We like those driving behind us to know our political views.

The current state of things:
- both my bedroom and closet light bulbs burnt out today.
- I have a heat rash on my belly.
- I really need to stop drinking so much.

Turn your sound on so you can listen to Nas. Trust me, it syncs up nicely with the videos of Bush dancing below.

Sex, politics, and religion tend to bring out the most interesting discussion. Since I've already dedicated time to sex and religion, I'll give you my thoughts on the debate the other night, which took place at UT where I go to school.

I consider myself an Obamacan, despite my cynical questioning of the possibilities of Real Change. But Hillary's opening statement was off the fuckin chain, and he never seemed to regain his rhythm. She sat there and smirked her evil dragon smirk and thought about eating babies while he stumbled disjointedly through somewhat non-specific answers. Maybe I'm being too harsh about Hillary, but here's the thing--I can't let go of the notion that maybe, maybe, this is a revenge thing. Stay with me--first, do we really want a woman who can't handle her man handling the country? I'm just saying. I know that's unfair, but still. Second, what if she's just running so she can get some grudge nookie from some hapless intern? Then and only then will she and Bill truly be even.

I'm only half serious here. Unbundle your undies.

I think it's unfortunate how scrutinized the candidates are on their tone, gestures, facial expression, word choice, etc., this after weeks and months of traveling, pressure, and little sleep. Some analysts on NPR were discussing Hillary's praise of Obama this morning, how she said she was honored to be running against him. Was this sincere? Is she admitting defeat? Is she manipulating us by being nice and positive one second and letting the bitch trickle out in the next?

The famous Xerox zinger. BOOOOOO! Go think about intellectual property. All of you.


Do I think Obama might possibly get assassinated? Yes. We have a bad history with strong black leaders. Is John McCain a reanimated zombie? Yes. He has an even better chance of dying in office, but of old age. Does Ron Paul look like a muppet? Lil bit. So as you can see, I'm unsure as to who the new leader of the free world should be. In the meantime, I'm glad to see GWB is holding shit down:


Apparently the rhythm Barack had misplaced in Austin had gotten Bush again in Liberia.


Anyway, tonight I went with Mama Christie and her man to the Manchaca Fire Dept. Friday Night All You Can Eat Catfish Fry Spectacular Bonanza Jubilee. That's not the real name. They've been doing this for decades. I was nice to go to a family-oriented function for once--6th St. got old a long time ago for me. It's a similar vibe to the Friday night spaghetti dinner in my hometown, or a cajun boil, or a Mexican potluck (which my mom said they had at her school today, which I think is funny cause I don't think any Mexicans go to that school). Lots of picnic tables, a good ole boys country band made up of men whom my father is starting to resemble, kids zooming around on Heelies and old school trikes, old folks, young folks, a tin roof and a concrete floor, and all the catfish, hushpuppies, beans, slaw, and french fries you can eat or fit on a plastic plate for $10.95.

My belly is full and itchy.

Maila

Dear Maila,

My mom called me this morning and told me that you had passed away. I felt relief, because I knew someone as vibrant as you hated life stuck in a nursing home and dealing with MS in your late 30's. I felt anger all over again, remembering the last time I saw you a few years ago when I was home--it was Homecoming, and our whole small Midwestern town turned out for the parade of tractors, girl scout troops, veterans, and the high school band. You were in a wheelchair by then, and I could see the injustice and worry in your eyes. I remembered you as a little girl when you were friends with my older sister--you were the weird sorta hippie girl on the block. I remembered you when you were my English teacher in high school, still sorta weird and hippie. You pretended not to notice when Julie and I would take hours to bring back film from the store for journalism class, knowing we were just doing normal high school skipping stuff. Then you came to do my observations when I student taught, five years later. Oddly, that's my job now, that's what I'm doing. I thought about how you did it. You had a walker-type thing by then, and you bravely smiled your crazy smile as we took the elevator up to my classroom, and I didn't know what to say. After I moved away, I'd hear about you from time to time, my mom worked in the same school your daughter goes to. Your husband wasn't the most well-thought-of person in town--you know how small towns are. I wondered how often your financial worries crowded your thoughts, how your family would be ok without you, even as your body continued to imprison you. I hope the last days weren't too hard for you--you never deserved any of this. You were only 39 fucking years old. I wonder what you could have done if MS had never knocked at your door and forced its slow way in. Great things, I know. I got you.

I am so sorry.

Update: Mom's email from today:
I just had to tell you what just happened. I was talking to Maila’s daughter, Roane, and she told me about her mom dying on Tuesday. So I told her that her mom had helped my daughter be a teacher, and Roane said that her mom is still teaching. (Maila had her body donated for research.) She said she was going to Iowa City, and maybe she would help people find a cure for MS.

A book you should never read. Ever.

Attention--if you would like to have a nervous breakdown, kill a defenseless animal, or perhaps take your own life and have just been lacking the incentive, have I got the book for you:



The honest-to-God first sentence of the book: "The practical privilege in which all scientific activity arises never more subtly governs that activity (insofar as science presupposes not only an epistemological break but also a social separation) than when, unrecognised as privilege, it leads to an implicit theory of practice which is the corollary of neglect of the social conditions in which science is possible."


Fuck. French. Theorists.

I'm starting to wonder if this assignment is itself a test--this prof (Cultural Theory in Education) had us read a decent book last week about discipline and punishment, and is all about viva la revolucion. Maybe we're suppose to revolt against this directive, which seems to clearly a waste of time. No idea. All I know is when on page 4 I came across the phrase "a theory of theory," I got a little teary.

Perhaps a beer would make this easier.

More things coming soon--been living it up with an old friend over the weekend and am now dealing with the subsequent game of catch-up.

highway to the danger zone

I had the strong feeling that something was wrong this morning, and it caused me to hide in bed til nearly ten when I wasn't even tired, just because staying in my bed in my still half-dark room seemed so much easier than facing whatever was going on out there. Or in here--I didn't know what was wrong. I just felt it--I had The Fear. I warned Mark immediately that something strange was afoot, but he reassured me I looked pretty. Antsy, I went down to S. Austin for coffee with Momma Christie, returning a few hours later to a police standoff, which is still going on about two blocks from my house.

Nothing brings the neighborhood together like a good ole standoff. The skater kids from a few doors down, the weird lady next door, a bunch of old people I've never seen and people who drove to the neighborhood to sit in their cars with binoculars, cameras, and cigarettes gathered together to express their ignorance as to what was going on. Some guy in a duplex, he has a hostage, the whole Ross parking lot is covered with police cars, and did you hear that tear gas they shot in there? They must have done that about seven or eight times, the pops making us jump and wonder if it was the inevitable gun fire we'd hear at some point. It was an exciting Sunday afternoon on Ashdale. It had the same aura as a small town football game, or possibly a public execution. I can hear the negotiator's voice, sounding like a parade announcer through a megaphone--"We know you are there and we are not leaving. Put down your gun and pick up the phone." Borrowing some binoculars, I could see SWAT guys crouched around the fence, the house itself hidden. The conversation turned to the safety of the neighborhood with some older folks who still had on their Sunday best, chatting together in the driveway. We expressed disbelief when a young blond blew past the cop car, driving right into the fire zone, and snickered together when the stern and mustached seargant, after yelling and chasing her down, told her angrily to turn around and get out of here, and sniggered more as the dumb bitch nervously executed a 48 point turn to correct herself.

I went back inside. I no longer hear the negotiator. I don't see any movement, and I felt sad at the spectacle of the whole situation. I felt bad for the guy, or girl, or whatever, who really knows...what did they feel like when they woke up this morning? How would it end? What made it come to this? I'll let you know when I find out. I suppose I am out of reasons for not doing homework now.

The Shit List, part III

I've been keeping busy and feeling pretty good lately--I have a lot to be thankful for. Nevertheless, I believe it's time for the third installment of.....The Shit List.

1) Mr. Subway Artist in the Dobie Mall--sir, I am truly sorry that you're pushing fifty and have to wait on UT kids all damn day, I really am. But if you don't want to know what kind of bread I want, don't ask--don't roll your eyes at me and sigh. I said MAYO not TOMATO, but I didn't give you attitude, and I said thank you like five times. Listen, dude--it could be worse. The only non-starving artist is the sandwich artist. Take some pride in your job. You make a good sandwich. Just lose the attitude, I got my own shit to deal with.

2) The strange lady in the Chevron parking lot who asked me if I could give her a ride right quick--I don't know you, and I don't feel like getting stabbed today. The bus'll take you anywhere you wanna go, my dear. I appreciate that you won't "be weird"--you certainly won't be in my car. Move it along.

3) The Room Store--you evil fuckers. If I was lying in bed with my husband and a clown walked past the door with no explanation other than "we gotta pay for this bed somehow," I'd be more than pissed. There'd be some what-the-fucks being yelled. Don't try and scare me into buying your shit so that I don't have to take in clown boarders. Not gonna work.

4) My older brother. Quit calling me. We're not buddies.

5) Johnny Fairplay. You are full of douchebaggery. Because TV was so horrible tonight I caught part of Survivor: Fans vs. Favorites. Whose favorite are you? I don't even watch the show and I know you're an ass. Danny Bonaduce is no prize either, but you had this coming:




6) People who post 3 line bulletins just to let you know how they're feeling. Mmhmm. Bugs you too, doesn't it?

7) Jake, buddy, you know I love you, but when you threw up in my room yesterday, I felt like Cruella DeVille. No more eating cat product, please. And you're lucky Momma's coming home tonight, or you'd be sleeping outside.

Moxie's Movie Review

This week:
Moxie’s movie review

- Cloverfield (boooo!)
- The Principal (starring James Belushi and Lou Gossett, Jr.)
- Robocop (the first one, which was the only one justifiable)


Ok, so no one was looking forward more to Cloverfield than me. Monster? Check. Mass destruction? Check. Unique and appealing marketing/advertising strategy? Double check. The first trailer of this movie (which, enjoyably, has nothing to do with clover or a field) was shown before Transformers, and it had no known title until about a month before the actual release date. That’s like a year of wondering. Couldn’t wait. Even the word “cloverfield” made me tingly over the holidays.



Finally, I saw it. When a stranger accidentally sits on your leg during the previews and doesn’t even apologize, that’s a sign you aren’t about to have an enjoyable movie experience. Plus, we were too poor to buy popcorn and we weren’t at the Alamo, so there was no beer. I won’t ruin the super-cool (not) ending of the movie but let’s just say about halfway through the movie, I began to root for the monster so this horrible cinematic abortion could end. Go, monster, kill the hipster party-goers. My eyes began water and my head started pounding after an hour of bounciness, swerviness, and sidewaysality, even though I didn’t get sick after watching Blair Witch. Maybe I’m just getting old. Cloverfield=predictable, not scary, not impressive monster-making. When are we going to get some monsters who make noises other than the traditional Godzilla roar? SPOILER – it looks like a fucking dinosaur.

THE PRINCIPAL—part of the lovely CW Saturday afternoon lineup. This movie is kind of a cheap knock-off of Lean on Me. Badass (sort of) principal who rides a motorcycle (of course) comes in to clean up the gang-infested, racially charged high school on the east side of Compton or some similar city. To be fair, I didn’t see the first half of the movie. To be honest, it doesn’t really matter. I’ll forgive Belushi for not being his brother, but it’s asking a bit much to cast him as a “bad-ass.” He plays the role like he knows his beer belly is getting in the way. Lou Gossett Jr is, well, he’s Lou Gossett Jr., what can I say? Ray Dawn Chong also stars as the hot teacher who almost gets raped by White Zack, the revengeful failure student. That’s right, White Zack. Luckily (don’t read further if you want to be inspired) Principal Badass races to her rescue on his….that’s right, his motorcycle! He zooms up the fucking stairs and down the hall to her room, just before Chong gets shlonged. I’m not saying the movie doesn’t have its good points, and as an educator, I give props to any movie that concerns itself with “tainted youth” and the struggle to reach them. It has heart, it’s just horribly 1987.

Fantastic "cleaning up the school" music montage:



The antagonist is Victor, played by Michael Wright who looks a lot like trip-hop artist Tricky. He is what the kids call a gangsta, with fantastic leadership abilities. Why Victor shows up for school in the first place, I do not know, but he’s a bad muh-fucker. The only reason I waited to see the end of the movie is to see whether Hollywood would cop out and give the cheesy educational ending, where Belushi gets through to Victor and eases his pain by giving him a book and he thanks him for saving his life, or the real-life way: beating the shit out of that little shit and sending him to jail where he belongs. I was not disappointed, except for the way they did the cheesy catch-the-about-to-punch-me-fist in the air thing. Oh, and this lovely interchange immediately prior to the riding away in the sunset on his motorcycle:

Kid: Hey, man. Who do you think you are, anyway?
Good kid: He’s the principal!
Belushi: I’m the principal. (cue electric guitar end-of-movie song)

Finally, Robocop 1. Just for the record, Peter Weller himself said he has never seen Robocop 3.

Somehow the 80's came and went and I never saw Robocop. I was 8 when it came out and I imagine my mom wouldn't let me see it. I'm sure she thought it was much too violent. What she didn't realize is how funny it is.

The trailer makes it look just a tad cooler than it really is:


Robocop drives a Ford Taurus. Think about that. Red Foreman plays the bad guy, Clarence Boddicker. There is just something strange about watching Red Foreman do nose candy and shoot people with military guns. I faded in and out of this one, it didn't really offer much other than your typical near-dead hero getting revenge on the bad guys who do a lot of blow, sexually assault hookers, and hang out at dance clubs when they're not doing blow off hookers. Kind of a gritty, Detroit-feeling movie. Juxtaposed between a policeman strike and corrupt corporations that operate out of high rise buildings, Robocop has a lot of work to do, but has a gooey center inside that hard, metallic shell. Blahdy blahdy blah, he throws the bad guy out of said high-rise building window, no one really reacts too much.

Some key Robocop quotes, in case someone brings it up at a party:
"I'd buy that for a dollar."

"Dead or alive, you're coming with me."

"Bitches, leave!" (That's Clarence Boddicker Red Foreman, to the hookers)

"First, don't fuck with me. I'm a desperate man! And second, I want some fresh coffee. And third, I want a recount! And no matter how it turns out, I want my old job back!"

and the walls became the world all around.

Tonight the prof of my cake class (i.e. Children's Lit, an undergrad survey course) discussed Maurice Sendak's Where the Wild Things Are, and it brought back memories of reading this book while teaching for the IRD last summer. One of the best moments of pure-joy teaching was when I had 20 first graders holding up their wild thing masks and "rumpusing," roaring their terrible roars and showing their terrible claws. Almost ten years ago, I remember a tiny little blond girl I waitressed with whose petite little back was covered with huge tattoos of the wild things.


280 undergraduates amuse themselves during Children's Lit

I worked on a paper while taking notes, my ears perking up when she mentioned WTWTA. She distinguished it as a prime example of good children's literature, that it met through the story and the illustrations the needs of children in an enjoyable way:

Needs:
- need for security
- need to love and be loved
- need to belong and be accepted
- need to achieve and be confident in what we do
- need to escape
- need for intelligence
- need for beauty and order

Clearly, these needs don't diminish upon exiting childhood.

Go ahead. Get a popsicle and watch:


Curious as to who Sendak was and what context he wrote this book in, I found this:

"With the publication of Where the Wild Things Are in 1963, Sendak felt that he had ended his apprenticeship. His childhood experiences, years of illustrations for other authors' books, and psychoanalysis came together in the fantasies of Max, the boy in the story who is sent to bed without his supper, and the monsters he encounters in the world of the wild things. The story is rooted in the very real fears that children have of being left alone or not cared for by their parents. Many critics and child psychologists, such as Bruno Bettelheim, felt that the book was too scary for sensitive children. Sendak was vindicated when the book won the Caldecott Medal in 1964. In his acceptance speech, he said, "… from their earliest years children live on familiar terms with disrupting emotions, fear and anxiety are an intrinsic part of their everyday lives, they continually cope with frustrations as best they can. And it is through fantasy that children achieve catharsis. It is the best means they have for taming Wild Things."

Just as Sendak's life appeared to finally be on track, disaster struck. In 1967, he learned that his mother had developed cancer, he suffered a major coronary attack, and his beloved dog Jenny died. In spite of his troubles, he completed In the Night Kitchen in 1972. This book generated more controversy because he showed a boy in full frontal nudity. Librarians drew diapers over the child. "It's as if my book contains secret information that kids would be better off not knowing. This whole idea, of course, is ridiculous." Sendak moved to Ridgefields, Connecticut, in 1972. There he worked ten-hour days on other authors' books as well as his own. Outside Over There, which he considers one of his more significant books, was written during this period."

Then I was thinking, didn't I hear something about Spike Jonze making a movie out of this? More searching:

My doubts are balanced by the fact that Paul Dano is in it. We'll see.