Says the Internet: Do a lot.

Again, I was reading this article (a while ago now) that a friend had been circulating on facebook, advising us creatives to take a look.  The article has some good advice or "survival hints for young creative weirdos."

One of the author's hint made me pause and reflect as again I was made aware of my attitude towards creativity and productivity, and that attitude was challenged:

"Do a lot. This may seem like strange advice, but I mean it — do a lot. Write a lot, paint a lot, shoot a lot of film, take a lot of pictures, dance a lot, sing a lot, whatever the thing you do is, do it a lot. You have to get limber and skilled, so that when you have an idea, you can manipulate it and do the work part of the work. The idea is sort of the balloon in a balloon animal; you have to have it, and it has to be strong, or else there's nothing. But you'll be distinguished more by your handling of it than by the thing itself, and the best way to do that is to do the thing you do a lot."

Growing up with parents that had expectations of excellence in everything their children did, but also a potent, unspoken hierarchy for the which areas of interest took precedence, I always struggled with deciding what exactly to pursue.  As a person naturally interested in a lot of things, I was (and still am) frequently immobilized when faced with the choice of what interest or passion to explore.

The pressure to invest either all or nothing into a select few (productive) interests or activities may have indeed shut down a lot of my creative impulses.  If I wasn't able to or sure I wanted to commit 110% to something, well then, I'd better not bother with it at all (because I clearly wasn't interested enough) and rather focus more on something useful like learning algebra or operating a power drill. (Not that those thing are not important or useful.)  Combined with my natural shyness, I think this pressure drove me to just categorically refuse to engage with things (like dance, art, photography, economics) that peaked my interest but were never given a chance to fully flesh out or dwindle away.

Says the Internet: on being "the best" or not mattering

Several weeks ago I read this article on 10 Things Most Americans Don't Know About America.  It was interesting.  I don't necessarily agree/disagree/believe/don't believe everything he says, but it is always good to hear different perspectives on things.  On the whole, most of it didn't really surprise me, but his #8 thing really rather floored me.

"8. WE’RE STATUS-OBSESSED AND SEEK ATTENTION

I’ve noticed that the way we Americans communicate is usually designed to create a lot of attention and hype. Again, I think this is a product of our consumer culture: the belief that something isn’t worthwhile or important unless it’s perceived to be the best (BEST EVER!!!) or unless it gets a lot of attention (see: every reality-television show ever made).
This is why Americans have a peculiar habit of thinking everything is “totally awesome,” and even the most mundane activities were “the best thing ever!” It’s the unconscious drive we share for importance and significance, this unmentioned belief, socially beaten into us since birth that if we’re not the best at something, then we don’t matter.
We’re status-obsessed. Our culture is built around achievement, production and being exceptional. Therefore comparing ourselves and attempting to out-do one another has infiltrated our social relationships as well. Who can slam the most beers first? Who can get reservations at the best restaurant? Who knows the promoter to the club? Who dated a girl on the cheerleading squad? Socializing becomes objectified and turned into a competition. And if you’re not winning, the implication is that you are not important and no one will like you."

(Although I rather love hyperbolic expression, so I'm not 100% with him on that), I was just knocked over by how well he summarizes American society's (in my experience, at least) "obsession" with being the best.  Manson defines it as "the belief that something isn't worthwhile . . . unless it's perceived to be the best or unless it gets a lot of attention."  He goes on to elaborate: "It's the unconscious drive we share for importance and significance, this belief . . . that if we're not the best at something, then we don't matter."

This just strikes home with me so much!  This idea that I essentially don't matter because I'm not the best or even that exceptional at anything really feels so true to me.  For me, it is one of those beliefs you don't even realize you hold fundamentally true until someone really carefully points it out to you--- it really has be "beaten into me".  Reading this article was really a "whoa!" moment for me as I realized that this idea is just that: an idea--- and a belief that can be changed and that other people don't necessarily hold.

Can the Beholder be wrong?

"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder," we say.  And to at least some extent, this is true.

Once the objet d'art is created and displayed, the artist certain retains little control over its reception, interpretation and perhaps most importantly, its being understood.  We all blithely concede that each person who looks upon a painting with not depart from the viewing with the same impression of the piece or with duplicate feelings and emotions stirring within them.  One onlooker views the Mona Lisa or a Picasso or Warhol or Pollack and thinks it a pleasing enough work of art.  Another finds himself overcome, tears pouring down his face.  A third, while understanding the artistic merit and historical relevance, thinks the entire thing quite ugly and shudders to think of it hanging above her sofa.  [A fourth, perhaps we can imagine, just doesn't 'get' this whole art business and silently contemplates the dullness of this entire outing.]

Now, my dilemma is this: does this apply to the written word and narrative?

Generally speaking, does not an author compose his prose with a certain thesis, theme, exploration, or conclusion in mind, however general?  Is there not always something the reader is meant to realize, do, or understand?  This can be as specific as after reading this essay or watching this documentary one should ban the Twilight series from all school reading lists and libraries, or it might be as general as, after reading this novel or viewing this film, one should be reflecting upon one's attitudes toward love--- but what is fundamental is that this "it" is always there.

Therefore, one can actually leave a work of prose or narrative with an impression or understanding of the work's meaning (purpose, theme, thesis, moral etc.) that is, in fact, wrong.

As an example, I shall recount an event that inspired me upon these reflections:

I recently watched an excellent television miniseries, a costume drama that follows the life of a upper class British family from 1870s until the 1920s.  Presupposing the work's lovely cinematography, dumbfounding,  stunning costuming and cast as a given, what is most extraordinary about this series is its delicate handling of its two central characters: a rich, profoundly repressed, and jealous young man who and the young, beautiful, artistic, poor woman who naively marries him to relieve the temporary financial burdens of her father's death.  As expected the marriage quickly turns sour, fraught the inherent unsuitability of the partners, the husband's fervent but repressed passion for his wife, her deadening depression and unhappiness, the complete inability of either to communicate with the other, complicated by the husband's obsession with viewing their relationship in terms of ownership and rights--- a view that is sanctioned by society's rules, both social and legal.  Both parties do rather horrible things, but with the cards so stacked against her, I think it is fair to say, as one character does, "I rather think she has suffered more."  Regardless, the beauty of the series is its ability to keep the viewer from completely villainizing either character.  Somehow it manages to keep an adulteress and a rapist profoundly sympathetic, and as it took such pains to do so, I assume that one of the main aims of the narrative is to reveal the complexities of a failed marriage, explore the incompatibilities of people with different understandings of love, and the devastating and destructive nature of Victorian views of marriage and wifely obligation and husbands' rights.

So, I was greatly taken with this series, considered it a triumph, a great success, and consequently suggested it to my mother.

One can imagine my astonishment when she reports back to me her complete lack of sympathy for the wife.  She found her completely unsympathetic, and generally, she brings all her suffering upon herself due to her "not trying at all to make her marriage work."  I tried to counter that she does try somewhat, and that as the early months of their marriage is skipped over we can probably assume that she probably tried more and also had to recover the the sheer shock of discovering the true jealous, repressed and misunderstanding nature of her husband, and that she does acknowledge becoming both cold and apathetic but being too depressed to rise to the occasion.  I also pointed out that her husband not only generally smothers her and misunderstands her, but is completely incapable of considering her wants more than superficially (especially as they are usually counter his own), yells at her and berates her, bars her from seeing her friends and plots behind her back to essentially hoard her to himself in a secret house in the country.  My mother's response: well he buys her all those nice things, and he only does those terrible things as a reaction to her apathy and coldness.  She doesn't even try to communicate with him or make him or herself happy.

I am, in short, flabbergasted in that my mother has watched the same miniseries as I and come away with an impression not only completely opposite my own, but completely opposite what I perceived to be the fundamental message and purpose of the narrative itself.  For example, the fact that the husband attempts to win his wife over by showing her with gifts, in my book, cannot be used in his defense because the film uses those very actions to demonstrate his inability to understand her, his inability to express himself outside of the terms of ownership, and his inability to consider her desires above his own.  The man literally rapes his wife (or as he probably understands it, demands his husbandly privileges) and then buys her a ruby necklace in the morning, and cannot understand why this does not remedy their frosty relationship.

My mother's considering the wife not only unsympathetic, but completely at fault for the failed marriage due to her frigidness and lack of wifely effort is not just in opposition to mine, but is actually the incorrect way to interpret the narrative and not what it intends the viewer to conclude.  She is wrong.

But is she?  Can one have an incorrect interpretation?  This returns me to my original concern.  Is beauty in the really eye of the beholder.  My mother and I have found different and opposing 'beauties;' can they coexist?  Or can the beholder view the thing entirely wrong? In some cases of art we seem to say, "Yes of course!  You completely misread that passage!" and other times we seem to say "No, of course not.  It is up to interpretation."  Does the answer to this question lie with the artist's intent?  If the artist intends degrees of interpretation, then interpretation cannot be wrong or incorrect, but if not, and he desperately tries to steer the beholder to see things from a certain vantage point (a practice around which filmmaking and narrative I think revolves and excels in mastery) interpretations based on an extremely distorted point of view can be wrong.  Or do we hold fast to the maxim of beauty-finding being the sole privilege of the beholder?

Or more perplexing even still, if we take a leaf from the book of Oscar Wilde, is all this disagreement really just an expression of some discordant element in the worldviews of my mother and I?  Wilde writes: "It is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors."  So, perhaps, neither of us wrong.

Although, I can't help but feeling, as most probably do, that when it comes down to it, I am right and that the makers of the series would agree with me.

"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.

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.

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.

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.

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.