Wii Need To Get Physical

The newest gadget in my house is a Wii Fit board. The Wii Fit’s concept is grand. The invention turns one of the most sedentary activities out there (video games) into a task that requires you to move – no doubt a cause-based marketing tactic directed at the fight against obesity. I had a *similar idea years ago but Nintendo seems to have refined their concept more than I did.

(*My invention being a retractable tether ball pole that could be secured to your living room ceiling. The ball was a sensor that swung back in your direction with increasing weight/intensity depending upon the force at which it was punched. Another spinoff: child-sized skis secured to a conveyer belt. Belt became increasingly steeper as child advanced in levels. The statement ‘You Broke Your Pelvis – Let’s Try Again!’ flashed across the screen when a player wiped out in a ravine or mogul.)

The Wii Fit comes with a variety of exercise programs. I have tried Yoga. As you perch on the board, (which suspiciously resembles a scale) a female instructor calmly demonstrates poses. While you struggle to contort your ridged body to resemble her perfect, digitally-generated curves, a urine-colored cloud appears near targeted areas. If your pose is in line with the instructor’s movement, a red dot materializes. If your pose is (inevitably) off, the instructor says antagonizing (errr), I mean, encouraging remarks like, “I notice you are not stable – find your center of balance” or “Remember to relax – breath in through your nose, out through your mouth.” While I am grateful for the constructive criticism, I don’t appreciate the haughty tone that creeps into the Instructor’s voice as I attempt the Half Moon Bend for the fifth time. My mind begins to wander. What does she really know? She lives inside a consol manufactured in Japan. She’ll never feel the pains of the freshman fifteen or post-baby stomach flab. Her figure will stay flawless, immune to the wear of aging. Is she a sympathetic motivator or just one of those mean, non-perspiring girls at the gym that glances condescendingly at your treadmill timer while you puff away? I don’t want to salute the sun! You salute the sun, Bitch! I lurch off the board, pick my runaway stretch pants out of my butt crack, grab the Wii and turn it off with a satisfying click. Then I go into the kitchen and calm myself down with a cookie.

How Corrupt Are You??

Ever wonder how rotten you really are? Take the "Casino Jack - How Corrupt Are You?" quiz and find out! I created the questions as well as the result descriptions. . .

http://casinojack-movie.com/corrupt-game/

Merry Bed Intruder

My sister Toni dreamed Santa was beside her bed on Christmas Eve, watching her sleep. I asked her to sketch a picture of what he looked like. In Toni's photo, Santa is beardless - a strong-jawed gentleman with twinkling eyes. I find her doodle to be inconsistent, despite her earnestness. Santa resembles another very real fantasy dude - Edward Cullen/Robert Pattinson. I gave Liv, my other sister, "Eclipse" on DVD that morning. My theory is as follows: Toni's subconscious is being overcrowded with pop culture triggers. Her Santa looks like a morose vampire because of Twilight mania. Her claim that he invaded her room stems from the viral video "Bed Intruder." Sooner or later "Up On The Housetop" will morph into "He be climbing into your chimney/Snatching your cookies up/Hide your Kids/Hide your Wife..."

Pull On My Beard

I have a few distinct memories of jolly St. Nick. I remember visiting him once or twice at the mall. One visit in particular is seared into my brain because of the carnage my brother left behind. In an attempt to touch the fake snowbanks in the Christmas Village, he managed to knock over the picket fence border, toppling all nearby decorations in a slapstick domino pile-up. I still recall the shrieks of other children in line, children horrified by the sight of paralyzed mechanical reindeer, (robotically pivoting their necks back and forth, back and forth, the side of their faces scraping against the ground) felled jumbo candy canes and crushed ornaments. Amidst the chaos, Kyle sat in the cotton batting, feeling the material with his fingertips and then loudly declaring, "This isn't real."

I had similar doubts about the legitimacy of Santa Clause. When I finally got to the front of the line and was placed upon his lap, I was more suspicious than impressed. Like those damn snowbanks, he was all fake flash - a beard made of perfect ringlets, a plastic belt buckle, matted fur cuffs. This isn't real.

While Mall Santa embodied all of the tacky wonders of middle America consumerism, Land of Make Believe Santa was a far stranger character. Land of Make Believe Santa lived in the Christmas Barn, one of the many attractions my hometown's kiddie amusement park had to offer. The barn was open year round, enabling children to have a chat with the Big Man in the heat of July. Visitors were escorted through a doorway that resembled a chimney. Upon climbing up a spiral staircase, one entered a gigantic attic filled with light-up displays. At the end of the path sat Santa, waiting patiently, creepily, for an inevitable interaction. While at the Christmas Barn, I refused to even sit on Santa's lap, choosing instead to stand a good five feet away and nod my head vigorously in response to his rhetorical questions. The decision was wise beyond my years. Santa smelled like moth balls and probably was played by Carnies on rotating shifts.

In my mind, if there was a Santa, he was Chris Van Allsburg's version. I had a copy of The Polar Express that came with a read-along cassette. I would take the book and my Casio recorder into my closet, shut the door and listen. The narrator's voice was deep and soothing. The story was also great. In The Polar Express, the main character is doubtful. However, Santa is a smart man, one who weaves the power of belief into the details of ordinary life. A train could take you to New York or the North Pole, a bell was a porch chime or part of a reindeer's harness. Magic was there but you had a choice - you could only see what you wanted to see.

Fighting Words Part II

In my last post, I described a fabulous Avoidance technique that recently has been used a great deal in order to avoid arguments with my Mom. I wish to follow up that remark with yet another procedure to add to one's arson of discourse skills. Sometimes the Avoidance tactic ("I DON'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT ANYMOORREEE!") doesn't do the trick. Frequently this is because the phrase is not utilized early enough in the conversation to quell the heat. In these situations, it is good to have an argument back-up plan to cut the subsequent awkwardness of future interactions that occur pre -make up (i.e. encounters at the dinner table, encounters in the living room, encounters in the hallway. . . if you are unfortunate enough to live with the person.) I will call technique two the Smack Talk Tension Reliever.

Steps:

1. Approach wronged/irritated individual
2. Start to say, "You make me so mad. . ."
3. Followed by a detailed description of an aggressive yet outlandish act
4. Encourage wronged/irritated individual to reciprocate
5. Hug each other

Examples of Potential Aggressive Yet Outlandish Acts:

"You make me so mad I am going to get you in the scissor hold and flick your earlobes until you whimper for mercy."

"You make me so mad I am going to punch your kneecaps with my thumb knuckles until they are red and chapped."

"You make me so mad I am going to pin you down, cram my big toe into your navel and dangle my bangs in your mouth."

The reason the Smack Talk Tension Reliever works is two-fold. First, it allows both parties to express hostility without physical contact. Secondly, it infuses humor into an otherwise humorless situation. Cracking a smile is the beginning step on the road to reconciliation.

Fighting Words

I have a good relationship with my Mom. Still, we do occasionally fight. Back in high school, I used to duke it out full force, passionately defending my point until the spat reached a shrill peak and both parties stormed off to their respective corners to simmer. Since moving home post-college, my arguing style has morphed into a more passive technique adopted from a friend of mine. If a conversation is going nowhere, instead of waiting until I am forced to completely commit to a debate, I say the phrase, "I don't want to talk about it anymore." Usually, the remark is initially ignored. Mom keeps voicing her complaint. Thus, I am forced to say it again, this time much louder: "I don't want to talk about IT ANYMORE!" The second statement generally elicits a pause - an improvement, but still not enough to end the conversation. Third time is a charm. By that point, I am yelling, "I DON'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT ANYYYMMMORRREEEE!!" - a shriek that is followed by silence.

I don't mean to suggest that avoiding talking about problems is an efficient way of solving them. I guess I am just at the point where I am grounded in my own personal perspective on things. I don't envision Mom changing her ideas on life and therefore don't expect mine to change much from sparring against hers. I am at my most unmovable when red-faced and irate. Mom does influence me though, more so in her day to day. When I come home from work and my coffee maker is magically clean, I want to be more organized. When I see her hot gluing Civics dioramas late into the evening, I want to be more involved. When I see her extend kind words to cashiers, waitresses, gas attendants and the like, I want to be more selfless. Most importantly, when I witness any of these actions I feel lucky to have her. . . even if she does drive me crazy from time to time.

Smash His Camera

I watched "Smash His Camera" on Netflix the other night. The documentary explores the life and legacy of Ron Galella, one of the founding fathers of paparazzi-style photo journalism. Some critics claim that Galella's work is parasitic - in that it fed off the fame of subjects, in that he latched onto these stars with an irritating ferociousness similar to a flea with a Cannon. I felt this uncomfortable tension while at an exhibit of his at the Met last Spring. I was wary, even with the white walls, descriptive cards and glass. He got punched in the face by Marlon Brando. He was sued by Jackie O. He likes bunnies a lot. He is a New Jersey native. Love him or hate him, Galella's sparked more than one conversation. I guess that is enough of a reason to recommend "Smash His Camera." As the credits rolled, I felt entertained and mildly itchy.

Our 5 Best Tree Ornaments

1. Kyle's Dyslexic Stocking - a red construction paper beaut with Kyle's initials spelled out in glitter: K.Z.
No, not K.S.
K.Z.

2. My Wreath O' Beans from Girl Scouts - a medley of dried beans affixed to a cardboard circle covered in hot glue. Nothing says "Merry Christmas" quite like fiber.

3. Oma's Decapitated Snowmen Yarn Heads - cheerful, googly-eyed snowmen with felt stocking caps that appear to be oblivious to the rest of their missing limbs.

4. My *Vintage (*Old) Wise Man - a plastic, hollow, teardrop shaped ball that contains one Wise Man figure, a Pine tree and a Camel. I never bothered to question why there was a Pine tree in the middle of the desert or where his other two equally Wise companions were. The decoration took on a higher value when I saved it from the clammy hands of a strange Townie while at my local antique store.

5. The Glass Pickle - a pickle made of glass. According to German tradition, (which, I assume, uses a real pickle as opposed to a glass one) a pickle is hidden in the Christmas Tree. On Christmas morning, whoever spots the pickle first gets an extra present. I have yet to see either of my Parents follow through with this promise. Every time the pickle is found, we are lucky if we receive a pat on the back, let alone an additional gift. Maybe it's because the urgency is nonexistent. If the pickle was real, it would be problematic if it wasn't found. The smell of rotting dill would permeate the entire room, killing the mood. When someone found the pickle, it would be relief worthy of a reward. One less year without the risk of later finding a shriveled, blackened vegetable, one that could easily be mistaken for a frost-bitten thumb, nestled between the branches.

Home Alone Revisited

"Home Alone" reminds me of Thanksgiving. Back in the 90's, NBC used to broadcast the flick on Thanksgiving night. My family would return from Grandma's house, bloated with food. My younger siblings were promptly put to bed. I, on the other hand, was allowed to stay up well past my usual bedtime to watch "Home Alone" with my parents. Sandwiched between them on the couch, I felt a nuanced sense of happiness. For one, those two hours marked a time in which I experienced what only children receive every day of the year: undivided attention. Nobody elbowed me underneath the blanket, wandered in front of the TV or tried to steal my seat when I got up to pee. Similar Macaulay Culkin, by some miracle I had on this night made (most of ) my family disappear. The film also sparked excitement for the sheer fact that it signaled the transition from Thanksgiving to Christmas - a time marked by a continuous stream of presents, blinking lights, dresses with doily collars and further eating. "Home Alone" was either the instigator of pre-Christmas joy or the background noise that accompanied it. Irregardless, years later I began to question the awesome-ness of the film. Like many things related to kid-dom, quality is often on par with perception. So, I did what was best: I watched it again. Gotta say, I was still enormously entertained. The slap-stick humor didn't hold up as much in terms of instigating massive bouts of laughter (a guy getting conked in the head multiple times is gold when you are under the age of 1o) but everything else kept my interest. Beyond remaining engaged, there was an outcropping of new questions and details that I had not noticed previously such as:

1. When Kevin first meets the Snow Shovel Man, his hand is wrapped in a piece of bloody cloth. The second time SSM meets/scares Kevin is at a Drug Store. We see SSM bloody cloth hand yet again when he grips the counter. The third time Kevin encounters SSM is at church. SSM's appearance is more docile and his hand now sports a Band Aid, probably one from the box he picked up while at the Drug Store. The continuity between all three scenes is funny.

2. The main reason given for Kevin's isolation is broken power lines. YET Kevin's parents are still able to call neighbors and leave messages. Also, Kevin later uses the phone to report that his house is being robbed. Fishy.

3. Kevin's older brother is the older brother from "The Adventures of Pete and Pete"

4. What happens to the mess Kevin makes after booby-trapping his house? Does he clean up before everyone gets home? What about the really messy stuff, like the tar on the steps or fire-scorched toilet? When his family arrives, Kevin looks well rested and his cuticles are pristine. Fishy x2.

5. John Hughes is listed in the credits as the author of the original story concept. John Hughes wrote "Uncle Buck" which starred Macaulay Culkin and John Candy. Their appearance in "Home Alone" is probably related to the Hughes connection.

6. Humphrey Bogart, the grittiest of celestial celebrities, is in "Angels with Dirty Faces."

...On that note, keep the change ya filthy animal.

Thankskilling

In honor of Thanksgiving, I would like to present "Thankskilling" - a movie about a homocidal turkey. The film disturbed me to my very core and made me grateful that I have yet (to my knowledge) angered a vengeful bird. As "Thankskilling" illustrates, they don't forget easy.

Bear-Proof Jacket

Winter weather is upon us. When the temperature goes down, I want something that is going to defend me from both the bite of frost and the bite of bears. Hence, this jacket is top on my list of 'need to own' wardrobe additions.

Grab Baggage

Today on the front page of my local newspaper, there was a picture of a woman's butt cheeks being heaved around by a TSA employee, followed by the headline "U.S. Firm on Airport Security." Many have complained about these new pat-down standards. TSA has been advertising the mandates as a necessary evil - groping that is thwarting terrorism, one boob caress and groin tap at a time. While this may (or probably may not) be true, the way the media has portrayed the story is hilarious. Most of the time, articles come from the perspective of human rights violations. However, their hard-hitting quality immediately dissolves upon looking at coinciding sidebars - slapstick-y photos that reek of embarrassment and latex gloves. Inspired by such images, I decided to take cues from print news and fashion some headlines of my own. Enjoy.

TSA CRACKS DOWN ON HOLIDAY TRAVELERS

One passenger complains, "I just want to go home. My wife is making beef stroganoff for dinner."

AIRPORTS REMAIN ABREAST ON NEW SECURITY MEASURES

"All female chests are being classified as a double threat," says Janet Napolitano, chief of Homeland Security

PASSENGERS GET SHORT END OF THE STICK

"Before each flight, I like to put my wand in the toaster over so it isn't too cold," states Edna Williams, Newark TSA employee

Puppy Love

I was fortunate enough to attend a screening of "Love and Other Drugs" on Monday night. After the movie was finished, Anne Hathaway and Jake Gyllenhaal appeared for a brief Q&A session. I have always found Jake Gyllenhaal to be attractive on screen. Up close, I was able to come to terms with why: Jake Gyllenhaal looks like a sleepy dog. During the whole interview, he was aloof, coming alive only when questions were thrown his way. His eyes were quite big and kind of droopy, his demeanor slouched. Celebrities are seen as THE beautiful people, the ones we are drawn to for aspiration or lust sake. I am beginning to think it is because they remind us of pleasant forms, complimentary details that are already engraved in our psyche. Sitting in my theater seat, studying Jake, my first thought was "Awww." My second thought was "I want to take you home with me." Pick ups at a Party? Pet Shop browsing? Maybe more synonymous then we think...

Aint Nothin' Sadder Than a Desperate Waiter

There is a new restaurant that opened up near my hometown - Cassia Grill.

The menu consists mainly of reasonably priced Turkish fare. My meal was delicious - stuffed grape leaves, dumplings, custard-y caramel dessert. However, I couldn't help but feel overwhelmingly sad while eating it. Aside from my friend and I, the place was empty. As a result of this, our waiter was overly eager to please. He recited the specials with extra care, chastised himself for spilling a few drops of coffee onto my saucer. Later he brought out complimentary truffles. Upon reassuring him that we didn't have any sort of walnut allergies, he placed the tray down on the table and explained with pride that he had made them himself. His broken English and cordial manners made us clutch our chests. The thought of him gingerly rolling balls of pliable chocolate in a kitchen late at night, half-absorbing an ESL cassette playing low nearby ("A little off the top please...I need just a trim.") was enough to make us cry. After we had finished our food, we found him stationed by the door, mint bowl in one hand, neatly wrapped leftovers in the other. In that moment, I wanted to gather him up in my arms, press his bearded face deep into my neck and sob "Don't give up on your dreams! You are a beautiful man! You have a truffle hobby for hell's sake! If anyone can make in the American food industry, it is you! YOU!" Instead, I took a mint from the bowl, looked deep into his eyes and vowed "I will return and bring others." He nodded his head solemnly. I am not sure if he believed me. Since then, I have kept my promise, spreading news of the establishment far and wide. Here I go again: anybody with an appetite should hit up Cassia Grill on Mansfield Road in Port Murray, NJ. You will leave full. You will also meet a server who possesses the heart of a saint and the passion of a dessert-making lion.

FIGHT for your RIGHT to PARRRKING!

Yesterday there was no parking at the bus stop. I parked in the lot of a breakfast joint next door instead. I've never done it before. The decision to leave my Volvo amidst Early Bird Special Loving Monte Carlos and Lincolns was an unfortunate byproduct of being extraordinarily late. Trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, I took a spot at the edge of the pavement, next to a dumpster that smelled like congealed maple syrup and paper place mats.

When I returned that night, there was a MS Word document stuck under my windshield wiper. The piece of paper read, "THIS IS A PRIVATE LOT. VEHICLES MAY BE TOWED AT THE OWNERS EXPENSE. THANK YOU FOR YOUR COOPERATION." Cooperation wasn't really the right word, as it described a willing negotiator, as opposed to a bullied participant. I was thankful for the curt warning until I noticed my driver's side window. Someone had reiterated the message on the glass in wipe-off marker. The handwriting had a loopy quality reminiscent of an preteen girl. Hand drawn doodle stars garnished the bottom of the sill, along with a curly underline. Why the person felt it necessary to tag my vehicle with a neon run-d0wn of my discrepancy, I'll never know. The vandalism felt like a graffitied Scarlet A, meant to shame me in front of the upstanding, proper patron crowd.

Similar to the Hawthorne version, the mark was not easily removed. Even after an aggressive rub down courtesy of my sleeve and spit, the statement remained. I was pissed. I was also very tired. I ended up driving home as is. Each time I stopped at a sign or light, passerbys would stare, mouthing the words to themselves. I kept my eyes fixed on the road. By the time I pulled into my driveway, my anger had morphed into an activist stance. How wrong. How dare she, power-hungry Preteen Hostess Girl, touch my personal property? I even went so far as to take a picture of the window the next day in the hopes of having evidence to file a complaint with the Better Business Bureau. In all honesty, I probably won't do anything. My moral fire has been doused by residual laziness. Sitting here, looking at the photo, I am no longer perturbed...more like moderately amused. Is apathy bad if it lets you laugh later?

I Got A Rock

"Charlie Brown and the Great Pumpkin" - I watched it for the fortieth time. I am always amused by this particular scene. Really pathetic on Charlie's part. Also, I can relate to Lucy's irritation. Between the ages of four and seven, my brother always got sick on Halloween. Thus, because I was able bodied (and the under the unwavering title of 'The Oldest'), I was forced to ask for double doses of candy from the Neighbors. I always tried to briefly explain the situation to the candy-giver prior to asking ("My brother got diarrhea and had to go home early. Can I have another box of Junior Mints for him?") Often times my well-rehearsed rationale was greeted with rolled eyes and wary dispensing. I was never outrightly denied an extra sweet but it did come at the cost of my credibility. Although, all of my kiddie wheeling and dealing was not in vain. When I did returned from the a night of T&T, fingers cold and pillow-case full, Kyle would be waiting on the couch for me, still dressed in a Robin Hood or Cowboy outfit that never saw the light of any porch bulbs, his breath smelling of Mylanta. He would paw through what I had secured for him, happy with his loot. I felt better knowing that I had once again prevented a Halloween brouhaha....
Oh, and as collateral for my efforts, I always gave myself the preferred of the two pieces. 1/2 of Kyle's bag was bastard confections like Dots and Necco Wafers. He never seemed to mind.

Halloweenies

I've got Halloween on the brain. Nothing to be alarmed about. What with the holiday being a week away, my preoccupation is not abby normal (bad "Young Frankenstein" reference...been watching seasonally appropriate movies too.) I don't celebrate Halloween to the extreme. I do however derived a great deal of satisfaction from coming up with a character that is different from the standard go-to choices. I am still not sure what I am being yet but exposure to this year's HOT NEW costume trends has reaffirmed to me what I do not wish to parade around in on All Souls Eve.

1. Light Up Skank-ess: As "Mean Girls" so eloquently states, "Halloween is the one night of the year when a girl can dress like a total slut and no other girl can say anything about it." There have been many variations on the sexy theme, some less obvious than others (Provocative Lady Bug?) The worst is yet to come. A new element has been added to these skimpy get-ups: lights. If a girl wasn't calling enough attention to herself as a Sensual Raggedy Ann Doll, let's puncture her tight, striped shirtfront full o' holes and light her up like a Christmas tree! The photo below is especially bothersome because of the anatomically correct skeleton blazoned across the torso. I know few guys who, after being approached by a woman with a blinking pelvis, would think, "Isn't she something special..."

2. Dictators: Politics and Halloween are often intermingled. A Dick Cheney rubber mask paired with a rifle is enough to get even the staunchest of Republicans and their Democrat counterparts to share a hearty chuckle. Dictators though? Maybe Che, for iconic reasons. Perhaps Castro, for nostalgia sake. Kim Jong? Ehhh. With the current strained ties America has with North Korea, is it smart to be impersonating the dude? What if a picture of a drunk frat bro doing a keg stand, dressed as Kim, gets leaked onto the Internet? The backlash is enough to cause another nuclear arms threat. Identity aside, the costume itself is racially muddy. The jumpsuit comes with a pair of thick glasses that have slanted eye holes. Is such an accessory necessary? Awkward...

3. Jersey Shore: The Jersey Shore phenomena literally hits close to home for me. I can't get over the notion that a terrible version of my state is presently being peddled in the aisles of Party City. Hilariously enough, we natives are not standing idle. Why pay 20 bucks for a Snookie hair piece when we've already got a vanity drawer full of Bump Its? Such facts were reiterated by an article published on Tuesday in The Star Ledger: "It's what they're wearing anyway. Half of our customers come in looking like them. It's funny because we're saying, 'It would be hot here, too, if they weren't already dressed like that.' "

(http://www.nj.com/entertainment/index.ssf/2010/10/halloween_costumesemulate_pop.html)

All the other states will be suckered into paying to dress like the kids from the Shore. Us? As far as MTV is concerned, we might as well be ourselves for Halloween.

4. Baby Wigs: There is no need for an in-depth explanation. The concept is exactly as it sounds. A wig...for a baby. I don't understand the twisted reasoning that makes Baby Wig wearing morally okay. For all those yuppie parents out there who get their digital camera snapping jollies from putting a toddler in a toupee, buck up your ideas. Buck them up quick. Your two year old might not be able to talk yet, but he still reserves the right to maintain his dignity.

Mad (Wo)men

In conjunction with the official close of "Mad Men" 's fourth season, here is a reprint of a review I did for Hopscotch, a online women's magazine:

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Over the years, television consumption patterns have reached new heights of accessibility. Back in the day, one waited on baited breath from week to week in order to satiate a question of universal fan anxiety: what happens next? Now, with the advent of online network streaming, there is no need for patience. Even crazier, one maintains the ability to latch on to a series at any point during its lifespan. Newly converted enthusiasts aren’t left behind for long. They digest past episodes as fast as Netflix can deliver.

I am a part of the latter category when it comes to “Mad Men.” For those of you out of the loop, “Mad Men” is an AMC drama that centers on the lives of Ad Execs on Madison Avenue in the early sixties. “Mad Men’s” overarching theme is “appearances can be deceiving.” The characters behave accordingly. Their lives are governed by image, similar to the carefully crafted product campaigns they create. Behind tailored suits and declarations of wholesome propriety exists a whirl pool of repressed sexuality, addiction, highbrow racism and gender inequality.

The show is an honest, smart look at what is perceived to be one of America’s most evolving decades to date. Although, sometimes being asked to remember disparaging bits about our social history is not perceived as entertaining. In fact, it is considered downright unpleasant. I was reminded of this while speaking with a Friend’s Mom about the return of “Mad Men” to AMC in August. After politely listening to my enthusiastic rant on plot developments, she informed me that she herself did not enjoy the show. Curious, I asked why. She replied that she was bothered by the way women were portrayed.

Prior to my Friend’s Mom’s assessment, I felt bloated yet confident in my new favorite TV show pick. I had gorged on all three seasons earlier in summer, eager to be up to date. However, it was quite possible that said binging had left me without a legitimate taste for “Mad Men’s” true flavor. Her comment got me thinking – why didn’t I feel bothered by the women of “Mad Men”?

The types chicks found in “Mad Men” fall into three categories: Secretaries, Wives and Single Girls. Secretaries are working women who cater to the needs of Sterling Cooper’s male employees, filing or otherwise. Wives are beautiful, chain-smoking visions of crinoline who fix casseroles for dinner and put the kids to bed. Single Girls are impressionable young things who sip cocktails and bat their lashes for the Right Guy.

A part of me validates these one-dimensional waifs via contextual reasoning. These personas were not invented by the writers of “Mad Men” – most already existed. Furthermore, they were reinforced by the ideologies of the time. I don’t believe it is correct to ignore ignorance – isn’t that what got us in trouble in the first place? Still, another line of analysis validates the notion that entertainment often inadvertently reinforces as opposed to changes ideas.

What should be noted is the difference between character and identity. Amidst an abundance of classically vapid females, “Man Men” tosses in a handful of individuals that break away from the heel-clad pack. One example is Peggy. Through the course of her development, Peggy evolves from a meek Assistant to a respected Copy Editor – a herculean promotion for a woman in a male-dominated profession. Another is Joan, an Office Manager. Joan holds the subtle upper hand when it comes to business dynamics. She draws you in, all curves and smiles, and then whispers in your ear exactly what she is after – the epitome of charm with an agenda.

Such women are not the majority. Yet, their effect on “Mad Men” is all the more profound because they are outnumbered, because (for now) they are not understood. As for the standard Secretary-Wife-Single, none are immune. All feel restless in one way or another, hunched behind their typewriters, blotting their lipstick. As for me, my fan anxiety has become null. Each Sunday, I am no longer drawn to the couch for the sake of suspense. I already know what is going to happen. I am just waiting for it to be realized.

Dessert Pants

My company is in the process of transitioning into a new office. The building itself has been in existence for awhile, sandwiched between familiar land marks like the Empire State Building and equally recognizable (yet not as tourist-inspiring) squat roof-top water towers. Because the twelfth floor is now OUR FLOOR, personal touches were unquestionably necessary. All of the trapping of redecoration were employed (stripping, tearing, sanding, caulking, gutting) practices that sound on par with a violent pillage. I had already bore witness to the process years before when my Parents were building a house. Since then I envision Contractors to be Vikings in hard-hats. They pat flustered customers on the shoulder with their clipboards and assure them, amidst piles of dust and smoking wires, that what lays before them will some day (pending schedule) be beautiful. As for us, the glory of a fully functional, completely chic establishment remains to be see. I knew better than to hope for a smooth transition. What I didn't anticipate was the opportunity to influence a portion of the space. Last week, I was asked to mull over paint samples and pick out potential colors for the kitchen. I tried not to read into the request (I am a girl. Girls spend alot of time in the Kitchen. Girls know what a Kitchen should look like...no, not really.) I chose a light shade of yellow labeled Lemon Sorbet. I was hungry at the time, which inadvertently swayed me towards food-inspired titles. The finality of my empty-stomach-based selection was not realized until the following Wednesday when I was introduced to the freshly painted space. Crucial information had been withheld from me. I hadn't been told that the ceilings were gray, as well as the floor. Set against a dark border, the mellow yellow became radioactive. Everyone shook their heads. I had failed at my gender-given task. Refusing to be discouraged, I backtracked and rebounded with a less controversial tan. Lemon Sorbet was promptly concealed under a thick layer of Khaki. No use crying over misplaced paint.

If I continue to lack focus in regards to my life, I may look into becoming a Paint Sample Namer. Two Reasons: First, power. I would be the person who makes couples sweat it out in the isles of Home Depot, agonizing over the seemingly endless differences between Moonlight White and Simply White. Who else can say that their authority resides in the careful manipulation of nuanced details? Second, originality. My paint samples would be items, emotions, situations we all are aware of but never have considered...

Current Working Ideas:

1. 5'o Clock Flush (watery Pink)
2. Farmer's Tan (ruddy Red)
3. Talk Radio (garish Green)
4. Silent Treatment (Muted Gray)
5. Bread Ends (Crusty Brown)

Until I get the chance to peddle my ideas to Sherwin Williams, my dessert walls will just have to be patient and wear pants.

Snore.

It has been repeatedly emphasized to me that the key to a successful Blog is constant updating. Though the notion makes sense, it is in equal parts exhausting. I guess I am afraid that if I force myself to write too much, I am going to have to forsake quality for quantity. I don't want to bore you with what I ate for Breakfast (unless, while eating Breakfast, I happen to find a severed finger floating amidst my Fruit Loops) or gush about the latest date I went on (unless the date ended spectacularly - me pressed against a strong, trench-coat-clad chest, muttering deep into the fabric 'Darling, I must be getting home...it is much too late' as people dart past us, silhouettes against shop windows hazy with condensation.) Yes, the small things in life are worth mentioning if described with purpose or rationalized with the help of absurdity. Still, a Blog can easily digress into a self-absorbed entity. Any conversation worth having is never one-sided. The problem with Blogs is that they don't come equipped with social cues. Normal sharing involves an individual on the other side of a table, couch, bench, nodding their head, making reaffirming noises. I know when to pause and let he/she relay their thoughts. I can tell when you understand what I am saying or, (more crucial) know that you are listening.

I don't believe creative people who claim that they make art for themselves. Their mantra is output only needs to involve the maker. Even if they make a point never to display, I doubt there isn't at least a fleeting desire to let someone in. One of the joys of writing is that giddy feeling I get shortly after finishing a story. In that suspended moment, I am not yet sure if anyone besides me will think the piece I wrote is interesting, if anybody will wish to read it. Nevertheless, I don't keep much of what I write tucked away. I am okay with being the fidgety girl with a smile on her face (a smile that could just as easily be a cringe), clutching a stack of papers, vulnerable but ready to take a chance.

It's Alivvveee!!

Sometimes I feel like the Internet is a living, breathing entity. A ragtag group of Techies were the proud parents, the Inventors whose overlapping sparks and experiments brought it to life. In the fashion of all good artificial creatures, there always exists a discrepancy. Successful discovery is sweet. Usually Victor Frankenstein stops by with a bottle of champagne. While everyone is busy with a toast, the thing creeps about in an adjoining room away from earshot, heavy footed and unabashedly curious. Responsibility is realized when confronted with a rebellion. Our mild mannered being has become surly. Accordingly, we attempt to reinstate our authority. Lay down some boundaries, light a few torches.

The Internet is different though. Instead of embodying one fevered brain, it has millions. Its cranium pulses with user-generated additions, content uploaded as fast a our modems allow. How do you control something that is constantly evolving, aided by the food of strangers? Such a problem is only heightened by issues of quality or intent. A mad dash to contain what has already been set free ensues. Subsequent preventative measures include Virus Protection, Spyware and Backup Modems. These practices are not 100 percent. My Inbox is perfect proof. Every so often I receive Spam, despite the blocker on my provider's program. I don't mind the intrusions. In fact, sometimes I think they are quite lovely. When data is squeezed through a filter, many of the connecting threads are lost. What you end up with is a mash of words that, at one point, went together; words that still go together, in a more raw and interesting way.

A sample:

"Went Michael Kors accepted? Dearest loved ones form, Saturday. Well write disaster off just being awkward? August, March, February, December, November. Tahiti, Oprah and Russell Crowe Tom. Holiday born good, secret surgeries sure they're. Locks ageless sex symbol same apply, no. Miss from connection close. Currently studying degree in english, literature national."

A mark of development is the ability to express oneself. An even more advanced degree of communication is that which takes on flair or personality. The Internet is groping, straining out beyond the reach of the clarifying drain I've installed. I can't make out the sentences anymore but perhaps that is intentional. Maybe spam is the Internet's poetry.

Ride. Walk. Work. Repeat.

The commuting life is not for the faint of wills. There exists a stubbornness, a mass that wedges itself deep down inside your work ethic, somewhere within hearing distance of a perpetual inner dialogue. The voice rattles the rib cage saying "hurryupbuytheticketismystopnextwhattimeisitgetOUTOFMYWAY!" A soft Recorder rendition of the Pixie's "Monkey Gone to Heaven" sometimes cuts in during brief moments of stationary waiting.

One particularly epic bout of travel happened two weeks ago. I arrived at the bus stop. Passengers snaked down the border of the cement lot. There were too many of us. I knew it even before the Driver pulled in and assessed the crowd. We peered at him with bleary eyes, some clutching suitcases, others gnawing on bagels procured from briefcases. In a halting tone, the Driver explained that the earlier run had gone missing, sucked into a highway black hole mistaken for an exit. There weren't enough seats for everyone. His speech was of little use. Any excuse amounted to the same simple fact - we were going to be late. Normally, tardiness was classified as an unfortunate complication. But on this day, The First Day of a new job, the delay took on a deeper meaning. I approached the Driver, intending to be a calm negotiator. He took a few steps back, wary of rebuke. I placed what felt like a smile on my face and asked when the next bus was due. He glanced at his clipboard.

"Thirty minutes."

My facade faltered.

"No, sorry. I need an alternative."

I stared at him.

He began to fidget.

"Uh...I don't know what to say. I mean, I guess you could stand."

And that is how I ended up in the 8:10's isle, sandwiched between a terse Asian Accountant and a balding man wearing a starch-stained shirt. My fingers ached from clutching the baggage compartment above me, my teeth were clenched from sudden stops. On my resume I had claimed that I was innovative, a forward thinker. If my Boss could have seen me right then, there is little doubt he wouldn't agree...

Thankfully, I didn't have to hang on for too long. The intercom spit static. Another route had been notified. All misplaced passengers would be switched. The Driver pulled over. We stumbled out to a second idling bus, a pathetic achy trio.

The incident has caused me to reflect on my evolving impressions of commuting. For awhile, the process was all about leaving - a preoccupation with my return home. Recently the urge has been replaced with a desire to stay. Tunnels and roads take me away from where I want to be as opposed to sending me back to where I belong. For now each evening ends with a goodbye. However, I am trying to be patient. Traffic doesn't bother me as much. At the very least it keeps me there a bit longer.

Mane n' Tail

My dad loves a deal.

I needed a shower.

The two are related.

I swear.

I go for a jog.

I sweat.

I come home, enter the bathroom, turn on the spigot above the tub, pull back the sticky plastic curtain.

I get in.

I shampoo my hair.

I shave my pits.

I reach for the conditioner on the ledge.

The bottle is economically thick.

Heavier than the slender packaging of Pantene Pro V, Herbal Essence, Suave.

I squeeze a bit into my palm, rake it through my scalp.

Hands now free, I turn the bottle over, scan the label.

The silhouette of two galloping steeds is followed by a description.

Mane n' Tail

(The Original)

Directions for Human Use: Apply Mane n' Tail. The amount used will depend on the length and volume of hair. Let conditioner remain for 1-2 minutes. Rinse out, dry and style as usual.

Directions for Animal Use: Apply liberally at base of mane and tail, working formula out to entire length of hair. A wet, glossy look will appear until absorbed into hair and skin. Can be used to condition the entire body. Keep away from eyes and mucus membranes.

I walk with a gait in my step for the remainder of the day.

Toss my bangs from side to side.

Later Dad catches me tearing up the lawn with my teeth.

"Shit, Addie! I just seeded that patch!"

I skitter away from his grip, nostrils flared, gums stained green.

Defeated, Dad begins to trudge back towards the house, suitcase flopping against his kneecaps.

I come to a halt.

I spit out a mangled dandelion stem.

"Hey! It's not my fault! I'm not the one who does the grocery shopping!"

Mr. Grey is Pink

On Saturday my Netflix queue left "Secretary" in my mailbox. The plot of "Secretary" is as follows: Maggie Gyllenhaal plays Lee, a introverted woman who struggles with cutting. After being released from a mental institution and returning home to her dysfunctional family, Lee begins to regress. Lee is granted momentary reprieve when presented with a Secretary opening at a Law Office. Her new boss is Mr. Grey, (James Spader) a man with equally off-beat proclivities. He is an Egomaniac. Lee is inclined towards self-loathing. The combination of these two natures eventually morphs normal office dynamics into that of routine Sadomasochism. The subject matter sounds dark and indeed there are a few raw moments. However, for the most part humor and quirkiness rein over what could be a rather depressing story.

A lot of viewers would probably remember "Secretary" because of the kinky bits. However, what stuck in my brain long after the spanking subsided is James Spader's persona. Spader has played Mr. Grey before. In "Pretty in Pink" he was Steff, a calculating, cruel rich boy with feathered hair and chest cleavage. Steff's target is Andy, (Molly Ringwald) a timid 80's Cinderella who dares to defy social protocol by dating Steff's weathly friend. Throughout "Pretty in Pink," Steff terrorizes Andy for reasons I could never quite understand. Yeah, she is kinda poor (see unemployed father, home-made dress, bland split level house) but Steff's harassment is not on par with Andy's level of threat. Is it mildly irritating that a buddy is dating someone who's fashion sense mirrors that of a Grandma? Sure, but not enough to warrant making her existence a living hell.

AND THERE is the "Secretary" connection. Spader is not just a pigeon-holed bad guy, he is a type. Spader plays a Sadomasochist, no matter what the cinematic context. Still, the reason "Secretary" is him at his most believable is the fact that he has someone to beat down who doesn't shy away from the blows. Because of Lee's lack of victimization, Mr. Grey is seen as complex - both a Savior and an Aggressor. In contrast, in "Pink" he just comes off as an irate Bully with too much free time on his hands. Spader as Sadomasochist is effective only when he is allowed to transcend his assumed one-dimensional association with others on screen. If not, we as the audience are left to channel what was originally intended for the abuse recipient. Some of us are left feeling unconvinced. Other viewers enjoy it, hit play and hold out their wrists, waiting to be trussed up and debased with comforting regularity by the cold antics of James Spader...
I will part ways with a crappy found youtube slideshow, aptly entitled "Why James Spader is Hot." Relish in it. Or don't. Depends on what you like.

Video Masha-roo!

This week has been a bit on the crazy side. My brain feels as if it is wrapped in jello-soaked gauze. I don't have much to say...
I feel as if I should share something amusing.
Ready?
Go.
Recently I have been doing Video Mashups - similar to Music Mash-ups. One video is watched with the volume off while audio from video 2 is played simultaneously.

Here is video 1: MIA's "Paper Planes"


- hit pause when the video comes up.

Here is video 2: trailer for "Babies"


- mute/pause "Babies" trailer
- hit play on MIA video
- hit play on the "Babies" trailer
- watch "Babies" trailer while audio from MIA plays in background

the end.

The Birds

Today I woke up to the sound of shrieks.

Liv peeled back my sheets, shook my shoulders.

"There is a bird in the living room!"

I didn't believe her.

"You are being ridiculous."
She was insistent.

Toni, Mom and I went downstairs.

Crouched behind the couch was a small black swallow. It had beady eyes and a gaping, moist mouth.

We screamed.

It chirped.

We screamed again.

We convened in the kitchen.

Toni had an idea.

"Birds like bread. Lets make a trail of bread towards the door and it will eat it and it will leave."

I opened up the refrigerator and took out a slice of Jewish Rye.

We entered the living room again, bait in hand.

Toni grabbed the bread from my grip and started to tear the crust apart. The rest of us shouted instructions.

"You need to make the crumbs smaller!"

"No, no, place the bread closer. He can't reach that far!"

"Put a piece in your mouth first, chew it a bit and then hold it out to him in your palm. But don't let him touch your palm. He probably has mites."

Frustrated and flustered, Toni heaved what remained of the offering at the swallow.

The bird flapped its wings and flew at our morning hair.

We yelled and scattered.

The bird traveled up the stairs and landed on a ceiling light in the hallway.

Mom got a towel from the bathroom and a chair.

Balancing on the chair, she cautiously unfolded her terrycloth net. The bird gazed at her, curious and waiting.

Mom sprang. The swallow jumped too, feathers crashing against a face.

It landed in a bedroom, huddled behind a guitar case.

Red and panting, Mom turned to us.

"If I don't come out in a couple of minutes, call your father."

She entered the bedroom and closed the door.

There was a sharp "eeee," some scraping, shadows flitting underneath the frame, another "ug!" and the clap of a window against a sill.

I walked over and placed my ear to the cool wood.

"Mom?"

I turned the knob.

Mom lay across the bed, spent.
A light breeze rippled through the space.

"Where is the bird?"

One finger lifted, pointed to an open screen.

"Out."

The Commun(e)ity Pool

My house is part of Green Acres - a county-sanctioned conservation area. Our home was built before the bill took effect, a yellow clapboard irony stationed amidst preserved parks and rolling farm fields. In Spring, while on a stroll, I noticed a dirt path perpendicular to the paved road. Instead of leading me further away from civilized ecology (those New Jersey plants that were given the okay to grow) it brought me to a pool.

The pool was a gigantic cement crater filled with blue liquid. Inside the structure's wire enclosure was one black chrome grill, one shed, three chewed foam noodles and two picnic benches. It resembled a portion of a suburban ghost town, a barbecue left on the heels of an air raid. I kept moving.

The next day, my Mom asked me to tell her again what I had seen.

"It was a pool."

"A pool in the middle of the woods?"

"Yes."

"Were there people swimming?"

"Maybe. They were gone."

Mom didn't leave it.

"Let me call around. Someone has to know."

"The animals built it. Weather's been humid. Especially with all that fur."

Mom lifted the phone from its cradle.

Olivia's friend Lauren's Parents knew.

According to them, it was a Community Pool. A gift left to the block by an eccentric donor, long since dead. We could join, if we were interested. All that was required was proof of residence and a check.

Mom mailed the check to a PO Box.

We got a letter and a key in return.

The letter read,

"Welcome! We are kicking off the summer season on June 19th!!! Everyone is invited to come to help fill the pool and tidy up! Remember, all members are responsible for grounds maintenance. If you see leaves, skim them up! Don't assume that another member will. Also, a reminder: there is no Lifeguard. Children must be accompanied by an adult. Adults, if you see a child drowning who is not your own, pick them up! Don't assume that another member will. Water wings and charcoal is stored in the shed. Thanks!! :)"

A weekend later, I packed towels into a striped bag. My sisters put on their flip flops. We were ready for a dip.

The pool sat waiting for us. The water was no longer still. Kids clambered in and out, slick and screeching. A woman draped in an XXL tshirt prodded hot dogs with a pair of tongs. She glanced up.

"Hello."

"Hi."

I laid our belongs out on the surface of a picnic table. Olivia and Toni jumped into the shallow end. I took out a book and started to read. Twenty minutes passed. My neck began to ache. I scanned the area. An unoccupied chair leaned against the fence.

I stood up and walked over to the chair. The woman had moved to another table nearby, now busy assembling her cooked hot dogs

My fingers hesitantly grazed the spine of the chair.

"Excuse me, does this belong to you?"

The woman stopped prying apart buns.

"What? Oh no, that doesn't belong to me - it belongs to all of the members."

"Is it alright if I use it?"

"Of course. Don't be silly."

I picked up the chair and retreated back to my spot.

The woman approached the edge of the pool and called to her kids.

Lunch was ready.

The kids ran dripping to the food, peeling the meat from the bread, fighting for the mustard.

Toni and Olivia followed their retreat. They jogged over to me and wrapped themselves in towels.

I pulled out a can of soda, cracked the tab, took a sip.

A girl had parted from the group meal. She approached us, carrying three hot dogs on a paper plate.

"These are for you."

I was touched.

"Really? So nice of you to think of us!"

The girl fiddled with the elastic goggle strap held taunt against her hair.

"My mom says that you always have to think of others."

The girl stared at my soda can.

I motioned to my bag

"Want one?"

As I pulled out another drink, the rest of the kids gathered around me, hands outstretched, fingertips pruned.

I sat upright.

"Oh, I, uh, don't think I have enough..."

The kids' faces flickered with puzzlement.

They lowered their arms and dispersed.

The girl remained.

She strapped her goggles over her eyes and smiled.

"That's okay. You didn't know. Next time make sure to pack more."

She ran to catch up with her brothers and sisters.

I watched her go.

Olivia sandwiched herself next to me on the chair, munching on a gifted hot dog.

I flipped through my book, trying to locate my page.

"Where am I?"

A moment passed.

I found the paragraph.

Olivia finished her snack.

She leaned on my shoulder, sighed with contentment.

"I like it here. Everybody shares."

Lion's Milk

A friend and I wandered the sidewalks of New Hope, heading in the direction of dinner. As we walked, we noticed a bearded man parked in front of a store. The man had a magnificent gut. It spilled out over the edge of his waistband, held mid-air by a pair of red suspenders. He leaned on a cane. The man heard our approaching footsteps. He hastily grabbed at a basket sitting next to him.
"Ladies, I have something for you."
Something could be anything, anything could be something not worth stopping for. It was a trap. Besides, we were hungry.
"No thanks."
"Please, it is free."
Remove the value and the something became inconsequential.
We stopped. The man placed a safety pin decorated with glass beads in each of our wary palms.
"What is this?"
"It is a charm!"
I glanced at the basket. It was filled. People don't just spend hours beading safety pins, especially complimentary ones.
"Thanks, but why?"
The man sputtered.
"Well...to celebrate the end of spring and the return of summer and....uh...they are good luck."
A highly specific answer. I accepted it, fastening the nick-knack to my bag. We started to gather our belongings.
"Wait! There is more."
We paused, eyebrows raised.
"If you go through these doors, in the backyard is one of the world's largest tapestry pillows. I bet you'd love to recline on one of the world's largest tapestry pillows."
Maybe...
"Also, there are snacks."
Actually, yes. Yes, we would.
The man flourished with his cane towards the entrance. We stepped inside. The interior was the truest of wall to wall carpet - overlapping shag rugs in deep jewel tones, dim, sounds padded, voices muffled by yarn insulation.
Out back was a modest lot - crab grass, a crumpled oak. There, underneath the oak, was one of the world's largest tapestry pillows. It stretched out for miles, lumpy tiles cross-hatched together with thick thread. We gingerly stepped onto it, searching out its center. Upon locating a nucleus, we lay down. My limbs fell at awkward angles, knees elevated, pelvis sunk in, head skewed. The skin on the back of my wrists pressed against stiff follicles.
"Excuse me, would you two like your picture taken on one of the world's largest tapestry pillows?"
I sat up.
A woman with varicose veins held out a card with the letter 'B'
I crawled across the great expanse.
I took it from her.
I smiled.
A camera's flash fired.
My friend remembered a promise.
"Where are the snacks?"
The woman pointed to a cart.
Behind the cart was a boy. The boy wore a shrunken vest and a squat cap.
Half-hearted, he gestured to a spread.
"This is a cheese pastry. Over here we have stuffed grape leaves. We have Lion's Milk shots too."
"Lion's Milk?"
"It is a Turkish drink made out of grain alcohol."
"Can we get one of those?"
"Sure."
We knocked back the mix in dixie cups. I gagged, overwhelmed by anise.
"Sorry. I should have told you they were strong...Lions are strong. Get it?"
"I get it."
"Don't feel like you have to finish it. I can give you some water."
"No, I'm alright."
My friend was charmed.
"So, you live around here?"
"Yeah. But I go to the University of Maryland."
"You look a little like Aladdin in that outfit."
The boy rubbed his forehead.
"I am not even from Turkey...it is a summer job. I kind of hate it."
The Lion's Milk had begun to sink into my bones. Sympathy gripped me.
"It's gonna be okay man. Money is money."
Chanting music faded in from a nearby speaker.
The boy poured himself a shot and sipped it.
"I know."
Our conversation ended abruptly.
The woman with varicose veins had tapped me on the shoulder and asked for my email address. I gave it to her, opening up my mailbox to upholstered spam of all kinds.
We left only after being assured that we'd soon be receiving photo evidence of our moment of suspension, set adrift on one of the world's largest tapestry pillows.

Benjamin Braddock Complex

Yesterday I moved out of my college house. The weeks leading up to my departure were soggy, filled with random crying jags instigated by the most conventional of activities. I would take a jog around campus and suddenly be choked by sweaty sobs. A similar teary attack was experienced in a grocery store's freezer isle. It would have been reasonable to accept these snotty moments as par for the course if they were held against the backdrop of appropriate emotional occasions – i.e. last day of classes, commencement ceremonies, Senior Week activities…they weren’t though. I was buying perogies.
Even now, confront with memories of my empty bedroom, I am dry-eyed. One part of my brain says that I should view my lack of water works as progress. The other half worries that I may be lapsing into a sort of stagnant Benjamin Braddock complex. I absolutely love the movie “The Graduate.” My love used to be centered on remote facets of the film (Simon and Garfunkel soundtrack, 60’s decade nuances, sexy garters and stockings). Presently, my preoccupation with the flick has morphed into a deep personal affection for Dustin Hoffman’s character. I know that that is a very obvious statement. He plays a twenty-something college graduate. I am a twenty-something college graduate. Why wouldn’t we be buddies? Nonetheless, I can’t discredit the fact that takes a lot of skill to make a film that not only portrays a stage in life but also successfully understands it. So, get ready for a list. Since the reference is apparent, the title will be too:

TRUTHS FOUND IN THE GRADUATE

The ‘F’ Word – If I haven’t been asked it once, I have been asked it forty times:
“What are you going to do now?”
“Well, that’s a little hard to say.”
I have already made a mental note and faxed it on ice to Future Addie. The message reads: “When encountering recent college graduates, do not ask them what they are doing next. Most don’t know yet and subsequently feel like shit because they don’t have a worthwhile answer.”
Exhibit A:


Floating – In relation to the above, post-college plans have in fact been on my mind. I have also managed to misplace the momentum necessary to begin making these arrangements. My normal self-starter impulses are kaput. I am not moving forwards or backwards. I am just drifting.
Exhibit B:


Pomp and Circumstance – “The Graduate” has one of the best conclusions of all time, bar none. It illustrates an awkward letdown, a subtle exchange between two people after the hype of an event has subsided. The formal elements of college ceremonies are similar to that of a wedding – you’ve got an outfit and rituals to perform. In the midst of it all, it is easy to get caught up. You exit the stadium (or, in their case, flee from a church) out into the real world. All at once, there is a calm followed by a thought. Ben and Elaine’s face is familiar because it is my own. I’m wedged between them in the backseat of a bus, staring out into the aisle, listless and wondering “Now what?”
Exhibit C:


..Huh?
You don’t want to watch the last clip because it will spoil the ending?
Why haven’t you seen the movie yet?
It is a classic.
What are you waiting for?
Do it now.
Really.
Otherwise, you won’t get this parting reference:

……ELAAAINNEEE!!!!!!!

Grandma Sings Van Halen

Every May my Dad's side of the family has a Memorial weekend picnic. Since getting older my mode of operation has been eat, answer generic questions about my life from obscure relatives, digest, eat more, pass out in a lawn chair. Ambient music is usually played while people mill around. The music does not come from a stereo and speakers. It comes from an trio of uncles that play the accordion, harmonica and guitar. In the past, song choices were geared towards the ancients among us - German folk tunes. As the years went by, handfuls of these older individuals would move on to the Great Gig in the Sky. Their increased absences at picnics created gaps in the song sphere, fault lines where semi-contemporary music could leech in unnoticed. Such trends reached new epic heights this past weekend. At first I wasn't sure what was happening. I was lolling in my usual shady spot, deviled egg filling stuck to my chin, when I heard one of the guitarists start to strum. The melody sounded oh so familiar but in my food coma, I had an extraordinarily difficult time placing it.
Then he started singing, "I'm your ice cream man/stop me when I'm passing by..."
The reference was simmering in my brain.
He continued. "See now all my flavors are guaranteed to satisfy."
My Grandparents were seated nearby, listening to the music. Never ones to turn down a chance to sing, they started to chime in, learning they went.
"All my flavors are guaranteed to satisfy!" they repeated.
I was on the brink of recognition.
He proceeded: "I'm usually passin' by just around eleven o'clock/And if ya' let me cool you one time/you'll be my regular stop!"
The Grandparents harmonized: "Cool you one time/you'll be my regular stooooppp!"
Then, I got it. They were singing Van Halen.
My revelation swept in on the tails of my Grandmother's final chorus. Clapping to the beat, she brought the tune to a rousing close with a final sweet, pristine
"I'm guaranteed to satisfyyyy!"
The best part is I'm positive that they both thought it was a Buddy Holly song about selling Popsicles.

http://http//www.youtube.com/watch?v=hvDL_3c8Hak&feature=related