I Cannot Live Without My Literature!

It's been too long, blogosphere. The intervening month has brought grading, sickness, and paper writing. And, most importantly, reading the Twilight Saga.

I could easily write one post per day on the antifeminist, antihumanist, or antipathy towards emotional stability themes of the novels... No wait. I could write a post per day on *any one of* those topics, from only *one* of the novels, and I would have a blog for a year. That might be an idea if I didn't think I would just get pissed at all the tween flames it would encourage.

But here's the thing:




Now don't get me wrong: if this marketing ploy works in getting a generation of rabid twihards to read Shakespeare, Austen, and Brontë, I'm all for it. You might remember a similar rant I made about Oprah's Book Club and the inclusion of Steinbeck, Márquez, Tolstoy, Faulkner.... Look, lady, you can't just make up for semi-trashy "women's lit" by bolstering your cred with "the classics."

But they used the same red and white flowers on black background jacket design, the same ridiculous taglines (If Pride and Prejudice is "the love that started it all," does that mean Romeo and Juliet wasn't chronologically first? And if, as Wuthering Heights suggests, "love never dies," how many people are going to expect vampires?), and the same FONT as Stephenie Meyer's books and website.

What really gets me, though, is the quotes they're using to sell these. "Mr. Darcy had never been so bewitched by any woman as he was by her." "I cannot live without my life! I cannot live without my soul!" "These violent delights have violent ends / And in their triumph die, like fire and powder, / Which, as they kiss, consume." And if none of that was blatant enough for you, Wuthering Heights has a seal on the cover boasting "Bella and Edward's favorite book!"

I don't know whether to be angry at how poorly they're representing these works or to be angry that someone came up with this design campaign before I did.

For The Person Who Has Everything...

This holiday season, why don't you treat your favorite friend to a Snuggie... for DOGS?



Yes, that's right, for the four-legged friend-of-a-friend who needs to keep his chest warm and his paws free, the Snuggie for Dogs is the perfect invention.

Except for the following problems:
~Dogs can sit, stand, or lie down, just as humans can, but humans do not go about dorsal-upward in two of these situations; the Snuggie for Dogs would *fall forward off the dog's back* if it were lying down or walking around!
~More importantly, dogs, unlike humans, have no reason to "keep their paws free," because they have no opposable thumbs: they do not need to hold a book, telephone, remote control, or any number of other activities that humans are pictured as enjoying from the confines of their backwards-sweater-blanket.

I've never particularly thought the Snuggie was a useful invention. This leaves aside the problems that arise when you consider that the Slanket came first, or that you might resemble alternately a lazy monk or a hoodless Klansman in your ridiculous blanket-gear of choice.

But this? I'm sorry. There's no excuse. This is a new low in cultural failure.

"When You're Here, You're Hammy"

Recently, young gentleman Chase Pearsall brought my attention to a particularly obnoxious and stilted ad campaign. Stop me when you've heard this: "When You're Here, You're Family."

Okay, you've stopped me. Now I'm going to go on about why the Olive Garden ad campaign makes me never want to eat there again. Let me for a moment ignore the, um, political implications underpinning "Sicilian Cooking" and "Part of the Family." Let's just look at a sampling of the commercials:



Figuring out all the permutations of pasta and sauce that a person could order. Who would do that? Let me rephrase: who would do that at a full table, surrounded by supposed friends, possibly coworkers, while everybody is obviously squirming in their seats to order some food so they can just eat and shut up the idiot who thinks this is the time for elementary mathematics? These people are not his friends: they pity him for not having anything better to do with his time. Some of them probably regret having invited him.

waitress: So what'll you have?
horrible d-bag: [upon seeing a passing entrée] I think I just saw it!
[everybody laughs]

waiter: More salad and breadsticks?
ravenous postmenopausal women: Always!
[everybody laughs]

white dude: You know what always gets us together?
token ethnic friend: Endless soup and salad!
[everybody—including the white dude, white chick, and token ethnic friend who comprise this bizarre love triangle—laughs]

brat princess: I like it. And soooo do my roommates!
[cut to overfed-freeloader roommates & family laughing]
creepy dad: I just want to make sure my little girl's okay.
brat princess: [with decidedly inflected Electra Complex overtones] Daddy!

Okay, forgive me if I'm being rude in rejecting mafioso hospitality, but I want no part of this family. My family does not laugh forcedly at jokes that aren't funny, and we don't stuff ourselves stupid on never-ending soup, salad, and pasta. In one of my favorite iterations, one character seriously says "Sometimes we're so busy eating, we forget to talk."

Wow, that does sound like fun. Sign me up for the next time those social geniuses get together to stuff so many breadsticks in their gobs that they nearly choke.

No, I *Know* I Can't Dance

I understand the appeal of talent reality shows. I even understand the appeal of non-talent-based reality shows. But I don't think I've ever understood So You Think You Can Dance.

Why is it that every time I stumble across this show (before the infinitely superior Glee), it looks like ev-er-y-body is advancing to the next round? I'm not even kidding. Last week I thought they were advancing people to the top twenty. Tonight I think I saw *six people in a row* get promoted to the top twenty. Did they do this two weeks in a row or am I mistaken?

And okay, I understand there are different styles (our top twenty apparently specialize in contemporary, jazz, krump, hip-hop, ballroom, and tap), but why do they all look to me like spinning, kicking, lurching bodies? I don't see a pattern, I don't see a rationale, and I don't understand why this is fun for people to watch.

I don't think I'm uncoordinated or gawky, in spite of the ridiculous number of bruises that always bedeck my limbs. I have in fact had dancers tell me that I walk like a dancer ("with great turnout"), but perhaps I should have taken more than one ballet class as a kid. For Glee or American Idol, I can understand the talent because I know when the "good" people aren't actually that good. And with Glee, you get the added bonus of dance *and* song, *AND* acting (but maybe that's because it's the best new show on television this fall).

Do you have to be a good dancer to appreciate dance?

A Request to the People of America

Dear My Fellows in Language-Use,

Can we please agree on a concerted effort to outmode the word "sex" as a verb? And more particularly, in its transitive form (cf. "I'm'ma ~ you up.")?

I would appreciate it.

Once that bomb has been dismantled, we can move on to eradicate the pernicious persistence of "eats" as a noun.

Grounded Criticism

I've taken it on myself to uncover the location of Los Angeles' best iced latte.

Disclaimer: This is the worst personal quest I could thrust on myself.

I've been trying very hard over the last summer to curb, if not entirely eliminate, my need for caffeine. I am, on the other hand, a graduate student, which makes said quest antithetical to my very existence. At very least, I have avoided soda in favor of tea or coffee. And I have avoided coffee in favor of good coffee. Again, an unfortunate choice, as good coffee costs more, and perhaps more than grad students can reasonably afford on a regular basis. From thence the paradox: go more broke or go less functional without my drug of choice?

The first attempt: L.A. Mill. A fortuitous occasion, since it was hot but I wanted a latte. It had a delightfully subtle gradation of color, as the coffee sank to the bottom, and the milk stayed above. Quite good.

Following attempts:
•Naturally, Starbucks. You know, because they're so unique to the Los Angeles area. Good, but obviously inconsistent at different locations (I've tried at least 10 different locations, people: Trojan Grounds, Vermont at Hoover, Beverly in B.Hills, Santa Monica at Fairfax or LaBrea...), with an occasional burned flavor.
•Psychobabble in Los Feliz Village: never had a good iced latte from this place, which is sad, because I like their hot beverages. Iced, somehow, it's always a very acrid brew for which no amount of sweetener can compensate.
•The Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf: Again, depends on the location (I've been to three of these), but generally better flavor than Starbucks, if a weaker cup. The Grove & Hillhurst at Franklin are good locations.
•Café Teuscher in Beverly Hills: as you might expect from the site, their mocha is waaaaaay better than their latte, iced or no.
•The Downbeat Café in Echo Park: Again, as with Psychobabble, I prefer their hot drinks. This, however, cannot but be avoided during hot summer months.

So far, though, the best iced latte L.A. has given me was from Peet's Coffee & Tea in Beverly Hills. The Peet's in the Glendale Galleria falls somewhat short, as it's just the coffee bar and not an entire coffee *shop*, per se. The iced latte I had in the BH location had not only the pleasant color gradation as first exemplified at L.A. Mill, strong flavor without bitterness, and subtle but palpable caffeine buzz, but the crowning achievement: a frothed top. With frothed milk, Peet's definitely set the iced latte beyond something that looks just as much like an iced coffee that you could get anywhere else.

Now here's the scandal to bring you back home to the disclaimer: some days I was just looking for caffeine, not a great beverage; some days I got a nonfat or 2% instead of whole milk; different baristas prepared the drinks; different times of day... blah blah blah. There is no real control in this experiment, which is irksome even to me. Maybe I should start it all again.

Or, if you like, recommend me to some new places: Intelligentsia, you'll notice, is not on the list. I haven't been there since Judy and I saw that really tragically ugly hipster: the experience was scarring. I'd also like to include Coffee Table or others that I'm obviously forgetting.

Weighty Issues

I sometimes wonder about the efficacy of such reality television shows as 'The Biggest Loser' or 'More to Love'.

The former is post-scripted (briefly, to my dismay) with the notice "All participants have been supervised and monitored by medical professionals during their participation. Consult your doctor before embarking on a weight-loss regimen." The latter seemed to suggest alternately that you should be comfortable and confident with the person you are, but also that it's ridiculously difficult to do that when confronted with all sorts of media representations that lie beyond your control (not to mention that the intended "prize" of the show was the love of a man who was already self-confident enough, suggesting that women should be more concerned with self-image than men should).

Tonight on 'The Biggest Loser,' I realized a particular facet of the show that makes me decidedly uncomfortable. During the elimination round, practically everyone was crying. I understand the emotional bond that forms between people when they are thrust together for an extended period of time (further speculations on this subject as applicable to my studies abroad are in line). What struck me, though, is that during this weight loss program, the body is suffering all sorts of physical, hormonal, neurological, and psychological trauma.

Of course these people are going to be emotional! The body does strange and unexpected things during extreme weight loss.

My concern now has shifted from the dangerous D.I.Y. implications of "weighty issue" shows, and have come to rest on the social, psychological, and emotional exploitation of people who, on account of side-effects, literally can't control themselves.