Thursday, December 11, 2008
Poor California Boys
Today I was sitting in a coffee shop working on my papers and this guy comes in in shorts, a trench coat and sunglasses with white rims. He kept whistling and shaking his leg while he was sitting at the table. After reading for five minutes, he tells the guy behind the counter, "Richard. I always forget what 'ontological' means. Do you know?"
Sunday, December 07, 2008
One eyed Ulysses
Consider these photos:
I got them from this webpage: http://eyepatchstore.com/_wsn/page4.html, which sells eyepatches "for medical and cosmetic reasons." Eye patches are sexy. They're like one-eyed sunglasses. I love the peek-a-boo mystery, we know that there may be something, er, "unsightly" under the patch, yet it's covered by this lovely debonair opaque monocle. You get part of the "I'm blind and therefore wise" on one side and full ocular action on the other. It's like a headband with a flap. I love them. I want one. I highly encourage you to check out this webpage's gallery of eyepatch-wearers throughout history. He's my favorite:
I spent my last $10 on fake glasses in 1998 when I lived at BYU:
And my coworkers at Barnes and Noble made fun of me when they found out. How did they know? I wouldn't let them try them on.
Maybe I could rock an eyepatch for "cosmetic" purposes, as the website says. I think that I might make people worry though; I'd have to explain it all the time (the most annoying thing about my lip piercing: "did that hurt?"). I could only wear the patch around people I didn't know, like when I went grocery shopping. Or on the bus.
One time my friend's Dad almost lost his eye. She went to visit him in the hospital, and when she was in the parking lot she looked down and saw an eye patch someone had crafted with a fake eyelash glued to it. She took it as a good sign (her Dad did not lose his eye). What was the most bizarre thing about this story is that a few years before that, when I went to visit my grandfather in the hospital on the other side of the country, I went to get into my car and on the cement there was a purple velvet eyepatch with a fake eyelash glued to it.
I got them from this webpage: http://eyepatchstore.com/_wsn/page4.html, which sells eyepatches "for medical and cosmetic reasons." Eye patches are sexy. They're like one-eyed sunglasses. I love the peek-a-boo mystery, we know that there may be something, er, "unsightly" under the patch, yet it's covered by this lovely debonair opaque monocle. You get part of the "I'm blind and therefore wise" on one side and full ocular action on the other. It's like a headband with a flap. I love them. I want one. I highly encourage you to check out this webpage's gallery of eyepatch-wearers throughout history. He's my favorite:
I spent my last $10 on fake glasses in 1998 when I lived at BYU:
And my coworkers at Barnes and Noble made fun of me when they found out. How did they know? I wouldn't let them try them on.
Maybe I could rock an eyepatch for "cosmetic" purposes, as the website says. I think that I might make people worry though; I'd have to explain it all the time (the most annoying thing about my lip piercing: "did that hurt?"). I could only wear the patch around people I didn't know, like when I went grocery shopping. Or on the bus.
One time my friend's Dad almost lost his eye. She went to visit him in the hospital, and when she was in the parking lot she looked down and saw an eye patch someone had crafted with a fake eyelash glued to it. She took it as a good sign (her Dad did not lose his eye). What was the most bizarre thing about this story is that a few years before that, when I went to visit my grandfather in the hospital on the other side of the country, I went to get into my car and on the cement there was a purple velvet eyepatch with a fake eyelash glued to it.
Saturday, December 06, 2008
When in Rome, ignore the locals and do as you damn well please
Does anybody else hear the idiom "When in Rome do as the Romans do" like EVERY SINGLE fucking DAY? Sometimes from your own mouth?
Seriously. Is it that true? I wish we'd start saying "A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush" more often. Or "little pitchers have big ears." Or "You always kill the one you love." Really people!
P.S. They even say the Rome idiom in Korea and Japan.
Seriously. Is it that true? I wish we'd start saying "A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush" more often. Or "little pitchers have big ears." Or "You always kill the one you love." Really people!
P.S. They even say the Rome idiom in Korea and Japan.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Me Night Nurse Never Want to Plant De Corn
So Andy Samberg of Saturday Night Live recently made a music video parodying young white college boys who appropriate Rastafari culture. It's absolutely hilarious, but even more, if you go to this blog to see it you can read the lyrics, and even more importantly, read the comments from the readers who helped the blogger figure out what exactly Andy Samberg was making fun of.
I'm taking a Caribbean poetry class this Fall and for our unit on dub poetry I've done a bit of research on Rastafari. What is most interesting to me is the grammar, using "I" as a plural pronoun. Check out this wikipedia page.
What I think is so amazing about this video is the number of allusions in it that only a person very familiar with Rastafari and reggae culture would get. However, it makes people want to figure them out (look at all the different comments on the guy's blog), thus it becomes a kind of educational tool. So even though it is making fun of innocent/ignorant white folks, it is simultaneously educating them/us. It makes us question the validity of appropriating other cultures' customs without true knowledge of them, but, instead of demonizing the people who do this, it just makes them just look ignorant and therefore laughable. This is really powerful. When you realize that this video is primarily intended to make people laugh, it makes you think about what tools are really effective for social change. Satire works.
Besides, there's no way I would have even know that the word "bumbleclot" is an insult in Rastafari culture that means dirty menstrual cloth if it weren't for this video. (Thanks to my brother's blog to telling me about this video.)
I'm taking a Caribbean poetry class this Fall and for our unit on dub poetry I've done a bit of research on Rastafari. What is most interesting to me is the grammar, using "I" as a plural pronoun. Check out this wikipedia page.
What I think is so amazing about this video is the number of allusions in it that only a person very familiar with Rastafari and reggae culture would get. However, it makes people want to figure them out (look at all the different comments on the guy's blog), thus it becomes a kind of educational tool. So even though it is making fun of innocent/ignorant white folks, it is simultaneously educating them/us. It makes us question the validity of appropriating other cultures' customs without true knowledge of them, but, instead of demonizing the people who do this, it just makes them just look ignorant and therefore laughable. This is really powerful. When you realize that this video is primarily intended to make people laugh, it makes you think about what tools are really effective for social change. Satire works.
Besides, there's no way I would have even know that the word "bumbleclot" is an insult in Rastafari culture that means dirty menstrual cloth if it weren't for this video. (Thanks to my brother's blog to telling me about this video.)
Sunday, October 26, 2008
A cool fact , a prediction, and a hope.
Cool Fact:
Long before they were known to English speakers as avocados, they were called alligator pears.
Prediction:
In fifteen years rebel kids will co-opt Swiper from Dora the Explorer.
Hope:
Hip Hop will co-opt the Rebel flag.
Long before they were known to English speakers as avocados, they were called alligator pears.
Prediction:
In fifteen years rebel kids will co-opt Swiper from Dora the Explorer.
Hope:
Hip Hop will co-opt the Rebel flag.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
One Handed Questionnaire
So sometimes I cook myself a nice dinner and then I sit down at the table. I wish I were the kind of person who could just taste each delicious mouthful she has cooked and ponder how to describe the taste of shallots, but the truth is that I only do that kind of shit when I can talk about it with other people. Eating each bite mindfully when I'm alone makes me feel like an anorexic on death row. I want to ENJOY my meal, not deliberate on every morsel. So, as a compromise, I often read about food while I eat. Those crazy Italians say "The man who eats alone dies alone." I like to think that I'm just having a one-sided conversation with M.F.K. Fisher or A.J. Liebling or the authors of the The Joy of Cooking.
It doesn't make any damn sense to read about Parmesan Black Pepper muffins while you're eating fried rice, but I do it all the time. Problem is that I end up sitting there a few hours later still reading about creamed cauliflower or currants, and my should-be leftovers are congealing on the stove.
So that's what I did tonight, with my Thursday-is-the-new-Saturday grad student schedule. This time though I sat at the computer, and a few glasses of wine and a few extra scoops of fried rice later, I found this website: Eat Drink One Woman She has different folks fill out a food-related questionnaire each week. Reading them in succession helps distract you from your pretty unsuccessful fried rice.
I thought it would be fun to answer the questionnaire myself. I heartily encourage you doing the same in the comments. Maybe you could do it one-handedly while you are eating? If y'all all do, I'll make a new post just for them!
***
Name: Susanna Williams
Occupation: Grad student/ English tutor
Borough: In CA we call them neighborhoods, and mine is actually a small town called Moss Beach.
Relationship status: That has nothing whatsoever to do with food and is none of your damn business.
What did you eat today?
Half carrot/half orange juice on campus
Frozen banana, vanilla soy milk, almond butter smoothie
Veggie-melt sandwich from the local pizzeria I have never eaten at
Half a chocolate bar when I woke up from my nap (I had a bit of a hangover)
Fried rice I made at home
What do you never eat?
Restaurant Chinese food, mustard, relish, chicken breast, chicken nuggets, milk, chocolate and mint together
Complete this sentence: In my refrigerator, you can always find:
vanilla soy milk, carrots, celery, butter, frozen bananas (for smoothies), Hellman's mayonaise (y'all call it "Best Foods" in the west)
What is your favorite kitchen item?
My square wooden spoon. It's a spoon and spatula. And has notches in it from when it was once used as a drum stick.
Where do you eat out most frequently?
The food on campus at SF State is surprisingly healthy, cheap, and delicious. I eat the falafel plate on campus a lot or get a weird healthy burrito (I'm a sucker for bourgeois burritos).
I also eat burritos at the taqueria in Half Moon Bay that doubles as a fried chicken joint. It's SO HANDS DOWN the best taqueria on the coast. And I will fight you if you disagree.
And I guess I eat out in Big Sur a lot at the bakery for breakfast.
World ends tomorrow. What would you like for your last meal?
It depends on who is with me. If it's my love, then I would eat sexy food that makes me close my eyes and chew. Blue cheese, lamb, fatty raw tuna, artichokes, chocolate truffles from Recchiuti (it's in the Ferry building). If it's my family, then squash casserole, grandma's green beans she grew in her garden and canned, mama's mac and cheese casserole and chicken n' dumplins, my pecan pie, sweet tea, and Aunt Sherry's peach ice cream. There should be a bread, but I swear that nobody in my family (including me) can make a decent bread, be it cornbread, biscuits, or pie crust. I'd probably be happiest with canned biscuits (and apple butter). If I were alone, it's be Strauss whole milk yogurt and some maple syrup, a nectarine, a salad with kidney beans and garbanzo beans, pumpkin seeds and slivered almond, radishes and grated carrot and celery with sweet miso dressing. And a tuna salad sandwich with a lot of tarragon and mayo. And I'd bring back the artichoke and dip it in Hellman's with white wine and gigantic black olives that taste like soil.
Oh PLEASE tell me yours! PLEASE.
It doesn't make any damn sense to read about Parmesan Black Pepper muffins while you're eating fried rice, but I do it all the time. Problem is that I end up sitting there a few hours later still reading about creamed cauliflower or currants, and my should-be leftovers are congealing on the stove.
So that's what I did tonight, with my Thursday-is-the-new-Saturday grad student schedule. This time though I sat at the computer, and a few glasses of wine and a few extra scoops of fried rice later, I found this website: Eat Drink One Woman She has different folks fill out a food-related questionnaire each week. Reading them in succession helps distract you from your pretty unsuccessful fried rice.
I thought it would be fun to answer the questionnaire myself. I heartily encourage you doing the same in the comments. Maybe you could do it one-handedly while you are eating? If y'all all do, I'll make a new post just for them!
***
Name: Susanna Williams
Occupation: Grad student/ English tutor
Borough: In CA we call them neighborhoods, and mine is actually a small town called Moss Beach.
Relationship status: That has nothing whatsoever to do with food and is none of your damn business.
What did you eat today?
Half carrot/half orange juice on campus
Frozen banana, vanilla soy milk, almond butter smoothie
Veggie-melt sandwich from the local pizzeria I have never eaten at
Half a chocolate bar when I woke up from my nap (I had a bit of a hangover)
Fried rice I made at home
What do you never eat?
Restaurant Chinese food, mustard, relish, chicken breast, chicken nuggets, milk, chocolate and mint together
Complete this sentence: In my refrigerator, you can always find:
vanilla soy milk, carrots, celery, butter, frozen bananas (for smoothies), Hellman's mayonaise (y'all call it "Best Foods" in the west)
What is your favorite kitchen item?
My square wooden spoon. It's a spoon and spatula. And has notches in it from when it was once used as a drum stick.
Where do you eat out most frequently?
The food on campus at SF State is surprisingly healthy, cheap, and delicious. I eat the falafel plate on campus a lot or get a weird healthy burrito (I'm a sucker for bourgeois burritos).
I also eat burritos at the taqueria in Half Moon Bay that doubles as a fried chicken joint. It's SO HANDS DOWN the best taqueria on the coast. And I will fight you if you disagree.
And I guess I eat out in Big Sur a lot at the bakery for breakfast.
World ends tomorrow. What would you like for your last meal?
It depends on who is with me. If it's my love, then I would eat sexy food that makes me close my eyes and chew. Blue cheese, lamb, fatty raw tuna, artichokes, chocolate truffles from Recchiuti (it's in the Ferry building). If it's my family, then squash casserole, grandma's green beans she grew in her garden and canned, mama's mac and cheese casserole and chicken n' dumplins, my pecan pie, sweet tea, and Aunt Sherry's peach ice cream. There should be a bread, but I swear that nobody in my family (including me) can make a decent bread, be it cornbread, biscuits, or pie crust. I'd probably be happiest with canned biscuits (and apple butter). If I were alone, it's be Strauss whole milk yogurt and some maple syrup, a nectarine, a salad with kidney beans and garbanzo beans, pumpkin seeds and slivered almond, radishes and grated carrot and celery with sweet miso dressing. And a tuna salad sandwich with a lot of tarragon and mayo. And I'd bring back the artichoke and dip it in Hellman's with white wine and gigantic black olives that taste like soil.
Oh PLEASE tell me yours! PLEASE.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
My Dreams (Are) Red, Gold, and Green
Um, okay...sit back and relax. We're going to a time when even hot young people danced like nervous 12 year old boys shuffling back and forth from one foot to the other. And a pop singer could reflect the depth of emotion in his song by merely opening and closing his palm dramatically. My favorite part is the harmonica solo.
Why do they dance like old people? WHY DO THEY DANCE LIKE SENIOR CITIZENS? I'm sure their hips are still full of cartilege!
Monday, September 22, 2008
Kava Kava
Once upon a time, in a galaxy far far way, this sailor-talking semi-whore was a sweet Mormon girl who wasn't entirely sure where the clitoris was located. This isn't a story about how she found that out; this is a different story. The place was Provo, Utah, and she and her friends had been invited to a "Kava Kava" party. All she knew was that Kava Kava was some sort of special tea from Samoa and that they were all going to sit on the floor and drink it out of the same cup. Now Susanna knew that Mormons weren't supposed to drink tea, but Kava Kava was herbal tea so it was alright and besides, the guys hosting the party were Mormon too.
It was a very small party. It was just her and her friends and the guys from Samoa. One guy mixed up a big wooden bowl of kava and he'd ladle some into a wooden cup and they would clap and go "Kava Kava" and then pass the cup around and everyone would drink it. And they drank cup after cup after cup after cup. And then everyone was brushing each other's hair and giving each other back rubs and they were all so close and comfortable and nice and it was all strange because they had all just met each other.
And the next morning, when Susanna woke up and was confused about why she let a guy she barely knew brush her hair and another guy give her a back rub, she found out that Kava Kava is a sedative with mild psychoactive properties and drinking 10 cups of it is akin to a large dose of Valium.
So now she buys it on purpose and drinks it at night while she is studying.
It was a very small party. It was just her and her friends and the guys from Samoa. One guy mixed up a big wooden bowl of kava and he'd ladle some into a wooden cup and they would clap and go "Kava Kava" and then pass the cup around and everyone would drink it. And they drank cup after cup after cup after cup. And then everyone was brushing each other's hair and giving each other back rubs and they were all so close and comfortable and nice and it was all strange because they had all just met each other.
And the next morning, when Susanna woke up and was confused about why she let a guy she barely knew brush her hair and another guy give her a back rub, she found out that Kava Kava is a sedative with mild psychoactive properties and drinking 10 cups of it is akin to a large dose of Valium.
So now she buys it on purpose and drinks it at night while she is studying.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Opening Pandora's Box
Mac, this post might make you cry.
This is in response to my brother's post, "Missing My Damn Pater Familias" about the online radio-ish station Pandora, which uses some sort of magic voodoo to accomplish its purposes. You can type in any artist and they will make a radio station that plays music similar to that artist. My brother wrote in his blog that he found himself wanting to email our Dad and tell him about it, and then realized that he couldn't. He thinks that Dad's favorite radio station would have been the Jimi Hendrix station.
When my Dad died, I got his iPod, and, after listening to the songs on it for a few weeks, I finally had to just move on and put my own songs on it. But I couldn't do it without cataloging every single song on his iPod, including his 25 most played. These were the top ten:
1. "Ruby Tuesday" Rolling Stones
2. "Me and Bobby McGee" Janis Joplin
3. "We've Only Just Begun" The Carpenters
4. "Don't You Want Somebody to Love" Jefferson Airplane
5. "One Way or the Other" Blondie
6. "Hurt So Bad" The Letterman
7. "Purple Haze" Jimi Hendrix
8. "Bad Moon Rising" Credence Clearwater Revival
9. "Southern Cross" Stephen Stills
10. "These Eyes" The Guess Who
Before I go any further, I need to explain to those of you who are just joining us that my Dad died last October 30th. He had a very rare brain disease whose first major symptom is psychosis. So my Dad quite suddenly went crazy, but we didn't know he was going crazy. My Dad presumably stopped listening to this iPod in early August right before he became bat shit crazy. I draw your attention to this fact because it makes absolutely no sense that my Dad would like Blondie. And I do not understand why Janis Joplin is #2 on his list. I never heard him listen to her.
Below is a list of every single track on the iPod in alphabetical order. The numbers before the tracks are the rankings in his top 25 most played. Jimi Hendrix didn't rank as high as we would have expected. I read this like a diary or a poem, especially the end, and it hurts:
Abba-Dancing Queen
Abba—Take A Chance On Me
Addicted to Love
Al Green—Lean on Me
Al Green and Annie Lennox—Scrooge Soundtrack—Put a Little Love In Your Heart
17.All Along the Watchtower
Allison Kraus—When You Say Nothing At All
Allman Brothers—Ramblin’ Man
B52—Roam
16. Back in the USSR
8. Bad Moon Rising
Beach Boys—Fun, Fun, Fun
Beach Boys—Good Vibrations
Beatles—Hey Jude
14. Beatles—Let it Be
Beatles—Michelle
Beatles—Revolution
Bette Midler—Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy
5. Blondie—One Way or Another
Box Tops—Cry Like a Baby
California Girls
Carly Simon—You’re So Vain
Christopher Cross—Sailing
4. Don’t You Want Somebody to Love—Jefferson Airplane
24. Drifters—There Goes my Baby
Elton John—Crocodile Rock
Elton John-Daniel
Elton John—Pinball Wizard
Fifth Dimension—Let the Sunshine In
18. Free Bird
20.I’ve Been Waiting for a Girl Like You—Foreigner—Foreigner 4
12. (I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction
21.In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida
Jimi Hendrix—Are You Experienced
Jimi Hendrix—Foxey Lady
7. Jimi-Hendrix—Purple Haze
19.Kinks—All Day and All Of The Night
Kokomo
22. Leaving on a Jet Plane
Led Zeppelin---Stairway to Heaven (Rare Acoustic)
Led Zeppelin and Pink Floyd—Whole Lotta Love
6. The Lettermen –Hurt So Bad
13.Magic Carpet Ride
Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terell—It Takes Two
11. Maybe I’m Amazed—Paul McCartney—Wings Over America
2. Me and Bobby McGee—Janis Joplin
23.Pink Houses—John Cougar—Scarecrow
15. Platters—Smoke Gets in Your Eyes
Political Grapevine: 7/25/07—Brit Hume’s Grapevine
Political Grapevine: 7/27/07—Brit Hume’s Grapevine
Political Grapevine: 8/1/07—Brit Hume’s Grapevine
The Radio Factor—7/25/07—The Radio Factor
The Radio Factor—7/27/07—The Radio Factor
The Radio Factor—8/2/07—The Radio Factor
The Radio Factor—8/3/07—The Radio Factor
Rocket Man
Roy Orbison—Crying
Roy Orbison—Only the Lonely
Roy Orbison—Pretty Woman
1. Ruby Tuesday—The Rolling Stone—Flowers
Sloop John B
9. Southern Cross
10. These eyes
3. We’ve Only Just Begun
25. Yesterday
409
5 Minute Newscast (1 PM EST 7/26/07)—FOX News Radio
5 Minute Newscast (2 PM EST 7/29/07)—FOX News Radio
5 Minute Newscast (4 PM EST 8/2/07)—FOX News Radio
5 Minute Newscast (5 PM EST 8/3/07)—FOX News Radio
5 Minute Newscast (7 PM EST 7/29/07)—FOX News Radio
5 Minute Newscast (9 PM EST 7/27/07)—FOX News Radio
The Disillusionment of Ten O'Clock
The houses are haunted
By white night-gowns.
None are green,
Or purple with green rings,
Or green with yellow rings,
Or yellow with blue rings.
None of them are strange,
With socks of lace
And beaded ceintures.
People are not going
To dream of baboons and periwinkles.
Only, here and there, an old sailor,
Drunk and asleep in his boots,
Catches tigers
In red weather.
by Wallace Stevens
P.S. Wallace Stevens was a businessman.
By white night-gowns.
None are green,
Or purple with green rings,
Or green with yellow rings,
Or yellow with blue rings.
None of them are strange,
With socks of lace
And beaded ceintures.
People are not going
To dream of baboons and periwinkles.
Only, here and there, an old sailor,
Drunk and asleep in his boots,
Catches tigers
In red weather.
by Wallace Stevens
P.S. Wallace Stevens was a businessman.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
On Not Eating Out in New York
My mother came to visit me in July and she bought way too many sweet potatoes. We were going to make them for my former roommate who had been sick, but we ended up taking her out to breakfast instead. I thought I'd make some soup with them, so I did a search for "sweet potato soup" and I found the best website:
http://noteatingoutinny.com/
This woman decided not to eat out at all, akin to a media fast, for two years. Over the two years, she became a pretty rad cook. She's an omnivore, but she buys most of her stuff local. Also, her mom is from Taiwan and taught her a lot about cooking, so many of her recipes have an Asian influence. The number one thing I learned from her is that Sriracha hot sauce is always a good idea.
http://noteatingoutinny.com/
This woman decided not to eat out at all, akin to a media fast, for two years. Over the two years, she became a pretty rad cook. She's an omnivore, but she buys most of her stuff local. Also, her mom is from Taiwan and taught her a lot about cooking, so many of her recipes have an Asian influence. The number one thing I learned from her is that Sriracha hot sauce is always a good idea.
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Last time I wrote in this blog I was smack dab in the middle of grieving. As I've said 20 million times on this blog since my Dad died, grief is peculiar. It never looks like what you would expect. I do think I was right when I wrote at the end of July that this was the "dark night of my soul." Oh sure, yes, it's a bit dramatic, but fuck it all, life is dramatic sometimes. Plus, I was alluding to Joseph Campbell's heroic journey: I was passing through the dark valley, the unknown, where things don't make sense and you are confused and lost and alienated from others.
So I did what any decent hero would do, I went to Hawaii by myself for 9 days. I camped and stayed in hostels and went hiking and snorkeling and scuba diving and sat on the beach and made Austrian friends. The point of the trip, really, was for me to do something special for my Dad's birthday. The day before his birthday, I was driving through a rain shower toward a black canyon and the man on the radio said, "It's August 10th, 2008." Before I could think about how it's the day before my Dad's birthday and he's not here and I'm here alone on an island in the middle of the world, the man says, "The past in ash in the wind. The future is a seed germinating." Hearing that was profoundly comforting.
At my Dad's funeral, I spoke. One of the things I said was that my Dad is still alive in me. I have his eyes. He was there with me in Hawaii. I am a part of him, and he still exists because I and my brother do. And the next step of the heroic journey after the dark night of the soul is the atonement with the father.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Untitled
It seems like every post I've written for the past six months begins with me saying that I haven't written in forever. I dread writing that sentence. I hate explaining why so much that I postpone doing it even longer.
But here I am, and I'm writing now.
My father died ten months ago, and I think I am really just now beginning to deal with it. This is a dark night of my soul. I am finally grieving...I think. The only thing I know about grief is that it looks completely different than you expect. I'm angry at everyone and I feel like things aren't going to work out happily. Life is more complex than that, surely, so I know that this is just one thing I can see right now. There's a million other things going on around me and within me, but right now I'm a misanthrope who wants to be left alone. Maybe in a minute or two I'll feel like playing ping pong.
But here I am, and I'm writing now.
My father died ten months ago, and I think I am really just now beginning to deal with it. This is a dark night of my soul. I am finally grieving...I think. The only thing I know about grief is that it looks completely different than you expect. I'm angry at everyone and I feel like things aren't going to work out happily. Life is more complex than that, surely, so I know that this is just one thing I can see right now. There's a million other things going on around me and within me, but right now I'm a misanthrope who wants to be left alone. Maybe in a minute or two I'll feel like playing ping pong.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Things Change
Things might look retarded here for awhile; be patient. I use semicolons; you will not be disappointed.
Smoking Crack
If you like reading my blog, then I'm sorry for not updating it for forever. I somehow, through some miraculous gift from god, managed to finish writing all my papers without nicotine or crack. Since then I've been gloating, prostituting myself out to any odd job possible, and laying out in the sun in a bikini that I bought when weighed 15 pounds less. (I go to the uncrowded beach with all the flies).
I hate it when people don't update their blogs, and I also hate it when web pages look old and retarded. That is what is wrong with this blog, and I'm either going to fix it or stop writing in it. I haven't decided yet. For my birthday my Mom gave me www.susannawilliams.com. That was six months ago.
This is my dilemmna: I want to write what I want to write, and not worry about who reads it. I don't want to go into a list of every debauchery I committed the first time I smoked crack, but I would like to be able to say "I smoked crack" trusting that the people reading this blog know me well enough to know that there is no fucking possible way in hell that I have actually ever smoked crack. And I just wish that I didn't have to say that so, well, explicitly.
The thing is that I don't really know who is reading this blog, and I truly don't want to offend anyone. I suppose that I could say that if anyone is offended he or she doesn't have to read it, but the thing is that several of my family's friends know about this blog through my brother's blog. At my Dad's funeral, while I was shaking hands and saying "thank you" and behaving like a lady who would have made my Dad proud, several people told me that they read my blog. I was embarassed. I don't think I am too overly personal, but I do use profanity and admit to not flossing and occasionally smoking crack. (If you still think I actually smoke crack, please read more closely.) I think it's rad that my Dad's friends and that my family takes an interest in me, but I hate to think that I am offending anyone, especially since so many of these lovely people are Mormon.
The other thing is that my students could potentially google my name and find me here.
I have to be able to write what I want to write; I don't believe in censoring anything truly creative, and this is more a creative endeavor than a public journal or a place to tell people about my life.
I guess the future of this blog is undetermined. It may continue, but it will probably be different from how it has been.
I hate it when people don't update their blogs, and I also hate it when web pages look old and retarded. That is what is wrong with this blog, and I'm either going to fix it or stop writing in it. I haven't decided yet. For my birthday my Mom gave me www.susannawilliams.com. That was six months ago.
This is my dilemmna: I want to write what I want to write, and not worry about who reads it. I don't want to go into a list of every debauchery I committed the first time I smoked crack, but I would like to be able to say "I smoked crack" trusting that the people reading this blog know me well enough to know that there is no fucking possible way in hell that I have actually ever smoked crack. And I just wish that I didn't have to say that so, well, explicitly.
The thing is that I don't really know who is reading this blog, and I truly don't want to offend anyone. I suppose that I could say that if anyone is offended he or she doesn't have to read it, but the thing is that several of my family's friends know about this blog through my brother's blog. At my Dad's funeral, while I was shaking hands and saying "thank you" and behaving like a lady who would have made my Dad proud, several people told me that they read my blog. I was embarassed. I don't think I am too overly personal, but I do use profanity and admit to not flossing and occasionally smoking crack. (If you still think I actually smoke crack, please read more closely.) I think it's rad that my Dad's friends and that my family takes an interest in me, but I hate to think that I am offending anyone, especially since so many of these lovely people are Mormon.
The other thing is that my students could potentially google my name and find me here.
I have to be able to write what I want to write; I don't believe in censoring anything truly creative, and this is more a creative endeavor than a public journal or a place to tell people about my life.
I guess the future of this blog is undetermined. It may continue, but it will probably be different from how it has been.
Saturday, May 17, 2008
MAMA
Well, this blog is sort of officially on hiatus until I finish my papers, but my brother posted this today to his blog and I was just so damn inspired:
My Mom is awesome. I reiterate, my mom=awesome. Here's a list of why I think she's awesome, updated from years past.
#1 For not giving me Fetal Alcohol Syndome
#2 For knowing my father´s name
#3 For never wringing my neck in spite of her repeated threats
#4 For having taught me that being racist is a bad thing
#5 For teaching me to say "sir" and "ma'am" after I say "yes" or "no
#6 For dropping out of college for 19 years to raise me
#7 For giving me an oatmeal bath when I was 16 & delirious from a chicken pox 104.7F fever.
#8 For letting my kids call her "Lala" instead of "grandma"
#9 For being an artist and not caring what others think about her
#10 For never saying anything negative about my wife. Ever.
#11 For being there with me when Dad died.
#12 For never making me post bond to get her out of jail
#13 For letting me go to Canada with my best friend for the Summer when I was 16
#14 For drawing a huge picture of my daughter and me at Mardi Gras 2004
#15 For Keeping my cat Paisley alive for 17 long years
#16 For that big scar across her belly where they excavated me from her blessed womb
#17 For calling me "Mac". I have a great nickname
#18 For teaching me to read before I went to public school
#19 For letting me fail on occasion
#20 For telling me I should be an organ donor
#21 For being Southern
and the most important thing is:
#22 THANK YOU FOR NOT HOMESCHOOLING ME! This one should be self-explanatory.
I agree!
And I'd like to add a few more:
#1 For dressing up like a chicken with elaborately-made, beautiful papier-mache wings for the church talent show, running around the stage to some famous piece of classical music while she squawked, and at the very end, laying an egg. THIS WAS BEFORE BJORK WORE THIS DRESS TO THE OSCARS:
#2 For coming out of a gas station in Savannah GA and, upon realizing that my Dad was the person blasting Jimi Hendrix, head banging completely seriously all the way to the car.
#3 For telling my girlfriends in high school not to worry about being fat because "when you get in bed, all they care about is that you're a woman."
#4 For not cutting her hair short and not letting me do it either...ever.
#5 For taking me to Walgreens and buying me a hand vacuum and face lotion and light bulbs and other things I thought I didn't need because they were symptoms of bourgeois excess. For snapping me out of hyper-political self-denial phase.
#6 For knowing more about technology than I do. For sending me my first text message. For having an iPod years before me.
#7 For giving me her copy of Joni Mitchell's Blue as an adult even after I made fun of Joni through my whole adolescence
#8 For spending more money at the arcade when I brought my friend along whose family was poor
#9 For liking "british crap" or 19th century novels made into movies
#10 For listening to Alanis Morrissette's SECOND album for an entire day when I drove back from Utah to Georgia. Not even her first album, THE SECOND ALBUM!
#11 For letting me rub her feet once
#12 For going to the dollar movie with me in 1990 to see some movie I don't even remember and then walking out and, on a whim, walking back in to see Edward Scissorhands.
#13 For driving me half an hour to and from work five times a week at Whitewater when I was 15.
#14 For being nice to all my boyfriends.
#15 For beginning the birds and bees talk by saying "Have you ever seen two dolphins swimming side by side?"
#16 For never wearing swishy suits, jeweled sweaters, or gold shoes.
#17 For building fires for years and years and years
#18 For teaching me how to love people
#19 For watching Beaches with me when I was a little girl and crying and crying and crying.
Nineteen is her lucky number.
[I'll be back in 10 days]
My Mom is awesome. I reiterate, my mom=awesome. Here's a list of why I think she's awesome, updated from years past.
#1 For not giving me Fetal Alcohol Syndome
#2 For knowing my father´s name
#3 For never wringing my neck in spite of her repeated threats
#4 For having taught me that being racist is a bad thing
#5 For teaching me to say "sir" and "ma'am" after I say "yes" or "no
#6 For dropping out of college for 19 years to raise me
#7 For giving me an oatmeal bath when I was 16 & delirious from a chicken pox 104.7F fever.
#8 For letting my kids call her "Lala" instead of "grandma"
#9 For being an artist and not caring what others think about her
#10 For never saying anything negative about my wife. Ever.
#11 For being there with me when Dad died.
#12 For never making me post bond to get her out of jail
#13 For letting me go to Canada with my best friend for the Summer when I was 16
#14 For drawing a huge picture of my daughter and me at Mardi Gras 2004
#15 For Keeping my cat Paisley alive for 17 long years
#16 For that big scar across her belly where they excavated me from her blessed womb
#17 For calling me "Mac". I have a great nickname
#18 For teaching me to read before I went to public school
#19 For letting me fail on occasion
#20 For telling me I should be an organ donor
#21 For being Southern
and the most important thing is:
#22 THANK YOU FOR NOT HOMESCHOOLING ME! This one should be self-explanatory.
I agree!
And I'd like to add a few more:
#1 For dressing up like a chicken with elaborately-made, beautiful papier-mache wings for the church talent show, running around the stage to some famous piece of classical music while she squawked, and at the very end, laying an egg. THIS WAS BEFORE BJORK WORE THIS DRESS TO THE OSCARS:
#2 For coming out of a gas station in Savannah GA and, upon realizing that my Dad was the person blasting Jimi Hendrix, head banging completely seriously all the way to the car.
#3 For telling my girlfriends in high school not to worry about being fat because "when you get in bed, all they care about is that you're a woman."
#4 For not cutting her hair short and not letting me do it either...ever.
#5 For taking me to Walgreens and buying me a hand vacuum and face lotion and light bulbs and other things I thought I didn't need because they were symptoms of bourgeois excess. For snapping me out of hyper-political self-denial phase.
#6 For knowing more about technology than I do. For sending me my first text message. For having an iPod years before me.
#7 For giving me her copy of Joni Mitchell's Blue as an adult even after I made fun of Joni through my whole adolescence
#8 For spending more money at the arcade when I brought my friend along whose family was poor
#9 For liking "british crap" or 19th century novels made into movies
#10 For listening to Alanis Morrissette's SECOND album for an entire day when I drove back from Utah to Georgia. Not even her first album, THE SECOND ALBUM!
#11 For letting me rub her feet once
#12 For going to the dollar movie with me in 1990 to see some movie I don't even remember and then walking out and, on a whim, walking back in to see Edward Scissorhands.
#13 For driving me half an hour to and from work five times a week at Whitewater when I was 15.
#14 For being nice to all my boyfriends.
#15 For beginning the birds and bees talk by saying "Have you ever seen two dolphins swimming side by side?"
#16 For never wearing swishy suits, jeweled sweaters, or gold shoes.
#17 For building fires for years and years and years
#18 For teaching me how to love people
#19 For watching Beaches with me when I was a little girl and crying and crying and crying.
Nineteen is her lucky number.
[I'll be back in 10 days]
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Random Blog Spotting
Have you ever clicked on the "next blog" option at the top? It gives you a random blog. I'm all about random anything. I used to love the feature on Yahoo! that you could click on and it would give you a random web page.
Most of the random blogs are in other languages. Of the ones in English, about half of them are family-oriented, like for only your family to read. I like the ones that, like mine, don't really know what is going on and just write random shit.
Here are three that I found today that I thought were insanely interesting. I'd like to give a disclaimer that, unless you're the kind of person who will run across traffic to pick up a soggy page of a 13-year-old girl's diary and enjoy reading it, these pages might be really boring. If we're like-minded, I welcome you wholeheartedly.
1. http://elinegiovansily.blogspot.com/
This one's in French, BUT OH MY GOD THIS BABY IS SO FAT!!! Her parents seem so trim. France is strange.
2. http://ellasarah.blogspot.com/2008_04_01_archive.html
These people are from my hometown, and they began this blog to chronicle their adoption of a baby from China. As you might know, I tutor a lot of Asian people and I spend a lot of time talking about Korean and Japanese culture, and especially cultural differences. The tone of this blog is really simple; it all reads like the captions in a scrapbook. But what is fascinating is what they assume and what they leave out. Like they off-handedly mention visiting her town so they could learn about her culture and tell her about it. This is an obviously thoughtful and kind action, but how on earth could you tell a child about "her culture" to begin with even if you lived in the place for a year? What makes that her culture if she grows up in a completely different one? Plus, the blog concentrates on the little girl they adopt, but she has a 8 or 9 year old brother who gets these short snippets. At one point, after writing about the little girl for awhile, they say "we can't forget about Evan!" like they have to remind themselves.
Bonus: there's a serious subtext of anxiety about bonding with the adopted child.
The thing is, I totally respect these people. They've put so much of their energy, money, and heart in to doing this. And ultimately I don't really know how valuable it is to be aware of cultural differences in a situation like this. I'm not knocking them, but it is pretty damn interesting. And the SUBTEXTS! GOD!
3. http://kdense73.blogspot.com/
I don't want to give this away, just read it with a depressed Eyeore voice. I totally lol-ed.
And apparently this blog format is extremely popular. I'm so lazy. Whatevuh.
Most of the random blogs are in other languages. Of the ones in English, about half of them are family-oriented, like for only your family to read. I like the ones that, like mine, don't really know what is going on and just write random shit.
Here are three that I found today that I thought were insanely interesting. I'd like to give a disclaimer that, unless you're the kind of person who will run across traffic to pick up a soggy page of a 13-year-old girl's diary and enjoy reading it, these pages might be really boring. If we're like-minded, I welcome you wholeheartedly.
1. http://elinegiovansily.blogspot.com/
This one's in French, BUT OH MY GOD THIS BABY IS SO FAT!!! Her parents seem so trim. France is strange.
2. http://ellasarah.blogspot.com/2008_04_01_archive.html
These people are from my hometown, and they began this blog to chronicle their adoption of a baby from China. As you might know, I tutor a lot of Asian people and I spend a lot of time talking about Korean and Japanese culture, and especially cultural differences. The tone of this blog is really simple; it all reads like the captions in a scrapbook. But what is fascinating is what they assume and what they leave out. Like they off-handedly mention visiting her town so they could learn about her culture and tell her about it. This is an obviously thoughtful and kind action, but how on earth could you tell a child about "her culture" to begin with even if you lived in the place for a year? What makes that her culture if she grows up in a completely different one? Plus, the blog concentrates on the little girl they adopt, but she has a 8 or 9 year old brother who gets these short snippets. At one point, after writing about the little girl for awhile, they say "we can't forget about Evan!" like they have to remind themselves.
Bonus: there's a serious subtext of anxiety about bonding with the adopted child.
The thing is, I totally respect these people. They've put so much of their energy, money, and heart in to doing this. And ultimately I don't really know how valuable it is to be aware of cultural differences in a situation like this. I'm not knocking them, but it is pretty damn interesting. And the SUBTEXTS! GOD!
3. http://kdense73.blogspot.com/
I don't want to give this away, just read it with a depressed Eyeore voice. I totally lol-ed.
And apparently this blog format is extremely popular. I'm so lazy. Whatevuh.
Thursday, April 03, 2008
"I like a game of ping pong"
YESTERDAY I LEARNED SOMETHING VERY VALUABLE:
Maybe it was that the bar was over-heated
Or maybe it was because I was still sick with a cold
Or maybe it was just that I felt guilty for skipping class
BUT it is possible to get all hot and sweaty while playing ping pong.
ONE THING I AM GRATEFUL FOR:
That cross-cultural onomatopoeia prevailed and "table tennis" is the term for boring Penelopes who have clean white panties and are xenophobic.
MY NEW FAVORITE SENTENCE:
I like turning my head to the side and showing a coy smile while I imitate my former Chinese students when I asked them what their favorite sport was. (You must draw the term out and lay on your best old-Chinese-lady accent.)
"I like a game of ping pong."
It sounds like it's straight from a Berlitz travel tape.
Maybe it was that the bar was over-heated
Or maybe it was because I was still sick with a cold
Or maybe it was just that I felt guilty for skipping class
BUT it is possible to get all hot and sweaty while playing ping pong.
ONE THING I AM GRATEFUL FOR:
That cross-cultural onomatopoeia prevailed and "table tennis" is the term for boring Penelopes who have clean white panties and are xenophobic.
MY NEW FAVORITE SENTENCE:
I like turning my head to the side and showing a coy smile while I imitate my former Chinese students when I asked them what their favorite sport was. (You must draw the term out and lay on your best old-Chinese-lady accent.)
"I like a game of ping pong."
It sounds like it's straight from a Berlitz travel tape.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Tell Me 'Bout the Good Ole Days
Well, it's been over a month. How are you? I guess I didn't post for awhile because I didn't want to have to say that my grandpa passed away. He died on Friday, March 7th, and I went to North Carolina for the funeral. I really don't want to write anything about it, in part because I don't feel like I'm really able to express how deeply I loved him and what an absolutely amazing man he was. I'll say this, though, he lived so damn long that there was nobody at his funeral. He was 95, outlived all his brothers and sisters, his wife and her brothers and sisters, and all of his friends from church or the community. Everyone who would have been there if he'd died 20 years ago are either under the ground themselves or so damn old they don't leave the house.
Seven years ago, at my grandma's funeral, after we'd had the graveside service and they were going to lower her body into the ground, my Dad stood on the plot next to it, shook the ground like you do when you're testing the stability of a platform and told my brother "We'll bury grandpa here someday!" My Dad was perfectly irreverent and damn wrong.
Having people die is not at all what you expect. It's not as bad as you think it's going to be. I always thought that if someone close to me died, I'd tear my hair out, sit in my own shit, and not be able to get out of bed for months. It's not like that. Grief is so different than depression, and I've been fucking crazy depressed in my life. Grief can make you depressed, but alone it's its own thing. It makes you talk intimately with strangers, especially if you've been drinking. You all of the sudden don't care about stupid shit, like whether or not you look nice when you go to the grocery store. You lose your filter for what is appropriate to say to people and what is not. You forget that just mentioning something that has become commonplace to you, like your Dad's brain being flown to Ohio on Halloween, is not funny to other people. You feel guilty for not tearing your hair out, not sitting in your own shit, and getting out of bed everyday. It's like you wake up and the first thing you think is, "something is horribly wrong" but when you realize what it is, you remember "Oh right, I can deal with this." Grief can be very beautiful. It's intense, but it's real, and it comes from love. Being depressed is not real. Having a terrible breakup is a selfish hurt. Grief is totally selfless. At least in my experience. That said, I really really wish my Dad was still here. It fucking sucks.
My grandpa was old, but it still sucks too. I wouldn't have wanted to keep him here though. Living in a nursing home is just as bad even if they call it "assisted living." Bless his heart. Bless his sweet heart. I miss him.
So I wanted to share something with y'all that I think perfectly embodies my grandpa's character. Ten years ago, my mother finally convinced grandma and grandpa to move down to Atlanta from Asheville, NC. When she was helping them move, she found the equivalent of eight garbage bags full of Publisher's Clearing House contest mail. If you don't already know this, these guys are mother-fucking asshole cocksuckers who prey on poor old seniors who don't read the fine print. He owed them something like $600, but he didn't know it, because he was starting to lose his sharpness. My grandpa, like many men his age from where he's from, really believed in God and America and capitalism. He had an undying faith in the high quality of Dinty Moore Beef Stew. It was "the finest canned soup this side of the Mississippi." He believed what he read in Reader's Digest and saw on the news. And Publisher's Clearing House exploited this to the utmost absurdity. I'm sure these people have horrible sex lives and kill puppies when they're not at work. My mother finally convinced him to abandon his hope of winning the grand prize, but grandpa decided he should write them a letter first. My Mom never sent the letter, and I have it. This is it, written on a piece of paper from a pink legal tablet in his shakey, beautiful, nearly illegible cursive:
Skyland N.C.
April 7, 1998
To: Mr. R. H. Truller:
Please withdraw my name from the competition from Giveaway #555 due to medical problems within and without.
I consider myself unable to comply with P.C.H. rules that if I accept the gift I accept the IHC agreement to help P.C.H. with their advertisement for one year.
I must pay off any credit for which I am responsible. I will contact billing for help.
P.C.H. personel have been wonderful to me of which I am deeply grateful.
It would be a fraud to wait until the last minute to let you know.
I value my self respect and integrity above everything else. (my hands tire easy.)
I am not stoping everything.
Sincerely Yours
Raymond V. Buckner
P.S. Thank You All.
Someday I'll write about all the stories he told me when I lived with him. Until then, if you're interested, my brother has told his own version of grandpa's life on his blog, so if you'd like to read it you can at www.wuapinmon.blogspot.com.
Seven years ago, at my grandma's funeral, after we'd had the graveside service and they were going to lower her body into the ground, my Dad stood on the plot next to it, shook the ground like you do when you're testing the stability of a platform and told my brother "We'll bury grandpa here someday!" My Dad was perfectly irreverent and damn wrong.
Having people die is not at all what you expect. It's not as bad as you think it's going to be. I always thought that if someone close to me died, I'd tear my hair out, sit in my own shit, and not be able to get out of bed for months. It's not like that. Grief is so different than depression, and I've been fucking crazy depressed in my life. Grief can make you depressed, but alone it's its own thing. It makes you talk intimately with strangers, especially if you've been drinking. You all of the sudden don't care about stupid shit, like whether or not you look nice when you go to the grocery store. You lose your filter for what is appropriate to say to people and what is not. You forget that just mentioning something that has become commonplace to you, like your Dad's brain being flown to Ohio on Halloween, is not funny to other people. You feel guilty for not tearing your hair out, not sitting in your own shit, and getting out of bed everyday. It's like you wake up and the first thing you think is, "something is horribly wrong" but when you realize what it is, you remember "Oh right, I can deal with this." Grief can be very beautiful. It's intense, but it's real, and it comes from love. Being depressed is not real. Having a terrible breakup is a selfish hurt. Grief is totally selfless. At least in my experience. That said, I really really wish my Dad was still here. It fucking sucks.
My grandpa was old, but it still sucks too. I wouldn't have wanted to keep him here though. Living in a nursing home is just as bad even if they call it "assisted living." Bless his heart. Bless his sweet heart. I miss him.
So I wanted to share something with y'all that I think perfectly embodies my grandpa's character. Ten years ago, my mother finally convinced grandma and grandpa to move down to Atlanta from Asheville, NC. When she was helping them move, she found the equivalent of eight garbage bags full of Publisher's Clearing House contest mail. If you don't already know this, these guys are mother-fucking asshole cocksuckers who prey on poor old seniors who don't read the fine print. He owed them something like $600, but he didn't know it, because he was starting to lose his sharpness. My grandpa, like many men his age from where he's from, really believed in God and America and capitalism. He had an undying faith in the high quality of Dinty Moore Beef Stew. It was "the finest canned soup this side of the Mississippi." He believed what he read in Reader's Digest and saw on the news. And Publisher's Clearing House exploited this to the utmost absurdity. I'm sure these people have horrible sex lives and kill puppies when they're not at work. My mother finally convinced him to abandon his hope of winning the grand prize, but grandpa decided he should write them a letter first. My Mom never sent the letter, and I have it. This is it, written on a piece of paper from a pink legal tablet in his shakey, beautiful, nearly illegible cursive:
Skyland N.C.
April 7, 1998
To: Mr. R. H. Truller:
Please withdraw my name from the competition from Giveaway #555 due to medical problems within and without.
I consider myself unable to comply with P.C.H. rules that if I accept the gift I accept the IHC agreement to help P.C.H. with their advertisement for one year.
I must pay off any credit for which I am responsible. I will contact billing for help.
P.C.H. personel have been wonderful to me of which I am deeply grateful.
It would be a fraud to wait until the last minute to let you know.
I value my self respect and integrity above everything else. (my hands tire easy.)
I am not stoping everything.
Sincerely Yours
Raymond V. Buckner
P.S. Thank You All.
Someday I'll write about all the stories he told me when I lived with him. Until then, if you're interested, my brother has told his own version of grandpa's life on his blog, so if you'd like to read it you can at www.wuapinmon.blogspot.com.
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