Post-interview fixating

I am fully cognisant of some of my limitations and faults. For example: I fixate.

Not in some OCD (or some other three letter syndrome) manner, but rather in that I like to be able to see things through and connect causes to effects. I like to be able to project back from some given outcome to the set of conditions/actions/causes that were responsible for the conclusion that came to pass. Thus when such things don’t seem to align, I fixate, trying to find a way for them to line up. I check, recheck, and rerecheck my actions and non-actions. I try to understand how something I said, or didn’t say, or partially said impacted whatever the given situation was. Usually after a night of sleeping on this issue (facilitated by an evening of dissolving the issue in a liver full of some form of dark brew alcoholic beverage), I’ve come up with a better understanding. I know this about myself, and usually manage to come to some sort of resolution about some given situation given a standard twenty-four to forty-eight hour period.

This, sadly, is not the current case.

I had a job interview last week. I should say: I am currently employed, and this would purely have been a source of  supplemental income, in addition to being a position that (based on where it is located) carries with it a great deal of institutional cache. However, the reason I went on the interview is because I’m currently projecting ahead to the time when the current job end. Until such a time, I completely planned on doing each simulataneously (a completely doable thing given my schedule).  The interview was for a job I can do. A slightly more sophisticated version of walking and talking. There would be some pointing involved. Maybe some recommendations of local eateries and/or cultural institutions. But aside from being a walking/talking/pointing font of knowedge/Zagat Guide, the job essnetially required that show up on time in a relatively clean shirt and pair of pants and not come across like a functionally impaired fool. Check and check.

So what happened? What about it led me to start/work on/finish this post? After an hour and a half of the interview proper, I left having absolutely no idea where I stood in terms of the position. I’m not delusional enough to think I will get every position for which I interview, particularly one such as this which is highly competitive. However, something about this interview simply left me unsettled. This has been the word I’ve been using to to summarize the interview to others: unsettled. The interviewer raised some “concerns” about my knowledge of the specific field linked to the institution (hint: shmontemporary shmamerican shmart). Not to sound as though drowning in my own hubris, but my mental reaction to her concerns was “WHAAAAAA??” complete with rising of intenal voice tone by about three octaves at the end of the sound/word/phoneme.  So I attempted to gently explain that I was confused about her concern given [example a] and [example b] and [supporting evidence 1] and [supporting evidence 2]. And the interview continued, with no further mention of this concern or discussion of a related topic. And then she said it again. So I presented [point i] and [point ii] and [noun form and counting form n] and [noun form and counting form n+1] to assuage these concerns again, now even more baffled about what caused them and how to rectify them.

The way we left it, an hour and a half later, was that I would come back in two weeks for a mock-practical of the actual position. Which by all indications should suggest a relatively good outcome (i.e. “Hooray! I’ve advanced to the next round of the interview!”). And yet… based on the already announced start date of the position and the actual training time required for the position and the date of the mock-practical relative to those two things makes me slightly concerned. The interviewer seemed pleasant and supportive of my application, but was VERY clear about her reservations and her anxieties with giving me the position. The round two interview/practical should be a clear sign of progress, but the scheduling of it seems counter-intuitive. And so I’m not sure where I stand with any of this.

I recognize that the best thing is for me to not worry about it. If I get the job: Hooray. If I don’t: that’s fine as well (not quite a “Hooray” but at least an “Ok, whatevs.” What I think troubles me the most is her concern about something that is objectively unfounded (yes, it can be objectively demonstrated to be unfounded) as well as the general wtf-ery of the direction of the hour and a half conversation:topic, topic, strangely hyper-personal anecdote that she decided to tell, topic, topic, second strangely hyper-personal anecdote coming from her, topic, topic, half-assed tour of facilities as conversation winds down, resulting in her again (for the third time) reiterating her personal reservations while setting up a follow-up appointment.

This happened three days ago. I still have no idea. Two nights (of drinking) later and I’m still as confused as I was when it was happening.  So I continue to fixate. Which, come to think of it, does provide a nice form of procrastination from working on the job that I actually have.

This is the anthem

Warning: this is not going to be a post about Good Charlotte. At no point during the following posting should hands be thrown up. And it will also be Nicole Richie reference free (starting… now). Although I make no promises about it being non-angsty. Sorry.

There are times when you turn on the radio (yes, the radio) and the song that just happens to be playing at that moment corresponds exactly with your general state of being. It’s that rare occurance when it resonates on some level, speaking some greater truth that, perhaps prior to hearing it, you only obliquely recognized as true. A shadow truth.  A lurking in the shadows truth (yes, that makes slightly more sense). And yet, the moment the lyrics are processed aurally, suddently everything makes sense in a way that it hadn’t previously. Suddenly a beam of light appears and everything makes sense. Ok done with with shadow/light/truth awkward verbal construct.

Well, such an event happened to me recently. Having beein officially dumped out of the blue, I went into a period of about a day and a half of music silence. I’m not exactly sure what motivated the choice for silence, but it just sort of happened and in retrospect it seemed slightly appropriate, for a number of reasons. However, following that 36 hour block, music returned. And the first song that was heard (yay passive voice) was one of those “everything suddenly makes sense” songs. It was perfect. It was succinct. It crystalized everything that I sort of knew already but never actually admitted to.  And it was anthemic.

Yes, it was Cobra Starship’s Hot Mess.

Allow me to excerpt just a small section of the song that I believe has actually now changed my life:
Well you’re a hot mess and I’m fallin’ for you
And I’m like “hot damn, lemme make you my boo.”
‘Cuz you can shake it, shake it, shake it
Yeah you know what to do
You’re a hot mess
I’m lovin’ it hell yes!

With that I realized that my pseudo-devestated self had no business being devestated, pseudo or otherwise.  It spoke to me, and told me, “Yes, you do fall for the hot mess variety. But that’s ok. Someone out there understands.” I am of course paraphrasing, because what the song really told me was “Yes, you’re a hot mess. Ha-ha-ha-ha-hot. We’re sayin’ hell yes,” in which ”you’re” is clearly the hot mess former object of my affection and “we’re” being the slightly unwashed pop-synth Top 40 band (sans Gossip Girl actress featured appearances).  

And shockingly I felt better about myself, now newly armed with my new self-realization and anthem to go with it (I felt very Ally McBeal). That is, until I realized that my anthem was a Cobra Starship song. Then I hated myself and the radio was shut off again.

Multiple choice question of the hour

While picking up what could perhaps be considered an excessive amount of Chinese food at the local take-out establishment, I made a startling discovery: I was wearing the same asymmetrical argyle sweater as the six year-old son of the owner (clarification: “same” is understood as defined by having the quality of an identical pattern/design and not as being a singlular garment that the two of us were now sharing). Thankfully, being winter, I was wearing jacket and thus my subsequent realization was a private one. This realization was:

a) I am more trendy than I initially thought, which is not a bad thing

b) I am more trendy than I initially thought, which is a bad thing

c) Express makes children’s sizes?

d) I’ve been staring at the owner’s six year old son for an unacceptably long time like a creepster

e) All except a

What I remembered

Bring it back! Hey! Let’s go! Ladies! Do. You. Re. Mem. Buh!

Oh to be Lil Jon… To make an entire Top 40 career out of shouting “Hey” and out of not being Lil Wayne or T Pain. But I digress. But J. Mortimer Smith  is not the intended subject of this posting. Instead, I suppose what follows can be considered a part 2 to my (apparently) ongoing series of discussions about Jay Sean’s ever expanding corpus of music videos tied to ridiculously catchy singles. If he just had worse songs it wouldn’t be that much of a problem. My private dance parties of one–frequently  those that take place in the driver’s seat of my car or in the privacy of my room while folding laundry–would be that much more rocking (used in the broadest definition possible, I assure you) if I knew somewhere in the world a comparable video was bring produced to accompany them and their not so constant rotation on Viacom music television affiliates. And yet, alas, I know that this is not the case. So on we go.

Just to abbreviate things: Take two parts Whitney Houston’s My Love is Your Love, add one part Ricky Martin’s Living La Vida Loca and add a dash of late 90s boy band light show and choreography. The sum total seems to have been the ingrediant list produced in the brainstorming session for the video. Think I’m lying: go back and youtube the hell out of My Love is Your Love, which is fantastic in both song and video. It’s like Jewel’s My Hand’s video, except wihout the shmaltz and without Jewel. Instead it’s Wyclef and Whitney and the most awesome blackout party you’ve ever seen. And the best part: it’s mid-Cracky Houston era. In fairness, so was her Enrique Iglesias colaboration on Could I Have This Kiss Forever, which the less said about, the better I guess (“I want to hold you and touch you and taste you and make you want no one but me”… ).  But now she’s back and Oprah loves her again, so all is right in the diva world for at least another year.

Yes, I remembered all of this upon first seeing Jay Sean’s new magnum opus. In fairness, it’s not really my fault. The song literally impelled me to remember. And I did. Minus two points.

But back to Do You Remember: Open on a New York-esque brownstone as JS descends with flouncy top wearing lady companion as a way of initiating the next three minute and thirty nine second period. Pan out to reveal it’s block party time! Or street festival time! Or simply mass unemployment which has forced the (well dressed) youngins into the street on a spring/autumn night (leather jacket with blue hoodie negates the ultra cliche summer night Grease reference that would have opened up a whole new avenue of possibilities) for some harmeless dancing/grinding/posturing. You know, as you do. Cue seated foursome choreography. Rock star.

And then sudddenly: backlit sound stage water cannon go! Spin Jay, spin! Soak ho, soak!

And then we’re back to the street scene complete with baby blue vespa, overhead pin lights, flaming trashcans, and neon motel sign. And back to the group dancing/grinding/posturing. And repeat. Thus is the rest of the video, with some quick interludes showing public shmooping in an alleyway with Mr. Sean himself and his new lady friend. And a brief hillarious moment where Sean Paul is shown with a lady friend of his own and yet BORED OUT OF HIS MIND mid-swerve. As though he himself can’t wrap his mind around the cliche wtf-ery of the situation. Jay doesn’t care: he’s too busy rocking his aviators in the alley. And Lil Jon stands on a fire escape being, well, Lil Jon. Hey!

Alas, perhaps the next single-video combo will finally warm the cockles of my heart in such a way that does not temper the dance party-triggered  endorphin release. Ha, I typed cockles.

Multiple choice question of the hour

You are standing on line at a bookstore cafe, placing an order with the barista who looks to be about nineteen years old. You are holding a copy of Brief Interviews with Hideous Men. Upon seeing this, the barista flips her hair and states, “Oh my god! I LOVE him. He’s like my favorite author ever!” You then engage in a potentially harmless conversation about DFW and your usual personal hatred of fiction footnotes. It is then that you discover that she has never read anything other than Girl with Curious Hair (attempts to bring up Infinite Jest, Consider the Lobster, and the current text literally at hand are met with repeated silent blinking and tilting of the head). This means that:

a) your barista has a limited frame of reference and fickle tastes

b) your barista hates her job and was just trying to rescue herself from the vapidness that is her life by seeking verbal stimulation

c) your barista wanted to consider your lobster

d) your barista follows John Krasinski fan sites and heard that he directed a movie based on a book by some David Foster Whatever fellow

e) you need to stop buying fiction, take this as a sign, and get back to working on the phantom dissertation you’re supposed to be working on

f) a and c

Not so simple gifts

Tis the season for the purchasing of holiday gifts for peripheral aquaintances for whom various social codes dictate I must provide a gift. Normally, I don’t worry too much about this anual ritual. It is the kind of thing that requires an afternoon spent in some sort of mall-model-based conglomeration of product vendors, a choice is made as to a general form in which such gifts will take and voila: everyone gets a different color candle/sweater/ornament/useless item that says (metaphorically… I abhor and thus reject message-laden objects and garments) “Of course I remembered to get you something. What kind of person did you take me for?!” The added bonus is when the recipient forgets his or her role in this great social contract in which we all exist. The result is a good two to three months of self-rightous superiority. Win.

In terms of purchasing things for the family, it goes without saying that greater thought takes place… most of the time. However, this year, there’s an added twist. A quirk. A potential snafu. A bump in the road. A fly in the ointment. A wrinkle in time (oh, elementary school reading lists… how I don’t miss you at all).  Moving on. M y sister has a new whatever whatever. A gentleman caller (and, curiously enough, the Glass Menagerie reference seems particularly apropos for a whole number of reasons). I suppose by this point he’s officially her fiance, and I should perhaps refer to him as such. He’s a good guy, don’t get me wrong. Or at least the little of him that I know and the minimal interactions that I’ve had with him have led me to that conclusion. Quite frankly and honestly, I’m somewhat indifferent towards the whole thing. Several months back, pre the presention of a ring of binding nuptual whatevs, my sister asked me  what I thought of the kid. In retrospect this was a pretty big deal and should have sent up several different shades of red flags since: a) my sister has never asked me this question about anyone she’s dated before, and b) my sister and I don’t exactly have what one would refer to as a close, sharing relationship (our own more domestic version of the Seinfeld motto of “No hugging, no learning”). So i was somewhat stunned by the question. My response: “I don’t really know him, so I can’t say.” Her response: “But what do you think?” My response: “Again, I don’t know him. He seems fine, but I don’t know.” Her response: “Why can’t you just give me your opinion?” To which I responded (perhaps a  little too harshly in retrospect): “I’m not the one who’s f&^#ing him, so why should it matter. If you like him, fine. If not, fine by me as well. Because, to repeat, I’m not the one f&^#ing him.” Needless to say, things did not end well after that. But I digress.

I’ve met the guy three times in total. Once I was completey ignored save for an intial half-hearted handshake on his part. My yuppie training has taught me to at least be socially tactful, but if that tact is not reciprocated, I tend not to lose a great deal of sleep over it. The second meeting was at a family funeral to which my sister decided to bring him. Fine. Whatever. I think he and I probably talked for about fifteen minutes that day, and the topic of the weather came up twice I believe. The third meeting was at the most recent Thanksgiving “celebration,” a topic requiring a separate posting entirely. He spent most of the time whispering things into my sister’s ear, in a not so subtle way (read: hands cupped around the mouth as he leans over towards her head). I’m pretty sure most of the whispering was directed at the spectacle that is my grandmother (read: trainwreck), but I still: hands over mouth whispering? I kept lookign around to see if there was a menu in the house somewhere that I could hand him. Big pet peeve: people who speak discretely using menus as objects to occlude sound(?) or the reading of lips(?). I’m not exactly sure what the perpetrators of such actions think they are accomplishing as a) they are not being discreet in any way possible and b) they are in fact drawing more attention to themselves by waving a cardboard-backed rectangle in the air space above the table. So the hands around the mouth (which, I’m sorry, doesn’t that amplify sound?) caused a minor reverberation in my personal gauge of social tact.

But all in all, to reiterate, I don’t think he’s a bad guy. I just don’t know the kid. Which leads me to the problem at hand: am I required to purchase a holiday gift for him?

I ‘m pretty sure I know what the answer is. Yes, with no expectation of a return gift. I’m under no real obligation to get him something, just as he is under no obligation to get me anything. However, I have this sense of yuppie guilt (combined with a melange of both Jew guilt and Catholic guilt) that I didn’t get them anything following the engagement announcement. And I plan, of course, on getting something for my sister, so I guess as her whatever whatever he too is now part of the seasonal shopping list. And yes, I am aware that at some point, assuming nothing unexpected happens in the immediate future, that he and I will ultimately be related. Again, fine (I like how I feel that I need to keep qualifying and backtracking on statements, out of some lurking, nagging fear that I’m coming off as utterly insincere and sort of like a douche, both of which I suppose are possible as well as possibly true). I just wish I knew the actual protocol for such a thing (my half-assed attempt at googling revealed few results… damn you misguided keyword selections). Is a joint gift tacky? Is it acceptable to get him a membership to something like Crumbs’ Cupcake of the Month program? Can I just have a tree planted in his name (taking a page out of a much-reviled tradition that has long roots in my family… get it? trees…roots…never mind…)? Must it be object-based, or can it be a membership to something somewhere that he may possible go to, at some point, maybe?

So my dillema is thus: what to get for someone who I don’t really know but I’m sort of expected to already know and of whom I shall be seeing a great deal more in my future family interactions in several months hence? Cupcake of the Month it might be. The gift that keeps on giving. At least for the duration of the calendar year. Until it is renewed. And then renewed again. In perpetuity. Brilliant! Done.

Google search-based post script: There is no Crumbs Cupcake of the Month “Club,” just a rotation of Cupcake of the Month and Cupcake of the Week designations. And while there are other pastry of the month clubs (as well as produce, meat, and cheese of the month clubs), I think the crushing nature of this realization has turned me off to sending mail-order food as a gift at least for this holiday season. Sigh.

Poorly executed show and tell

End of semester presentations abound. Let me clarify: I’m not referring to grad student end of semester seminar paper presentations (although tis the season for those). Nor am I reffering to undergrad end of semester presentations on who knows what (sometimes an extra-credit presentation is not always a bad thing when one is facing a final semester letter grade with all kinds of right angles built into it… if any of my students happen to stumble upon this blog a) start volunteering, b) stop asking about what you need to do to pass the class, and c) meh). No, instead the subject of this posting is exclusively concerned with faculty presentations, in particular the phenomenon of the invited faculty lecture/presentation/show and tell.*

I tend to consciously avoid hyper specific details about my life, so I’m not going to discuss who these faculty members were, from where they hailed, and on what topic each presented (there’s no real reason for this over generalizing of my person life history… I’m sure one would be able to piece together a fairly accurate sense of my academic homestead if they cared enough to do so). Also, in the case of one of these lectures, the one that will be the focus of this posting, the presentation fell just short of being completely horrendous. There was little consideration of the audience to whom the lecture was being given. There was also little consideration of trying to present a coherent idea. There was also an innapropriate use of one of my most hated vocabulary non-words EVER. But more on that later.

I spend a great deal of time thinking about titles. Titles for papers and presentations that I have to give. Titles of books that I read and their relation to the contents therein. Even the titles of these sporatically appearing postings (ok, in fairness, of the three, I probably spend the least amount of time considering the last category). Titles (like labels) are important. They are generally what one first encounters. They frame an argument. A good title can excite interest in a topic. A bad title can turn one off completely from pursing a topic further. The popular development of the [untitled] phenonmenon in mid-twentieth century art and its continued use in early twenty-first century art makes me mad in a way that I am not yet able to fully articulate. I understand the reason for its appearance, but I’m tired of the artist expecting me to have some transcendental relationship to his or her color-field masterbatory product. In summary: titles are not meant to simply be afterthoughts.

Part of my rage following this paper presentation was perhaps caused by the fact that the title remain unexplained throughout. Cue my hand being raised into the air: “Thank you so much for your paper. I just have one question about something I’m hoping you could clarify. So you’re title… I’m not really sure I understood its connection to the paper. Could you perhaps explain it?” The response: “Oh, that’s actually a really great question. I guess I forgot to do that.” Cue giggling on her part. Cue uncomfortable laughter on mine. She then went on to explain the meaning of her title as she understood it. Short vague summary of her project: person X ought to be elevated as an astute social critic whose observations of society Y in his own time still hold true in relation to social norms in contemporary societies Z, societies linked to person X’s home society Y (societies that person X himself never knew). Clear? Probably not, but I think I’m going to leave it at that. An interesting argument: certainly (made more interesting by knowing the identity of X, Y, and Z, but again, leaving it at that). One that in theory would relate nicely to the audience of budding sholars in various states of end of semester bedraggledness. And yet, there was no mention of contemporary society, the link of X to contemporary society, or anything that really linked the title, argument, and actual presentation together.

Correct: she gave an entire hour presentation that had nothing to do with the point she thought she was presenting. Win.

Couple with this the fact that the presentation, in spite of the topic itself, was geared at a level that seemed to be ridiculously below the level of those listening. In addition, I don’t know who invented theme backgrounds on powerpoint, but note to readers: such backgrounds are never to be used once beyond high school. NEVER. It doesn’t matter that you think you’ve stumbled onto some sort of fantastic visual theme. Or that you think that you’ve perfectly matched the background theme to the content of your presentation. NEVER. On more time (because triple repetition is important and effective, or so I’ve hear): NEVER. Thus a leather textured, framed and matted themed slide just looks silly in this context. As do clipart-inspired, scrapbook-influenced photo inserts.

And then there was the word. A word which isn’t a word. A word made famous by Lacey Chabert in Mean Girls (it’s slightly tragic how much I wax nostalgically for Party of Five… oh Claudia…). Yes, the word that came out of the woman’s mouth mid-presentation: “Irregardless.” And then she said it again, demonstrating that it was not simply a slip of the tongue mistake, which can be overlooked. No, rather it was instead obviously a viable component of her somewhat misguided functional lexicon of possible words. Sigh. Regardless: fine. Irrespective: also a valid choice. Irregardless: absolutely not. I remember having a high school English teacher (not the tenth grade one who still incites latent pseudo-PTSD reactions from me when I least expect them) who would frequently use this word, resulting in my own purposeful use of “irrespective” and “regardless” as frequently as possible in both written and spoken communications with said “educators” (square quotes abounding as largely and neon-inflected as humanly possible). Yes, I was/am that kind of student. So when said speaker used this particular non-word word for the second time, I took that as my cue to cap my pen, close my notebook and think about how much more this woman makes in a year than I.

So what was the great moral of this story? I’m not really sure. I think it just reaffirmed my feeling that I too will somehow find an academic position with acceptable salary at some point, since, apparently, anyone can get one. It also reminded me why I (usually) care so much about my presentation quality when I wander around the country several times a year and cart out some academic dog and pony show. It also made me sad that I missed out on an hour of what could have been much appreciated and much needed napping time.  

Positive note: I did enjoy learning that she was wearing a dress from a company that perfectly matched her academic field. Hint: she’s not a crevice or a type of train.

*In some strange nostalgic way, I almost wish that presentations of our research could return to being called “show and tell,” because quite frankly the underlying impulse is sort of the same as an elementary school student coming in with a comic book /stuffed animal/professional wrestler action figure/collection of interesting shaped rocks that were gathered on his or her way to school. On a similar note, I want to start a movement to bring back “speaker power” totems into secondary school and beyond classroom settings. I think conversations would flow better if one was forced to reach into the table to grab a troll doll everytime he or she wanted to pontificate.

Mr. F. and Miss. P.

I’ve seen two movies in the past week. They can be considered very different films and were viewed in very different geographic contexts and with different populations of fellow movie-attendees. With one I found myself annoyed at the judgmement and parenting skills of others, and with the  other I found myself annoyed with the feeling of self-importance that others in the theater seemed to exude. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Required possible spoiler warning, which I sort of feel is silly but people tend to yell at me if I ruin endings of movies before they’ve seen them… I mean, what is that about… My feeling is that if a movie has been out for greater than two weeks and you still haven’t seen it, then that’s on you and not me. But regardless, spoiler warning spoiler warning spoiler warning. Moving on.

I saw the Fantastic Mr. Fox first, on a Friday afternoon, surrounded by a heterogenous population of twenty-something year olds, thirty-something year old mothers and their under the age of 7 children, and a miscelanous category of the over forty crowd. While waiting online to purchase tickets from the employee under glass  (because swiping my credit card in a machine to get tickets will NOT be happening) several of the parent plus young child combo were on line with me, many of them debating whether to go see Planet 51 or FMF, the thought being: Well, both are children’s films. Wrong. One is a computer animated film about how humans can be seen as aliens to aliens who have never met a human before and how judging people is wrong (or how aliens are silly… I don’t know… I didn’t see it…  I was not one of those in line who was debating which one to see).  The other is a Wes Anderson film. It doesn’t matter that it’s about talking animals in a pseudo-Watership Down type character vocabulary. It doesn’t matter that it’s made in stop motion animation like Wallace and Gromit (because that was the reference one mother gave to her child, clearly forgetting that The Corpse Bride was also done using clay figurines and a mind-numbingly slow camera capture process and is SO not a children’s movie either).

So imagine my surprise when I entered into the theater containing a relatively large number of the under 6 crowd. I took heart at the fact that the unemployed dirty hipster twenty-something crowd who was also in the theater seemed to have a greater sense of disdain towards this populace than I did. My feeling is pretty much that I don’t care if there are children in a movie theater as long as they’re socialized to acceptable public comportment (does that sound pretentious enough?). When I saw Igby Goes Down in theaters when it first came out, there was a family with their two children under the age of 10 seated in front of me in the audience. When Amanda Peet is shown topless, the male offspring shouted “Boobies!” That would be an example of unacceptable socialization. But a five year old that sleeps through a movie he doesn’t understand because it is way over his head in terms of plot and theme is allowed to stay as far as I am concerned. And it was this latter category that seemed to fill the theater.

So this is not a rant against parents bringing their children to the movies, per se. I mean, if you want to expose your child to scenes of animal brutality, theft, and marital discord all delivered in a Wes Anderson style of dark humor (more Royal Tenenbaums than Darjeeling Limited), that’s on you. It’s your call to spend the twelve dollars for the kid (or whatever a children’s ticket actually costs). But then don’t leave the theater disapprovingly muttering  “Well, that’s not what I expected at all” because it’s your job as a parent to do your research ahead of time. You theoretically have  a responsibility to monitor what you personally expose your child to. And if you’re going to have an outing to the movies on a Friday, in which both time and money will be spent, perhaps some pre-film googling might be wise. Just a suggestion.

Oh, and the movie was fantastic. And this is coming from someone who can best be described as a fair weather Wes Anderson fan. I’ve started working “cuss” into my vocabulary as frequently as possible and various stati have been marked with “You wrote a  bad song, Petey” as of late.

On to film number two of two.

I saw Precious on a Monday evening, in the suburbs, in a movie theater with, conservatively, 25 other people. The demographic of the audience was primarily caucasian, I’m going to venture solidly middle class, and the average age was about upper thirties to mid fifties. It seemed to be married date night/girlfriends out to see a movie night/Oprah and or Mr. Perry told us to see this and now it’s finally out in theaters night. Or in my case, I sort of want to see what the hype is all about and see how good this thing really is. So that means I suppose I went in with some preconceived notions about what it was about and knew about most of the spoilerish things related to the film (the incest, the two kids, one with Down Syndrome, the mother from hell thing, etc). But I was impressed with the blending of fantasy escapism with the “reality” of Precious’ life. So kudos for that Mr. Daniels. And kudos casting Mariah Carey when Hellen Mirren declined. Perhaps not the most logical second choice, but it works. Although, truthfully, all of the awards chatter around her performance is somewhat lost on me. I think people are more excited that she’s not “Mariah” but actually managed to tone down her sometimes batshit crazy self long enough to sit still in a somewhat restrained manned. But I digress.

From the first trailer run before the movie, I knew this audience was in trouble. The first film presented was for Takers, the T Pain, Matt Dillon, Hayden Christensen, Paul Walker, Chris Brown etc seemingly craptastic extravaganza that opens in a couple of months.  Immediately, audience chatter started. “Why would this be playing?” “An action movie?!” “Don’t they usually match trailers to the film?” The answer to the last is “yes” and in this case they did. Stereotype alert: Precious seemed geared from the begining to an, um, urban market first, and the Oprah housewife second (or possibly fifth). Takers seems geared towards the urban market first, the teenage boy “I want to see things get blown up” market second, and the Oprah housewife never. This was followed by the trailer for the new Tyler Perry film, with Janet Jackson in full emoting glory. This caused the housewife crowd to settle slightly. “Oh Tyler Perry. He’s that funny black man who wears a dress that Oprah likes.” Yes ma’am: that’s him. Five trailers later, the movie began.

I think it’s safe to assume that some in the audience didn’t have the premovie plot knowledge that I came armed with. Rape scene number one: cue first two walkouts. Vomit scene after she’s stolen a bucket of fried chicken: cue next set of walkouts. I guess Lady O failed to properly prepare her audience.

I think the film works, up until the end. As I said, the weaving of inner and outer realities together works. The 1980s setting never feels forced, and makes some of the plot revelations more substantial and tragic than if it were set in the present, in particular (spoiler alert… oh screw it…) Mary’s announcement to Precious that her father had AIDS and Precious’ test results. The awareness of personal mortality is brought to the fore and crystalized in a way that Mary’s threats of abortion or Precious’ own narrator-based monologues couldn’t do. And there’s a nice shout-out to always relying on the kindness of lesbians (also tinged with a very 80s and sadly also contemporary social comment).

However, the end of the film made me mad. Not mad at Precious. Not mad at her mother (about whom I think it’s best to say you feel sorrow for but never sorry for). Not mad at the fate of either one or at the social circumstances that led them to their current existence. No, I was mad at the filmmakers and author. I haven’t read “Push,” but I get the sense that the film is a fairly faithful adaptation of the text. When Precious, still attending the alternative school to pass her GED and still living with her lesbian guardian angels but now HIV positive, leaves the social worker’s office with her two children in tow, one with Down Syndrom and the other under the age of two, having declared that the social worker is not able to deal with her problems, and sets out down the street to face the world with a pseudo-smile, my only question was: WTF? Are we supposed to cheer because she has her children back and is rid of her mother. Ok, but honestly, girl is still screwed. Some woman two rows behind me said to her companion “Good for her. She’ll be ok.” And then they walked out to their minivan.  WHAT? Sorry, no.

While not a “happy ending” the movie feels like it’s goading you into leaving with a sense a promise, a curious inclusion based on the almost utter despair that runs through the rest of the film. It occurs to me that this could be the point: the realization that there are no happy endings, and that we should give her this brief moment of joy in an otherwise tragic past, present, and future existence. But somehow I can’t get over the feeling that it ended with a “We’re all going to be ok now” message, as she struts down the street (eh, she sort of struts as much as one can schlepping to little ones). So no, she’s not going to be ok, and I feel sort of cheated by the film for guiding some into this conclusion. And while it is certainly not a filmmaker’s fault that someone can take away the wrong idea from a film, in this case, it certainly seems as though the ending wants to at least send you on your way without worrying that you’ll slit your wrists at the recognition of the futility of life.  Ok, done with railing against the ending.

So what is the general point of this post? I think it might be that a certain amount of informed viewership is sometimes wise. This is not to say that it’s always a good thing to know too and that approaching something without any preconceptions is a bad thing. But sometimes a little information and personal research/accountability does in fact go a long way, particuarly if you have children with you or if your only source of information is Harpo Productions. Or not. I mean, she did select the president. So maybe challenging her is an act in futility in itself.

Quarter century me check-in

Another birthday has now officially passed me by, and all that remains is a general feeling of “meh.” I’ve noticed that many of my postings as of late have been pretty rant-y in their conent, and so rather than complete a screed on the wonder/terror/panic-inducing effects of aging or the general wtf-ery that was my birthday day agenda (arrange an entire lecture series on my own: natch), I think I’m just going to make it a slightly different post.

I had relatively mid-level expectations of a birthday “tah dah!” acknowledgement at some point in the middle of a hectic, ridiculous filled day. This did not happen. I did receive a couple of much appreciated birthday wishes in the forms of cards, emails, and phone calls, but the day was sadly pizzazz-less.  And then I made my most awful mistake: convincing myself that the big reveal was being stored up until much much later in the day. Evening perhaps. Alas, it did not, which left me without fanfare and instead with a general feeling of bitterness. No, that’s too strong. The feeling of “meh” mentioned in the last paragraph was more correct.

I tend to not be the type of person that gets too wrapped up in the whole birthday thing. I tend to forget other people’s birthdays and so have no expectation that they will remember mine (clarification: I don’t “forget” that people have birthdays, I just don’t particuarly remember what date of the month their birthday’s fall on, but generally am pretty good about remembering the month or at least the season of said day, and I’m pretty up front about this and always compensate with the offer of a gift/activity/meal to the celebrant). So in truth, I shouldn’t be too shocked that mine went by with little of the balloon/cake/booze/hired strippers that would tend to go with such an event. I think what sort of made the day a little more meh than usual was the specific number of the birthday.

Yes, I am now 25. A quarter century. Five hands. So the day was spent wandering around at a somewhat franetic pace trying to do everything that I had foolishly booked into that day to get accomplished without much payoff at the end. Or I should say with the payoff at the end being sitting on my couch drinking alone to an episode of Gray’s Anatomy and Private Practice. It was one of those “This is my life” moments. Alas. Sigh.

But I’ve moved on from that day.  I’m starting the next quarter century. And as I see it, it can only build from meh. I’m not about to watch the Secret or do the power of positive thinking thing, but I realize that as of late, I’ve become a lot more comfortable in my own skin and have seriously considered a couple acts of self-improvement to increase that personal contentment. I’ve become slightly more proactive in trying to achieve personal and professional goals. I’ve also evaluated what at this point in my life is actually important to me. So we’ll see what happens.

Cue uplifting music circa mid-80s shlock films.

And on the 18th day of the 11th month

… there was raking!*

As though common sense finally overcame obstinant, non-self-conscious ignorance, today I witnessed raking. Undertaken by BOTH of my housemates. Searching for a two-headed snake or John Cusack in a rented jet… because the end must be near for this unprovoked occurrance to have, well, occurred.

*Slight addendum: this should not suggest that there was in any sense a total maintenance of the lawn or even completion of the raking process that occurred on this eighteenth day of the eleventh month of the two thousand and ninth year (I’m trying to get my students to stop thinking in terms of Judeo-Christian calendars and marking of time… so much for leading by example… do as I say, not as I do).  But at least the process started today. Single step. Single acorn. Journey. Forest. Etc.