Too Long

I've been neglecting this blog in favor of my Tumblr. But for the sake of greater accessibility, I'm putting something out here:

I'm not a film student anymore.

No, I know: I still occasionally work on adaptations & visual compositions, and I know a lot about movies, and I have seen a lot of movies, but I'm not working on critical interpretation of films primarily. I've had people introduce me to other academics as a film studies person, which doesn't bother me; it just means they haven't been keeping up with me. I'm not a famous scholar (yet...) so that's forgivable.

What I don't like, however, is people being surprised, nearly personally offended, when I haven't seen their New Favorite Best New Favorite Movie Ever.

I even understand this to an extent, I guess: I live in Los Angeles and I am interested in movies. Therefore, I should have seen it.

But here's the other problem: I live in Los Angeles. Ticket prices: high. Drive to the theater: takes time. Sitting through the movie: takes more time. Finding parking: annoying time taker. For the cost of the ticket plus the cost of time I'm spending, it's not worth it to me to go see movies in theaters when I could be doing other things.

Here is a short list of movies I haven't seen recently that EVERYONE is apparently losing their crap over:
~Scott Pilgrim vs. the World
~The Expendables
~The Last Exorcism
~Toy Story 3
~The Kids Are All Right
~Mesrine: Killer Instinct
~Inception
~Avatar

And then they refuse to talk to me about them because either "they don't want to ruin it" (I don't care if you spoil it, I didn't bother to see it in theaters) or else "they don't want to spend the time catching me up" (then don't be rude: change the subject).

To give you an idea, the last movie I saw in theaters was Iron Man 2, on a date (i.e. with someone I wanted to be spending time with, so the experience didn't feel self-indulgent; much the more delight when he got all traditional on me and paid).

Call Me Christopher Because I'm Walkin'

Okay, does anybody else have this problem?

You're heading down the street, and someone comes veering into the pedestrian walkway out of nowhere. They're walking right in your peripheral vision, so you lengthen your stride to leave them in your wake, but they speed up, nearly unconsciously, to match you. Then you try to slow down to let them pass, but they stay directly at your side. So *then* you have to do a full stop and look like a fool, or slacken your pace to an unnatural slowness, which is even worse, *or* you have to freaking truck it and start sweating from the exertion because *some* idiot doesn't understand personal boundaries and *why* would they walk so close to you anyway?!

My point is, these people are probably the same jerks who get reckless driving citations.

My (Only) Friend (The End)

Recent outings have provoked my thoughtful speculation on the politics of prefixing "my friend" before introducing one's companions. I have a weird sense that the weight of the cue is considerably less pervasive in LGBTQ circles, but maybe I only think that way because of my limited perspective of said circles.

Here is a situation: [Miss A introduces Mister B to Mister C] "Hey, C. This is my friend B."

Good. A counterpoint: [Mister X introduces Miss Y to Anygender Z] "Z, hey, how's it going. This is my friend Miss Y."

I have a theory about this. A theory of coded language. In the first situation, A has introduced B as "my friend" because she wants C to know that B is decidedly *not* her boyfriend, just a boy who is her friend. Translation: "Hey, C. This is my friend B, whom I'm not dating. I'm making the fact clear that I'm NOT dating B because I want you to know that you have a chance." B could indeed be introduced to any acquaintance of A as "my friend": after all, A wants everybody to know that she's available and looking. If A introduces B just as "this is B" to C, she is hoping that C suspects the most and will back off in any unwanted advances.

Now the counterpoint. X, being a heterosexual male, has probably been raised to believe that emotion + masculine = negative connotations. Translation: "Z, hey, how's it going. This is my friend Miss Y. I kind of think I want to date her, but maybe I'm just in it for the conversation, and I'm confused about whether or not she likes me, and I'm not sure how to recognize whether or not what I feel for her is anything more than genial friendship. I'm too much of an emotion-coward to define the relationship at this point, so I will continue to qualify her during introductions as 'my friend' because I wouldn't want her, myself, or anybody else to suspect that something romantically emotional, and therefore bad, might be going on."

Oh, the dynamism of language. I'm not kidding when I say that every example I've ever witnessed of this prefixing phenomenon fits my defining criteria. I defy you to produce a situation (real, not hypothetical) that disproves my theory.

The final word: for women, "my friend" means "my friend;" for men, "my friend" means "my confusion."


[Pam: "Hey, Nico, this is Jim Morrison." // Jim, later, to Nico: "Oh yeah, that's my friend Pam."]

Jewel of Denial

The website OutofYourLife.com was on the news tonight. The opening lines of the script went something like this:

"You're so in love. You're so happy. For now. But after it goes bad, every time you tell yourself 'It's time to move on!' there's a beautiful piece of bling staring up at you."

Two things: First, *every* time you tell yourself to move on there's jewelry involved? And second, who still says "bling"?

I can't say that I understand the financial or political implications of a broken engagement, having never been engaged. I would hope that I could eventually remember that I would be able to move on and make a rational decision about what to do with the ring. The whole process of residual jewelry, though, makes me cringe.

This should probably be prefaced with the following: heteronormative, yes. Also, I've never dated a guy who has given me jewelry. Of any kind. Let alone of the expensive variety. Unless you count the kid in elementary school who gave me a ring from his CrackerJack box, which I'm sure was the height of expenditure at the time. Honestly, I'm glad about this: I think jewelry and flowers are generally easy choices early in a relationship from a well-meaning guy who can't think of something that speaks to you because he doesn't know you well enough yet. But nobody wants to spend *that* much money so early a relationship. And also, who said He has to buy Her things?

Anyway, I've heard there are "rules" for the jewels. For example, She gets to keep the ring if He proposes on Her birthday, or on Christmas. I've never heard of exemptions for couples who do not celebrate Christmas, suggesting that perhaps only Christian Americans have these bizarre "rules," or alternately that Muslims, Jews, Hindus &c. do not marry (the latter is obviously false). I've heard that if He breaks it off, She gets to keep it no matter what. If She breaks it off, She keeps it only on the birthday/Christmas clause. And of course, the "who breaks it off" language is little more than the blame game (e.g. "I ended it because She cheated, so she'd better give me back my ring!").

But back to Out Of Your Life. Check out their web slogans: "Ex-boyfriend, Ex-jewelry." "Request a free Break-Up Box," in which you mail your symbolic emotions for money. And my favorite, "For Richer or Richer."

Yes, because every time I break up with a guy, it would have ended in years of bliss otherwise. Grow up, people. Every romantic relationship will end one of two ways: happily ever after, or not. This accounts for casual dating, hookups, engagements, marriages, second-marriages, and Liz Taylor. And "happily ever" isn't always happy: there are messes and disagreements and it's work and you learn things and you deal with it. I dare say I feel the same about money: it doesn't just plop into your lap because you mailed in your cast-off diamonds. There's honest work that should be behind it or else there's no value in it. So maybe there's a parallel between expecting quick cash and expecting fast and flawless love.

Or maybe marriage hasn't changed so much from the days in which the practice was all part of an exchange economy. My parents have ten nubile female goats and two milk cows to my name. Prove me wrong.

Something is seriously weird here. Financial compensation isn't going to stop the problem. Or maybe it will. I guess I wouldn't know because I've never received that sweet cash reward.

Jason and the Jargonauts

This week and last, I and my cohorts have been involved in a rigorous and exhausting teacher training "boot camp." For now, let's leave aside my own frustrations (i.e. it is entirely impossible to learn theories of teaching without practice, and it is impossible to practice without students, and it is impossible to practice *on* students during the summer when they are all enjoying their last vacation days).

I know a lot of teachers. A lot. Including people whose job descriptions never seemed to indicate any teaching component. I understand the need for specialized language in different disciplines (e.g. it is impossible to talk about mathematics without "algebra," "calculus," "quotient," and the like). But there's a certain painful confusion amongst teachers when the conversation turns to The Language of Teaching.

Do you call it: (a) syllabus, (b) curriculum, (c) course plan, (d) course description, (e) semester plan, (f)... you get the point.

And this is the tip of the iceberg. It doesn't even deal with uncertainty *within* a given discipline: for Freshman Composition, do you call it "exposition," "argumentation," "claim-making," "position-staking," "debate"? Do you hand out "assignments," "prompts," "topics," "drills," "essay questions"? Grading scale? Rubric? Scoring chart? Conference? Discussion? Office meeting?

I've seen organization, arrangement, "flow," paragraphing, construction, control; thesis, claim, position; cogency, originality, rigor, innovation, invention; support, evidence, examples, outside source, quotation; style, diction, tone, word choice, vocabulary, fluency... the lists suffer constant growth (expansion, accretion, lengthening...).

This is not to be confused with academic tendencies to create b.s. words that mean what they sound like they say (incorporealness?). That's a different beast and blog post altogether.

Why, save my soul, do institutions not normalize a language of teaching?

A provisional answer: 'We're a unique institution. Nobody does it quite like us.' Translation: 'We figured out the RIGHT WAY to do things! U-S-A! U-S-A!'

Forget Paris!

I wonder if my biggest transformation is not having transformed….

So ModCloth is doing this terrific transformations contest, and I wanted to come up with something witty yet heartwarming, perhaps that would make my reader tip her head slightly, gazing fondly into the distance, a smile just at the corner of her mouth. You know, that “best blog ever, could’ve won me any college scholarship, what I did on my summer vacation” kind of entry. Uh, yeah. Easy.

No. Transformations are not so apparent. It’s not all black and white.

Or is it?



In high school, I went to Paris with some classmates and our French teacher. I’m sure I imagined walking away from the trip unbearably chic: a fantastic haircut, new unique clothing, some je ne sais quoi. Instead, of course, we were shuttled around like a certain twelve little girls in two straight lines. No freedom for high schoolers.

People dream their whole lives about going to Paris. Why did it seem like I was getting a dull version? Oh yeah, because everyone in Paris, it seemed, dressed in black and white. No subtle shades of color, no subtle shades of grey, even. Heaven forbid mad couture dresses flouncing down the Champs Élysées. The hub of fashion, right? Maybe they’re saving their fancy outfits for clubbing. Maybe they’re going for a minimalist look.

Maybe ::gasp!:: they don’t really care what other people think of their clothing.

Not just clothing. Slowly, of course, the trend caught. I don’t mean the black and white, I mean the devil may care attitude. Because seriously, why should they wear rainbows just because a schoolgirl tourist expects it? And why should I want to transform myself into a grande dame when I’m not?

So yeah. My transformation was not to transform: no pretending, no phonies, no Parisian savoir faire for someone who’s not from Paris. But strangely, after this trip, I did live differently. I laughed more, I danced more, I found it easier to socialize, and I finally (uh, eventually) figured out how to be myself.

Maybe you’d wear bright green in a crowd of black and white to be noticed, but maybe you won’t be. Maybe if you dress similarly to everyone else, you’ll feel like you belong. Maybe if you’re cynical, you won’t care what other people think of you because usually they don’t think of you. Or maybe you’ll find something subtly unique about each person, in the cut of the fabric or the breadth of the stride.

Löst Highway

I often wonder how many people driving through this city at any given time are perpetually sedated or regularly hallucinating. No need to use your turn signal: The Man can hear your every thought. Also, please enjoy driving in my blind spot for several miles: I am so hypersensitive I can feel anything within twenty yards of me, regardless of my large, metal mode of conveyance.

To counteract any potentially regrettable acts of road rage, a friend of mine once told me that he likes to shake his fist and growl "Lousy Sunday drivers!" but I have found that the shaking fist is often too visible. In view of California's hands-free cell phone law passed last summer, to see someone's mouth moving without another living person in the car with him is no longer uncommon. Thus, lately, I have chosen to speak quietly and calmly to the offending driver from the privacy of my car.

They don't know what I'm saying, or even if I'm saying it to them. Or even if I'm talking and not singing along to some music. So what do you suppose I'm saying?

Nothing so crass. Imagine everyone's favorite modular Swedish furniture chain, IKEA. Haven't we all, at one time or another, found their product names hilariously obscene while knowing full well that they are not? For example, my mom and I enjoyed assembling "those flärke bookcases," and I know many people would have an adolescent-style laugh to know that the Grundtal Line manufactures scales and toilet paper holders.

I refuse to believe, however Germanic and guttural these words sound, that they are obscene. This is, after all, the land that brought us many good things from Ångström to Zetterberg Since this is, then, an infinitely respectable country, I have taken to stringing together syllables that sound as though they could be assigned to IKEA product lines.

So remember: blaerb before you tröng, yupuppup means you need to slandegen, and there is no fleungling allowed at any ingedde.

Cab Drivers: A Hate Song

Los Angeles is well known for its hoards (and hordes) of terrible drivers. Last night, I met one of them.

My friend Stew gave me a statistic about the number of people in this city that drive without a license. I don't remember the number, but I do know it was staggering, and also that I wholeheartedly believe it. Since I moved here eleven months ago, I have watched countless red lights run with impunity, have been cut off without a blinker to warn me that someone doesn't find it necessary to check his/her blind spot before switching lanes, have had two people scrape my car in parking garages without leaving a note, have enjoyed weekly car chases on the news, and have even had a man sideswipe me and drive away.

Once I overestimated my knowledge of the Vue's proportions and scuffed a woman while I was trying to get into a left-hand turn lane; more than being upset with myself, I was filled with rage for a city in which I could be made to feel bad for being the responsible one. Oh no, we can't have that in this city. Let us instead reward those who screech about in thousands of pounds of forged metal heedless of their surroundings. They are the true heroes of Los Angeles.

Even after Stew gave me the statistical factoid, I found a new level of motorist excellence. I had dropped off the guys who came to the Smog Cutter for karaoke, and was exhaustedly heading home for sleep. Driving south on Edgemont avenue, about to stop at the Hollywood boulevard intersection, the light turned green. I had enough green light to think, "My lucky stars! This stop-light changed for me because it wants me to get home more quickly!" How long did it take you to read that thought? About five seconds. I had a green light for five seconds, and a taxi cab comes barreling eastbound along Hollywood blvd. so quickly that I wonder if he's going to stop. He does not. He coasts, still at about 25 miles per hour, into the intersection although he has had a red light for that same five seconds. More in fact, because there is a second delay before the lights switch.

After he almost broadsides my car and I warn him off with the horn, he turns behind me, and tailgates me for half a block. I am driving 25, which at this point is probably over the speed limit because it's a hospital zone. Instead of learning his lesson (i.e. "Don't get upset with someone who has honked at you for disobeying the law."), he floors the gas and speeds past me. In a hospital zone. Over a double-yellow line. And he gets caught by the next red light, so it was a good thing he passed me, or he would have had to wait longer in order to... wait. At the red light.

For any other car, this would be a moment of disgust. Cab drivers, on the other hand, openly ask you, in text, on the back and sides of their vehicles, "How's my driving?" Oh, I'm glad you asked. I dial the number, which LA Taxi lists as "Checker Cab" company and let their call center receptionist know that taxi #3619 is driving like a maniac, disobeying traffic signals, right of way, posted speed limit, and no passing zones. Victory is mine, "Cab Calloway." Don't you forget it. My project to censure Los Angeles drivers is off to an auspicious beginning.

The moral of this story: Don't get into Checker Cab #3619. He does not deserve to share the road.

Roommating Season

SWF seeks non-Single White Female living situation. Must like literature-PhD-spurred profound asocial tendencies, demanding meticulousness, obsessive compulsive cleaning, over-protective ownership of inanimate possessions (including kitchenware and bath products), Crazy Cat Lady decor, claustrophobia, passive-aggressive use of post-it notes to remind you of "chores," Fox television lineup (including House, Fringe, Dollhouse), timid fear of monopolizing common spaces, self-hermitage to bedroom, impending insanity & worse claustrophobia from completing all work in cloister-bedroom, frequent whining about how men/women/small dogs don't like me, respectful quiet and restraint from conversation while I'm reading. Stay away from my Reese's Peanut Butter Cups. Non-smoker only.

With great readership comes great responsibility...

With four official followers already, and others who have pledged to follow, I feel compelled and inspired to begin my journey of mastery in the short-essay form. Taking a cue from that acid-tongued Algonquian Circle member, I start with "The Men I Am Not Married To."

In my last post, I mentioned two dashing gentlemen who convinced me to start blogging again. Woe betide me that they weren't the only gentlemen who approached me that evening. Oh no. There were, of course, the prematurely aging lawyers, one of whom gave me his card "in case I ever need help in copyright litigation;" a balding gay man; one who blew cigarette smoke in my face as we sat on the patio (and thank goodness for the patio, or else he wouldn't have been able to smoke *at all*!); and the most curious find of the evening, a small Greek man who remarkably resembled Jonathan Levinson from 'Buffy the Vampire Slayer.'

I was sitting and telling my compatriots about my summer course (find the PDF syllabus here), and how we were reading Leopold von Sacher-Masoch for the next class. "Masoch?" you say? "Sounds familiar...." Add "-ism" to the end and you have it. So just as this wee Greek was seating himself, I held my tongue momentarily, lest I frighten or enthrall him. Everyone begs me to continue, so I conclude "...and the story is all about this guy getting whipped."

Now something must have been lost in translation, because wee-G didn't understand that I was speaking for the author of the book, not for myself. He approached me later with the regard, "[imagine the most stereotypical Greek accent] So, you're the BDSM girl." No, thank you, but I'm reading it. "Oh. Yeah. It's cool. I'm into being tied up." Fine, but I don't think you understand. "I can tell I'm freaking you out." Not really. I know people do this; I'm reading about it, you know? I just don't think it's very classy to talk about that with someone you've just met. "But you did...." No, I was talking to my friends. I know them. "I just don't like to have trivial conversations. I think it's better to be more adventurous." Very well. Take your adventures to the girl in the thigh-high boots, then. I'm sure she's much more your type.

Well then. As sorry as I am to have missed the paddle-boat, I wonder what it is about South-East European/Mediterranean cultures that says propositioning is socially acceptable. An acquaintance of mine who is currently in Greece apparently recently had a man ask if he could call her or "feel her" later, so it wasn't just wee-G. Having invented democracy, Western philosophy, and spanakopita does not make it right for you to tell me your proclivities on our first meeting, so please stop displaying your prominent bodily hairs and oils.

So what is the cultural train-wreck, here? I mean, we're both acting according to cultural mores, so is anyone "wrong" in this situation? Must there be an impasse? Is there a point of compromise between offending/offended? Or is someone always going to be the bottom?