Thankfully I haven't been infected by Glenn and his weird cold that can be passed via computer/phone, so here's a fun recount of my past injuries and illnesses. But where to start?
How about 10th grade? That's when I broke my foot walking. In my defense they were like 4" heels and the floor was slippery, but it doesn't really lessen the embarrassment. Thankfully, I only had a plaster splint for about 3 days before they gave me a walking cast. However I waited about a day before I went to the hospital, just to make sure I thought it was broken, and when I finally went my mother parked on the other side of Shands (in Gainesville), and I had to limp my way down to ER. (While I was there this woman had a seizure in the waiting room - scary!) We were filming that great epic Ghost Pirate Hunt at the time, so filming had to stop while I healed. (Even though SOME people claimed we would start again as soon as I got a walking cast - like we were really worried about continuity).
The next thing doesn't really involve me, it's just kinda funny. While my church youth group was in NC on a retreat, I found out my mom had to go to the hospital because she was severely dehydrated. I told everyone in the group, and that evening we prayed and had to go around in a circle and say something aloud, and Amber prayed for my mom to become "moist".
My freshman year of college I was in a production of 1940's Radio Show, which involved a bit of swing dancing. Things were going well until we had to do a backflip - I tried a couple of times with help from Anthony, but wasn't quite making it. So we called the choreographer over, and I did it again, but this time I landed on my hand, and my ring finger on my right hand began to swell and turn purple. Of course I'm swearing up a storm and everyone's telling me "Oh it's just jammed", but when it was still twice it's normal size the next day, I decided to get it X-rayed. Shands (Lake Shore) said it wasn't broken and I should try to move it as much as possible.
Fast forward to a month or so later. I was in Gainesville having my knees looked at because they sounded like Rice Krispies whenever I bent them, and on a whim, I took my old Xrays of my hand. They redid it, and could see where it had healed, and so the doctor looked at the old one, and said "Yep, you can see it right there - it's a little hard to tell, but it showed up on the Xray." Thanks a lot Lake Shore! Oh - and I had to start going to physical therapy for my knees after that. The head doctor there looked like Kenneth Brannaugh.
My junior year of college I was sitting in my History of Animation class, when all of a sudden, I was having trouble breathing. I went to the clinic on campus, and saw the doctor who told me to eat only fruits (except bananas - too much sugar) and vegetables (because I also had a cold at the time) and oh - it was all in my head (Really? I would have never figured that out). That was it! So I waited a couple of weeks, everyday having the same problem - my throat would tighten as the day wore on, until I had problems breathing in the evening. I went to visit my grandmother, and she took me to the doctor, who said that I was having panic attacks and it was part of depression. (I was literally the last person in my family to start taking anti-depressants). He kept questioning me about what triggered it, and when I didn't know, told me that sometimes it's just a chemical imbalance. (But it wasn't - when I left town I was fine - coming back would start it all over again). Thankfully he gave me some medicine, and I was ok.
A few years ago I worked at a camp in TN for a couple of summers. Near the end of the second summer, the night before my birthday in fact, I got really sick. I spent my birthday lying in bed half the day with stomach pains, that is, until someone told me my friend (and boss) Java needed to see me. (I actually worked two jobs that summer. Java was my boss at the store of a rafting company). I came in and we talked, and then a rush of people came and she asked me to help. I did until I couldn't stand it anymore, and then had to go to the camp for an end-of-the-season party. I just laid my head on a table and sat there, then went home and drank some ginger ale and took some aspirin. The next day my stomach still hurt, but I was leaving the day after that, so I toughed it out.
It wasn't until I was back in Lake City (this is 5 days later) and still in pain that I went to the doctor. They did some tests, and after they finally did an ultrasound and saw air in my gall bladder that they figured out I had a really bad gall bladder attack. I had to stay in the hospital a week with an IV in my arm. The woman sharing my room had the same thing, and she was not the worst person I could have roomed with. However she was very country, she had just had a baby, and she had visitors CONSTANTLY. This is what I heard half the day (her talking to the baby in singsong voice): "Hey Zana! (pronounced like Dana, but with a "Z") What are you doing? What are you doing Zana? Zay-na!" I had to go back a few month later to have surgery to have my gall bladder removed. Fun.
Finally, almost a year ago I went to ER because I had this weird heart flutter that lasted all day. I've had it do that once every so often, but all day was really freaking me out, so I went to ER. They got me in right away and hooked me up to a monitor and did some tests. However I ended up having to sit there for 7 hours because the cardiologist they were calling to have a look at my monitor wasn't getting back to them. I ended up having to have an echocardiogram done, but nothing was wrong. They told me I just had to lay off the caffeine, and not stress out so much. I swear I really wasn't drinking that much caffeine though.
Awesome, right? *sigh* Well hopefully the stories were at least semi-entertaining.
Friday, March 30, 2007
This is ridiculous!
I swear, Glenn must have invented a computer virus that spreads through the internet yet infects people, because I too am now sick. It's currently nothing more than a head cold, and I'm hoping it doesn't get any worse.
So, have you ever heard of Vanuatu? Well, if you haven't, don't worry; I hadn't either. Turns out, the Republic of Vanuatu is a tiny nation in the South Pacific. You can read about it here, if you're interested. So why do I bring up Vanuatu in a discussion about health and sickness? Well, my health and well being is currently tied quite closely to Vanuatu. Given that with the life I've chosen for myself, I'm not likely to have health insurance any time soon, and given that I take two prescription medications (which yes, were indeed prescribed to me by a doctor; I'm not self-medicating), I have to get them from somewhere. I get them from an internet company based in Vanuatu, where they're half the price of getting them at a pharmacy in the US with no insurance. (I can't get them here in Korea either, in case you're wondering.) Wow, I was going to write more, but the NyQuil seems to be kicking in...
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Say what you like about the tenets of National Socialism, Dude, at least it's an ethos.
I'm kinda back; I'm not fully back. As such, this post will be brief. (I wanted to compose a good long one, but circumstances have dictated otherwise.) This subject is also of importance to me as well, as I have been "sick" for the past couple of weeks (just a bit of a different kind of "sick" that won't be detailed here). So I will try to think of some past instances when I've been sick.
One problem is, I don't get sick. I had chicken pox when I was in kindergarten. I don't recall ever having the flu. I used to get a cold once a year when I worked in the library; since I don't deal with the germs inherent in working in a place like that, I don't even get colds too often- it's been probably close to two years since I've had a full-blown cold (I do have some allergy problems- but that doesn't count). The funny part about that is, I always think I am sick- I've always been a bit of a hypochondriac. I have, in the course of my life, diagnosed myself with everything from heart disease to brain aneurysm to pleurisy to skin cancer; and, of course, I go to the doctor and absolutely nothing is wrong with me. The upshot to that is, I see doctors regularly, so I keep up on my physicals, tests, etc.
I have only two relatively funny stories about sickness: In 1999 I took Ryan out for lunch for his birthday to a Chinese buffet (which still exists- it's the one in the Lake City Mall, Wangdong or whatever it's called). I was violently ill the next day. This was also less than a week into my new job, which was my job at the library, of which I had to already call in sick. I think I went back to that restaurant once, again with Ryan, but I seem to remember not eating much if anything.
A few years ago I had a cold, and this cold was accompanied by a persistent cough. This cough literally kept me up all night. I didn't want to call in sick the next day, after already having missed a day due to the cold, so I went to work a zombie (that day was my day to drive children's books to the various city daycares, so I drove that huge old library van (Steph, you know which one I'm talking about- the monster) up to a bunch of kiddie daycare places in a total stupor luckily not killing myself or any kids etc.). It was also the first and only time I drank one of those energy drinks, which made me so hyper that I had the shakes for about half an hour and then I pissed for five minutes and then felt even more tired. So that night when I got home, I just wanted to sleep. And I was going to take some cough suppressant that I just bought (I was so tired at this point, I didn't care about the cough anymore, but I was still fightin' it), and I was gonna sleep like the friggin dead. So I got home, and of course the first thing I did was take the cough suppressant (it was Robitussin). And as I went to go to bed, my roommate at the time came home. And, us being close, he wanted to talk. I wanted to go to sleep, but he wanted to talk, about something, a girl or something, you know, so I sat there for twenty minutes and let him talk. And, being so damned tired, I forgot I had already taken my medicine and I took it again. Five minutes later, I thought I was going to die. I could barely move or get up, my tongue hurt bad, I got the cold sweats, and my roommate was getting primed up to take me to the hospital. A minute later, I puked. After which, the cough was completely gone (from the puking- I don't give the tussin the credit for that). It was the last time I ever took Robitussin.
That's all I got. I sincerely hope everyone who feels sick starts feeling better soon.
One problem is, I don't get sick. I had chicken pox when I was in kindergarten. I don't recall ever having the flu. I used to get a cold once a year when I worked in the library; since I don't deal with the germs inherent in working in a place like that, I don't even get colds too often- it's been probably close to two years since I've had a full-blown cold (I do have some allergy problems- but that doesn't count). The funny part about that is, I always think I am sick- I've always been a bit of a hypochondriac. I have, in the course of my life, diagnosed myself with everything from heart disease to brain aneurysm to pleurisy to skin cancer; and, of course, I go to the doctor and absolutely nothing is wrong with me. The upshot to that is, I see doctors regularly, so I keep up on my physicals, tests, etc.
I have only two relatively funny stories about sickness: In 1999 I took Ryan out for lunch for his birthday to a Chinese buffet (which still exists- it's the one in the Lake City Mall, Wangdong or whatever it's called). I was violently ill the next day. This was also less than a week into my new job, which was my job at the library, of which I had to already call in sick. I think I went back to that restaurant once, again with Ryan, but I seem to remember not eating much if anything.
A few years ago I had a cold, and this cold was accompanied by a persistent cough. This cough literally kept me up all night. I didn't want to call in sick the next day, after already having missed a day due to the cold, so I went to work a zombie (that day was my day to drive children's books to the various city daycares, so I drove that huge old library van (Steph, you know which one I'm talking about- the monster) up to a bunch of kiddie daycare places in a total stupor luckily not killing myself or any kids etc.). It was also the first and only time I drank one of those energy drinks, which made me so hyper that I had the shakes for about half an hour and then I pissed for five minutes and then felt even more tired. So that night when I got home, I just wanted to sleep. And I was going to take some cough suppressant that I just bought (I was so tired at this point, I didn't care about the cough anymore, but I was still fightin' it), and I was gonna sleep like the friggin dead. So I got home, and of course the first thing I did was take the cough suppressant (it was Robitussin). And as I went to go to bed, my roommate at the time came home. And, us being close, he wanted to talk. I wanted to go to sleep, but he wanted to talk, about something, a girl or something, you know, so I sat there for twenty minutes and let him talk. And, being so damned tired, I forgot I had already taken my medicine and I took it again. Five minutes later, I thought I was going to die. I could barely move or get up, my tongue hurt bad, I got the cold sweats, and my roommate was getting primed up to take me to the hospital. A minute later, I puked. After which, the cough was completely gone (from the puking- I don't give the tussin the credit for that). It was the last time I ever took Robitussin.
That's all I got. I sincerely hope everyone who feels sick starts feeling better soon.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Orange juice will save us all
It's very funny to me that I opened this blog yesterday with every intention to read it and start my own post, but then I got distracted and never came back to it. Wait, that's not why it's funny. I got distracted because I was home sick from work with a fever and stomach troubles and had zero energy and zero attention span. That's why it's funny. Sort of.
Obviously, I'm having more trouble concentrating today, although I'm back at work hopped up on generic Tylenol and tummy pills.
I've never been really sick, I don't think. I got chicken pox in kindergarten, but that was about the worst of it. I've never broken a bone either, except for my undiagnosed pinky toe. there's nothing they can do about that, so I just wrapped it up for a while.
One time I had to check myself out of the ER at Walter Reed Medical Center against doctor's orders, but that's another story. And is hard to do.
When I do get sick, though, I'm pretty bad about taking medicine. My boyfriend's mom is a nurse, so he was raised to take a lot of medicine and always tells me exactly what I'll need to combat whatever symptoms I may have. Do I listen? Rarely. I prefer to drink Sprite or orange juice and eat fruits and veggies until I feel better. I believe that by training my immune system to combat things on its own and not depending on medication I am making myself stronger and will be able to more easily fight off disease.
I also believe, however, that aspartame will kill us all and that if I put my snow shovel back into my closet it will undoubtedly cause another snow or ice storm. Some times I believe things that seem completely illogical. But I'm ok with that.
sorry this post isn't so great.
Obviously, I'm having more trouble concentrating today, although I'm back at work hopped up on generic Tylenol and tummy pills.
I've never been really sick, I don't think. I got chicken pox in kindergarten, but that was about the worst of it. I've never broken a bone either, except for my undiagnosed pinky toe. there's nothing they can do about that, so I just wrapped it up for a while.
One time I had to check myself out of the ER at Walter Reed Medical Center against doctor's orders, but that's another story. And is hard to do.
When I do get sick, though, I'm pretty bad about taking medicine. My boyfriend's mom is a nurse, so he was raised to take a lot of medicine and always tells me exactly what I'll need to combat whatever symptoms I may have. Do I listen? Rarely. I prefer to drink Sprite or orange juice and eat fruits and veggies until I feel better. I believe that by training my immune system to combat things on its own and not depending on medication I am making myself stronger and will be able to more easily fight off disease.
I also believe, however, that aspartame will kill us all and that if I put my snow shovel back into my closet it will undoubtedly cause another snow or ice storm. Some times I believe things that seem completely illogical. But I'm ok with that.
sorry this post isn't so great.
Monday, March 26, 2007
Sick sucks.
Today I am sick. This is after a few days ago remarking that it was miraculous that I had made it through this much of the semester without getting sick. Well, jinx. It's not a definite cold, and there isn't anything stomachy to it, but I have serious hot and cold streaks (it's 80 degrees in my apartment right now and I am freezing), and no appetite. Also I am dizzy. A poetry professor and a literature professor have both diagnosed me with the flu. I don't want the flu, so I am rejecting that diagnosis.
But this week's topic is being sick, and funny sickness stories. Or if you want to be political, maybe write about US healthcare. For instance, when I worked at my father's office for a while, one of the secretaries used to work at a big insurance company. She told me the company policy was to throw every third claim into the garbage, so it would delay payment that much longer. Most people wouldn't follow up on it for months, and the insurance companies would get to keep their money for a little while. That's a crazy!
Well, the last time I was seriously sick, like for days and days, was when I was a senior in high school. It was over christmas break, and I went downstairs to rest. Well, suddenly I was just weak and pukey, and I couldn't move for five days. Seriously, every time I stood up I would just pass out and wake up a half hour later on the floor. It pretty much blew. During that time I have very few memories. It's like my brain just clicked to animal mode. When I was conscious, it was as though I was watching from behind myself. I mean, not visually, but my mind seemed separated from my body. It was totally fucked up. So hopefully that doesn't happen this time, because I can't cancel class anymore without seriously retooling my lesson plans.
Also, last spring I lost my voice suddenly in the middle of poetry workshop. I couldn't speak at all, and it was my turn to be workshopped. Procedure is that we read our poems aloud. I had my friend Brian Russell read my poem out loud, and he did an impression of my usual reading style. Everybody says it was dead on, but I say I'll get you yet, Brian!
Finally, I recently had finger surgery, but the doctor really messed up my pinky and won't take any of my calls for follow up appointments. That dude sucks.
But this week's topic is being sick, and funny sickness stories. Or if you want to be political, maybe write about US healthcare. For instance, when I worked at my father's office for a while, one of the secretaries used to work at a big insurance company. She told me the company policy was to throw every third claim into the garbage, so it would delay payment that much longer. Most people wouldn't follow up on it for months, and the insurance companies would get to keep their money for a little while. That's a crazy!
Well, the last time I was seriously sick, like for days and days, was when I was a senior in high school. It was over christmas break, and I went downstairs to rest. Well, suddenly I was just weak and pukey, and I couldn't move for five days. Seriously, every time I stood up I would just pass out and wake up a half hour later on the floor. It pretty much blew. During that time I have very few memories. It's like my brain just clicked to animal mode. When I was conscious, it was as though I was watching from behind myself. I mean, not visually, but my mind seemed separated from my body. It was totally fucked up. So hopefully that doesn't happen this time, because I can't cancel class anymore without seriously retooling my lesson plans.
Also, last spring I lost my voice suddenly in the middle of poetry workshop. I couldn't speak at all, and it was my turn to be workshopped. Procedure is that we read our poems aloud. I had my friend Brian Russell read my poem out loud, and he did an impression of my usual reading style. Everybody says it was dead on, but I say I'll get you yet, Brian!
Finally, I recently had finger surgery, but the doctor really messed up my pinky and won't take any of my calls for follow up appointments. That dude sucks.
Saturday, March 24, 2007
Sorry I'm late!
My apologies for posting late and for posting a lame story. While I love writing, short stories are simply not my medium at all. You might note that this is less of a short story and more of a prologue to some sort of disco/sci-fi epic. Well, enjoy. Or not.
***********************
Close your eyes and imagine the future. No, wait. Back up. Imagine the future the way they did back in the 1960s. You know, that dated look of short polyester skirts and gogo boots, gaudy upholstery and extraneous fins and tubes of no practical use whatsoever tacked on to various household appliances to make them appear futuristic.
On the off chance that you’re picturing a future similar to that found in the original Star Trek, well, you might just be on to something. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, Star Trek got it right. Well, except for those ridiculous outfits the men wore. I mean, if we ladies are to be traipsing about the galaxy in miniskirts and knee-high boots, our male shipmates damn well better show some skin. So remove any images of a future in which some sort of Captain Kirk sits commandingly in his captain’s chair in an unflattering yellow polyester top. Just pick that thought up and toss it. Replace that chair with a gold velvet couch, and upon it place not one, but two muscular young men, naked from the waist up. And you may as well picture them with their muscular flesh nicely oiled. Space can be a sticky place at times; it’s good to be greasy. (Don’t scoff; I’m the one writing to you from the future. What would you know about it? Trust me; their oiled chests are just as much a necessity as my short skirt.) Now, go ahead and place me – short skirt and all – on the couch directly between these young men.
Our sofa sits amidst a room of various control panels, much like those on the original Star Trek, analog and everything. You twenty-first cats think with such smug superiority about your digital this and your digital that, but just try to break the light barrier with that nonsense and see what happens. Analog is the wave of the future my friend.
So, you got the image? Good. Now lower the lights, turn on the disco ball and get ready to rock the galaxy. And whatever you do, don’t sneeze, or you’ll blow this image smithereens. I’d hate to have to explain all this again. Now, hold on tight, and let me show you what the universe has to offer.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
oh, I feel a brothel scene coming on...UPDATED
Oops. I hate to do this two turns in a row, but I just had a few projects thrown at me at work this week and am pretty slammed for now. I'll try to get to this tonight, but, in case I don't, I wanted to provide Nick's prompts.
Genre: Sci-Fi
Prop: A gold velvet couch
Line: Whatever you do, don't sneeze!
Have fun!
********
UPDATE:
Poor Maribel scrubbed down the pine bar with an old rag and cloudy, soapy water. The first rays of sunrise were creeping in through the dirty window and the dust swirled in the light. A few men snored with their heads on the saloon tables, still wearing their hats and drooling into puddles of spilled liquor. Those few patrons still conscious were squinting through a cloud of cigar smoke at their poker hands or leaning silently against the bar, sipping watered-down, rotgut whiskey. Maribel appreciated this time of day. She had just woken up and got to experience one of the rare times in this town when things were quiet and relatively safe.
Dropping the rag in the bucket and picking up her frilly pink feather duster, Maribel was reminded of her very different past life in this saloon. She was known as the Pink Lady, the main entertainer on the small, crooked stage. When Jimmy, the piano player, would begin the opening chords of her first song, the rowdy cowboys would quiet, the bartenders would pay attention, even the gamblers looked up from their games. Then Maribel would slowly strut out of an upstairs bedroom, her curvy body held up by lace, cheap silk, and whale bones stitched together, twirling her trademark pink feather boa. Singing at the top of her lungs, her voice traveled over the cowboy hats and hanging smoke as she made her way through the audience, pausing at tables to tease and flirt with the patrons, and making an attempt to pick out her money for the night. After surveying her audience, she would climb onto the scuffed stage and belt out the final notes to an overwhelming round of applause. After her last show of the night, she was free to make her real money. With the other bar ladies, she picked out her target, always looking for a regular first and warning the other girls about which men would hit them or wanted crazy things in bed.
As she dusted the stair rail, humming one of her old songs, a door creaked open and Rosaline stumbled out of her room in a green bathrobe. She called out to Maribel and threw a purple dress over the balcony on to the saloon floor. “I need this mended, woman. And today!” Maribel looked up startled, then glanced over at the heap of silk on the ground. She shuffled over to the dress, gathered it up, and started to head back up to her room to get her sewing kit. Rosaline’s door opened again, and a man stomped out, boots on and spurs jangling on the floor. Maribel recognized Brett as the son of one of her old regulars. He threw a vest down the stairs, and it landed on Maribel’s head. As she pulled it off, she heard him stomp back into the room and slam the door. The vest was missing several buttons and had a tear in the back. Maribel sighed.
Back in her room, Maribel watched the town slowly come alive, first the merchants and tradesmen, then a few miners and their wives, and finally the rest of town, rich and poor, walking through the dirt street, clopping in on horseback, and visiting with one another. Maribel bolted up when her door suddenly opened and Brett walked in. “Wher’s ma vest?” he mumbled.
Maribel looked around, trying to remember what he was talking about. “You ain’t done?” he shouted, “Get started, cow poke! This vest ain’t gonna knit itself!” He left, slamming the door.
Maribel laughed, sat back at the window through which daylight poured, and draped her feather duster over her shoulder.
Genre: Sci-Fi
Prop: A gold velvet couch
Line: Whatever you do, don't sneeze!
Have fun!
********
UPDATE:
Poor Maribel scrubbed down the pine bar with an old rag and cloudy, soapy water. The first rays of sunrise were creeping in through the dirty window and the dust swirled in the light. A few men snored with their heads on the saloon tables, still wearing their hats and drooling into puddles of spilled liquor. Those few patrons still conscious were squinting through a cloud of cigar smoke at their poker hands or leaning silently against the bar, sipping watered-down, rotgut whiskey. Maribel appreciated this time of day. She had just woken up and got to experience one of the rare times in this town when things were quiet and relatively safe.
Dropping the rag in the bucket and picking up her frilly pink feather duster, Maribel was reminded of her very different past life in this saloon. She was known as the Pink Lady, the main entertainer on the small, crooked stage. When Jimmy, the piano player, would begin the opening chords of her first song, the rowdy cowboys would quiet, the bartenders would pay attention, even the gamblers looked up from their games. Then Maribel would slowly strut out of an upstairs bedroom, her curvy body held up by lace, cheap silk, and whale bones stitched together, twirling her trademark pink feather boa. Singing at the top of her lungs, her voice traveled over the cowboy hats and hanging smoke as she made her way through the audience, pausing at tables to tease and flirt with the patrons, and making an attempt to pick out her money for the night. After surveying her audience, she would climb onto the scuffed stage and belt out the final notes to an overwhelming round of applause. After her last show of the night, she was free to make her real money. With the other bar ladies, she picked out her target, always looking for a regular first and warning the other girls about which men would hit them or wanted crazy things in bed.
As she dusted the stair rail, humming one of her old songs, a door creaked open and Rosaline stumbled out of her room in a green bathrobe. She called out to Maribel and threw a purple dress over the balcony on to the saloon floor. “I need this mended, woman. And today!” Maribel looked up startled, then glanced over at the heap of silk on the ground. She shuffled over to the dress, gathered it up, and started to head back up to her room to get her sewing kit. Rosaline’s door opened again, and a man stomped out, boots on and spurs jangling on the floor. Maribel recognized Brett as the son of one of her old regulars. He threw a vest down the stairs, and it landed on Maribel’s head. As she pulled it off, she heard him stomp back into the room and slam the door. The vest was missing several buttons and had a tear in the back. Maribel sighed.
Back in her room, Maribel watched the town slowly come alive, first the merchants and tradesmen, then a few miners and their wives, and finally the rest of town, rich and poor, walking through the dirt street, clopping in on horseback, and visiting with one another. Maribel bolted up when her door suddenly opened and Brett walked in. “Wher’s ma vest?” he mumbled.
Maribel looked around, trying to remember what he was talking about. “You ain’t done?” he shouted, “Get started, cow poke! This vest ain’t gonna knit itself!” He left, slamming the door.
Maribel laughed, sat back at the window through which daylight poured, and draped her feather duster over her shoulder.
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
Some more storying UPDATE
Well, my post will definitely be late, because I have to write a story for fiction workshop tomorrow and I don't think I can double up. But here's the stuff for Jen.
Genre: Western
Prop: Frilly pink feather duster
Line: Get started, cow poke. This vest ain't gonna knit itself.
THE STORY OF THE BIG SCARY MURDER MAN WITH AN AXE OR SOMETHING AT A SUMMER CAMP, BUT DURING WINTER TIME WHEN NOBODY IS SUPPOSED TO BE AROUND
Well, Jim and Sally were in high school and decided to take a break up at the old lake during midnight. By take a break I mean do it, because that's what high school kids do at lakes around midnight. By it I mean have sex. Anyway, it was winter time and the lake was on the property of a summer time camp, so they knew nobody would be around to spy on them or yell at them or take compromising photos of them to post on the internet again. So that put them right in the mood when they good to the spooky dark lake. (PS - Literary term: by using the word "spooky," I am employing a device that is known as foreshadowing).
So they started making out and getting naked (for description of this see Stephanie's story below but then imagine it's in a car at a lake and it is way more awkward and one or more parties largely goes unfulfilled).
"Gee whilikers," said Sally, "We better get rid of this used condom."
"Well for fuck's sake, throw it out the motherfucking window or some shit," said Jim. Jim was known for his hatred of all people.
Sally, listening to Jim, threw the used condom out of the window. Unfortunately, it landed on an open grave of a killer, totally pissing off the ghost because it fell in the eye socket of his skeleton. Yeah, I know it doesn't make much sense that there is a graveyard right next to the lake, or that Jim and Sally parked there, but let's just pretend it was the olden days and everybody was way stupid. I mean, the olden days when they had the internet. Anyway, the killers body rose up all messed up and skeletal, but then it reformed like in that Freddy movie after the dog pees fire on his skeleton in the junkyard. (PS - literary term: referencing another work of literature in this work of literature is called an 'allusion.')
So the body came back to life and was way pissed. Also, he was super strong and was like 8 feet tall. And on his way out of the afterlife he grabbed an axe's ghost which was also regenerated. The axe became a ghost whenever a strong man broke it over his knee in a strong man competition. But that's a story for another day.
"Who dares awaken my eternal slumber by throwing a used contraceptive device into my eye socket?" asked the big mean murderer.
"Oh my golly!" said Sally.
"Who the fuck wants to know, motherfucker?" asked Jim politely.
"'Tis I, the ghost of Ron Tommy Tom, the man who murdered sixty-four pioneers in pioneer times, arose from the dead first in the Civil war and murdered a hundred confederate soldiers after a used sheep intestine condom was flung into my empty skull, and then came back from the dead again in gangster times to kill gangsters with Elliot Ness. But that wasn't for a condom related reason. It was just for fun," said Ron Tommy Tom.
"Yakkity Yak, don't talk back, you blabbing son of a bitch!" said Jim. Ron Tommy Tom then ripped the side door off the car and with the axe ghost chopped Jim in half, sending bits of liver and blood all over Sally, including into her mouth.
"Yuk!" said Sally. "If only I had my toothbrush!"
"Shut thy cake hole, wench!" said Ron Tommy Tom.
"Wait," said Sally, "are you from pioneer times or Shakespeare times?"
"Uhh, shut it! Meet thy doom!" Ron Tommy Tom raised the axe blade again, but luckily Sally had her Tek-9 with her and whipped it around, facing Ron Tommy Tom's face.
"Gosh, you motherfucking fuck, eat lead," offered Sally. Then she shot him a bunch and he died, because the bullets were enchanted for just this kind of situation.
THE END.
Genre: Western
Prop: Frilly pink feather duster
Line: Get started, cow poke. This vest ain't gonna knit itself.
THE STORY OF THE BIG SCARY MURDER MAN WITH AN AXE OR SOMETHING AT A SUMMER CAMP, BUT DURING WINTER TIME WHEN NOBODY IS SUPPOSED TO BE AROUND
Well, Jim and Sally were in high school and decided to take a break up at the old lake during midnight. By take a break I mean do it, because that's what high school kids do at lakes around midnight. By it I mean have sex. Anyway, it was winter time and the lake was on the property of a summer time camp, so they knew nobody would be around to spy on them or yell at them or take compromising photos of them to post on the internet again. So that put them right in the mood when they good to the spooky dark lake. (PS - Literary term: by using the word "spooky," I am employing a device that is known as foreshadowing).
So they started making out and getting naked (for description of this see Stephanie's story below but then imagine it's in a car at a lake and it is way more awkward and one or more parties largely goes unfulfilled).
"Gee whilikers," said Sally, "We better get rid of this used condom."
"Well for fuck's sake, throw it out the motherfucking window or some shit," said Jim. Jim was known for his hatred of all people.
Sally, listening to Jim, threw the used condom out of the window. Unfortunately, it landed on an open grave of a killer, totally pissing off the ghost because it fell in the eye socket of his skeleton. Yeah, I know it doesn't make much sense that there is a graveyard right next to the lake, or that Jim and Sally parked there, but let's just pretend it was the olden days and everybody was way stupid. I mean, the olden days when they had the internet. Anyway, the killers body rose up all messed up and skeletal, but then it reformed like in that Freddy movie after the dog pees fire on his skeleton in the junkyard. (PS - literary term: referencing another work of literature in this work of literature is called an 'allusion.')
So the body came back to life and was way pissed. Also, he was super strong and was like 8 feet tall. And on his way out of the afterlife he grabbed an axe's ghost which was also regenerated. The axe became a ghost whenever a strong man broke it over his knee in a strong man competition. But that's a story for another day.
"Who dares awaken my eternal slumber by throwing a used contraceptive device into my eye socket?" asked the big mean murderer.
"Oh my golly!" said Sally.
"Who the fuck wants to know, motherfucker?" asked Jim politely.
"'Tis I, the ghost of Ron Tommy Tom, the man who murdered sixty-four pioneers in pioneer times, arose from the dead first in the Civil war and murdered a hundred confederate soldiers after a used sheep intestine condom was flung into my empty skull, and then came back from the dead again in gangster times to kill gangsters with Elliot Ness. But that wasn't for a condom related reason. It was just for fun," said Ron Tommy Tom.
"Yakkity Yak, don't talk back, you blabbing son of a bitch!" said Jim. Ron Tommy Tom then ripped the side door off the car and with the axe ghost chopped Jim in half, sending bits of liver and blood all over Sally, including into her mouth.
"Yuk!" said Sally. "If only I had my toothbrush!"
"Shut thy cake hole, wench!" said Ron Tommy Tom.
"Wait," said Sally, "are you from pioneer times or Shakespeare times?"
"Uhh, shut it! Meet thy doom!" Ron Tommy Tom raised the axe blade again, but luckily Sally had her Tek-9 with her and whipped it around, facing Ron Tommy Tom's face.
"Gosh, you motherfucking fuck, eat lead," offered Sally. Then she shot him a bunch and he died, because the bullets were enchanted for just this kind of situation.
THE END.
Sunday, March 18, 2007
Spin Me A Yarn
This week's topic is more of a challenge, so I'm going to go ahead and post now to give you time to think.
The idea is that the person ahead of you will pick a genre/style of writing, a prop, and a line (dialogue or non), and you must use these to write a short story. Since I was the one picking the topic, I called up Caitlin to pick for me, and this is what I got:
Genre: Romance/Bodice-ripper
Prop: Marshmallow Peeps
Line: All of her loneliness and confusion welded together in one upsurge of devouring yearning
I'm still in the middle of writing it, and I'll post it as soon as I can - probably tomorrow morning, but I figured the earlier I posted this, the better. Keep in mind who is writing after you, and pick accordingly. Since Glenn has taken creative writing classes, I would have no qualms about giving him the most outlandish crap I can think of. However, I'm not giving myself much time to think of anything, so here you go Glenn:
Genre: Horror/Thriller
Prop: A used condom
Line: If only I had my toothbrush.
Update: The Smoky Mountain Rogue
Amelia would never trust another man again. At least that’s what she told herself as she cleared the plates from her tables. She had been hurt many times in the past, but now was her chance to start over with a clean slate. She had quit her job in Chicago, tired of the hustle and bustle, the stress, and more importantly the lies that it seemed every man she had been with had told her. She moved to Copperhill, Tennessee, and desperate for something to distract her, took a job waiting tables in a local restaurant called the Iron Horse.
The town was small, one of those where everyone was related to or at least known by everyone else. It was quaint, and the people felt honest. However, in such a town it was glaringly obvious that she was a stranger. Still, the people were friendly and welcomed her as one of their own. One person in particular seemed to take a keen interest in Amelia.
His name was Grant, and he was the owner of a local rafting company. He was arrogant, stubborn, and used to getting his way, Amelia thought, but certainly easy on the eyes. He was a little over six feet tall, with sun-kissed blond hair, eyes that made the sky look pale, skin a golden bronze from working outdoors, and a smile that could break the heart of anyone in close proximity, male or female. And though she had never seen it herself, she was confident from the way his shirt hugged his muscular shoulders, and the way his butt looked in a good pair of jeans, that country living had sculpted his body into a shape Adonis would envy. But her life had changed now, Amelia reminded herself, she didn’t need a man to come and ruin her life now that things finally seemed to be getting back on track.
Grant came into the Iron Horse daily, and always sat so he could watch Amelia work, fascinated by the show she put on for other people. He had seen women like her before, utterly vulnerable, yet putting up a hard exterior for the public to see. She intrigued him, yet every attempt to talk to her was shot down before he got beyond a greeting. Still he persisted, and every once in awhile he would get to see her let down her guard before she realized what was happening and snapped it back up again.
This went on for months - Grant charming Amelia into opening up, and Amelia admonishing herself later for letting him get to her. She was repulsed by his conceit, and yet, as time went on she began to see something past that, as if his bravado was a show of his own. She wanted more, but just didn’t think she could risk getting hurt again, as if her heart would literally break if it happened one more time.
One night, Amelia was sitting in her living room, getting ready to settle down with a book and some marshmallow Peeps she had bought at the Piggly Wiggly earlier that day, when there was a knock at the door. She wasn’t very social, so she hesitated, unsure of who could possibly be calling on her. She opened the door a crack, and there was Grant, his body silhouetted by the setting sun. Instantly, panic swept over Amelia. This was so unexpected that she didn’t know how to react, not to mention she was wearing some old track pants and a faded t-shirt.
In her moments of indecision, she ended up just gawking at him until Grant had to ask if he could come in. Dumbfounded she stepped aside and opened the door, letting him in. He sat down on the couch, and, surfacing out of her daze, Amelia offered him some tea. He refused, and she sat down opposite him, unsure of what to do next as his eyes burned into her. Finally, he spoke. “I don’t know how much longer I can play this game.”
Amelia was frozen - was she that transparent? She wanted to give in, but instead stood up and turned away from him. “ I think you need to leave.”
She waited to hear the door shut, but was surprised instead by a gentle touch on her arm. “I don’t think I can stand to be away from you any longer. If I walk away now, I don’t think I could ever come back. You’ve become my reason to get up every morning and I don’t know that I could stand living here anymore if I didn’t have you.”
With that, she melted. Amelia turned, and as his lips found hers she wondered if this was a mistake. Just then, his warm arms encircled her with his gentle strength, all doubts vanished. The kiss deepened, and she allowed her hands to wander, caressing his broad shoulders and rippling abs. In those moments, all of her loneliness and confusion welded together in one upsurge of devouring yearning, and she quickly started to undress him.
In her haste, her clumsy fingers fumbled every button on his shirt. After agonizing minutes, she removed it, and worshiped the body that was underneath. It was as if he had been chiseled out of the mountains themselves. Grant, enjoying every minute of her cute flustering, made no move to help, but rather, once she was done, whisked her t-shirt off in a second, and carried her to the bedroom. He laid her on the bed, and teasing her just a bit, slowly removed her track pants, relishing the tension it created from her frustration. Unable to wait any longer Amelia practically ripped off his jeans and pulled him on top of her. It was nice to feel the weight of a man on her again, she thought.
Grant, his lips gently brushing her neck, softly traced the curves of her body this his fingertips, her breasts, her thighs. Amelia arched against him in longing. She could feel the stiffness of his member, and she couldn’t contain herself anymore. “Now”, she said, and Grant, relieved to able to stop restraining himself, slid into her. With each thrust any misgivings Amelia might have harbored were washed away, and she gave herself over to the mounting pleasure. She was glad she lived in the country, for now she screamed with such pleasure, anyone close by would have heard it. They both climaxed, and as she lay there basking in the ecstasy, Amelia thought that the move to Tennessee had definitely been a good idea.
The idea is that the person ahead of you will pick a genre/style of writing, a prop, and a line (dialogue or non), and you must use these to write a short story. Since I was the one picking the topic, I called up Caitlin to pick for me, and this is what I got:
Genre: Romance/Bodice-ripper
Prop: Marshmallow Peeps
Line: All of her loneliness and confusion welded together in one upsurge of devouring yearning
I'm still in the middle of writing it, and I'll post it as soon as I can - probably tomorrow morning, but I figured the earlier I posted this, the better. Keep in mind who is writing after you, and pick accordingly. Since Glenn has taken creative writing classes, I would have no qualms about giving him the most outlandish crap I can think of. However, I'm not giving myself much time to think of anything, so here you go Glenn:
Genre: Horror/Thriller
Prop: A used condom
Line: If only I had my toothbrush.
Update: The Smoky Mountain Rogue
Amelia would never trust another man again. At least that’s what she told herself as she cleared the plates from her tables. She had been hurt many times in the past, but now was her chance to start over with a clean slate. She had quit her job in Chicago, tired of the hustle and bustle, the stress, and more importantly the lies that it seemed every man she had been with had told her. She moved to Copperhill, Tennessee, and desperate for something to distract her, took a job waiting tables in a local restaurant called the Iron Horse.
The town was small, one of those where everyone was related to or at least known by everyone else. It was quaint, and the people felt honest. However, in such a town it was glaringly obvious that she was a stranger. Still, the people were friendly and welcomed her as one of their own. One person in particular seemed to take a keen interest in Amelia.
His name was Grant, and he was the owner of a local rafting company. He was arrogant, stubborn, and used to getting his way, Amelia thought, but certainly easy on the eyes. He was a little over six feet tall, with sun-kissed blond hair, eyes that made the sky look pale, skin a golden bronze from working outdoors, and a smile that could break the heart of anyone in close proximity, male or female. And though she had never seen it herself, she was confident from the way his shirt hugged his muscular shoulders, and the way his butt looked in a good pair of jeans, that country living had sculpted his body into a shape Adonis would envy. But her life had changed now, Amelia reminded herself, she didn’t need a man to come and ruin her life now that things finally seemed to be getting back on track.
Grant came into the Iron Horse daily, and always sat so he could watch Amelia work, fascinated by the show she put on for other people. He had seen women like her before, utterly vulnerable, yet putting up a hard exterior for the public to see. She intrigued him, yet every attempt to talk to her was shot down before he got beyond a greeting. Still he persisted, and every once in awhile he would get to see her let down her guard before she realized what was happening and snapped it back up again.
This went on for months - Grant charming Amelia into opening up, and Amelia admonishing herself later for letting him get to her. She was repulsed by his conceit, and yet, as time went on she began to see something past that, as if his bravado was a show of his own. She wanted more, but just didn’t think she could risk getting hurt again, as if her heart would literally break if it happened one more time.
One night, Amelia was sitting in her living room, getting ready to settle down with a book and some marshmallow Peeps she had bought at the Piggly Wiggly earlier that day, when there was a knock at the door. She wasn’t very social, so she hesitated, unsure of who could possibly be calling on her. She opened the door a crack, and there was Grant, his body silhouetted by the setting sun. Instantly, panic swept over Amelia. This was so unexpected that she didn’t know how to react, not to mention she was wearing some old track pants and a faded t-shirt.
In her moments of indecision, she ended up just gawking at him until Grant had to ask if he could come in. Dumbfounded she stepped aside and opened the door, letting him in. He sat down on the couch, and, surfacing out of her daze, Amelia offered him some tea. He refused, and she sat down opposite him, unsure of what to do next as his eyes burned into her. Finally, he spoke. “I don’t know how much longer I can play this game.”
Amelia was frozen - was she that transparent? She wanted to give in, but instead stood up and turned away from him. “ I think you need to leave.”
She waited to hear the door shut, but was surprised instead by a gentle touch on her arm. “I don’t think I can stand to be away from you any longer. If I walk away now, I don’t think I could ever come back. You’ve become my reason to get up every morning and I don’t know that I could stand living here anymore if I didn’t have you.”
With that, she melted. Amelia turned, and as his lips found hers she wondered if this was a mistake. Just then, his warm arms encircled her with his gentle strength, all doubts vanished. The kiss deepened, and she allowed her hands to wander, caressing his broad shoulders and rippling abs. In those moments, all of her loneliness and confusion welded together in one upsurge of devouring yearning, and she quickly started to undress him.
In her haste, her clumsy fingers fumbled every button on his shirt. After agonizing minutes, she removed it, and worshiped the body that was underneath. It was as if he had been chiseled out of the mountains themselves. Grant, enjoying every minute of her cute flustering, made no move to help, but rather, once she was done, whisked her t-shirt off in a second, and carried her to the bedroom. He laid her on the bed, and teasing her just a bit, slowly removed her track pants, relishing the tension it created from her frustration. Unable to wait any longer Amelia practically ripped off his jeans and pulled him on top of her. It was nice to feel the weight of a man on her again, she thought.
Grant, his lips gently brushing her neck, softly traced the curves of her body this his fingertips, her breasts, her thighs. Amelia arched against him in longing. She could feel the stiffness of his member, and she couldn’t contain herself anymore. “Now”, she said, and Grant, relieved to able to stop restraining himself, slid into her. With each thrust any misgivings Amelia might have harbored were washed away, and she gave herself over to the mounting pleasure. She was glad she lived in the country, for now she screamed with such pleasure, anyone close by would have heard it. They both climaxed, and as she lay there basking in the ecstasy, Amelia thought that the move to Tennessee had definitely been a good idea.
Friday, March 16, 2007
Thank You
This past week (or slightly more than a week) has been a total rollercoaster for me, one from which during my worst moments (which were constant) I never thought I would recover. I want to thank everyone for picking up my slack and posting some very funny, lighthearted and telling posts during my topic week (hey, one good thing: at least no one will complain about my posting all about politics! Actually, one one person really complained about that, but they can remain nameless. Stephanie.) I am currently trying to recover (without getting TOO personal here) and have seen a team of nurse practitioners at a ER-type hospital (not much help at all there), my regular doctor and a psychiatrist. As time goes on, I hope to be back to normal, whatever that means. I am feeling a little bit better today than I did yesterday, and yesterday I felt ever so slightly better than I did the day before. I will take progress however it brings itself.
I never thought I would be one of "those people." I've always been exceptionally healthy. I used to work in a mental health center where I had to wait on and deal with "those people" (albeit the people in those places are quite a bit more around the bend). Now I sit and find myself having been preliminarily diagnosed with depression, panic disorder, and a form of obsessive compulsive disorder. I have been prescribed Zoloft (really too soon to judge whether or not it has helped, but very early effects seem to point to the fact that it will) and have been taking some Klonopin for the moments when the panic/anxiety hits back. All this happened one moment to the next- Thursday night I sat, watching Bullitt on DVD and finishing up one of my hundred books on politics, looking forward to the good nights sleep I was about to enjoy and the work activities I had planned for the next day. The next minute a single thought entered my brain and it was as if that thought was a droplet of water through a little crack in the dam- and then the dam burst. For the next six days, my mind, emotions, soul etc. were put in total hell. I had panic attacks of such severity that my heart felt as if it would just give up in pounding and my arms had turned numb. I had racing, intrusive thoughts in my head to loud and disturbing that I could not be still- I have walked so much my feet and legs are in major pain (and are probably in great shape- should I get the chance to kick someone, I'd imagine I'd do some good damage). Part of what my problem is, I believe, is that I've gone though life worried about the exceptionally "worldly" things, and let those things fill gaps in my life and in my soul/spirit where other things should be- I come home and do nothing but yell at the TV watching political shows. I rage at my having to sit in traffic longer than I'd want. I argue about the stupidest and most mundane of things. And I never pay attention to my spirit and what it might need. Any thoughts of the overall bigger picture of life, the universe, my soul, god or whatever one might wish to call it, etc., I would just as soon push out of my mind. This crisis period has taught me that I need to pay attention to those gaps in my heart and soul. As my girlfriend says, "stop the smell the roses." That simple phrase seems to mean so much more than the very basic thought behind it- life is more than the sum of what we see and do. Life is more than whether or not my car has a good sound system. Life is more than if some politician made a jerk of himself on TV. Life is more than where we decide to eat tonight, or what someone decided to wear out to a function. I miss the connections, the moments. So quite possibly this crisis of mine was a way to see that I need to re-evaluate my life and the way I live it. Instead of shying away from the bigger pictures of life, from my spirit and my soul, I should embrace these things. I should look around me sometimes, and notice that life is more than just what we may see on the surface. Maybe this crisis was my soul/spirit/whatever one might wish to call it, tugging on me to address the bigger picture and the larger questions of my life and the world I live in. It's also been a crying out to address the spiritual issues (or, specifically, the lack thereof) in my life; as I was not raised religious or spiritual in the least, really, I've never resolved my spiritual issues one way or another. (This doesn't mean I'm looking to become a Christian- but I do believe everyone has a soul and I do believe there is more to life than we see here, I just never allowed myself to think about it, and apparently I NEED to think about it).
Also it was apparently my brain telling me I have all kinds of crazy shit wrong with me. I never thought that I, me!, would ever be diagnosed with things like serious depression, panic disorder, and OCD. But, alas, it can happen to the best of us, I suppose (or the worst of us, depending on what one might think of me).
This is about as personal as I'd usually be willing to get here (actually, this is way MORE personal than I'd ever get), but I thought I'd fill everyone who reads here in on what is going on with me. My posting here may continue to be sporadic for some time now. I apologize in advance for that. My hope is, that with therapy, some medication, and a different approach to my life, I will emerge a better version of myself. We shall see, I suppose. I probably won't be berating ol' anonymous anymore! But if I miss my day to post, please feel free to pick up my slack, or just let that day slip by, or see who can do the best impression of my and how I might respond, whatever.
Again, I want to thank all of my co-posters here for their kind personal words and well-wishes to me, and for picking up my topic week and making it much better than it would ever have been if I had've done it myself. If anyone would like to leave something in the comments, maybe something that relates to what I'm going though, I would be very interested in reading it. (I would ask for no sarcastic or jerky comment though - which our "regulars" would never do - just because I'm still getting over some serious stuff here). Thanks again.
So this is my "official" post for this week (though not a topic, of course). Jane, I'll leave it to the tag-fairy to place tags, if any, in their spot.
I never thought I would be one of "those people." I've always been exceptionally healthy. I used to work in a mental health center where I had to wait on and deal with "those people" (albeit the people in those places are quite a bit more around the bend). Now I sit and find myself having been preliminarily diagnosed with depression, panic disorder, and a form of obsessive compulsive disorder. I have been prescribed Zoloft (really too soon to judge whether or not it has helped, but very early effects seem to point to the fact that it will) and have been taking some Klonopin for the moments when the panic/anxiety hits back. All this happened one moment to the next- Thursday night I sat, watching Bullitt on DVD and finishing up one of my hundred books on politics, looking forward to the good nights sleep I was about to enjoy and the work activities I had planned for the next day. The next minute a single thought entered my brain and it was as if that thought was a droplet of water through a little crack in the dam- and then the dam burst. For the next six days, my mind, emotions, soul etc. were put in total hell. I had panic attacks of such severity that my heart felt as if it would just give up in pounding and my arms had turned numb. I had racing, intrusive thoughts in my head to loud and disturbing that I could not be still- I have walked so much my feet and legs are in major pain (and are probably in great shape- should I get the chance to kick someone, I'd imagine I'd do some good damage). Part of what my problem is, I believe, is that I've gone though life worried about the exceptionally "worldly" things, and let those things fill gaps in my life and in my soul/spirit where other things should be- I come home and do nothing but yell at the TV watching political shows. I rage at my having to sit in traffic longer than I'd want. I argue about the stupidest and most mundane of things. And I never pay attention to my spirit and what it might need. Any thoughts of the overall bigger picture of life, the universe, my soul, god or whatever one might wish to call it, etc., I would just as soon push out of my mind. This crisis period has taught me that I need to pay attention to those gaps in my heart and soul. As my girlfriend says, "stop the smell the roses." That simple phrase seems to mean so much more than the very basic thought behind it- life is more than the sum of what we see and do. Life is more than whether or not my car has a good sound system. Life is more than if some politician made a jerk of himself on TV. Life is more than where we decide to eat tonight, or what someone decided to wear out to a function. I miss the connections, the moments. So quite possibly this crisis of mine was a way to see that I need to re-evaluate my life and the way I live it. Instead of shying away from the bigger pictures of life, from my spirit and my soul, I should embrace these things. I should look around me sometimes, and notice that life is more than just what we may see on the surface. Maybe this crisis was my soul/spirit/whatever one might wish to call it, tugging on me to address the bigger picture and the larger questions of my life and the world I live in. It's also been a crying out to address the spiritual issues (or, specifically, the lack thereof) in my life; as I was not raised religious or spiritual in the least, really, I've never resolved my spiritual issues one way or another. (This doesn't mean I'm looking to become a Christian- but I do believe everyone has a soul and I do believe there is more to life than we see here, I just never allowed myself to think about it, and apparently I NEED to think about it).
Also it was apparently my brain telling me I have all kinds of crazy shit wrong with me. I never thought that I, me!, would ever be diagnosed with things like serious depression, panic disorder, and OCD. But, alas, it can happen to the best of us, I suppose (or the worst of us, depending on what one might think of me).
This is about as personal as I'd usually be willing to get here (actually, this is way MORE personal than I'd ever get), but I thought I'd fill everyone who reads here in on what is going on with me. My posting here may continue to be sporadic for some time now. I apologize in advance for that. My hope is, that with therapy, some medication, and a different approach to my life, I will emerge a better version of myself. We shall see, I suppose. I probably won't be berating ol' anonymous anymore! But if I miss my day to post, please feel free to pick up my slack, or just let that day slip by, or see who can do the best impression of my and how I might respond, whatever.
Again, I want to thank all of my co-posters here for their kind personal words and well-wishes to me, and for picking up my topic week and making it much better than it would ever have been if I had've done it myself. If anyone would like to leave something in the comments, maybe something that relates to what I'm going though, I would be very interested in reading it. (I would ask for no sarcastic or jerky comment though - which our "regulars" would never do - just because I'm still getting over some serious stuff here). Thanks again.
So this is my "official" post for this week (though not a topic, of course). Jane, I'll leave it to the tag-fairy to place tags, if any, in their spot.
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Good practice for the GRE I have to retake
Hey, everybody, this test taking week has been good practice, since my GRE scores expire soon. Also, none of us get yelled at by the ubiquitous anonymous. I still think I had good points in my rambling post on ethno-poetics, but whatev.
So take my test. Again, it's to determine how similar we are, not how well you know me, since pretty much every answer I would pick is probably obvious. Anybody scoring less than fifty percent is no longer my friend. Just kidding.
TAKE MY SIMILARITY TEST
So take my test. Again, it's to determine how similar we are, not how well you know me, since pretty much every answer I would pick is probably obvious. Anybody scoring less than fifty percent is no longer my friend. Just kidding.
TAKE MY SIMILARITY TEST
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Everybody's Doin' It
So I'll have to keep this short and sweet, as it took me far too long to write this quiz and I have to rush to get ready for work now.
Here it is.
Take it and post your results in the comments. Again, remember to answer for yourself, not what you think I would answer.
Here it is.
Take it and post your results in the comments. Again, remember to answer for yourself, not what you think I would answer.
Monday, March 12, 2007
And now for something completely different.
A few weeks ago, I did this over on my site, and it was a lot of fun. Or at least it was for me, anyway. Did what? Well, I used the quiz-creation feature over at OkCupid to create a quiz to determine how similar other people are to me. It was certainly an interesting experiment. The highest score was 82, and both my mother and all of my close friends scored in the 70s. Stephanie, who was the only person from BlogSupergroup to take my quiz (jeez, guys!) scored a 77. [Updated: Somehow it slipped my mind that Glenn had taken this quiz too, and had scored a 76. Sorry for leaving you out, Glenn!]
My first challenge is to both BlogSupergroup's readers AND its bloggers: Take My Quiz Now! then come back here and leave a comment telling me how you scored. Remember, this is a quiz to see how similar we are, not how well you know me - so don't answer based on how you think I would, answer truthfully for yourself. (Those of you who already took the quiz, feel free to post your score here if you like.)
My second challenge is to my co-bloggers here at BlogSupergroup: Register at OkCupid (it's free) and build your own quiz. (It's easy, and I thought it was a lot of fun. Those of you with significant others should remember to tell them why you're doing this though!) Your quiz can be any length and it can be about anything you like: personalities, music, politics - anything! Have fun :-)
Sunday, March 11, 2007
A Post On Poetry Nobody Will Probably Care About
Well, I thought of this the other day in relation to Jen's topic, but then I came down with a serious case of Spring Break syndrome. So basically I've been lazing around doing nothing the past few days. Anyway, I'm going to say some things in this post that will probably offend some of the liberal readers. But again, I'm probably the most left leaning person on this blog (socialist). I'm just going to lay down some broad generalizations. So feel free to flame.
In the poetry world, as is common knowledge, it is easy to get a book published if you make it about your "identity." That is, if you are from a non-majority culture, especially one that is rare, then if you write your book about wrestling with your identity, it can probably be published. Are your parents Zimbabwean lawyers? Write some poems! Is your father from Iceland and mother from Lilliput? Write poems! Win some awards! (Well, Jane Miller, a pretty big poet and smart person said identity poetry is dead, but I don't think it is quite yet. Maybe that was just wishful thinking on her part).
Anyway, I've always felt this trend is the poetry world's equivalent of ethno-tourism. The vast majority of poetry readers, if I may generalize for a moment, are wealthy white liberals. When they read books about, say, a Saudi woman emigrating to America or poor gay black man in the American south, they can in turn say "See? I support all of these diverse ethnic groups. I'm not a racist, classist, or homophobe. Look at my books! Sure, my friends are all white and I drive a big gas guzzling SUV, but I read about these poor others. That means I'm a good person."
This sort of attitude is something that's always bothered me about liberals (I'm generalizing for the sake of my argument. Obviously, it's only a certain kind of liberal I'm complaining about). When I worked at Publix in Tallahassee, rich white liberals would come into the store a lot, and then speak to the black cashiers or baggers like they could actually identify with them just because they watched some special on Thelonius Monk the previous night on PBS. (Here's a story that doesn't really fit my argument, but is pretty funny anyway: I remember one time in particular when this bagger, Terrence, asked an older white lady what kind of music she liked. Her response was "Well, classic rock, country, some hip hop." Hip hop? Give me a break! You've never listened to one rap song in your life unless it was playing in a movie by Michael Moore. You don't have to say hip hop just because a black man asked you what kind of music you like. He won't think you're racist if you don't say hip hop.)
Well, that last paragraph sort of strayed from my argument. That's another reason I didn't post on Friday. Because I knew I didn't have the energy to make my post coherent. I guess I've already established I'm not the brains of this operation.
Anyway, one more issue with ethno-tourism in poetry books, and other books. When I was at AWP in Atlanta I went to a panel my friend Hayan was on, about Arab-American writers in the 21st century. One of the panelists (whose name I forget because I am a bad person) discussed that it's easy to get a novel or memoir published if it's told from the perspective of an Arab, but only if that perspective shows how bad the culture is, and the main character is rejecting the culture. She named a couple of examples, one of which I think was called Raghead, though I am not a good enough blogger to look past two pages of google search results, that had female protagonists who were routinely abused in their Arab cultures, and then escaped them for the land of the free. Something else for readers to read and then be relieved that we're bombing civilians. I guess that excuses things, their crazy mixed up culture.
Sorry, this was not a very good blog. I have ADD.
In the poetry world, as is common knowledge, it is easy to get a book published if you make it about your "identity." That is, if you are from a non-majority culture, especially one that is rare, then if you write your book about wrestling with your identity, it can probably be published. Are your parents Zimbabwean lawyers? Write some poems! Is your father from Iceland and mother from Lilliput? Write poems! Win some awards! (Well, Jane Miller, a pretty big poet and smart person said identity poetry is dead, but I don't think it is quite yet. Maybe that was just wishful thinking on her part).
Anyway, I've always felt this trend is the poetry world's equivalent of ethno-tourism. The vast majority of poetry readers, if I may generalize for a moment, are wealthy white liberals. When they read books about, say, a Saudi woman emigrating to America or poor gay black man in the American south, they can in turn say "See? I support all of these diverse ethnic groups. I'm not a racist, classist, or homophobe. Look at my books! Sure, my friends are all white and I drive a big gas guzzling SUV, but I read about these poor others. That means I'm a good person."
This sort of attitude is something that's always bothered me about liberals (I'm generalizing for the sake of my argument. Obviously, it's only a certain kind of liberal I'm complaining about). When I worked at Publix in Tallahassee, rich white liberals would come into the store a lot, and then speak to the black cashiers or baggers like they could actually identify with them just because they watched some special on Thelonius Monk the previous night on PBS. (Here's a story that doesn't really fit my argument, but is pretty funny anyway: I remember one time in particular when this bagger, Terrence, asked an older white lady what kind of music she liked. Her response was "Well, classic rock, country, some hip hop." Hip hop? Give me a break! You've never listened to one rap song in your life unless it was playing in a movie by Michael Moore. You don't have to say hip hop just because a black man asked you what kind of music you like. He won't think you're racist if you don't say hip hop.)
Well, that last paragraph sort of strayed from my argument. That's another reason I didn't post on Friday. Because I knew I didn't have the energy to make my post coherent. I guess I've already established I'm not the brains of this operation.
Anyway, one more issue with ethno-tourism in poetry books, and other books. When I was at AWP in Atlanta I went to a panel my friend Hayan was on, about Arab-American writers in the 21st century. One of the panelists (whose name I forget because I am a bad person) discussed that it's easy to get a novel or memoir published if it's told from the perspective of an Arab, but only if that perspective shows how bad the culture is, and the main character is rejecting the culture. She named a couple of examples, one of which I think was called Raghead, though I am not a good enough blogger to look past two pages of google search results, that had female protagonists who were routinely abused in their Arab cultures, and then escaped them for the land of the free. Something else for readers to read and then be relieved that we're bombing civilians. I guess that excuses things, their crazy mixed up culture.
Sorry, this was not a very good blog. I have ADD.
Thursday, March 08, 2007
People Are Strange When You're A Stranger
I'm afraid I haven't had much time to think about this topic during the week, so I'll try to keep this brief, mainly just so I could say I posted.
Sean brought up the point that you could just barter. The problem with that is you still have to choose very carefully. I (technically) minored in anthropology (technical only because I never declared) and this was a topic we discussed - not ethno-tourism per se, but needing to be careful about interaction with other cultures. One technique used to be able to study tribes is to bring gifts or things to trade, but as with money, the wrong items can totally throw off the structure of the society. Bringing these gifts shows that you aren't hostile, but a dependence on these items can be dangerous. I wish I could give some good examples, but it's been a few years since I had any classes.
There's also the point that the encroachment of modern civilization may cause a change in their customs and way of life. If you have people come through all the time, eventually you would pick up some of their mannerisms, style of dress, etc. Then they would lose what made them special, what was bringing people there in the first place. Kinda like Times Square - I was there last night with Laurie, and it was packed! But about 90% of the people were tourists - they go there and then think that that's what New York is really like, but it's only that certain section, and it's that way mainly because of tourism.
I couldn't imagine if people came into my town and started taking pictures of me and gawking. It would be different if they were really interested in the culture, and I'm sure a good portion of these tourists are, but they must also be instilled with the idea that they need to adapt to the surroundings and the society they are entering and respect it. I don't go to France and photograph the people there, why do it elsewhere? (And yes, you could argue that their culture is very similar to ours, but I don't think I'd do it in China or Somalia either.) To help put this into perspective (maybe) read this article on the Nacirema.
And as far as ethnocentrism (believing our culture to be the best), I don't think that's always the motive behind it. Like Nick, I would probably even envy some of these tribes because they have the luxury of being so secluded.
That's all I have - sorry if this was kinda crap, like I said - I'm tired and didn't have much time to think about this before posting.
Sean brought up the point that you could just barter. The problem with that is you still have to choose very carefully. I (technically) minored in anthropology (technical only because I never declared) and this was a topic we discussed - not ethno-tourism per se, but needing to be careful about interaction with other cultures. One technique used to be able to study tribes is to bring gifts or things to trade, but as with money, the wrong items can totally throw off the structure of the society. Bringing these gifts shows that you aren't hostile, but a dependence on these items can be dangerous. I wish I could give some good examples, but it's been a few years since I had any classes.
There's also the point that the encroachment of modern civilization may cause a change in their customs and way of life. If you have people come through all the time, eventually you would pick up some of their mannerisms, style of dress, etc. Then they would lose what made them special, what was bringing people there in the first place. Kinda like Times Square - I was there last night with Laurie, and it was packed! But about 90% of the people were tourists - they go there and then think that that's what New York is really like, but it's only that certain section, and it's that way mainly because of tourism.
I couldn't imagine if people came into my town and started taking pictures of me and gawking. It would be different if they were really interested in the culture, and I'm sure a good portion of these tourists are, but they must also be instilled with the idea that they need to adapt to the surroundings and the society they are entering and respect it. I don't go to France and photograph the people there, why do it elsewhere? (And yes, you could argue that their culture is very similar to ours, but I don't think I'd do it in China or Somalia either.) To help put this into perspective (maybe) read this article on the Nacirema.
And as far as ethnocentrism (believing our culture to be the best), I don't think that's always the motive behind it. Like Nick, I would probably even envy some of these tribes because they have the luxury of being so secluded.
That's all I have - sorry if this was kinda crap, like I said - I'm tired and didn't have much time to think about this before posting.
Tourism, Voyeurism and Photography
For starters, if you haven’t read the article Voyeurismo by Roger Sandall, which Jen linked to in her post, go read it now.
I do a lot of traveling. While I have never ventured to the sort of remote and utterly undeveloped villages described in Sandall’s piece, I have certainly visited places that are less and/or differently developed than the US. I love exploring other countries and experiencing new cultures. I also love to take photographs. Photography has been a hobby of mine for years. However, if you take a look at my photographs (sorry, shameless plug, I know) you will notice that there are very few people in my photos other than my friend’s and family. Those few strangers who do appear in my photos usually only appear at a distance.
Last year, when I was living in Russia, one of my readers wrote to ask me if the population of Vladimir (the city in which I was living) was really small, or if the locals simply kept off the streets as much as possible. Well, for one thing, the population of Vladimir is around 400,000. For another, those of you who are familiar with the Russian culture of gulyat’ (walking around and hanging out with your friends outside) will probably feel as shocked by this question as I did. But, then I realized that if one were evaluating Vladimir by my photographs alone, one might easily conclude that it was inhabited by a small number of anti-social people! The same conclusion might be reached by someone viewing my photographs from my current location of Daegu, South Korea (pop. 4 million).
I do a lot of traveling. While I have never ventured to the sort of remote and utterly undeveloped villages described in Sandall’s piece, I have certainly visited places that are less and/or differently developed than the US. I love exploring other countries and experiencing new cultures. I also love to take photographs. Photography has been a hobby of mine for years. However, if you take a look at my photographs (sorry, shameless plug, I know) you will notice that there are very few people in my photos other than my friend’s and family. Those few strangers who do appear in my photos usually only appear at a distance.
Last year, when I was living in Russia, one of my readers wrote to ask me if the population of Vladimir (the city in which I was living) was really small, or if the locals simply kept off the streets as much as possible. Well, for one thing, the population of Vladimir is around 400,000. For another, those of you who are familiar with the Russian culture of gulyat’ (walking around and hanging out with your friends outside) will probably feel as shocked by this question as I did. But, then I realized that if one were evaluating Vladimir by my photographs alone, one might easily conclude that it was inhabited by a small number of anti-social people! The same conclusion might be reached by someone viewing my photographs from my current location of Daegu, South Korea (pop. 4 million).
Vladimir, Russia
See, I’m one of those people who is simply not comfortable taking photographs of strangers. There are several reasons for this. One reason is that I’m pretty shy when it comes to talking to strangers. I feel that if I’m going to take a picture of a person I don’t know, I should ask first. (Seriously, how would you feel if some obviously foreign stranger started photographing you without asking?) Being that I’m not likely to talk to strangers in general, it’s highly unlikely that I’m going to ask their permission for a photograph.
Putting my anti-social tendencies aside, I have other reasons for being wary when it comes to photographing strangers when overseas.
Here in Korea, there are many outdoor markets, the likes of which I’ve never seen back home. I love them: the bustling crowds weaving in and out of a hodgepodge of unregulated stalls and stands, from which vendors sell all sorts of foods and goods which cannot be found in the States. The sights and sounds and smells always make a trip to an outdoor market a full sensory experience, and I love going. Every time I wander through a market, I would love to whip out my camera and take hundreds of photos, but instead the most I’ve managed are a few hasty shots here and there, taken when no one was watching.
For one thing, Korea has quite the social hierarchy, and the people who work in these markets are pretty near the bottom. Meanwhile I, as a white, English-speaking foreigner, am pretty high up on the totem pole. I worry that if I were to go into a market and start photographing, they would feel as though I were looking down on them. Oh, look at these quaint lower-class Koreans, selling fish! While *I* know that I wouldn’t be looking down on them, would they? In a culture where showing respect for others is paramount, I worry that if I were to start photographing people willy-nilly, I would end up offending willy-nilly.
One of my very few Korean market shots.
Of course, that is my own personal perception, and it is undoubtedly influenced a good bit by my anti-social nature. There are many photographers in the world (both amateur and professional) who excel at photographing human subjects across the globe. I admit that I enjoy many such photos, especially ones which come from cultures about which I have little to no knowledge. (My friend Chris took some excellent photos of people when he was in China which can be viewed here, here and here.) I envy photographers who can pull this off, just a little, although I know I’ll never be one of them.
Here’s the story of the one time I did make an effort to photograph people: Several years ago I lived in San Diego, CA. As many San Diegans do, I went across the border into Tijuana, Mexico a handful of times. In February 2004, I went by myself down to TJ for the purpose of taking photos. I wanted to try and capture the TJ seen by most American tourists. If you’ve never been there, let me just say that it is a depressing place, full of pollution and poverty. There are many beggars, and many of them are children. Some of these kids are selling things, such as necklaces or gum, others juggle items in hopes of money, while others simply ask for money.
I felt that if my goal was to try and capture the essence of TJ, I needed to photograph these kids as they were part of that. So I took pictures of some of them, although I compensated for what I felt was an intrusion by purchasing some of their wares or simply giving them some money, depending. And I’ve felt guilty about this ever since. Essentially, I was teaching these kids that it was OK to pose for photos taken by American tourists in exchange for a little bit of coinage. Was I leading them down the road towards participation in child pornography or prostitution? I still do feel quite guilty about taking these photos.
Begging girl, Tijuana, Mexico
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
The Americans Must Be Crazy
[I got all thrown off because Jen's post was a day late- so I think I'm a day late too. Please feel free, whoever is supposed to post today, to post today. I won't mind.]
I have no personal experience with this type of thing (I've never left America) and have never thought about this before Jen's post.
I would like to think the type of negative tourism doesn't happen often- as in, going to another country to treat the locals like shit and have a negative impact on them. I'm sure it does happen. But I am not against people going to other countries, even those less "developed" than ours, and touring. I think it's a good thing to see other cultures, and, since a theory is that civilization began in Africa (a country that gets a good chunk of this kind of tourism), I think it's a positive thing to see that region and how people there live. I think that one cannot assume to know what someone's motivations are in traveling to and touring these places- one would obviously like to think people go there to learn, to explore, to understand, to admire; I would like to think that most people do go with that motivation and attitude, but obviously there will be people who go with less positive motivations.
I have a co-worker who travels to Africa every year. From the stories I've heard, the locals love having the foreigners there, especially if you bring them things (and they seem to expect you to give them or trade them something). Also, your idea of the locals making foreigners pay for things is not too far off- my friend says that they will let you take their picture, but you have to give them money. Good for them. But the stories that I hear are wonderful. The only remotely first-hand experience I have are the shows on the Travel channel (especially the ones with Michael Palin). The things that I feel when seeing these people in their tribes and in their element are not superiority or pity etc. I can almost feel some envy- imagine living in a world without the worried and bullshit that we have to deal with: traffic, money problems, social bullshit, materialism, American Idol (and for that matter, all the shit on TV), etc. They live simply, they are happy- and if an effect is that foreigners come back to their normal lives and do feel lucky, and do savor something simple like a shower or a restaurant meal, that's not a bad thing. As far as looking down on people and feeling superior, we have plenty of that even in our own country, with Northerners/Southerners, rich/poor, young/old, educated/not educated, etc. It seems to me, also, that any tribe or village or town etc. that does not want foreigners to come through don't let them do so; they are in their element, after all.
I remember having a pen pal in Ghana when I was little. We would send things like coins and pictures and other stuff to each other. It was very cool, and those things are saved somewhere up at my parents' house. Even as a little kid, I thought it was fascinating and enlightening to learn about how they lived and get the perspective that, as Morrissey says, America is not the world. Sure, there will always be jerks who go to gawk, like kids do at those National Geographic magazine with naked tribespeople in them. But we can hope that the locals will do what they can to take advantage of those people.
I have no personal experience with this type of thing (I've never left America) and have never thought about this before Jen's post.
I would like to think the type of negative tourism doesn't happen often- as in, going to another country to treat the locals like shit and have a negative impact on them. I'm sure it does happen. But I am not against people going to other countries, even those less "developed" than ours, and touring. I think it's a good thing to see other cultures, and, since a theory is that civilization began in Africa (a country that gets a good chunk of this kind of tourism), I think it's a positive thing to see that region and how people there live. I think that one cannot assume to know what someone's motivations are in traveling to and touring these places- one would obviously like to think people go there to learn, to explore, to understand, to admire; I would like to think that most people do go with that motivation and attitude, but obviously there will be people who go with less positive motivations.
I have a co-worker who travels to Africa every year. From the stories I've heard, the locals love having the foreigners there, especially if you bring them things (and they seem to expect you to give them or trade them something). Also, your idea of the locals making foreigners pay for things is not too far off- my friend says that they will let you take their picture, but you have to give them money. Good for them. But the stories that I hear are wonderful. The only remotely first-hand experience I have are the shows on the Travel channel (especially the ones with Michael Palin). The things that I feel when seeing these people in their tribes and in their element are not superiority or pity etc. I can almost feel some envy- imagine living in a world without the worried and bullshit that we have to deal with: traffic, money problems, social bullshit, materialism, American Idol (and for that matter, all the shit on TV), etc. They live simply, they are happy- and if an effect is that foreigners come back to their normal lives and do feel lucky, and do savor something simple like a shower or a restaurant meal, that's not a bad thing. As far as looking down on people and feeling superior, we have plenty of that even in our own country, with Northerners/Southerners, rich/poor, young/old, educated/not educated, etc. It seems to me, also, that any tribe or village or town etc. that does not want foreigners to come through don't let them do so; they are in their element, after all.
I remember having a pen pal in Ghana when I was little. We would send things like coins and pictures and other stuff to each other. It was very cool, and those things are saved somewhere up at my parents' house. Even as a little kid, I thought it was fascinating and enlightening to learn about how they lived and get the perspective that, as Morrissey says, America is not the world. Sure, there will always be jerks who go to gawk, like kids do at those National Geographic magazine with naked tribespeople in them. But we can hope that the locals will do what they can to take advantage of those people.
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
Naked Tourists
Geeze, I thought this blog was supposed to just be for fun. I didn't realize I had such a heavy responsibility here.
I was out of town all weekend and was very busy all day yesterday (left my house at 8am, returned at 10pm, still had to do laundry and eat). I hate to use work time to do this, especially when I have more than enough to keep me busy here, so this will be short. Maybe later tonight I'll add more substantial thoughts.
One of my favorite Web sites is Arts and Letters Daily. It's a collection of articles, opinion pieces, and book reviews from around the world (but all at least translated into English) and from a wide-range of viewpoints. Best of all, there's no direct news, although many posts relate to the implication or analysis of specific current events, so it removes one from the crushing overabundance of headlines and sound-bytes usually encountered on the Internet.
I recently read an article on A&L called Voyeurismo posted on The Culture Cult and written by Roger Sandall. It’s part book review, but like all decent reviews, it raises questions and makes observations about the society for and about which the book was written.
Sandall reviews Lawrence Osborne’s The Naked Tourist, which describes a particular “ethno-tourism” adventure. What? I didn’t know either, but apparently for a steep fee, “civilized” people from developed countries, bored with their fat and easy existence, can take guided tours into “uncharted” territory and come face-to-face with natives who may or may not have ever seen a white man. A quick Amazon search shows that this book is not necessarily unique.
Now, this adventure is no small task—-it’s not like the tour takes a cruise ship up the Amazon. There’s a lot of hiking and climbing and falling and general discomfort. But clearly, traveling by choice to gawk uninvited at a different culture, especially with the pre-supposition that your own comfortable culture is superior, necessarily raises some morality questions. To be fair, I think this sounds like an exciting opportunity—-to hike into an area where very few people have been, to see things very few people have seen, to have completely unique experiences… then to come back to my apartment, to take a hot shower, to rest in my soft bed, and to bore all my friends with a slideshow and long description of my adventures. But what does this mean to my own sense of cultural superiority? I like to think of myself as accepting and curious about other lifestyles, and I think this is precisely the market (plus a few thousand dollars and a more mature sense of ennui) intended for this type of trip.
But think about it from the other side: you live with your parents in a one-room hut that your father and uncles built, growing up with the same people you’ve known all your life. Occasionally there’s some excitement when people from other tribes visit, but for the most part life is quiet, filled with fishing and making baskets and sometimes eating the game your father brings home. And then one day, people like you’ve never seen before arrive, their bodies covered in all sorts of clothing, speaking in a tongue completely unlike the other tribes. They want to give you items—-necklaces, mirrors, some of that ridiculous clothing—-and walk around your village poking their heads into your house, and pointing at basic things. Maybe, at first, you’re as curious about them as they seem to be about you. But when later the next group arrives, and then the next, it feels more like an intrusion, more like you’re on display, although not by choice.
Of course, a lot can be said about this situation based on the behavior of the tourists. Sandall mentions English tourists to Italy in the 18th and 19th centuries, and I thought of EM Forster’s A Room with a View and Susan Sontag’s The Volcano Lover, both involving English people immersing themselves in the “different-ness” of Italian life, which of course implies that they were not immersed at all (as long as they thought of it as different-ness). But the Italians catered to this voyeuristic desire by building hotels and entertainment aligned with English tastes. This newer ethno-tourism reminds me more of Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness with all the overtones of imperialism and the dangers of infiltrating a society that doesn’t really want to be infiltrated. Will these tribal natives begin catering to their new visitors on the riverside, offering fish and chips with the occasional grub worm?
Hm. I started this blog with the intention of following-up closely on last week’s road trip theme but have strayed off the mark I think. And I’m out of time to tie it back up, so I’ll leave it open for you. Is this sort of vacation morally repellent? Does it say something about our own fat and happy culture that we’re willing to pay to have these experiences? Or is it not because of comfortable ennui, but some other compulsion or curiosity? How much do we really learn about another culture in this manner? Should people be allowed to take guided tours without local consent, or just camera crews, or no one at all? And does this have anything to do with a developed society’s imperialist compulsions?
I was out of town all weekend and was very busy all day yesterday (left my house at 8am, returned at 10pm, still had to do laundry and eat). I hate to use work time to do this, especially when I have more than enough to keep me busy here, so this will be short. Maybe later tonight I'll add more substantial thoughts.
One of my favorite Web sites is Arts and Letters Daily. It's a collection of articles, opinion pieces, and book reviews from around the world (but all at least translated into English) and from a wide-range of viewpoints. Best of all, there's no direct news, although many posts relate to the implication or analysis of specific current events, so it removes one from the crushing overabundance of headlines and sound-bytes usually encountered on the Internet.
I recently read an article on A&L called Voyeurismo posted on The Culture Cult and written by Roger Sandall. It’s part book review, but like all decent reviews, it raises questions and makes observations about the society for and about which the book was written.
Sandall reviews Lawrence Osborne’s The Naked Tourist, which describes a particular “ethno-tourism” adventure. What? I didn’t know either, but apparently for a steep fee, “civilized” people from developed countries, bored with their fat and easy existence, can take guided tours into “uncharted” territory and come face-to-face with natives who may or may not have ever seen a white man. A quick Amazon search shows that this book is not necessarily unique.
Now, this adventure is no small task—-it’s not like the tour takes a cruise ship up the Amazon. There’s a lot of hiking and climbing and falling and general discomfort. But clearly, traveling by choice to gawk uninvited at a different culture, especially with the pre-supposition that your own comfortable culture is superior, necessarily raises some morality questions. To be fair, I think this sounds like an exciting opportunity—-to hike into an area where very few people have been, to see things very few people have seen, to have completely unique experiences… then to come back to my apartment, to take a hot shower, to rest in my soft bed, and to bore all my friends with a slideshow and long description of my adventures. But what does this mean to my own sense of cultural superiority? I like to think of myself as accepting and curious about other lifestyles, and I think this is precisely the market (plus a few thousand dollars and a more mature sense of ennui) intended for this type of trip.
But think about it from the other side: you live with your parents in a one-room hut that your father and uncles built, growing up with the same people you’ve known all your life. Occasionally there’s some excitement when people from other tribes visit, but for the most part life is quiet, filled with fishing and making baskets and sometimes eating the game your father brings home. And then one day, people like you’ve never seen before arrive, their bodies covered in all sorts of clothing, speaking in a tongue completely unlike the other tribes. They want to give you items—-necklaces, mirrors, some of that ridiculous clothing—-and walk around your village poking their heads into your house, and pointing at basic things. Maybe, at first, you’re as curious about them as they seem to be about you. But when later the next group arrives, and then the next, it feels more like an intrusion, more like you’re on display, although not by choice.
Of course, a lot can be said about this situation based on the behavior of the tourists. Sandall mentions English tourists to Italy in the 18th and 19th centuries, and I thought of EM Forster’s A Room with a View and Susan Sontag’s The Volcano Lover, both involving English people immersing themselves in the “different-ness” of Italian life, which of course implies that they were not immersed at all (as long as they thought of it as different-ness). But the Italians catered to this voyeuristic desire by building hotels and entertainment aligned with English tastes. This newer ethno-tourism reminds me more of Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness with all the overtones of imperialism and the dangers of infiltrating a society that doesn’t really want to be infiltrated. Will these tribal natives begin catering to their new visitors on the riverside, offering fish and chips with the occasional grub worm?
Hm. I started this blog with the intention of following-up closely on last week’s road trip theme but have strayed off the mark I think. And I’m out of time to tie it back up, so I’ll leave it open for you. Is this sort of vacation morally repellent? Does it say something about our own fat and happy culture that we’re willing to pay to have these experiences? Or is it not because of comfortable ennui, but some other compulsion or curiosity? How much do we really learn about another culture in this manner? Should people be allowed to take guided tours without local consent, or just camera crews, or no one at all? And does this have anything to do with a developed society’s imperialist compulsions?
Where are you, Jen?
Well, Jen was supposed to start off this week's discussion, but she seems to have been delayed a bit. {{Jen!! Where are you???}} As such, I figured I'd go ahead and post a little something I just read to tide you cats over, as it pertains to something we've actually discussed a couple of times over here: wikipedia.
Internet site Wikipedia has been hit by controversy after the disclosure that a prominent editor had assumed a false identity complete with fake PhD. The editor, known as Essjay, had described himself as a professor of religion at a private university. But he was in fact Ryan Jordan, 24, a college student from Kentucky who used texts such as Catholicism for Dummies to help him work. [entire story]
Friday, March 02, 2007
Are We There Yet?!
When I first read the topic, the only road trip I could think of were the ones I took with my family, but those were long ago, and I couldn't remember much. Never fear - I thought about all the other trips I've taken. I, like Jane, have travelled quite a bit (though not nearly as much as she). Anyway, I've had quite a few mishaps, so go get some snacks, maybe use the bathroom, and then get comfortable, because this might take awhile.
The first one is the only one that can truly be classified as a road trip. It wasn't very far - just from Orlando to Miami, but my god. Little hint: taking a road trip with people you don't know very well isn't always the best way to start out. It was me, my roommate Lindsey, and Chris and Nathan from College Dems. This was during the governor's race before this last one - Lindsey had pulled some strings and we were going down to volunteer at a McBride event that Bill Clinton was supposed to come to, and on the way we were to stop and volunteer for some local campaign in Ft. Lauderdale. We get to Ft. Lauderdale and call the campaign manager to get directions - we follow them best we can and still can't find the place, so we called her back and she had left a major street out of the directions! Ok - so we get to the headquarters and they gave us shirts to wear. The guys took them and went to change, while Linds and I declined, and when they came out the manager, after giving us the fliers and assignment, said "Oh be sure to bring those back - we have to wash them so other volunteers can wear them". Communal shirts - fun. Then it turned out the neighborhood she sent us to had signs up all over the place saying "No Soliciting", so we did a few houses anyways, said "Fuck it" and went and grabbed lunch.
After lunch we headed to Miami. (Keep in mind I drove and Chris and Lindsey babbled about everything under the sun THE WHOLE TIME). We got to South Beach, kinda got the runaround, but finally found the woman organizing the event, who said that the volunteer passes weren't ready yet, and anyways they were clearing the area to have a team come and search for bombs and whatnot. So we stood off to the side, and this is when Nathan starts talking about bombs and Chris was giving him the death stare until he finally yelled "Will you shut up? I don't want to get kicked out because you keep talking about this shit!". Needless to say, that put Nathan in his place for awhile. So we go up to the woman again, and she doesn't recognize us - it's only been 10 minutes - and they still don't have the passes. Once we finally see someone give them to her, we swooped in, got the passes, and went inside. Once inside, we were still pretty pissed because the woman was pretty snotty, so when she came around looking for volunteers, we hid the passes and avoided eye contact. The rally was cool, and I got to shake Bill Clinton's hand. The way home was more of the same - constant chatter that was beginning to drive me crazy, not to mention it was like midnight and I was delirious.(I made everyone get out and take a pic at Yeehaw Junction - if I hadn't met Bill Clinton, that would've been the higlight of the day.) Coming back into Orlando there was construction, and we went about 2 miles in 1/2 hour. By the end of the night, morning by this point actually, I wished I had a gun, so I could shoot everyone in the car and then kill myself.
I guess I'm going chronological, so the second story is from Switzerland. I was there about this time last year visiting Caitlin, and one of the first days I was there we ventured over to French Switzerland - Gruyeres, Lausanne. The night before Caitlin, Sean, Sean's roommate Tavis and I got pretty drunk, so Caitlin was hungover and a bit grumpy the next day. Anyways, we went to the HR Gieger museum (which was really quite pornographic and disturbing - I can only imagine what Caitlin's friend Emma thought about me), and then went to Lausanne where we were to meet this guy Aidan and have dinner with him. We were waiting for him at the train station, when I decided to go look at the vending machine. (They don't have separate ones like we do - Pepsi, Coke, Lance - it's called Selectall, and you can get condoms, cigarettes, sodas, gum - all from the same machine). We we're gathered around this machine, when this guy about our age (and not bad looking from what I remember) comes up and starts babbling in german. Everyone else was ignoring him, so once he went away I was like "WTF?", Caitlin goes - "Oh he said something about the beast - the end of the world coming" or something like that, and then "You don't think about young people being crazy". I said that it was my fault, that I attract random, and usually crazy people. (As is evidence constantly at the library). Aidan finally came, and we started out trek up what I dubbed "The Hill of Doom" It was about a mile up this steep hill, and it being my second day in the country, almost killed me - but we had a nice dinner, and upon out trek down, Emma and Sean got ahead, leaving Caitlin and I lagging. We were talking, and out of the corner of my eye, I noticed someone keeping pace with us. I continued conversing, and said something like "Yeah, cool", which my shadow decided to echo, (My shadow turning out to be a 6'5" skinny black guy) He said "You speak English". Yes. "I love English!". He proceeded to tell us about how he wanted to come to the US and teach African dance (he was from Africa) - we shook him off at the bottom of the hill by saying we were going in the opposite direction.
The next day we were walking down the Hill of Doom (no - we did NOT walk up again earlier), when a car came down the road, everyone went to the right, and I went left because I was closer to that side of the road. Well apparently some guy thought this was the perfect time to chat me up, however there was a bit of a language barrier. I speak french, but it's a whole different ballgame when it's with a native speaker. He asked if I spoke german, I asked if he spoke english, so we were kinda stuck with french, but he was undeterred. I finally communicated that I was from the US, and he asked me which one, I said Florida, and he had no idea where that was. I figure that if anything most foreigners would know New York, California, Texas, and Florida. Finallly Caitlin came up to pull me away, and he saw I was with other people and backed off. She turned to Sean and said "You can't leave her alone like that! Random people just come up and talk to her." I guess I look really friendly or something - stupid library made me personable. It wasn't really a problem once we were back in the german speaking part, except when 2 girls literally chased me down to ask about my Jack Skellington bag. They were going on and on, and Caitlin just stood there, but after a minute jumped in once she remembered I don't speak german. Caitlin and I also got pretty drunk in a nice restaurant in Paris, and later, my last night in Switzerland, I got to try absinthe. Good trip.
The final bit is about New York. I wish I could say something spectacular happened within the last 24 hrs, but nothing really has. Laurie and I met some of her friends for drinks last night, and ths morning at 3 am she left for a meeting in Denver. My original plan for today was to try to get airtime on the Today show - I had the perfect sign to get attention - "I just flew in from FL last night, and today my friend abandoned me". As it was, I slept in til about 9, didn't leave her apartment til 10:30, so I just went to the Guggenheim and Natural History Museum (whose Mineral Hall kicks the butt of the one we went to in Paris, Caitlin). Ah, but the people here. On my way into Manhattan this morning, the guy behind me picked his nose for like 5 minutes, and then fell asleep standing up. (I caught all this in the reflection of the window - I got from out in front of him ASAP.) On my way through Central Park, I was looking at a map, when a woman came up and offered to help me with directions - thank god she did - I don't know that I would've come out where I wanted to if she hadn't. I guess that's the most interesting thing so far. I'm tired, my feet hurt, and I'm sick of typing now.
P.S. My apologies if the spelling or typing is atrocious - I'm on a laptop, which I'm not used to, and I can't get the spellcheck to work.
The first one is the only one that can truly be classified as a road trip. It wasn't very far - just from Orlando to Miami, but my god. Little hint: taking a road trip with people you don't know very well isn't always the best way to start out. It was me, my roommate Lindsey, and Chris and Nathan from College Dems. This was during the governor's race before this last one - Lindsey had pulled some strings and we were going down to volunteer at a McBride event that Bill Clinton was supposed to come to, and on the way we were to stop and volunteer for some local campaign in Ft. Lauderdale. We get to Ft. Lauderdale and call the campaign manager to get directions - we follow them best we can and still can't find the place, so we called her back and she had left a major street out of the directions! Ok - so we get to the headquarters and they gave us shirts to wear. The guys took them and went to change, while Linds and I declined, and when they came out the manager, after giving us the fliers and assignment, said "Oh be sure to bring those back - we have to wash them so other volunteers can wear them". Communal shirts - fun. Then it turned out the neighborhood she sent us to had signs up all over the place saying "No Soliciting", so we did a few houses anyways, said "Fuck it" and went and grabbed lunch.
After lunch we headed to Miami. (Keep in mind I drove and Chris and Lindsey babbled about everything under the sun THE WHOLE TIME). We got to South Beach, kinda got the runaround, but finally found the woman organizing the event, who said that the volunteer passes weren't ready yet, and anyways they were clearing the area to have a team come and search for bombs and whatnot. So we stood off to the side, and this is when Nathan starts talking about bombs and Chris was giving him the death stare until he finally yelled "Will you shut up? I don't want to get kicked out because you keep talking about this shit!". Needless to say, that put Nathan in his place for awhile. So we go up to the woman again, and she doesn't recognize us - it's only been 10 minutes - and they still don't have the passes. Once we finally see someone give them to her, we swooped in, got the passes, and went inside. Once inside, we were still pretty pissed because the woman was pretty snotty, so when she came around looking for volunteers, we hid the passes and avoided eye contact. The rally was cool, and I got to shake Bill Clinton's hand. The way home was more of the same - constant chatter that was beginning to drive me crazy, not to mention it was like midnight and I was delirious.(I made everyone get out and take a pic at Yeehaw Junction - if I hadn't met Bill Clinton, that would've been the higlight of the day.) Coming back into Orlando there was construction, and we went about 2 miles in 1/2 hour. By the end of the night, morning by this point actually, I wished I had a gun, so I could shoot everyone in the car and then kill myself.
I guess I'm going chronological, so the second story is from Switzerland. I was there about this time last year visiting Caitlin, and one of the first days I was there we ventured over to French Switzerland - Gruyeres, Lausanne. The night before Caitlin, Sean, Sean's roommate Tavis and I got pretty drunk, so Caitlin was hungover and a bit grumpy the next day. Anyways, we went to the HR Gieger museum (which was really quite pornographic and disturbing - I can only imagine what Caitlin's friend Emma thought about me), and then went to Lausanne where we were to meet this guy Aidan and have dinner with him. We were waiting for him at the train station, when I decided to go look at the vending machine. (They don't have separate ones like we do - Pepsi, Coke, Lance - it's called Selectall, and you can get condoms, cigarettes, sodas, gum - all from the same machine). We we're gathered around this machine, when this guy about our age (and not bad looking from what I remember) comes up and starts babbling in german. Everyone else was ignoring him, so once he went away I was like "WTF?", Caitlin goes - "Oh he said something about the beast - the end of the world coming" or something like that, and then "You don't think about young people being crazy". I said that it was my fault, that I attract random, and usually crazy people. (As is evidence constantly at the library). Aidan finally came, and we started out trek up what I dubbed "The Hill of Doom" It was about a mile up this steep hill, and it being my second day in the country, almost killed me - but we had a nice dinner, and upon out trek down, Emma and Sean got ahead, leaving Caitlin and I lagging. We were talking, and out of the corner of my eye, I noticed someone keeping pace with us. I continued conversing, and said something like "Yeah, cool", which my shadow decided to echo, (My shadow turning out to be a 6'5" skinny black guy) He said "You speak English". Yes. "I love English!". He proceeded to tell us about how he wanted to come to the US and teach African dance (he was from Africa) - we shook him off at the bottom of the hill by saying we were going in the opposite direction.
The next day we were walking down the Hill of Doom (no - we did NOT walk up again earlier), when a car came down the road, everyone went to the right, and I went left because I was closer to that side of the road. Well apparently some guy thought this was the perfect time to chat me up, however there was a bit of a language barrier. I speak french, but it's a whole different ballgame when it's with a native speaker. He asked if I spoke german, I asked if he spoke english, so we were kinda stuck with french, but he was undeterred. I finally communicated that I was from the US, and he asked me which one, I said Florida, and he had no idea where that was. I figure that if anything most foreigners would know New York, California, Texas, and Florida. Finallly Caitlin came up to pull me away, and he saw I was with other people and backed off. She turned to Sean and said "You can't leave her alone like that! Random people just come up and talk to her." I guess I look really friendly or something - stupid library made me personable. It wasn't really a problem once we were back in the german speaking part, except when 2 girls literally chased me down to ask about my Jack Skellington bag. They were going on and on, and Caitlin just stood there, but after a minute jumped in once she remembered I don't speak german. Caitlin and I also got pretty drunk in a nice restaurant in Paris, and later, my last night in Switzerland, I got to try absinthe. Good trip.
The final bit is about New York. I wish I could say something spectacular happened within the last 24 hrs, but nothing really has. Laurie and I met some of her friends for drinks last night, and ths morning at 3 am she left for a meeting in Denver. My original plan for today was to try to get airtime on the Today show - I had the perfect sign to get attention - "I just flew in from FL last night, and today my friend abandoned me". As it was, I slept in til about 9, didn't leave her apartment til 10:30, so I just went to the Guggenheim and Natural History Museum (whose Mineral Hall kicks the butt of the one we went to in Paris, Caitlin). Ah, but the people here. On my way into Manhattan this morning, the guy behind me picked his nose for like 5 minutes, and then fell asleep standing up. (I caught all this in the reflection of the window - I got from out in front of him ASAP.) On my way through Central Park, I was looking at a map, when a woman came up and offered to help me with directions - thank god she did - I don't know that I would've come out where I wanted to if she hadn't. I guess that's the most interesting thing so far. I'm tired, my feet hurt, and I'm sick of typing now.
P.S. My apologies if the spelling or typing is atrocious - I'm on a laptop, which I'm not used to, and I can't get the spellcheck to work.
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