Looking through the stats page that wordpress furnishes for its bloggers, I can’t help but giggle at some of the search terms people have used to find this blog.
It seems that my recent “Twilight” post comparing the asininity of emo vampire teenage angst-romance to that of “Star Wars” has generated some new traffic.
For anybody who hasn’t heard (but who still reads this blog, bless your heart), I’ve found myself a real, paying full-time job. I had interviewed in December and received an offer the week of Christmas, while I was home visiting my family in Minnesota. I’m working as a marketing researcher for a social media and word-of-mouth marketing company in Arlington, VA. And so far, I love my job.
This definitely wasn’t what I’d set out to do, but as I wrote a few months ago, I’d lost my taste for public policy rather soon after my arrival in DC in September. Marketing as a profession was never on my radar, although being something of an internet geek seems to be an advantage in the era of new media advertising. The company I work for is fairly young, so the level of casualness and the average age of its employees (most are 20s-30s) makes for a very “new economy” experience.
So, I’m feeling pretty good right now. I can pay my bills. I have insurance. I can order something other than Schlitz at the bar. I don’t have to move back to Minnesota, defeated by this vacuous, soulless city and all the douchebaggery it produces (I’m talking to you, cable news pundits).
Yesterday was a beautiful, sunny, 55-degree day in Washington D.C. It was also the MLK holiday, and to celebrate having a day off work, my friend Angela and I took a little stroll through the neighborhood. DC is much, much smaller than I ever realized.
We walked for roughly 4-1/2 miles, and made it through five different neighborhoods: Mt Pleasant, Adams Morgan, Dupont, Logan/Shaw, and Columbia Heights. I know that this is only a small subsection of the city (really, there’s nothing interesting in the southeast or northeast, and the southwest is cut off abruptly by the Potomac), but this really drives home the fact that DC is not a huge city. It’s growth has been artificially constrained by its three official borders (all less than ten miles) and the river, and anything of interest is either near the center by the capitol and national mall or in the northwest between Georgetown and Chinatown.
Another factor adding to the feeling that DC isn’t a “real” city is the absence of a middle class. The city is home to large groups of immigrant laborers, a poor underclass, and wealthy politicians, lawyers, and lobbyists (and to be honest, a casual glance at the divide between the wealthy and the poor could suggest that DC operates under some kind of unspoken apartheid). The only thing that approaches a middle class is the vast numbers of young, single 20- and 30-somethings just starting out in their careers, which is a transient population segment, since most of us will either leave the city after a few years, or finish graduate/law school and accept a high-paying salaried position on K street.
Also, if I may be Freudian for a moment, the pervasive penis-envy among the political class might add to our distinctly un-urban feel. There’s actually a law on the books that prohibits any building or structure within the city limits from being taller than the Washington Monument, the most phallic-looking tallest all-stone structure in America. So our skyline is anemic, with buildings capped at 12 or 13 stories. Looking across the river at the skyline of Arlington, while it may not rival New York, certainly makes DC look tiny by comparison.
Earlier this week, Eliza wrote (at my request, tee-hee!) about those most despicable wretches in the dating world: the Disappearing Boys:
I don’t think it’s too much to expect someone to have enough consideration and respect for another human being to give them a courtesy call, e-mail or text when they no longer wish to continue seeing them. I’m not asking for a detailed explanation as to why you want to end things, a simple “hey not really into you anymore” would be fine. Choosing to ignore my calls, texts, Facebook messages what have you, is immature and contemptible.
Amen, sister. I’ve been on the receiving end of the disappearing act before, and it drove me f*$#ing crazy. I admit, I’m still pissed when I think about it today. I understand that boys are really bad at expressing their feelings, especially if that expression could leave the girl in tears. But part of being an adult is being emotionally honest with people while treating them with dignity and respect.
From the anecdotes I’ve read, it seems that often, the most frustrating aspect about this situation is that the woman (or man) is caught completely by surprise. The guy (girl) never gave any indication that he (she) wants to bail. They’re really great, they seem into you, you have an awesome time together, and everything seems golden until suddenly it isn’t.
I think that it’s a universal truth that we’d all rather deal with an uncomfortable, even heart-rending phone call than the humiliation of (after weeks or months of high hopes for where things are going) being left to figure it out by ourselves. And that’s to say nothing of the unanswered questions that follow: Did I do something wrong? Have I done something to make him mad? Did I come on too strong? What did I do to make him go from liking me to discarding me like a piece of garbage? It really makes you feel like it’s your fault, when it’s clearly obvious that the other person who’s acting like a complete tool.
The fact is that sometimes, you just don’t feel it for a person, or somebody else comes along, whatever. It sucks when you’re really into a person who’s just on the fence about you, or who doesn’t want to get serious. Rejection hurts. But if, after a few dates, you know that you’re just not on the same page with the other person, man up and show some respect. I’ve had to make that awkward phone call before myself, and it sucks, I know. But the men in my life who’ve had the cojones to make that call are still on friendly terms with me. Those who didn’t can, as the adage goes, f*ck off and die.
*Funny anecdote: While I was home visiting in Minnesota, I saw the Creep Who Disappeared On Me at a bar. He had grown a ridiculous hipster beard that made him look like a boxcar hobo, which completely extinguished my attraction to him. Good luck getting laid with that thing, buddy.
Whenever I watch “Jill and Kevin’s Big Day,” I grin like an idiot, and sometimes I even shed a few tears. I want this kind of wedding someday, as well as the awesome, fun, and loving relationship that the bride and groom (and their families) no doubt have. Good luck to both of them!
In 1997, 8th grade girls across the country had one name on their minds at all time: Jack Dawson. The charming, streetwise protagonist from Titanic was the ideal man to the legions of junior high girls who loved him. Leonardo (or “Leo,” as we affectionately called him) DiCaprio’s face was on the cover of every teenage glossy magazine for months following the film’s theatrical release. Girls the world over were unabashedly smitten with this man, and with the film that launched him onto the A-list.
Now, over a decade later, teens and tweens have a new franchise – and a new face – to fawn over. “Edward Cullen” of the teen vampire series Twilight is a hot topic on the ‘net, with thousands of fan sites and youtube videos dedicated to the Emo Prince of Vampires. The Twilight saga may not be of the same Oscar-worthy ilk as Titanic was, but the ferver among the nation’s girls is undeniably similar. The hubub surrounding this movie phenomenon has gotten me damn curious, so last night, I sat down with my landlord and my gal-pal to watch it. And my verdict is: I totally “get” this movie.
I’ll spare you a plot (what plot?) synopsis, save for that it that it felt like it was written by a fifteen-year-old, complete with silly plot contrivances, flowery and stupid dialogue, and holes you could drive a bus through. Kirsten Stewart plays the female protagonist with the transparently symbolic name, “Bella Swan,” and she has the role of the awkward teen down pat. Her complete lack of any personality makes her the perfect blank slate onto which young girls can project all of their own fears and fantasies, hopes and dreams. To be sure, Bella is pretty, but not intimidatingly so; she ain’t Megan Fox. Her counterpart, the aforementioned Edward Cullen, played by British model-turned-actor Robert Pattinson, is the good-looking incredibly foxy, aloof, poetic, damaged romantic that pulls the heart strings of all the would-be Bellas in the audience with his sparkly complexion, his frequent mood swings (he’s so misunderstood!), and his immaculate hair. The only thing more entertaining than Edward’s gravity-defying ‘do (the higher the hair, the closer to god?) is his facial performance throughout the film. The look of sheer annoyance on his face around the klutzy Bella is unintentionally hilarious, but I digress. Add a dash of old-world mystique in the form of vampire lore, and the sexual frustration purity of, well, the sexless teenage years, and you’ve got the perfect recipe for success among the 12-17 female demographic.
As horrible as this film is, some small part of me… actually enjoyed it.
Believe me, I’m as ashamed to admit this as you are disgusted to read it. Twilight is hardly a literary or artistic achievement by any standards. It’s drawn ire and vitriol from just about everybody, from feminists to internet comedy writers. But I’ve realized that my appreciation for this movie is personal in nature: I can understand the force behind the coming-of-age story of a shy geeky girl with inattentive parents being “rescued” by the older, mysterious hero. Hell, take out the part about vampires, and I’ve lived this story before. I was the awkward 17-year-old teen who felt slightly abandoned by a newly-remarried mother and an overly-permissive father (my parents were great people; like many parents, they just started half-assing it after the divorce). In real life, the 17-year-old me fell in love with an older, artistic, dark and handsome, tragically flawed anti-hero who eternally sought redemption for his sins – or in this case, a severe mood disorder. And, like Edward and Bella, the romance between my “Edward” and I started off fast and fierce… and quickly grew into an all-encompassing, self-enveloping relationship that took hold of both of us until I didn’t know who I was anymore. I recall, six years in, feeling like I was a supporting character in my own life – and that realization marked the beginning of the end.
This impression I had – of not being in center stage of my own story – is repeated throughout Twilight. The story isn’t about the passive, unsure Bella. It’s about the ethereal, chivalrous Edward, who in turn puts Bella on the proverbial pedestal and makes her the focus of his life. And she, in typical stupid-girl fashion, is more than willing to submit her heart and her will to a guy who (seriously) oscillates between treating her like garbage and gold. Hell, even I would have fallen for the pasty bloodsucker too, upon gazing into those bedroom eyes after he saved me from a serious fender bender.
Feminists have lobbed accusations of religious sexism towards the novels’ author, Stephanie Meyer, but I get the feeling that the culprit isn’t so much sexism as it is immaturity. I haven’t read the books, but my understanding is that the narrative is very Edward-centric: often describing his appearance and actions in great detail, repeatedly mentioning how “beautiful” he is, etc. As teens, many of us had unrealistic ideals of what love is. For example, I believed love was indistinguishable from passion, that any man who loves you will always put you first, and that love never changes or fades. Alas, our teenage boyfriends, lacking fluency in girlthink, always inevitably break our hearts. What follows is the painful learning process colloquially known as “growing up.”
So yes, I understand the appeal of this hopelessly tragic love story. Something about Twilight resonates deeply with the teenager within. And my intuition is that I’m not alone, that a lot of women can relate (Hello, Twilight Moms?). My own mom had a similar love affair in her late teens with a tormented artist who, as it turns out, was also mentally unbalanced. My best friend in high school became so deeply involved with an older guy that she and I fell out of contact for over two years. It’s common for many women to fall for damaged men, either because we think we can change them and help them, or because the damaged ones seem to understand our own misery and hardships so well. Either reason is woefully misguided.
So for any young female kittens out there, here’s a reality check: Edward Cullen doesn’t exist. Any guy that gorgeous will neither be socially withdrawn nor devoted to one girl, because he’ll be busy fending off all the other girls who’ve been throwing themselves at him. An exceptionally attractive man has no problem making friends, as he has a strange ability to make women become completely stupid in his presence (for which I resent the hell out of all gorgeous men!). Any guy who’s that damaged is, seriously, not worth the trouble of sorting out that mess – it’ll take years, and if he does ever heal, he’ll probably leave you once he realizes that he can do way better than you and your pathetic codependence. Any guy who treats you like crap one minute and like a princess the next is immature and doesn’t know how to have a Real Human Girlfriend. Any guy who tells you he loves you so quickly is either hoping to get in your pants, or has attachment issues and doesn’t actually know how to bond with a woman. Any guy who uses that much hair product is probably not 100% heterosexual. And, trust me on this one, the last guy who tried to convey his “intensity” by staring at me from across the room/yard/parking lot was a creepy, socially awkward doofus, not a passionate theartthrob.
I have one last comment to make about Twilight. This phenomenon has proven to be remarkably profitable. The sequel. New Moon, raked in $140+ million in its opening weekend. It’s made both of its stars household names, and has launched an entire industry of branded t-shirts, lunchboxes, and other such crap that kids love to collect. Yet, as I noted above, it draws venom from just about anybody and everybody. People have largely written it off as a stupid little girls’ fantasy movie at best, a brainwashing piece of sexist cultural propaganda at worst. Outside of its fanbase, this might be the most derided movie franchise that’s come along in quite some time.
…Hmmm. Now let’s see: poor script, cheesey dialogue, intensely zealous fans, and a vast merchandising empire. Where have I seen that before?
Legitimate Art
Oh yeah, I went there. Star Wars is the most god-awful yet wildly popular movie of all time. As you can see from the graph below, it’s asinine-to-popular ratio is an unprecedented 1:1.
All joking aside, it is rare to find somebody who hates Star Wars with as much rage as the Twilight haters have. So-called “Twi-hards” were accused of ruining a recent Comic-Con – shyeah, because COMICS are damn cool. Look, I’m not one to bang the sexism war drum, but I have to wonder if gender has anything to do with this. Boys can dress up like fantasy Jedi and play with plastic light-up swords, and it’s cute and geeky and harmless. Boys will be boys. Yet, when girls are wearing “Team Jacob” t-shirts to school (Team Jacob has to do with the second film, apparently), “BOY OH BOY these girls are being preyed upon by a sinister marketing machine that’s indulging their silly fantasies about male chivalry and True Love. That’s not how the real world works! These girls should be learning how to become Fortune 500 CEOs!!” Please. Next time you worry about teenage girls getting a skewed sense of reality from Twilight, remember that “Jedi” has become an actual religious identity.
A funny thing happened to me today.
I forgot that today marks the 4-year anniversary of my mother’s passing.
I found emails in my inbox from all my relatives expressing their sympathy, and while I truly appreciate their concern, I can’t say that today feels any different from yesterday, or the day before. A few weeks ago, on one not-so-special night as I was falling asleep, I shed some tears thinking about how much I miss her. Today I barely remember what those last few days of hospice care were like.
I wonder if my experience is common among the bereaved. The anniversary itself matters less than I’d expect it to, and the occasional pangs of grief come randomly every now and then. It’s possible that my changing life circumstances (different city, an ended relationship, 40-plus hour work weeks, etc.) have replaced the psychological anchors of my home town that might call up sad memories. But I don’t remember ever being really emotionally frazzled around this time (after the first year of life after Mom, anyway). It could also be holiday cheer, as the collective warm and charitable mood of the season influences me. Regardless, the grief doesn’t seem to follow any kind of predictable pattern.
Anybody else have a similar experience?
Whatever became of the moment when one first knew about death? There must have been one. A moment. In childhood. When it first occurred to you that you don’t go on forever. Must have been shattering, stamped into one’s memory. And yet, I can’t remember it. It never occurred to me at all. We must be born with an intuition of mortality. Before we know the word for it. Before we know that there are words. Out we come, bloodied and squalling, with the knowledge that for all the points of the compass, there’s only one direction, and time is its only measure.
- Rosencrantz, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead, a film which presents scenes from Hamlet “on stage that are supposed to happen off. Which is a kind of integrity, if you look on every exit as being an entrance somewhere else.”
It’s a fun, quirky movie with lots of clever word play and sharp, artful dialog. Fans of Hamlet, fans of theater, fans of linguistics and philosophy, and fans of esoteric cult films, check it out.
Say, when was the last time you heard a professional writer decry the widespread usage of emoticons? That’s right, it’s 2009 and we’re apparently still talking about this.
Salon’s Mary Elizabeth Williams, enlightened sage that she is (/sarcasm), is beating a long-dead, decomposing, barely-recognizable horse carcass with her condemnation of those three little syntax keys: :-) (I’m partial to the two-key :), but hey, tomato, tomahto). Her venom is intense:
Whether they’re humble punctuation marks or shape-shifting, animated gifs matters not — I loathe them in all their forms. I see a face at the end of a sentence, I start lopping off IQ and attractiveness points for the person who wrote it.
God forbid that we benighted, uneducated web users dare to experiment with language or create our own linguistic conventions. Emoticons, as with any new set of words, have expanded the English language and increased humans’ ability to express themselves. Further, in the age of instant messages, texts, emails, we can communicate much faster. To use her example, consider the following:
I’d argue that the second sentence is more expressive than the first. It’s paints an image of a person smiling as they think about the coming evening. The first is dry and very job interview-ish – “I look forward to speaking with you.” Yawn. Srlsy.
This wisest of all internet writers (/sarcasm), in concluding that emoticons are the banter of the stupid-ugly-pedestrian internet class, has led me to conclude that we could build monuments to her pretentiousness. For the record, some of the most compelling, colorful, interesting articles (forum posts, blogs, etc.) I’ve read on the interwebs have been sprinkled with smilies, frownies, tongue-teasers, rage-faces, etc. Some haven’t. And to be sure, there are plenty of bad writers out there who never use emoticons.
So, Ms. Williams, find something worthwhile to complain about, or get off your high horse.
Science is not only compatible with spirituality; it is a profound source of spirituality.
- Carl Sagan, astronomer
Many have misunderstood me when I’ve told them that I find inspiration in being alone in the universe. However, I don’t think this sentiment is uncommon, especially in the scientific community. In The God Delusion, Richard Dawkins writes frequently of what he calls “Einsteinian Religion,” or the wonder and fascination that many scientists experience as they explore the natural world and all its strangeness, on both the microscopic and telescopic scales.
My sense of inspiration and awe – the closest thing I think I’ve ever come to knowing god – is best articulated by Carl Sagan in the popular “Pale Blue Dot” video.* Sagan eloquently sums it up:
Consider again that dot. That’s here. That’s home. That’s us. On it, everyone you love, everyone you know, everyone you’ve ever heard of, every human being who ever was lived out their lives. The aggregate of all our joys and sufferings; thousands of confident religions, ideologies and economic doctrines; every hunter and forager; every hero and coward; every creator and destroyer of civilizations; every king and peasant, every young couple in love; every mother and father; every hopeful child; every inventor and explorer; every teacher of morals; every corrupt politician; every supreme leader; every superstar; every saint and sinner in the history of our species, lived there… It has been said that astronomy is a humbling and character-building experience. There is perhaps no better demonstration of the folly of human conceits than this distant image of our tiny world. It underscores our responsibility to deal more kindly with one another, and to preserve and cherish the only home we’ve ever known: the pale blue dot.”
The inspiration I draw from the vastness of an inconceivably old universe gives me a sense of humanity, a powerful connectedness with others. This sensation trancends race and culture, and makes me feel like an ordinary member of the human species, not much different from any other person. We can argue over politics, ethics, or creed, but in the end we’re all just doing what we can to survive and prosper in this world. So while science may take a lot of the first-century mysticism away from our everyday lives, it also uncovers so much more about our world, including new mysteries to be pondered, explored, and ultimately solved.
*Unfortunately, PBD has been commandeered by the Al Gore and the Environati in recent years to fuel their own religious fervor. However, the force behind Sagan’s message seems to me to be primarily about human survival and peace, rather than environmental consideration.
