So BH and I leave in 4 hours to go to the train station to go the airport to go to China for a month.
Don't have an itinerary.
Don't speak/read the language.
Don't have access to Blogger b/c of internet censorship.
Expect a lot of blogging when I get back.
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
Thursday, July 13, 2006
Monday, July 10, 2006
Hell in a handbag
Warning: spoilers and strong opinions ahead
Went to see The Devil Wears Prada last night, which I thought was quite excellent. Not perfect -- it still had some sitcom-worthy putdowns and a truly uninspired soundtrack -- but extremely good, and, in my somewhat humble opinion, the best movie about women and work since Legally Blonde.
I read the book when it came out a few years ago, and it was fun in a Nanny Diaries-type way, especially since I was in the middle of my first "real job." Adjusting to the whims and coffee preferences of another person, after spending college contemplating Faulkner and the meanings of identity was difficult and frustrating; long hours and lousy pay didn't make it any better. But where Devil the book was unalloyed whining/revenge fantasy (and I appreciated it for those reasons), Devil the movie is a smart and complicated look at what it takes to get and stay ahead.
Meryl Streep is fantastically fun to watch and the clothes are pretty and I'll forgive a lot for a good montage sequence, but the most striking thing to me about the movie is that it provides what I think (at my admittedly early age) is a worldly truth: no one is going to make your career for you. One of the big plot points of the movie (which, I actually don't recall from the book, but that may just be my memory) is editrix Miranda Priestly's replacing her faithful Nigel with her competitor Jacqueline, as part of a scheme to maintain control of "Runway" magazine. At first glance, this is horrible and unfair, and that's certainly how protagonist Andy sees it. But the makers of the movie shade it for us. When Nigel explains how he's going to have his fabulous new job, Andy asks if he's told Miranda. "Of course" he explains, horrified at the idea that it might be a secret, she put him up for it. Well, cool, that's nice of her (and believable that Meryl's Miranda might have done it), but then it's not really your job is it, Nigel? It's Miranda's to give away, and, when she needed to use it to save her own head, she did. The publishers of the magazine don't keep their star editor around because they like her, and she's playing as viciously with them as they are with her. Or, to put it another way, how likely is Nigel to find his dream job when he's afraid to send out a resume without his boss's approval? As portrayed in the movie (and, again, I'm willing to wager, not the book), he is as much of a cautionary tale as Miranda. She trusts no one, but he doesn't trust himself.
The final thing about the movie that I liked was the obvious joy it took in portraying the seriousness that goes into frivolity. Again, I think this is a difference from the book and one that only makes sense. The book was written by a pissed-off 22-year-old and, in all the best ways, it showed. The movie, however, was written, directed, and produced, by folks who've been in the industry for long enough to know that while some people might find it absurd to obsess about a piece of fabric or the angle of a shot, in fact, these small decisions have enormous power and influence in society at large. The "cerulean" monologue could just have easily been about camera frames and music videos. And, maybe as someone seeking to justify the relevance of her own easily-classified-as-frivolous creative pursuit, I appreciated that.
Final piece of Devil trivia for anyone who's still reading: the editor at the meeting with Miranda who wants to shoot florals against an industrial background is none other than famously creative/ famously impossible former Artistic Director of the Public Theater, George C. Wolfe. Which, I think, is a hell of an in-joke.
Went to see The Devil Wears Prada last night, which I thought was quite excellent. Not perfect -- it still had some sitcom-worthy putdowns and a truly uninspired soundtrack -- but extremely good, and, in my somewhat humble opinion, the best movie about women and work since Legally Blonde.
I read the book when it came out a few years ago, and it was fun in a Nanny Diaries-type way, especially since I was in the middle of my first "real job." Adjusting to the whims and coffee preferences of another person, after spending college contemplating Faulkner and the meanings of identity was difficult and frustrating; long hours and lousy pay didn't make it any better. But where Devil the book was unalloyed whining/revenge fantasy (and I appreciated it for those reasons), Devil the movie is a smart and complicated look at what it takes to get and stay ahead.
Meryl Streep is fantastically fun to watch and the clothes are pretty and I'll forgive a lot for a good montage sequence, but the most striking thing to me about the movie is that it provides what I think (at my admittedly early age) is a worldly truth: no one is going to make your career for you. One of the big plot points of the movie (which, I actually don't recall from the book, but that may just be my memory) is editrix Miranda Priestly's replacing her faithful Nigel with her competitor Jacqueline, as part of a scheme to maintain control of "Runway" magazine. At first glance, this is horrible and unfair, and that's certainly how protagonist Andy sees it. But the makers of the movie shade it for us. When Nigel explains how he's going to have his fabulous new job, Andy asks if he's told Miranda. "Of course" he explains, horrified at the idea that it might be a secret, she put him up for it. Well, cool, that's nice of her (and believable that Meryl's Miranda might have done it), but then it's not really your job is it, Nigel? It's Miranda's to give away, and, when she needed to use it to save her own head, she did. The publishers of the magazine don't keep their star editor around because they like her, and she's playing as viciously with them as they are with her. Or, to put it another way, how likely is Nigel to find his dream job when he's afraid to send out a resume without his boss's approval? As portrayed in the movie (and, again, I'm willing to wager, not the book), he is as much of a cautionary tale as Miranda. She trusts no one, but he doesn't trust himself.
The final thing about the movie that I liked was the obvious joy it took in portraying the seriousness that goes into frivolity. Again, I think this is a difference from the book and one that only makes sense. The book was written by a pissed-off 22-year-old and, in all the best ways, it showed. The movie, however, was written, directed, and produced, by folks who've been in the industry for long enough to know that while some people might find it absurd to obsess about a piece of fabric or the angle of a shot, in fact, these small decisions have enormous power and influence in society at large. The "cerulean" monologue could just have easily been about camera frames and music videos. And, maybe as someone seeking to justify the relevance of her own easily-classified-as-frivolous creative pursuit, I appreciated that.
Final piece of Devil trivia for anyone who's still reading: the editor at the meeting with Miranda who wants to shoot florals against an industrial background is none other than famously creative/ famously impossible former Artistic Director of the Public Theater, George C. Wolfe. Which, I think, is a hell of an in-joke.
Tuesday, July 04, 2006
Thursday, June 29, 2006
Hunch confirmed
You know sometimes you have two friends and you think, "wow, if they were in the same place, I bet they'd get along really well; they have lots in common, including things that I do not share with either one."
And then one of them posts on her livejournal about liking a book with dragons and the Napoleonic wars.
And then the other one posts on her livejournal about liking a book with dragons and the Napoleonic wars.
And you think, yes, I do believe I was correct.
And then one of them posts on her livejournal about liking a book with dragons and the Napoleonic wars.
And then the other one posts on her livejournal about liking a book with dragons and the Napoleonic wars.
And you think, yes, I do believe I was correct.
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
Don't all you journalists have English degrees?
So, the most annoying article in the Times today probably was Alex Witchel moaning about having to make polite conversation with those seated next to her at dinner. (Remind me not to sit next to her, should the occasion arise) But the second most annoying article, according to this gal, was this: Caryn James on the shocking new trend that "more and more movies" display, in which a moral lesson is learned after a sinful character does all sorts of despicable things. The groundbreaking trend? It's actually more fun for the audience to watch the bad stuff than the redemption.
Sound familiar? It's probably from such flicks as Click? Bruce Almighty? The Devil Wears Prada? Or, wait a minute . . . devil, devil . . . that reminds me: maybe this is the plot of Dr. Faustus, Paradise Lost, and the hundreds of works influenced by them for the past 500 years? Just a thought, Caryn.
Also -- the eye has now mysteriously almost completely cleared up. Color me baffled.
Sound familiar? It's probably from such flicks as Click? Bruce Almighty? The Devil Wears Prada? Or, wait a minute . . . devil, devil . . . that reminds me: maybe this is the plot of Dr. Faustus, Paradise Lost, and the hundreds of works influenced by them for the past 500 years? Just a thought, Caryn.
Also -- the eye has now mysteriously almost completely cleared up. Color me baffled.
Depressing news closer to home
Woke up this morning with a mildly goopy and bloodshot eye.
It's baaaaaa-aaaaaaaaaaaack.
Though, admittedly, not as bad as before.
Appointment with the optho for tomorrow afternoon.
Looking into magic charms and/or patron saint(s) of eye problems.
It's baaaaaa-aaaaaaaaaaaack.
Though, admittedly, not as bad as before.
Appointment with the optho for tomorrow afternoon.
Looking into magic charms and/or patron saint(s) of eye problems.
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
Sigh
One of the benefits of being a generally compulsively busy person (and believe me, there are many) is that I don't usually read the entire newspaper. I glance at page one and the editorials, read arts and Thursday/Sunday Stupids cover-to-cover and occasionally skim the science/metro/business (and even more occasionally) sports sections. But, now that the whole teaching-kiddies-to-write-plays thing has subsided, I've got some time on my hands, and, mainly as a method of creative avoidance, I've been reading the whole thing. . . and shit's fucked up.
I know that the primary business of newspapers is to sell drama and that there might not be anything more annoying than overpriviliged white lady hand-wringing about global warming, but I tell ya, I feel like wringing. I'm fundamentally pessimistic about the ability of this country (and, to tell the truth, other countries as well . . . sorry, Europe, but your track record's not as good as you think it is, and Asia -- oy) to adopt measures to halt or even slow it down. And I know the Earth's climate has been through a lot, since before there was even the possibility of humans, but I also think that massive climate change will likely cause enormous human suffering, even if some new forms of species pick up where the old ones left off. I also tend to figure that the suffering will be distributed, as it tends to be, largely to those who were already suffering in the first place.
I feel pretty good about the life that Beloved Husband and I lead from an ecological perspective (bike-based transportation, recycling, composting vegetable waste, buying local organic produce when possible, using energy efficient light bulbs, living with a hot house in the summer and a cold one in the winter, etc.) but I also feel like an ineffectual hippie weirdo bucket drop.
Anyway, enough whining from me. The Earth and people will contine to function and maybe things will get better. At least the Warren Buffett thing is good news. I know because I read every single article on it.
I know that the primary business of newspapers is to sell drama and that there might not be anything more annoying than overpriviliged white lady hand-wringing about global warming, but I tell ya, I feel like wringing. I'm fundamentally pessimistic about the ability of this country (and, to tell the truth, other countries as well . . . sorry, Europe, but your track record's not as good as you think it is, and Asia -- oy) to adopt measures to halt or even slow it down. And I know the Earth's climate has been through a lot, since before there was even the possibility of humans, but I also think that massive climate change will likely cause enormous human suffering, even if some new forms of species pick up where the old ones left off. I also tend to figure that the suffering will be distributed, as it tends to be, largely to those who were already suffering in the first place.
I feel pretty good about the life that Beloved Husband and I lead from an ecological perspective (bike-based transportation, recycling, composting vegetable waste, buying local organic produce when possible, using energy efficient light bulbs, living with a hot house in the summer and a cold one in the winter, etc.) but I also feel like an ineffectual hippie weirdo bucket drop.
Anyway, enough whining from me. The Earth and people will contine to function and maybe things will get better. At least the Warren Buffett thing is good news. I know because I read every single article on it.
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
Otherness and other thoughts
Saw two v. different pieces of art this weekend, but they've both got me thinking about similar stuff. First was Sunday afternoon, when I went to NYC and got student-rush tix for The Light in the Piazza, which is closing soon, so I figured it was now or never.
So beautiful. I mean, I realize, duh, everyone loves this show, so I wasn't exactly surprised to find it beautiful, but I really, really enjoyed it, more than I've liked most things I've seen recently. Victoria Clark was great, and the music was lovely, but I think the thing that I liked the most was how disturbing it was. The story [warning: musical spoiler ahead] concerns a mother and her daughter visiting Italy. The daughter is mentally handicapped and the show's central dilemma is how much of a "normal" life she should lead. And it's fraught: what's best for the daughter, the mother, the daughter's boyfriend who doesn't know about her situation, responsibility vs. taking chances -- it was all dealt with. And, here's the big, big thing . . . the production doesn't demand that you agree with it. It presents certain characters in a particular situation, the choices they make, and allows you to say "Wow, I think that's a terrible decision," or "Gosh, I'm afraid and don't know what's going to happen" but you're disagreeing with the characters not the play. To make an admittedly facetious comparison, if you object to Forrest Gump, you also object to Forrest Gump. Not so with this show.
Then, on Monday, Beloved Husband and I went to see X-Men 3. Which was actually quite similar in terms of moral quandries to TLITP. The X-Men are, by virtue of being mutants, different, physically and mentally, from "normal" people, and the central dilemma of the movie is how much mutants should be pushed toward (or even offered an option of) normality. However . . . it's not a good movie. It could have been a good movie. It should have a good movie. It has good actors, interesting ideas, and an enormous budget, but instead of bringing them together for some good, old-fashioned storytelling, it pulled confusingly at our heartstrings (evoking ACT-UP meetings, abortion clinics, and DNA modification) and then just blew crap up for 15 minutes. Also, I think it bears mentioning that in the big "do you change your powers or use them" debate the two main female characters decided to give up their extraordinary abilities (either by getting the vaccine or asking Wolverine to killing them), whereas the man who faced it ended up staying the way he was. And flying his big gay wings over San Francisco. Which is great and all, don't get me wrong, but why did he get to be loved for the way he was and not the chicks? Just asking.
Also, in a final (please, please, I hope) eye update: I woke up yesterday with a case of pink eye in my right eye (yes, the one that has been plagued since mid-May). Went to the doctor, got some antibiotic drops, and it's looking way better, but still. Truce? Please?
So beautiful. I mean, I realize, duh, everyone loves this show, so I wasn't exactly surprised to find it beautiful, but I really, really enjoyed it, more than I've liked most things I've seen recently. Victoria Clark was great, and the music was lovely, but I think the thing that I liked the most was how disturbing it was. The story [warning: musical spoiler ahead] concerns a mother and her daughter visiting Italy. The daughter is mentally handicapped and the show's central dilemma is how much of a "normal" life she should lead. And it's fraught: what's best for the daughter, the mother, the daughter's boyfriend who doesn't know about her situation, responsibility vs. taking chances -- it was all dealt with. And, here's the big, big thing . . . the production doesn't demand that you agree with it. It presents certain characters in a particular situation, the choices they make, and allows you to say "Wow, I think that's a terrible decision," or "Gosh, I'm afraid and don't know what's going to happen" but you're disagreeing with the characters not the play. To make an admittedly facetious comparison, if you object to Forrest Gump, you also object to Forrest Gump. Not so with this show.
Then, on Monday, Beloved Husband and I went to see X-Men 3. Which was actually quite similar in terms of moral quandries to TLITP. The X-Men are, by virtue of being mutants, different, physically and mentally, from "normal" people, and the central dilemma of the movie is how much mutants should be pushed toward (or even offered an option of) normality. However . . . it's not a good movie. It could have been a good movie. It should have a good movie. It has good actors, interesting ideas, and an enormous budget, but instead of bringing them together for some good, old-fashioned storytelling, it pulled confusingly at our heartstrings (evoking ACT-UP meetings, abortion clinics, and DNA modification) and then just blew crap up for 15 minutes. Also, I think it bears mentioning that in the big "do you change your powers or use them" debate the two main female characters decided to give up their extraordinary abilities (either by getting the vaccine or asking Wolverine to killing them), whereas the man who faced it ended up staying the way he was. And flying his big gay wings over San Francisco. Which is great and all, don't get me wrong, but why did he get to be loved for the way he was and not the chicks? Just asking.
Also, in a final (please, please, I hope) eye update: I woke up yesterday with a case of pink eye in my right eye (yes, the one that has been plagued since mid-May). Went to the doctor, got some antibiotic drops, and it's looking way better, but still. Truce? Please?
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
Phew
All right, world, I'm back, after a harrowing, but in many ways very good three days. The weekend was spent at Camp Wightman with the kids from the playwriting program. [And, yes, it was a little weird to take a group of entirely minority children to a location pronounced Camp White-man. To their credit, they got over it way before I did.] It was fun, but also exhauting, just being that present to another person's needs and never really getting a moment off or to myself or to relax. The best part of the whole weekend though was not the awesome camp activities -- sharing someone's first s'more, nature hike, swim in a lake, night away from home -- but the plays that they wrote. They're really totally amazing, alive with imagination and unexpected plot twists. Also, a soft-shoe number performed by a chorus of dead professional cat-fighters. As casting stands right now, I'm playing an evil high school Mean Girl (typecasting, I know) and a magical, four-armed, rainforest-dwelling woman with stars on her cheeks that can control the weather. I'm excited for costumes . . . and when am I not?
I also got the papilloma removed yesterday, which was a little more harrowing than expected.
Me, a week ago: So, should I arrange for someone to come pick me up?
Receptionist: Oh, no, this is a really easy operation, you can just walk out of here.
So I wasn't particularly worried until the UNANTICIPATED giant needle came for my eye. I'll admit, there may be a philosophy behind this: if we tell the patients we'll be sticking a giant needle in their eye, they will probably freak out, so let's just hope they don't notice. However, it's very difficult not to notice a giant needle WHEN IT'S COMING AT YOUR EYE. So, I kind of freaked out and started hysterically sobbing (I'm sure, at least 50% because I had finished the last 30 pages of Gilead in the waiting room and was pretty close to tears already). Hysterical sobs finally calmed down, papilloma was excised, but I was in no condition to get myself home. Luckily, Beloved Husband showed up and has been a superstar for the past 24 hours as I've mostly slept, popped Advil, and wiped fluid from my eye. It's looking a lot better today and will hopefully be somewhat normal looking/feeling by the end of the week. Because I am really, really sick of having a hurty eye.
I also got the papilloma removed yesterday, which was a little more harrowing than expected.
Me, a week ago: So, should I arrange for someone to come pick me up?
Receptionist: Oh, no, this is a really easy operation, you can just walk out of here.
So I wasn't particularly worried until the UNANTICIPATED giant needle came for my eye. I'll admit, there may be a philosophy behind this: if we tell the patients we'll be sticking a giant needle in their eye, they will probably freak out, so let's just hope they don't notice. However, it's very difficult not to notice a giant needle WHEN IT'S COMING AT YOUR EYE. So, I kind of freaked out and started hysterically sobbing (I'm sure, at least 50% because I had finished the last 30 pages of Gilead in the waiting room and was pretty close to tears already). Hysterical sobs finally calmed down, papilloma was excised, but I was in no condition to get myself home. Luckily, Beloved Husband showed up and has been a superstar for the past 24 hours as I've mostly slept, popped Advil, and wiped fluid from my eye. It's looking a lot better today and will hopefully be somewhat normal looking/feeling by the end of the week. Because I am really, really sick of having a hurty eye.
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
Rain appreciation
Just taking the time to point out that I'm really glad it's raining today.
I'm still grumpy from the swollen, warty eye and don't really feel like doing anything that approaches productive this morning.
And, since it's dripping a dismal rain, I can accept my sloth as opposed to feeling oppressed by the sunshine into jogging or some such nonsense.
Bad moods ---- bad weather
Good moods ---- good weather
When they switch up, it's all confusing.
I'm still grumpy from the swollen, warty eye and don't really feel like doing anything that approaches productive this morning.
And, since it's dripping a dismal rain, I can accept my sloth as opposed to feeling oppressed by the sunshine into jogging or some such nonsense.
Bad moods ---- bad weather
Good moods ---- good weather
When they switch up, it's all confusing.
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
Ow
I am having a bad month with eye health.
Having been previously diagnosed with a papilloma (scheduled -- well, in fact rescheduled, but that's another story -- for removal on Monday), and having suffered through a disturbing round of near-blindness caused by Colorado dust, I woke up this morning to find my eye swollen, purple, and tender.
Diagnosis from the eye doctor at Health Services? A stye.
I am very sick of it hurting when I look at things. And, come to think of it, when I don't look at things.
Having been previously diagnosed with a papilloma (scheduled -- well, in fact rescheduled, but that's another story -- for removal on Monday), and having suffered through a disturbing round of near-blindness caused by Colorado dust, I woke up this morning to find my eye swollen, purple, and tender.
Diagnosis from the eye doctor at Health Services? A stye.
I am very sick of it hurting when I look at things. And, come to think of it, when I don't look at things.
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
Things to which I have been up
A smattering:
1) Going to a beautiful wedding in Colorado. It had sort of all the ingredients one would want in constructing the ur wedding -- beaming bride, happy groom, deliriously joyful parents of the bride and groom, spectacular natural landscape, and completely incomprehensible-old-man-toast by someone's grandfather full of what would be cliches if I lived in rural Texas. Also a prominent and somewhat surprising mention of "Cats" in the homily. The musical, not the species.
2) Catching up with college friends as a result and feeling both excited to see people, distraught at how rarely I see them nowadays, and guilty realizing the extent to which I was kind of a flaky friend sometimes. But I'm trying not to dwell and just be a little more pro-active now.
3) Teaching at this program in the afternoons. Which means that, for the third summer in a row I find myself wearing unflattering matching t-shirts, carrying craft supplies, and playing Zip Zap Zop. Which, of course, I love (okay, not the t-shirts), but still. I'm definitely experiencing a little more deja vu than I had intended. And I'm constantly having to stifle the urge to say "But when I did this before, we did it like this." And that's hard for me.
4) Re-typing draft one of the play from Word to FinalDraft. Which means, if things go according to plans, I'll have a proper-looking document by the end of this week, from which to make corrections and changes all summer long.
5) Enjoying the weather. Damn, am I enjoying the weather.
1) Going to a beautiful wedding in Colorado. It had sort of all the ingredients one would want in constructing the ur wedding -- beaming bride, happy groom, deliriously joyful parents of the bride and groom, spectacular natural landscape, and completely incomprehensible-old-man-toast by someone's grandfather full of what would be cliches if I lived in rural Texas. Also a prominent and somewhat surprising mention of "Cats" in the homily. The musical, not the species.
2) Catching up with college friends as a result and feeling both excited to see people, distraught at how rarely I see them nowadays, and guilty realizing the extent to which I was kind of a flaky friend sometimes. But I'm trying not to dwell and just be a little more pro-active now.
3) Teaching at this program in the afternoons. Which means that, for the third summer in a row I find myself wearing unflattering matching t-shirts, carrying craft supplies, and playing Zip Zap Zop. Which, of course, I love (okay, not the t-shirts), but still. I'm definitely experiencing a little more deja vu than I had intended. And I'm constantly having to stifle the urge to say "But when I did this before, we did it like this." And that's hard for me.
4) Re-typing draft one of the play from Word to FinalDraft. Which means, if things go according to plans, I'll have a proper-looking document by the end of this week, from which to make corrections and changes all summer long.
5) Enjoying the weather. Damn, am I enjoying the weather.
Should I be offended?
A real post is coming, but in the meantime -- offense? Perhaps gratitude that I'll never be trendy?
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
Monday, May 22, 2006
Parfum
Summer after my sophomore year of college my mom and I took a trip to France. We did lots of fun things like roam around the countryside looking at churches with C. and eat rich food with silly names, and we also went perfume shopping. Perhaps I had just been reading too many gay men's memoirs where they talked about how stylish their mothers were, but I decided that I really needed to have "a scent" [you know, for my nonexistent gay son to remember me by] and I smelled 100 little strips of cardboard in an effort to find one, and finally I did. And I really, really liked it. I started wearing this perfume pretty much every day from about June 2000 to June 2002, when I decided that the most important thing was to smell as unappealing as possible in an effort to scare away fatal-disease-carrying mosquitoes.
And then I came back to the US and the last remaining milliliter of perfume sat in its little bottle and I made $7 an hour and tried to distance myself from all things collegiate. Until I went to New York last month. And I visited the enormous Times Square branch of the Parisian perfume megalopolis and started smelling the little sticks again. Which, of course, all smelled ickily like perfume. Until I got to the one that I used to wear. Which, oddly enough, just smelled like me.
So I came home, discovered that Amazon sells it for 40% off, and bought a bottle. That arrived today. And, am now probably part of a very small group of people proud to say, "Hey, I smell just like I did in college."
And then I came back to the US and the last remaining milliliter of perfume sat in its little bottle and I made $7 an hour and tried to distance myself from all things collegiate. Until I went to New York last month. And I visited the enormous Times Square branch of the Parisian perfume megalopolis and started smelling the little sticks again. Which, of course, all smelled ickily like perfume. Until I got to the one that I used to wear. Which, oddly enough, just smelled like me.
So I came home, discovered that Amazon sells it for 40% off, and bought a bottle. That arrived today. And, am now probably part of a very small group of people proud to say, "Hey, I smell just like I did in college."
Friday, May 19, 2006
Forget the slope
Things are already pretty damn slippery.
I know they do lots of things really, super-awesome well, like provide accurate sex-education information to teenagers and sign the Kyoto accord, but Europe's also creeping me out these days.
Here's a story from England, about permitting the genetic testing and then discarding of embryos without severe genetic disorders. That's right, you can mix up a batch of embryos in a lab, scan them, and if they have a strong genetic chance of getting cancer in their forties toss them out with the bathwater and start again. This is terrifying. Forget all the people who have made enormous, important contributions to the world between ages zero and forty-five, forget the fact that you're dealing with chances, not definite knowlege -- this is designer babies. The future is already here. It's taking the freaky, picky, consumerist language used by the mothers-by-choice profiled here and adding the life-is-something-you-can-buy philosophy of this lady. It's aiming for perfection and it is, as is, eugenics.
Maybe it's just because I read Never Let Me Go last month, but reading these stories together makes me feel like the day is not long off when women and men in poverty will be selling their eggs, sperm, uteruses, kidneys, and blood to create and support a ruling class of body buyers, armed with their credit cards and a belief (as told them by their credit cards) that they deserve the best, whether that's a tall, blond, disease-free child or a brand-new heart.
I know, I know, I know it's really difficult to have disabled children or to have people die in middle age of diseases that could be prevented with transplants. But I am deeply freaked out that this is the way the market is choosing to deal with it.
I know they do lots of things really, super-awesome well, like provide accurate sex-education information to teenagers and sign the Kyoto accord, but Europe's also creeping me out these days.
Here's a story from England, about permitting the genetic testing and then discarding of embryos without severe genetic disorders. That's right, you can mix up a batch of embryos in a lab, scan them, and if they have a strong genetic chance of getting cancer in their forties toss them out with the bathwater and start again. This is terrifying. Forget all the people who have made enormous, important contributions to the world between ages zero and forty-five, forget the fact that you're dealing with chances, not definite knowlege -- this is designer babies. The future is already here. It's taking the freaky, picky, consumerist language used by the mothers-by-choice profiled here and adding the life-is-something-you-can-buy philosophy of this lady. It's aiming for perfection and it is, as is, eugenics.
Maybe it's just because I read Never Let Me Go last month, but reading these stories together makes me feel like the day is not long off when women and men in poverty will be selling their eggs, sperm, uteruses, kidneys, and blood to create and support a ruling class of body buyers, armed with their credit cards and a belief (as told them by their credit cards) that they deserve the best, whether that's a tall, blond, disease-free child or a brand-new heart.
I know, I know, I know it's really difficult to have disabled children or to have people die in middle age of diseases that could be prevented with transplants. But I am deeply freaked out that this is the way the market is choosing to deal with it.
Monday, May 15, 2006
Because taste is the highest measure of self-worth
I finally started downloading songs from i-Tunes last night, prompted by the recent acquisition of an i-Pod in the family.
And these are the 7 songs I chose to download, in no particular order:
"Locked Up" -- Akon
"The Talkin' Song Repair Blues" -- Alan Jackson
"Toxic" -- Britney Spears
"Rebel, Rebel" -- David Bowie
"Fancy" -- Reba McEntire
"Footprints" -- T.O.K.
"Maps" -- The Yeah, Yeah, Yeahs
No idea what this says or means except that I'm now much more inclined to sing and dance at the computer. And it's really friggin' addictive.
Also -- Beloved Husband returns home today, which means a probably decrease in the amount of blogging and watching of the Gilmore Girls marathon. On the other hand, it'll be good to have a human in the house again -- I'm starting to narrate my internal monologue to the Wonder Dog and he's looking a little overwhelmed.
And these are the 7 songs I chose to download, in no particular order:
"Locked Up" -- Akon
"The Talkin' Song Repair Blues" -- Alan Jackson
"Toxic" -- Britney Spears
"Rebel, Rebel" -- David Bowie
"Fancy" -- Reba McEntire
"Footprints" -- T.O.K.
"Maps" -- The Yeah, Yeah, Yeahs
No idea what this says or means except that I'm now much more inclined to sing and dance at the computer. And it's really friggin' addictive.
Also -- Beloved Husband returns home today, which means a probably decrease in the amount of blogging and watching of the Gilmore Girls marathon. On the other hand, it'll be good to have a human in the house again -- I'm starting to narrate my internal monologue to the Wonder Dog and he's looking a little overwhelmed.
Friday, May 12, 2006
2 cents
My vote for the most bass-ackwards opinion piece about l'affaire Kaavya (should you live in a gossip-free cave) is today's op-ed by Whitney Otto in the NY Times.
Her main point -- you can't be a writer and an overachiever. Real writers, like, drink and smoke and stuff and that's what makes them great. Also, she tries to make a weird put-down of/ paean-to chick-lit, which is pretty daring for the author of How to Make an American Quilt.
I want to prove her central thesis wrong, but I feel like I'd just be offering myself up as an example, making it very easy for naysayers to point out my own short-comings. Which, of course, raises the question: would I be more offended at being called a bad writer or a bad overachiever?
Her main point -- you can't be a writer and an overachiever. Real writers, like, drink and smoke and stuff and that's what makes them great. Also, she tries to make a weird put-down of/ paean-to chick-lit, which is pretty daring for the author of How to Make an American Quilt.
I want to prove her central thesis wrong, but I feel like I'd just be offering myself up as an example, making it very easy for naysayers to point out my own short-comings. Which, of course, raises the question: would I be more offended at being called a bad writer or a bad overachiever?
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