More love for film critics

NY Times' A. O. Scott entertained me this weekend with his excellent review of Nine. Although in no way does it inspire one to go see the film, quite the opposite, the review's clever turn of phrase and witty remarks are more than an adequate substitute.

Scott brands the film: "a busy, gaudy fuss," "an impressive feat of casting . . . assembled in the service of [a] dubious and incoherent cause," and "a fatal lack of inspiration." In short it is "a mess." Even poor Daniel Day Lewis "comes off as a jerk, a compulsive liar and seeker of attention — and, in spite of the sports cars, the cigarettes and the occasional run-in with the Roman Catholic Church, not really very Italian at all."

Some highlights from the reviews:

"Ms. Cotillard attains a measure of wounded dignity as Louisa, Guido’s former leading lady and much-betrayed wife. She is not spared the striptease obligations that fall to every other female character."

"Ms. Ferguson stomps and gyrates through a number called “Be Italian,” which, like so much else in “Nine,” resembles a spread in a Victoria’s Secret catalog, only less tasteful."

And to top it off, he draws attention to one of the film's most gaudy excesses by titling the piece: There will be Lingerie (Singing, Too). Scott is certainly a credit to the profession with this one.

In other news:

Taylor Swift lined up to play Supergirl? Oh God, please no. I know everyone loves her and she is basically Tinkerbell with more hair and even more glitter but can we please draw the line some where? And dare I even mention how much muscle mass she would have to gain to be the least bit credible as an action hero?

Want to see something really scary? Watch this. Can we please wait until he has done something critically-acclaimed (and no, that does not count the MTV Movie Awards) before we start making animal sacrifices and get Zeus to adopt him?

I must confess I am rather glad that Kiera Knightely is getting less than rave reviews in her stage debut in The Misanthrope (which co-stars Damien Lewis by the way). She avoids incineration but the Daily Mail describes her performance as "little better than adequate" and the Guardian, though more kindly toward the Mail's "elegant mannequin" ponders: So she's a beautiful young movie star playing a beautiful young movie star … Does that count as acting? Maybe this will be enough to stop her remake of My Fair Lady. One can only hope.

For those who like Brian Cox, Hamlet or toddlers, enjoy this video.

Finally, St. Trinian's: The Legend of Fritton's Gold came out this weekend in the UK. Let's wish the girls luck and hope they give David Tennant a proper hard time.

Fringe 2.09 Snakehead

A friend recently suggested I try doing one of these new-fangled, commentative episode synopses. I thought I'd test run it on Fringe.

Fringe is one of Fox's sci-fi, horror, crime show hybrid. A lot like Bones, another of Fox's slow successes and another favorite of mine, Fringe is proving itself a scrappy little show although its middling ratings keep a prospective season 3 in limbo. Executive producer, Jeff Pinkner, recently likened the show to licorice: "not everybody likes licorice, but the people that like licorice, love it." Although science fiction and horror might not be everybody's cup of tea, the writing is pretty solid even if they do scavenge from other sci-fi shows (um, Doctor Who) and viewers can delight in the excellent cast. John Noble is just wonderful as the eccentric yet lovable mad scientist with food-fetishes and love of psychedelics---I need say no more. Jackson gives Peter just enough adolescent attitude and boy genius witticism to keep him fresh, along with a dash of bad-boy coolness and puppy-dog charm, while Torv gives us Olivia: a strong, independent, competent woman who can both stand-up for herself and show emotion without becoming either a bitch or emotive, blubbering wreck. The two have great chemistry, and while their may be some sexual tension between the two characters, the show does not live just for that meager storyline. What a breath of fresh air that is!

Anyway, the show revolves around some banter, creepy sci-fi science and conspiracy and some good old-fashioned gore. Season 2 Episode 9 is a pretty standard episode, although it does randomly introduce a new and classier wardrobe for Walter. Peter's superhuman ability to be competent and useful also continues to skyrocket.

Enjoy!

Fringe 2.09: Snakehead

Open on distressed, limping Asian man. The rhythmic drums of the soundtrack beat out his fast-approaching demise. "They're dead!" he tells a seemingly grandfatherly old man. Limping Asian Man then melts into a severe case of stomach cramps. The old man produces the appropriate creepy science villain implements. A tentacled green organism explodes from the dying man's mouth. It's actually pretty disgusting, even by Fringe standards.

The hallmark giant floating letters, which I actually love, tell us we are in Boston now. A plethora of Chinese corpses are strewn artfully around in the surf. What do you know, they all have really stomach-turning green tentacles protruding from their lifeless lips. Olivia, Peter and his endearingly furrowed brow are on the case. A surly Walter sporting an uncharacteristically dapper brown sweater-vest, grumps by. His frowny face ain't got nothing on Joshua Jackson's though.

While Peter makes his excellent snippy remarks, Walter takes the classic mad-scientist initiative they pay him for, pulling a 3ft tentacled worm from one of the deceased. "It might still be alive," Walter advises. And guess who gets to babysit it, Peter? The writers save Peter by throwing in the discovery of Token Disaster Survival Girl! Peter drags her helpful across the rocks, thanking his stars that this one doesn't have tentacles between her teeth. Or at least not yet!

Peter and Olivia swagger through the hospital exuding power couple badassness. It makes us want to be like them. Turns out Survival Girl is untainted by the giant worm infestation. Woo! Peter gets to show off his Chinese language skills. Olivia looks into his eyes, "I didn't know you spoke Cantonese!" Then to herself: why the hell did we arrange for a translator then? Joshua Jackson smolders at her and the story continues. Unfortunately for Survival Girl, sounds like her husband and daughter are going to be docking in a few days pumped full of worm outbreak-inducing seasickness pills. Close-up on the hospital-gowned woman's tear-streaked face as she clutches her family photograph. Power couple gaze at each other, realizing that this is going to be one of those episodes involving children, and that one of them will probably have to bond with a traumatized adolescent later on. "It better be you," Peter gripes during the commercial break, "I had my turn two episodes ago when I got mind-controlled by that angsty rich kid who almost made me shoot your boss." But Olivia is distracted by one of her constant urgent phone calls, though this one does not forward the plot.

Walter's PA Astrid or Asterisk, as he frequently calls her, waves some worms in front of the camera to gratify the props guys. Walter declares the worms a parasite, earning his genius stripes! We never would have got that otherwise. And just in case we missed that: "You mean the larva use the human body as some sort of incubator?!" Peter gives an explanatory wink to the audience. Olivia misses out on it as her cellular phone goes off, rudely interrupting their fringe sciencey pow-wow. Broyles has caught one of the traffickers who was smuggling the worm-carriers into the country! Quick, to the interrogation room!

Peter continues to make himself indispensable but revealing his expertise on identifying Chinese gang members. As he channels the trafficker's tattoos inner meaning, Broyles wonders how his department ever got anything done before this mass of oh-so-convenient expertise took human form and walked into his life. But Peter is too busy figuring out that the worms are being smuggled as some new form of illegal drugs to notice just how expendable he makes the rest of them seem. Except for eagle-eye Olivia who is the only one who can apparently see through the observation glass where the suspect is slitting his throat with a concealed razor blade. And gosh darn it, they don't get to him in time! Low marks in reaction-time all around! Power couple sigh, guess they won't be solving this 15 minutes in like they thought. Drat. Broyles cranes his spindly neck, making us a bit afraid he is an alien.

Back in the lab, Walter is all chipper now that he's got the news that he can get high off his new pet worms. Right on cue, the worm Asterisk is stabbing with a hypodermic starts eating his arm, plunging Walter into his preferred state of drug-induced euphoria. Broyles shakes his head at the both of them on his way to joins the Power Couple, who are divining from some official-looking papers the identity of the Stateside buyer for the tentacled worms that now munch away at the complicit Dr. Bishop. Olivia gets a vision: a hunky adolescent boy in a homey bungalow. Turns out he's got a mother, who really needs to learn to invest her money better! The sod explains that she thought she was investing in Chinese construction projects, and Peter strolls around her house making Meaningful Observation faces to the camera as he spies hand-sanitizer and hermetically-sealed windows and showing off his leather jacket. Olivia is too busy doing her job to notice this of course.

At the lab, father and son put two and two together, figuring out that the worms are not meant for recreational drug users but have been genetically engineered to boost the human immune system. In a burst of independence, Walter decides to investigate local Chinese herbalists on his own and tells Peter off for trying to go with him. So Asterisk gets dispatched to stalk him. Poor girl never gets time off. But Peter doesn't care about this, as he runs off to impress Olivia with his Meaningful Observations and subsequent conclusions. Power couple go off to grill the blonde adolescent. Peter realizes it's his turn to bond with the child, and Olivia sticks her tongue out at him until she has to stop to answer her phone. But because he is amazing at EVERYTHING, Peter successfully charms blondie into confessing that his mom ordered the worms to treat his immunodeficiency.

Meanwhile, Walter asks the heavens why he can't go grocery shopping without being supervised! Asterisk apologizes profusely, and they walk merrily, arm in arm through Chinatown right into the lair of the Evil Herbalist, where Walter conveniently wanders off. Asterisk freaks, and Super Peter makes one of his rare lapses of judgment, advising her not to sweat it. Walter is left lost and alone in Chinatown where he uses up his bus fare trying to call Peter, and our hearts actually break a little bit when he realizes he can't remember his son's phone number. We leave him crying at a bus stop and telling his woes kindly Chinese woman who doesn't speak English. Poor Asterisk makes her way back to the lab just to be knocked out by scary, muscled Chinese thugs who steal their pet worm.

The audience is relieved to find that the kindly Chinese woman figures out Peter's number, and because Super Peter speaks Cantonese he is able to rush to the rescue, although he might have reconsidered as we find Walter has donned a rather hideous blue kimono robe instead of sticking to his slimming navy blue waistcoat. Peter stuffs Walter into the car where father and son exchange information and figure out that the Evil Herbalist is evil, and probably smuggling the worm-carriers. Super Peter and Walter stake out the Herbalist, while Olivia raids a ship suspected of transporting the next batch of carriers (including Survival-Girl's family, remember?). But gosh darn it, Olivia is too late and Peter is not there to exchange glances with her. Olivia looks wistfully at a toy butterfly left behind, where are the carriers?

Oh, what do you know! They're traipsing by Stakeout Peter and Walter. Peter phones it in, before deciding to go in alone, forgetting that right now he's just Super Peter and not Power Couple, leaving Walter alone with his guilt over having been the one to blab the location of the worms to the Evil Herbalist and causing Asterisk's concussion.

As expected, Super Peter is not so super. End of episodes are like kryptonite to him. He sits among the blue-tinted corpses of the just-off-the-boat carriers, trying to stop the Evil Herbalist with the power of his frown. But he gets force-fed the worm larva anyway. A thug jams his mouth shut and Evil Herbalist adds hastily, "If you chew it, it will kill you. We forgot about that bit of exposition til now, sorry." Joshua Jackson scowls with all his might. "Swallow!" cackles Evil Herbalist. "Don't swallow!" we shout.

Power Couple member 2 senses his telepathic distress call and Olivia bursts in just as the suspense and lack of oxygen is about to kill him. Power Couple is back together!!! Some baddies get shot. Super Peter, with the stomach of steel, spits out the worm and the crowd erupts in a victorious roar!!!! Well, not really but we all mentally give a little cheer.

For some closure, Olivia returns to the hospital to give Survival Girl's daughter back her butterfly toy. Smiling, in a moment of reflection and softness, Olivia stares at the cherubic little girl who some one tells her is recovering from her de-worming. She stares some more. She continues to stare, and we wonder if Olivia is getting a bit broody now that she's approaching 30 or if it's just bad editing. Elsewhere, Peter and Walter have a heart to heart. It is actually quite touching as Walter explains he wants to be an independent man and not to be treated like a child. We are moved, and so is Peter, that is until Walter explains that he's solved their problem of him getting lost by implanting a tracking device in his neck. Walter gives his son the beeping transmitter and returns to peacefully to bed. Peter puts his head in his hands and we feel for him. But he's Super Peter, if he can't cope with it, no one can. Peter gives us a little smirk and we feel better.

Josh Groban is Sexy! David Tennant goes grey.

It is official. Josh Groban is sexy. You've all heard it from me, but now other 'People' think so to. We now have tangible documentation.

Josh is going to be in the upcoming Sexiest Men Alive edition of People Magazine. Yay Josh!

See the video here.

Josh will also be back on Glee sometime this season.


In other news, St. Trinian's 2: The Legend of Fritton's Gold will be coming out in the UK soon. December 18th to be exact. And on that date we will get a chance to see the lovely David Tennant as the villainous Lord Pomfrey, the leader of a woman-hating secret society. If we were not in love with the girlz already, this is definitely enough to entice us to watch.

DT sheds his typical suave style for a more mature look. But like Richard Gere, he only makes grey gorgeous. And rumor has it, he ends up sloshing through the sea at some point. We can only hope for a Colin Firth/Darcy calibre moment! (Though I actually did not find that as exciting as everyone else seem to.)

Now if only they would release the trailer already!

"The president of the United States is Zac Efron."

"The prime minister of the United Kingdom is Robert Pattinson. Praise be to Robert Pattinson."

So reports Step Hen Fry on his mock transmission from the futuristic year 2034, in honor of his acquiring his millionth follower on Twitter last weekend. It's a pretty standard joke, but it is still funny because oh, it is so true. With the theatrical release of the next Twilight monstrosity and the opening of Efron's newest film in the UK, the rabid brainwashed hoards of crazed fan girls are being unleashed in unprecedented droves.

Some of us women like to think we belong to the more reasonable gender. We are not handicappingly obsessed with sex, horribly lookist and shallow, emotionally repressed, violent and mesmerized by explosions and physics-defyingly ludicrous fictional cars. And yet, at times like these, it seems like girls are willing to gun down their grandmothers and eat their best friends just for a chance to have a 5 second interaction with a handsome man. Caution is thrown to the wind, any rules or guiding principles of logic dissolve. Robert Pattinson recently expressed his remorse for jokingly telling a fan girl that stripping would be the best way to get his attention. Reprehensible statement, as he admits, but the worst part of the story is that the girl actually does it. "She stood there and frantically started taking her clothes off and got dragged out of the room by security," Pattinson recalls.

This is absurd. This cannot go on. Do these fangirls check their self-respect at the door as well as their sanity, manners, and self-control? Swarms of these fan girl mobs follow RPattz, Efron and others around like a plague of locusts, leaving devastation in their wake. Is there really call for such desperation? It is as if girls think that maybe, just maybe, if they can get Pattinson or Efron or Lautner or whoever to see them for even a slit second, it might be love at first sight, the moviestar might take her in his arms, declare to the world that she is someone special and truly unique from the mass of other screaming girls, extract her from her humdrum and dissatisfying life, give her a new one where she is important, take care of all her problems, and live happily ever after. All they want is a chance for a miracle. And this is worth any degradation or harm they might be asked to endure or inflict on a competitor.

This hardly bodes well for feminism. Girls are better educated and have far more opportunities open to them than ever before. Yet, mobs of them are still throwing themselves at the feet of men, begging for salvation. And most reprehensible, we seem to tolerate it as some sort of endearing side-effect of girlhood. It is not! It is a deeply troubling orientation toward not only romance and relationships, but toward self-esteem, self-value, intimacy, achievement, and let's face it, girls' grips on reality. Not only that, it fulfills every stereotype about women unable to survive without men, unable to form independent thought without men, and unable to accomplish anything without the promise of love and romance. This mentality runs rampant among the young (and even older) generations of females--- but we do nothing about it.

The situation is also not helped by the consumer economy, who jumps at the chance to merchandise anything. Already 10 years ago, clothing stories were stocking 'Mrs. Kutcher' bags. Hardcore fandom is now more than ever defined by the amount of purchasing one is willing to stomach--- with fan memberships, calendars, pre-orders, special additions, action figures, dolls, stickers, pins, costumes, hats, t-shirts, magazine clippings, posters, bookmarks, special edition magazines, book signings and appearances in other cities, states, and countries, and the list goes on and on and on. Hardcore fans are also expected to be up on the latest news and therefore to vigilantly update themselves on news, blogs, photo galleries, websites, fansites, radio shows, podcasts, gossip sites and that list goes on and on. Merchandising and media companies can milk these confused girls out of copious amounts of time and money. They encourage the crazedness, which in turn encourages the merchandising. If they'll buy it, we will make it. If they'll make it, we will buy it. Round and round it goes, slowly skewing the entire world.

Doctor Who, horrified

The first red flag went up as I watched the season one finale of Fox's sci-fi, horror, procedural drama Fringe. After 19 episodes of searching for the illusive William Bell, revolutionary researcher, corporate mastermind and former partner to mad scientist turned FBI consultant, Walter Bishop, the determined Olivia Dunham discovers (after several, 'He can no longer be found on this world'-type winks from various minor characters): what do you know, Bellie (as Walter seems to call him occasionally, or maybe Billy which would make more sense) is camped out in a parallel universe! "There's more than one of everything" the episode title tells us while bashing us over the head with significance-laden one-liners.

Hmm. A science-fiction show in which an exclusive branch of the government quivers with fear that part-human, part-machine beings have started opening gates (rifts anyone?) between worlds and are now planning to trek over for a day of universal destruction. Sound familiar? "Yes!" holler the Whovians, waving their Doomsday dvds. [During the two episode plot of 'Army of Ghosts' and 'Doomsday' part-human, part-machine beings march through a rift in time an space from a parallel universe, and make attempts at world domination--- resulting in much consternation and bereavement. "MUCH bereavement," sob the Whovians, again waving their Doomsday dvds, crying and listening to their Doctor&Rose playlists.] Russel T. Davies and friends should be getting out their intellectual property law because J.J. Abrams and co. are not done scavenging for plot points.

This week the show revisits the Observer--- no, not the newspaper, but a mysterious and hairless man who wears dated clothes and with a fondness for hot sauce. Or I should say, the Observers, as Olivia and Peter find out there are more than one of them. Guess what they do? They manipulate the laws of time and space, show up randomly in times of crisis, goof around with strange and wondrous tech, resist the wear and tear of age, and photoshop themselves into famous images from history from the Boston Massacre to the demise of Franz Ferdinand--- see that's one of them right there, right next to the Doctor.

"Who are these guys?" Peter questions dramatically, scowling with his typical frowny face.
"Timelords!" shouts out Walter.
Astrid hits him, "They cut that line dummy!? Remember?"
Walter eats some jelly babies to console himself.

Unfortunately for this new breed of timelord, I mean, for these Observers, one of them goes rogue, radically stopping a girl from getting on a plane that is going to crash into the ocean. Ok, the Doctor would not be too pleased with this type of meddling either, what with the laws of time and space collapsing on themselves and destroying the world, but at least he would draw the line at sending an assassin to kill the poor tied-and-gagged-for-her-own-safety girl. Luckily in the end rogue Observer sacrifices himself and this appears to rebalance everything.

"I think, it is what they call feelings," whispers rogue Observer as he croaks. "I think it is what they call love."
"What good are your skills if you cannot save the woman you love?" cackles back a co-Observer.
Whoops! No that was the dalek in Season 1 epsiode 6 of Doctor Who. Either way, rogue Observer bites the dust. And credits.

We, Whovians, should continue to keep a close eye on Fringe and its infringements, but we can take consolation in the fact that the Doctor is still much cooler than these sudo-timelords. They have none of his charisma, charm, wit, in-jokes, penchant for running up and down corridors, or any TARDIS-worthy equivalent, and they certainly could not pull off the converse sneakers/tuxedo look. And, they definitely have none of the dashing good looks topped with the dynamic explosion of awesomely mussed hair that makes all the girls go weak in the knees.

The Doctor still lords the universe, though we wouldn't mind him taking one pointer from these wannabes. Maybe the next time he is forced to 'genetic transfer' Martha Jones, he could eat some chili pepper first. Just a suggestion.

Everybody loves a critic. Or at least I love this one.

Hollywood, and the entertainment industry in general, is a man's world. Moneyed, opinionated, white men pull the strings, oppress minorities and women, hoard profits, laud over their enslaved underlings, take all the credit, and believe themselves gods. Why the world at large puts up with this is a valid query but is subject for another blog, a 22 volume treatise, and several documentary series.

But we can take some solace in the fact that every once in a while someone makes a swipe at one of these over-stuffed, over-rated moguls, and it is quite satisfying to be validated even if for just that brief moment. And this takes me to BBC Film critic Mark Kermode, who has something to say about Michael Bay.

In brief: Michael Bay is terrible. In long: "His films take millions of dollars but I think he's terrible. His films are rotten." and "If critics made any difference Michael Bay wouldn't be making movies. He's just terrible. Watching a Michael Bay movie is like being hit over the head with tax returns."

What music to mine ears! Finally someone, some man, some man in the industry, speaks out against gratuitous Michael Bay! Maybe all the trailer-editors/producer/whoever makes them will realize that putting "A FILM BY MICHAEL BAY" or similar in their mash-ups makes quite a few of us snicker. I was actually given a Transformers shirt for free by a studio exec and just could not bring myself to wear it. I eventually shame-facedly foisted it off on my sister's boyfriend, who at least is an engineer and has a somewhat valid interest in robots.

Kermode further spouts poetry when discussing Kiera Knightley: "I called her Ikea Knightley as her acting was so wooden." though he somewhat chickens out by adding, "She is better now." Regardless, this Kermode is a critic after my own heart.

**retires to a rose garden and sighs dreamily**

Leveling the Scales

I recently had the privilege of watching Britain's (un)offically smartest man--- Stephen Fry, that is--- bustle endearingly through his latest guest star stint as Doctor, now Chef, Gordon Gordon Wyatt on Fox's stellar police drama, Bones. Whilst making other intelligent observations about the quality of both the episode and Fry's performance, I recall saying to myself, "My, isn't Stephen looking trim these day!" Whether the man who has in the past described himself as a "floundering whale," "sloshing bin of yogurt" or similar has indeed shed pounds or not (which in the interest of his health I hope he did as I and his millions of other fans want to prolong his life as long as science and fiction possibly can) the point is our witty Twitter king is looking slimmer.
A few days later, I happened to catch another gem of British comedy yucking it up on the Graham Norton Show: Robert Webb and David Mitchell. Graham noted that Robert Webb, the sexy one of the dynamic duo, and wife had recently had a baby girl. (Pause for Webb enthusiasts' celebratory dance, song, etc.) "Oh David you look marvelous considering you had a baby three months ago!" quips Grahmy dearest, making a jab at David's now not-pudgy tummy after the comic cutie happened to have lost some weight from "having a bad back" and "doing some walking" according to self-report. Cue Mitchell rant about vanity and self-loathing, while Webb grins from ear to ear faithfully beside him. ("He's funny!" adds a giggling Anna Paquin helpfully, just in case we missed out on that fact.)
Alan Davies, yet another hilarious humorist, also has made comments about his weight. In mocking the 'can you pinch an inch' attitude to women of his acquaintance, 'Yes!' screams the not-exactly-Capt. Lardy, "Because when I'm reaching up for something, I don't want to split open."

But how atypical is all this! Talking about men's weights? Usually we don't even bat an eye when some fat, ugly balding chump gets it on with the gorgeous, super-fit supporting actress. See The Witches of Eastwick for a pronounced example of this. But here we are, celebrity gossiping about men losing weight for once! Maybe the tables are finally starting the turn as men get a taste of high cosmetic standards women are expected to adhere. Newly-hunkified and notorious male-grooming-phobiaed Mitchell (although a lot of us have confessed to being attracted to him purely for his intelligence and beautiful personality. Yay girls for not being lookist!) has sounded the alarm on this front. In his Unusually Smart Soapbox rant, Mitchell pleads with the handsome men of the world to tone it down and stop being so gosh-darned stylish, because it makes it hard for duds like him to to impress people with their 'unusually smartness' when donning their socially-sanctioned tuxedos and bow ties.

"Black-tie is a gift to men! It requires no thought, and it makes any of us as good as it is possible for us to look! Why would you throw that away? . . . Whatever your twisted motivation is, for heaven's sakes, stop ruining it for the rest of us. If cool men continue to selfishly indulge their individuality, the convention will disappear and we'll all have to think about what we wear forever after. We'll be in the same situation as the poor women! . . . Men, in general, don't have to look as good as women. We should be clinging to that with all we're worth! Women have to fall back on make-up, botox and surgery. The cosmetic and sartorial yoke under which they labour is terrifying, and it looms for us if we, or indeed just a few of us, renounce the black-tie."

And yet, it is also quite possible that we should not get our hopes up. These anomalous male weight-loss jabs have been aimed at a group of unclassically handsome men, who, after all, make a living out of self-mockery. They are free to be self-aware and are generally smart enough to take shallow and superficial attack in their stride. The beautiful men of the big and small screens may not be as hardy. It might be just the women and the chubby comics who have the truest grit, after all.

La poste

"My Dearest Friend" --- letter from Abigail Adams to John Adams

Even as a small child I greatly admired the art of correspondence. Whether in nineteenth century novels, or in the dramatized excepts from primary sources in Ken Burns' PBS miniseries, the eloquence of the sentiment and precision of expression displayed in these 200+ year old documents are astonishing. I think most of us would agree that such writing is a long-lost art. But I have always felt it my duty as an admirer of the written word to at least do my bit to keep the practice of letter-writing alive. This has made me a loyal patron of the United States Postal Service. I appreciate its history and am glad to use it as my go-to mail service. However, the poor USPS seems to be striving to make this more and more difficult for me each year.

(1) As many letter-writers may know, the cost of the stamp has inflated over the years, often an additional cent every year. This makes the snail-mail corresponder's life most difficult as we juggle a jumble of 44 cent, 42 cent, 2 cent, 28 cent (postcard), 27 cent, and 1 cent stamps, fearful that if we get the wrong combo our messages to our dear and beloved will be lost somewhere out there in mail limbo.

And yes, I realize that we could buy the 'forever' stamps, but that would require surrendering to brown Liberty bell image blandness, versus the fun flower, fruit and furniture selection offered by the regular stamp. One should not have to compromise on aesthetics!

(2) Flat-rate boxes are an evil ruse. Sure you can ship anything you want in their cheapest box offered for just under $5. But the catch is that you can't actually fit anything in it. Unless you are planning on ship something relatively flat and rectangular-shaped like a stack of magazines, it's unlikly anything you actually want to mail will fit in their handy-dandy less than $5 box. Nope. Instead, you'd probably have to upgrade to the box that you can actually put things in. It only costs you $5 more.

I resent these shenanigans. I understand the ole postal system is in want of finances. But trying to pick-pocket me out of it with sneaky flat-rate box schemes shrouded by innocent tv ad facades and going all evil big-businessy on the general pop is not the way to go. Whatever happened to sticking to our founding principles, doing the right thing and being the better man? UPS and FedEx may have given up on ethics (or just be better, but we'll ignore that one for now), but who is the bigger mail system in the end? Oh, that logic actually does not work.

Well, I guess when the day comes that the homey USPS delivery trucks are running down pedestrians and joggers a la FedEx driver protocol, then we'll know we really have to worry.

Poem: Telemachus

Telemachus
(based on 'Ulysses' by Tennyson)

It profits little that a seasoned youth
In this moldering place, amid these sterile walls,
Does fret and idle his childhood away
Knotted in the snare of troubled lives,
which pass, and stare, and sit, and feel not me.
I will not cease my vifor; I will be
All that I will be. All things I have known
Quickly, have tired quickly, both with those
Living my life, and not; in truth, and in
Dreamy visions in thoughtless eyes looking
Away from here. I will be become a name;
For always empty for a noble cause
For much I have hungered; a weakened heart,
And substance, firmness, essence, presence
Myself amid, and dissolved in it all.
I am apart from all I have known;
And all future is a space aloft as
There through shines an unforeseen world, that shrinks
Infinitesimal, lost as I reach
How sad it is to die
To crumble untested, and never freed!
As though to sigh were breath! Sigh blowing sigh
Were all nothing, and still nothing to me
Releases breath; but every moment saves
From that eternal graveyard some lost life,
For I have not yet what I will becomes
in life past by, that which I'm not I will be:
One pulsing for of solitary will,
Kept weak by youth and age, but alive in heart
to live, to stretch, to fly, and not to fail.

Pas les temps

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that an ambitious college student in pursuit of a successful academic and professional career must be in want of one thing: T I M E. (And no not the publication, nit wits.)

The Guess Who's 1970 "No Time" ought to be the official anthem for driven scholars at any prestigious institution of higher learning. We are all screaming the "I got got got got no time! I got got got got not time!" that leads the song out whether internally or externally. Except in this day and age, the You who we've got no time for is no longer some spurred ex, but instead is us, the driven scholars. We've got no time for ourselves.

As my workload begins to mutate monstrously and take on a life and destiny of its own, it's the basic things that get squeezed out. Sleep being the least of these.

Chatting with a friend as we hurried ourselves into a required 8pm screening of British General Post Office short films from the 1930s, I recounted with a genuine sense of glee and luxury, "I actually got to eat dinner today! It was so exciting!" and my friend express her jealousy of my good fortune. A little professor's wife in the aisle in front of us turned around and gave me a haughty look of disparagement. It made me pause and register just how ludicrous my statement was. I'm sure from her uninformed perspective, I sounded like some ditsy 'fashion merchandising' major in the fast lane to anorexia, but in actuality, most of us just no longer can afford to allot the 15 minutes required for dinner. And it is a sad comment on my life.

But it gets worse. This few mornings ago I actually took a moment to look at my reflection as I brushed my teeth, and realized with a sinking feeling in my stomach that I needed to pluck my eye-brows. I wracked my brains as to when I would have time to take care of this. I toyed with the possibility of taking the time out of my 10 minute breakfast, but opted to count it as a 'study break' later in the afternoon. As I recounted this to my sister on the phone (factored into my schedule three days beforehand), I expressed my astonishment at how I had managed to actually do my makeup every day last year--- something which I have since given up. Freshman year, doing my hair went. Sophomore year, eating lunch went. Junior year, exercising went. Senior year, nearly all forms of physical maintenance are going as I struggle to squeeze showering in.

Is this really how we are meant to live? When we cannot eat, sleep, talk to our family members on the phone, pluck our eyebrows, put on make-up or shave our legs (something that men should appreciate they do not have to worry about if only from a scheduling perspective), much less shop for new jeans when the ones we have are literally falling apart, without a paralyzing fear of getting behind schedule? Somehow I think we were not meant to grow up to be slave to our calendars. It tempts one to look up at the sky and scream "Where did it all go wrong?" Maybe if we could think of some answers to that question, we would have a fighting chance. But we just haven't got the time.

Les novelles britanniques

So random but oh so fantastic bits of news for those of you interested in the goings on in the British entertainment world (and yes some of this is so last month, but I've just heard of it):

(1) Michael Sheen is in the much anticipated New Moon. Isn't he just precious!?!



I mean, he already had a few nice roles in, oh, I don't know, Bright Young Things, The Queen, and Frost/Nixon but this will really kick-off his career.

(2) My much beloved Primeval has negotiated itself back to life after an apparently unprecedented routine of corporate acrobatics. We could even go so far as to call it an **anomaly** (Har har har). The powers that be have also taken steps to "ensure that the spectacular special effects that have made Primeval such a huge success will continue throughout the new season." Cuz where would we be without those? Oh time traveling dinosaur show. We love you.

(3) Gavin & Stacey, which has managed to remain frustratingly absent from youtube, has been picked up by ABC. Thank God!

(4) Russell Brand is in love with Katy Perry. They are dating. It is magical.

As someone who in a fit of madness actually read two thirds of Brand's remarkably enjoyable autobiography this summer, this bit of celebrity gossip cannot help but make me go "Awwwwwww." Despite his being blatantly un-PC and vile, the Western mainstream media consumer still seams to adore him--- as if we know that underneath that gruff sex and drug addicted exterior is a just a quirky, talented teddy bear. (To be quite honest, his book does revealing as quite a lot more lucid and sensitive than he may appear.)

If love of a good woman can turn Brand from his nefarious and self-gratifying ways, well then what more evidence do we need that love conquers all and that there just might be hope for the rest of us?

To the happy couple!

L'amour sans retour

Once upon a time there was a princess, and she had everything she could wish for, and a great deal more. Now, near the palace there was a cottage in which lived a poor, little, tiny woman, all alone. She was not old, but quite young. And one day, the princess stopped at the cottage and said to the tiny woman, "Let me see what you keep there."

So the tiny woman opened a very secret place and showed the princess a shadow. It was the shadow of someone who had passed by many years before.

"And you keep watch over this every day?" said the princess.

"Yes," said the tiny woman, because no one so good or kind had passed that way ever since.

And the princess realized that of all of gold and silver, her diamonds and rubies, she had nothing so precious to her as that shadow was to that tiny woman.

--- an abridged version of a story told by Amy from Little Dorrit (Dickens)

L'horreur des chaussures à talons hauts

I recently had the privilege of viewing a television commercial for some now-forgotten product that claimed to be some sort of remedy for the much-begrudged menstrual torments we most of us are acquainted with, or are at least aware of. The commercial featured a comedianne joking about how her monthly cycle would 'transform [her] into something that isn't human.' At the time-- and this still holds true, obviously-- I remember feeling inclined to take issue with such a description. Though I wholly appreciate with the range of pain and discomfort women endure re the reproduction organs. However, I would like to point out that, on the whole this experience is a completely natural function of our human physical layout--- not alien or otherworldy or otherwise extra-homosapien. I, myself, am probably never more aware of my own mortality and inner workings than during this period (haha, get it!).

No. PMS. Perfectly natural. One of those simple, if sad, facts of life. For at least some of us.

What does transform that some of us into something that isn't human? High-heeled shoes.

This thought crossed my mind as I stood in the late afternoon sunshine on a city street corner, fantasizing about the gruesome death, I felt for a brief moment, another person deserved. The context of this of course is that I was waiting for my ride home from work, and like most of the unorganized, unreliable people I know, Ride was late. This tardiness meant only one thing to my deranged mental-state: more standing. Specifically, more blindingly agonizing standing in my high-heeled shoes. The pain in these poor afflicted components of my substructure, increasing exponentially as time crept its petty pace, was reaching mind-blowing proportions. It consumed my thoughts until all I was aware of was the throbbing white-hot screaming nerve cells of my unfortunate soles, begging for relief. The world converged and the universe realigned itself with one purpose: to stop my swollen feet from hurting. One person, namely Ride, stood in my way, and as far as Laura's-Feet-centric Parallel Universe was concerned he need to be taken out.

A steam-roller should mow him down in the cross-walk. A massive block of granite should fall from the sky and pulp him into the greasy asphalt. A random blast of super hot laser energy should obliterate him. A massive car crash should culminate in his miserable person being crushed between hard, unrelenting surfaces of motor vehicle . . . at this point I became aware of the alarming ravings of my pain-poisoned psyche. Since when was I such a blood-thirsty monster? Why on earth did this poor Ride, who was probably just running late because he held the elevator for a little old lady or let a pedestrian cross unhurried, deserve such an ungenerous and graphic exit from this life? I had gone completely off my head! Was it his fault that I had to spend most of my day standing, breathing in the ozone emissions of the photocopier? No. Was it his fault I had arrived at the pick-up point eight minutes early? No. Was he the one forcing me to wear heels to work? No. He was just a nice guy who had offered a lift to someone who was obviously completely crackers.

If I was to vengefully plot the death of anyone, it should have been the person the who had made the high-heeled shoe the standard expected footwear of the female business dress code. In these situations we often find ourselves blaming the inventor. And while the inventor of the high-heeled woman's shoe was probably in league with Satan, I speak the truth when I draw to our attention the fact that we should probably be gnashing our teeth at least as much, if not more, in the direction of the diabolical person or persons who actually decided to sign on to this whole 4 inch women's heel scheme. I mean to say people are always spouting dreadful ideas--- like the massive portion sizes at fast-food restaurants or the penning of the awful saga of Bella Swan's pathetic life --- but these manifestations of human failing would never see the light of day if it were not for the pack of fools that egg these bringers-of-doom on. Who was it I would like to know that, after giving it a moment of thought, decided that yes, strapping 3 to 6 inch pegs to women's feet and mocking them as they hobble around in attempt to walk sounds, now that I reflect on it, like a good idea. It is as ludicrous as the notoriously inhumane, ancient Chinese custom of wrapping the feet.

But it's actually quite a clever ruse because it often doesn't start hurting until about 20 or 30 minutes in, so like a drug dealer, the sexist, control-freak, egomaniac high-heeled shoe pushers can easily trick their victims into giving this culturally-sanctioned patriarchal handicap a naive go. And suddenly, one gender of our species is bullied into wearing this crippling emblem of inequality for all eternity, making a sad spectacle of its attempts to break through that glass ceiling. We all may pretend it's just a flighty fancy of the feminine or sexy staple of seduction--- but we know, the alpha females know, and the alpha males know it's a massive lie. Men sit high on their ladders whether corporate, political etc. and relax in the comfort of knowing their female underlings scutter about below them, fighting to maintain their sanity, success and survival through a distorting haze of podiatric agony. They know what the official or unofficial dress code is for, those men, they deserve to be mowed down by a steam roller, pulped by a massive block of granite, oblit. . . well you know.

Non, pas de repas gratuit

We are all, I expect, acquainted with the saying "There's not such thing as a free lunch." This bleak sentence articulates the sad truth that in some way when ever you get something, you're going to be giving something--- even if you think you are getting it for free.

Well, I have learned that this is true. Especially in the case of free lunch.

Let me elucidate here: (Points if you know what song that is from!)

After several of my friends and co-Cornell in Hollywood internship program participants, snobbishly bragged about the free-luncheon perks of their internships, I was feeling pretty hoity-toity when I was informed that Lawyers R Us was going to treat me and few others to an afternoon repast. So enthusiastically I sauntered off with several other coworkers for my first prolonged encounter with a sexist, snobby and rich-enough-to-be-shockingly-rude Los Angelian.

The meal was one of profound inner turmoil and agonizing discomfort due to my unfortunate discovery that the host, the head-honcho of the company whose connection with a past employer of mine got me my job, was an appalling vulgarian with no sense of decorum or respect for his company. I shall refer to him as Mr. Appalling. Mr. Appalling's impression of polite luncheon conversation was to first lecture us all the various reasons why the drug trade should be a federal industry. A little controversial, I thought sipping my water quietly, but perhaps he'll settle down to more appropriate discussion such as the weather or someone's vacation plans once the food arrives. No chance. I listened in disbelief as Mr. Appalling finished discoursing on that subject and began explaining the merits of prostitution. Essentially, it was a good and harmless thing, and everyone who did not share that opinion should just get a grip and come to terms with their repressed sexual urges. But not, male prostitution. That's just wrong and weird. There should not be any male prostitution.

If that was not enough to put me in convulsions, he then called for the dissolution of the Catholic and Jewish religions in the United States, since we all know they are just money-laundering vacuum. This was accompanied by some amazingly offensive remarks about Catholics that I do not care to repeat.

And for desert he recounted, especially for my benefit---how so I don't really care to ponder, the shameful character of women who claim to have been sexually assaulted in the workplace. They really are just lazy and trying to cheat men out of money so they don't have to work in these tough economic times. Oh and most of them have had sex before so are (offensive word for sexually active women) and therefore clearly will always consent to inappropriate sexual advances.

Where on earth had this barbaric patriarchal egomaniac come from? Could he please just crawl back to the primeval scum he had clearly originated from? I sat there torn between my desire letting him have a piece of my mind and the deference I ought to show him as some one of higher rank in the company, my employer, and someone who was doing me a tremendous favor by giving me a job for the summer. This was all perhaps doubly shocking to me, having previously heard only positive testament to his character. So there I was, miserable and nibbing at God-knows-what as dish after dish of exotically-named uncooked sea life was forced upon me--- Mr. Appalling having insisted on ordering for everyone between fits of drooling over the waitresses--- making an increasingly feebler show of appearing anything resembling at-ease and completely at a lost of what to do.

Reflecting on the horrible experience as I tried not to cry into my keyboard upon returning to work, I derided myself for failing to speak up. Not only had I sat there quietly and politely, though perhaps turning purple and green with anger and disgust, and failed to stand up for the suffering endured by the thousands of women Appalling was so brazenly unconcerned with, but I had also failed to stand up for myself and my religion. I was an educated person, familiar with the true reality of the issues he was claiming to be knowledgeable about, and yet I still was not able to defend or articulate my views. Instead I was spineless and silent, too nervous about crossing the rules of social decorum which Appalling clearly felt did not apply to him. Like most other women, I was deferential and patient toward the man, and endured whatever inner pain and discomfort he felt entitled to inflict.

On top of this self-hated, I raged against the injustice of it all. Appalling should clearly have been aware of obligation all his employees at the table felt toward him, and avoided putting us in such an uncomfortable position. Instead his sense of self-importance and power-hunger allowed him to take advantage of his station and lord it over us free of consequences. He had his own feudal kingdom and made sure the rest of us knew it. We all understood we were to grovel for our grub. And we did. Had any of the others adults at the table seemed at all on my side, I probably would have piped up. Yet, knowing the score, they all sat there stone face and obedient to the boss. The help submissively stood facing the corner as the master strolled about doing whatever he pleased. And it is a dreadful feeling, dutifully hiding one's face in the corner, feeling alone, angry, debased, and ill-used.

In short, it was a harrowing and awful experience, that I can only hope I learned from it and never have to do it again.

Ou etait Neville?

~ My review of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood ~

Rating: A solid 3 stars.

While an enjoyable and artistically excellent film, the sentiment with which I left the theatre after watching this installment of HP adventures was one of dissatisfaction. Essentially, it could have been better. It deserved to be better. And it was not. I wish it had been. But it wasn't.

Now before everyone starts accusing me of having too-high expectations (which may by the way be a completely accurate allegation), I would like to point out that I thought a lot of the film was brilliant. The acting was its at its usual standard of perfection, the art direction and production design, impressive etc. What was most gratifying was the skillful and precise way in which the humorous parts of the story were crafted and presented--- something which had been until now been being gradually pushed out of the past films. What was most disappointing however was that the careful management of timing, transition, performance, writing, editing, and directing that made the comedic moments so successful did not carry over to the handling of the dramatic moments. As I remember, the sixth book was actually quite exciting and the eb and flow of tension and emotion was relatively well-structured. Virtually, none of this carried over to the movie in my opinion. The film had all the right pieces, but it rather mucked it up in putting them together. Transition was not its strong point.

In its defense, I can't help but feeling like it might have been a issue of time for this film. As we all know, the release of the film was pushed back in order to give the producers, editors, directors, effects people etc. more time to finish the film. Unfortunately this probably was not enough time. I say this because the quality of the scenes individually is very high--- indicating that they managed to film all the right stuff, but did not have enough to fine-tune its mashup. That and the first half of the film is much better than the second half, something highly typical of a film that lacked the proper allocation of time to put on the finishing touches.

But all in all, the most disappointing thing about the film--- and I hope you don't mind me giving this away, and actually I think it is good to know this going in so you are not a gravely disappointed as I was--- is that it excised Dumbledore's funeral. The film did a bumbling job of paying its respects to the character in that his death is actually rather anticlimactic, but it could have made up for this by doing a bang-up job on his funeral.

Though I do not have the highest of opinions for JK Rowling's writing, I thought her use of the funeral as a venue for catharsis, sum-up and 'coming up next' was rather impressive. The scene while filled with excellent emotion is highly functional. Losing that scene meant the film rather dropped the ball on everything it did for the story. Instead it is replaced with a rather out-of-place Harry-Hermonie dialogue about how beautiful Hogwarts is, shame it's going to the dogs now, and it's really kind of strange that Ron is included in this scene but not given any lines and is instead reduced to just giving a supportive nod of agreement every now and then. Credits.

I sort of went along with the scene as I waited for the cut to the funeral. It never came.

The other major disappointment about this film is that our dearest dear, Neville, is essentially not in the film. He gets to play the role of the concerned onlooker, peering over McGonagall's shoulder now and again, but that is it. No lines at all. We are all coming somewhat to terms with franchise's reduction of our various favorite supporting characters to mere cameos, but this is a bit excessive. Neville is not only hugely popular and awesome, but extremely important. Let's just hope they address him properly in the last two films. We all know he really ought to have been the Chosen One, and the least the movies could do is acknowledge this.

Other notable absences: the Dursleys do not appear. I always liked opening with them and despite their magic-hating despicableness, I rather missed them.

In summary, I was dissatisfied. The film feel grossly short of the last film, and this was the first HP film I will pronounce not as good, not even on par, with the book.

Tra!

P.S. One of the best parts of the night was hearing the theatre erupt in the deranged screams of rabid Twilight-fan girls when the New Moon trailer came on. It was almost as hilarious as the shower of boos that all the boys in the theatre could not stifle once it had finished. Most amusing!

Les noms imbecile -- Le supplice ajoute d'etre secretaire

(translation: Stupid Names -- The further Torture of Being a Secretary)

As the general populace may or may not know, during my stint in LA this summer, I am working 3/4 days a week at a law firm I will refer to as Lawyers R Us. It is tedious and uninteresting work that I do, but Lawyers R Us is paying me, so who am I to complain?

One of my tasks is 'indexing' which basically entails arranging various papers in chronological order, fastening them into binders and/or folders and typing up long table-of-contents pages. As such, I am often typing the same words over and over and over again. A brief sample of these words would be something including: plaintiff, defendant, subpoena, admissions, declarations, reply etc. Company names are also something that frequently is included in the title of documents, so as you would expect I am often typing Fish Products Processing Company or Disgruntled Former Employee or Money-Hoarding Step-Daughter repeatedly. Typically, this affords me no more irritation than one would expect from typing anything fifteen hundred times. However, recently this has changed.

Enter company with really stupid name.

Little did I know what teeth-grinding frustration I was letting myself in for when I sidled merrily up to Secretary Candice and pronounced myself finished with Task Past and ready for Task Future. Task Future was handed to me in the disguise of a typical stack of jumbled and disorganized papers that I have become so familiar with. But upon extracting the first document and perusing its title, I realized this task would be different from any task I had yet completed.

The company in question had ill-advisedly opted to name itself something akin to Angry Gorilla.

Yes, Angry Gorilla.

There I was, now forced into several hours of typing Angry Gorilla, Angry Gorilla, Angry Gorilla, Angry Gorilla, Prestigious Company's Objection to Special Interrogatories Set One (1) Propounded by Defendant Angry Gorilla. Plaintiff Tarzan and Dumbo Inc.'s Reply to Defendant Angry Gorilla's Proposed Notice of Eviction. Oops! Delete, Delete, Delete.

Had I been transcribing some brilliant scientist's notes on his ground-breaking animal behavior study or penning Lion King 5, I would have been more than content to punch out 'Angry Gorilla' incessantly on the keyboard and hear the word ringing in my head, accompanied by the parade of all the various things one's mind associates with the enraged jungle mammal. But in the context of a legal document? What utter rot! The imbecilic adjective-noun pairing turned torture device morphed every impressive and formal line of clean and beautifully precise jargon into some sort of drunken, tasteless joke, that only it found amusing at the expense of rest of the universe's inner peace and sense of balance. I silently sent wrathful psychic energy out to wreck havoc on the boorish, pea brain fraternity brothers who I expect thought it was such a hilariously drole idea to name their company such unprofessional drivel.

I hope the opposing counsel discovers every opportunity to mock them on this point. Then they might begin to know the a small fraction of the pain it is to be a secretary.

Le deuxieme weekend -- Partie un

You will hear about what went down the first weekend (6th and 7th) later. Though, it really is not too thrilling. Not that that is a criticism of it.

But my second weekend in California was a blast!

The end of the week found me going a little stir crazy so I was thrilled when chum and fellow Cornellian, Nadine (am changing names, mostly for fun), proposed a movie-night/sleep-over at her apartment Saturday evening. Only had to endure Friday night with the kind relatives who are generously putting me up, but were, I must admit, beginning to grate on the nerves.

But Friday evening looked like a promising prospect. They lured me in with an invitation to go out to eat with their daughter Michelle, whom I like, and their other daughter Tina who had just returned from vacation. Perhaps my sleep-deprivation and general exhaustion impaired my judgment, but for the rest of night I found myself trapped in one of Dante's circles of hell as I tried to keep from dropping dead from fatigue and feigned (less and less believably) polite interest in their generally inane and often not-really-appropriate-for-company conversation. They covered various topics usually kept off the dinner menu from Mormon underwear (which I am rather confident they were really wildly incorrect about) to uterine cancer surgery. Let's just say it was all I could do not to invite myself over Nadine's a night early!

Saturday, I waved encouragingly at the fam as it packed itself off to a party in the early afternoon reminding them I was going over a friend's for the evening--- I didn't even want to bother explaining I was staying the night elsewhere, and would just leave a note to avoid any obstacles that could possibly prevent me from escaping. I then threw my own bag in my car and fled the joint, stopping only to pick up dinner (Easy Mac! yummy, fast, and cheap.) and to test my credit card out for the first time. The paranoid person I am lived in fear that if I did not give it a test drive it would fail to work at the pump and prevent me from getting gas, which I was going to have to do in the very near future.

Made it to Burbank in just under an hour and a little hoarse from singing all the way--- with a broken radio I was forced to provide my own entertainment which doubled as a stress-reliever as in "I whistle a happy tune so no one will suspect I'm afraid" of the deadly and insane LA traffic. (Points if you can name that musical!) Nadine and I settled down to an evening of instant pasta, and after some deliberation A Few Good Men--- which I adored, more on this later perhaps, and The Shawshank Redemption--- which she adored and I enjoyed. By bedtime, life seemed slightly more worth living again.

Sunday morning we discovered the Cornell picnic we were going to be attending was very close to the apartment complex and that is would be foolish for me to drive all the way home and then all the way back if I could avoid it. Aw shucks! Guess I'll just have to push going home until the late afternoon! Phoned the relations when I knew they would be out and left them a message informing them such.

The local church I found nearby my friend's flat was actually quite nice. The music was lively and of top quality, people were friendly, and the congregation was very into the mass. All in all it was a very refreshing experience. Am considering return next week. I also thoroughly enjoyed it when, during his homily, the slightly weird priest managed to work in "In the script I'm writing about . . ."--- as I commented when recounting this later to my mom, everyone has a script here, literally everyone.

Nadine and I bummed a ride to the picnic off of compatriot Roma who conveniently lived in the same apartment complex. The three of us had a merry ride gossiping about Nadine's complicated love-life and creatively formulated how to divvy up credit for the fruit salad I'd made on behalf of our little party.

After only having to turn around once, we arrived.

Memo

K, so obviously, have not been so organized about getting these out on a regular basis. But I plan to cover everything.

I am now 3 wks into my summer, 4 if you count the trek--- which can probably spawn 5 or 6 posts on its own. So though I'd like to keep things in chronological order, in the interest of getting posts done on a more regular basis I'm going to just post on whatever and try and go back and fill in the missing days. I.e. I'm not going to post about the drive or first weeks yet but will later so though that happened first, it's going to appear randomly throughout most likely.

Hopefully this will not blow your mind.

Les vacances chez moi

This week, we find ourselves enjoying the cool post-thunderstorm breeze that rolls through the lush spring-green branches of the ash trees that throw patches of shade on the manicured lawns of a suburban New Jersey neighborhood. Birdsong mingles with the sound of the airplanes screeching overhead and the rumbling traffic on the highways, about 200 meters and 1400 meters away respectively. On our quarter of an acre square of this paradise, the flowers wear the fresh vestments of spring. Wildlife is diverse and plentiful on the dandelion-speckled patch of lawn, mainly due to the unique non-pesticide flavor of the plant life that we strive for here chez moi. Though furry friends, be warned, come summertime, the lord of the manor has been known to pelt bricks at or drown those who trespass into the vegetable gardens.

What has been going on inside?

A grueling Friday (June 29th) of packing until 5am culminated with my departure from Cornell on Saturday with much assistance from some very very kind and dedicated friends (you know who you are) and many a sad farewell. I spent the first hour or so of the drive boring my father to death with a lengthy summary of the movie X-Men Origins: Wolverine, complete with an in-depth analysis of the clichéd storyline, so as to clearly communicate how dreadful the film was. Rest assured he will not be watching that movie anytime soon. We also managed to discuss P.G. Wodehouse and Ogden Nash somehow. The evening concluded as I stumbled brain-dead into the bathroom to brush my teeth and promptly put hand-soap on my toothbrush. A sign to get some shut-eye if ever I saw one.


Sunday morning I am lovingly pummeled awake by a cherubic little sister who informed me disdainfully that it was 1 o’clock and to get up already. Only the strongest sisterly love kept me from blaming her for my poor night’s sleep in the spare room (see picture above of me putting on my penguin slippers), to which I was banished due to the uninhabitable state of our bedroom . Granted it was AP week, but let’s just say she gets low marks in tidiness, sanitation, and general domestic finesse (i.e. she had to sleep in the top bunk otherwise known as my bed due to the unsavory landscape of her own bunk). Mass in the evening is a shoddy affair due to a combination of our pastor’s exhaustion from dealing with the church carnival and the unpopular but zealous gospel choir. The deacon gives a simplistic but positive sermon about how “there are many types of love” (one of which is loving our parents, another example is loving a cold beer on a hot afternoon) but Fr. D kills the mood by reflecting on “this tear-stained world” during the prayers.

Monday: Sleeping and catching up on my favorite BBC shows online.


Tuesday was more exciting as I accompanied my mother to a lecture at Rutgers by none other than the infamous Phil Zimbardo speaking about the Psychology of Evil. Oh mother-daughter bonding! The event was in my dad’s building and his normal lecture hall so he ended up tagging along. Good thing he did as he was the one who finally managed to get ole Dr. Z’s powerpoint presentation to work (see picture above). The ‘Discovering Psychology’ creator’s lecture was interesting. Unfortunately, he spent too long discussing evil that he did not have time to give us the full scoop on his new interest: heroism. So we got a heavy dose of depressing and not quite an adequate dose of uplifting. The outing did however give me a change to debut the green sweater I stole from Mariana’s dump and run pile on Friday night. It went over very well especially with my matching socks. On the way home we stopped by to purchase me a new ipod (RIP old ipod where ever you are). The down side, I am the one who has to cough up the greenbacks this time. The up side, it can be purple!



Wednesday and Thursday were occupied with preparations for LA: packing, some minimal shopping for a GRE study book, car repairs, finalizing things with internship providers, trying to finalize things with the hell that is Career Services. Luckily managed to see a few great pals (Emily and Sumona) before hitting the road Friday.

Also saw Star Trek. Am not personally a huge fan of the movie but it had its really great moments. It also had its rather awful moments--- namely several lame plot points and the clichéd opening, though it did give me a fantastic opportunity to heckle Jennifer Morrison. Thoroughly enjoyed a lot of the winks to those familiar with the original series especially the classic red shirt whose parachute malfunctions. Right Abrams, it ‘malfunctioned.’

Best parts: hands-down Karl Urban as McCoy (I don’t think people appreciate how spot on he was. The guy must have put some serious serious work into that role) and Pegg as Scotty. Who cares about Pine and Quinto with either of those guys in the scene? Not me!
Side Note: I also really enjoyed mocking the Transformers trailer. “Megatron wants what’s in my mind!” Does he now LeBeouf? Really? Or “They’re symbols, they must mean something.” No way! Glad you’re there to state the obvious! Gosh, where would we be without you? (In a better movie maybe?)

Friday: driving to visit the grandparents in PA

Il commence

Greetings mes amis! Welcome to chateau chez my musings, mutterings, and masterpieces.

As you may well have gathered by now, I am blogging, and this is my blog.

98 cents was created for various purposes, some of which may include chronicling my adventures in LA this summer, indulging myself in an exaggerated sense of self-importance, and entertaining you all with amusing yet intelligent prose. I flatter myself that you may, from time to time, enjoy looking at life through the peculiar goggles that metaphorically represent my worldview, and that you might care to stay abreast of all the exciting goings-on that are my life experiences.

If not, apologies for mistaking you for someone who cares a fig about me. Won’t happen again. **goes off and weeps in a corner**

But to those of you still reading blissfully along, my heartfelt gratitude. You are true friends.

But putting pathos aside, you may by now be wondering a bit about the title. “Wonder away,” a dislikable snob might say, in which case you would probably cease bothering to wonder. “I’ll tell you,” say I, because I am nice and likable. (Note: If by some rare chance you are not in fact wondering about the title as of yet, I suggest you do so immediately in order to enjoy the full mental and intellectual experience this blog provides.)

As most of you probably know (and some better than others) I am a person with many opinions. And most of these opinions are lengthy, elaborate edifices of thought, founded on intricate theoretical constructions, deep psychological analyses and random contextualizing bits of supporting evidence. As a result, finishing off a tirade about rude library workers, for example, with the expression “that’s just my two cents” often feels like a bit of an understatement.

As such, from now on (or at least within the safe confines of this blog) I will be giving my 98 cents. No more of this two cents nonsense for me! If you want two cents, you can provide it yourselves--- by posting comments, discoursing with me, and otherwise engaging in feedbacky activities. It will be fun for all, and a chance for us to engage in witty banter, silly jokes, and the general pleasure of each other’s virtual company.

I hope you garner some enjoyment from 98 cents. Come crack a smile, chuckle, giggle, or turn purple with painful fits of uncontrollable laughter as I am known to do occasionally.

Tune in next time when I will write: “we find ourselves enjoying the cool post-thunderstorm breeze that rolls through the lush spring-green branches of the ash trees”

Et maintenant, à la prochaine!