaponry. You see all of this and remember that he, himself, is just a boy in his early teens.

And because this movie focuses on Kurds in Iraq, I appreciated being able to see the American invasion through their eyes. I mean, when you consider the sort of torture (both literal and metaphorical) the Kurds had been subjected to because of Saddam, wouldn't the Kurds in Iraq thus anticipate the arrival of American forces?

Iranian writer/director Bahman Ghobadi provides a subtle answer to this delicate question. Americans are neither demonized nor glorified in Turtle (this movie isn't about them, remember... it's about these children). And it's true that many Kurds were so eager to see Saddam removed from power that, yes, they were excited to see the American tanks come
rolling in.

But that excitement was tempered by a much harsher reality: there were still American-made mines buried by the hundreds (thousands) around the Iraqi countryside... all remnants from previous conflicts. And these mines were often "discovered" by Kurdish children. So what does this "welcome" invasion mean for them?

You sort of get a sense that these people are the victims of dictators and "peace keeping" forces alike. They're in the middle of a conflict that is exacerbated, rather than mollified, by a seemingly endless cycle of wars.

There's also a fairy tale subplot to this story, as rumors circulate about a boy who can see the future. But this subplot is so beautifully woven into the main story line that it actually becomes believable. Add to that this film is oftentimes charming - even comical - and you can't help but think that a film about children should be for children.

But there's much more to this story, and Turtles Can Fly emerges instead as a message for the rest of the world.

Last Kiss Needed More 'Scope'

The Last Kiss (2006) wasn't awful but, given my current time crunch, I don't exactly feel compelled to dedicate much energy to reviewing it, either.

It was... OK. Not as good as Zach Braff's previous film, Garden State (2004), but not as bad as some of the other piffle I've reviewed here. I'd put it up there with The Break-Up (2006) in terms of movies that offer a semi-accurate portrayal of relationships (which compares to most romantic comedies), but I also enjoyed The Break-Up more than I enjoyed The Last Kiss.

So what's missing?

Retribution.

I don't mean fire, brimstone or any other such dark force of vengeance. Just... a sense that, much as in reality, things cannot always be mended.

And so while I appreciate that this film shows what many people "do," I don't like the implication that everyone "does" it (ergo: everyone ultimately deserves to be forgiven).

I suspect many other females will be likewise annoyed, in which case I'd caution less-than-blissful couples against watching this together. It's better reserved for movie night alone at home whilst adorning your voodoo doll with shiny, multicolored pins.

The (Not-So-Great) Pumpkin

After four years of tranfsferring Pumpkin (2002) from one "Movies to Watch" list to another (I tend to carry such lists in a notebook, which gets quite tattered over the course of time), I was a bit disappointed to find it full of stock characters and humor that, while dark, preyed a little too much on annoying stereotypes.

Sure, I can handle the occasional I.Q. joke. But when you take a group of mentally handicapped young men and turn them into caricatures of indiscernable ailments, my stomach turns a bit. One of the biggest "gags" in this movie, for example, consists of a photograph of the title character looking - for lack of a better word - "goofy" (hair tussled, crooked grin, exaggerated features, etc.). Every time that 8 x 11 close-up is on the screen, you want to laugh. And I hate that.

Ditto with Reese Witherspoon's character, Carolyn McDuffy. She was such a cardboard cutout of everything that's wrong with sorority girls that I almost felt sorry for decent sorority chicks out there fighting against the perky, unintellectual materialist stereotype represented by Carolyn.

But, wouldn't you know it... Carolyn has to work with Pumpkin for a sorority house "charity" project, and she falls madly in love with this "creature" she can't understand.

At which point Carolyn rebels against her sisters as she starts sees them for who they "really" are. She then - GASP! - expands her horizons all the while making otherwise poor decisions.

I actually like the idea of this movie; add to that Pumpkin qualifies as a dark comedy, and it's not hard to understand why I've maintained such an interest in seeing it. But the actual experience of watching it did not meet with my expectations. That is to say: it's not so much a "smart" comedy, as it is an annoyinhg parody of itself. An exception to this is at the very end, where Pumpkin almost redeems itself with a simple glance over a shoulder. If you've seen the film, you know what I mean.

So is this a case of a horrific film, or an OK film at odds with high hopes? It's somewhere in-between, though if you - like me - are the sort of geek who keeps "Movies to Watch" lists... don't fret if you forget to add Pumpkin to the updated version.

In Search of Zerzura

"But nothing's lost. Or else: all is translation // And every bit of us is lost in it... " ~James Merrill, "Lost in Translation"

---

If I had had my camera while jogging tonight, here is what I would show you:

A twenty-something couple out walking their dog:

When they stopped on the grass for a bit, they sort of reached in for each other and embraced while the dog ran circles around them. The dog was on a leash and every so often I'd think the couple was about to find themselves lost in a mess of rope... but then something would happen and they'd somehow spin themselves, in unison, right out of the mess. The dog kept running around them.... And they never stopped holding on.

At the risk of indulging too greatly in the saccharine, I must admit: that was one of the most beautiful things I've ever witnessed between two people. So much so, in fact, that I had to look away.

Shortly therafter -- as I took a break midway through my jog to stretch, think, and observe -- I saw five people, all of them elderly, looking out over the water. Two were in wheelchairs, which afforded the moment a supplemental degree of poetics.

I mean... I'm watching these people watch (really watch) the water. And I'm watching as two of them push the others back onto the path, their thin white hair stirring as they twist away from the tide.

That's when it hit me.

When I finally leave this city, I'll miss the lake most of all.

Sometimes watching it -- and observing city-dwellers gather around it like nomads in search of Zerzura -- I'd swear it were the ocean.

There's something to be said for that. Something to be said for finding a momentary oasis in this city of smoke, steel... and cold shoulders.

The Naming of Children

A conversation between my 4 1/2 year-old nephew and my sister, as relayed to me by the latter.

Nephew (Leaning onto a Counter): So. What are you going to name the baby boy?

Sister: We don't know yet. Do you have any ideas?

Nephew (Deep in Thought): Well, I'd say "Luke," but that's what I named my lion. So that's definitely out of the question.

Sister: Yeah, I suppose so. Any other ideas?

Nephew (Deeper in Thought): How about "Obi Wan"? That's an honorable name.

Sister: That is a very honorable name, but I'd worry the other kids might make fun of little Obi Wan.

Nephew (Sighing): I guess you're right. Some kids make fun of little babies.

Study of a Rainy Afternoon

Portrait of a Dining Room Wall

Potty Till the Cows Come Home

Senator Lincoln Chafee won the Republican primary in Rhode Island, which has some folks very excited. You see, Chafee has a history of not supporting President Bush, which generally upsets his fellow Republicans.

But I mention this not to continue the string of politically petty posts I've added to this blog in the last week or so. But, rather, because I first heard about this news on NPR this morning, when a Chafee supporter slipped into his thick Rhode Island accent and — I swear — said something to the effect of "Chafee cuts through the potty lines."

Now, I realize he actually said "party," and it's very un-p.c. (not to mention juvenile) of me to find humor in someone's accent.

...But I'm doing it anyway. It made me laugh. I can't help that.

Trafficking

By far, my commute home from work is generally the worst part of my day. And my commute to work is usually the second worst part. There are, at times, horrible exceptions to this. But this is almost always the case.

As a result, I generally arrive to work irritated, and I return home angry. What happens in-between fluctuates day-to-day, but has been especially chaotic the past 2-3 months.

But back to the issue at hand: trafficking. The ordeal that bookends my day, raises my blood pressure and generally robs me of any remaining shred of faith I might hope to harbor for the human race.

A city-to-suburb commute is generally an awful experience. And I'd strongly urge all of you to never regularly engage in such a dehumanizing ritual.

Think I'm exaggerating? Maybe I am. Below I'm recounting actual encounters from the last 24 hours. Tell me what you think.

To Work

• A woman attempts to cross at a crosswalk where she has the right-a-way. A man in a truck waiting to turn left determines man law trumps traffic signs and proceeds to honk at her. She begins to run. He flips her off and squeals his tires the moment he has enough room to get by.
• A cabbie decided to park in a lane that doubled as the right lane of traffic. I was in this lane. I see the cab in enough time, I think, to signal and get into the left lane. The car some four car-lengths behind me in the left lane sees my signal, speeds up, and prevents me from getting over.
• One lane on a major city street is closed down for sidewalk construction during the mourning [SIC] rush hour. I wait quietly while some honked and gestured, as though that would get us anywhere faster. It took us 15 minutes to travel three city blocks.
• A big part of this delay, for the record, is that cars in the right lane waited until the last minute to get over — despite repeated warnings that the lane was going to end
• Just before the expressway exit, while still on a city road, I'm stopped at a traffic light in a lane that is both for those going straight, and those turning right. I'm going straight. The man behind me wants to turn, and so honks his horn for me to go. Mind you, the light was red.
  
• I'm in the right lane just before the exit to get onto the ExpressWay. The lane to the left of me is NOT an exit lane — it's for those continuing straight on the city street. During mourning [SIC] rush hour, that lane moves considerably faster than the one I'm in. And yet cars in the left lane will speed ahead of the line, and then cut in front of others who had patiently waited in the right lane. This happens daily. Today was no exception.
• Much closer to work, I wait five cars behind in the right-turn lane for those folks in the left-turn lane in the opposite direction to no longer have the green "turn" arrow. My light turns green, which means theirs is red, and yet people continue to turn left as though traffic had suddenly become a game of follow the leader. This continued long enough that I did not get to turn on the first green light.
• Between the time I left for work, and the time I arrived, 65 minutes had passed (in all fairness, the construction really put me back — generally the mourning [SIC] commute is closer to 50 minutes]. If you're keeping score, I live 20 miles from where I work. I averaged, then, about 18.5 miles per hour.
  

In-Between
An exception to the 24-hour rule, as this happened Saturday but is nevertheless vital to understanding my daily frustrations with traffic mentality.

As I entered a parking lot, a man's car stalled in front of me. I stopped and waited. He started his car again, continued forward, and it died again. He motioned for a woman to go ahead (she was exiting from the direction opposite him). She motioned for him to go ahead. He was visibly frustrated and motioned again, then pointed to his car. Just when she finally caught on, a guy in a white Jetta behind me honked for me to go. Mind you, with this oblivious woman in one lane and the stalled man perpendicular in front of me, I couldn't go. And because I felt badly for the guy in the shoddy car, I wasn't about the honk at him. My stomach burned with an immediate distaste for some anonymous guy in a white Jetta. The guy in the stranded car looked at me — probably thinking I was the one who honked. I looked back and sort of waved to try and let him know I hadn't. His car started, and he sputtered out.

From Work

• They started work on the ExpressWay yesterday, and reduced three lanes to two. They don't say how long it's expected to last, but for the two miles prior to the construction, I was moving at about 5-10 mph. Luckily, traffic picked up considerably after the third lane opened up.
• During this insufferable jam, I became obsessed with a hideous mural on a bus: the caricature of a train conducter, with his big cartoonish face smiling at me from the backside. He looked like a demon-possessed nutcracker that may very well come to haunt my dreams.
• City side streets that are two way are often very crowded with parked cars. When someone approaches from the opposite direction, both generally slow down and pull in closer to the parked cars. Occasionally, someone decides to not obey that etiquette, and you're at risk for a reasonable side-swipe. Yesterday I had a close call.
• It's also generally accepted that, when you park in the city, you check your side mirror and peer over your shoulder before you exit the car (I sometimes sit in my car for a considerable period, just waiting for the opportunity to exit). Some people don't get this and, shortly after the aforementioned, a chick in a parked car decided to open her car door WITHOUT checking. She did this just as I approached her. Luckily, no one was coming in the opposite direction, and I was able to swerve to miss her.
• This city is replete with roundabout intersections. These are tricky when turning left because, legally, you are supposed to go AROUND the roundabout to turn and NOT cut in front of it. I obey this rule, but I'm starting to realize that most don't. Not to mention, most are so ignorant of this that they'll even cut me off as I go around it to turn left. Yesterday as I searched for parking, I was cut off twice.
• Parking in my neighborhood sometimes means either parking three blocks away [three blocks away of the direction I need to go in the morning OR three blocks in unsafe territory], or driving for 5-15 minutes until a space opens up. Sometimes I get lucky and find something on the first shot. But often, as with yesterday, I'll turn around in an alley when I see something open up, only to have someone "beat me to it."
• Remember, this commute is 20 miles. And yet my return trip, including the search for parking, took 85 minutes (or 14 miles per hour). That's about average, though sometimes the trip takes considerably longer.

Once Home
Once I find parking and go inside, I try my darndest to not leave again — not in my car, anyway. It's more difficult to find a non-meter spot as the night wears on and, even though parking on the main thoroughways becomes free after 9 p.m., you have to move your vehicle by 6 a.m. when they (claim to) "clean the streets." This lesson cost me $50.

"R & R"
Generally when I return home from work, I spend a few minutes catching up on blogger while tending to an attention-deprived cat. If I didn't workout in the morning (which seldom happens these days), I do so after work. This helps work out any aggression, but at times my efforts are halted by other "obstacles," shall we say.

Yesterday's obstacle: after coming into my apartment three times in the last week and a half (once without asking permission), my landlord had sent someone again to address (and re-address) the same two issues: a broken lock on my back door, and a window that was broken when I moved in. When I returned home yesterday, I was met with the following:

• My front door was unlocked
• Assuming someone was there, I called out. No one answered.
• I noticed the blinds were askew in every room, which meant they'd been searching for the broken window (I told them exactly where it was)
• I proceeded to the living room, where the cracked window was, and noticed it wasn't fixed. Not expecting, then, for there to be glass on my floor, I moved in to pick up a piece of broken wood.
• I then stepped, barefoot, in glass.
• Maude approached me. I shouted for her to get back, realizing then that there'd been broken glass on my floor for possibly 2-3 hours. She'd been loose the entire time, and I started to panic that she may have walked in it as well.
• I locked her in my bedroom and proceeded to clean up the mess while on my (now sandaled) tip toes.
• Why my tip toes? — Because I had glass in my right foot. That's why.
• After sweeping up the bigger pieces, and then running a damp cloth to try and pick up the smaller specks, I let Maude back out and proceeded to the bathroom, where it took me 30 minutes to extract a very small piece of glass from my foot. I actually wish it'd been bigger — would've been much easier to remove. In actuality, I'm not sure I got all of it out — I heard a crunch and assume I broke a majority of it.
  
• I grabbed Maude, who kept licking her paws, and inspected the pads on her feet. She didn't cry when I touched any of them, so I assume (hope) she's all right.

In Sum
This final blurb may have nothing to do with honked horns and middle fingers... but it is a manner of soul trafficking. It's that proverbial "cap" to an experience that leaves an altogether nasty taste in one's mouth. Sometimes after a terrible commute, you just want to come home and relax. But then, sometimes, the city (the parking regulations, the tickets, the crowded streets, the dirty sidewalks, the traffic, the me-first mentality, the living standards, the anonymous landlords) has determined otherwise.

For the record, in the past 24 hours I didn't honk my horn. I didn't gesture or yell. I don't do these things. And even when I called the landlord to request that they just leave the window taped up, I like to think I wasn't mean about it. And later last night, I was gripped with the fear that something horrible had happened to the maintenance guy.

But somewhere, between the traffic yesterday, my experience last night, today's mourning [SIC] commute — and then writing about all of the above — my frustration has transformed into a sort of... embarrassing sadness.

Is writing catharsis, or does it propel us further into a melodramatic, self-righteous abyss?

I confront these questions, and then disregard them, returning to work. Hoping that somehow, somewhere, my doppelganger is smiling.

That makes one of us.

Haiku/Gesundheit (Volume XXXV)

on developing ocd after a near-tragic accident

check the bathroom door
and all floors for stray hair bands
twice before leaving

---

elvis lives in my building

big tinted glasses
long black sideburns and suede shoes
surpisingly thin

---

on being redirected to one of those sites

ambiguous words
can confuse those search engines
type carefully please

---

i swear i'm losing depth perception

vision needs distance
not four by four pink fabric
my days grow blurry

Pavlov's Political Doggerel

It doesn't take a genius to figure out what topic will ripple throughout the blogosphere today...

• Where were you when it happened?
• How were you impacted?
• Are we safer now than we were five years ago?
• What does Iraq have to do with 9/11?

And so on. And so on. And so on...

For now, I'm only interested in addressing those questions insofar as they relate to my experience yesterday morning. I was driving Washington to the airport — he was flying out of one of the biggest cities in the U.S. and into our nation's capitol. Suffice it to say he was originally set to fly into D.C. on the 11th, but opted to go a day early... in part to avoid the unease that comes with travel on that day. In part because he has friends in D.C. that afforded him a reasonable excuse to go a day early.

And while I find us both to be rational people (hold your snickering, please) — the sort who engage in that veritable contradiction of being anti-Bush, anti-war and yet simultaneously supportive of troops — I found it interesting that neither of us were thrilled with the idea of a 9/11 travel date. Did I think there'd be another terrorist attack on the five-year anniversary? Not really. Do I think the next terrorist attack will be a repeat of the last one? Not really. Not to mention, D.C. is possibly even one of the safest places to be today.

But to understand and rationalize these things doesn't necessarily negate inscrutable human response. The expression "fight or flight" comes to mind. I've determined that, as much as we may hate to admit it, the biomechanics of human nature tell us to get the heck out of Dodge long after the dust settles.

It's like that proverbial stove we're told, as children, to never touch.

"That's HOT" our parents say to deter any physical impulse. "Don't TOUCH" And what should happen if curiosity ever gets the best of us, and our little fingers make their way onto the heated surface?

We know to never touch it again. And not so much because our parents told us not to, but because we understand what happens when we do.

So that's what "hot" means...

And while I don't intend to downplay the horrific events of five years ago with such a silly, poorly-composed analogy... I do mean to say that somewhere inside of us, those old parental caveats (nurture) have intermingled with innate response (nature) to create a sensory overload of sorts.

Somehow the wires have crossed. And even as our rational mind determines the stove is turned off... somewhere inside of us, a synapse fires and we wonder: "What if..."

We keep our hands, then, safely at our sides.

But it's also unfair of me to rest all of the blame on unadulterated human nature. From Milgram's experiments to Pavlov's, to Skinner's... human nature is swayed — whether consciously or unconsciously — by external influences.

And these "influences" (television commercials, billboards, political rallies, news programs, etc.) somehow condition us to respond to stimuli in ways that often defy what we think about ourselves.

That's what bothered me yesterday: not the electronic readerboard itself, but rather my immediate response to it.

ORANGE ALERT

it said

EXTRA SECURITY IN PLACE. EXPECT DELAYS.

"Orange Alert," I said. "That's just one level below red."

That's when it hit me: I've often mocked and satirized that frivolous alert system and yet, suddenly, it meant something to me. And I was ashamed.

"Is that Bert or Ernie?" Washington asked, referring to the icon on my blog.

"I can never remember which is orange, and which is yellow. I know Elmo is red."

• He then slurped down the rest of his coffee, which he couldn't take on the plane.
• He then grabbed his carry-on (free of toiletries) from the trunk, and then his check-in.
• I looked at his shoes, and thought to tell him he should've worn disposable socks.

And then I wondered when on earth all of this would end. The terror alerts. The security increases. The liquid ban, the shoeless scans, the wire taps.

And then I remembered, a month or two ago, driving past a billboard that read "ARE YOU READY?"

It was a disaster preparedness message, catered specifically towards terrorist activity. Suddenly I felt like I was a character in Brazil (1985) or even V for Vendetta (2005). Here I have a government telling me to "be prepared" (i.e. Be afraid. Be very afraid.) all the while recommending I put on a pretty face and go about my business.

Talk about a mixed message. I heard yesterday afternoon that the federal government has spent considerably more money advertising and stumping airport security and this color coded "THREAT LEVEL" system than it has spent actually improving airport security (I've got to imagine it's considerably less for other potential targets... trains, busses, water supplies, etc).

Which then brings us back to the very beginning. Where was I five years ago today? Do I think we're safer now then we were before?

Five years ago today, I had just moved to the city where two of the planes left. And when I boarded public transportation to make the commute home — some six hours earlier than expected — all of the city was stuffed on to the train with me. Some families. Some students. But mostly business men with their heads down, and their laptops at their side. It was 10 a.m.; everyone was on their way home... and no one said a word. I didn't think I'd ever again experience something as surreal as that.

But as I saw that readerboard at the airport — as I mumbled the words "That's just one level below red" — I realized...

I was wrong.

A Pseudo-Political Rant about the War (Not-So-Cleverly Disguised as a Review of Syriana)

For the first 45 minutes or so of watching this, we couldn't get the subtitles to work. That meant countless "huh's" and "what'd he say's" that most assuredly frustrated my movie-watching companion.

When we continued the film later on a different DVD player, the feature started working and, at long last, I realized that we'd been watching one heckuva good film.

Essentially, Syriana (2006) is a movie about all of those things we don't want to believe. It's a "fictional" account of the goings-on in the Middle East: the makings of terrorists... the oil wars... and the American politics behind it all. It paints a picture of what we all "suspect" is going on... but that few of us are willing to believe.

That's the aspect of the film that scares me, and for two reasons:

•I generally take issue with any book, film or story that takes a very serious and very "real" issue, and fictionalizes it on a highly influential medium. It's scary what these things can do to sway the masses — sometimes appropriately so, but sometimes... also... blindly, or in the wrong direction
•I don't want to believe that everything I see in Syriana is true. But if this were an all-out documentary (just to clarify... it's not), it confirms my worst suspicions. And that's terrifying.

Here we have a movie that shows how an ordinary Islamic man becomes a terrorist. We see how American politics impact the Middle East. And we see the role oil companies — American and otherwise — play in it all.

And Syriana does this without painting all Americans in a negative light (on the contrary, the CIA agent George Clooney plays is an innocent pawn who tries his darnedest to rectify wrongs committed by his organization). And you don't sympathize with all Arabic men (there are two Saudi princes in this film, for example... one will essentially go to work for American oil companies; the other wants to do what is best for his people but is not necessarily anti-American).

The real beauty of this film: much like Thank You For Smoking (2006) — a movie about smoking in which no one ever lights up — Syriana brings to mind the workings of the Bush administration, and our current role in Iraq — without ever once referencing our current president.

My biggest complaint: with 4-5 story lines unfolding at once, I wasn't always able to follow along... but this may have resulted from the aforementioned "subtitle" issue.

But back to the pseudo-political rant:

Given the recent headline about Prime Minister Blair stepping down, at the bequest of his people, why on earth haven't we accomplished the same here?

I realize Parliament can actually "vote" someone out of office, and that realization likely played a role in Blair's decision. And I know that's not a feat as easily accomplished here. But, goodness, if we could impeach Clinton for his husbandly misgivings... what's missing from the equation here?

Portrait of a City Twice Removed

See

• A teenage girl in full Muslim garb (including a hijab) — jogging
• Old women convened at a park bench
• Walkers and wrinkles
• Two little girls, ages two and four, running towards a woman and her Yorkie, bouncing and laughing
• Grey squirrels scrambling to cross the path
• Love letters on tree bark
• The moon rising over Michigan
• An ant doing laps around my rearview mirror

Hear

• That little plastic "protector" (broken), rattling against tire spokes
• Quivering Russian and light laughter
• Two little girls, ages two and four, yelling: "Doggie! He-wo doggie! Eeeee!"
• Cat Power's "I Found a Reason"... three times before letting the iPod shuffle on
• Cicadas that grow louder from all directions
• Waves mistaking themselves for the ocean
• Crickets just audible over a passing train
• My neighbor counting to 12 through an open window
• His son shrieking just when he's been found

Taste

• Gnats that appeared from out of nowhere
• Citrus spit from xylitol gum
• Sweat from lip corners
• The sweet nothing of water after a long run

Touch

• An ache that comes from shins worn by hard pavement
• Sand that fell in my shoelaces
• Needles from the evergreen near my entryway
• The pedal against my knee
• A metal door knob pressing into my back
• The reverberations of a cat's purr

Smell

• Fresh water in motion
• Old food and mildew in a trashcan as I stretch to view the etchings on a tree
• Exhaust from a city bus that leaves passengers in pitch-black
• Toxins and saline accumulating on my shirtsleeves
• The faint hint of charcoal (a barbecue's last call)

Think
Stream of consciousness victim to the five senses. Perception dictated by failing vision.

On the Wrong Side

Haiku/Gesundheit (Volume XXXIV)

on being mistaken for a store employee the umpteenth time

i don't work here but
my degree is in english
how may i help you?

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cool painting, awesome headline

it's not often that
a lost scream is found again
i wax pathetic

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thoughts concerning city life

part i - on driving

hummer cuts me off
jam speeds up to a snail's crawl
abandon all hope

part ii - on jogging

the skinny chick glares
bigger ones offer a wave
with a lone finger

part iii - in sum

i'm ready to leave
this city of cold shoulders
is your couch taken?

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this is getting to be a little ridiculous

i'm glad you have that
cell for your emergencies...
but what about mine?

The Re-Appropriation of Art

Unfortunately, I don't know the names of the artists, or even the title of their artwork... only that I was fairly impressed with this outdoor sculpture park.

I also felt that the position of a particular piece, in terms of its environs, added to the display. A statue of a Native American raising his arms to the sky is one thing, for example. A statue of a Native American raising his arms to the sky — with a park bench behind him in the distance — is something else altogether.

This was not my first sculpture park experience. But I've not seen many of these around, which I suspect has something to do with artists not wanting their artwork exposed to the elements. Wind, rain, spider webs, lightning... these things can ruin a perfectly good work of art. But they also add to it.

And the thing that struck me most, in all of this, was the realization that every photograph I take is really just a catalogue — or even appropriation of — someone else's creation. Whether it's my reflection in a "Push to Go" button at a crosswalk (see left), a snapshot of my nephew playing like he's the Lone Ranger (see wall in my apartment) or a photograph of a Weeping Willow tree behind a statue of a man suspended by heart-strings (see below).

I so wish I actually knew how to take pictures. I mean, really take pictures. With every close of the shutter, I feel like I'm doing the world a tremendous injustice by failing to catalogue things precisely as I see them.

Study of a Fallen Bird

Anchorman (Movie Review)

I've been a tad pressed for time since the return from vacation. So pressed, in fact, that I'm not sure when/how I've even managed to find the time to post my last few entries (not to mention, the time to watch the movies I've reviewed). Though I suspect it has something to do with only watching movies while I workout and/or eat. At times, a single movie is watched over the course of 3-4 days. And reviews have been hastily thrown together on (now rare) lunch breaks, sometimes days after I actually watched the film.

This is just my way of explaining the less-than-grand quality of my last several entries... including this one.

[And, if asked, I'm sure I can craft another excuse for the lacking quality of prior entries, too.]

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Anchorman: The Legend of Ron Burgundy (2004) was perhaps the funniest movie I've seen since Elf (2003). And while I'd still say that unusual Christmas gem is the more entertaining of the two, I was nevertheless sorry that it took me so long to get around to watching this other Will Ferrell masterpiece.

OK, so perhaps "masterpiece" is too strong of a word. But in a film with lines such as "Look, Ron, I'm riding a furry tractor!" and "When there's weather to report... I report the weather" an oddball like me is laughing long after the credits roll. While I certainly wouldn't recommend this film for everyone, I do think it's quite a treat for those with a softspot for Ralph Wiggum (whose crazy one-liners always crack me up on the The Simpsons) or even Monty Python skits.

By this design, the humor makes little sense; and yet, it's so cleverly crafted and flawlessly delivered (kudos to Ferrell and Steve Carell especially) that, on more than one occasion, I had to pause the film until the laughter subsided. It draws from a sort of absurdism that — while not as refined or existentially aware as something like Waiting for Godot — underscores life's inanities.

This humor functioned as the ligament holding together an otherwise weak plot. While I suspect people who like Monty Python, as I mentioned above, are more likely to enjoy Anchorman, I certainly find the former to be the better crafted of the two. That is to say, Anchorman is not without its weaknesses... but, for me, the strong points more than make up for any shortcomings.

In short: Anchorman has a niche audience. If you're not open to humor that's as mindless as it is clever... best to leave Ron Burgundy on the shelf.

Otherwise, take it home and enjoy. It's far better than the awful "comedy," Benchwarmers, and it's even better than Ferrell's newest, Talladega Nights.

Study of a Cheap Motel

Alas, Poor Pluto...

Bye, bye ROY G. BIV.
So long, My Very Educated Mother...

Just when you get the mnemonic down, the rules change. A color disappears, and a planet drops off the solar system. What's next? A taxonomy rift that will keep King Phillip from Coming Over? Will musicians drop the D note off the scale, so that Good Boys will never again Deserve Fudge?

It bothers me at times that I've forgotten so much of what I've learned. And then to find out that what I remember has been changed?

My cranial database of information feels hopelessly out of date.

Daily it seems new particles are discovered, old theories are debunked and "impossible" problems are solved. I'm immediately drawn back into my old elementary school days, where fact was not a malleable metal and only "theories" were refutable.

Rather, what I learned was FACT — plain and simple. It was something solid that I studied, memorized and regurgitated for all of my teachers to see.

Indigo was firmly planted between blue and violet. Pluto, however small, was suspended somewhere behind Neptune, victim to the sun's own gravitational pull.

Strange how something as simple as revoking a planet's status can shake the foundation of old school paradigms.

I feel a shift coming on...

The Squid and the Whale (Movie Review)

Much like the last film I reviewed, I would not — under any circumstances — recommend The Squid and the Whale (2005) to my mother. I would, however, recommend it to friends. Though I'd offer the disclaimer (as I am now) that it, too, has the tendency to disturb.

Essentially, it's another semi-dark comedy about a dysfunctional family. This group consists of two parents (both of whom have PhDs in English lit) on the verge of a divorce, and their two sons (one a teenager with mild sociopathic tendencies; the other an 11 or 12-year old boy with a peculiar habit that helps beef up the film's "ew, gross" ante).

But I don't think what "Carl" does is necessarily out of character for a boy on the verge of his teenage years, coping with a significant increase in parental-induced stress. But knowing that didn't cause my nose to crinkle any less.

I actually found this younger son to be the more appealing of the two, though the thing that annoyed me most about his older brother, Walt — who relied heavily on his father's approval — was also fairly typical of an older teen in search of an identity. Apparently, Walt is modeled after writer/director Noah Baumbach himself, as this film catalogues his parent's divorce in the 1980s.

But Walt's alignment with his father — which compares to Carl's preference for their mother — also underscores much of the film's sentiment. The father, played by Jeff Daniels, dishes out terrible advice, recommending his son never commit to one women because "That didn't work with your mom" and, in a paraphrased nutshell, he missed out on a load of fun as a result. But Carl laps up this advice, and even develops a preference for unlikely physical pursuits, over a relationship with a girl who clearly cares for him. We realize the psychological trauma runs even deeper than that, however, as Carl attempts to engage in intellectual conversation about books he's heard his father discuss... but never read himself (though he claims otherwise).

But that's not to say Baumbuch demonizes either parent in this film. Rather, even as the viewing audience can see the parent's faults (the mother, played by Laura Linney, cheated on the father multiple times), it's difficult to blame either party for the marriage's collapse. Daniel's character was initially obsessed with work, and unattentive. He becomes jealous and bitter when his wife starts to succeed. Etc. But both appear to care deeply for their kids, even as they "overshare" the intimate details of their crumbled relationship.

Two things really annoyed me about this film: William Baldwin's hair was laughably distracting (a la Jake Gyllenhaal's moustache in Brokeback Mountain), and the special features on the DVD were a waste of time (avoid the mindless interview at all costs — I wouldn't say Baumbach is at fault for that disaster, however... the HBO bigshot asking the questions was awful).

So if you

1. Avoid the special features
2. Can get over Baldwin's annoying mane and
3. Won't let a couple "gross" scenes ruin a film for you

...then Squid is worth a shot.

Slums of Beverly Hills (Movie Review)

I once caught my fairly conservative Christian mother watching Boogie Nights, under the pretense that it starred Burt Reynolds. Later, I also found her watching Striptease, a film she explained as watching because she "always loved Demi Moore."

In both instances, she walked away [claiming to be] appalled that her beloved stars had resorted to such "smut" to further their careers. I resolved at that time that my mother either had a fetish she wasn't talking about... or she really needed to read the video box before she whipped out her rental card.

For simplicity's sake, let's say it's the latter. In which case... I would not recommend The Slums of Beverly Hills (1998) to my mother. Though I would, yes, recommend that my mother watch Slums with my good friend, XOXO...

[Long inside joke concerning how I tend to leave XOXO alone with my mother during racy movie scenes.]

And though I didn't enjoy Slums as much as I enjoyed other "sensually disturbing" comedies about dysfunctional families (a la Welcome to the Dollhouse), I didn't hate it. Though, for the record, my movie-watching companion lost interest midway through the film.

In short: it's a bildungsroman about a teenaged girl (well played by Natasha Lyonne) growing up in the "slums" of Beverly Hills. She's learning to adjust to her adult body, all the while dealing with an immature older brother, a well-intentioned 65-year-old father who can't hold a steady job, and a few other coming-of-age traumas.

And while I wouldn't term this a "chick flick" — it's too dark and raunchy for that — I do think females are more likely to relate to Lyonne's trials and tribulations. Unfortunately, this same group may also be turned off by scenes that didn't wind up on the cutting room floor.

Little Miss Sunshine (Movie Review)

Suicide. Drugs. Nietzche. Divorce.

How could you not love this movie?

Little Miss Sunshine (2006) isn't without its weaknesses, but that doesn't make the film any less enjoyable. I even found myself laughing at the most unlikely of moments, insofar as this film doesn't rely on your usual one-liners or even joke-ridden dialogue. Rather, much of the humor derives from everyday life events that generally frustrate us so much that we fail to appreciate the absurdist, comical aspects.

[Think: toilet paper stuck to your shoe while delivering a very important farewell address.]

Beyond this, the film does rely on situations and events that go beyond our everyday reality. In this regard the film requires a sort of suspension of disbelief that didn't always work for me.

Example: the seven-year-old daughter in the movie Olive (Abigail Breslin) is cute enough. But she's not — as her big brother later expresses — exactly beauty queen material. So just how did she wind up being runner-up in a pageant that eventually led to her competing in the state finals against an array of anorexics who looked more like full-grown dwarves than they did little girls?

[For the record, Olive's terrible taste in clothing — and her potbelly — reminded me a little of a prepubescent yours truly.]

Her journey to the final competition is the whole reason for the family's road trip, and — though I appreciated it as a plot device — it seemed to serve little purpose other than to satirize the way in which society pressures little girls to look older (and older women to look younger). Believe me, I certainly appreciated this message. But it bothered me to suspend so much disbelief to digest the plot.

Ditto with some of the other connections between character and character traits. This was really strange for me, in that I thought "that's out of character" at some point for each of the six family members — though I otherwise found them to each be very well developed. And while I found these breeches of character to be in error, I found their general dynamic to be rather appealing.

As such, the characters worked well together. From the family members themselves, to the actors who played them. It seems wrong to highlight particular members of this ensemble cast, since I enjoyed each of their performances.

Overall, an enjoyable film that could've used the occasional tweak.

The United States of Leland (Movie Review)

The United States of Leland (2003) isn't a great film. And though I don't share in the disgust that so many other reviewers had for this Kevin Spacey production... I certainly think it could've been better.

I'd lump it in with Saved! (2004) in that regard — another art house wannabee that doesn't quite make the cut. And though it wasn't as brutal or scathing in its criticism of its subject matter (which was my main beef with Saved!), I was nevertheless annoyed to find unsolicited life advice coming from the film's central character (Leland, played by Ryan Gosling).

I certainly empathized with Leland, and I understood his character more than I care to admit (anyone familiar with my more melodramatic prose knows how disheartening I find life — or rather, the way people fail to enjoy life — to be). In fact, some of the observations Leland makes about people are observations I've made myself. I found myself increasingly drawn to him, as a result, though Leland's "keen" understanding of the universe causes him to do something inexcusable.

In short: he murders a mentally handicapped teenager. Much of the film tries to explain what drove Leland to commit this crime, and even apotheosizes him as a martyr.

So why didn't I thoroughly enjoy a film in which the central character spouted compelling philosophical insights?

Because much of the framework for these conversations was contrived. Because Leland was a mere mouthpiece for whatever the director wanted to say, and most other elements of the film were poorly designed around these diatribes. And because Leland's teacher at the county jail, Pearl (played by Don Cheadle), grew to empathize with Leland in such a way that the audience has little choice but to assume that writer/director Matthew Ryan Hoge intended Leland to emerge as a martyr... and not just an otherwise phenomenal kid with keen insights and spotty judgement.

But I'm not being entirely fair: I didn't despise this film. And, insofar as I did share in some of Leland's insights... I did, at times, enjoy it.

Haiku/Gesundheit (Volume XXXIII)

when i grow up i want to be like my nephew

how old were you he
reconsiders how old were
you when you were young?

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tips on using a public restroom at work - part v of a series
(or "urine, an uncomfortable situation")

please refrain from cell
phone use while in the restroom
it makes things awkward

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first my shoes and now this
(or "i'm glad the plot was thwarted, but...)

pretty soon they won't
allow passengers on planes
[for your protection]

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but seriously folks
(or "all i'm asking for is increased beverage service... and maybe some booties at security checkpoints")

doesn't it bother
you that we're still taking off shoes?
share your foot fungus!

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athletes foot: the silent weapon
(or "i smell a subplot")

have the infidels
remove their shoes at checkpoints
too itchy to fight

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second grade mentality meets big boy weapons
(or "on hearing that hezbellah guy declare victory")

stop hitting yourself
you're the rubber to my glue
heads i win, tails you...

Batman Begins (Movie Review)

While it's true I haven't seen previous Batman movies in years — and I was just a kid when most of them were released — I don't feel unjustified in declaring this newest installment, Batman Begins (2005), to be the best in the series.

And this, despite the fact that it contains many of the same elements that typically annoy me in comic book films (including moments of contrived dialogue, which I generally have no patience for). But it also does a lot that previous Batman films didn't do: it digs more into the psychological motivation that drove billionaire Bruce Wayne to assume his crime-fighting alter ego. And it's not as simple as "seeking revenge" on those who killed his parents when he was a kid: it's much more complex than that. "Fear" (and, yes, "fear itself") is the catalyst that drives the plot. In short: this is one pretty dark movie.

Batman Begins also attempts to explain Wayne's Achilles heel: his general refusal to kill even his greatest enemies. He prefers to chase them down and then hand them over the authorities, which (naturally) leads to their return in future episodes. This trait is another element that frequently annoys me in comic book movies... and though I appreciated the attempted explanation in this film, I find its presence to be nevertheless annoying.

I was also frustrated by Wayne's post-Princeton (and pre-Batman) travels abroad, as the feasibility of his adventures there didn't quite cut it with me — though I'll admit this trip is vital to Wayne's transformation into Batman.

And so a mortal hero emerges, frightening criminals and inspiring citizens by donning a mask of immortality... all the while returning home with various bumps and bruises. I loved this contrast: at long last, Bruce Wayne and Batman really felt like they were the same person. And though I'm hesitant to say Christian Bale is a better Batman than was Michael Keaton, he certainly has Val Kilmer and George Clooney beat.

I also enjoyed seeing Gary Oldman as the soon-to-be-commissioner-Gordon (Oldman was scarcely recognizable), and though Michael Caine is more able-bodied than Alfred has previously been portrayed, I enjoyed seeing Caine take on that character. Even Katie Holmes surprised me.

And what better city to serve as the backdrop for Gotham than the Midwest's own Chicago, a city in which corruption is so inexorably tied to everyday operations that natives worry the city couldn't function without it (or to quote a recent story on NPR: "When I die, bury me in Chicago... so that I can continue to vote").

No Autographs, Please

I've never really met anyone famous. Sure, as a reporter I interviewed the occasional state governor. And I once had a ten minute conversation with guy who bore an uncanny resemblance to Ted Kennedy. But other than that, my unusual life experiences seldom involve brushes with celebrity (and when they have, I've generally relied on someone else to assign a name to the familiar face).

Perhaps my lack of experience is thus to blame for the surreal nature of tonight's bike ride.

I hadn't been out for a ride in over two weeks... in part because of vacation, in part because I've been tending to a not-so-bright cat. My temperament and energy levels require regular exercise (and sleep), and this lapse in both has made me rather cranky. And yet, for whatever reason, I was averaging speeds that are normally difficult for me to maintain in this (often crowded) bike path. I think I was trying to prove to myself that I could "go fast" despite my "recent laziness."

I was more than halfway done with my ride when I entered into a particularly busy patch of people. I slowed down a bit and kept my head up, weaving around one group of walkers and then coming up behind another cyclist when someone in the southbound lane caught my attention.

Is that... Hey, I think that's...

"SHAKE N BAKE!" I hear the cyclist in front of me yell, altogether confirming my suspicions.

(Shake 'n Bake is a reference to Talladega Nights, for those of you who haven't seen the move.)

"So that is who I thought," I said to the cyclist as I approached him.

"Yeah, I went to high school with 'em," the guy responded.

"Cool," I said, eyeing the clearing ahead and regaining enough speed to pass the-guy-who-went-to-school-with-John-C-Reilly.

As I continued on, I spent much of the remaining ride home thinking about who I'd just seen. My thought process went a little like this:

John C doesn't wear a helmet! Was he wearing jeans? He sure looked tired! I think that was a mountain bike, but I'm not sure. Man, what an actor. What's Eating Gilbert Grape. Magnolia. Good Girl. Yes! Good Girl. This guy's been in some of my favorite movies. Heck, he's a big reason I've enjoyed some films. I can't believe he hasn't won an Oscar yet. I wonder if he'd get mugged for autographs if he stopped his bike to rest, if only for a minute... Is he that famous yet?

And then, for the same reason I was initially excited to have just ridden my bike past one of my favorite actors... I started to feel a bit sorry for him.

Can he stop for a break? What's it like trying to work out in a city that isn't Hollywood (and so, isn't a place where people are surrounded by celebrities)? Sure, he doesn't draw the same attention as folks like Tom Cruise, Angelina Jolie and the like... but I suspect he has the occasional dinner interrupted. I mean, someone did yell at him while he was in the middle of the ride. Does he appreciate the recognition? Or resent that he can't ride in peace?

And then I started to think about a book I read a couple years ago that presents an honest view of man's daily existence. I consider this to be the shorthand version. In other words: much of what we do with ourselves — raise families, work, own cars, fight wars — is just our way of denying our mortality. Ditto with going to the movies, and obsessing over celebrity magazines. Sometimes when we fail to be great, we live vicariously through those that have... be they criminals, athletes, politicians, artists, writers or even... actors.

And that's when complete and total shame hit.

I was excited about the fact that I'd just ridden my bike past a man I recognized, though we've never met. What does that say about me? That I'm normal, sure. But also that I haven't really done anything great.

Will I ever finish that script? Publish a novel? See my photographs displayed at an art gallery? Probably not. I'm too... distracted... with work and the like to really focus on any of these things. But I also realize that if I shuffle off of this mortal coil having accomplished none of the above, I have only myself to blame.

Six Movies in Search of a Reviewer(Junebug, Searchers, Beckham, Talladega, Clerks & Benchwarmers)

Films haphazardly ordered according to overall level of enjoyment.

Junebug (2005)
Simply an excellent film. So good, in fact, that I'll likely add this semi-sweet, semi-dark comedy to my DVD collection. Set primarily in the South, Junebug catalogs the return of a country boy (and his new, sophisticated wife) to his roots after spending several years in the big city. This movie does everything Saved! should have: it shows the sweet side to religious folks, which gives it more leeway in satirizing the same. Every character felt real to me, no matter how absurd or outlandishly saccharine. The biggest downside: though the "wife" (Embeth Davidsz) is the main character, Junebug does such a good job exploring everyone that you sometimes aren't sure where to focus. Otherwise, my biggest complaint is that the DVD didn't have English subtitles. I wish I weren't so far behind on just about everything... I'd love to give this film a full review with all of the appropriate accolades (particularly to Amy Adams, who does an amazing job playing the naive — but genuinely goodhearted — young Christian wife).

The Searchers (1956)
Let me say first that I generally don't like Westerns. Never have. And while I certainly appreciated the cinematography of this one, and even the cool bravado with which John Wayne repeatedly utters "That'll be the day..." I still have a difficult time accepting the premise upon which so many Westerns are based: Injuns bad. Settlers good. Demonize former; victimize latter. The Searchers relies on that old standard though it does, at least, complicate the matter by having one of the leads (Martin, played by Jeffrey Hunter) be a 1/4 Cherokee. Wayne's character is likewise a mixed breed: 1/3 bigot; 1/3 crazy; and 100% cowboy. Still, when Martin was an infant, Ethan "reluctantly" rescued him and, no matter how tough he talks, you know he likes Martin. I appreciated that director John Ford threw this monkey wrench into an otherwise formulaic western. Apparently, this is one of the top 250 films on IMDB and is considered to be one of "the best" Westerns of all time. And since I enjoyed it despite my usual Western prejudice... I'm starting to think I despised Westerns as a kid precisely because I identified so strongly with the Native Americans. This hasn't changed, but as an adult I'm able to revisit that genre and appreciate subtle messages I may have missed.

Bend It Like Beckham (2002)
The Indian version of My Big Fat Greek Wedding — a clean comedy that's fun to watch and fairly well-written (even if it is easy to see where it's going). I liked this movie a little better than Wedding, in part because I found the characters and storyline to be more compelling.

Talladega Nights (2006)
A local reviewer termed this "the best comedy so far this year." If that is, in fact, true I'd say that's because there haven't really been any great comedies this year. Talladega Nights isn't bad, per se, but it wasn't a barrel of laughs, either. Rather, there were moments of laughter, followed by periods of silence. Still, a genuinely entertaining film over all that, while derivative in parts, is still nevertheless clever in others. And, heh, who doesn't get a kick out of seeing Will Ferrell running around a race track in tightie-whities? I know I do!

Clerks II (2006)
To give you a point of comparison, Dogma (1999) is my favorite film in Kevin Smith's repertoire. The original Clerks (1994) and Mallrats tie for a lukewarm second. Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back (2001) was OK. Chasing Amy (1997) didn't do much for me (though, to the film's credit, the circumstances in which I watched this film weren't exactly ideal). This newest installment could've rallied with Beckham and The Searchers for second — it had all of the right jokes and silly interludes and wasn't without a genuine "it's time to grow up" message — but then Smith simply goes too far in one 15-minute scene (he seems intent on "topping himself" in this regard with every subsequent film). I was disgusted enough that it soured my taste for the film altogether. But what does Smith care? He got my money, regardless. Also of note, I often feel like his actors are on stage, rather than on screen. There's something about scenes with Randal (Jeff Anderson) especially where dialogue seems choppy and unnatural (or even "over-acted").

Benchwarmers (2006)
This movie is awful. Simply awful. I did get a couple laughs out of it, but for the sake of comparison, Talladega Nights was MUCH more entertaining than Benchwarmers. I sat incredulous through much of this film, literally writhing in my seat to think of how many better things I could've been doing with my time.

Maude Rides the Short Bus

For as long as I can remember, whenever I share a story of moderate misfortune / infinite craziness, friends and family generally respond with some variation of the following:

"Only you."

I hear it everytime I talk about someone who ran into me on the train; every unusual illness or life-altering traffic jam. Essentially, my life goes a little like this: if it's weird. And it's unlikely to happen (though not entirely impossible)... there's a good chance it will happen to me. I've long accepted this fact, and little by little I've also come to realize that, whenever I bemoan a situation... it gets worse.

It's as if there's some cosmic force out there that demands I handle the punches with a smile; and while this is generally the case, karma bites me in the derriere if I register the least bit of a complaint.

Example: the first day/night of camping, Washington and I were rather displeased with our neighbors: the hyperactive 9-year-old and the screaming infant didn't make for good "peace and quiet." We didn't think it could get any worse.

The next night, we battled with a group of drunks who spoke at the top of their lungs just a few feet away from our tent. We were miserable... much more so than we had been the previous night.

In short: I acknowledged on night one that we couldn't possibly have worse neighbors. But on day two... we did. And as if to further validate my status as a bad luck charm: a 20 minute walk revealed to us that every other section of the campground was completely quiet.

This happens often, and you'd think I'd learn my lesson... But I don't. So when I returned home from vacation with a hideously long "To Do" list, I barely knew where to begin. Laundry. Buy car. Shop for car. Sleep. Call about auto insurance. Maude's distemper booster. Sleep. Upload photos. Edit photos. Pay bills. Groceries. Sleep. Transfer title of old car. Update blogger. Catch up on e-mail. Balance check book.

The list went on. And on. And on. And when I went to work, I discovered that rather than have someone step in during my absence, a backlog of work was left on my desk. So the stress level at work has been on a similar climb.

But I knew one thing, at least: this past weekend was to be dedicated to car shopping. For reasons too boring to explain, I needed to get a new car this weekend... or take care of a load of paperwork on my old one. I'd saved up the money for a decent down payment, and a few car companies were offering 0% financing (all set to expire July 31, of course). So this was to be *the* weekend where I upgraded to a car with air conditionining AND windows that actually worked.

The cosmos had different plans. And I suspect it had something to do with me stressing about how, on earth, I'd ever get everything done.

Suffice it to say my weekend centered around Maude. Or, to put it more simply:



+








=

Yes, that's right. Maude had emergency surgery this past weekend. Sometime Friday afternoon she decided, for reason's I'll never understand, that it'd be a good idea to eat a ponytail holder. Now, prior to this, I'd never heard of cats eating non-food items (not to mention, I don't even know where she found the holder!). But, to quote Maude's vet: "Most cats don't chew things. Some cats do. Yours does."

Maude is like a dog in this regard; I even had to spray "Bitter Yuck" on electrical cords to keep her away from those. But there are some benefits to having a cat-dog, as well: Maude is always waiting on me when I get home from work. She wants to be picked up and held for a bit, in fact, before she'll start playing. She's definitely not the distant sort of cat that views humans solely as food-givers.

That's why I knew something was wrong Friday when I returned home from work, and Maude cried pitifully when I picked her up. Several minutes later, and she was vomiting half a hair band on the floor.

Which begged the question: where was the other half?

But rather than bore you with the details of my Friday... my Saturday... and my Sunday, here's the Cliff Notes version:

Friday night was spent at an emergency animal hospital. Saturday was spent at Maude's actual vet (I got two hours of car shopping in before the vet called with the dreaded news). Sunday was spent at Maude's bed side, tending to a cat who was so sore, she couldn't move to go to the litter box.

And so I say again:



+








=

Or to put it more simply:



+








=

And as frustrated as that makes me, when I was driving home in 110 F weather today in my 10-year-old car — in a car whose air conditioner hasn't worked for years, and whose passenger side window no longer rolls down — I laughed as my sweat-drenched shirt clung desperately to my back.

Nearly everything remained on my initial "To Do" list — it had gotten much longer, in fact. And yet — as miserable as I was breathing in the uncomfortably hot air, worrying about getting home to Maude in time to give her the scheduled kitty morphine fix — I couldn't help but find solace in those universal words of comfort:

"It could've been worse."

Epilogue
I'm posting this entry four days after I began writing it; in that time, I've since learned that one of Maude's brothers was hospitalized this week for eating some sort of cat toy / carpet contraption. Apparently, this unfortunate eating "habit" is genetic. No word yet as to whether or not he'll also require surgery.

Also, a shout-out to Washington, who spent much of last weekend helping me look after Maude.

Photo of Honda Civic, while manipulated by me, was borrowed from Edmunds.