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.

Song of the moment: Wilco's "How to Fight Loneliness." Solitude is something I embrace, not something from which I try to escape. I'm usually spinning so many thoughts in my head that I don't notice that I'm alone. But I feel a little twinge of recognition when I hear this song all the same. "Doo doo doo, doo doo doo, just smile all the time..."