i was a feral child: that's why I act this way

Okay, I Admit It. I Am Related To Dracula.

2011-06-15T09:39:00.000-07:00

Bad Vlad

As anyone who knows anything knows, the two greatest exports of Romania are Dracula and orphans. However, if you were a German citizen of the city of Munich, circa 1997-1999, you might have thought there was a third export: ME, Jenny Drai! Isn't that funny?

At first this came as a big shock to me because whenever I asked my Dad what nationality we were--usually in response to some class project that would inevitably end in one student bringing in Lithuanian baked goods to share (LOTS of powdered sugar) and another kid showing up for class in some sort of Balinese get-up--he would just say that I should tell everyone we were American-whatever the heck that might mean.

But what did he expect me to do when it was my turn to present? Sing My Country Tis of Thee as I waved an American flag in everyone's face? In short, the answer is yes.

After all, didn't Grandpa purposefully forget every word of Romanian and shed a vowel from his last name before he signed up to fight in WWII? And before that, didn't my forefathers participate in the greatest fight of all: Chicago's epic battle against Prohibition, by making wine in their bathtub that they sold for rolls of cash to shady dudes who definitely bore relations to the mob?

But nobody in Munich ever suspected the American in me! No doubt this is because the first thing I did upon setting foot in the heart of Bavaria was to lose 20 lbs and trade in my slouchy, oversized wardrobe for cheap Versace and Gucci knock-offs purchased at H&M with cash well-earned from nannying the baddest little boy in the world, to whom I will only refer to here as L. Also I spoke German quite well with only an untraceable accent (mostly thanks to a previous residence in the country in the vast, depressing, it's-always-drizzling Schlesswig-Holstein), somethings most Germans think Amis (as we are called) are incapable of doing.

Luckily, I was able to pick up some great house-cleaning gigs though! Because cleaning women, after all, are another great import!!

Signing off--Jenny Draia (now wouldn't that have been pretty??)

OMG! I Almost Deleted My Entire Blog! And It Felt So Good To Think About Doing It!!!!!! Or, A Few Notes On Humor.

2011-06-13T11:01:00.000-07:00

When I first started my blog, it was really easy to be funny. This is probably because my subject matter--the infusion of sex into film adaptations of Beowulf--and a cute little house cat supposedly named after the film actor Gerard Butler, were in and of themselves quite amusing. I do deserve some credit of course. But still.

Lately though, humor has become a trap. Especially humorous indignation. I recently wrote a pretty autobiographical short story about how my mother wouldn't let me listen to music when I was growing up and sent it to a contest at a magazine I have been reading for awhile. I included a line that I will not repeat here, but basically it was pretty hilarious at the expense of my mother. Basically, if she ever read it, I'm sure she would be hurt. Go for the joke! I thought, which I now regret. (The reality is that often callousness hides extreme vulnerability and sensitivity, and I would cop to that on some level.)

But the plot thickens.

Recently I was at a party and something happened that really bothered me to the core, which I then turned into a supposedly humorous joke for my blog. I was reading a book of poetry that very specifically discusses the U.S. military occupation of Guam, and I had at that time the book in my purse. Randomly, a woman I met just that night started saying some things about the native Chamorro people of Guam that I thought lacked insight, compassion, and any sense of wisdom.

But please don't misunderstand me. I wasn't shocked because she said something I considered off-color. Like I've never said something 'off-color.' And probably every white person my age has at the very least had to deal with the disappointing racism of his or her elders, whether it be an otherwise much-beloved grandfather dropping yet another n-bomb at the dinner table or fave-author Sylvia Plath's degrading portrayal of the "negro" orderly who brings two kinds of beans to the hospital dinner table in The Bell Jar.

What bothered me was that I couldn't think of anything to say. I was chewing a mouthful of Doritos at the time, and I think my mouth may have opened up a little bit, a situation which I tried to frame comically in my now deleted post.

I think it was because I had the book in my purse.
Something about the nature of proximity.

Every so often I get the feeling of hives rising up all over my body. Standing in the shower room at Dachau was one time. Finding out that a place named Psycho Donuts in Campbell, California had come into existence while featuring an atmosphere that purported to mimic "a fun, zany mental hospital" [HELLO! THERE IS NO SUCH THING!] with donuts named after diagnoses from the DSM-IV was another time.

At Dachau I burst into tears. After Psycho Donuts I walked around for two weeks and thought everyone was staring at me. After the comment about Guam I just felt dislocated and inarticulate and tried to push the event into a familiar framework. Everything about the incident was commonplace and mundane. The humor of the commonplace and mundane has thus far been the theme of my blog. But really, maybe humor is sometimes the wrong note.

Finally. The wrong note. Something I have in common with the brainiacs behind Psycho Donuts.

Lately I have been a bit off. And sort of sick of social media. Sort of sick of all the things I am 'supposed' to be doing as an aspiring novelist to get myself published. Of creating something to say just to prove that I have said it. Oh look! Relevance!

I am currently thinking that I would like to try to work on something that directly looks at the cultural/psychological aspects of mental illness (anxiously awaiting the July release of Bhanu Kapil's Schizophrene from Nightboat Books on that note) as opposed to the hold contemporary psychiatry and its deeply entrenched ties to the drug industry presently have over our current methodology of treating the mentally ill.

I think this will take the shape of a novel that will require some research and tenacity and OMG horrifying concepts like extensive outlining. (Up to now, I admit, I have always just planned a chapter ahead of time.) And I am pretty, pretty sure, that although it may be warm, maybe even sometimes funny (because, Virginia, hallucinating in the bathroom at work can be funny depending how you look at it--as long as there's no donut named after it), I will not be going for the joke.

How Are You? I'm Having A Great Time!

2011-01-21T08:48:00.000-08:00

Since my last post (awhile ago, I know, so sue me), I have learned that I too can make a restaurant style chicken salad in the comfort and privacy of my own home. The only problem is that I burned the outside of the chicken before the inside got cooked. Actually, it wasn't burned, it was caramelized. Also, when I was transferring the chicken breasts to the plate, one slid out from between the slippery metal prongs of the ginormous tongs I was using and plummeted to the floor below. I am not even going to tell you when the last time I swept the floor was.

Okay, I will tell you. It was not recently.
Obviously I am no Martha Stewart.
I am pretty sure that 'hi-jinks' do not ensue when Martha Stewart cooks.
Thank you.

Tired And Bored With Myself

2010-12-16T07:42:00.000-08:00

But then how do you think I made it out to California?

A Few Words About Jane Seymour

2010-12-10T10:08:00.000-08:00

Such wholesome, good fun.
Even when she's naughty.

I Sure Am Having Fun Spellchecking My 313 Page Novel, Which Does Seem To Have A Lot Of Errors. This Is Taking For-Eeever!

2010-12-06T12:02:00.000-08:00

Aah…conformity.

Seriously. Proper spelling is for people who think inside the box.

Oh well. I guess this is what I get for turning off that red squiggly line thing that corrects while you type. But it was getting so distracting! I mean, I am not just a bad speller, I am a bad typist, just so you understand the situation here. I miss a lot of letters.

Mavis Beacon, you did me no good, although maybe that was because I never took you out of the box.

If I Got My Mom A Really Good Christmas Present Last Year, Does That Mean I Can Give Her Nothing This Year?

2010-12-04T07:42:00.000-08:00

A skein of the luxurious wool yarn (in delicate mauve) that I used to hand knit my mother a scarf for last year's Christmas gift.

How am I supposed to top that?
Also, that is mauve, isn't it? Does anyone besides interior decorators really know what mauve is? All I know, it is definitely my mother's color.
Also also, do you need any mauve yarn? I have leftovers.

Kitty Kat Time

2010-11-28T09:26:00.000-08:00

A post-holiday nap is always better with a trusty sidekick.

'Nuff said. And happy napping.

Short Films About My Life

2010-11-24T07:42:00.000-08:00

Unfortunately, for the pictorial portion of the blog, my camera is out of batteries.

On Sunday, the movie was called 'The Catastrophist.' That all with my boyfriend turned out to be sort of fine.

Last night the movie was called 'Cooking with Martha,' or really, more appropriately, 'Watching My Boyfriend Cook With Martha' as he carefully prepared two pies for this year's Thanksgiving repast. Pecan and blackberry, thank you very much. But don't worry. I will be kept very busy tomorrow stirring the mashed potato flakes into the boiling water.

(Yes Martha. The mashed potatoes are coming from a box. I've already sampled a few portions during a fish dinner sometime last week and they are creamy and delicious.)

Today the movie is called 'Cinderella' because I will be stuck at home cleaning while my wicked stepsister, my boyfriend, leaves the house for a glamorous day sweating over his desk as an engineer in the solar energy industry. He only has to work 10 hours a day and do the job of a small army, so I'd say I might be getting the short end of the stick.

Hmm. Maybe if the weather gets nicer, I'll head to the pool after I clean the bathroom, which could have been done this weekend had someone (me) not said she would do it later.

Of course, the feature film event doesn't happen until tomorrow and I have no idea what it will be called, but certainly the word 'ham' will be in the title because that is what we are serving. Or, on the other hand, perhaps simply 'Meat Thermometer' will suffice. Thank you.

I Think My Boyfriend's Going To Break Up With Me Because I Broke The Car For Good

2010-11-21T07:56:00.000-08:00

How This Makes Me Feel

1.
It gives me a stomachache that all the lingonberry soda in the world won't settle.

2.
It makes me wish I had a time machine so I could go back in said time and notice the exact moment when the check engine light came on while I was driving 75 mph on the freeway in the moist, dark night so that I could have pulled off the road in a more timely manner and before the situation really came to a head.

3.
Did I mention the stomachache?

4.
Actually, this situation makes me wish a lot of things and is not at all funny. For example, I wish I were a different person. Also, if I get dumped, all the cuddling in the world with my cat, Gerald Butler is not going to make me feel better.

5.
Any better at all…Am I catastrophizing right now? Or just being realistic? Is the whole world going to hell in a hand basket? Where's that lingonberry soda? I seriously need it right now.

6.
Because my stomach still hurts.

7.
Why can't I be normal? Why was I feeling so anxious about driving and the upcoming social event that instead of carefully monitoring the instrument panel at appropriate intervals, I failed to notice the check engine light? After all, I monitor my speed constantly.

(In the background, Cher sings "If I could turn back time.")

7 (1): Because Kaiser Permanente is stingy with their therapy sessions;

and 7(2): see above.

8.
Really, last night was not a good night for me. I should have stayed home. I was just not feeling 'it,' as they say. Plus I had forgotten to unmute the GPS and the uncanny silence was unnerving me.

9.
Definitely should have stayed home. I could have spent last night watching Farscape on DVD and now instead I am in mountains of shit, dog-house style.

10.
Look away. This might get ugly.

No, I Am Not Dressed Up Like Harry Potter, Today. Why The Frack Would I Be?

2010-11-19T11:46:00.000-08:00

I am Harry Potter. I do not need to dress the part. I need to do important, everyday Harry Potter things like clean out my cat, Gerard Butler's litter box, which he has recently befouled. Then I have to pick up yesterday's clothing from the bedroom floor and carry it to the hamper because I was far too lazy to do this last night and instead just left it all in an amorphous heap over 2 or 3 pairs of shoes.

I might even do laundry and then go to Target for green bean-mushroom soup casserole ingredients, which I somehow forgot about when I went to Target yesterday.

All in all, a pretty boring, dreary day.

In Which I Anxiously Await The 11/30 Release Of 'Valhalla Rising.'

2010-11-18T10:43:00.000-08:00

As you may guess from the title, Valhalla Rising is a movie about Vikings. Therefore I would like to make one of two predictions.

Prediction #1

The movie will be very, very good and I will like it.

Prediction #2

The movie will be very, very bad and I will like it.

Thank you.

One Lucky Turkey

2010-11-17T13:02:00.000-08:00

Because as it turns out, I am serving ham this Thanksgiving. I am pretty excited about this because it involves a lack of turkey, a particular meat I do not like to eat ever since a childhood of watching my mother eat boiled gizzards. Intestines are gross.

Regardless, next week is going to be fun. (Really, it's only a week from now that I have to start cooking/baking/etc.)

For example, 5 year old twins are staying at my house for three whole days. I can't wait to see how my cat will react to that. Actually, I think I know. He will hiss at them and then go hide in the closet.

We are going to go swimming and sailing.

Probably a "time-out" zone will have to be established at some point, because, as many of you know, little boys do not always behave. Thus, they need a little time and space to think about just what they've done. (To be honest, I often feel the same way about myself.)

Ah, but to revisit the small infractions of childhood. I wish I could go back in time and chart the trajectory of stealing cookies from the cookie jar to filching warm Bartles & James wine coolers from my dad's basement stash in order to see exactly what went wrong.

Actually, I drank a lot of warm, cheap beer too. Really, I should have insisted on quality. Nothing but the best. Because I'm worth it. Thank you.

WTF? I Am On The Ocean!

2010-11-15T13:26:00.001-08:00

This is not a Hyundai I am driving.

Really, sometimes I feel like I can barely drive. Still, I obviously made it through driver's ed. However there is no such thing as driver's ed for a sailboat, at least not that I know about. It is more like flying by the seat of your pants while your boyfriend--the real sailor--goes below to take a piss.

The real sailor tells me I don't have anything to be ashamed of. Apparently when most people take the helm at sea for the first time, or the second time, or the third time, or the fourth time, the boat just turns in wayward circles and they sort of scream in the delight and the thrill of it all. Losing control just never felt so exhilarating. Sort of like being on a roller coaster. Except that the ocean is not a theme park. In fact, it might be fair to say that you are the ocean's bitch.

On the other hand, I had the darned boat pointed in the correct direction from the very beginning. Which is great for me. But internally it wasn't so cool because I thought if I made one single, itty-bitty mistake, we were all OMG going to die right this instant. (This should tell you a lot about me: someone raised me to think I have to be perfect; and I catastrophize. Which is a fancy word I learned recently in a, ahem, certain milieu.) Equally possible, one of us would escape but the other would be trapped in the boat like Jeff Bridges' wife in White Squall. So I would either 'enjoy' a watery death or feel guilty for the rest of my life. Or worse, we would all be eaten by pilot whales, which normally seem pretty harmless.

Trust me. I saw a few the other day after I finally started to relax.

Which is the point I wanted to make. About relaxing. Which I did. You would never relax on a roller coaster. But a beautiful day to sail upon the sea sort of does a lot to unwind tension and anxiety.

Also, the ocean is full of dolphins. Did I mention the dolphins? A colossal pod of winsome creatures of the sea. Some swam right near the boat.

Wild dolphin make everything alright. I am left like a little kid at Christmas in their presence. Please don't eat the tuna. Thank you.

Some Excuses for the Colossal Grammatical Lapse in Yesterday's Facebook Post

2010-11-12T08:51:00.000-08:00

From now on, I vow to read this entire book before posting anything online.

"The more I learn about my grandfather's WWII experience, the more lucky I realize I am to have ever gotten to meet him."

I should have said 'luckier.' I apologize to you, the internet, and all my many instructors who have taught me far, far better than that.

The Excuses (In No Particular Order)

1.
Hey my Masters degree is in poetry, not grammar.

2.
Clearly I am some sort of hooligan of grammar. By choice. By eradicating the conventional structure of grammar, I was attempting to rebuild it. Uh, yeah.

3.
Most of my English grammar books were written in other languages. Like in Russian or German. And while I may still read enough Russian to find my way through the completely untranslated DVD menu for a (by the way) really faithfully adapted television mini-series based on The Idiot by the late great Fyodor Dostoevsky, I fall down when it comes to the comparison of adjectives.

4.
My mother corrected my grammar continuously as I was growing up. See what I'm trying to say here? Nagging never gets the job done.

5.
I like to end sentences on prepositions too. Especially in daily speech. Do you have a problem with that? Either way, the whole language is going to pot. You might as well just crack open a frosty cold one and enjoy the view.

6.
My fancy-ass private college did not make students who passed the writing entrance exam take composition. Therefore my actual instruction in English grammar ended freshman year of high school. Of course, this total ignorance of the guts and bowels of my native language hampered me somewhat when I was teaching in graduate school. WTF? I still don't know what a dangling modifier is. Please don't try to explain. You will only be disappointed in my lack of comprehension. It's sort of a sore spot for me. Sort of how I can never remember what 'alterity' means.

7.
'Alterity' has something to do with 'otherness,' as in switching one's perspective for that of the other. Try writing a dangling modifier about that, bitches!

8.
Excuse me for calling you a bitch. I got excited.

9.
Okay, that's it people. Look away from my internet shame. There are worse grammatical catastrophes than bungled comparatives. Here are a few gems.

You're welcome.

There Is A Nightclub In Vegas Named After Me

2010-11-11T06:58:00.000-08:00

Yup. Just me and my nightclub.

Did I say 'nightclub?' Drai's is an after hours club. The establishment's wide red and black doors don't even open until 1 am (and close at dawn), which, inconveniently for this blog episode, means I have no idea what goes on inside. (For example, do they provide cots if you suddenly get tired and have to lie down right this minute?) One thing stands certain. This Drai will probably never find out because this Drai goes to bed at 10 pm, even in Vegas.

Well, alright. That last statement does involve a touch of hyperbole. There are a number of things I will stay up for and I'm sure you can think of at least one of them. And I am not talking about dragging my tired ass around to make a walloping $2.50 on the slot machines while breezing through 'Paris,' which is the name of a casino/resort on the Las Vegas strip that boasts an Eiffel Tower growing out of its bowels. Like most things on the strip, this behemoth is a copy of something else, and in this case fashions itself after Paris, a real city that brags, I dare say (among its other accomplishments), a better-dressed citizenry. But all of this aside, I am not, and never will be, a night owl.

(No way did I belong in the real Paris that night. You should have seen me by the time I actually went to bed. My eyes were glassed over and my hair was starting to look as if a baboon were living in it.)

However, my deserved lack of membership in the night owl club does not mean I am some sort of prancing, trilling lark singing songs at heaven's gate at 6 in the blasted morning, which is about when my boyfriend started playing with the electronic curtains in our hotel room because he is an engineer and finds moving parts fascinating.

Of course we did have a nice breakfast at a little place in the 'Venetian' and then he surprised me by whisking me over to Drai's 'After Dark' for a quick photo opportunity.

Are you a Smith or a Clark or a Williams? Note to you: with a name like Drai, you could go your whole life never meeting anyone at all with the same name as yours unless they're family, let alone ever see a sign emblazoned with that weirdly truncated yet old world vowelly moniker, so it's oddly thrilling when it happens. Not thrilling enough to risk bumping into a crowd of drunken vampires by making it over to the club when it actually opens. At 1 am. But thrilling nonetheless.

And then. And then.

And then, my friends, we went to the Hoover Dam, which was breathtaking.

Yup. We did that last part right in the middle of the day. Just the way I like it.

In Which I Whine About My Cola Problem, Which Is A Really Big Deal, Trust Me.

2010-11-10T12:28:00.000-08:00

If it seems too good to be true, then it probably is.

Man, do I ever enjoy the taste of a crisp, fresh cola beverage. Whether straight from the can or over ice, I just cannot get enough of this effervescent bombardment of the senses. (Unless it is Coke, that is. Coke is gross. It is cloyingly sweet and leaves a nasty aftertaste so if you don't carry gum or toothpaste with you at all times, you are screwed.)

So what's the problem? Well I am 35 now and although I am by no means 'fat,' I am definitely not in any danger of fitting into those really cute pants I bought at H&M when I was 22 and living in Europe, pants that I still own now because they continue to be very cute and I cannot bear to let the dream die. In other words, all these empty, (delicious), empty calories are a big no-no.

So why not just have a diet Pepsi? Diet Pepsi, after all, tastes clean and crisp. (Obviously I won't be having a diet Coke.) What a great idea except that fake sugar still makes you fat and has been linked to seizures in individuals susceptible to them--yeah, okay, the cases in question were of people drinking 20-22 cans of diet soda a day, but you can never be too careful. Seizures, just in case you didn't know, can make you piss on your leg, or hit your head, or crash your car, or maybe just see King Canute, the Danish King of England, in your living room. But still. 'Nuff said.

Thus, Zevia, a calorie-free cola beverage sweetened with natural stevia extract (which the rest of the world has been using for decades) really leapt out at me from the grocery shelf at my local Henry's Farmers' Market.

I lugged a 6-pack home.

I carefully extracted one of the frosted beverage mugs from the freezer and filled it with ice. Cracked open the soda. The ice popped and fizzed.

Heady with anticipation, I took the first sip.

As it turns out, Zevia tastes like Coke. Who makes these decisions?

My Weekend At The Races: If I Ever Had A Daughter, She Is So Not Leaving The House Dressed Like That

2010-11-08T09:21:00.000-08:00

Out of energy drink? Cat food has some of the same ingredients!

Does every short course off-road race car driver dream of standing on the podium in order to have his leg rubbed by one of the minimally-dressed "Rock Star Girls"--one of a squadron of size zero promotional workers for Rock Star Energy Drink, available in lemonade barf or cola barf flavors--or do some of them kind of see through the whole charade as the girls smile their makeup encrusted smiles and hold up shimmering cans of Rock Star Energy Drink, available in lemonade barf or cola barf flavors? Do you want to try some? They're giving cans away for free. In fact, small children are walking around drinking up this miasma of intoxicating energy serum. Take it from this former nanny, but that is insane. Children do not need more energy. They need sedatives, just like cats on road trips.

However, the real issue with the Rock Star Girls is their inappropriate for the situation footwear--high heeled black boots in an area where the ground is covered in a thick layer of gravel. Literally, they could not walk without aid and also had trouble climbing up the steep ramp to the awards platform in order to dole out phallic-shaped trophies in the form of spark plugs. Really, it's hard to do the job right of promoting Rock Star Energy Drink, available in blah blah blah (you already know the drill), when you cannot even propel yourself, able-bodied woman that you normally are, from location A to location B without some douchebag getting involved who really is just trying to peer into your decollatage.

All in all though, this weekend helped me to re-commit to a few fashion rules, as if my clothing and I were a married couple renewing our vows to each other in a heartfelt garden ceremony, but with the entire viewing public in attendance.

Actually, there are only two rules.

1.
If you look in the mirror and it looks like you are wearing a shirt with no pants, your dress is not long enough.

2.
Shoes are made for walking, not stumbling.

But really, none of this is the Rock Star Girls' fault. Instead, I think we can safely thank the Rock Star marketing team and even more importantly, all the skanky-ass men who think women made helpless by their wardrobe are attractive. Rant now over. Thank you.

One Analogy To Writing A Novel

2010-11-06T07:11:00.000-07:00

The novel is the tiger.
You are Roy.

You try to tame its unruly themes and run-on sentences by tapping said 'novel' on the nose with a Pilot G-2 rollerball pen, but the the great beast of would-be fiction just leaps up and disfigures you for life.

(My lame boyfriend says Siegfried and Roy jokes are in poor taste, but clearly tigers are our superiors and should not be trifled with. R.I.P. Tatiana! Also, tigers were my dearly departed grandfather's favorite animal. To the point that he had a Schillcraft latch hook rug with the face of a tiger emblazoned across its fibery surface. Also also, I am leaving for Vegas in about an hour so perhaps you can understand the tie-in.)

I swear I am mostly a nice person.
Poor Roy. He loved those tigers.

Yours in exceedingly poor taste. Thank you.

A Little Message To The Unknown Asian Language Living On The Comments Page Of The Last Post On My Blog

2010-11-05T14:32:00.000-07:00

My cat, Gerard Butler, prepares to cast a spell on you.

Okay, bitches. I just write this review for a reading series where the establishment that is Sara Mumolo makes sure that everyone can have access to both great cheese and spectacular poetry and you repay my efforts with this effusion of nonsensical writing!?

I'd also like to point out that the muse of this blog is Beowulf, not your weird Chinese poetry, and although there may be dragons in both, Beowulf does not speak Chinese. He is very upset with you. Not upset enough to bother deleting all of the comments, but that is mostly because Beowulf is (probably) from the fifth century and thereby does not know how to use a computer. Which leaves this important task to My Cat, Gerard Butler, who is ultimately dim-witted and lacks opposable thumbs, which leaves me. Which leaves no one. Thank you.

Wait. I think I found the on button.

STUDIO ONE: Not Just For The Cheese Plate.

2009-09-14T10:32:00.000-07:00

An interesting and eye-opening thing happened to me last Friday night at the monthly Studio One poetry reading. And it's all because I stopped eating cheese. You see, I'm thirty-four now, and my metabolism can no longer handle eating just anything. So I thought I'd simply cut out a few foods, such as ultra-fattening "cheese" and try to shed a few pounds. What in the world, Jenny Drai, you might wonder, does cheese have to do with poetry? Well, gentle Reader (I would reply), it has everything to do with my first Friday routine. Get home from work. Light snack. Work out. Shower and change. Show up at Studio One with a few bucks in my pocket for the donations cup and nibble on the excellent smorgasbord of tasty snacks. But what about last Friday? I felt some trepidation. Would I be able to withstand those tempting morsels of milk, cultures, and rennet? The creamy brie? The smoky gouda? Sharp chedder? And that's not even mentioning the outstanding selection of whole-grain crackers. How would I cope? As stressed out as I usually am by Friday evening, I doubted my resolve. But I found sustenance through another medium: the poetry of Gillian Hamel and Truong Tran and the performance piece by Scott V.

At my job as the office assistant in a furniture store, I don't get to use my brain very much, and for some reason I find this exhausting. Because I have to work every weekend, I rarely show up at a poetry reading when I'm not feeling tired and cranky. Often, I don't even want to go. I'd much rather curl up in bed, covers over my head, and reread Harry Potter for the umpteenth time with the help of a flashlight. In fact, a half hour before the Studio One reading was sheduled to begin, I was in just such a position bemoaning my fate as a cog in the wheels of corporate America. But I went anyways, non-poet boyfriend in tow. We both had a great time, and I (the ultimate believer in the supremacy of the written text) learned something valuable about poetry's orality and the collective nature of event.

I came. I listened. I relaxed. That's how it happened. Never a good auditory learner, I nonethless caught beautiful snippets and sometimes even whole parcels of thought. "There should be space around her, breathing and collapsing," Gillian Hamel read as part of a set that combined the journey of a speaker full, at times, of particularity and preference ("I don't like anything that combines with 'post.' my greatest moments occur when I am wearing the exact right amount of layers, my hands are full, and I cannot hear anything else.") with the sometimes outrightly haunting, and/or what I would call questions or statements of boundary, and/or sheer and utter viscerality. Also, since this after all was a reading, I would add that she read well.

Whereas Gillian Hamel's poetry started off the event with a tonally serious exploration of the self in tandem to and in opposition to various degrees of daily violences, Scott V.'s faux sales presentation on his self-styled program to teach his audience the value of incorporating hiding into one's daily life (not to mention his hilarious slideshow on how to determine a good hiding spot) was a virtual laugh-fest. But that's not to say Scott V. didn't make a more serious point. How many of us, after all, hide in order to be found? Regardless, hide-and-seek is quite a lot of fun. Take it from one who knows. Since the presentation last Friday, my boyfriend and I have played the game at least twice. I, however, have an unfair advantage because Steven is 6'6" and just doesn't fit in the better spots like in the closet under the pile of dirty laundry. I mean, does he seriously think I won't see him lurking under the dining room table? At any rate, the presentation very much reminded me of a sales meeting I was forced to attend on my day off even though I am not in sales, except that this time I was happily engaged with the process instead of staring glassy-eyed in the general direction of whoever was currently trying to indoctrinate me with the value of a having a more *positive* attitude in order to SELL! SELL! SELL! even though (I repeat) it was supposed to be my day off and I am not even in sales. I just type up the invoices. With a smile on my face, even when it hurts. Thank you Scott V. for making the smile feel good.

It was during the Truong Tran reading that I really finally realized what was happening to me. As I slid in and out of his language (without eating any of that scintillattingly delicious cheese), as I laughed with the other members of the audience at something random or touching or comic, I experienced the comfort of the collective experience of shared vibe in shared setting. I have to say that I was really tired. I have to say I engage much easier (in the critical sense) with the written text. I have to say that last Friday night, at about two-thirds of the way through the reading, I stopped taking notes for my review and instead got wonderfully lost, and in doing so, suddenly found. In cadence with Truong Tran and the rest of the audience. Very far away from a long day or the promise of an even longer day tomorrow. Just there. Listening to shifting tones. The contemplation in the work. Wanting to read the work. Tugging the covers over my head and pulling out the flashlight. Pushing Harry Potter to one side. Or just extinguishing the flashlight and using a lamp and the full weight of the mind on some random week night. When the sky is black and the sleep is in front of you and what you need is at your fingertips and you can have it if you open the book, turning back the cover.

So it's not just about the cheese anymore. Or the crackers. Or have I mentioned the always tasty Orangina if you don't drink wine? Because it is tasty. Orangina is simply the best. And they have it at Studio One, where emerging poets converge with the time-tested and well-published, where poetry combines with film, music, and performance for a great time to be had by all, including this somewhat over-tired and worn-out blogger who is just writing her review now because she, ironically, had to work all week without a day off because lots of people like to celebrate Labor Day by shopping for recliners.

So that's that. Great poets and performances. So you should go next time. There's something for everyone. And now that I've forsworn cheese, there is more for you. Because I used to eat a lot of it. Thank you.

In Which I Anxiously Await The Release Of Outlander On May 19.

2009-05-09T06:47:00.000-07:00

Note to self: this one probably isn't going to make it to the Criterion Collection, which might be a good thing, because I won't have to pay forty dollars for the pleasure of endlessly rewatching this Beowulf-themed Iron age/Space age science fiction/Viking saga. Instead, I'm sure, the movie will be so bad it's good, which would be a lot better than the last film I saw starring Jim Caviezel which was an anti-Semitic snuff film about someone named Jesus, a movie which was so gruesome in its scenes of spurting blood and rampant gore that at one point tears of ???????? came to my eyes just as I felt my senses were being completely violated for the thirty billionth time. Of course, there is also the possibility that Outlander will just be good, but I will have to wait until the nineteenth of May to find out, and besides, according to some unnamed persons who will continue to be granted their anonymity, or rather I should say according to my roommate Dana, I have "disappointing" taste in movies. See! I am such a bad person. I let people down. On that note, have I ever mentioned that I really like that movie Timeline, based on a Michael Crichton novel, about archaeologists who travel back in time to medieval France? Do you, you ask. In fact I do. Thank you.

When I Get Bored With Myself, I Dye My Hair.

2009-04-22T07:55:00.001-07:00

Duh! I'm so bored.

In Which I Renew My Committment To Having A Crush On Beowulf

2009-04-05T08:12:00.000-07:00

Just an example of some of the Beowulf paraphernalia I have accumulated. Please notice that at least one of the paraphernalia is the book.

Lately I've been so busy. Working full time. Hanging out with friends. Writing two non-Beowulf themed novellas. Going jogging. In fact I've almost forgotten about how excited I am anticipating the May 2009 DVD release of Outlander, starring Jim "Jesus" Caviezel as some dude from outer space who lands in a Viking settlement and ends up fighting an epic monster (also from outer space, as to my understanding). According to Wikipedia, my main source of information these days, because this handy informational website is only one click of the mouse away and therefore does not involve me getting out of my super-comfy vintage office chair (in a lovely, nubby, burnt orange fabric, I might add), one of the characters names is Hrothgar, so you can probably see where I am going with this. I almost think it might be time for me to do a Beowulf tie-in of my own. After all, I have been making such a fuss about a poem in a dead language for so long, it only seems like the next logical step. Look, I can already say a few things in Anglo-Saxon. Like "se geong mon." Which means "the young man." Clearly I am on my way to something really big here.

In other news, I feel totally vindicated regarding my great fondness for the movie "Beowulf and Grendel," a movie inveterate blogger and poet Jack Morgan claimed was "bad." But my friend, the super-smart and very talented poet Trevor Calvert, (who has a book you should read called "Rarer and More Wonderful") on the other hand, thinks "Beowulf and Grendel" is a fantastic film, and I am pretty sure he is not merely being swayed by a good-looking actor in a long-haired wig. Really, if you ask me, the movie (which is admittedly pretty post-modern in its treatment of Grendel) is about what happens when you open a door by committing an immoral act and then don't get to decide what comes back over the threshold at you. And Grendel, who is wronged by Hrothgar, brings measureless violence back upon him. Sort of like Alfred Hitchcock's "Psycho." Janet Leigh doesn't just get it from Norman Bates. She embezzles the money from her boss and then she gets it from Norman Bates. In the shower. Thank you.

Now That I'm Not Blogging About My Cat, I FInd I Have Very Little To Say.

2009-04-03T08:15:00.001-07:00

Not blogging about the cat. Nope. Not gonna do it.

Right now he is staring blankly into space, just one of the many tasks he has difficulty completing because of his crippling Attention Deficit Disorder.

Obviously, I am sick. Thank you.

In Other News, Importand Staff Meeting Turns Out To Be Really Boring

2009-04-01T07:55:00.000-07:00

1. In a thoroughly unexpected turn of events, a meticulously planned, long-anticipated staff meeting attended by this blogger for most of one recent day turned out to be less than uproariously entertaining. Normally, this blogger might use the next few lines to quickly sum up the all-important topics covered at the gripping all-day informational session, but she stopped paying attention after the first five minutes and started thinking instead about all the other things she'd rather be doing on what was supposed to be one of her precious days off. Like laying face down on the sofa. Like drinking diet Pepsi until she felt light-headed, which these days is about her only vice. This blogger did not, however, fail to notice the upbeat motivational sayings about the value of a positive *attitude* printed in the margins of the pamphlets passed out for all to read and continues to be really glad she's not in sales where it is required you believe in such things or you will not win friends and influence people into spending four thousand dollars on a new leather sofa and love seat for their living room and instead will just die in shame and penury and with the knowledge that you are ranked last for this month because you can't shake your *attitude* problem. Sheeeesh.

2. In other news, my friends are smarter than me. While I have been daydreaming about becoming a famous novelist, my friends Cameron Jackson and Jessica Cox have actually opened up an art gallery in the actual real world, a place I only occasionally visit, usually to eat or go to the bathroom. It is called the Alphonse Berber Gallery and it is located near Cal and you should go there, for Christ's sake. But don't take my word for it. Check out their website.
Also, although the gallery has got great art hanging on the walls, it is worth just checking it out to see the fantastic space, designed by architect Justin Botros. Someone named Jeremy Graves manages the gallery, but I have never met him although I am sure he is also much smarter than I am. Here's to you, Jeremy!

3. In even other news, my cat, Gerard Butler, is going away and will never be heard from again. My poor little cat, Stanley, can no longer bear the hefty weight of shouldering two identities and has asked to be relieved from public service. Also, I am sort of down on cats right now. They are bothersome with their constant meowing and always need their litter tended or else the whole house smells like a toilet. This is the real world that I live in. Thank you.

Not Ready For The Looooooove-Seat? Happily, I Present An Alternative.

2009-02-28T07:13:00.000-08:00

Now that I work in a furniture store dedicated to insuring comfort to all its customers ("Comfort. It's what we do"), I have started to spend my down time at the store thinking of ways that I, a lowly administrative assistant, could come up with a brilliant new product and/or marketing strategy in order to strike it rich, thus ensuring a lifetime of a whole 'nother type of comfort for myself and my cat, Gerard Butler. I am talking about the comfort that is called 'being rich and not having to work as a lowly administrative assistant in a furniture store.' And now, thanks to key meditations on my currently stunted emotional status, I have come up with a new product. In the words of one of my favorite, if essentially long-winded, playwrights Pierre Marivaux (in 'The Triumph of Love'): "Would you have me lose my reason? Must I now give my life over to my feelings?" The answer is no, not yet. You can sit and think about your predicament for awhile on my new product, the Like Seat. Not as large as a sofa, but with just a little more room than a love seat, the like seat offers some much-needed breathing room for those of us with cold feet (me), or for those of us still trying to escape in our minds the fiery train wreck of our last relationship (me), or even just for those of us who just like being single because then you don't have to worry about what your apartment looks like every time your significant other comes over (me). (Preferably, the like seat would be at your non-romantic totally platonic buddy's house and he or she would never know that you don't change the totally platonic kitty litter quite just often enough. And also they would pay for it because you can't afford to purchase big-ticket upholstery items on your admin wages. Unless of course the furniture store you work for doesn't steal your idea outright and you (I) receive some sort of tangible financial remuneration in the form of a big fat check.) Aaaah. The likeseat. Isn't it time our romance-centric culture focused a little more on ideas involving friendship that incidentally might make me financially solvent? Please say yes. Then promptly fall in love with me. Thank you.

I Think I Am Fantastic

2009-02-24T10:07:00.000-08:00

Just a sampling of the beautifully designed, pre-printed return address labels I recently received in the mail

And here I thought I no longer mattered to anyone but my tightly knit inner circle consisting almost entirely of my mother and my cat, Gerard Butler. But now I feel like the VIP I know I am somewhere deep inside thanks to the arrival by post of some tastefully designed return address labels with my name, 'Jennifer Drai,' printed across the surface in a bold, eye-catching font right next to various and sundry cute little icons like a glittery 'USA' sign or a huge calligraphy 'D.' Really, this personal touch says everything I need to know about the care and trouble taken by these anonymous persons sweating away in their graphic design workshop, somewhere on or near the North Pole presumably, to make sure I get the appropriate calligraphy letter next to my name, 'Jennifer Drai,' emblazoned across the shiny white surface of the labels in a beautifully designed (serif) font. Did I mention the jolly smiling snowman icon or the red-white-and-blue banner icon? Such cold weather centricism or unflailing commitment to 'patriotic' values could hardly prevent me from slathering the upper left hand corner of every single last one of my outgoing envelopes with these small, rectangular status symbols. Nothing says you have arrived on the scene like not having to scrawl out your return address in your painfully illegible handwriting every time you have to pay a bill or send a thank you card. Bring it on, little white dove bearing olive branch icon! I am going to use you.

Another Exciting Day In The Life Of My Cat, Gerard Butler

2009-02-23T16:41:00.000-08:00

My cat, Gerard Butler, recuperates after his stressful bathing experience

If you thought the Oscars last night were all about drama, you obviously did not see my cat, Gerard Butler's prima donna performance in the bathtub between the hours of 4 and 4:30, Pacific Standard Time. You are probably wondering why my cat, Gerard Butler, needed a bath in the first place since he is constantly licking his own body with his tongue, so I will tell you. My cat, Gerard Butler, has fleas. Seriously. He cannot be comfortable with his constant scratching, so you would think he would be grateful that I took the initiative and shelled out some cash for a bottle of flea shampoo. But he was not. His constant meows took on the tenor of guttural moans as I lathered up his flea-infested regions within the delightful confines of our bathroom. You would think I was trying to kill him when really I was just trying to save him. Not only that, but today I walked all the way from Walgreen's lugging a heavy container of expensive Tidy Cats kitty litter for his cat toilet instead of just buying a bag of Johnny Cat at the corner store. My cat, Gerard Butler, is spoiled. Several hours later, my elbows are still sore. Next thing I know, my cat, Gerard Butler, is going to be demanding Fancy Feast. If that day comes, it might be time for my cat, Gerard Butler, to go live with his father again.

Two Additional Non-Resolutions: The List Is Growing!

2009-01-02T09:03:00.000-08:00

After careful thought, I have decided to contract to two additional non-resolutions for the coming new year. By continuing not to engage in these scurrilous (or in the case of non-resolution #2, just annoying) actions, I will help keep from making the world a worse place.

The non-resolutions as follows:

1. I will continue not to bathe in the blood of innocent virgins in an effort to turn back the clock and look younger by the minute. Especially now that Olay has that $30 regenerist face cream that beat the $700 jar of face cream in the taste test, there exists no cause for Elizabeth of Bathory style actions at this juncture.

2. I will continue not to buy any more cats and name them after celebrities, because one cat named after a celebrity is clearly enough. My cat, Gerard Butler, couldn't agree more with this non-resolution.

My New Year's Non-Resolutions: The Tradition Continues

2008-12-31T20:00:00.001-08:00

Hello everyone. Thanks to my new job, which requires me to get up really early New Year's Day, I am not going to be whooping it up and letting out my inner hooligan tonight, but rather spending a nice, quiet evening at home with my trusty sidekick: my cat, Gerard Butler. But why not take a minute, before the Netflix and Nutella toast begin, to take stock of the coming year and compose a small list of things I will continue not to do. It is far easier to continue not to do things than to totally revamp your life by joining a gym, starting a yoga routine, or meeting Mr. Right, and by not doing the following things on my list, I will make the world a better place. For you and for me. And I do mean you, because who else do you think I am going to call at 3 am to bail me out after I have been arrested for howling at the moon in Tilden Park.

My List (short this year, but I have been feeling punchy lately):

1. I will continue not to howl at the moon in Tilden Park.

2. I will continue not to waterboard anyone.

3. I will continue not to beat my cat, Gerard Butler, stoutly about the head and shoulders when he throws up on my running shoes. Poor little thing just has a tummy ache.

Good luck with totally revamping your lifestyle.

Shellfish Bad. Slavery Good.

2008-11-07T13:48:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I went to Diesel (a bookstore) to buy a bible because I want to know what all the religious fuss against gay marriage is all about, but the bible I wanted cost $32.99 so I just bought a Henning Mankell mystery instead, which I am really enjoying by the way. Besides who needs a paper version of the bible when the Brick Testament is available online. From now on, this Lego wonderland and its graphic depictions of biblical scenery (especially the sexy parts and the violent parts) will be where I conduct most of my biblical research. And as I expected, the Old Testament does condemn homosexuality. But it also says you shouldn't eat shellfish, that menstruating women are equal to pollution (and woe to anyone who sits on or touches anything that the menstruating woman touches because that person is polluted too), that sexual intercourse makes us unclean, that raped virgins should be married to their rapists, and a whole lot about stoning various groups of people, including one's own wayward child. And if you're a woman, you better be able to show proof of your virginity upon marriage or you're also in the deep pile of stinky shit know as being stoned to death. Magic tricks are out as well. David Blaine thou shalt be stoned to death. As for prisoners of war, the good book advocates slaughtering all the men but it's alright to take the women to bed. Luckily for many, the Geneva Convention didn't base its principles on the book of Deuteronomy. But maybe that's where the Serbs got their idea for Kosovo. Just in case you thought the Bible is all negativity, however, there is one thing every homophobe's favorite book seems to condone. The condition known as slavery. Ta-dah! Check it out for yourself.

I Am Really Glad Prop 8 Passed Because I Was Afraid Gay People Were Going To Deprave My Cat, Gerard Butler, By Loving Each Other

2008-11-05T13:13:00.000-08:00

My Cat, Gerard Butler, Endorses Barack Obama For President

2008-11-03T20:52:00.000-08:00

FYI: My Brother Lives In The Crate And Barrel Catalogue

2008-10-03T18:36:00.000-07:00

He even has those attractive storage baskets you see in all the pictures. Luckily I like the closet I live in or I would feel inferior.

Top O' The Morning To You

2008-08-12T14:03:00.000-07:00

I don't know what it is that makes certain individuals take a perfectly good morning and shoot it up like it's the wild, wild west. One of these days I will figure it out and I will be sure to secure myself safely in my panic room when said events are most likely to occur. As for today, I was standing in the living room just enjoying the sunlight and my coffee pretty coincidentally standing quite close to the front windows wondering if maybe I should lie down on the floor until that rapid succession of popping noises finally stopped. The thing is though, I live on 54th street and I am pretty sure those noises were coming from the direction of 52nd street which is a whole other affair. 54th street is a magical place where groups of friendly children roam the streets practicing self-choreographed dance routines and adopting stray cats. I am not sure what noise is going on over on 52nd street, but they had better keep it there. Or stop altogether. Nobody wants bullet holes in their bathrobes. Thank you.

Today, Instead Of Drinking, I Just Sat Around And Watched The Olympics And Thought About Working Out. My Hair Looks Great Though.

2008-08-10T14:57:00.000-07:00

Of course, the day is only half over.

My Alcohol Journal. Just A Little Tawdry Bit More.

2008-08-07T15:43:00.000-07:00

Today I didn't drink anything. Yesterday I didn't either but spent most of the day under the covers with something that felt like fever chills. I was kind of out of it.

Today it all came back to me. First I thought long and hard about the situation I found myself in a few days back where I wasn't exactly sure if I should just go for it or instead sing a few bars of Liz Phair's, 'the Divorce Song' especially the part where she says that it's harder to be friends than lovers and it's better not to mix the two because if you do it and you're still unhappy, then you know that the problem is you. But what do I know. Maybe there's something else in between. Maybe not. I could barely walk by the liquor store today and its enticing supply of cold beverages of all sorts and varieties, and even later when I ate this especially juicy nectarine over the sink because I was making a mess of my self, I kept thinking how complementary the flavor would be to a white wine spritzer. Like the ones I had three or four nights ago. That was before the rum night. And the slow afternoon of beer. At first I thought I could just set fire to my eyes, because then I wouldn't see what I crave. But add taste and smell and even touch and sense and there is not much left. Not that I actually like white wine spritzers all that much, but they'll do in a pinch. All that aside, I think it is harder to be friends than lovers, but being lovers feels pretty fucking nice. Thank you.

Running vs. Swimming

2008-07-29T14:39:00.000-07:00

Running and swimming are both great exercise. I'm more of a swimmer, but when I can't make it to the pool, I like to go for a run.

When I go swimming I look like a sleek dolphin moving gracefully and swiftly through the waves. Other women in the locker room tell me sometimes that they like to watch me swim. When I go running, I look like a stumbling elephant. It is a lesson in humility. Passing motorists try not to stare. I want to tell them that I am a great swimmer, that I am just having a flare-up of tendinitis right now and need to take a break, but of course there is no way to do that.

But now the Nintendo Wii offers friendly encouragement while I run in place in my living room. I am in heaven. It keeps asking me how much I weigh though. Weird.

Today Is A Good Day Today

2008-07-28T15:34:00.000-07:00

This morning was chilly. A good day for a bathrobe.

Even though my tendinitis acted up during my swim, but whatever. Hardly anybody was at the pool today so I got to float around in the deep end a little. How relaxing.

Something else kind of cool happened to me today. I got some weird collect call messages on my voice mail that made me think someone I happened to be really pissed off at was in jeopardy, and immediately just felt really worried and so realized in a hurry that I actually do care about the person a lot and suddenly wasn't mad. Human emotions are weird and bizarre but today they seem slightly more manageable than in recent history. Once I figured out the mystery, listening to the message the third time through, I relaxed. (Although some unfortunate soul still has a wrong number.) And now I just got a phone call from said person. I hate my life. I love my life.

I've been translating Celan for the last two days. My brain feels tired but good. If I make it through tonight without drinking, I will be happy with myself. I think I used to be funny. Oh well.

A Good Idea About Feeling Sorry For Yourself

2008-07-27T11:10:00.000-07:00

A wise woman told me last night that it is alright to feel sorry for yourself for twenty minutes a day. A Twenty Minute Pity Party she called it. I should indulge myself. This is just another reason not to drink. Drinking makes it harder to stick to the time limit. I am trying to come up with compelling reasons. Thank you.

My Awful Birthday. Sob! Whine!

2008-07-26T13:49:00.001-07:00

iPhoto is currently not sucking.

(If iPhoto was not currently sucking ass, there would be a picture of my friend Lettice here making frozen pizza. It was thick-crusted with asagio cheese and pepperoni. Yummy.)

My birthday really did suck though. Now I have some decisions to make. But enough about my birthday sucking. It can only get better from here. I hope.

Last night I hung out with good people and we watched a silly movie and painted our nails and ate brie and talked. I had a very good time. Having grown up a tomboy with lots of guy friends, I have been learning lately how fun and restorative it is to get really girly sometimes. My fingernail color is currently silver.

There is one more really important thing that I would like to discuss today. It is that McDonald's iced coffee is actually a form of liquid diabetes. Also, clearly emblazoned across the plastic cup is the kicky little slogan, 'I'm lovin' it.' But I did not love it. I did drink it though. I am desperately seeking a new vice.

Plus I have been sober for the last fourteen hours and thirty-seven minutes. Yeah me! I am not feeling very dedicated to sobriety right now but whatever. Maybe I'll give it another shot. Technically I wasn't drunk though. Does that count? I already know what they would say. I did finally take all my booze and pour it down the sink. I do not want to be a lush. Luscious would be okay. Thank you.

Just Because I Turn 33 Today Doesn't Mean I Have To Start Acting Like Jesus.

2008-07-23T09:26:00.000-07:00

Richard III: Another famous 33 year old.

I wanted to do something really special with this year. I really did. But lately, the thought of forming a new religion, healing lepers, attacking church corruption, and getting painfully crucified in a Mel Gibson-directed snuff film has overwhelmed me somewhat. Especially since there is another (in)famous 33 year old whose footsteps I could follow in. Now, I don't have two nephews, and according to my mother, my niece is strictly off limits, but I'm sure I could be compelled to lock two of the world's most annoying house cats in a North Oakland turret somewhere and call it a day. The way I see it, kidnapping, usurpation of the throne, and civil war are much easier to indulge oneself in than just running around being compassionate all the time. Of course Richard III was hacked to death on a battlefield. Hmmm. Maybe I will just sit around North Oakland with my cats and write crappy poetry for another year.

Jenny Drai, We Wish We Were You

2008-07-22T09:29:00.000-07:00

A close look. Sort of.

Jenny Drai, you are a magnificent example
of the human race. It’s not raining but the grey.
You desire the wind in sheaths. Jenny Drai,
if you catch those streaks, your aim is true
and deeply accurate. A difference between the two
phenomenon, mostly in level of decorum, a topic
that you, Jenny Drai, do not seem to care much about
although it is true that while you pronounce
‘fuck’ to your father, you say only ‘frick’ to your mother.
We stand behind your behavior on every level, Jenny
Drai, and admire you secretly for your ability
to drink vehemently at the bar although we think
you had better put down the scotch before you kill
more of your indispensable brain cells. Clearly
you are some kind of genius. For example, you
quickly discerned while watching your favorite television
program La Casa such-and-such that Alfredo had saved
the day, although the show is in Spanish
and you do not speak Spanish. Jenny Drai,
you think abjuration will be easy but the scotch
is a clear amber liquid whispering your name.
Jenny Drai. Jenny Drai. Jenny Drai,
when you attended the poetry reading you were
like a stealthy but powerful shark slipping past the table
of wine without bothering to contribute a single
dollar to the plastic cup of donations.
Double-fisting is not a problem for you, Jenny Drai,
especially when you are mixing the wine with
Orangina and it floats down like water
as you quickly reach your final goal.
Jenny Drai, you are the champion!
The table has not been the same since although
you leave the reading halfway through to stumble
home below a drapery of moonlight and some
tender moths. You do not want to be here,
Jenny Drai. You want to be somewhere else.
The porch lights shine as you pass them
in the cool temperature of night. Jenny Drai,
you are going to wake up tomorrow and ask
yourself where you are. Who you ought to be.
Never fear. We are going to tell you.

Jenny Drai, Are You Going To Go In The Ocean Or What?

2008-07-15T09:36:00.000-07:00

Dedicated to that young couple awkwardly
trying to make it in the sand. Be safe!

Had you better not. You had better,
surely. Yes, you’re right as usual. I had
better just right now I won’t quite yet
but soon. Are you frightened.
I am. But you don’t like to admit it.
True enough. That’s why I’m
biting fingernails to shreds. Well,
maybe you had better not after all.
No I want to. The payoff will be huge.
Your heart is thumping. I can see your
throat jumping. Well, this is
difficult for me. Of course it is.
It’s not easy for me either. But you’re
not afraid of anything. Oh, I assure you
I am. For example, I will not
drink very cold water directly before
bedtime. I hardly know what
to say to that. Don’t say anything.
Just give me your hand. Well, here it is.
What are we going to do. We are going
to wait. What else are you
afraid of. I will not eat hot pizza
pies for at least five minutes
after they are cooked. It sounds like you just
have sensitive teeth. That is different
from being really, truly afraid of something.
Hush. Watch the waves and the crest
of the waves. What are we going to do after
we wait. We are going to stroll across
the grains of sand. You’re really
going to make me do this, aren’t you.
Yes. Do I have to get my face wet.
Yes. You have to jump through at least
one wave. What if a shark swims past
and bumps my leg. I would pass out
and drown. The statistical proba-
bility of—Don’t talk to me about statistics
when it comes to sharks! You’re not being
rational. Maybe not. But I am addicted
to not ending up in the sharp, snapping
jaws of death. Our conversation
tires me. I’m not going to talk
this over with you anymore. You are
obviously determined to remain
irrational. Sure, irrational and alive.
You can go swim in the ocean and be shark
bait if you want. I’m going to sit right
here and drink beer until I sunburn. Chicken.
Who’s a chicken. You’re a daredevil.
We could compromise. You could just get
your feet wet. And get seaweed
on my legs? Let me pound back my golden
canned beer first. And maybe another one.
For luck. This is getting ridiculous.
I agree. We should stop. I think
I saw a jellyfish.

Jenny Drai, Your Kung Fu Is Sooo Strong.

2008-07-11T10:41:00.000-07:00

The Culprit

Jenny Drai, your bleached hair denotes
a nunnery of tenses. The trees in the yard
stay open, Jenny Drai, as you lunge
through the foliage on a complicated
system of wires. Jenny Drai, you are
obsessed with the repetition of your own
name. Who else will run out of the mind
to slip across the symmetries? It is you,
of course, if you are really wondering.
Jenny Drai, when you boil water, the clear
liquid scalds the pan with the imprint
of your fantastic and partially
unbelievable exploits, although you claim
to have some sort of photographic evidence.
Where you are storing this evidence
is a mystery to the rest of us as we
slurp the noodles you prepare, the broth
salty, like Jenny Drai is salty when she gets
a little drunk and pulls out her wit
like a short, quick sword and thrusts
repeatedly. Jenny. Drai. Jenny
Drai, you do not live in the past as a
memory. You put it on like clothing
when you need to learn from your
mistakes and raise your sword
for the final battle. Jenny Drai, I know you’re
hiding the expensive bottle of scotch
we chipped in on together under your bed.
I know that after a long day you quietly
sneak into the kitchen for two ice cubes
and a glass and that you then retreat
to your comfortable bedchamber where
you partake of the smoky, peaty
flavor alone. Jenny Drai, when I sense
that you are clandestinely
rolling the liquid over your
tongue, I feel my half of twenty-eight dollars
and ninety-nine cents flushing down the toilet,
but I don’t say anything to you because
I know beneath your mellow, calm,
reserved exterior, you are cut throat.
I would hate to lose you, Jenny Drai, to a petty
argument or even to a major one in which,
perhaps, we might share the same lover
at overlapping times unbeknownst
to each other and then suddenly the truth
would confront us, the tea house
would clear as we kicked over tables
and smashed balconies with our self-
righteous fury. And because we have chased
everyone else away, we will have to clean
up the strewn dumplings ourselves and all
the splinters wrested from the furniture.
There is a story in this.
There is evidence in this.

More Stupid Astrology Stuff

2008-07-09T14:23:00.000-07:00

Supposedly, I am supposed to be really good with money. This causes a really high level of mirth to be felt by me because I can't really balance my checkbook. Also, up to now, my only real retirement plan involves a bottle of scotch and a shotgun. Thank you.

In Other News, It Turns Out I Am Cursed By The Stars. I Say, So Are Astrology Books.

2008-06-26T10:56:00.000-07:00

Astrology: Something to do when there's nothing to do

Astrology is, like, the stupidest sport of all. But it is a very popular sport as I can attest to. Having worked at a major chain bookstore that I'm not allowed to name on my blog but it wasn't Barnes & Noble so you figure it out, I can personally vouch for the slipshod appearance of the astrology section on a daily basis (as opposed to, say, the poetry section), an appearance based on the high volume of disorderly customers making a mockery of careful bookseller attempts at alphabetization and presentation in their desire to learn more about what is hidden in their souls or also just to stalk other people by looking up their birthdays and reading lies about them. Take me, for example, I am really not as crazy as the book makes me out. But all the good things they say are true, of course. All the same, I think I am going to keep my birthday a top secret affair from now on. It usually is anyways, so adhering to this new policy should be fairly easy to maintain.

In other news, I think the smell of the now removed decomposing dead cat is going away, although sometimes I still get a sense of it, sort of like a phantom limb. Also, my roommate who I previously had reason to believe was the so called Mad Cat Stabber of 54th Street is going out of town this weekend to visit "friends." If a dead cat shows up while he is away, I suppose he will be exonerated for sure. Or, conversely, maybe some dead cats will turn up where he is going. I guess we'll never know. I sort of miss the cat, though. On its first day of death, at least, it was full of scruffy cuteness.

In news other than that, drinking is also a sport. And it takes Visa. Drinking while reading astrology books or making astrology charts is therefore a double sport. Sort of like discus hurling and synchronized swimming all tied up in one. And yes, synchronized swimmers have to be in really good shape to hold their breaths that long, yada yada yada. But hopefully you see my meaning. Go world.

The Poor Dead Cat Is Now Gone. But I Can Still Smell Him In My Nostrils.

2008-06-25T10:09:00.000-07:00

Former sky burial site of 'Fritz,' the neighborhood dead cat

I am not really sure what happened to the mushy, deteriorating corpse of the feral cat known only as 'Fritz.' One moment it was there, stinking up the universe, and the next moment it was gone. To be honest, I feel a little let down to not have seen what actually happened (i.e. who actually happened) or to see how many pieces of bone and fur the body in question deteriorated into during removal, but I have some theories, each of them equally valid.

1. Animal Control finally found some time between chasing stray pit bulls and keeping track of goats to swing by with a big shovel and clean up death roughly nine to ten days after it happened.

2. Beowulf, the Musical, Encore Act: Feral Cat Tie-In

If you weren't there for the original four acts, this may seem a little out of left field, but they were great. Basically, Beowulf and his men get stuck in the future by a spell cast by Selma that goes terribly awry. If you are wondering who Selma is, that is harder to explain especially since I deleted that blog when I was looking for a job, but suffice it to say, she is a 'sensual witch,' she is played by Sarah Polley, and she is emphatically not in the book. This time around, Beowulf travels to the future on purpose, presumably to see himself portrayed on the Ashby Stage and stops by my place to visit for old time's sake. (We had a thing in one of the acts--I can't remember which and I'm far too lazy to check.) He doesn't find me at home, but he sure does find a terrifying odor that he wages an epic battle against, finally taming death and decay into submission. He then makes a cool pelt out of the remains and throws the rest in the sewer. After that he slips quietly back into the fifth century without leaving so much as a note. Cad!

3. The Doctor and the Tardis

As it turns out, the Mad Cat Stabber of 54th Street has nothing to do with my roommate (who admittedly has expressed anti-cat statements, so I think my initial accusations should remain understandable) and everything to do with alien invasion. No matter! Here comes the lovable, huggable Doctor in his shiny blue box with his (if you ask me) overly emotional traveling companion, Donna Noble. (Really, just to advertise for myself as a possible traveling companion, I do not shed tears every which way and remain stoic and focused during all sorts of debacles, including those that threaten the very existence of the human race. Trust me, these sorts of catastrophes happen all around me as it is. I am ready.) Basically, at some point when no humans are looking out the window, the Doctor appears in his Tardis, stops the alien, and vaporizes the cat with that cool screwdriver thing he has. You would think we would have all noticed the distinctive noise made by the Tardis as it makes its entrances and exits, but one of my other roommates was listening to the Pogues very loudly in the living room area and I was busy pretending to be drunk and and and the story is we missed the entire episode completely. Which is too bad, since I would have liked to say hey to the Doctor. We had a great time traveling into the past to lurk in the dark nook between the washer-dryer unit and the fridge in my kitchen in order to discover whoever was purloining my chocolate soy milk in the act. We never did find out, but, like I said, we had a great time.

4. Some random person threw the dead cat in the trash.

I hope this random person did not throw the stinking, corruptible dead cat carcass in our trash, because there is a fine for improper disposal of domestic animals. I am pretty sure this is not the case, however, because when I was taking out the garbage last night I did not see (or smell) any remains. So I guess I will probably never know. (Please believe me when I tell you of the restraint and self-censorship it is taking to stop short of bringing Sherlock Holmes into this.) Thank you.

Still. Here. Still. Rotting. Still. Smelly.

2008-06-22T11:47:00.000-07:00

In other news, it was hot as hell yesterday. I can't believe I grew up in Chicago without an air conditioner. My mother was cruel too. She would just tell us to spray ourselves with cold water and go stand in front of the fan. Or to walk to the town pool for a dip in the urine-stained water. My human mother that is. My lupine mother would have shielded me from the sun's hot rays with her own body.

Dead decomposing feral cat Proximity Alert! Yesterday evening when my friend came to pick me up to go to Luka's to eat fries and drink ice water, she pulled her truck into the driveway without realizing I would practically have to step over the bird-pecked mess of fur and ooze. But she sure could smell something most foul when I opened the door to the cab. Yuck.

In other news besides that, my slow undertaking in the field of studio art continues with my second piece. Basically, it looks like some birds crapped on it so it is called 'Some Birds Crapped On My Head.'

In even other other news, with all the hoopla over the decomposing dead cat in my front yard, I almost forgot to mention my recent trip to Kaiser. For once, standing in endless lines had nothing to do with being disabled while wearing ballet flats but everything to do with being really clumsy and needing a tetanus shot. Apparently, the adult injection clinic gets even more crowded than the pharmacy. Adult Injection Clinic. Yeeesh! That sounds creepy. Plus, now my left arm is really sore. But at least I won't get lockjaw. I would go smell some roses or something, but I would probably end up inhaling something entirely different as well.

'Fritz' Enjoyed Scampering, Avoiding Humans.

2008-06-21T12:58:00.000-07:00

Poor little scamp.

Despite his feral state, or perhaps, one might suggest, because of it, the decomposing dead cat I have come to know as 'Fritz' lived, in life, an existence of carefree meandering across the lawns of a certain North Oakland neighborhood until that very existence was cut brutally short by the Mad Cat Stabber of 54th Street (according to the neighborhood children) or a careless automobile driver (according to everyone else unless you think it got in a fight with a raccoon which is also a definite possibility). But despite his untimely and cruel death, Fritz remains with us in his white plastic shroud. So with us, in fact, that my roommates and I can still smell him every time we exit our front door. Obviously, had Fritz had any inkling about the nature of his death and lack of body disposal options, he might have worked out some sort of contract with a neighborhood vet to take care of his remains, but tragically (for my nose) this was not the case. Thinking back to my days as a feral child living with wolves in the forest preserves outside of Chicago, I can't help but identify with poor Fritz and thank my lucky stars I did not share his grisly fate. To be honest, this whole escapade is really causing me to think of the lifestyle led by my cat, Gerard Butler, (MC,GB) as somewhat pampered. For goodness sake, MC,GB gets ice cubes in his water bowl to alleviate the fact that he is wearing a fur coat during this heat wave whereas Fritz probably had to drink from puddles of his own urine what with the ongoing water shortage. As for me, if I were so inclined, I might don protective clothing, grab the shovel that some neighborhood child left in my front yard, and just bury the thing. But I am not so inclined. I would rather just use the back door and pretend none of this is happening. Thank you.

Pretty Soon I Will Need A Hazmat Suit If I Want To Exit My Front Door.

2008-06-20T10:00:00.000-07:00

Apropos, I am meant to tell you that My Roommate, Dana Gier's, telephone calls to animal control were not "threatening" but merely irate. Apparently there is a big difference when you are splattering someone's name across the internet.

As for the newest addition to my wardrobe, seen to your left in fashionable canary yellow, please don't tell me I am taking things too far and that surely Animal Control will take a break from chasing the wild dogs that accompanied me to work one Sunday morning last summer for a few tense moments to come with their big shovel and remove this poor little feline soul from the parkway in front of my neighbor's house. I will tell you that this is surely not the case. Today is day seven, first of all. I think if Animal Control were coming, they at least would have responded to one of My Roommate, Dana Gier's, "irate" phone messages by, oh, say, yesterday. Also, our neighbor does not seem inclined to hire a private removal surface, nor do we have the cash money for such an endeavor. Wow, right now that hundred bucks that some asshole stole from my wallet at a poetry reading two weeks ago would really come in handy. Thank you, asshole. (I've been wanting to say that for a long time.) So, as it stands, there is a dead decomposing dead cat located very close to my front door, the smell of which makes me want to gag. Also, taking deep gulps of the summer air because I cannot hold my breath long enough to get out of the smell-zone and thereby inhaling rotting particles of the malodorous object is clearly some sort of health hazard or something. I could get sick and die, people. I don't even have life insurance, so there would be no money to bury or cremate me, and my roommates would be forced to put me out by the curb as well, hopefully in a cute outfit. Maybe that crinkly silk skirt and lavender shirred blouse. At any rate, you can bet that some city department would come clean that up in a jiffy. Animals get no respect.

Today I Called Cat CSI. What Did You Do?

2008-06-19T16:00:00.000-07:00

Poor kitty in the plastic bag.

Six days ago a scruffy looking cat turned up dead on my neighbor's front lawn. Some brave soul who apparently was not afraid of being attacked by a feral cat zombie then placed the small, sad corpse into a standard issue white plastic trash bag (with a snazzy red tie, I might add) and dumped the whole mess on the parkway for Animal Control to pick up. Clearly some sort of huge disorganization mishap has happened in the City of Oakland in that Animal Control no longer seems to exist despite the numerous threatening phone calls made by my roommate, Dana Gier. Now, the scene has gotten decidedly more grisly as time, heat, wild dogs in the night, and even pigeons and itty bitty sparrows have pulled apart this carcass for their own use. Consequently, my front yard smells really fucking terrible. There is no other way to say this even though, apparently, my mother has recently Googled me and does not approve of my use of the f-word on line. Although I say it on the phone often enough so I am not sure why she is surprised. But back to the smelliest cat in the world. (I finally feel like I know what Phoebe on Friends was singing about.) The fun part of all of this involves the neighborhood children, of whom there are many. According to rumor, another dead cat has been discovered on someone's back lawn. Cause of death? If these rambunctious and very loud children are to be believed, we are now living under the age of the Mad Cat Stabber of 54th Street. I am pretty sure they are right, and I am more equally sure that the Mad Cat Stabber of 54th Street is my roommate, already mentioned, Dana Gier. If you think about, it is pretty clever of Dana to try to use the very authorities that he's thwarting to do his dirty work and corpse removal for him. Reason for my believe? My roommate, Dana Gier, has made hurtful remarks to My Cat, Gerard Butler, that have seriously damaged My Cat, Gerard Butler's sense of well-being and self-esteem. My Roommate, Dana Gier, has even thrown a pillow in the direction of My Cat, Gerard Butler (who of course is far too sleek and lithe to be met by such an object). Poor My Cat, Gerard Butler. Will he be next? So far, the Mad Cat Stabber of 54th Street seems to be focusing his energies and attention on outdoor cats alone. Maybe in the end, this little episode will finally help My Cat, Gerard Butler, understand why he is merely an indoor cat now, as opposed to when we lived with his (now) deadbeat dad and that big fat tubby prima donna bitch cat in a luxury loft with a beautiful walled garden for My Cat, Gerard Butler, to explore in the fresh air to his heart's content. All the same, Dana Gier, I am watching you.

Someone Please Save Me From Myself. I Will Give You A Dollar.

2008-06-03T16:10:00.000-07:00

Could be yours.

1. I haven't read a proper book in at least six months. Sometimes I open a venerable tome and hold it in front of my face waiting for the "magic" to happen, but it never does.

2. My Wii Fit age is 44 because I have poor balance and my BMI is less than 22. Wii Fit sucks.

(And not just any dollar will I give you but a crisp, unfolded bill that won't be spit out of automatic payment machines as if it is some sort of economic pariah.)

3. My cat, Gerard Butler, is snubbing me because I told him I have no respect for his religion. Really, maybe that is kind of a harsh thing to say an adorable little housecat, but I put up with a lot from him. His internet fame has gone to his head.

4. The Beowulf craze is over. Now what am I supposed to make fun of? Really, this is the biggest issue of all. Myself? Clearly, I am feeling sorry about this. Please, anonymous someone, send me some sort of relief to fill the void and lift me out of this cruel postpartum depression. However, please do not send a tarantula or other pet item. My roommate already has enough living things that scare me.

5. My neck hurts. Boo hoo.

6. Also, I just quit drinking, again. Yes, I can hear you laughing. But there is nothing like getting hangovers without being even mildly tipsy. Obviously, someone has put a voodoo curse on me. Someone wins. Get me a Roy Rogers, stat!

7. I will just be lying here out on the porch whining quietly to myself until somebody earns that dollar. Please, please don't tell me I have to earn it for myself. The horror.

My Cat, Gerard Butler, Watches P.S. I Love You on DVD. Declares It "Cheesy" But Cries Anyways.

2008-05-31T12:14:00.000-07:00

the real human Gerard Butler

My cat, Gerard Butler, was so saddened to see his namesake die of a brain tumor that he just couldn't hold back his big plopping feline tears. Then he felt so lonely he kept me up all night with his extreme cuddling technique in which he sits on my head and comforts himself by digging his sharp feline claws into my scalp. I, for my part, was left wondering how this Holly character could go from grieving and unemployed widow to high fashionista shoe designer with her own store in about a week. I would sure like some of that mojo. When I mentioned this to my cat, Gerard Butler, he told me not to be bitter. Someday, my husband will die and then all my dreams will come true. Eerie cat.

Nothing Funny. Just Some Angst. Maybe You Should Look Away.

2008-05-29T16:29:00.000-07:00

Life is weird lately. Last week something happened to me that sort of reminded me of that. I was at a party and a person who doesn't like me (and who has let me feel this on more than one occasion) leaned down three feet away from me to whisper in the ear of his friend something that sounded like "Psst psst psst Jenny Drai psst psst psst." Then the other person laughed.

I thought that was weird, because I think adults should use their manners on even people they don't like. I'll never forget when my high school German teacher said, in the context of a discussion of Nazi leaders who were good family men, that a person's character is not solely determined by how one treats the people one likes, but also by how one treats the other half.

Sometimes, I confess, I have bad manners, but usually out of social awkwardness or shyness. For example, I am still not very good at introducing people, but I am getting better. (Because I'm often outgoing, nobody will believe how shy I sometimes am. Or how easily flustered in environments where there's a lot going on.)

But what happened last week at the party reminded me more of my experience in grammar school. Some people are mean on purpose. They just don't care.

Sometimes I think about it, because maybe I expect there will be more to come. But I think I'm ready for it.

A lot of bad things have happened to me. And a lot of good things too. Somewhere in the middle of all that I became an adult. Definitely not perfect, but an adult. I think I'm learning to let things that bother me roll off my shoulders and to try to feel some sort of compassion for the person in question.

As for me, I finally figured out what I want to do with my life. Actually, I was in the field of social work before I moved out to California. So now I am applying for training programs in mental health services and substance abuse. My ultimate goal is to use my MFA in poetry and teaching experience to work in some sort of program where the creative process can be fused with the healing process.

Thank you.

Isn't Life Just Ironic LARP?

2008-04-14T19:34:00.000-07:00

Need I say more?

For those of you who don't live with nerds or didn't grow up with wolves in a forest preserve where teenagers dressed in wizard costumes ran amok and clashed staffs, LARP stands for Live Action Role Play. I have always snickered behind my palm at the whole process, but now I think these forward thinking geniuses are onto something. For example, last night. Instead of endlessly debating my choices--go out and do something intellectual and socially lubricating by attending a poetry reading, or, on the other hand "accidentally on purpose" miss the bus so I could watch the end of "You've Got Mail" while laying on the couch with an ice pack on my knee. I could just roll dice that would decide for me. Which, in turn, would dispel any guilt I might be prone to feel for staying on the couch to watch "You've Got Mail" with an ice pack on my knee. (By the way, I will trade you two of my life strength points for one of your healing points. This knee thing is definitely getting in the way of my swordplay. Or my washing the dishes play. But that is another story.) Obviously, the die would never roll for the poetry reading because I've had them weighted against that outcome. But before you gripe at me for being lazy and immature, I am only down on poetry because poetry is down on me. Thank you.

Just A Few Things I Might Have To Say To A "Lover" One Day

2008-04-13T13:10:00.000-07:00

1. "At this point, you could work at the gas station and still be my sugar daddy." Actually, this is true right now. But enough about me.

2. "Inferiority complexes are so sexy. Especially when you take off your shirt and do it." Not that there are any reasons, lately, to feel inferior to me. But that is the glamorous nature of inferiority complexes. They do not need a reason to exist.

3. "Stalking is over here. Personal dignity is over here." Yes, all in all, stalking is a very tedious business. It involves a lot of repetitive dialing. Also a lot of lurking around. Wouldn't you rather be out in the fresh air at a baseball game? Think about it. For all our sakes.

That is all I have to say today. Thank you.

Where Have I Been Since March 28? Let Me Tell You.

2008-04-11T18:37:00.001-07:00

I have been in a coma. The coma was induced by me watching the director's cut DVD release of the recent Robert Zemeckis adaptation of Beowulf. Also, the fact that I, for some strange reason, used cash money to purchase the offending item at Borders, only served to worsen the blow. I have, however, woken up from the coma in time for Battlestar Galactica, which should be much better. Please can I have my money back.

It's Almost Like My Roommate Works At A Bookstore And Keeps Bringing Books Home. Except She Works At A Pet Store.

2008-03-28T12:08:00.000-07:00

Apparently, I barely escaped living across the hall from a tarantula.

My other roommates made a tacit agreement that I was never to be told of this, but I found out anyways. Presumably, they kept this information hidden from me because they did not want me to "freak out." However, considering that I would have lived closest to said tarantula, and therefore would be most in danger of waking up in the dead of night with spindly, poisonous legs crawling over my face, I think "freaking out" is justifiable. Thank you.

In Other News, I Have Completely Let Myself Go. Right Now I Am Reading A Medieval Mystery.

2008-03-27T10:39:00.001-07:00

Also, I went to go see 10,000 B.C. in the theater yesterday and found it very entertaining. It was a matinee, but still.

In other news, I don't actually care that my backyard is teeming with the discarded waste of my former downstairs "neighbors." I just think it's fun to have something to feel self-righteous about. Also, this way there will be a place for the rats to nest and they will be less likely to come in the house.

Also also, just in case you thought my complaints about the garbage situation were at all hypocritical, considering that I supervised the dumping of the malfunctioning washer-dryer unit onto the ugly cement slab that you by now know to be my backyard, that only happened in my imagination. In fact, the washer-dryer unit is still in the kitchen and I still have to go the laundromat.

In other news, my roommate across the hall from me now has a pet rat. I saw it by accident when she had her door open. I am all for the idea of domesticated rodents being cute cute cute. I mean, just look at guinea pigs. They're adorable! And useful. But I am a little concerned that this rat may turn traitor towards his human companion and chew a hole through his cage in order to open the back door with his sinuous tale and signal with a high-pitched shriek that it is safe for his garbage dwelling brethren to come in. Then I will have a heart attack and an attack of the creepy crawlies simultaneously. Perhaps you might be thinking that I seem pretty squeamish for someone who grew up in the forest with a pack of wolves, but I cannot help myself. I have a sensitive nature.

In other news, I thought I'd set up a lawn chair and kick back on the cement slab with my medieval mystery. Luckily for me, I won't trouble myself with worrying so much about historical authenticity that I wouldn't use accumulated factoids to make myself sound like I know what I'm talking about. Maybe I should write a mystery. It will be based on the Pied Piper of Hamlin.

Finally! The Fourth And Final Act Of Beowulf! The Musical.

2008-03-25T09:58:00.000-07:00

Being the star in your own production doesn't have to mean you're not knee deep in shit.

Recap: Frozen in enchanted ice by Selma's broken spell, Beowulf and his men are transported by plane to a museum in California after being discovered by a petrified woolly mammoth hunter and just so happen to be accidentally dumped on the unenchanted cement slab in my back yard after which I quickly turn the situation to my advantage by striking up a deal in which Beowulf and his men can stay with me if they collectively maneuver my malfunctioning washer-dryer unit down the treacherous, poorly-lit back stairs of my apartment and they do this, and general hilarity, music and dance ensue as I somewhat successfully and somewhat unsuccessfully try to help this band of fifth century warriors fit into twenty-first century life by taking them for haircuts at SuperCuts and new clothes at Target in order to ensure their viability for employment at Jamba Juice, and Beowulf and I even take the first tentative steps toward romance although I personally thought he looked better with long hair, but even so, for the sake of epic poetry I know I must help the men return to their former lives so Beowulf can kill Grendel and Grendel's dam and the dragon and I can sit through tenth grade English with Sister Mary Patrick Francis Brian and learn about the poem as a Christian allegory and so that the anonymous poet can enjoy a good chuckle in his grave trying to figure out who the f*ck Selma or Kyra or Ursula or any of the other movie add-in love interests are, and thus I rig up a rudimentary time portal using, among other things, the broken washer-dryer unit, but it doesn't work--using a nonfunctional appliance in a time machine? not smart!--so after a heartfelt and moving goodbye straight out of another not-quite-like-the-book adventure movie, Beowulf bounces right back into my life along with all his men and, you guessed it, Selma, who at this point seems more interested in using her time in the twenty-first century on a little girl-on-girl action and the music starts and here we are. Scene: the stage is still full of garbage.

Act Four: After Selma and I do our thing, Selma takes Beowulf and his men back to the movie version of the fifth century and I suddenly have a lot of time to reflect upon the fact that, once again, it has taken a witch, a spell gone awry, and a hero and his men frozen in time for anything remotely exciting to happen in my life. Before she leaves, I ask Selma for a final favor. Could she possibly cast a spell on the backyard to transform it from a junkyard into a nice patch of grass with a small garden where vegetables might grow? Just a few cucumbers and green beans. Maybe some nice, crisp radishes. Nothing spectacular. (Or at the very least, just get rid of that mattress that looks like someone's given birth on it.) But she claims she needs all her magic to counteract the broken time machine I made. So at the end of the day, harsh reality sinks in once again. Also, I suddenly remember that Selma was being played by my cat, MC,GB, which is just kind of weird.

In Which I Ask Myself: Are Humans No Longer Responsible For Their Own Garbage?

2008-03-24T11:30:00.000-07:00

Yuck!

As you may know, I was raised by wolves. As you may not know, wolves are neat and clean. When they change habitats, they do not leave their sofas, rusty bed frames, broken chairs, plastic bags full of trash and other abandoned accouterments of indoor dwelling in the back yard of their former residence. Therefore, you can imagine my surprise when gazing out of my bedroom window one morning instead of encountering the usual cement slab, I was confronted with a scene of disorderliness I had heretofore only associated with the apocalypse. Do humans take no pride in their ability to clean up after themselves? Do they not yearn to leave their place tidy for the next person? Do they not understand I find it depressing to be reminded I live in squalor every time I look out the window? Wolves do not let each other down in this manner.

Once Again, Weird Pangs Of Insecurity Prevent Me From Having Fun.

2008-03-23T15:12:00.000-07:00

I will lay face down on the sofa until I feel better.

For example, I thought my outfit looked great in front of the mirror at home, but once other people saw it, I changed my mind. From now on, I will probably just stay indoors and foster my relationship with my living room sofa. Or even better, I will isolate in my bedroom with the door closed and the lights out. Only MC,GB will be there to provide company and even he will meow annoyingly to be let out after just a half hour of our confinement. And sure, you can tell me that I will have to come out eventually. You can tell me to look on the bright side of life or that the glass is half full. You can even bribe me with piping hot tuna melts and tapioca puddings, but this time I am staying put. However, please use cheddar cheese on the tuna melt. Now leave it outside my door. Come back in half an hour for the plate. Thank you.

The Big Musical, Act 3: Beowulf Meets Last Of The Mohicans Man.

2008-03-22T13:04:00.000-07:00

I'm really enjoying spending time with Beowulf. However, I could have skipped that walk in the park when he caught and roasted a squirrel just because I said I felt like a snack. Frankly speaking, his dark age ardor can be a bit much sometimes, but he's so attentive! All the same, I realize my first duty is to help Beowulf and his men get back to the work of inspiring great literature before history is changed forever and the space-time continuum collapses.

Using the now discarded washer-dryer unit, the "cooking box," a wire hanger and a few pine cones, I rig up a rudimentary time portal that I think will do the trick. Much hilarity ensues as the men burn their Jamba Juice uniforms on a makeshift bonfire on the cement slab that is my backyard before donning breeches and armor for the trip home to the frigid north fifteen hundred years ago. Only Beowulf and I stand a little apart, both cognizant of how much has passed between us and that we may never see each other again.

"You could come with us," he sings in a moving solo as the smoke from the Jamba Juice uniforms drifts over the yard. As much as the prospect of living in another time and place has entranced me since my youth, disability checks were not invented until more recently. Also, I try to explain to Beowulf about fifth century psychiatric wards, but he doesn't understand. "It's called burning at the stake." Then he gets it.

"No, Beowulf," I insist softly. "I must remain." We kiss passionately, then one by one, Beowulf's men spring into the eerie blue screen of light that emanates from the device. In fact, the eerie blue screen of light is so blue that it resembles a waterfall. From the cave where I am hiding, I can hear the French soldiers coming. Beowulf (all of his men already through the portal) turns one final time to gaze at me with impossibly blue eyes almost glassy with unshed tears and sings forcefully, "Stay alive! No matter what occurs! I will find you!" Then he too turns and leaps into the eerie blue screen.

I stand in the yard, overcome by the sudden stillness and the fumes of the burning Jamba Juice uniforms. Just five minutes ago, my life had been full of adventure and the sort of men who'd never had the time or inclination to let themselves go. Now, I'm left with a refrigerator full of unidentifiable raw meat and a fire extinguisher.

But then something unexpected happens. (More unexpected than all of the above, of course.) Instead of disappearing, the wavy blue light starts to crackle and turn green. In a sudden explosion that does the props master proud and causes a few screams from the audience, Beowulf and his men tumble wildly out of the gulf followed by. . . Selma! As played by my cat, Gerard Butler (MC,GB) she's resplendent in red gown and cloak and matted, twig-like hair. As the music rolls and the curtain gets ready to fall in preparation for the fourth and final act, Selma sashays her way through the confused mess of bodies and smoke straight towards me and plants a big wet one right on my lips. The music changes. Bom-chick-a-bom-bom. Curtain. Huge applause. Next up: Beowulf, the adult film.

Isn't MC,GB Just Darling? Don't You Just Want To Forget About The Big Pain In The Ass That He Is?

2008-03-21T10:54:00.000-07:00

MC,GB cutely endears himself to me, ensuring his survival

And now MC,GB just flickered his ear at me. Oh MC,GB, why can't you always be just this cute and fuzzy and still instead of peskily chasing chubby co-pet Morgen or standing on the counter making dishes fall down? And is it time for your expensive flea treatment again? How time has flown with the passage of time! It feels like just yesterday I was squashing you into place between my legs as I let a thin syrupy fluid ooze onto the naked skin of your neck from a snazzy green applicator. (Speaking of pesky--stop squirming!)

Regardless, I can barely keep up with your gargantuan needs for high quality cat food and kitty litter. It is high time I carry through on my threat to force you to take a part-time job to defray your living expenses. As you may know, I am currently staging rehearsals for Beowulf Man!, a Broadway-style musical that combines elements of everyone's favorite epic poem (unless you're into Gilgamesh) and the more recent artistic offering, Encino Man. As it stands, production costs are skyrocketing and you would be doing everyone a huge favor if you would just crawl out from under the futon or whatever other warm, dark nest you are hiding in and play Selma pro bono so I do not have to hire another actor. And you better do a good job because your gourmet cat treats are riding on ticket sales. The show must go on, even if none of the costumes are laundered.

Disability In The City! Season Two.

2008-03-19T06:31:00.000-07:00

Office Visit One:

Riddled with anxiety, I still notice the fantastic outfit I've managed to put together without any help from my friends Samantha, Charlotte and Miranda. Just look at me! One moment I'm hunched in agony over that nervous feeling in my stomach, the next I'm resplendent in a sky-blue tailored blouse and lemon-blue striped taffeta skirt. My palms feel moist and my heart is leaping from my breast. No matter. I complete the look with a chunky necklace and burnt orange sandals.

Office Visit Two:

Our second meeting in just two weeks! Today I've pulled on some trouser jeans and a white tee along with silver sandals and a chunky poppy -colored leather bag with just enough pockets for all my meds. In fact, I look just spectacular enough to turn a few heads on the street on my oft-trodden path, especially one knight on his shining bicycle who seems to--how flattering! --want to know everything about me. Nothing is safe from his inquisitiveness and I find myself sifting through a barrage of questions. My name. My telephone number. Where I live. I play along with fake answers and even give him Samantha's telephone number until that one crucial question, my answer to which I know will test his loyalty to me on the subject forever. Where am I going? he asks in his innocence. The psychiatrist, I answer. Then with a quickly-hurled farewell, he's off like a cowboy into the sunset, except without the the girl. Geesh! I notice. In his ardor to find another maiden, he almost gets clipped by a car.

Office Visit Three:

You can tell me that my current outfit--slouchy jeans, cashmere hoody, sequined flip flops--is something akin to comfort food with a dash of hot sauce. You can tell me that this is the greatest and best outfit to wear for hours and hours of neu-ro-psy-cho-log-i-cal testing which, for the record, isn't the same kind of testing they do if you show up at the appointment in a red ball gown and curly blue wig. But still. However, you cannot convince me that I will have enough time afterward to go shopping for new ballet flats and a silk tank before I have to meet my good friends Samantha, Charlotte and Miranda for a drink. Er, for a Roy Rogers of course. My brain aches from so much thinking.

Beowulf Man! The Musical. Act Two.

2008-03-18T10:53:00.000-07:00

The curtain rises. Beowulf and his trusty band have successfully removed the malfunctioning washer-dryer unit from my apartment and are refreshing themselves with lemonade from concentrate. As Beowulf and I communicate in my bastardized amalgamation of English and German and his fifth century lingua franca, I reflect upon the fact that despite having a landlord, it still takes a witch, a spell gone awry, and a hero and his men frozen in time to remove an unwieldy appliance down the cramped back stairwell of my now (even more) overcrowded apartment. I try to explain my gratitude to Beowulf as he picks some unfamiliar lemon pulp off his tongue.

Me: How can I repay you and your men for removing the broken washer-dryer unit for my apartment and placing it on the cement slab that is my back yard?

Beowulf: Where am I? Can you help me get home?

And thus the second act begins in earnest. (Where is MC,GB in all of this? MC,GB does not like strangers and is recuperating from the shock of so many sudden house guests by hiding under my futon.)

As I wrack my brains trying to remember everything I learned about time travel from traveling with the Doctor, Beowulf and his men produce general hilarity as they sing and dance and flail their massive jazz hands while recounting the trials and tribulations of being transported out of one's own time, frozen in ice, and dropped from an airplane onto a North Oakland cement slab. For my part, I find I constantly have to reinvent language to explain the contrivances of twenty-first century American life. For example, the microwave becomes the "cooking box," whereas the toaster oven and space heater become, "Don't touch that! You could burn the house down." We really get some good laughs when I take the men to Target (Tar-jay, I explain) for some new clothes and then to Super Cuts for haircuts and beard trims. Anyone staying indefinitely at my apartment is going to need at least a part time job if they want to eat like a warrior. One of the group, Hondscio, I think, seems a little lewd and grabby with the buxom stylist but I'm pretty sure he's going to get it from Grendel once the he gets back to the fifth century, so I let his chauvinistic behavior slide for now. Also, I am pretty sure the men are feeling restless without any trolls to kill. And even more also, there is something kind of sad about watching all these long-haired berserkers lose their locks in order to get jobs at Jamba Juice.

At this point, Beowulf and his men break away from the comic stance taken so far and deliver a poignant and heartfelt plea to the audience for understanding of their plight.

Hondscio: Please don't tell me not grab that tit!

Beowulf: But we're in a different time! We're living it!

The company: We want our old clothes back! We want out old lives back!

Me: (suddenly dire) I waaaaa-aant my hoooou-se back!!

The second act ends with a tete-a-tete between Beowulf and myself. By this time we have become pretty close as I shepherd him through twenty-first century life. There have even been hints at romance. Apparently, a witch, a spell gone awry, and a hero and his men frozen in time is also what it takes to get me a boyfriend. We share a sweet kiss with the promise of more to light-hearted music. Then curtain. Foreboding music. Intermission.

In Other News, Failure Is Not The Same Thing As Not Trying. Sometimes It Is. But Not This Time.

2008-03-17T08:30:00.000-07:00

Yet again

In other news, I'll spare you the gory details. However, I will say that being once again unemployed does not make me a derelict content to accept handouts from society. However, I would be willing to accept handouts from my parents. (This time, I will not spend the grocery money you send me on tattoos.)

In related news, I think my inability to succeed in traditional employment must have a lot to do with being raised by wolves. For example, wolves aren't required to be "detail-oriented" or to engage in "multi-tasking" behavior. Just the act of birthing this terminology onto the innocent white expanse of my computer screen gives me sweats and chills. When I try to be "detail-oriented," my brain feels like it is being stretched (by details, mind you) as far as it can possibly go until SNAP! Suddenly, in other news everywhere, the minuscule shreds of my concentration lay scattered at my feet. (For the record, "multi-tasking" makes my brain feel like it is being poked by hundreds of tiny pins--not the healthful pins used in acupuncture, but the unhealthful, painful kind used in "multi-tasking"--until fuses start blowing and the lights go out. Total darkness.)

In even other related news, I am sadly coming to terms with the reality that my dream job does not exist. High pay, no accountability. Great benefits, flexible schedule. And by all means, no details and no tasks. What I'm really good at, though, is sitting around reading and writing. Maybe in a previous century and a different bank account I could have been a gentleman scholar. Plus my natural disposition towards insanity ensures there would have been scandal. Just to keep things interesting.

In previously relayed news, I'm going to keep sparing you the gory details. Let's just say I have a lot more time to work on writing musicals and leave it at that.

Here is a poem.

Beowulf! The Musical Is Here. Or, More Accurately, Beowulf Meets Encino Man! The Musical Is Here.

2008-03-16T14:12:00.000-07:00

The landing pad

Act One:

Selma, the 'sensual witch,' accidentally casts a spell that leaves Beowulf and his trusty band of men frozen in magical ice until the end of time. The spell must have a few fissures, though, because when a twenty-first century scientist discovers the frozen fifth century warriors while hunting frozen primordial woolly mammoth, a lot of wacky hi-jinks ensue.

For example, the ice is cut into blocks (one warrior per block) and flown to a museum in California in a temperature-controlled jet plane. But amidst all this careful planning something goes comically amiss. For further example, the airplane accidentally drops its dark age payload directly over my back yard in North Oakland. Since I only have a cement slab behind my house instead of nice, bourgeois grass, there is nothing to cushion the magical blocks of ice from unmagically shattering upon impact. Because I mistake the loud noises for gun shots, I don't bother to get up right away. But once I finish my lunch and look out the window, Beowulf and his trusty band are fully thawed and milling about the yard in a confused manner.

I immediately assess the situation. I am pretty sure that the apparent leader of the group is the same man who showed up at my door several months ago, rudely interrupting my Sunday morning with his sullen stare and tangled hair demanding that I unhand my cat, MC,GB. I step outside and approach Beowulf carefully, using clever tactics to trick him into affirming his identity.

Me: Are you Beowulf?

Beowulf: Yes.

Me: Our washer-dryer unit is broken. We're going to need you and your men to carry it down the back stairs if you want to stay with us.

Beowulf: It's a deal.

Then we all break out the jazz hands as Beowulf sings powerfully:

Where aaaa-am I?
All I know is I was frozen in the snow!

Where aaaa-am I?
All I know is that I've got to get back home!

Etcetera. Curtain. More to come.

When Asked Whether I Am Vegetarian, I Usually Reply, I'm A What's-In-The-Fridge-Itarian.

2008-03-15T11:56:00.000-07:00

Somewhere, deep inside the bowels of this modern appliance, dinner is lurking.

I have completely regressed. When I was 23 I lived with a nice man in a nice apartment and cooked almost daily mails. We ate ratatouille, curries, homemade hummus. Now I am on the brink of turning 33 and I eat sour cream for dinner. Also, I am still sharing one bathroom with four roommates, only two of whom are nice men, and two cats who really, really hate each other. (One of the cats is MC,GB, whose unfettered chauvinism is not helping the situation.)

So here I am, on any given night. Instead of healthfully chopping vegetables and cubing tofu, I can be seen rummaging through the fridge with no real plan. Lucky for me, growing up with wolves really helped me learn to forage, so I am perfectly prepared for my current lifestyle. A spoonful of sour cream here, another spoonful of peanut butter there. Two whole food groups! Throw in a half-rotten peach and some whole-grain crackers and you have a well-balanced meal. Unless of course you only have non-whole grain crackers. Then you are in trouble.

I tried to cook all sorts of tasty meals for MC,GB's DD (that's my new acronym for 'my cat, Gerard Butler's deadbeat dad') but he did not like them. And MC,GB's DD was not the kind of person who would eat food just because it was slaved over. No doubt his cruel indifference crushed my soul and relegated me to my sad state of affairs today. In fact, speaking of soul crushing, MC,GB's DD still hasn't sent me his 'I'm sorry I drove you to drink' letter. I will have to email him a reminder about that. Meanwhile, someone please save me from myself and fix me a nice home-cooked meal. I am especially partial to tuna melts and tapioca puddings. I am also partial to you doing the dishes. Thank you.

Here is a poem.

Apparently, My Cat, Gerard Butler, Has Been Lying To Me. Why Didn't You Tell Me?

2008-03-14T10:22:00.000-07:00

Liar! Liar! Liar!

Up till now I had blindly accepted my cat, Gerard Butler's (in hindsight) somewhat far-fetched assertion that he and 299 of his best Spartan warriors took on the entire Persian army alone at the Battle of Thermopylae in 480 BC. My cat, Gerard Butler (MC,GB) liked to sit with me in the quiet evenings sipping herbal tea as the scent of honeysuckle blew gently through the open window and I listened to him regal me with the thrilling sorts of tales that would arise from facing the entire Persian army with just 300 warriors. But now I see MC,GB's exciting yarn for what it really is: a tall tale!

No doubt you are wondering about why it has taken me so long to figure this out. Apparently, I am the last person on the planet to read classical literature, or, more importantly, to see the History Channel special, "Last Stand of the 300," which maps out the situation with all the accuracy, lack of sensationalism, and academic credibility that the History Channel is known for. (If you don't believe me, check out their special on Boudicca! Is that a slim readhead in tight-fitting leather armor? Why, yes, it is.)

The point is, the fact that something like 10,000 Greek soldiers and an Athenien naval contingent were hanging out at the pass with MC,GB and his trusty Spartans is readily available information that I did not know about simply because I usually try to keep as unaware of my surroundings as possible (because it is warmer here, in this bubble) and did not happen to catch the "Last Stand" any of the million times I could be found zoning out over the last year to the dulcet scholarship and live reenactments that are: the History Channel!

What I really want to know is, how did MC,GB think he could continually hide his callous deception from me? Evenutally, even I stumble onto Wikipedia, another rival to the History Channel for bare bones scholarship and academic accuracy, even if only long enough to grasp the extent of MC,GB's trail of lies. For example, when he told his story to the History Channel (behind my back), he did not even tell them about healots.

When I confronted him on another one of our quiet evenings, he claimed innocence at first, stating that he "didn't know" about that part of the story. But eventually he admitted to weaving his web of lies in order to appear "tougher" and "more valorous" and "marketable."

Frankly, I am hugely disappointed in MC,GB's behavior, but I'm sure we will be able to rebuild trust somehow. Maybe we can engage in a team building exercise by playing extras in an upcoming History Channel special. I could be a witch about to be burned at the stake for her third nipple and MC,GB would be burned at the stake for being my familiar. I am pretty sure I would look good in tight-fitting leather armor. Maybe I am a little bit Spartan after all.

Just A Few Drink Recipes I Concocted Recently While Not Attending To Sobriety

2008-03-13T17:52:00.001-07:00

I'll have a Roy Rogers! Actually, make that a modified Roy Rogers!

First and foremost, the modified Roy Rogers:

This drink is destined to be an instant classic. Just take cola, replace the grenadine with whiskey and hold the cherries. Trust me, you'll love it! Look at me, I order them all the time.

Then there's the modified Shirley Temple:

Actually, there is no way to modify a Shirley Temple. Whenever you walk up to that bar at your Uncle Merle's fiftieth wedding anniversary and utter the words "Shirley Temple," you will only succeed in moistening your lips with the drink of a little girl in a frilly white dress. Do you want to be a little girl in a frilly white dress? Do you want to drown your golden curls in syrupy grenadine? If so, then by all means, order that Shirley Temple and let Uncle Merle think you're still on the wagon. But if you want to be a cowgirl, join me at the bar with my horse, Beowulf. There is a f*cking sunset around here somewhere, I just know it. Oh wait, that was just some tequila and a sunrise. My bad.

The modified modified Roy Rogers:

Now here is a drink for those with experimentation in their hearts. Pour grenadine over ice, then top with whiskey. I have never tried this, but I'm sure if you order one your brazenness will turn all sorts of heads at the bar. Or, if you happen to be stuck at your Uncle Merle's fiftieth wedding anniversary celebration, the potent combination of hard alcohol and hard sugar will combine to put you in a coma and more time will pass without you having to participate.

Some Thrilling Tales I Have Read

2008-02-23T18:12:00.000-08:00

1. 57 AC Transit Schedule

Wow! What a page turner. Or, really, I should say due to AC Transit's innovative design, what an unfolder. I could barely believe my eyes as they stroked the neat rows of timetables encapsulated in this document. There are a lot of choices represented here, and a lot of suspense. If I leave the house right now, will I make it to the bus stop by such and such a time? If the bus leaves San Pablo Avenue and 40th Street at such and such a time, how long will that svelte leviathan take to roll gently to the curb near MLK and 40th? So much depends upon the answer, and yet the reader is left guessing and hungry for more. The emotional roller coaster involved leaves this reader, to say the least, in a heightened state only previously achieved through the generous abuse of contraband. Thrilling. A must read.

2. 1 AC Transit Schedule

There is a story here, within these numbers. "Once upon a time there was a little girl who played in the sun all day. But then she grew up and had to get a 'real' job. On top of that, her car was possessed with seven devils that no one could get out. She had to take the bus to and from her 'real' job. Sometimes she had to wait 45 minutes in the rain." In fact, there are always stories within numbers. This is the sad kind of tale that can only be assuaged through the generous abuse of contraband.

3. 1R Transit Schedule

Okay, now we are back to suspense. By pouring through this lofty tome, will I finally come to learn just where the 1R deigns to stop and where it doesn't? (Those of us living in the wrong part of town where the 1R doesn't stop already know it's because we live in run down looking houses.) Yes, the 1R(ich) is headed straight to Berkeley and now I've finally got my ticket. Contraband yada yada yada.

A Few More Episodes (c)

2008-02-17T13:06:00.000-08:00

1. Part I: Jenny is finally given a chance to put her Masters degree to work at the office when she is ordered to go through a ten page document line by line and change the spacing after each numbered item from a tab to two spaces. Then, when this does not create the desired effect, Jenny once again uses her advanced education to change the two spaces to three spaces. Wacky hi-jinks do not ensue on any level. To be continued. (c)

2. Jenny comes in early and works very hard to get important documents ready for proofing by noon on Friday before three day weekend. Maybe they will finish the work up early and go home before 5! Instead, Jenny's boss talks on the phone all afternoon with friends and doesn't start proofing documents until 4:45. Jenny leaves work at 5:35 and promptly misses bus. Here, as well, wacky hi-jinks do not ensue. (c)

3. "Caffeine Crazy"

Buoyed by her newfound dislike of her new job, Jenny finally buckles down and writes query letter and novel outline. While doing so, she ingests an entire pot of coffee. Wacky hi-jinks ensue. (c)

Just Jenny! A Great Idea For A New Sitcom.

2008-02-13T17:57:00.000-08:00

1. Jenny wakes up early Sunday morning and finds that 8 adults over the age of 27 have spent the night in her apartment. Three of them are sleeping in the living room with an empty bottle of Jim Beam. What happened? Jenny wants to do yoga, but can't because their drunken bodies are in the way. Wacky hi-jinks ensue.

2. Jenny gets the bug that everybody's coming down with ensuring general fatigue, low mood, and an inability to get anything done. Jenny takes Airborne religously. It doesn't help. Wacky hi-jinks ensue.

3. "Leather Wallpaper"

Jenny is assigned an important new project at work: to locate a retail establishment where her employer can purchase a vaguely described leather hole punch. "I have all this leather I have to poke holes through," he tells her. Jenny tries to imagine exactly what the project might be. At least three of the scenarios create an uncomfortable working environment. Wacky hi-jinks ensue in her imagination.

4. In a very special episode of Just Jenny, Jenny falls victim to a bewildering and possibly contagious toenail fungus. To avoid social stigma, Jenny hides her feet from public view at all times, but a secret presses within her. Deeply felt performances and a Public Service Announcement ensue. If you or someone you know. . .

5. "Season Finale"

Recovered from her brush with illness, Jenny's life returns to banality and everyday responsibilities. In order to feel alive, Jenny uses extra cash to purchase digital camera and guitar instead of pay down debt. Wacky hi-jinks ensue.

Quick! My Boss Needs An Awl By Valentine's Day And It Is My Job To Get Him One.

2008-02-11T20:58:00.000-08:00

I don't know about you, but the last time I looked in the mirror, I did not see a handmaiden to a serial killer. I saw a slightly confused, mildly overworked legal assistant in a preppy argyle vest and the same pair of pants she wore the day before and the day before that. (She wore them because they were at the top of the pile, not because she is slovenly like some serial killers might be.) Nonetheless, this is now an item on my 'To-Do' list, thoughtfully added by my boss in order to balance out all the other items I haven't had time to complete. So while you are frosting heart-shaped cupcakes with whispy pink frosting, I will be waiting in line at the hardware store. And not even for my own personal edification, but so that I can aid and abet a twisted sociopath. Please someone bake me a heart-shaped cake with a file in it so I can get out of this prison.

I Allow Myself To Feel A Teensy-Tiny Bit Of Schadenfreude

2008-02-10T10:15:00.001-08:00

MC,GB mourns the news of his deadbeat dad's decline

For those of you wondering about the status of MC,GB's deadbeat dad, I am happy to report that there has been a recent sighting at a grocery store in Alameda. My informant tells me that MC,GB's deadbeat dad was purchasing beer and looked like he had a "pot belly" and appeared "bloated."

A Few Things I'd Like To Accomplish In The Next Twenty Minutes Or So Or Next Twenty Years Or So, Dependingly

2008-02-08T19:44:00.000-08:00

1. Write a book called "Hwaet! Beowulf in the Twentieth Century."

2. Go visit the family of wolves that raised me in the forest preserves outside Chicago. Apparently, there is a new cub in the pack and she is very cute.

3. Become independently wealthy by writing a tragic yet uplifting tale of human triumph over struggle. Get on Oprah. Quit day job. Lie face down on the couch between intermittent bits of trying to write second novel. Oh wait. I've done all that. Just not the Oprah part or the day job part.

4. Abuse my prescriptions. (Now we're talking twenty minutes.)

5. Abuse your prescriptions.

6. Sleep the sleep of the dead.

7. Wake up late.

Yesterday, I Had A Case of the Mondays. Today,I Have A Case of the Tuesdays.

2008-02-05T19:19:00.000-08:00

What menace lurks beneath this calm exterior? It is my boss.

On Mondays I have clinical depression. On Tuesdays, I have the kind of depression where some natural light and a healthy diet might help. On Wednesdays, I am getting emotionally ready for Thursday, which is when I start to see the light at the end of the tunnel. Friday is exciting, Saturday is great, but Sunday I am already thinking about Monday when my boss will behave like the wild animal he is tearing chaotically through my work space in a disorderly fashion spewing out directions like, "Rooaar! Do this now!!" or "Aaaargh! I needed this yesterday but I've been sitting on it for two weeks so you could have the pleasure of working on it last minute under pressure!!"

I have decided there is only one solution to this debacle. I have to write the kind of novel that will sell. I was going to make the sequel for my first novel even artier than the first. But we can't all be Chuck Pahlaniuk. Maybe I should stop holding out and just give in to the temptation to believe that the subject of finding Mr. Right while wearing important shoes is a viable art form. I mean, just think of the craft behind the following sentence, "I was wearing my newest pair of ballet flats--the satiny stripey ones--trying to hail a cab and balance a latte when I saw him. He lived in my building and had one of those [insert name of trendy dog breed here]." Or, maybe what the world really needs is a chick-lit choose-your-own adventure novel.
I would allow the reader to engage fully in the story by asking her to choose between ultra-important options like skinny jeans or bootcut. For example. The only impediment to this wonderful opportunity I'm creating for myself, of course, is my gag reflex. I just do not think I could make it through 250 pages of husband-angling. So I guess I will have to suck it up and stick with the dictaphone. Yes, I said dictaphone. Also, we have dial up.

But I am not bitter. Bitter is for pussies. I am brave.

Heartache! Loneliness! Rejection!

2008-02-02T12:14:00.000-08:00

Normally I think it's poor form to make fun of anyone on my blog besides myself and my meandering, clueless, feral, partially sick-in-the-head, occasionally inebriated, moderately disabled, usually irreverent and often banal ways--and let's not forget the ways of my cat, Stanley, who has been subjected to a pseudonym--but every once in a while some dippy Berkeley-type woman comes along with a stack of tarot cards excitedly murmuring key words like "duality" with the intellectual expression of a yak. Really, I have only myself to blame for abandoning my principles of "this shit is stupid" and playing along for a moment, but a moment long enough to get that there card to the left that doesn't look good anyway you spin it. I was further instructed (this was at an art opening) to "go home and meditate" on the three virtues of heartache, loneliness and rejection that this card symbolizes. Hmmm. I could do that, and no doubt after I finish my mild flip-out, I will be able to see how this card can help me understand the role these three entities have played in my life and how I've grown because of them yada yada yada and how they are part of anyone's life and it's how you weather them that counts and that I am not necessarily doomed persay. But the fact that I am sitting around rationalizing what some stupid yak card says just pisses me off more. That stupid "duality" lady is lucky I'm an extremely rational, emotionally balanced individual who would never succumb to despair at picking such a card, for the mere sake of playing along. Same to all of you amateur astrologers out there who are constantly telling me I am cursed by the stars. But just in case you are wondering, I was born on the cusp of Cancer and Leo, my rising is in Cancer, and my moon is in Aquarius. No thank you.

Today I Slept Through My Alarm Clock. However, I Did Not Get "Written Up."

2008-01-30T20:42:00.000-08:00

Aah. The great thing about having a more professional job is that there is no time clock. If something comes up and I arrive a bit later than planned, I just call and alert my boss to the situation. No sweat. Hardly ever happens anyways. However, this in no way makes up for the fact that I have to work harder than my old job. Thank you.

I Return To Normal

2008-01-27T21:59:00.000-08:00

Nothing to see here. Please keep moving. Just a normal person doing normal person things. For example, a few days ago I spent a thrilling evening balancing my checkbook. I have also recently attended the grocery store where I purchased such normal person items like fruit, bread, and frozen vegetables. The fruit consisted of three partially-ripened bananas and some bluberries, in case you are wondering. This evening I continued on my journey through life as a normal well-adjusted person by doing some yoga before reading two plays by William Butler Yeats. I know all of this may seem out of reach to you right now, but this lifestyle could be yours too if you really wanted it. Thank you.

Erroneously, I Stated That From Now On My Cat, Gerard Butler, Would Be Known As MCGB. Really, I Meant To Say: MC,GB

2008-01-23T20:13:00.000-08:00

MC,GB insists on proper punctuation

Personally, I think commas are a stylistic choice, but then I wrote a novel without them.

In other news, I waited 45 minutes for the bus today. I am pretty sure some of the passing drivers circled around more than once just to gloat.

In even other news, I have not fallen into any sort of relapse situation with that regret, sorrow, and longing I was moping about yesterday. I also ate a sandwich today. Such a conglomeration of flavors.

Lately I've Started To Feel Like The Bad Queen In Beowulf Who Can't Keep The Peace And Has To Go Live With Her Brother

2008-01-22T18:14:00.000-08:00

The past sort of caught up with me this last weekend and I found myself drowning in a tidal wave of regret, sorrow, and longing for approximately 32 minutes. Then I was fine again. I was hanging out with a long-lost friend from days of yore and then she told me something that made me, again, feel like I was drowning in a tidal wave of regret, sorrow, and longing for, again, approximately 32 minutes. That being said, the tidal wave of regret, sorrow, and longing was not so wet or nasty that I couldn't finish my sandwich, even within the 32 minute time frame of acute regret, sorrow, and longing. The sandwich was a BLT with avocado on wheat and really gave me something to hang on to, almost like a little sandwich life raft in a sea of regret, sorrow, and, longing. That really didn't last 32 whole minutes, if you think about it, because part of the 32 minutes was really just coming down from riding the tidal wave of regret, sorrow, and longing. So now we're talking more like 25 minutes. Still, I think it would be better for everyone if I just bound my heart up with cord and never let it out again. This would bring me down to zero minutes of regret, sorrow, and longing. Thank you.

I Went Running This Morning. Afterwards I Felt Like I Was Going To Throw Up.

2008-01-19T13:41:00.000-08:00

Other than that, though, it went great. I would say something here about the wind in my hair but I do not think I was moving fast enough for that. Also I would say something about the music I was listening to and how each pulsing beat really inspired me to push harder, but my iPod is broken. Unfortunately. The good news is that the pain in my lungs stopped relatively quickly and I was not bitten by any stray dogs. Thank you.

From Now On, My Cat, Gerard Butler, Will Be Known As MCGB.

2008-01-17T20:46:00.000-08:00

MCGB tries out his new acronym.

At some point I have to ask myself if this MCGB business is all just a really silly joke or am I becoming a crazy cat lady. According to Brent Cunningham I am crazy. (Brent has a Masters degree in something so clearly he's right.) Also, I clearly have a cat. Therefore, the only question remaining is: am I a lady? Now might be a good (belch)time to mention the headbutting incident when I was twenty or that last night in the living room I had to be reminded to clean up my toenail clippings. Nope. Not very ladylike indeed. It looks like I am just a Crazy Cat. This sounds much less like a frightening, lonely picture of a muttering woman in a bathrobe with frizzy hair and much more like enthusiastic, well-adjusted jazz hands. I guess I will just have to live with thaaaa-aat.

Also, I wrote a short story. You can read it here.

Screw Living For The Weekend. I'm Living For The Evening.

2008-01-16T07:14:00.001-08:00

Sometimes I wish I had never been "rescued" from the family of wolves that raised me in the forest preserves outside Chicago . Sure, that would mean having to forgo human-style luxuries like indoor plumbing, book-learning, and warm cooked meals. However, I would point out that I had gummi bears for dinner last night, book-learning has brought me nothing but sorrow, and (as I have previously mentioned) I hardly get to used the indoor plumbing around here anyways. I might as well be living with the wolves! Most importantly to my argument is the fact that if I were still living with wolves, I would not have to have an office job. Sure, I'd have responsibilities to the pack and would have to help out with the hunting. But among the wolves, I would still remain an exotic visitor, not a lowly secretary. I would not have to interrupt my work flow to "find the Jones file" or take seven telephone messages from the same client in three hours, for example. Wolves do not do this type of work.

Now That I've Got The Job, I Really Regret Deleting Those Blog Posts

2008-01-16T07:09:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I Think I Am A Real Loser Because I Make Less $ Than My Younger Brother. But Then I Think...I Could Be Mike Huckabee

2008-01-15T18:26:00.000-08:00

Is "God" Missing From the Constitution?

From now on, I will probably just surprise people by saying "Huckabee!" behind their backs after sneaking up on them instead of "Boo!" or "Gotcha!"

Don't get me wrong. The Bible's got some great stories in it. For example when the elders sneak up on Susannah in her bath and say, "Susannah! Susannah! We are burning to make love to you!" I also think the differing versions of Jesus between the four gospels are fun and exciting. But really. Fruitcakes are for Christmas and not even really for then. Although I did eat a slice once. However, I have no intention of eating a slice of Mike Huckabee. Unless it were to be the slice of his brain that isn't functioning correctly. I would do that for you. I would do that for all of us.

Yesterday I Had A Very Fulfilling Day In My Head While Doing Absolutely Nothing With My Body

2008-01-06T13:00:00.001-08:00

Just one of the ways I got where I was going in my mind all day yesterday

For example, I had a great imaginary conversation with two German guys on the bus who were speaking in their native tongues about the many pros and cons of Ikea in such an amusing fashion. Of course, when they realized I could understand them--after a particularly clever and well-timed comment from me, they immediately invited me to a party later that night where I met a lot of fantastic new people, all of whom were (by the end of the the night) virtually fighting over who was going to get to have coffee with me first. What a great night! But more importantly, I did not even have to tear myself away from my take-out eggplant with bean curd and brown rice and the latest crime drama marathon on television to have it. There is nothing like being in two places at once.

My Power Went Out Today. Did Yours?

2008-01-04T17:40:00.000-08:00

At first I was shocked and confused. I mean, there I was at my place of business unable to use the computer, the telephone, the copy machine, even the typewriter. For all practical purposes, one might say, the power outage really hamstrung my ability to maintain a steady work flow. Then I realized something else altogether. The power outage meant I was going to get to go home early! My happiness at this realization made me realize that after just three short weeks I am already falling into the camp of Americans who hate their job. Finally, for the first time in my life, I feel like I am really part of something bigger than just myself. I'm going to have to start saving for vacation right now. Also, I am really going to start living for the weekends and then coming down with a case of "the Mondays." I would say 'manic' Mondays, but I don't want to jinx myself. Oh, I just realized I can now also count myself among that group of Americans who rely on public transportation for their commute to their hated jobs and who thus develop mass transit-rage. For example, I had bus rage last night when I had to wait 40 minutes in the rain. I could have been accomplishing all sorts of personal goals
(like redeveloping my tolerance to alcohol or conscientiously grooming my cat, Gerard Butler so that I will be able to stop screaming bloody hell when he digs in with his claws) during that time period, but no. That time is just lost to me. For someone who has never been much of a joiner, I would say I am in a lot of clubs. Would you like to be in my club?

Is 'Iquity' A Word? As In, The Opposite Of 'Iniquity?'

2008-01-04T08:06:00.000-08:00

Lawyers: Another Word For People Who Leave Everything Till The Last Minute.

2008-01-03T19:54:00.000-08:00

Probably don't work in my office.

Legal assistants everywhere should rise up against this tyranny and oppression and take these misguided men and women by the hand and lead them into the clear light of time management. For our purposes, 'time management' means there is enough time for your assistant to eat lunch. Or to catch her bus and not have to wait a half hour in the dark, wet and cold for the next one which turns out to be ten minutes late. So really, we're talking forty minutes here. And I'm not the only one who suffers. These late evenings mean that my cat, Gerard Butler's, feeding time is pushed back. This is inexcusable. To retaliate I am going to wear jeans to the office tomorrow while my boss is out of town. Hopefully all the other lawyers in the building will be far too busy doing things at the last minute to tell on me.

Just A Few Things I Resolve To Continue Not To Do In 2008

2008-01-01T14:02:00.000-08:00

What's up with New Year's resolutions?

Screw all the guilt and hoopla over making and keeping New Year's resolutions. This year I'm trying something new. Instead of making a big fuss about becoming a better person, I'm just going to hold down the fort and concentrate my self-improvement energies on just remaining less bad. On that note, here are a few things I resolve to continue not to do in 2008:

1. I will continue not to lie about my cat Gerard Butler's perfect health in order to have him put to sleep for being annoying. For example, he meows loudly and plays with his toy mouse in the middle of the night like he is killing it in the dark so I have to worry about the idea that what I can barely see is a real scene of feline carnage. Also I am pretty sure I have a flea bite. I tell you this Gerard Butler: you are pushing your luck. And we all know your deadbeat dad isn't going to step up for you so you better watch it.

2. I will continue not to throw a huge public hissy fit instead only throwing small occasional private hissy fits over the fact that my roommate (just a few short steps across the hallway from me!) is clearly running some sort of chamber of horrors in her bedroom that involves one aquarium full of snakes and just next to it a cage of mice. I do not think those mice are her pets. Also, my cat Gerard Butler better not get a hold of one because I do not like scraping guts and or other mouse parts off my carpet. Maybe Gerard Butler's New Year's resolution should be to become vegetarian.

3. Okay. Enough about my cat, Gerard Butler. The next thing I resolve to continue not to do in 2008 is get arrested. This should be pretty easy as the last (and only) time I got arrested was 12 years ago and those were very special circumstances. So I'd say I have a good track record here.

4. I'm also going to continue not to make an ass of myself in public because I drank a whole bottle of vodka or something like that. And I don't mean bottle as in ass-pocket, I mean the big .750 ml kind. Everything in moderation is a great policy especially if you're the kind of person who, say, used to wake up from passing out in a drunken stupor and having no idea how your face got that bloody or where those gashes came from. Luckily, twenty other people will probably be on hand to tell you exactly what you head-butted. But more to the point, drunk and disorderly conduct just isn't stylish. It messes up your hair. Also, you might get vomit on your ballet flats.

I would write more, but I think it's wise to start small. Lucky for me, I'm having a great start as it is already 2:30pm on January 1st and I have so far managed not to have my cat put to sleep because he is annoying, scream about snake digestion in the next room, get arrested, or behave like an ass in public because I am drunk. Maybe, though, just to get rid of any loopholes I should go ahead and say that my fifth resolution is to continue to not behave like an ass in public for any reason. However, if I want to in private that is just going to have to remain my business.

Have a great year! I know I will.

Announcing The Triumphant Return Of My Cat, Gerard Butler.

2007-12-30T08:48:00.000-08:00

My cat, Gerard Butler

Recently my cat Stanley and I were sitting around chewing the cud, as they say, and we both realized hiding his true identity was a little silly. So what if all those women on that IMDb thread seemed a little strange. As my roommate, the Schadenfreude Prophet, reminds me constantly, this is the internet. What would the internet be without strangeness?

Since my cat, Gerard Butler, been away for awhile, you're probably wondering just how my cat, Gerard Butler, is doing. He is doing well. Thank you very much for your inquiry. My cat, Gerard Butler, is very excited about my new job because this means I will stop bitching about his deadbeat dad all the time and just get off my ass and buy my cat, Gerard Butler, his expensive flea treatment. Not that my cat, Gerard Butler has fleas, of course. We are merely talking prevention here.

Today I Ate A Vegetable. I Am Sooo Ready For Tomorrow.

2007-12-27T18:29:00.000-08:00

Note To Self: No One Cares About Beowulf The Way You Do

2007-12-22T18:37:00.000-08:00

You're A Wonderful Writer. No Doubt About That.

2007-12-04T10:43:00.000-08:00

Aaah. Rejection with such sweet words is not nearly as terrible as rejection with harsh words or none at all. Here is what I wrote for Bitch magazine. They want me to keep sending them stuff even though they've returned twice. I guess that's the way it goes. It is long though. I warn you. I wrote it before the movie came out.

SOMETHING IS ROTTEN IN DENMARK
(AND I THINK IT MIGHT BE AN APPLE)

Or, how a much-anticipated new movie fails to pass the bar for an enlightened (or just less obnoxious) view of womankind and how some movies you’ve probably never heard of do.

Awhile ago I was rooting around the movie section of a major chain bookstore when one of the films caught my eye. But when I flipped the DVD box to read the description for Beowulf and Grendel, I couldn’t help but feel a little confused. Sarah Polley as ‘Selma?’ The English major in me wanted to know just who this Selma was. Did I sleep through that part of the poem? The DVD box had only this much to say: “When Beowulf meets Selma (Sarah Polley), a mysterious and sensual witch, his understanding of revenge is further complicated.” So Selma’s, what? The Beowulf love interest? Despite a genuine admiration for all things Sarah Polley, I have a good laugh and run home to irreverently put the movie at the top of my Netflix queue.

*

At the time I was a neophyte. But looking back I can see how this little movie with its stunning cinematography and beautiful soundtrack has opened the door for me into the phenomenon that is the Beowulf Adaptation. What’s even more interesting, for our purposes, is examining what contemporary filmic versions of a very non-contemporary Anglo-Saxon poem (of which the only surviving manuscript dates from the eleventh century) can tell us about the roles available to women in twenty-first century media. Of all the Beowulf Adaptations out there, I will be focusing on the aforementioned Beowulf and Grendel (2005), and a futuristic sci-fi Christopher Lambert flick (1999) as well as the November 16, 2007 Robert Zemeckis film release starring Angelina Jolie as Grendel’s dam and based on a screenplay by Neil Gaiman and Roger Avary. Because the movie isn’t out at the time of this writing, I’m cheating by using the novelization (based on the screenplay) by Catherine R. Kiernan and published by Harper Collins. Since Neil Gaiman wrote the introduction, I’m presuming he endorses it. And after all, I think it’s fair to call this text an adaptation in its own right. (I am not, however, even going to gloss the misogyny inherent to the Michael Crichton/Antonio Banderas Beowulf knock-off, The 13th Warrior where ‘Grendel’ is really a group of cave-dwelling, mother goddess worshipping cannibals. Oh my. But by all means, check it out for yourself. Make sure to note the little Venus de Milo figurines the bad guys carry around on their belts.)
Of course it’s only fair to start with the poem itself. Written down by an anonymous poet sometime in the early eleventh century, the poem would probably have been told and retold from generation to generation before that. However, experts say historical events in the poem can be dated to the fifth century. Beowulf is the story of a hero who travels both far and near to deliver his people from suffering. First as a young man, Beowulf travels with a band of warriors to relieve his one-time benefactor, the Danish King Hrothgar, of a murderous troll and also kill’s the troll’s revengeful mother. Fifty years later, Beowulf sacrifices his own life to protect his people and slay a dragon. Set in a biblical context, the poem also deals in the Germanic tradition of reciprocity between a lord and his retainers and highlights the ideal role a queen should play among her people.
At this point, you may be having a good laugh along with me and asking where exactly Selma, the sensual witch, fits in to all of this. But before we turn again to the movie adaptations, it might be worthwhile to briefly check out some important roles the female characters in the poem do play. I consult Anglo-Saxon scholar Jane Chance’s book Woman as Hero in Old English Literature for a quick brush up on the role of queens and anti-queens in the Beowulf epic. Basically, a queen like Hrothgar’s wife, Wealhtheow, can be considered a peace-pledge between two tribes. Once pledged to her king, she in turn keeps the peace in the hall by preserving the social order among her lord’s retainers. The queen does this by offering a cup of mead from man to man in order of social standing. The Beowulf epic rebounds with several examples of good and bad queen-ship. The problem with Grendel’s mother, again according to Jane Chance, is that she entirely subverts the traditional feminine values espoused for Anglo-Saxon women. For example, she takes on a masculine role and actively seeks to avenge her son’s death. Nor does she promote peace on any other level. But women in Beowulf are not just lessons for female readers to mull over as they tend to their weaving and try to learn about their role as proper Anglo-Saxons.
Instead, the poem actually offers at least one instance where a woman steps forward to represent her people as a whole. When an unidentified woman laments over the funeral pyre of her king, Beowulf (lines 3150-3155 in the poem), she bears witness to the trauma of an entire people ravaged by tribal warfare. Others of undisclosed gender also wail in grief during this scene as the lamenter lays out some of the deepest fears a person of the dark ages might experience. Think invasion by foreigners. Think slavery. The lament itself certainly never appears weak or disgraceful. But unlike the original, the Neil Gaiman offering replaces the scene with a one of a male scop who sings instead of Beowulf’s glory. But maybe I’m being nit-picky? It just seems to me that if the screenwriters are going to take the time to include some sort of oral extravaganza over the funeral pyre, they might as well keep the original. Of course, my eyes could have glassed over and missed that part, which is entirely possible despite Kiernan’s fine writing. (Nope, they didn’t. I double-checked.) Hmmm. Just one of the reasons I think the saying ‘something is rotten in Denmark’ should also refer to some Beowulf Adaptations. But by all means, read on. We still have to get to the apple.

*
There’s something incredibly unsettling to me about the movie Beowulf and Grendel, the character of Selma, and the burgeoning relationship between Selma and Beowulf. The burning question on my mind is simply, “Who the f*ck is Selma?” But I’m no longer asking in an English major this-movie-isn’t-like-the-book sort of way. It’s apparent to me that Selma is important. But something doesn’t sit right. I can’t figure out what’s troubling me. I can’t figure out who she is.

*
Now we can get back to the movies. Obviously, with a slew of male warriors running about slaying monsters and dragons, one has to at least imagine the possibility that media falling under the ever-widening rubric of the Beowulf Adaptation may cough up limited opportunities for the female actors of our day. The current offering, starring Angelina Jolie as Grendel’s dam, may offer just another example of how a major motion picture can present even leading female characters in flashy but ultimately one-dimensional roles. (Huge Major Spoiler Alert.) Basically, Grendel’s ageless, super-sexy mother seduces King Hrothgar and gives birth to Grendel. (This most definitely does not happen in the book.) After Hrothgar breaks a promise he made to the otherworldly merewife, she looses Grendel on his court at Heorot. Beowulf comes with fourteen Geat warriors to save the day. Beowulf kills Grendel and has encounter with merewife Jolie in which, we come to learn, he does not kill her but rather makes a devilish bargain and inseminates merewife with what will become the dragon that eventually is his undoing. Hrothgar abdicates the Danish throne and passes off his wife, Wealhtheow, to Beowulf then promptly falls off a cliff. (I am typing from the fetal position right now. To say this does not happen in the book would be a weak and flaccid understatement.) Oh, and along the way Christianity comes to town and so does Ursula, the ‘young girl’ who brings sex and comfort to Beowulf’s old age.
Oh, I get it! Lust and greed will bring even a good man down, although selfless acts can bring about redemption. But let’s make sure and understand that even as lust is personified by the super seductive Jolie and even as Beowulf succumbs to her rampant sexuality, his desire for her is not necessarily associated with wanton sexual abandon but with capitulation under duress and as paired with Beowulf’s greed to be seen as a great man. Importantly, the sexual woman is standing in for something else entirely here. Playing on what she perceives to be Beowulf’s wish for glory, the merewife gets what she wants by being sexually provocative in a stereotypical mere-bimbo way. She even compliments Beowulf on the size of the magical ‘horn’ he’s carrying. “’It glows so …delightfully” we read towards the bottom of page 193. Oooo-kay. (Those ellipsis are in the original, by the way.) No doubt that line will get some chuckles at the theater. A few pages later, Kiernan tells us (again, based on the screenplay by Neil Gaiman and Roger Avary) “the merewife reaches down and runs her fingers along the golden horn, Hrothgar’s prize, Beowulf’s reward, then she slips her arms around Beowulf’s waist and draws him nearer to her. She kisses his bare chest and the soft flesh of his throat” (197-198). I don’t truck much with Freud (especially since he doesn’t seem to know much about women) but I get that whole phallus idea and I’m absolutely, definitely getting that here.
But it gets so much worse. According to my reading, Beowulf’s encounter with the merewife leaves him somewhat unmanned. Directly after the passage quoted above, we read as the merewife tells Beowulf that as long as she gets to keep the horn, the phallus he brought with him to the cave, he can be King of Denmark. I would like to take this opportunity to point out that saying a woman in charge makes a man less than he is need not be viewed as a compliment to women. And while Neil Gaiman is certainly not the first writer to personify the road towards desire and greed for more than one has in the figure of a woman, I can only hope he is the last. This tale has a long and arduous history and needs to go away. Ahem! Eve. The Book of Genesis. That whole apple thing. Just to drive home the point and seal the metaphorical deal, the end of the long braid worn by Grendel’s dam has a life of its own as a serpent. A serpent, I said. I don’t even read the Bible and I still get the reference.
When I express frustration about my reading material to the roommate who loaned me the novelization in the first place, he tells me that Neil Gaiman deals a lot in archetypes and that may be the reason I think some or all of the characters are a bit…non-dimensional. (In this case, the ellipses are mine.) Well, that’s fine, I say. If archetypes can bring us to a fuller understanding of humanity then by all means. But if the archetypes in use serve instead to limit our view, I daresay they ought to be done away with. And I think it’s fair to expect even an animated film to indulge itself in a little complex characterization.
It might be somewhat interesting to discuss what archetype Neil Gaiman had in mind when he was originally conceiving the movie’s two Beowulf love interests, but judging from the novelization, I think it is called ‘Somewhat Passive.’ Or maybe ‘Mildly Adversarial but Ultimately Ineffective,’ in the case of Wealhtheow. ‘Young and Sweet’ for Ursula. (I’m going to spoil some more of the movie for you now.) Basically, Wealhtheow gets handed off to Beowulf and somewhere along the way turns Christian and (consequently?) frigid. We are aware that she knows at least about Hrothgar’s association with the merewife and probably suspects Beowulf. Beowulf, in his old age, turns to the much-younger Ursula. Somehow King Beowulf has got hold of his horn again, both literally and figuratively. This is where we are when the dragon comes.
And come he does. Fire all over everything. Pathetically, Ursula and Wealhtheow get trapped in a dangerous situation. They run back and forth along a bridge, eventually caught between two burning towers. One by one they become frozen by fright at the horrific sight of the dragon, but egg each other on in displays of sisterly solidarity. However, they do not save themselves. Wiglaf, Beowulf’s male retainer, carries the day in the end. But still I have to ask myself if those displays of solidarity (as well as Wealhtheow’s promise to look after Ursula when Beowulf is gone) save this movie after all, at least in the sense of how female characters are portrayed and the agency given them by their creators.
I have already discussed how twenty-first century writers leave out a powerful female voice from a really old poem. The scenes I described above take place nowhere in the original poem nor in other adaptations I’ve seen. Therefore, I suggest we read them as products not of “historical context” but of the twenty-first century pop culture mind. And I don’t think, after a lot of reading and mulling, that those scenes between Ursula and Wealhtheow need be read only as sisterly solidarity. There is no question from the text that Beowulf considers himself to love both women, and that both women, in their way, love Beowulf. Maybe, instead, we should at least consider the possibility that whatever ‘solidarity’ Ursula and Wealhtheow may espouse also signifies a kind of passive acceptance of the one-man-two-women situation. We might see Jolie’s character as the female inversion of this stereotype, but I don’t think we have to. As far as we know, she only gets her men one at a time.

*
I start to figure Selma out. She’s the outsider. She is the only one with enough perspective to see the larger picture from the get-go. She is defiant in her refusal to validate Beowulf’s participation in a culture of violence. And under her tutelage, Beowulf is like a man waking up. But somehow, to me, the role of edifier seems stereotypically feminine. Just look at Hermione. And most of my teachers have been women, after all. But then I realize something about Selma the umpteenth time I watch the film, looking for that kernel of what draws me back. In the end, Selma rejects the role of teacher. She turns away from Beowulf and forces him to manage moral predicament on his own. That he does so may signify the strength of her example.

*
Although IMDb folks have only thought to give the Graham Baker directed Christopher Lambert Beowulf film three and a half out of ten stars (as opposed to six out of ten for Beowulf and Grendel), I’m willing to give it ten more than I would give to the current Beowulf offering. The film takes place in the futuristic/medieval setting of the Outpost, where Hrothgar, his daughter Krya, and a band of trusty soldiers battle a supernatural monster night by night as their numbers dwindle and outsiders prevent them from leaving. Right away, the film tips the viewer off that we may be dealing with some bad cinema. In one of the first scenes, an escapee from the Outpost runs down a hill in such a state of sexy dishevelment I think I can only call it dishabille. I dare say red stockings and garters and a provocatively torn skirt have less to do with fighting monsters than with how weirdly sexy the whole scenario is, especially when it turns gruesome and we watch as a captor reveals her bare, muscled stomach in order to more accurately cut her in half. The film also succumbs to the mere-bimbo storyline. (Someone please ask Neil Gaiman if ‘mere-bimbo’ is an archetype.) And in a move that screams ‘Holy Opposite of Star Wars, Batman!’ screenwriter Mark Leahy writes Hrothgar as Grendel’s father once again. Grendel’s dam (Layla Roberts) is Playboy bunny sexy. Here though, she’s pissed because the Outpost is built on land that used to belong to her. So at least that’s something. And Hrothgar’s seduction seems purely sexual. She seduces him. They engender Grendel. Kyra’s mother commits suicide. No using the sexual lust of a man for a woman to stand in for something else. But, you might say. Just look at Kyra (Rhona Mitra), you might add. She walks around the whole time in a bustier. And you’d be right. But it’s what she does in her bustier that really counts.
Kyra has all the courage and integrity of a kung fu heroine. She wants to play an active role in the defense of her father’s people. She does not accept Beowulf sight unseen when he shows up at the Outpost but somehow manages to invert the traditional feminine role of hostess in order to give ever-so polite voice to the misgivings of herself and others in her role of ironic interrogator. “I’m not afraid. I can’t afford to be afraid,” she tells Beowulf at one point. She refuses sanctuary to fight and her decision saves her life when passive resistance proves futile. She bears weapons despite her lack of armor. Kind of silly, just standing there with her spear and bustier. But also kind of noble. And then she throws her spear. Kind of fierce. Despite her lack of choices and her constant proximity to death, doesn’t settle for sex or romance with male friend she loves as a brother. Mourns friend when he dies. Never vamps or tramps. We find she’s the victim of domestic abuse who killed her attacker in self-defense. Lives under the personal torment of thinking Grendel represents her dead husband come to extract revenge. Reveals her romantic feelings to Beowulf with honor and openness. When all with Grendel is said and done, accepts Beowulf’s unknowingness about the future. Makes her decisions for herself. Accepts the unknown.
In other words, Kyra’s not just an add-on to an old text for the sake of a love interest. Instead of Neil Gaiman’s cookie-cutter shapes of Wealhtheow, Ursula, and even Grendel’s mother, we are left with a character with personality, motivation and volition of her own. And although the Christopher Lambert Beowulf certainly has its foibles, just the fact that the filmmakers did not—according to IMDb—include a gratuitous scene of sexual contact between Grendel and Kyra because they felt it didn’t add to the movie may be a sign that this film may at least have its heart in the right place. But when I consult Box Office Mojo I can’t find a listing for the film. When I double check on IMDb, I learn that the film actually won three Video Premier Awards for best art direction, cinematography, and visual effects. Does ’video premiere’ mean this strong female lead never even made it to the theater?

*
I find out on Box Office Mojo that Beowulf and Grendel opened in only two theaters and has a total lifetime gross of $92, 076 worldwide. That’s not a lot of money. I fear another portrayal of a strong, complex woman has fallen by the wayside. The thing is, I like Selma. I’ve gotten over my English major angst to see that Sarah Polley plays her as a strong, complex woman who doesn’t know exactly who she’s dealing with in the figure of Beowulf. She makes choices based on who or what she has to protect but never slips from her role as the film’s moral center. Rather than detract from what ‘really’ happens, Selma fleshes this story out.

*
Something tells me that the new Robert Zemeckis Beowulf Adaptation isn’t going to just fall by the wayside. There are posters all over town. I’ve seen the trailer, and I’m pretty sure Angelina Jolie looks pretty darn hot. There’s something (not just literally!) seductive about the power her character seems to hold over the hearts of men. Who hasn’t dreamed at least once of taking on the dominatrix role as the Beowulf-or Hrothgar-like gimp bends to our will? But as a friend in the know once pointed out, in most non-illegal S&M activities the gimp actually has the safe-word and therefore the power to end the entire interaction. I would argue that whatever ‘strength’ anyone might see in the domination Grendel’s dam espouses lies really in the willingness of her victims to capitulate. And isn’t that the nature of Eve, of seduction? Leave it to the little movies with barely a box office to give us the inner strength of a Selma or a Kyra. In the future we might take a long hard look at why a hugely marketed film resorts to unpacking unintelligent silhouettes of women (and men, but that’s another story) while two much smaller movies with little income or distribution manage to serve up human beings. For now, though, I’ll offer up something else for the future. At some point during the last few paragraphs, I became an aunt to a niece. Here’s hoping our attitudes can shift as a culture just a teensy-tiny bit so she can grow up in a world where Angelina Jolie continues to be a badass humanitarian but ‘Eve’ is just the opposite of ‘Day’ and apples are a tasty afternoon snack.

I Did Not Go Out This Weekend. Also, I Accidentally Purchased French Vanilla Coffee Instead Of French Roast.

2007-12-03T08:45:00.000-08:00

It'll do for now.

I am very preoccupied right now. I am learning to touch type. Also, I have a visitor coming from another country. One of my oldest, greatest friends. Consequently I am very excited. I am so excited I have spilled breakfast cereal on my keyboard. Even though you didn't necessarily ask, I will go ahead and tell you that it is very difficult to eat breakfast cereal and touch type at the same time. I was just born to live on the edge I guess. Thank you.