Brave New World

Last night America voted in her first African-American president. As I watched the booing and hissing crowd at McCains resignation speech, and then the ecstatic and weeping melee at Grant Park, I tried to feel something more than patience and relief. It seemed as though everyone else's emotions were riding very high; espousing alternatively doom or glory, defeat or victory one's tongue was either Blue or Red, Right or Wrong. I said nothing. I don't care that he is black. I don't care that he doesn't have any military service. I don't care that he is young. What I care about is myself, my family, and my environment and in those regards, Obama has won a very difficult position for the next four years. If history repeats itself Obama will be successful. He seems to be a positive and motivating agent of change. If he can bridge the gulf between parties or race or age he is a miracle man. But easy does it, America. The last streamer has fallen and the signs are coming down and now it's time to enact that word change. Slowly.
I am fortunate, however, to live through such events. It is good to see people glad to call themselves American again and good to once again be welcomed by the rest of the world.

What Happens to a Dream Deferred?

It is easy to have your head turned by such a powerful suitor as American Presidential Race. Look at them on the TV, as this is the closest most of us will ever come to our officials. On TV they are attractive, confident and well spoken. They photograph beautifully in front of their loving audiences. And they want you. It is natural, then, in that moment to forget that there is more involved than yourself. Maybe your mind is too full of red, white and blue to remember that the results of your vote involves not only you and those you love, but also people you will never know, maybe never understand and people whom you despise. Around 305 million people in all, give or take a few. It's quite a player who can pull that off. But it doesn't stop there! After all, it's always been America today, the World tomorrow.

Are these people on the TV really who they say they are and will they really do what they say they will do? Is our elective process so straightforward and above suspicion? In a word, no. This process is a sham; it is a bloated, arrogant, spoiled child beating a dog in between kisses. I am tired of being seduced and then slapped. We are a polarized, broke country at war and with few friends. We cannot bully or charm our way out of this one. Petty comments, shrouded intentions, and grandiose egos are the name of the game, but games invariably stop. These candidates need to stop making eyes at me and tell me exactly what they intend to do and how they will make it happen if elected.

9/11

A moment to remember this day-

Holy Phelps!

Quick question: Do you think that Michael Phelps, the greatest Michael Phelps of all Michael Phelps, will Michael Phelps OR will he Michael Phelps? Because, personally, I think Michael Phelps will totally Michael Phelps. Why should we Michael Phelps any of the other 450 Michael Phelps when Michael Fucking Phelps is there? Michael Phelps can do no Michael Phelps. This Michael Phelps is so Michael Phelps that only Michael Phelps, if Michael Phelps succeeds, Michael Phelps could literally Michael Phelps. So what if Michael Phelps looks like a Michael Phelps and acts like a Michael Phelps and, probably, Michael Phelps to Michael Phelps. MICHAEL PHELPS YOU.
Go Michael Phelps!!!!

Southern Gothic

I love the American South. When I moved there at 19 it was like moving to a different country, where literally everything was Topsy-turvy. But what does anyone know when they are 19? I married a Southerner and periodically we travel there for family functions, as we did this past weekend.
I am not as pliant as I used to be, nor do I have such a deep well of energy and wonder. I prefer to be by myself. All of these conditions conspire against me during the Southerner Extravaganzas that are the birthday parties, national holidays, or the just-fors. Inevitably I depart from home questioning this foreign culture. For instance: why are women and men and children so separated? Why must we always, always eat and drink richly? Why does no one go outside? How is it that only white people attend the functions while only black people serve them? Why must women be painted and trussed while men are, well, not? Curious and curiouser.
The southern Bourgeoisie are the opposite of myself and the knowledge stings. I am a loner, an intellectual, a feminist, an atheist, a proletariat, as well as being of Mediterranean/Midwestern stock; I am very much of an iconoclast amongst the iconodules. It makes for awkward conversation around the feta dip. But all things come to an end, and I am safely ensconced once more in the heavenly bosom of Oklahoma. This is a place where I possess all of those nettling virtues but the culture sees me as a rare, exotic bird, not as Mikey's Stupefying Consort.

Rom-Com-Drom's

Last Friday night I stayed up late (midnight!), and because my husband and children were asleep I had control of the TV. I was a little surprised by the offerings, but then again I was into the whiskey and the heady combination went to my head and I had an epiphany. Friday night is Girls' Night on cable. Jennifer Lopez, Sandra Bullock, the Squinty Eyed One who plays Bridget Jones, and their men (nice/assholish Texans, Brits, and other assorted types), also girly 80's movies like Footloose and Ferris Bueller! Girls in love! Girls locating identity! Girls!
In general I avoid the romantic-comedy-dramas-musicale that is the Chick Flick. I don't get, but then again I hated being a 14 year old girl. I hated mooning and pining under clouds of Aquanet. I did not practice french kissing on the doorknob. I did not participate in singalongs. But I am female, and then, as now, I find myself...sighing over love. Gross!
All of this introspection made me recount my own beloved girly shows. The movies where I liked the females, liked the males, and yes, I swooned. Did I want to marry (i.e. the country girls' admission of sexual desire) any of these dudes? No. Well, except one...or seven. Anyway, observe this clip from one of my favorite chick flicks:
Stupid Ashley! Ashley is stupid. Scarlett is wild. She is indomitable, except when it comes to her emotions, and then she's a mess. I never got the Ashley thing until my own Ashley, so to speak, and you can bet that I didn't throw away my Rhett over him. Lesson learned: a tree that does not bend breaks in the wind.
I also really like a good cry now and then. If you can watch this film without tearing up, you are without a soul. Sorry.

Lesson Learned: Broken hearts cannot be healed. I forget I'm watching a movie with this one. God, that scene is so sad. There should be disclaimers before this film; Warning! Some viewers will have their hearts is torn from their chests while crying until the point of collapse. Discretion is advised.
On the other hand, I enjoy a good romp in the hay. Much is banked on the chemistry of the lead characters; sometimes it is there but most of the time it's off or simply not present. To ensure a quality sex scene-they are making love, you know-the actors have to yearn for it. Like these two, for example.
Close your eyes...gagon. Gagon. Lesson learned: Spaghetti arms!
To be a girl means that deep down inside of you (some more than others) there is a love for conspicuous consumption. I really like the idea of spending a ton of money on myself. In the movies, there are one of two ways characters placed in this situation can go: bitchy or playful. Either way is good for me, so long as they buy outrageous things.
Good times. Lesson learned? Spending money is fun, but can be hazardous to your health.
Last but not least there is just good, old fashioned fun. It's good for the spirit to see something happy and free, even if it's make believe.
Lesson Learned: Sing loud, sing proud.

No Country for the Coen Boys

The country is a funny place. I think a lot of times it scares most people to death; being alone out there surrounded by nothing. What if something happens to you? No one will hear, no one will help, likewise no one will be there to share in your good fortune. Just clouds and sky above, dirt and rocks below. If you're in Texas anyway. I tend to avoid films or books that dramatize the horror vacui people experience in the open country. But I had to see this one.
West Texas is a common metaphor for barren ugliness in Oklahoma. "Well," people will say, "At least it ain't west Texas.". To think that someone would go through the trouble of making a movie out there. And it's as impeccable, sparse and empty as it should be. The air gun? Brilliant. My father is a cattle rancher; I have no illusions as to the fate of his herd. Air guns are (so I've been told, repeatedly) a humane and painless method of destruction. To use this device on humans is diabolical and richly ironic. To be executed in such manner by someone so inscrutable, driven, and fearless as the character of Anton gave me a glimpse of what the cattle must think before they perish. No Country is an engrossing and strange story of Nature, one I will likely not see as often as O Brother or Raising Arizona or even Fargo, but I appreciate that the Coens scooped up a handful of west Texas for us to contemplate before the wind blew it all away.

Of Eating and Indians

Oh, Thanksgiving. The splendors of cream cheese, the dance macabre of salt and sugar. Actually I really like Thanksgiving. I like the idea of doing nothing but eating, and nowadays, shopping as well. I suppose it's what people have always done around this time of year. The native Americans don't celebrate Thanksgiving and why should they? I grew up with Indian kids; I love their cultures and sympathize with their misgivings. The Indians are so wild and lovely and intelligent and the European immigrants have treated them unfairly. These peoples continue to share what little possessions they have, they give their time and effort to anyone who asks, they are honest. I wish our mutual histories could have been different.

Contextualizing Context

I'm enjoying George Trow's Within the Context of No Context although it is not the walk in the park I thought it would be. I do like the way he creeps up on the subject as though it was a wild animal, which is fitting. American culture can be so difficult to pin down. It's not as though we as Americans are invited to consider ourselves to be joined in a unified identity. The institution of rights or freedom begs disparateness. There are exceptions, of course. War unifies Americans very quickly if only for a moment. Joy in triumph, because Americans like to win. But our culture? Trow is either right or wrong on this one, but I can't judge him just yet.
Some favorite quotes thus far:
The most successful celebrities are products. Consider the real role in American life of Coca Cola. Is any man as well loved as this soft drink is?

The message of many things in America is "Like this or die". It is a strain.