the proper use of down-time

When the girlfriend is off at a conference and one is left alone between Christmas and New Years with her parents, what does one do with one's time? The correct answer should be that one uses all that free time to work on one's dissertation or, at the very least, read some text(s) pertaining to one's dissertation. One does not spend many idle hours gallivanting on the interwebs and playing YahooGames. Sigh. I'm useless.

Actually, despite our heinous heinous trip here and the fact that this is the first Christmas I haven't spent with my own family, Christmas was truly lovely.

April's parents spoiled me with presents (an excellent and quite useful lap-desk-thing for my laptop, stainless steel cup and table-/teaspoon measures, fancy tea, fancy lotion, a pretty blue Chinese silk toiletry bag, and a few other sundries I can't quite remember off the top of my head). Her aunts sent some very nice pajamas and lavender honey and soap and few other things all wrapped in Christmas-y tea towels in their Christmas package for me, and her brother's family gave me this gorgeous little Japanese tea set with a tiny pot and clay cups and, of course, some tea to go with it.

Not that I came empty-handed. Her father: slippers (which he's worn non-stop since Christmas day--yay) and a worst-case scenario outdoor almanac (which he read in its entirety yesterday afternoon, occasionally relaying helpful facts out loud, like how to tell which way is up if you're buried alive). Her mother: a bean-bag-type neck pillow since she always falls asleep watching tv in the strangest positions and a sporty, spring jacket in brown and seafoam green. Her brother and his partner: a Car Talk CD (he's a mechanic) and a red, Chinese silk jewelry bag. And I gave each of her brother's kids both clothes (Quiksilver shirts for the two boys and a pink monkey t-shirt for the six-year-old girl) and toys/games (a car racing game for the oldest boy to play on his new laptop, a 20-questions hand-held game and Wallace and Gromit DVD for the middle boy, and a learn-to-draw Disney princesses DVD-kit for the girl).

Now, I'm biding my time awaiting April's return. We've watched a lot of movies and her mom and I went to one of the malls today so I could look for something else for my parents. April will be back Saturday and we'll probably enjoy the Boxing Week sales with some more shopping (stupid Canadian dollar, why are you so strong?) and then celebrate New Years trying not to lose money at a casino in the city with the rest of the family.

And, to top it all off, I'll get to have a second Christmas with my parents in early January when I get back. At this rate, I'm going to get to extend the holiday right up until my birthday.

eight states, one province, seven days

Considering the week I’ve had, starting with the 13 hour blizzard drive to Virginia, and concluding with our 20 hour drive from Northern Colorado to Calgary, Alberta, you’d think I was training for The Amazing Race.Thankfully, I am not. And traveling across eight states and one province over the course of a week (and this doesn’t even including the states I flew over getting from Virginia to Colorado) has made me much less inclined towards travel, in general, and road trips, specifically.

I’d like to be say that our Calgary road trip was uneventful and less painful than I thought it would be, but unfortunately that’s not the case. We left April’s apartment at 6:30am, her dog and lots of luggage and Christmas presents in tow, and arrived at her parents’ house in Calgary at 2:30am. We stopped every two to three hours to let the dog out and get gas (at my insistence that we keep the gas tank at least half full to avoid becoming the new Donner party) and entertained ourselves with the first Harry Potter audio book and trying to stay on the road.

Weather conditions, despite multiple reports to the contrary, were not amusing. April drove the first leg, and we started to get a little worried once we entered Wyoming and could see huge clouds on the horizon.


We tried to remain optimistic, but it seemed that each time one of us said “well this isn’t too bad” or “at least we can still see the road,” things would get worse. By the time we were mid-way through Wyoming, April was fighting to both keep the car from being blown off the interstate by huge gusts of wind and see where she was driving through all the blowing snow.



Because I wasn’t driving, I had the luxury to be flippant about the road conditions, commenting on the beauty of the winter landscape. But I would pay dearly for my cheek once I took over the wheel.

Soon, I was driving and conditions cleared for just long enough to lure me into complacency before they got suddenly and horribly worse. The road filled with snow, the four wheel drive wasn’t on—I had forgotten to turn it back on because of the abruptness of the snow’s return and because, in my car, it’s an automatic function—and April was asleep. I tried to drive carefully, listening to Harry Potter, when all of the sudden I hit ice and the car spun to the side at 50 mph. I held onto the steering wheel tightly and tried to pry my foot off the brake (knowing that braking only makes the skidding worse). April woke up in a panic to the sound of me cursing loudly and the sight of the car skidding rapidly sideways down the middle of the interstate. After a few, very long, seconds, we glided to a halt facing backwards but still on the road. As I was trying to turn the car around, still slipping and sliding on the ice, a truck driver decided he couldn’t wait for me and passed me on the shoulder. Luckily, the few other cars on the road stopped and waited while I tried to coax the car forwards.

My hands were shaking and April offered to drive but there were no convenient exits for another hour or so, and I wasn’t about to pull over on the side of the road and end up sliding into the ditch. I consider myself a good and fairly calm driver, but after that I was pretty much a nervous wreak for the rest of the drive (i.e. the next 16 hours) even though once we got to Montana weather conditions cleared up for the most part.


Finally, we were able to trade places and I felt the weight of all my anxiety fade away as I sunk into the passenger seat, totally spent. Unfortunately, when it was my turn to drive again, later in the night, I pulled out of a Safeway parking lot right into three lanes of oncoming one-way traffic! In my defense, there were no signs, but this didn’t help much to calm my already frayed nerves.

Throughout the night, April and I referred to my 180 degree spin-out as “the teacup incident” (because of something my mother said comparing it to that Disney Land teacup ride), but levity aside I was still terrified long after all the ice had melted away. Later, as I was driving the last leg through southern Alberta, I kept feeling phantom ice beneath our tires, imagining the road sliding out from under us with the rotation of the earth, navy sky and dark pavement blurring together.

Still, despite my anxiety and our near-misses, we made it safely to Calgary and are now ensconced here, seemingly gaining a new pound every hour as we’re stuffed full of food and candy. Tonight, there will be eleven people at the dinner table and a room of presents and I can’t think of a better place to be.

Merry Holidays everyone!

bare branches in winter are a form of writing*

I'm in my parents' house in Virginia, and the trees outside sound like they're performing some sort of wild, frenzied dance in the force of the wind. It's a bit hard for me to wrap my mind around being in Virginia. That it's Sunday. That it's evening. I just woke up an hour ago, actually, having driven the entire night from Western New York to avoid getting caught in a tremendous blizzard.

As of this time yesterday I was still thinking that I would sleep normally, get up early today, and drive carefully out of the city, heavy snow or not. But the forecast kept getting worse and worse, and by 9pm last night, my father was calling me with frantic ultimatums: "Either you leave now or you'll be stuck there until Tuesday morning." This situation, while feasible, would have been unacceptable for me personally, since I'm leaving for Denver on Wednesday to spend Christmas with April and her parents in Canada (more on this in another post--our travel plans are too confusing for me to explain at the moment). So, I packed and cleaned double-time, fielding bi-hourly phone calls from my father (to the point that I was yelling into the phone every time he called, "Every time you call me it slows me down! Stop calling. I'm working on it!").

At about 10:15pm, I estimated my time of departure at T-30 minutes (keeping a countdown in my head). This is when my mother calls: "We think you should just stay there. It's getting too dangerous." I'm mid zipping up my suitcase. I look out of the window. The snow is coming down fast, but the flakes are small, icy.

"Um. No. Now I'm leaving. I'm almost ready to go. I need to just go. It doesn't look so bad outside.” This isn’t a lie. Not really. My mother acquiesces hesitantly and I hang up.

I call my pet-sitter. Ask her if she can feed the cats in the morning. Of course she says “sure,” wishes me luck.

I pack the car frenetically in a sweater because I’m so over-heated from bustling around my house for two hours. By the time I’m done, I’m covered in ice and snow. I say goodbye to my cats and bird, all of whom look at me with deeply perplexed expressions. I know they’ll be in good hands while I’m gone, but the rushed departure has made these rather simple pet-goodbyes much harder.

Once I start driving, I realize that it’s going to be slow, but not awful, as long as I drive south as expediently as possible. My parents talk to me on my cell phone for a while, dispensing helpful advice and informing me of road conditions, much like Lara Croft’s team of computer experts in Tomb Raider.

We chat while I drive until I realize that, in my haste, I forgot to charge my cell phone. I’m at about 35%. Enough for emergencies, but not enough to talk all night. And I can’t find my car charger anywhere. I reluctantly hang up, promising to call again in two hours. I call April, tell her I’ve left and will call her when I get there.

The drive is challenging and slow, but I don’t really feel unsafe until I’m in the Pennsylvania hill country and I suddenly think that I’m alone, no other cars, driving in a combination of sleet and snow and freezing rain between huge rocky crags. What if something happened to my car, what if I end up in one of those made-for-tv disaster/horror films about highway murders or starving to death while trapped under ten feet of snow? Actually, starving to death doesn’t concern me as much because I packed enough food and water for ten car trips.

I eat snack food compulsively for the next few hours, driving slowly through snow which turns to freezing rain, stop to buy some Vault soda at a 24-hour supermarket at 3am and keep driving until I hit a rest area just south of Carlisle, PA. It’s only raining here, no more snow. It’s 6am and I’ve been driving for 7 hours, so I stop and sleep until 8:30am.

The worst part of the drive has to be the half an hour after waking up but before I get coffee. I can barely keep my eyes open and focused on the road.

Finally, I veer off the interstate for my favorite part of the drive: the last two hours through rural Virginia. It’s a gorgeous morning and the landscape is stunning, like waking up to find the whole world has changed while you were asleep. Everything is glistening. The trees are covered from trunk to branch in ice—coated and smooth and gleaming—and I imagine for a moment that I’m driving through a field of huge snowflakes, shimmering in the hazy sunlight.

April calls me, worried, because I’ve been on the road for twelve hours with no word. I assure her that I’m fine and, since I’m so close to home, we talk until the battery of my phone is almost dead.

When I get to my parents’ house at noon, my mother calls down from the balcony, “You’re here!” and comes out to help me unpack. My father, who’s been up all night monitoring my progress, comes outside in a shirt and no pants, hugs me and proclaims he’s going back to bed.

I drag my suitcase upstairs, change into pajamas, climb into my childhood loft and sleep for five hours. When I wake up, my parents have gone to their weekly Sunday afternoon tango lesson and I’m alone in the dim, empty house with the trees performing their harried wind-dance outside.

I make a few phone calls, check my email, still in a daze.

My parents come home. I greet my mother and look at her plaintively, bare feet on the hardwood, my sweatshirt hood pulled over my head.

“You’re hungry, aren’t you?” She says.

I nod, pleased she knows me so well. She laughs.

“We’re glad you’re here.”

Me too.

-------------------------------

* NOTE: The title line is from an incredibly germane Billy Collins poem, Winter Syntax.

Winter Syntax, by Billy Collins

A sentence starts out like a lone traveler
heading into a blizzard at midnight,
tilting into the wind, one arm shielding his face,
the tails of his thin coat flapping behind him.

There are easier ways of making sense,
the connoisseurship of gesture, for example.
You hold a girl's face in your hands like a vase.
You lift a gun from the glove compartment
and toss it out the window into the desert heat.
These cool moments are blazing with silence.

The full moon makes sense. When a cloud crosses it
it becomes as eloquent as a bicycle leaning
outside a drugstore or a dog who sleeps all afternoon
in a corner of the couch.

Bare branches in winter are a form of writing.
The unclothed body is autobiography.
Every lake is a vowel, every island a noun.

But the traveler persists in his misery,
struggling all night through the deepening snow,
leaving a faint alphabet of bootprints
on the white hills and the white floors of valleys,
a message for field mice and passing crows.

At dawn he will spot the vine of smoke
rising from your chimney, and when he stands
before you shivering, draped in sparkling frost,
a smile will appear in the beard of icicles,
and the man will express a complete thought.

winter wonderland

A blog posting by my old middle-school friend, M, prompted me to think about my relationship to snow. She made a very astute observation about why us Southerners-by-upbringing (and I use the term southern loosely, as some would not consider Virginia southern, per se) are much more appreciative of snow (generally speaking) than Northerners.

Two words: snow days.

I have fond childhood memories of days, sometimes even weeks, off from school--sledding with my friends down treacherous slopes, making snow angels, building forts. Of course, it wasn't all fun and games: sometimes the power went out (once, when I was in 3rd or 4th grade, a power outage at my parents' house afforded me a multiple-day sleepover with one of my close friends; maybe my parents were cold and in the dark, but I was having a grand old time). Also, snow days meant we had to make up class over other holidays (like Memorial Day), and the School Board could tack on up to something like 10 more days of school in June. But somehow none of this mattered. The sight of snow still fills me with childlike glee despite its ubiquity here in "lake effect" land.

And now that April has safely made it back home from her visit this past weekend--after being stranded here for a day when the airport shut down during our mini-blizzard on Monday--I can speak freely and say that, as frustrating as the whole flight cancellation fiasco was, I still found our first snowstorm of the season immeasurably beautiful. I mean, if I can still love snow after all the havoc it caused last year--ice damming, heavy roof leakage, basement flooding--then my affection must be quite deep-seated indeed.

Snow appreciation is a tenuous issue, though, geographically speaking. My friends who come from warmer climes (California, for example, or Georgia) do not appreciate the snow at all because they find the entire idea of being cold anathema to their general existence. Friends who grew up in the North, Midwest or Canada tend to think of snow as just something to be endured (unless they're skiers or snowboarders, but that's another story) because it afforded them no school-free pleasure as children. Perhaps you need to be from somewhere with relatively moderate weather--and where the city does not keep an adequate number of snowplows on hand--to find that delicate balance of the ability to tolerate colder weather while still appreciating snow's, I don't know, snowy-ness.

Or maybe it's just me, rhapsodizing about snow on my blog at two in the morning. Who knows.

Not The Daily Show, With Some Writer

Really excellent commentary on the writer's strike, by the writers of The Daily Show.

a week for the record books

I have been so busy this week I can barely wrap my mind around it myself, so I thought I'd blog about it so that in the future I can look back and say, "Wow. I was totally insane. What was I thinking? I'm glad my life isn't like that anymore." Except I won't be saying that a) because my life will always be like this and b) because I absolutely adore being busy. It's the only way I can ever get anything done. When I have a lot of time, I sit around and feel restless and bored and accomplish absolutely nothing. But this past week I went a bit overboard--an exercise in madness, I'd say.

Things start out fairly low-key on Monday and Tuesday but spiral out of control to near untenability by Saturday night:

Monday:

• spent morning working on grant applications
• 4:30-7pm: taught karate
• 7:15-9pm: attended screening of Blue Steel (Kathryn Bigelow, 1990) for the course I'm teaching

Tuesday:

• spent most of day working on grant applications and/or moping around
• went shopping for something for the girlfriend, also bought cute shirts from H&M
• 7:30-8:30pm: jiujitsu class

Wednesday:

• 12-3:30pm: attended two lectures and luncheon on campus
• 4:30-7pm: taught karate
• 7:30-9pm: horseback riding

Thursday:

• 9:30-11am: attended meeting about professional development with yesterday's lecturers
• 12-1pm: swam with my friend V. while wearing my new waterproof mp3 player, which I love
• 1-2pm: office hours
• 2-3:20pm: prepped for class
• 3:30-4:40: taught class. Most of my students hated Blue Steel, which I found a bit frustrating since I think there's so much more to the film than its rather implausible narrative. My students also turned in their midterm papers which I haven't had a chance to look at yet.
• 4:40-5:45: returned home to feed cats, dropped off backpack/laptop, switched wallet and cellphone from backpack to purse
• 6-7:30pm: cocktails and dinner with the Board of Trustees in my capacity as speaker for university graduate group here (they invited all the representatives of all the student groups on campus. There were probably ten of us total, undergrad and grad, from various groups, and forty or so Trustees.)
• 8-9:30pm: special performance of Garth Fagan Dance for the UR's Meliora Weekend (alumni and parents' weekend). Because I was part of the Trustees' "party" I had amazing seats in the fifth row. The performance was incredible, as always--I love modern dance.
• 9:30-10:45pm: returned home to change into my 80s outfit for an 80s dance party at a local bar in town: black short skirt, black tank, fuchsia tights, fuchsia nail polish, fuchsia felted wool hat (which my aunt made), hot pink satin tie, hot pink earrings, hot pink eyeshadow
• 10:45pm-1am: picked up my friend V. and then went to join a few of my other friends at the bar. The dancing itself was kind of lame because the DJ wasn't playing very danceable 80s music. But dressing up was fun.

Friday:

• 10:15-11:30am: attended the General Session of the Board of Trustees. Decided I either want to somehow become famous and very wealthy and become a Trustee or work my way up the academic ladder and become a Dean and/or Provost. What can I say? I like power.
• 12-1pm: Luncheon with Board of Trustees and other student reps.
• 1-2pm: Meeting with officers of the campus-wide graduate group. Brainstormed ideas about up-ing grad student involvement.
• spent the rest of the afternoon at home decompressing and shopping for groceries
• 7:30pm-12am: went over to my friend K.'s house, made her dinner (tacos carne asadas), watched Gia, which I had seen before but she hadn't (and I think she liked it but was utterly depressed afterward)

Saturday:

• 6am: got up (ugg!), showered, dressed, picked up three other students to drive Cornell (approximately two hours away) for a video art conference
• 7-9:30am: drove to Ithaca/Cornell U.
  
• 9:30am-12:50pm: first session of the conference
• 1-2pm: lunch
• 2-4pm: second session of the conference and the hideously long Q&A in which the moderator didn't seem to understand ending things on time (they went half an hour over). The conference affirmed my suspicions about why video art is not useful for my work and how it doesn't fit with my project. This may sound like a negative, but I actually appreciated the reassurance of what I already suspected.
• 4:30-7pm: picked up coffee at Dunkin Donuts and headed back home
• 7pm: talked to four different friends on the phone to solidify evening plans despite the fact that I was exhausted (there had been a plan to go dancing, but I was getting the distinct impression this was going to fall through)
• 7:30-8:30pm: got a second wind, showered away the day's grim and redressed in less formal clothing
• 8:30-9:45pm: dinner with friends V., N., B. and A. at an excellent Italian restaurant managed by a friend of mine (he always gives me free food even though he doesn't have to--I love the food there and would go back again and again anyway)
• 9:45-10:00pm: dropped off V. and N. at home, picked up flowers for my friend K. at the grocery store (she was having a bad day)
• 10:00-10:15pm: talked briefly to April on my cell
• 10:15pm: re-joined A. (who had dropped off B. at home) in front of some guy's house who was supposedly having a party. I told A. I'd go with her for a little while since clubbing plans had fallen through but when we arrived there seemed to be no party happening. We decided to go have a drink and come back in case people were just late in arriving.
• 10:15-11pm (ish): drank margaritas with A. and chatted
• 11pm-1am: returned to guy's house but it still didn't look like anyone was there. A. didn't really know him very well so we decided it would be awkward to knock in case the party is actually next week. And then we decided to go out dancing anyway even though everyone else flaked out. Very fun and cathartic and lovely to hang out with A. even though it would have been great if others had wanted to join us.
• 1am: dropped by K.'s apartment on my way home from dancing to give her the flowers (she's a night owl, I knew she'd still be up)
• drove home and talked to April on the cell for about 30 minutes (she's in a different timezone so it wasn't even midnight yet for her) until I had to go to bed or risk falling over from exhaustion.

Whew!

And then today, I've spent most of the day working on the aforementioned grant applications, catching up on email and reading the proofs of a forthcoming article. It feels nice to have a day off, so to speak (although all I've done is work all day), but somehow I feel oddly restless again. Ah, well, another week is ahead of me.

the sarah connor chronicles

Dear Fox Networks,
If you actually air this pilot and the show turns out to be any good at all, perhaps I will reconsider my general disdain towards your network and its right-wing conservatude. Right now you really only have The Simpsons and Family Guy going for you (and I suppose House), but those are all old news. Don't you want to take that step towards good drama programming? Don't you?

And, seriously, Summer Glau? Then it has to be good.



Or, it could be really bad. But at least air the pilot, yo. Okay?

zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz....

I. Am. Exhausted.

In case my subject heading for this entry didn't give that away.

Actually this post is kind of a placeholder for a couple things. One, it marks me exceeding the 100th post on my Blog. Yay! Two, it's an apology for the 3 people who read this journal (anyone, anyone, Bueller?) in regards to my general lack of posting the past few weeks. I was getting really good at staying on top of the blogging, but then life intervened. I got back from Colorado on Wednesday night after visiting April over the weekend, which was lovely but sad (because I had to leave again), and I've been so ridiculously busy the past few weeks I can't even think straight (no pun intended). What with teaching karate and weekly horseback riding and trying to write dissertation fellowship applications and writing a call for papers for a journal issue I'm co-editing and somehow becoming the Speaker for the graduate group at UR and teaching my women's studies class...I don't really have much time to breathe, let along post LJ entries. Blah. And now ImageOut (Roc's LGBTQ film festival) has started (I was on the programming committee) and I'm running around like a chicken with my head cut off introducing movies and entertaining guests (actually just one guest, but still).

I did, however, read a good book recently (on the plane to CO): A Spot of Bother, by Mark Haddon (he also wrote The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime, which is told from the point of view of a boy with Asperger's Sydrome). His newest novel is quite good with fascinatingly-flawed ensemble cast of characters. Charming, witty and a bit sad all at the same time.

eastern promises

Friday night, I was all ready to settle down for an evening of rampant Netflix-enabled television-on-DVD viewing, when a friend called and asked if I wanted to see the new David Crohenberg thriller, Eastern Promises (starring Viggo Mortensen and Naomi Watts) with her and a few others. Part of my brain, suffering from inertia, wanted to just stay home, but the wiser part of my brain told me that I should go and be a social butterfly or I might regret it and not actually ever get it together to watch the film. I had heard good things, but didn't actually think Eastern Promises was my kind of movie (whatever that means). In any case, I wasn't really in the mood to watch a narrative about the Russian mob and white slavery--especially considering how violent the movie was said to be.

Ultimately, I was exceptionally glad my friend called me. Eastern Promises is an incredible film, one I enjoyed far more than I expected. The violence is intense, but isolated, and the rest of the film has a haunting stillness to it that seems to be the new modus operandi for the contemporary thriller (e.g. The Brave One). While my friend was able to provide an instantaneous, intellectual and eloquent post-film analysis, I'm not feeling particularly smart this weekend, so I'll settle for pointing you in the direction of A.O. Scott's NY Times Review.

does mama have to do everything around here?

In honor of 30 Rock's Emmy win and Tina Fey's general brilliance, I bring you three YouTube videos. The first two are NBC promotional videos for the show--one about Alec Baldwin's comedic excellence, the second about Liz Lemon's (Tina's character) poor dating track record. Both include some of my favorite clips from the show. The third clip is Tina Fey's new American Express ad, which basically wraps up everything I love about Tina Fey in a big bright package with a bow on top.

Oh, and watch 30 Rock -- season 2 begins October 4 at 8:30pm and the entire first season is available legally and for free on NBC.com! It is truly my favorite sitcom of all time.

i want my dog back!

On the surface, the plot of The Brave One is somewhat simplistic, a standard revenge/vigilante thriller with a satisfying, if implausible, ending. But, deep down, it's something more: a brutal love song to the city of New York, a narrative about reclamation and identity and overcoming traumas that are impossible to overcome. It's not a perfect film by any means, but the underlying psychology of the film and Jodie Foster and Terrence Howard's subtle, precise performances lend The Brave One a quiet brilliance that, for me, makes up for its occasional stumbles. Besides, who can resist Jodie Foster kicking ass, enacting a fantasy of vigilantism that everyone can relate to even if only in our darkest dreams.

A radio journalist with an NPR-esque program called "Street Walk," Erica Bains (Jodie Foster) is almost impossibly happy with her life and her fiance, David, a doctor played by Naveen Andrews (from the hit TV show Lost). Knowing what's about to happen in the film, their happiness together is especially heartbreaking and, I agree with A.O. Scott's NY Times review in this, "remind[s] you just how little the portrayal of happiness has figured in Ms. Foster’s recent performances" (for another compelling NY Times article that's more about Foster than the film, read "Forever Jodie, Forever a Pro"). Walking through Central Park with their dog at dusk, Erica and David are savagely attacked by three hoodlums with a pipe. When Erica awakens three weeks later in the hospital, she's told that David is dead and finds her world crumbling around her.

Barely able to leave her apartment for fear of the streets she used to love, Erica buys a gun illegally (worried she won't make it through the mandatory 30 day wait for a license) for protection. Trouble seems to find Erica, and when she witnesses a murder at a convenience store, she's forced to take the law into her own hands. Afterwards, Erica finds herself becoming a different person, and while the first time she fires her gun she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, each episode of her vigilantism escalates compellingly, from justifiable self-defense to questionable entrapment to outright predation. Meanwhile, she befriends Terrence Howard's character Detective Mercer, who's been assigned to the case of the unknown vigilante killer, even interviewing him for her radio show. Foster and Howard have a tenuous sort of chemistry that's perfect for their relationship on screen.

The most fascinating aspect of The Brave One for me is how deeply it tries to entrench us in Erica's mind, to make us experience what she's going through and to let us see how even she doesn't truly understand what she's going through. For an action film, The Brave One is remarkably restrained, relying more on psychological tension than gratuitous violence. Moreover, the cinematography--New York all sharply-focused edges and oversaturated grey-tones--and largely ambient soundtrack really add to the vicious, deeply disturbing calmness of the film.

ocd mtwtfss

While I was in Germany in May, I brought a set of days-of-the-week socks. Only I didn't realize at the time that they were days-of-the-week socks; I just thought, "Oh! Look at the pretty multicolored seven-pack of ankle socks. How exciting!" Now, as much as I love my pretty multicolored days-of-the-week socks, they are causing a bit of a problem for me because every time I go to get a pair of socks from that particular batch (I do have other, non-labeled, socks as well) I feel obnoxiously compelled to find the proper day. It doesn't matter if I'm wearing green and the correct day's socks are purple. And no matter how I try to overcome this compulsion, I can't. The idea of wearing the wrong day's socks drives me crazy. And the search for the correct pair of socks drives me crazy. It's almost enough to make me want to not ever wear any of the days-of-the-weeks socks ever again. And that's just so sad. Sad, as in pathetic. And a little bit sad-sad, too.

ash and scribbs

I've recently discovered a new television show over which to obsess--to the point that I watched the first three episodes back-to-back the moment they were delivered to me via Netflix. Murder in Suburbia is an hour-long British police show starring two female detectives who, you guessed it, investigate murders in suburban England. Its like Cagney and Lacey meets Monk meets Sex and the City meets Law and Order. Kate Ashurst and Emma Scribbins (affectionately nicknamed Ash and Scribbs) are clever and gutsy and quite amusing (their banter and Ash's "rules" pretty much make the show), with Ash playing posh to Scribbs's down-to-earth party-girl charm. It's a fluffy show, no deep hidden morals or inner truths, but it's well-made and highly entertaining--and not just because of all the British accents.

it wasn't easy to do what he had to do

Last night I watched Making Love, a 1982 film directed by Arthur Hiller and starring Michael Ontkean (as Zach), Kate Jackson (as Zach's wife, Claire) and Harry Hamlin (as Zach's lover, Bart). It's a film that's practically canon in gay film history because of its sensitive and thoughtful portrayal of a married man coming out and accepting his homosexuality. I was more impressed and moved by this film than I expected to be (especially since I intended to watch it only to fuel my love affair with Kate Jackson). Making Love is well-done and compelling, but its stakes are also crystal clear: the film wants to dissuade its audience from the notion of homosexuality as a perversion and so a few moments that would have made the film more 'real' got left by the wayside. While we all may dream of having as understanding a wife (or husband) as Jackson's character--who, after only a minor breakdown (well-acted, I might add), decides she really just wants her husband to find happiness, even if its not with her--her relative compassion for the situation does seem a bit out of place. And even though I prefer a little more veracity in my social consciousness-raising films, I can respect a film that wants to secure sympathy for all its characters and not allow either the gay husband, his loner lover or the jilted wife to seem villains. Overall, completely worth-seeing, and not just because of Jackson’s appeal.

PoP goes my heart!

I watched Music and Lyrics last night, the Drew Barrymore/Hugh Grant vehicle in which he plays an aging pop star and she plays the aspiring writer who happens to have a knack for lyrics and helps him write a new comeback song. Typical romantic comedy fodder: boy meets girl, boy needs girls help, boy and girl fall and love, boy does something stupid, girl is sad, boy repents and makes it up to her...happily ever after. Needless to say--because I love Barrymore and Grant--it was an adorable movie and totally made my night. It's not the most brilliant rom-com in the world (it's not on its way to becoming a classic like When Harry Met Sally or anything), but was still very well-done and clever. I especially enjoyed getting to sing along to the incredibly cheesy-oh-so-wonderful pop songs that peppered this film.

inhale exhale inhale exhale inhale...

So, quick update in bullet points because I'm feeling a bit lazy tonight:

• April's been in Colorado now for almost a month (she's an assistant professor, tenure-track even--which means I'm dating a professor, how strange!), and it's both better and worse that I expected. I miss her terribly and the house is incredibly empty, but I'm coping all right and we talk every night. While I'm lonely, I don't feel that awkwardness that sometimes comes with the long-distance relationship territory, so that's heartening.
  
  
• Meanwhile, the cats are keeping me company. Reggie (April's cat--who's with me until she can fly him back to CO with her) is especially clingy. Velcro-cat. So lovable.
  
  
• Speaking of cats, I had a hysterical, adrenaline packed half hour last night when my cat, Olive, caught a mouse and then proceeded to torture it. I tried to get it away from her--I couldn't stand to see the poor, terrified thing try to run away and get toyed with. It escaped into the fireplace and I haven't seen it since. Either it was relatively uninjured and managed to sneak away later in the evening (highly doubtful) or it died a lonely, scared death in the ashes from internal bleeding. I know it's silly, but I'm still a bit torn up about it. I couldn't let Olive near me the rest of the night. Especially since she's in the habit of licking me. Eww. Icky, mangy mouse breath!
  
  
• I started teaching my Action Heroine class (noted in an earlier post) on Thursday and the first day seemed to go well. I like my students and I hope we all have a fun semester together. You can find the syllabus here, if you're interested.
  
  
• I'm also teaching karate at my dojo. The little kids (4-7 year-old white belts!) are both the cutest and by far the hardest to teach. They have the attention span of gnats and can't stand still to save their lives. It's a good thing their so cute. Survival of the species--mammals are the cutest at the age when they're the most annoying.
  
  
• Because of the lonely-house malaise I've been relying heavily on my Netflix account to supply me with movies and television shows to while away the empty hours. Expect to see more film reviews in this space in the near future.
  

making the sky rain coconuts with pinpoint accuracy

So I watched Supergirl (from 1984) last night. That's two hours of my life I'll never get back. The only redeeming factor was that it was so inane and ludicrous, that I laughed through most of the movie. Laughing at the movie, not with the movie. Of course they were basing it to some extent on the comic books, but that's no excuse for gigantic plot holes and general stupidity. And I think the cinematographer had watched Barbarella (the crazy-campy-wonderful 1968 Jane Fonda sci-fi/fantasy sexploitation film) one too many times but didn't channel it particularly well. And that was the least of the film's problems.

I've been watching a lot of old (and not so old) action heroine films in the past few months because I'm teaching an Introduction to Women's Studies class on Action Heroines in American Culture in the fall, and though I already have a syllabus together, I want to have a general sense of what else is out there. I'm having trouble with the 80s; there really isn't much. My filmography (so far) is below. If you see anything that I'm missing (American films or television shows or foreign films/shows with a widespread US release -- action films with a female protagonist), leave me a comment and let me know!

The Avengers (TV: 1961-1969)
Honey West (TV: 1965-1966)
Get Smart (TV: 1965-1970)
Faster Pussycat, Kill Kill (1965)
Barbarella (1968)
Coffy (1973)
Cleopatra Jones (1973)
Foxy Brown (1974)
The Bionic Woman (TV: 1976-78)
Wonder Woman (TV: 1976-79)
Charlie's Angels (TV: 1976-81)
Alien (1979)
Remington Steel (TV: 1982-87)
Cagney and Lacey (TV: 1982-88)
Sheena (1984)
Supergirl (1984)
The Terminator (1984)
She-ra: Princess of Power (TV: 1985)
Aliens (1986)
Blue Steel (1990)
La Femme Nikita (1990)
Terminator 2: Judgment Day (1991)
Thelma and Louise (1991)
Buffy: The Vampire Slayer (1992)
Bad Girls (1994)
The Next Karate Kid (1994)
Tank Girl (1995)
Xena: The Warrior Princess (TV: 1995-2001)
The Long Kiss Goodnight (1996)
G.I. Jane (1997)
La Femme Nikita (TV: 1997-2001)
Buffy: The Vampire Slayer (TV: 1997-2001)
The Avengers (1998)
The Matrix (1999)
Charlie’s Angels (2000)
Miss Congeniality (2000)
Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon (2000)
Ginger Snaps (2000)
Cleopatra 2525 (TV: 2000-2001)
Kill Bill, Vol. 1 (2001)
Lara Croft: Tomb Raider (2001)
Alias (TV: 2001-2006)
Birds of Prey (TV: 2002-2003)
Charlie's Angels: Full Throttle (2003)
Lara Croft, Tomb Raider: The Cradle of Life (2003)
Underworld (2003)
Kill Bill, Vol. 2 (2004)
Catwoman (2004)
Ginger Snaps: Unleashed (2004)
Aeon Flux (2005)
Domino (2005)
Elektra (2005)
Miss Congeniality 2: Armed and Fabulous (2005)
Serenity (2005)
V for Vendetta (2005)
Underworld: Evolution (2006)
Heroes (TV: 2006- )
Bionic Woman (TV: 2007- )

my new food network girlfriend

YAAAAAAAAAAY!

Amy Finley won The Next Food Network Star. And, yes, I'm insanely excited because I love her (and really didn't like Rory, the other possible, at all). I adored Paul, but he got eliminated before the final round. Besides, she's cute.

(I know, I'm crazy, but it's the only reality show I watch, folks. Let a girl have her moment.)

bugsy malone

April and I went to the Dryden Theatre tonight to see Bugsy Malone, a 1976 cult classic that I'd never heard of before. Totally brilliant. Set in prohibition-era New York City, it's a pseudo-noir gangster film musical romantic comedy, and the entire cast is made up of children between the ages of 6 and 14. All the kids were amazing, especially Jodie Foster and Scott Baio who star in the film as the worldly nightclub singer Tallulah and the good-natured hero Bugsy, respectively. Foster's so good, it's a little uncanny, actually. You know she's only 14 at the time of this film and yet she acts like she's 20--a very earnest, very mature 20. Amazing, but freaky.

Here's the original trailer of the film. If you haven't seen it, I'd order it on Netflix. There's really nothing like it.

nikki and nora

Through my vast and nefarious internet connections, I just discovered that in 2004 UPN optioned a drama pilot about, of all things, two lesbian detectives (partners in both senses of the word) in New Orleans. It was called Nikki and Nora and was supposed to be a CSI/Law and Order sort of show. Obviously, the show didn't make it off the ground and the pilot is all that was ever filmed, but I'm amazed and impressed that UPN even optioned it in the first place. In any case, maybe I'm the last to know, but I've heard nary a peep about this until recently so I doubt it. There was brief article about the show on AfterEllen.com, but besides that there's not much out there. However, a few weeks ago someone I sort of know (in that aforementioned nefarious internet sort of way) posted the entire pilot on YouTube in pretty decent quality so I thought I should share.

The pilot's really not bad--such a crying shame it never aired.