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.