So, what really led to the death of Matthew Shepard? Maybe he wasn't brutally beaten up and left for dead because he was gay...maybe it's the fault of those evil, evil methamphetamines!

I am completely disgusted with ABC News right now. The program 20/20 apparently wants to investigate whether Matthew Shepard's killing was a drug-fueled mugging-gone-wrong rather than a hate crime. The killers will be interviewed, and they are apparently changing their story (even though they admitted in the trial that they were infuriated by Matthew coming on to them, which prompted the murder).

A great PlanetOut article talks about the scant coverage of gay hate crimes in the media since Shepard's death, and discusses the 20/20 news segment further.

ABC, prepare for a very, very pissed off e-mail.

If I have to numb my misery over the election results, at least I can do it in Hawaii. Good lord but it's absolutely gorgeous here. The water is the most exquisite aquamarine color...the air is fragrant with tropical flowers...and the men are impossibly muscular, tan, and nearly naked at all times. Maybe I should consider moving here to practice after all...

I'm about ten pages away from finishing Kundera's The Unbearable Lightness of Being and...eh. I expected much better, since so many people cite this book as one of their favorites, and because I have much love for another book of his, Immortality. There are parts of the book that are really excellent and fun and thought-provoking and familiar (mostly his bits concerning history, philosophy, linguistics, and theology), but for some reason I can't get into the characters. Kundera himself admits that they are fanciful creations who are created in order to explore philosophical conflicts; he writes them so that they are stilted abstractions more than living, breathing characters. For some reason I always found immediate distaste for characters who were written primarily as symbols, rather than as real people. Of course I think Kundera tried to do both simultaneously, but in the end, they're no more than symbols to me. He writes women especially poorly...his men seem somewhat authentic, but his women are not convincing in the least. They're like a collection of physical attributes and gestures and anecdotes dressed in drag. For some reason I feel offended when I read Kundera's attempts to get into the minds of women...but then, maybe he just illuminates something he sees in women which I personally don't want to see. Just because he sees it, and I don't, doesn't mean that it's not there.

I saw Green Day in East Rutherford, NJ last night and it was fucking amazing. Easily the best concert I've seen in years. Now, I'm not a big Green Day fan at all...I liked their hits in the early 90's, such as "Longview" and "Basket Case," but I found them to be a bit too derivative of 70's punk to be very interesting. They didn't seem all that innovative or original. Now, one of their more recent songs, "Good Riddance (Time of Your Life)" seemed a bit more introspective, and touched me, but I still felt no need to buy any of their albums. My cousin had an extra ticket and invited me to go to the concert with her last night, and because I needed to get my ass out of the house, and had no real distaste for Green Day, I agreed. Holy shit, was I not prepared for what happened. Their new material is truly, truly brilliant. The band is electrifying live. I never got the sex appeal of the lead singer, Billy Joe, but now I do...he simulated masturbation on stage (actually unbuckling his belt, slipping his hand down his pants, while moaning and gasping aloud), wiggled those teeny hips, charmed the crowd until we worshipped him as our king, and was sexy as all get-out. He was hilarious, sweet, charismatic, bitchy, rowdy, vulnerable, and openly political (about needing to get Bush the fuck out of the White House). The band was obviously having a blast, and so were we. I didn't even mind that my cousin, her friends, and I were much older than the teenage kids clad in pseudo-punk gear surrounding us, who pumped their little fists to each song. I felt my heart swell when they began to play the song "Wake Me Up When September Ends" off of their new album, and fell in love with it (I bought American Idiot and have listened to this song at least ten times today, without tiring). I danced like a maniac to "Longview" and shouted at the top of my lungs, "when masturbation's lost its fun you're fucking moving!" For one of their songs, they asked for a drummer, a bass player, and a lead guitarist from the crowd to take their places on stage...and it was so fucking incredible. I can't even imagine what it must have been like for those kids to get on stage and see an enormous crowd of people cheering for them. They looked scared shitless and orgasmically euphoric at the same time...and they actually did a pretty good job! Particularly the bass player. I had never seen a band do something like that before for their fans...it was very, very special. And when they ended with "Good Riddance (Time of Your Life)"...yeah, I admit it. Tears pricked my eyes. I'm still pretty emotional over what happened last week, so of course those words would have an effect on me.

Some things which happened before the concert:

1) My cousin asked a gentleman (obviously a parent of one of the teenage kids) to take our picture with her camera. He reminded me a bit of Peter Falk with his slightly overgrown gray hair, easy going smile, and seen-it-all expression. Between sets, there was 80's music blasting from the speakers (perhaps to make things a little easier on us old folks), and when Devo's "Whip It" started to play, this gentlemen wiggled his hips suggestively to the opening chords. I was vaguely horrified.

2) We laughed until we cried at the TV ads for "Disney on Ice--Finding Nemo!" Who the hell designed those costumes so that the enormous white eye globes are placed in front of the skaters' breasts? They looked obscene.

3) There were a couple of young boys (dressed in all black, with their hair dyed black) to my right who acted like they were in a mosh pit, bouncing around and crashing into my side multiple times during the course of the evening. I had gotten some glow sticks from the guy at the Mobil gas station (for the kids to see in the dark on Halloween, he explained), and gave a stick to one of the boys. He looked pretty grateful, maybe because earlier when he tried to slap me five, I stared at him stonily and didn't lift my arm. My cousin whispered to me, "He's only fourteen at the most...You probably gave that boy his first glowstick." Which sounded a little dirty in a Mary Kay LeTourneau sort of way, but of course I was just trying to get rid of an extra stick...nothing more, nothing less.

OK, if you're looking for a last minute Halloween costume, these might do the trick. Heh. I think my favorite is Jenna Bush's liver.

Oh, and this is supposedly what Howard Dean looked like as a young'un. Hot damn!

Ah. Breakups. Well, as far as breakups go, it was as good as it could have possibly been. Well, no...I suppose a painless breakup would have been preferable. But for a breakup with someone I loved, it felt right and I got the answers I needed in order to move on. For this I am grateful. And I'm also lucky to have stumbled into a movie which helped me keep everything in perspective.

The movie is called The Motorcycle Diaries. It's a film about Che (then Ernesto) Guevara and his buddy Alberto Granado in their youth, when they took a massive roadtrip throughout South America. Since I am woefully ignorant of South American history and politics, I knew nothing of Che Guevara other than the fact that he was a Communist revolutionary who supported Castro and was killed. I didn't know that Guevara had been a medical student, and felt a pang of recognition when in the movie, he expressed boredom and lack of fulfillment with medical school and medical exams, and yearned to explore and travel and see what else the world could teach him. The movie wasn't particularly fantastic...Salles is a competent and enthusiastic, if not brilliant, director. The two lead actors did very subtle and moving work, but the structure and the pacing were a bit irritating (particularly in the beginning), and much of the humor failed. The black and white snapshot motif felt a little too cheezy for me, and took me out of the movie whenever it occurred. The first third of the film felt like an inferior retread of another movie (one of my favorites), Y Tu Mama Tambien. However, once the subject matter got more serious, and Ernesto and Alberto learn about the plight of their poor and powerless countrymen and countrywomyn, the movie became much more interesting. The scenes at the leper colony, where Ernesto and Alberto ignore the rules established by the nuns (forbidding any of the healthy workers to touch the lepers with their bare hands), were particularly moving.

When I saw DR at about 6 pm and asked him if we could meet after he finished work at 8 pm, and to my surprise he had filled his evening with a rugby practice and couldn't see me until 11 pm, I had to figure out how to spend those five hours without going insane with anxiety over the likely impending breakup. So I drove to an adjacent town to get some ice cream (which is my usual drug of choice for anxiety) and try to study at my favorite cafe. I happened to see that The Motorcycle Diaries was playing at the movie theater, scheduled to start right when I arrived, and I hopped into the building to watch it. I expected it to be a total escape--how much could I identify with two randy boys on a road trip through South America back in the 1950's? And apart from Ernesto's dissatisfaction with medical school and his desire to break free of expectations, I didn't find much there. But then there was a brief scene where he visits his girlfriend at her house, and they have a lovely time together. She begs him to stay with her; he regretfully is unable to grant her request. She tells him that she would wait for him, but not forever. She gives him $15 (in U.S. dollars) to buy her a bikini if the boys ever made it to the U.S. on their trip. After Ernesto and Alberto leave, no matter how many scrapes they get into, no matter how broke they are, he refuses to spend those $15, despite Alberto's begging and pleading. Then, at one of their stops, Ernesto receives a letter from his girlfriend. We never find out exactly what it says, but from his anguished reaction, we know that this girl is no longer his. Ernesto spends the day staring at the ocean and touching the letter, grieving his loss, as his buddy Alberto tries desperately but fails to cheer him up. And then Ernesto leaves the letter behind, gives his buddy a grin, and they move on. Afterwards, Ernesto finds something so much more important and meaningful than this silly girlfriend--a connection to the native peoples of South America, a sympathy with their plight, and a determination to do what he can in order to make their lives better. He gives those $15 to a destitute Communist couple who are desperate for work and risk their lives to work in the mines.

And so, after viewing this movie, I felt a strange peace, and kept it as I drove to his house for the inevitable confrontation. The breakup was excruciatingly painful; I sobbed, my chest shuddering violently, snot mingling with tears on my face, while he sat on his couch and stared at me helplessly, making sure not to touch me. But I knew that while it hurt, and while I lost something lovely and valuable, there was so much more in the world to worry about, to think about. Since I can no longer love him, I can redirect whatever love, whatever passion I have, into something more productive and more appreciated. Guevara found this to be true, and while I suspect that I will not become a Communist revolutionary, I think I can find this truth as well. In the large scheme of things, what is a romance anyway? Sure, it's the centerpiece of so many books and movies and television shows and songs, and it can be all-consuming for those who are involved in it...but in the end I don't think that romance alone would give my life meaning, would make me feel whole. Since the romance part of my life is obviously shot at the moment, I need to work on the rest of my life. To find some sort of life path, like Guevara himself found. Funny...I had been hard at work at figuring that stuff out until I met DR; then most of my energy went to my relationship with him, and I largely neglected the task of understanding what the hell I should do with my life, and how to cobble together a spiritual construct.

Somewhat inspired by the film, I agreed to go to Pennsylvania to go Kerry canvassing with a friend of mine. Pennsylvania is considered a swing state for this current election, and people from all over the East Coast have been driving to Pennsylvania in order to talk to voters there. My friend (MF) and I went door to door with people who were targeted as likely Democrats through previous surveys. We asked them about their thoughts on voting, and whether they wanted more information about particular issues in order to aid their decision, and whether they knew where the local polling place was located. The neighborhood we roamed through was located in inner city Harrisburg; it was run down with many abandoned and crumbling buildings. Most of the people we met were black or Hispanic. It was fun to see the strong Kerry support in the neighborhood; passersby were excited to see us and quickly divested us of Kerry signs and bumper stickers, lightening our load considerably. MF and I got lost and asked an elderly gentleman where we could find "Reh-jeen-a" (Regina) Street; he quickly corrected us and said that it was "Reh-jeye-na" Street and directed us to it. As MF and I left him, I joked that he was a dirty old man and changed the pronunciation of every possible word to resemble "vagina." So angina would be pronounced "an-jeye-na" and so on.

We encountered one gentleman who stared at us silently through his open doorway as we cheerfully announced that we were part of the Kerry/Edwards campaign. He then shouted that he was not voting for anyone, because "Both of them are liars!" We asked him to explain this, and he said that both Bush and Kerry were one-sided in their support of Israelis over the Palestinians. He urged us to enter his house, and although at first we weakly protested, citing the need to see many more houses that day, we ultimately complied. I saw green arabic letters streaming down his computer in columns, like the numbers on computer screens in The Matrix. He had an enormous television which showcased the Al Jazeera station. MF stayed standing while the man insisted that I sit on his couch, which I did. I was a little nervous because there was a beautiful white crocheted covering on his couch, and I suspected that my unpredictable period might be imminent and was using no barrier. The man said that he was a Lebanese Christian, and that if the Palestinians and the Israelis each had their own state, then there would be no more war. MF admitted that he was Jewish, and then the man said that he was in the food industry, and Jewish people came into his store all the time, and he still spoke his opinion to them. MF bristled when the man shouted that Israelis thrived on the conflict between themselves and the Palestinians, and that if there was peace, then Israel would no longer have any purpose. The man insisted that the middle Eastern Muslims and Arabs will never stop fighting until the Palestinians had their own state, and agreed that things had gotten worse under Bush. MF said something about the civil war in Lebanon, and the man laughed and said that Henry Kissinger had told the Palestinians to take over Lebanon (which had a 3.5 million population, about 1 million of which was Palestinian) since they would never have a land of their own otherwise, and thus sparked the civil war. Eventually we made our graceful exit, and the man profusely thanked us, shaking our hands and calling us "son" and "daughter." He was an odd mix of warm hospitality and aggressive tirades. MF and I wondered afterwards whether he had been waiting all day for someone to come into his house, so that he could talk about his opinions with them. He seemed energized by the debate.

We met a heavyset black man who was sitting on the steps in front of his house while his three young sons rode on their bikes on the sidewalk in front of him. He said that he wasn't going to vote for Bush or Kerry, but would instead vote for a third party candidate, possibly Nader. We asked him why he disliked Kerry, and he admitted that he didn't think that Kerry would do anything to help him. His main concern was day care for single parents; after losing his job a year ago which paid $20 an hour, he hadn't been able to find a job which paid more than $7-8/hour. On that salary he was unable to afford day care for his kids, so he was stuck. He decided to start his own business and has been scraping by, but was utterly pessimistic about the possibility that either presidential candidate would improve his situation. As we started spouting our rhetoric, he told us that he had read plenty of information on the internet, and was indeed well-informed as he expertly described Bush's failures as president, particularly concerning the dubiously conceived war in Iraq, as well as Kerry's weaknesses. He felt that Bush would steal the election with all of the tools at his disposal, and that Kerry would not have a chance. MF and I remained resolutely optimistic about Kerry. In any case, we didn't change his mind regarding his vote, but we wished him the best.

So, while my experiences are not nearly as profound as Guevara's on his roadtrip, I did feel (perhaps misguidedly) that I did something good to help out the Kerry campaign, and in the process got a glimpse into the lives of people I would have never encountered otherwise. While several of the people we met, particularly the two I just mentioned, were cynical about U.S. politics and the potential for improvement, I still have enough naive optimism to think that people can make the world better.

One nice side effect of the breakup is how I've found solace in nature. While I was in the relationship, so much of my attention was focused on him and myself that I lost much interest in the world around me. But autumn imagery, although it's usually considered sad and mournful (as a metaphor for the end of life), has soothed me greatly. I find myself sighing with pleasure at the fluttering yellow leaves of the Japanese maple tree outside my window, the multicolored patches of fallen leaves on the rocks in the Eno River, the smudges of orange and red and green ahd brown and yellow which fly by as MF and I drove along the Washington-Baltimore Parkway, the brisk cool air which lends a solemnity to the pastel-streaked skies during sunset. It's even better than ice cream. Seriously.

It's so nice to be back home. I'm sure I'll find it stifling as time goes on, but for now, it's been just lovely. The rustle of the brightly colored leaves, the brisk wind and restrained sunlight, the familiar buildings which contain the ghosts of many childhood memories...God but I miss New Jersey autumns.

Today I was studying for the Step 1 exam at a local library (well, actually finishing up a book which Republican Artist Dave gave to me when I told him I was looking for spiritual answers...it's The Search for the Ageless, Volume One by Edmond Bordeauz Szekely and it's about the Essene Way of Biogenic Living), when four middle-aged men walked before me in single file. There seemed to be something a bit off about several of them...I scrutinized their faces and saw that one apparently had Down's syndrome, and the two others also appeared to be retarded by the way they jerked and made spontaneous incomprehensible sounds, and in general acted more like children than like men in their 30's/40's. The fourth man, sporting impressive dreadlocks and wearing a green football jersey, appeared to be in charge of the group, and said some words about the library and what they planned to do for the day. They settled at the table adjacent to mine, and I tried to concentrate on my biochemistry textbook instead of staring at them. Green football jersey guy took one of the other guys to a computer and appeared to be helping him use it to view pictures. The remaining two men occasionally yelped and slammed their hands repeatedly on the table. Several people at nearby tables moved their things or glared at them disapprovingly; I just put on my headphones and stuck my nose deeper into my book. I couldn't shake the feeling, though, that one of the two men at the table was looking at me. I looked up from my book in an unfocused way, but with my peripheral vision I confirmed that indeed the guy in the baseball cap, with grizzled stubble and a long bony nose, was staring at me. I couldn't move to a different table because I didn't want to be rude or hurtful, so I just soldiered on with my biochemistry text. Eventually, though, half an hour had passed with little progress on my part, and I decided to just leave the library and go to a local Starbucks (I haven't yet discovered the non-Starbucks cafes in the area, if they exist). I put all my books into my knapsack, still feeling the eyes of the baseball cap guy, but not confronting his gaze. I pulled the zipper shut--not completely, but enough to securely contain my books. The baseball cap guy then got up from his seat, lumbered over to my knapsack, and then pulled the zipper completely shut. I wasn't sure what to do, but I knew he should not be punished in any way for his kind intentions (although I did feel like my personal space was slightly invaded). I lifted my head and looked him straight in the eye with a smile and said thanks, and then threw my knapsack onto my shoulder and walked away. I nodded at him again with a smile as I left the library.

There was a slight fear there, I guess because I haven't interacted with people like him before. I didn't know what exactly his intentions were, but I definitely did not want to be rude or hurt his feelings. I was a bit saddened by the exchange though--I'm sure he wishes he could reach out and connect with people, and just be treated like any other guy. I tried to treat him like any other guy, but I'm not sure I succeeded. Hopefully though I didn't hurt his feelings. Then again maybe I was too cautious. Le sigh.

Bush looks like an idiot for the millionth time by misreading a speech.

Yet another person comes out of the closet. This time it's the Democrat Governer of New Jersey, James McGreevey, who is resigning after admitting to an extra-marital affair with a man. As a Jersey girl, I was proud when earlier this year he signed the domestic partners law for gay and lesbian couples (although he had voiced his opposition to gay marriage in the past). His term has not been without problems (such as fund-raising scandals, and according to MSNBC, a likely sexual harrassment lawsuit), but I'm glad that he's being open and truthful about himself. It will be interesting to see what the reaction will be in the media. I hope that my fellow New Jerseyans won't turn against him simply because of his homosexuality...I hope that his coming out has some sort of positive impact on the visibility of gays in the media (particularly gay politicians), although unfortunately it seems like such a mess that I'm not sure that there will be any overt benefit.

Heather Matarazzo, of Welcome to the Dollhouse fame, has come out of the closet. Good for her. I absolutely adored her in that movie, and only wish the best for her in the future. It's nice to see young actors and actresses coming out with little fanfare...it gives me more hope for the future, when hopefully actors can be open about their sexuality (if they wish to be) without being punished for it. We need someone to carry on after Sir Ian McKellan passes, after all!

While working on my thesis I'm listening to BBC via NPR, and there was a segment about La fête des Menteurs (The festival of Liars) in the medieval French town of Moncrabeau. Different contestants compete with each other, and the one who spins the most convincing false story wins. Good God but I love the French. Why can't we have fun festivals like that in the states? American festivals, by and large, suck ass. They almost all center around crappy fried food and maybe a couple of rides. Even if there is a gimmick, like the Woolly Worm Festival in Banner Elk, NC, the gimmick isn't all that fun or interesting. We need more quirky little kickass festivals in different little towns across the country.

So over the weekend I finally saw a movie called The Harder They Come, a 1970's movie which is a favorite of my Dad's (no, it's not a porno...it's a film about Jamaicans and reggae and marijuana. ). From the groovy cover art and the bouncy reggae soundtrack, I was expecting a fun bow-wow-chicka-chicka-bow time, but no. It was actually very stark and political (it detailed the overwhelming poverty and police corruption of the country, and was strongly influential in getting the Jamaican Labor Party voted out of office). The movie is rather dated (the clothes are a scream), but there are some memorable scenes, and the soundtrack does kick major ass. (I love "Many Rivers to Cross," "You can get it if you really want it," and "Sitting here in Limbo"). What was most disturbing to me, however, is that I'm now thinking that my father might have been a pothead, since marijuana seems so entwined with reggae in this film, and since my Dad was such a huuuge fan of reggae back in the day. It may be pathetically simple-minded of me, but I can't think of my Dad that way, and now I'm trying to suppress! Gah. It's so very strange that I love learning about the complexity of people's lives--particularly the more seedy and debauched parts--except when it comes to my parents. With regards to their past drug use and sexual experiences, I would like to know as little as possible. Nothing at all would be best.

Bush continues to demonstrate his hypocrisy by stating that he opposes "legacy" admissions to college. How can he be anti-legacy when legacy has afforded him all the privileges he has enjoyed? It galls me that he could say that college admissions should be solely determined by merit when he knows that there's no way his ass would have gotten anywhere near Yale without Daddy's name. Born on 3rd base indeed. I'll never forget how disgusted I was while sitting in the middle of Old Campus at my college graduation, watching this guy smirking and reminding me that he "learned how to speak English at Yale." Very nice of you to make my degree seem like it wasn't worth shit, dipwad. Although people trash Hillary for being a stilted public speaker, she completely outdid Bush the previous day with a warm, funny, and inspirational speech that will always stick with me. W wasn't the least bit inspirational--he occasionally charmed by poking fun at his own stupidity, but that was it.

Man, I used to be relieved about missing the RNC by postponing my move to New York until the end of September...but after reading about all the imaginative protest rallies, I kind of wish I would be there after all. What I would give to check out the "Missile Dick Chicks—an a cappella singing group purporting to be from Crawford, Texas, who wear missile-shaped phalluses and sing songs like 'Shop! In the Name of War' " or the "Billionaires for Bush" who are performers in Republican drag.

Wow, I got my first racist hate-mail ever. I post regularly on a messageboard mostly of womyn, and politics do come up once in a while. Although I didn't think I posted anything too incediary, I obviously pissed someone off, because she sent me this:

"Hi there you ugly gook! You are the most radical ridiculous gook that it's disgusting and quite disturbing. Why don't you go hang out on a boat in Korea or where ever the hell your from because you certainly don't belong here, you commie bitch. The arrogant attitude you have is just as ugly as you are. You are a nasty looking bitch with those ugly asian eyes. If you had an arsenal of makeup it still wouldn't help you. Instead of being a red diaper doper baby you might want to get a life instead of screaming the same, tiring party lines over and over again. You are too young, too dumb, and too ignorant to discuss politics. Especially when your native land is a bunch of communists."

Is it wrong of me to be incredibly amused by this?

"Live your life fully and make sure it's your life at the end of it. Don't look back and think, "Oh, I lived my mom's life" or "I lived my agent's life" or "I lived my wife's life." It's never as crisp as the first realization, but it's pretty much woven into who I am now." --Mark Ruffalo on what he's learned from his brain tumor experience, from his Salon interview.

I've seen so many wonderful movies lately, which have all provoked much thought.

First: Control Room. It was so interesting to get a sense of how the Arab world viewed the war in Iraq, and how they reported it. I didn't realize that one of their reporters was killed in what looked to be a targeted attack...and that the press briefing which detailed Jessica Lynch's capture was a smokescreen for other information concerning the whereabouts of the American troops. The Al Jazeera reporters were also suspicious that the "Iraqis" who celebrated the U.S. Capture of Baghdad by toppling Saddam's statue were not true Iraqi's at all, but were Arab teenagers brought in by U.S. troops to provide pro-U.S. media images. I also didn't realize how the Israel/Palestine conflict was so present in the minds of most Arabs, and is inextricably linked to the U.S. invasion of Iraq. Pretty fascinating and worth seeing. The U.S. Marine press spokesman, Lt. Rushing, won my heart by being open-minded enough to try to see both the U.S. and Arab sides. According to salon.com, though, the Pentagon has refused to allow him to comment about the film, and he has since considered leaving the Marines. Watching Donald Rumsfield with his tight little smile as he called Al Jazeera a bunch of propaganda-using liers, and then made statements such as "Truth ultimately finds its way to people's eyes, ears and hearts"...well, I almost went into convulsions at his sheer hypocrisy. Jesus.

Second: Fahrenheit 9/11. So much has already been written about this movie, and I don't have anything new to add, really. Most of what Michael Moore says is true, but sometimes the truth is presented in exaggerated or slightly skewed fashion in order to maximize its effect. This was especially true of the 1st half, which draws connections between the Bushes, the Saudis, and Bin Laden. There were a couple of parts which were ridiculous, such as his implication that Iraq was a happy and peaceful country before we invaded (he shows clips of children laughing and playing in the street, and then bombs to signal the start of the war), but I don't think that those should discredit the whole movie. The second half, which gets to more of the human stories through interviews of people personally affected by the war, is awesome. In my opinion, the movie shouldn't be swallowed down by the viewers without a critical eye; it should be a starting point for discussion. Hopefully it will get people to educate themselves more about what's going on. Because there is a lot of scary stuff happening with this administration.

Third: Before Sunset. I saw Before Sunrise on video at a sleepover party in high school. All the other girls had fallen asleep by the time the movie was halfway through. I was the only one awake until the end, and I was enraptured by it, utterly caught in its spell. I dreamed of studying in Europe some day, and having conversations like those in the film.

While in college, I studied for a semester in Paris, and had my own Before Sunrise-like experience. I met a guy there (another American, actually) and we wandered all over Paris talking nonstop about philosophy and dreams and love from 7 pm straight until 6 am, well after the Metro started up again in the morning. We didn't have sex (he was nursing a broken heart, and the vibe between us was too ambiguous for me to act upon it), but we were just as deep and earnest and pretentious as Jesse and Celine. It was one of the most amazing conversations of my life, but for whatever reason, we never took our relationship much further than we did that night, even though we were both very moved by our exchange. When I was at the Charles de Gaulle airport about to board a plane back home, and still had some time left on my phone card, I rather dorkily called him and left a rambling message about how much that night meant to me, until the card ran out and cut me off mid-sentence. I haven't communicated with him in years, but I'll never forget him.

I just got home from seeing Before Sunset, and all the memories and feelings, long buried and forgotten, came flooding back, particularly since the setting of this film is in Paris, not Vienna (where the first film took place). I'm only 25 right now, but I still remember how young and full of dreams I used to be when I was in Paris. I related so much to the older Celine, because I feel like I've lost so much of myself since I was that earnest kid sharing my thoughts with a guy with whom I felt such a powerful, yet transitory, connection. While I'm not a huge fan of Ethan Hawke's (okay, I find him to be a pretentious asshat and was disgusted by how he treated his former wife Uma Thurman), he did a fine job in this film, and I can't hate him completely now. I love Julie Delpy, she's still exquisite, although I preferred her appearance when she had a little more baby fat. Her face is so open and mournful despite her cheerful neurotic chatter and ever-present smile. I think that she, Ethan, and Richard Linklater did a bang-up job with the script. It was so very believable--at least to me, who is prone to such sort of thought and conversation.

The Shakespeare Book Company (which I visited quite frequently--I remember the loft upstairs where visitors sleep, and the cats), the cafes, the gardens, the Seine, the bateau-mouche...God, but I miss Paris. What a gorgeous, gorgeous movie. I'm sure that it's not to everyone's taste, but for someone who is a whore for pretentious self-conscious conversation, as well as an unrepetent francophile, this movie was heaven on celluloid. I'm all giddy after seeing it, and just for now, all seems right with the world. At least until I start to ruminate about how I've lost much of my idealism and overwhelming zest for art and self-expression, and no longer have conversations very often that are intense and challenging and make me shiver with delight. It's a strange thing that I was so often at a loss to do much else with a profoundly intimate and life-altering conversation. I've had such exchanges with several people, but somehow failed to create something more lasting with them. Then again, it's easier to have those sorts of conversations with people whom you barely know, before you start to share the day-to-day banalities of life instead. God but I miss those conversations, and the people who facilitated those conversations. I can think of four men who were like conversational soul-mates--we seemed to just fall into an intense and beautiful way of verbally sharing everything that came to mind, frequently dipping into philosophy and dreams and stories and whatnot. But again, not much happened with them, other than a mutual appreciation. The other parts of ourselves, the parts other than our communicative selves, were not as compatible, or circumstances somehow got in the way. Is this sort of communication overrated though? Inevitably one runs out of things to talk about, right? Perhaps there is a "honeymoon" period when it comes to conversation, like there is with sex. I don't know.

Okay, now to deviate from movies, I've been thinking about plastic surgery recently, with the onslaught of plastic surgery programming. I used to be completely against it, then very supportive of it (although I would never do it personally unless I were horribly disfigured), and now I'm ambivalent. I still believe that if someone is so unusual looking that it interferes drastically with his or her social life (e.g. cleft palate or extreme deformity), then I'm all for it. But when it comes to tweaking things to look more conventionally attractive...I'm not so thrilled with the idea. Of course everyone has the right to do whatever they wish with their bodies, and if changing their looks makes them a lot happier then I can't oppose it. But I hate conformity and worry about a day when we'll all use genetic engineering or plastic surgery to look like what's considered "ideal" beauty, instead of embracing diversity of appearance. I like unusual-looking people.

By the way, cute pro-Kerry swag can be found here. I'm not sure I'll actually shell-out for a t-shirt, but some of them are awfully tempting.

Man, my tendency to sabotage myself is astounding.

In any case, amazingly enough, I've finally been bitten in the ass by my tendency to never back up anything. I've been working frantically the past few days trying to finish a project, and when I logged into a school computer to open my file earlier tonight--poof. Gone. There was a bizarre earlier version of my file which had a different gibberish name, but the file which had all my lovely and painstakingly collected information had decided to pull a disappearing act.

I know, I know, I'm in my mid-twenties and have been through so much school and have written so many papers, this is inevitable, everyone else has his or her tragic computer snafu story to tell, so why am I acting like this is such a huge tragedy? Well, I just never had to deal with this before. Somehow I've survived almost ten years without backing up anything without suffering for it. With my file gone, I stared dumbly at the computer in complete shock for about twenty minutes. Oh, hello, sinking feeling. So nice to encounter you again. Bah. Well, at least I've surrendered to my failure, and have been spending the last few hours painting my fingernails (now burgundy) and watching The Amazing Race premiere (seriously, one of the best television shows of all time, and worth checking out even if you hate reality television, or just television...it's that good) and The Secret Lives of Swingers on VH1 (definitely not highly recommended as far as television goes...as liberal and free-thinking as I try to be, I was pretty skeeved out by the swinging middle-aged parents and their basketball-playing teenage son who probably watched his parents make out with other couples on this show later). Instead of chugging the diet soda and rubbing my bleary eyes as I worked on my project all fucking night long.

Driving eight hours to NY on 4-5 hours of sleep makes me feel so ill I don't even want to think about it. If Madonna sings "Cherish," though, the pure giddiness will cancel out the fatigue, though, I hope.

Songs of the evening (or morning?): Tracks 7&8 of the new Wilco album, "A Ghost is Born." I am so in love with those tracks. The rest of the album is pretty good, too (except for the migraine song, which Stephen just informed me about earlier tonight), but those two tracks in particular make my heart go pittery-pattery with happity happity. OK, when I start making up cutesy faux words, it means it's time to try to fall asleep again. Especially when my alarm is set to go off in about 4 hours.

Well, I'm in a relationship. He loves me. Hmmm. And that's all I will say about that.

I haven't written anything, of any sort, in months, and it's strange how this blank space is so intimidating at the moment. I've had thoughts, of course, but just haven't had the impulse to transpose them to written form. I'm not sure if that's a good or a bad thing, given my history of compulsive writing. But enough neurotic ramblings (yes, even I tire of it).

A shout-out to Joe's political blog. He's one of my best friends, and obviously, a much, much better political writer and thinker than I could ever hope to be.

Despite not being his biggest fan (amongst college friends, I'm rather notorious for writing a letter in which I envisioned castrating him), I've been pretty impressed with Clinton's interviews for his autobiography, specifically on Larry King and on NPR's Fresh Air with Terry Gross. I had forgotten how incredibly smart he is, and how very human he is. I expected Slick Willie ambiguities and evasions to questions, but he's been very honest and thoughtful about his mistakes, and stated his opinions strongly and unequivocally. I was really glad that he mentioned that one of his biggest regrets was not taking action about the genocide in Rwanda, and that he seemed haunted by it. After seeing the terrific documentary "The Last Just Man" about the genocide, and reading and listening to interviews with General Romeo Dallaire, I was horrified that such an unspeakable tragedy could happen on his watch (although I know that hindsight is always 20/20). Despite not being much of a constitutional scholar myself (for shame, I know), I found his thoughts about the Constitution pretty fascinating. Perhaps it will give me the push I need to learn more about the cogs and wheels of our government. I also really enjoyed how he shared his knowledge about the personal demons of past presidents, particularly Lincoln's deep depression, of which I was completely unaware. While I don't agree with everything Clinton did as president, and I still am disgusted by the Monica Lewinsky scandal (although I found the Republicans' response to it, and the ridiculously expensive investigation, even more disgusting), I like him much more now. But then, maybe it's easier to appreciate the humanity of presidents after they've left office and are able to speak more frankly.

SigOth wanted to see a western last night, and we checked out a wacky Paul Newman western called The Life and Times of Judge Roy Bean. It's unlike anything I've ever seen...kind of a series of strange hallucinations taking place in the Wild West. The Sesame Street-esque scene of Judge Roy Bean and his obsequious Mexican girlfriend bathing a bear (yep) in a river, with an impossibly cheezy folksy song playing in the background, in the midst of a series of hangings and gunfights, was almost too much for me. But anyway, what struck me was the use of a very Caucasian/white actress, Victoria Principal (on the left), to play the Mexican girlfriend character of Maria Elena. There are a bunch of other examples of Caucasian or white actors who play non-white characters...There was that evil mulatto character from D.W. Griffith's The Birth of a Nation who threatened the virginal Southern belle by asking her for a kiss, prompting her to jump off a cliff to escape him and preserve her purity...the actor was obviously Caucasian, with some shoe polish or some nonsense smeared unevenly over his face. There was the white actress (Luise Rainer) who played the dutiful Chinese wife O-Lan in the film adaptation of Pearl Buck's The Good Earth, and actually won a Best Actress Oscar in 1937. And probably a zillion more examples exist in movies I haven't yet seen. In any case, this no longer appears to be accepted practice, at least in a blatant way. There are still some inexact character/actor ethnicity matches, such as Lucy Liu, a Chinese-American actress, playing Japanese characters, Jennifer Lopez playing an Italian-American in that crappy wedding planner movie, or Lou Diamond Phillips playing everything non-white under the sun. I'm not sure if I feel strongly about matching character/actor ethnicities. It could be troublesome particularly for actors of minority ethnicities to be limited to only playing characters who share their specific ethnicities, because obviously non-white roles aren't exactly abundant in Hollywood. I could see why actors of minority races would raise a fuss if a Caucasian actor were cast in non-Caucasian roles, because non-Caucasian actors have a hard enough time finding roles to play...and I imagine that many directors care about "authenticiy," whatever that means. As a biracial person though who often passes for other races without even being aware of it, I don't see race as existing in rigid, discrete categories, and sometimes there are examples of race drag (there must be a better term) which can be really interesting. One particularly striking example in recent memory was the black actor Jeffrey Wright's performance as the Latino badguy in the recently remade Shaft movie with Samuel L. Jackson. It was such a strange and unpredictable and charismatic performance. I don't recall if anyone raised a fuss back then about a black guy lightening his skin with cosmetics and playing a Latino character, but it did make me think about how good acting could transcend the biological race of the actor. After all, with actors and actresses changing their body weights and hair color and facial hair and faces with prosthetic noses, can they also not change their skin color and ethnic background, or is that taboo, if it's done in a respectful manner (not like the mocking blackface of old)? But then, to go back to the Victoria Principal in The Life and times of Judge Roy Bean, her performance was very much a stereotype: meek, submissive, halting poor English (as opposed to Jeffrey Wright's performance, which transcended stereotype in my opinion). And perhaps I'm overly sensitive, but I fear that she was chosen to portray the character because of her Caucasian facial features, which were consistent with conventional standards of beauty at the time (although they attempted to make her look more "ethnic" by giving her a tan, black hair, and heavy eyebrows). Would audiences have believed that Paul Newman willingly fucked her if she didn't have a slender nose and high cheekbones but instead had a genuine ethnically Latina face?

Geez, this sounds like a Bitch magazine article. Apologies.

Mark Simpson describing Morrissey on stage: "If the yelps and yowls and the desperate, ecstatic falsettos on tracks such as "This Charming Man," "Barbarism Begins at Home" or "Maladjusted" hint powerfully at an orgasmic release, onstage they turn into a form of musical pole dancing -- a protruding, curling fleshy tongue, a salacious smile, a sadistic whipping of his mike cable, a coquettish swing of those magnificently inhibited hips, a tempting spasm of his shiftless body, a golden sparkly shirt torn from his back and flung into an audience which, as one, pounces on it and renders it to the tiniest, dampest, most fragrant fragments, while the curious love-object himself lies on the stage writhing around in ecstasy-agony or on his back, legs akimbo airborne or draped over a monitor in an obliging gesture towards his audience."

Jesus. And I thought I wrote long, convoluted sentences. But all is forgiven for the phrase "a coquettish swing of those magnificently inhibited hips."

I went to DC this past weekend to attend the March for Women's Lives. It was rather chaotic and a bit lacking in humor (although I will give big props to the chicks who constructed a gigantic red plush uterus with Fallopian tubes and ovaries, which they held above their heads with sticks), but inspiring all the same. I dragged a college friend along, and we ended up missing most of the speeches, although we did march the entire way. It was really nice to see a lot of young womyn passionate about feminist issues and reproductive freedom, although I felt just a little bit like an imposter. I self-identified as pro-life as recently as three years ago, and although I'm now technically pro-choice, it still makes me shudder to read a sign like "I love abortion." I did not join in the chants. When the pro-choicers on the march encountered the pro-lifers along the sidelines with their photos of mutilated fetuses and religious symbols, there was an exchange of angry shouts and hurled insults, with neither side emerging as the victor, really. I wish that people could acknowledge the complexity of the issue and have rational discussions about the topic in an open public forum like this one, but instead we seem to be driven to extremes of thought. If pro-lifers want to prevent abortions, they should be active in promoting the availability of contraception and sex education, so that unwanted pregnancies could be avoided. But then, of course, most of pro-lifers are driven by religious ideology which looks down upon those things anyway. *sigh*

I realized while talking to my college friend that most of my current stories are about lost potential, and regret when thinking back on one's life. Hmmm.

Weirdly enough, he also explained to me that he has never yelled at anyone in his entire life. He has never even raised his voice. Or gotten angry. When someone hurts him, he only gets sad, and then quietly withdraws. I was flabbergasted that such a thing could be possible, but apparently this was normal for him, considering his upbringing. He explained that he would not know what to do, or how to react, if someone yelled at him. And that he is turned off by "volatility" when considering a romance with someone. I'm quite a controlled person too, and usually reign in overt displays of emotion...but I like being with someone who sparks the emotion contained within me, who pushes me to lose control. I think this is probably associated with my idealization of the Romantics. I just love crazy indulgent swoony melodrama. I love when voices are raised and tears are spilled and hands are thrown about in the air. It's life, you know? We're not automatons, we're freaky childish destructive creatures who barely know what to do with the feelings that kick us from the inside, ready to be born, to see light, to make themselves known to the world. Stoicism, and maturity, are overrated. But then, that's the adolescent in me talking.

Damn insomnia.

Bush was just dreadful tonight. So confused and incompetent and sad. How does this guy function day to day when he can barely string together a sentence? I don't know how the Republican talking heads can claim that his performance was strong while keeping a straight face.

I'm not usually one with a strong lust for material goods...I tend to be much more interested in experiences (travel, music, art, conversation) than in pretty shiny things. Hence my lack of familiarity with all sorts of electronics (I didn't get a DVD player until this year, and had no idea what an iPod was until Aroop very patiently explained it to me), and my general indifference to jewelry. (Well, except for my high school graduation gift, which is one of the coolest pieces I've ever seen, a Native American work of art. It's a ring with a moon maiden head made of bone and a silver mask which clips over the face. I never wear it, because I'm too terrified I'll fuck it up, but I lurve it). In any case, I have been bitten by the fashion bug, and while roaming through quirky online boutiques I found these ballet slippers. Not just any ballet slippers, but ballet slippers with quotes from songs by The Smiths and David Bowie and others. I can't think of anything more impractical than $90 ballet slippers with suede soles and hand-painted song lyrics (surely if I were more crafty I could come up with a much cheaper version myself), but I desperately want these stupid things with an all-consuming passion not experienced since my nine-year-old self saw a commercial for the Danse doll from Jem and the Holograms. Turquoise ballet slippers emblazoned with an awkwardly painted bird and "Sweetness I was only joking." Could there be anything more grand? *sigh* Must...return...to...liberation...from...desire...for...material...things...

I have just spent the past hour telling a man dressed as a chicken to riverdance, macarena, skip, moon me, model, kiss the pillow, do the worm, sing, cry, and sleep. I never realized how appealing it is to have someone obey your every command, especially someone resembling a chicken. Must figure out and purge this formerly unperceived dangerous part of my personality. Well, maybe after I get him to masturbate...and do a backflip...and shadowbox...

I've been spying on people again, which suggests a resensitization to my environment...perhaps because spring is here, and I've been escaping my head occasionally to notice the warm sunlight and brightly colored pansies and aggressively cheerful birds. I've been compulsively writing in my little notebook (a birthday gift from my friend Martin) about other people in cafe's, in stores, and so on. There was a strange wommon in a cafe yesterday who was very demanding about her ice cream sundaes. She rather bitchily insisted on more and more whipped cream until she was finally satistfied (while I impatiently waited in line behind her). She seemed to be in her mid-30's, but her hair (a pageboy with bangs) or her outfit (white sneakers, high-waisted baggy jeans, red turtleneck, and long leather jacket) may have prematurely aged her. I imagined that she had ordered the sundaes for her whiny spoiled monsters of children, but to my surprise she was joined by an absolutely beautiful young man who looked like Jared Leto playing Jordan Catalano of the TV show My So-Called Life, but with dark brown hair which dripped down the nape of his neck to brush his shoulders. He appeared to be in his early 20's. They sat down and dug into their sundaes. Instead of reading papers about cardiac enzymes, I tried to decipher snippets of their conversation to figure out their relationship. They spoke as equals, although they didn't appear to know each other extremely well. They knew many people in common, and kept mentioning what Nicole or Brad or James did the other day. The wommon used "like" frequently, which made her seem much younger than her appearance suggested. I'm not sure if it was a date, or a friendly meeting at a cafe. I eventually lost interest in their excruciating boring conversation (there's only so much I can take of "Well, Nicole got really wasted the other night, and she called Brad, and then they...") and moved on to spy on a scruffy cute guy, then proceeded to miserably fail at an attempt to hit on him. Heh.

I look back at my writing during my anatomy class, when I was overwhelmed by the sight and smell and feel of cadavers and their innards, and am struck by its almost hallucinatory (is that a word?) quality, the visceral punch of the images. When I was reading Jesus' Son by Denis Johnson, his images reminded me of the images in my writing during that time...I wish I could get that quality back. My writing has been too cerebral as of late. Not enough poetry there.

As I've been trying to figure out what the hell to do with my life and how to find myself and all that jazz, I remembered Conan O'Brien's commencement speech to the Harvard Class of 2000. It's amazing. As good a job as Hillary Clinton did with her speech at my Yale commencement, Conan's kicks the ass of hers. I remember being so profoundly moved when I first read it. While my interest in his talk show has waned in the last few years (especially since he now makes a shitty gay joke almost every time I happen to catch him, although he is very friendly and sweet to his gay guests), I still think he's a wonderful person. I still remember him at a Master's Tea at Yale, when he spoke for two hours and had all of us laughing hysterically, tears streaming down our cheeks, the entire time. He was so incredibly nice. He offered to stay longer "because [he] had nothing better to do" but the Master ultimately had to interrupt him and end the tea.

Dave Eggers at another Master's Tea, on the other hand? Complete asshole. Although perhaps he can be forgiven since he had gotten almost no sleep the night before (or so he claimed). I was all trembling with excitement about meeting him and sharing how much I loved reading his book A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius during my semester abroad in Paris (its quintessential early 90's American-ness helped me with homesickness), but he blew me off and had no interest in hearing what I had to say. He did draw a little picture of a hammer in my journal, though, with the phrase "This hammer has seen it all." Which I kind of liked. Although I preferred the little baby chick he drew in another girl's book. I don't recall what phrase he included with that drawing.

Marry me, Brian Joubert. I love you for your quadruple/triple toe combination, your shiny black costume with green numbers all over it, your long program set to the Matrix soundtrack, your dodge-the-bullet-a-la-Keanu move just before your straight line footwork, and your blunt desire to be world champion. Oh, and you're French. I don't know about having your babies, but I'll cook you Korean food once a month, when you have a day off between competitions. Now that's love, at least it is from me.

Oh, I also love Richard Clarke. His testimony yesterday was kickass. Oh, the drama, when the entire room fell silent for what felt like an eternity after he flat-out said that Bush's war in Iraq undermined the war on terror. The pissing contest between him and that Thompson guy, with Thompson ultimately slinking away with "well I'm from the midwest so I don't know anything," was highly entertaining. And he finally apologized for 9/11, although of course those words should have come out of the mouths of others. Hopefully people won't fall for the Bush administration's desperate scrambling to undermine Clarke's credibility.

Oh, and I finally picked up Loudain Wainwright III's album, The Last Man on Earth, and I love it to pieces. Most of the songs are about death, his mother's death in particular, which is of course up my alley. I like his wry sense of humor. It's a little strange to notice all the cross-references in his and his son's (Rufus Wainwright's) albums. I can't help but think about each in relation to the other. I do wonder, though, if he stands by his claim in the song "The Last Man on Earth" that he doesn't "give a damn which idiot runs this country" after what has happened in the last few years (I think the album was recorded back in 2000 or early 2001, before 9/11).

I'm reading the book Terrorism and Tyranny by James Bovard, which is primarily about the Bush administration's response to 9/11, particularly its curtailing of civil liberties via the Patriot Act. The first few chapters discuss the first war on terrorism during the Reagan administration and how subsequent administrations failed to act responsibly towards the threats of bin Laden and Al Qaida, leading up to the W. Bush administration's willful ignorance and lack of action before September 11th. It's been good to recap the events leading up to 9/11, especially since the 9/11 commission hearings took place today and will continue tomorrow. Although the Clinton administration certainly had their fuckups (its handling of the first WTC bombing, its failure to procure bin Laden after Sudan offered to capture him, the useless bombing of an abandoned Sudanese pharmaceutical factory), at least Richard Clarke appeared to realize the magnitude of the Al-Qaida terrorist threat at the time that the Bush administration took over, although he and George Tenet were apparently ignored by Dr.Rice and the rest of Bush's administration. Ugh. This is probably old news, but I missed a lot of these details the first time around (due to the stress of newly starting medical school, I guess), and am pretty horrified as I read about them now. Not to mention how ridiculously scary and unconstitutional the Patriot Act is, and how proposals for amendments were promptly shot down, and how it was rushed for approval before most of the signers even had a chance to read it.

God, it's been a long time. I've been kind of avoiding thinking about a lot of things, hence the lack of posts. But hopefully I can change that soon.

I participated in the Medical Student Faculty Show as a singer and a writer. It was called "Gray's," as in "Gray's Anatomy," and was based on the musical Grease (although the conflict is between a goody-two-shoes internist and a gunner surgeon instead of a "good girl" and "bad boy"). I wrote an Attending Rounds scene, a Third Year party scene, and a Match Day scene, all in the span of five hours (from 3 AM to 8 AM on a Monday morning). The latter two scenes had only a few lines before the songs ("You're the One that I Want" and "We Go Together" respectively, both from Grease). Anyway, here's the Attending Rounds scene. It's obviously a spoof of the show American Idol. I came up with the idea of this scene, and I think it actually does capture the competitive nature of attending rounds for the medical students, and also how arbitrary the responses from the attendings can be. I channeled some of the hate directed towards me from surgery attendings into the Dr.Simon character. I think the first and the last songs are written decently...the middle song, "Harder to Breathe," is insanely awkward and I wish I put more time into it, but the singer actually handled it with aplomb.

ATTENDING ROUNDS SCENE

This is a spoof of American Idol. There are three “judges,” who are attending physicians, seated at a table. There is the mean one with the British accent, “Simon,” who is a typical asshole surgeon type. There is the sweet nice one, “Paula,” who is the fluffy psychiatrist type. And there is “Randy” who is some internal medicine whatever guy (I’m thinking endocrinologist but it really doesn’t matter) who says “dawg” repeatedly. Meanwhile, the medical students, take stage one by one to “audition” with their patient presentations. There’s student #1, student #2,(who may be already established supporting characters) and Sandy. There is also the host-type character who interviews the students and asks them how they think they did.

HOST: Welcome to Medicine Attending Rounds! We have three medical student contestants who will perform their patient presentations, and we have our three esteemed judges, Dr. Simon, Dr.Paula, and Dr.Randy, who will choose our new Medical Student Idol. First up, Ladies and gentlemen, Student #1!

Music cues: “Here Comes the Sun” by the Beatles.

STUDENT #1:
Here come the runs, Here come the runs,
and it’s not right

Diarrhea, that’s this poor patient’s chief complaint
Diarrhea, it seems like years since it’s been clear
Here come the runs, here come the runs

Diarrhea, it could be caused by Norwalk virus,
Rotavirus, or it could be C.difficile.
Salmonella, Giardia,
And it’s not right

Runs, runs, runs, here they come…
Runs, runs, runs, here they come…

For assessment, well it’s clear that it’s diarrhea
Next the plan is, we rehydrate and culture her
Here come the runs, here come the runs
And it’s not right

Applause, or lack thereof. Student #1 nervously awaits the judges’ remarks.

PAULA: Student #1, I love how you put your heart into your performance. I could see that you were trying really hard to do well. You need to work on your pitch and phrasing, but you have a lot of potential. Good job. Thumbs up.
RANDY: You did your thing, dawg, and I respect that. It was a’ight. Just a’ight.
SIMON: I don’t know what planet you two are from. That was dreadful. Simply dreadful. You should hire a lawyer and sue the people who advised you to pursue this profession. And this institution should be ashamed of accepting your money to do labor for them. After all the presentations I’ve witnessed, I can safely say that you’re the worst medical student in America.

HOST: Aw, man! That’s pretty harsh, Dr. Simon. Do you have anything to say, Student #1?
STUDENT #1 (groveling): Dr. Simon, you are absolutely right and I’m horrible, but I can do better. Please still consider giving me honors! I’ll do anything! Anything!
SIMON: My failing you would be a gift to the medical profession. You simply don’t have what it takes.

STUDENT #1 is dragged off the stage by the HOST.

HOST: Okay, now for Medical Student #2!

Music starts: Maroon 5’s “Harder to Breathe”

STUDENT #2:
So this patient’s chief complaint is sudden dyspnea
He’s got HIV and CD4 of twenty-uh,
He’s had night sweats, fever, chills, headache, and hacking cough.
And he’s also noncompliant with his meds and stuff

So at the ED his O2 sat dropped to eighty-four,
And he was given two liters by nasal cannula
His O2 sat rose and then next he had some cultures drawn
He was admitted but his symptoms are not close to gone

Rash allergy to septra and noncompliant with meds
Which are dapsone and azithromycin, while on lung exam
He’s tachypnic and got decreased breath sounds in his bases you see
His chest x-ray shows bibasilar ‘terstitial opacities
He’s got pneumocystis p and it’s getting harder and harder to breathe

So for our plan we’ve got him on 2L Oyxgen
And for his PCP we’re giving him some primaquine
We also ruled him out for pulmonary embolism.
And he’ll get steroids for hypoxia and optimism.

Mr. B, he’s got HIV, and he’s noncompliant with meds
CD4 count is low and so he’s at pretty significant risk
His symptoms as well as his chest x-ray suggest PCP
He’s got pneumocystis p and it’s getting harder and harder to breathe
He’s got pneumocystis p and it’s getting harder and harder to breathe

Student #2 has tons of attitude, and smugly awaits the judges' comments.

PAULA: Medical student #2, I could see your spirit dancing as you were presenting that patient. You’ve really got that extra factor to be a great physician some day. Good job! Thumbs up.
RANDY: STUDENT 2, STUDENT 2, STUDENT 2. You’re the man, dawg. That was tight. Yeah!
SIMON: (dramatic pause) Well, it was just all right. I’ve heard better. You have strange facial expressions while presenting which I found rather distracting. I think I would have liked your presentation better if I kept my eyes closed.

HOST: Do you have anything to say to that?
STUDENT #2: Well, I just did my thing my own way, and some people won’t like it, but I don’t care what other people think. Dr.Simon has his opinion, and I have mine.
SIMON: And I was going to give you a passing grade! Never mind, I will fail you instead!

Student #2 gives a "whatever" face and flounces offstage.

HOST: And now for our third and final contestant, Sandy!

Music starts: Peggy Lee’s “Fever”

SANDY:
Fever is the chief complaint here, and swollen lymph nodes under the jaw
With the fever comes blurry vision, chills, also anorexia
He’s got a fever – but no skin rash, no bleeding or bruising in sight
Fever - in the morning, fever all through the night.

PMH does not give a clue here, and sex affairs he can’t recall,
Allergies? None to speak of, he’s taking no meds at all
He’s got a fever – Pulse 90’s, temperature is 39
Fever - in the morning, fever all through the night.
Leukoplakia on his tongue there, and some focal LUQ pain
Cervical lymph nodes are swollen, also tender to the touch,

This may be from a sort of infection, or maybe something autoimmune.
Could also be a type of cancer. A biopsy is scheduled soon.
He’s got a fever – we’ll do some cultures, for viruses and rickettsiae.
Fever - in the morning, fever all through the night.

Applause.

RANDY: Sandy, Sandy, Sandy. Yo, that was off the hook! You need to teach a class, show all these other students how to get this done. You’re definitely getting Honors, dawg!
PAULA: I have tears in my eyes; that was just wonderful. You hit all the notes on that presentation perfectly. You’re going to be a star physician, Sandy! Honors to you!
SIMON: That was perfect. There is no question in my mind that you have won this competition. You’re the only student today who was worth my attention. I give you Honors as well.

HOST: Congratulations! It looks like you’re our new Honors Student! What do you have to say to that, Sandy?
SANDY: I…I…I was great! I didn’t hold back, I kicked ass with my presentation, I’m getting Honors, and…*gasp* I like being a gunner! Maybe I shouldn’t have been so hard on Danny…oh Danny, I understand now why you’ve been so aggressive about school. If only we could work things out…

End scene.

Hey, I'm easily amused. This guy's imitation of Billy Corgan (of Smashing Pumpkins fame) isn't bad.

Every year my father sends me a box of Li-Lac Chocolates for Valentine's Day. They're homemade chocolates from a little place in Greenwich Village; the champagne truffles are especially celebrated. He usually sends me a truffle assortment, because I am a truffle whore. Anyway, each year I get the box, and I always forget which truffles correspond to which flavors. So, for future reference: Milk chocolate with dark chocolate stripes = champagne truffle, and dark chocolate with white stripes = caramel truffle. My favorites, and the ones I always want to save for last. Good Lord, but they're divine.

Out of curiosity, I rented the first Six Feet Under DVD and watched the pilot and the next couple episodes. I had never seen the show before, due to my lack of HBO (and absence of friends who forced the show upon me, as Dave did with Sex and the City). Although I found some of the script a bit stilted and stage-y, I found myself really identifying with a lot of the characters. Just being in the hospital and constantly confronting the immediacy of death makes one more aware of mortality. And then, of course, there was all the stuff I went through during my pediatrics and surgery rotations which made me acutely aware of my own mortality. Although I've largely learned to push away and distract myself from thinking about death, the fear is still there. And there's also a kind of desperation to do all that I wish to do right now, in case my time is soon up. But my inability to accomplish all that I wish to do (or even a small fraction of what I wish to do) frustrates the hell out of me and sometimes makes me want to curl into the fetal position and dream away my life (I've never taken drugs, but maybe those would help?).

Anyway, back to the show. I hated the fake commercials in the first episode with a fiery passion, but thankfully, they don't seem to be a recurring element in the episodes. Peter Krause--damn but he's gorgeous. I loved Rachel Griffiths in past film roles, so she's welcome here. I love, love, love Lauren Ambrose. She's so natural on screen. I'm impressed with Frances Conroy as the mother, although the sudden outbursts are becoming repetitive and tiring (more the fault of the screenwriter than of the actress). I identify with David (Michael C.Hall) the most, of course. Well, I think that I'm probably a strange mix between David and Nate. But I feel David's pain most strongly--his feeling of entrapment because he's unable to let himself be happy. Urgh.

*sigh* Well, Howard Dean has announced that he's no longer campaigning for president. I got a little misty-eyed reading and hearing snippets of the speech he gave to his supporters today. I'm overstating here, but I feel like he was the lamb who was sacrificed in order to breathe life back into the Democratic Party. His early fury and bluster about Bush's failures, and the support he gained from doing so, led the way for other candidates to safely coopt his message in more media-friendly soundbites. And even with all of his fuckups, he was the only candidate, other than Kucinich, who convinced me (and had the history to support) that he was really passionate about reversing the Bush administration's agenda, bringing power back to the people rather than kowtowing to corporate interests, and discussing openly the motivation for the war in Iraq. Kerry and Edwards talk a good game, but they still strike me as rather shady. Especially Kerry. Yes, he was a war hero, and yes, he valiantly protested the Vietnam War after his return. But he voted for the PATRIOT act, he voted for the war in Iraq, he voted for No Child Left Behind. A significant portion of his funding comes from special interest groups. His voting history indicates that he's very much centrist. He's ugly as sin, he's a wooden speaker (not as wooden as Gore, but definitely without the fire of Dean, or the charm of Edwards), and he has a strange family including his gazillionaire ketchup heiress wife who babbles nonsensically at campaign events. Oh, but he's "electable," whatever that means. It does seem that Republicans view Kerry as much more of a threat than Dean to Bush's bid for reelection, but I still feel like Kerry lacks something, and still feel uneasy about his chances of winning the presidency.

I still haven't figured out how Dean's presidential bid flopped so spectacularly. I do know that I'm not one of those who "dated Dean, married Kerry." In fact, I suspect that if Kerry does gain the nomination, those who voted for him in the primaries might eventually wish for a divorce. But then again, anyone but Bush, right? *sigh*

The other day I met a wommon named Hooker Dough. Hooker Dough. No shit.

Well, I just saw Capturing the Friedmans (with all the DVD special features...I'm beginning to fall in love with the whole DVD thing, which is new to technologically retarded me). It blew my mind. The best movie I've seen in ages. The director Jarecki did an amazing job with this debut film of his (although I'm sure the shitload of money gained from being the founder and CEO of Moviefone helped him out quite a bit, as well as his luck to discover such a rich and complex and tragic story). The DVD included an interview with Jarecki and Charlie Rose, and Jarecki made the comment that these days in the media (spurred by our current President and his cronies) there seems to be such an emphasis on the sharp delineation between "good guys" and "bad guys," but this movie reveals that this is a fantasy, that there is a gray area between black and white, that people can do really horrible things while also being good in other ways. If nothing else, this film reveals the endless complexity of human nature. I've found myself drawn more to documentaries lately. This film, as well as the grand prize winner of the Full Frame Festival in 2002, The Last Just Man, packed such a wallop, I don't know if I'll ever recover. Damn.

This article, which features an interview with the sociologist Arlie Hochschild, attempts to explain why blue collar white men vote for Bush, even though his policies will probably benefit them less than the policies of Bush's Democrat opponents. I've been mystified by this phenomenon for quite some time. Hochschild's implication that blue collar white men resent womyn and minorities, and thus turn to the Republican party which they feel will champion themselves at the expense of others, is quite disturbing to say the least. As well as their falling for Bush's bullshit aw-shucks-I'm-just-like-you act. God, when I read something like "I voted for Gore, but I'd probably vote for President Bush if I had to do it again...I like that he's a Christian and that's he's not afraid to admit it. I can relate to that." , I just don't know what to do other than shrug helplessly.

I'm still fuming that CBS did not air the MoveOn.org anti-Bush ad during the Superbowl, after it aired ads supporting the Bush administration last year. As for the Janet Jackson boob fiasco, I won't waste much more space on that. All I will say is that the outrage is ridiculous (the French must be laughing their asses off at us right now...it's a fucking breast, for God's sake), and that it just highlights the insane hypocrisy of CBS. All this media hoopla over a fucking breast, while there are so many more newsworthy stories about how people's lives are fucked over by the Bush administration, both here in the States and overseas. It's sickening.

I finally saw Lost in Translation a few nights ago. It didn't quite live up to the hype for me. I don't know if this was due to my mood at the time, or to impossibly high expectations because of said hype. I had a few issues with the film. First of all, there is the autobiographical element. Charlotte, played by Scarlett Johanssen, was clearly a stand-in for Sofia Coppola herself, and John, played by Giovanni Ribisi, was clearly a stand-in for Spike Jonze. I've read that the ditzy blond actress was supposed to be Cameron Diaz, and she certainly was Cameron-like with her bubbly demeanor, TMI regarding body odor, and her kung fu movie (i.e. the Charlie's Angels remake). I don't know the details of the now-defunct marriage between Sofia and Spike, and so I can't take sides. However, I absolutely love Spike's work. Being John Malkovich and Adaption are among my favorite movies of all time, and impressed me greatly with their innovation. Spike's probably my favorite music video director as well...God, think of Weezer's "Buddy Holly," the Beastie Boys' "Sabotage," Fatboy Slim's "Weapon of Choice" and "Praise You"...I could go on and on. So, to see Spike portrayed in such a negative light in Lost in Translation left a bad taste in my mouth. And it really was Spike. The sunglasses, the clothes, the demeanor, the stuttering, the mannerisms...(if you check out his performance in Three Kings, you can see how strong the resemblance is)...it was definitely him. And so I couldn't hold back some irritation at Charlotte, and thus Sofia Coppola herself, for making me feel negatively about an artist that I greatly admire. This compromised my ability to enjoy any scenes with Charlotte, especially the scenes with John, with ditzy blond actress girl, or with Charlotte alone. Well, there is also the matter of some appalling interviews with Scarlett Johanssen which have dissipated my previous admiration of the actress (which existed in the first place because of her appearance in Ghost World).

Okay, my other beef with the movie (surprise, surprise): how the Japanese were objects of mockery. Why would a reasonably intelligent wommon ask a question like "Why do they mix up their l's and r's?" Other than to set up Bob's punchline, "For yuks"? Different languages have different sounds, and not all people were raised learning to speak the sounds used in the English language, dumbass! Gah! And it struck me as strange that the insanely cheezy red-haired lounge singer was good enough for Bob to sleep with, because she was white and American, while the Asian prostitute who asked him to "lip my stockings" was too repulsive to fuck. Cheating on his wife is cheating...but of course he would only cheat with a white chick. I hated that whole segment, actually. Well both segments--the "lip my stockings" segment and the "cheating-on-wife-with-cheezy-lounge-singer" segment. The latter plot twist just seemed too soap opera-ish for me. It served its purpose to create conflict between Bob and Charlotte, and to also help them realize how much they meant to one another, but surely there could have been a less predictable and cheezy way to do this. Ugh.

Things I liked: Bill Murray, the ending, the soundtrack, the cinematography, the title.

Bill Murray: Sofia Coppola has reported that she wrote this part with him in mind, and he took the role and completely kicked ass with it. He was transfixing in every scene...the subtlety of his performance was astounding. His voice, his fleeting facial expressions, his body language, his eyes...with ease and grace, he conveyed the myriad of this character's emotions and uncertainties. I'm not as familiar with his other performances as most other kids of my generation are (I've only seen him in Rushmore, and have never seen Meatballs or Ghostbusters or any other the other iconic Bill Murray movies), but I understand why he's always so celebrated as a comedic and, more importantly, an authentically human actor. Whenever I think about Bob, there is a pang of tenderness in my heart, and this is thanks to Mr. Murray. I think, other than the ending and the going-out-karaoke-scene, my favorite scene is when he's in the hospital waiting room, goofing around with the old Japanese lady, while Charlotte gets her foot examined. I just love that scene, the pure childish joy of it.

The ending: this was one of the director's touches which struck me as really lovely. Bob whispers something in Charlotte's ear before they part, and we, the audience, are not able to decipher it. It's their secret. It reminds me of the end of Wong Kar Wai's In the Mood for Love when the main male character whispers his secret into the hole of a tree, and we don't hear what he says. In both cases, the characters keep something to themselves, and this gives them some privacy, a life outside of the world of the movie. Which makes them only seem more real, and more alive.

The soundtrack/cinematography: I thought the music was fantastic. Perfectly captured the mood of the film. And the cinematography, with those gorgeous shots of neon signs reflected on windows and dreamy off-kilter images, was also wonderful.

The title: "Lost in translation" refers not only to the fact that Bob and Charlotte are in a foreign country where they do not understand the language or the culture, but also how they are unable to communicate with their spouses or understand themselves. Only when they're with each other does the world make some sense. However, the strength of their mutual understanding can only occur under ephemeral circumstances (while they are away from their normal worlds and their spouses, while they are in their current stages of personal evolution). This is why they must part, to keep the purity of their spectacular connection.

Next up for me: Capturing the Friedmans! I've been dying to see this movie since forever. Woo!

We like the moon.

Curses. My friend Brian has gotten me addicted to vintage clothes shopping on ebay. At the moment I'm on the hunt for a cloche hat, the kind which graced the heads of ladies in the paintings of Edward Hopper, such as Chop Suey. I'm waiting for a supposedly mod vinyl trenchcoat in the mail. Someone stop me.

This week's This American Life includes a profile of Jerry Springer, aka the talk show host and former mayor of Cincinnati. I can't believe I'm saying this, but I was blown away by his political speeches. They created a stirring of feeling inside which I rarely experience while listening to modern day politicians. I knew vaguely of his political career but I had no idea that he was such a gifted politician. I thought it was telling that even people who knew him from his talk show were caught in his spell as they listened to him talk, about how he immigrated to the States with his parents at the age of five after most of his family had been killed in the Holocaust, about how the rich should not be getting monstrous tax cuts and how this does little to help the economy or the poor. There was such raw passion in his voice, and what he said was poignant and appealed to common sense. He's a fascinating study of self-loathing. The revelation of his use of a prostitute while he was in office seems to have led to this downward spiral, resulting in his playing the foolish ringleader of a trash television circus. He doesn't seem to have forgiven himself for this public failing, even though, at least according to those interviewed on the show, everyone else forgave him and wanted him to continue to serve his community.

Song of the moment: "1979" by the Smashing Pumpkins. I can forgive Billy Corgan's bitchiness and egotism because he writes such damn good songs. This one is perfect for driving at night, and brings me back to aimless high school misadventures.

I saw the movie crazy/beautiful yesterday on television and it was, well, beautiful. I tend to be very very critical of teenage coming of age love stories, since it's so hard to do anything interesting with a genre that's been done to death, but this was one done right. Apparently the more explicit sex and drug use scenes were edited so that the film could maintain a PG13 rating. This may have compromised the quality of the film, but it's still damn good. It's really nice to see Kirsten Dunst act her little heart out as Nicole, a role more challenging than Mary Jane in Spiderman, or Torrence in Bring it On (although she was charming in both those roles). And damn--Jay Hernandez, who plays the male lead Carlos, left me weak in the knees. His lips, his eyes, his chest, his tattoos...*swoon.* What a gorgeous guy. The critique of well-meaning but clueless liberals was not as trenchant as it could have been, but the wince factor was high when Nicole's father tries to empathize with Carlos by telling him that "it must have been hard to escape from la vida loca of drugs and violence...it's not just a Ricky Martin song." (Or something close to that).

I love Caffe Driade. Not only do the servers and the patrons provide plenty of eye candy, as well as nummy pastry treats, but they almost always play fantastic music there. It was where I first heard Beck's Sea Change, as well as Death Cab for Cutie's Transatlanticism. I got more done during five hours there tonight than I've gotten done the entire past week. Damn but I wish I were more productive at home.

Anyway, there's a story of mine which has been in progress for over a year, called "Cookie Dough." I had the first couple of lines and the last couple of lines for the longest time, but couldn't write what happened in between those two points until tonight. This is a first draft, so it's unpolished (God, I always say that...at every story reading, I've said those exact words). I think this is the first story I've written in three years that does not contain the word "orifice." Woo!

Cookie Dough

Robbie smashed a second scoop of chocolate ice cream into the paper cup. He sang with Britney on the radio, his overly cigaretted voice offering a plaintive and weary interpretation of “Oops I did it again.”
“Is that all? I can’t believe I’m paying $3.14 for just that much.” The woman’s red lips were pursed in displeasure, like a bloody gash beneath her nose. Her knuckles were white from grasping the Sunday Times so tightly.
Robbie masked his irritation with a creative interpretation of a smile. “You asked for two scoops. Ye ask, and ye shall receive.”
Robbie had renounced God after a particularly nice screw with a plaid-sporting Steve McQueen type in a red pickup truck on October 23rd, 1977, and he never went back. But when he raised his eyes from the cash register to take the next order, he could have sworn that an angel appeared before him. This vision of such beauty and purity and innocence was so sickeningly sweet, he felt like he was being asphyxiated with vanilla. Robbie was suddenly self-conscious about his rough, scarred skin, and the strands of gray mixed with dirty blond of his straggly shoulder-length hair. This boy…his creamy smooth skin, rosy cheeks, chocolate curls of hair…this was a dream of a boy, who knew no evil, no ugliness, no wrong. Robbie almost wanted to take a bite of him and swallow him and digest him to incorporate his young fresh molecules into his own body’s aging matter…but then again, eating veal or lamb doesn’t make one feel any younger or more innocent.
“Your name must be Dick, right?” Robbie found these words escaping his mouth, to his surprise.
“Why do you say that?”
“You look like a drawing in one of those Dick and Jane books, the kind that my Dad read to me when I was a kid.”
The young boy smiled widely, and the brilliant glow of his teeth combined with the sparkle of his eyes nearly blinded Robbie. “I guess I do look pretty old-fashioned. I’m not like some of the other kids here with spiked, bleached blond, or purple hair. My name is Jim. What’s yours?”
“Barbra Streisand.”
“Well, your nametag says ‘Robbie,’” Jim noted, confused.
His mother suddenly appeared, resembling a massive peach elephant beside him. “Jim? Have you gotten your ice cream yet?”
Jim turned to his mother and gave her the same charming smile he had given to Robbie just a few seconds earlier. “No, mom. You sit down and I’ll take care of it. You want butter pecan, right?”
His mother looked critically at Robbie. “You make sure this boy gets nothing but the best, you hear? He got a 1580 on his SAT’s. He’s going to go far someday. Maybe even president!”
“Well, I’ll make sure that this future luminary gets whatever sweet treat his little heart desires.”
Mom glared at Robbie. “Just make sure that your dirty hands don’t come in contact with his ice cream. I don’t want him to get any diseases from the likes of you.”
Was it that obvious that he had HIV? His T-cell count was still decent, and he had always been skinny. Robbie didn’t think he looked sick, at least not yet. Or was she just assuming this because he was gay? Robbie wasn’t sure, but he managed to keep his expression neutral as he regarded Jim’s mother. “I wouldn’t dream of corrupting your son. After all, he’s our future president.”
Jim blushed. “Mom, you just sit down, okay? He’s doing a fine job.”
Mom harrumphed and navigated the way back to her chosen table.
Jim leaned forward and whispered, “I’m sorry she was rude. She didn’t mean it…Sometimes she just gets a little uppity.”
Robbie felt himself melting under the soft brown-eyed gaze of this boy. “She’s proud of you, there’s nothing wrong with that. I’m just an ice cream scooper. You’re gonna be someone important someday.”
Jim looked startled by this comment. “Everybody’s important, including you.”
Robbie paused, and tried not to show the emotion that he felt, which manifested in a burning sensation inside of the bridge of his nose. He managed a crooked smile and brandished his ice cream scooper. “So Jim, your mom wants butter pecan, what about you?”
Jim gave him another of his devastating smiles. “Chocolate chip cookie dough, please. Both large, in cups."
“You got it, Dick.” Robbie grinned.
“My name’s Jim!” he protested, mock-offended.
“Well, it should be Dick.” Robbie went to task, slipping the edge of the scooper beneath the surface of the butter pecan carton and carving a curl of ice cream which he deposited in a cup, followed by a second scoop. He placed the cup on the counter for Jim. He then rinsed his scooper and moved to the cookie dough carton, repeating the motions. He heaped the contents of this cup particularly high.
“Do you guys make your own ice cream here?” Jim queried.
“Sure do. The best you’ll ever have, Dick.” Robbie placed the second cup on the counter next to its older sibling.
Jim grinned. “You’re awfully confident about that. What will happen if you’re wrong?”
“I’m not wrong. This is the best, kid.” Robbie’s fingers were a little stiff from the near-contact with the freezer as he rang the order up on the cash register. “$7.26.”
Jim fished in his coat pocket for his wallet, and extracted a $10 bill. “Here ya go.”
Robbie slipped the $10 bill into its slot in the register, and counted out the change. “All right, Dick. You and your momma enjoy your ice cream, okay?” He placed the change in Jim’s hands, and his fingers brushed Jim’s open, waiting palm. A jolt of electricity raced up his arm from the point of contact. Robbie trembled slightly and looked away from Jim, not wanting to showcase the vulnerability likely present in his eyes.
Jim looked at Robbie with knowing gentleness and withdrew the hand clutching his change. “Thanks. You take it easy, okay?”
“Take it easy,” Robbie echoed. His eyes followed Jim as he grabbed a couple of spoons and some napkins from the counter, and made his way towards his mother. Robbie realized that they had probably come in after church, given his mother’s dress and flowered hat, and Jim’s navy suit.
“Sir? Sir! Excuse me, I’m ready to order.” Robbie snapped to attention and turned to look into the face of a twenty-something Asian woman with an impatient expression, a physiology textbook tucked under one arm. Must be one of those medical students.
“Sorry, sweetheart. What can I get you?”
"Small pistachio, please."
As Robbie moved his scooper toward the pistachio carton, he quickly glanced over to the seating area to find Jim. He and his mother had risen from their chairs and were putting on their coats. As they headed for the exit, Jim turned and his eyes met Robbie’s, whose heart raced in response. The corners of Jim’s lips rose in a shy smile, and his arm rose in a jaunty wave.
Robbie paused in his scooping and dipped his chin in acknowledgement. He did not blink once until Jim’s figure was obscured by the glass windows and finally left his sight. He wanted all 24 frames a second to replay in his mind as he lay in bed that night, beneath the constellations he had fashioned on the ceiling with glow-in-the-dark sticker stars.

To return to my rant about stupid comments said to biracial people, I have to mention this site. Ugh. While I suppose the claim that biracial chicks are always supremely hot is intended to be a compliment, there are two sketchy aspects to this. First of all, there is the suggestion that when Asian features are diluted by Caucasian features, they become more conventionally attractive. Even Asian people are guilty of this. One of my cousins (who is fully Asian) once looked at me wistfully and said, "I wish I could be half white, so I could have eyelids like yours and so my skin wouldn't be as dark." The fuck? This girl is much, much more conventionally beautiful than I could ever hope to be, and she's telling me this shit? Argh. I also recall one Asian chick telling me, "I want to have a kid with a white man, because Eurasian people are always so beautiful." (Well, I then reminded her that I was Eurasian, and she looked at me quizzically and said, "What? Oh yeah! I forgot you were biracial!" *ahem* Gee, thanks for that ego-booster.) Second of all, it singles out Eurasian people as somehow special or different from people of other ethnic backgrounds in terms of their potential attractiveness. I've seen quite a few Eurasian people, and they run the gamut from exceedingly hideous to spellbindingly gorgeous and everything in between. Just like people of any ethnic background. We're not "special" in that way. Perhaps people come to this assumption because of their lack of exposure...they might not see many Eurasians other than celebrities such as Keanu Reeves or Dean Cain or Devon Aoki, and come to the conclusion that all Eurasians must be that beautiful. Or they might see the one Eurasian kid in their school who happens to be really attractive, and then conclude that all Eurasians must be attractive. Erm, no. Wrong.