Messiah of Steel

When I was a little girl, God was my best friend.

Like, seriously.

I was brought up not to judge what I had not experienced. 

From my earliest memories, my mother took me to a variety of churches…sampling religion like delicacies on a smorgasbord of faith. 

There was our revival period, where we attended “church” in smoky basements where the walls were draped with paisley and doors were made of crystal beads and trippy-ass music was the conduit of a higher power.  There was the darker Catholic period where austere acceptance of a thin wafer upon my tongue made me acutely aware that, even at five, there must be something terribly wrong with me that I should need the magical tab to cleanse my elementary soul.  There was everything in between.

By the time I was nine, the idea of “God” and “Jesus” were so deeply ingrained in my psyche that they were my invisible friends—and I counted my bible among my most treasured possessions, far and above my Barbie Dream House™ or my Julian Lennon and Michael Jackson albums. 

If I had a nightmare, I could pray myself back to sleep.  If I was afraid to climb the rope in gym class, I could pray for the strength to rise above the fear.  When my mom’s marriages were falling apart, I could pray for the courage to endure the terror of watching my life dissolve before my eyes.  My childhood faith was real—and it was so beautiful, like a warm, fuzzy blanket…one that covered my eyes and blocked out everything that I did not want to see. 

Now, I won’t get into the sadness of the dissolution of that faith—insert whatever imagery you like, but the fact is, my warm and fuzzy blanket was pulled from my baby blues a very long time ago…and no matter how much I might wish I hadn’t witnessed the mall Santa take off his beard to have a cigarette break when I was eleven, that is something you just cannot unsee.

Please let it be known that I have NEVER judged others for their continued faith, no matter the religion.  I have devout Christian, Muslim, Jewish, Satanic, and Church of Bieber friends whose blind allegiance I do not criticize…in fact, I almost envy it.  Seriously.  The ability to be completely immersed in a theology that, as far as I have ever been able to see as an adult, was designed to manipulate the masses and control property and merchandising, was something to pity more than to deride.  (And damn it, they always seem so blissed out compared to godless heathens like myself.  I coveted that peace of mind.)

But every kid still needs a hero, right? 

When my teen years arrived, I noticed myself being drawn to real people—flesh and blood—who did more, dreamed bigger, gave copiously, and sacrificed self for the greater good.  In a handful of years, I developed faith in the inherent goodness within the human creature—the Martin Luther King Juniors…the Mahatma Gandhis…the Robert F. Kennedys…the Nelson Mandelas.  NOT perfect men by any means, but men who rose above their imperfections to lead lives that left the world a little better than the way they found it.

As I recently blurted on my facebook wall, I developed a fancy for mankind, for science and rationalism—for what I could experience with my senses and NOT my imagination.   

Now, I’m no fangirl or lady geek, but this was just about the time where superheroes like Ironman or the Dark Knight arrived to make me believe that despite wealth or privilege, there were still men who consciously chose to do the right or wrong thing because they thought through the variables and outcomes on either side of their actions or indecision.  They refused to acquiesce their human gifts or their human fallibilities at the feet of a petulant god.

With the exception of Christopher Reeve when I was a child, I’ve never been that much of a Superman kind of girl—the Christ-like mythology of the Man of Steel always turned me off…if just a little bit.  (Please don’t mistake my reticence for disrespect—I think Jesus Christ, the man, was a pretty cool guy.  And his messages?  Beautiful.  But the things his followers have been doing in his name for centuries?  Yeah.  Well, I’m a lot less comfortable with that.)

It was with mild reservations, and my tongue firmly planted between my teeth, that I took in the midnight showing of Man of Steel with my fanboy best friend the other night.  I committed to stowing my skepticism and sarcasm, at least for the 2+ hours. 

By its end, I must say, ***spoiler alert***: it wasn’t half bad at all.

I won’t say too much in analysis of the film, because you know my twin, The Suburban Acrobat, has his exceptional movie blog, ...On the Movie, where he will, no doubt, be infinitely superior than I in his coverage of the film's merits and deficiencies —but here is the ten minute mom take on it all:

* The first twenty minutes of the movie compose a spectacular Shakespearean tragedy that I would venture to posit could stand alone as a mini-film.  Russell Crowe and Michael Shannon clash brilliantly in a crumbling world that looks like something from a David Bowie wet dream—and it is moving and humbling, without ever being patronizing or didactic.

* Henry Cavill kills it as Superman—I mean fucking kills it.  His performance of pacifistic goodness is palpable (yeah, I came up with that line while watching it…jealous?)  Forget the fact that he looks like he’s cut from Italian marble or that he works a thermal shirt like nothing I’ve ever seen before…it’s his struggle with reconciling where he comes from and where his loyalties should lie that is mesmerizing.  His eyes bear witness to the anguish of a lifetime crisis of identity…and his inherent goodness is never without a challenge within his (adoptive) human nature. And, *spoiler*, when he is forced to kill for the very first time…his torment tears through the screen.  (And, Lord Jesus Christ…did I mention the thermals?)

* Speaking of Jesus Christ, please do not enter this film thinking that it will delicately address Superman’s Christ-like parallels in any way.  This film lacks any finesse or subtlety as it shoves Superman’s origins in the roots of Christian ideology directly down your throat.  Two scenes that were almost laughable—

-Superman’s confessional moment with a minister as he ponders General Zod’s threats.  The camera actually shoots upward into Cavill’s beautiful face—which just so happens to be juxtaposed in front of a stained glass window depicting Jesus upon his knees in prayer.

-When Superman finally acknowledges his origins and accepts the destiny that was set in the code of his DNA (<-you’ll see what I did there when you see the movie), he free falls from a ship in orbit above the earth, arms spread wide in full crucifixion posture.  I fucking kid you not.  I actually laughed out loud.  (But then again, I’m an asshole.)

My best summative bits, for your consideration? 

-This film is riDICulously too loud—like, jet-engine-in-your-brain objectionably loud.

- There are about four battle scenes too many.  I mean, the exact same shit.  I had to stop and check if Michael Bay directed this at one point.

-Michael Shannon’s affected speech as General Zod is occasionally questionable.  But he still kicks ass so hard as one of the most driven, nihilistic anti-heroes…ever…that he gets a pass.

-Laurence Fishburne is completely wasted in his role.  An utter disappointment.  Morpheus ALWAYS deserves better.

-Amy Adams does not sparkle (though she does land a great line about “comparing dicks” with the head of military intelligence) as Lois Lane.  I’m sorry.  She just washes away and, short of her “spunky tenacity” (picture me sarcastically air-quoting there), I found myself struggling to understand Clark’s magnetic attraction to her.

-Kevin Costner is subtly stunning, like a character from a lost Faulkner story, in his role as the senior Kent.  Absolutely one of his quietest, best performances I’ve ever seen.

-Diane Lane is the most breathtaking actress of our time, but is given little to do in this film other than to moon beatifically at her magnificent son.  So…yeah.  There’s your Mary.  Real subtle, people. 

What I liked best about this film?  It’s a father’s film—there are two stories of a parent’s love for their child, biological or alien, and both are beautiful.  Man of Steel answers every question a viewer could have within minutes of our inquiry—it rewards a close viewing with an unambiguous tale of human salvation…

Which brings me to my favorite part of the movie:

This time, unlike in the case of the historical Jesus Christ, the humans aren’t the bad guys.  (Win!) The villains are simply alien creatures who identify compassion and mercy as evolutionary disadvantages and destroy accordingly.

This time, we accept our Messiah and use his example by reinforcing his goodness with our own.  The film is filled with moments where we stand, docile as lambs, watching the destruction rain down upon us but do not take up the fight.  There is a scene that takes great time to articulate the heart of altruism where two humans put aside all instincts for self-preservation or personal advancement to save one of their own.

If Christ’s greatest message was to delineate a map of peace and if this has inspired billions of people to follow in his footsteps, history has shown that we have stumbled far more than we’ve advanced. 

During Superman’s thirty-some-odd-year tenure on our planet  (right about Christ's age, too...hmmm...) he was able to bring out more of the best within people than organized religion has done in millennia.

Oops.

George Carlin famously ranted that he believed religion to be the greatest bullshit story ever told.  “Think about it,” he wrote, “religion has actually convinced people that there's an INVISIBLE MAN...LIVING IN THE SKY...who watches everything you do, every minute of every day. And the invisible man has a list of ten special things that he does not want you to do. And if you do any of these ten things, he has a special place full of fire and smoke and burning and torture and anguish where he will send to live and suffer and burn and choke and scream and cry for ever and ever 'til the end of time...but he loves you.”

Inherently holy, otherworldly god or not, Superman made a conscious decision to love us for all our human fragility and frailties and to take up the fight in our name. 

Yeah, I think I can add him to my list of heroes now.

Overall, I give Man of Steel three crucifixes and a half a thorny crown out of five.

(If there’s a hell, I’ve got a suite reserved in my name, don’t I?)

 

Emotional Misdemeanors: In Defense of Musical Plagiarism

 

Last week I was in a particularly exceptional mood, and in the midst of the simple pleasure of a moment, I made the stupid-fucking-grown-up mistake of questioning its origin.

Dumbass human move.

Regardless of whatever gift the universe hands us, we’re evidently dead-set on not only looking it in the mouth, but kicking it in the teeth.

Quick to recover, I pulled the ultimate weak-ass default move that scores of people make when they’re feeling something but unaware of how to express it:

I threw a song quote up as my status.

[Avoiding eye contact, drops head into hands in shame.]

I know.  I KNOW.

My pithy bit of lyrical wisdom?  I reached for Queen, of course.  Freddie Mercury has always had stacks of words on deck for anything I have ever felt, but I went for the obvious, considering my ridiculously optimistic mood:

“Is this the real life…?”

It really was a mildly sincere question—things felt a bit too good for a moment for me not to question the authenticity of the experience, if just a little.  Oh, the first world problems of white privilege, amIright?

But, within moments, my sincere-if-not-tongue-in-cheek bon mot devolved into an online sing-along with friends from around the country adding the text, line by line.  Honestly, I didn’t mind.  Unfazed, I sat back and smiled at the silliness of it all.

Sometimes you’ve just got to say:

“Why so serious?”

It wasn’t until the next morning—when I noticed a former favorite student’s status update, that I was given pause.  As I rolled through my newsfeed, Ian’s status leapt out at me.  Although he didn’t reference me by name, he did ruminate over how it was possible that a “speech teacher from high school” and his sister had both had the audacity to commit this apparent abomination of lyrical larceny (yes, these are my words, not his…I wouldn’t violate his privacy to rip his actual post) within days of one another, using the exact same song.

His post was, honestly, a fairly gentle castigation of the practice of people posting song lyric statuses because, as he asserted, they were “just trying to evoke some deeper meaning” from them…and yet, I still felt a little stung. 

I had not realized the depth of my crime against the interwebs.  Had I fallen victim to that tweakish-teen habit of substituting real emotion and introspective response by cribbing someone else’s more epigrammatic wit or wisdom?

Apparently so.

But the more I thought about it, the more annoyed I became at the judgment, however well-meaning it was.  I mean, it’s not like I was posting “Shots, shots, shots, shots, shots, shots…”, for Christ’s sake.

Aren’t we ALWAYS trying to use our words and thoughts and feelings and images to evoke deeper responses from other people and feel connected to them?  Wasn’t social media developed with this as its prime directive—so that we can feel a little bit less ALONE on this giant shitball we’re all riding around the sun?

Whether I post a Queen lyric or a stanza from a Lord Byron sonnet or write something original…isn’t my ultimate goal to get someone out there to think: “Fuck yeah!”…and hit the “like” button or retweet it or message me a note that reassures me of the fact that, well-what-the-hell-do-you-know, I’m not alone?

We’ve never had a population like what’s crawling on this planet right now…and yet, I’d venture to hypothesize that we’ve probably never felt so damn alone and so distanced from one another than in this generation. 

In my experience, music creates exquisite little snapshots of our lives—the sounds take you to first crushes, first kisses, first dances…and to last calls, last contacts, and last loves.  How many times have you spun up the volume on a song and cried, “THAT’S my JAM?!?!?!”  

Yeah, you and about 88 million other people, dumbass. 

 

We all have communal property rights to those same emotions—and I think therein lies my point…if we share a collective unconscious, a limitless reserve of allocated human responses, what is so wrong with withdrawing and depositing from that account whenever you feel the need for a little human touch?

 

If we are out driving around and we hear five songs in a row that evoke primeval responses within ourselves about something or someone…songs that that salve our wounds or stab at our souls, songs that make us feel alive and attached, well, what the HELL is wrong with sharing them in optimistic (if not admittedly naïve) faith that we are actively doing something about that deeper hunger for synchronicity—unlike the chaotic reality and confusion of human disconnection we see unfolding around us every day?

There HAS to be more to our species than simply our magnificent abilities to take pretty pictures of ourselves and split atoms and continue overpopulating our poor planet.  If sharing a song lyric helps me to tap into that incomprehensible craving for connection—well, what the hell does that matter to you?  

Look—I apologize if I’m coming off as overly defensive.  It’s just that I’m caught in a landslide here…there’s no escape from reality.  People, just open your eyes—if only you’d look up to the skies you’d see…

Okay, so maybe Ian was right. 

I need a hobby.

 

 

This would be a good time for you to come in now, Bruce...

 

In the end what you don’t surrender, the world just strips away.

Mobile friendly: Bruce Springsteen, "Human Touch"
 

 

Judging Albums by Their Covers: Ten Jackets that Rocked My World...

If you store your vinyl this way, go die. 

Sincerely, Anyone Who Has Ever Loved Vinyl

Blame it on the early June sunshine or the copious amounts of free time, but my brain has been coasting in the slow lane of memories for days now…and that ride always has a very specific soundtrack.

I started playing with the idea of how music and memory are connected, when it occurred to me that I was neglecting the power of the trifecta: there are images that accompany those melodies and memories and, to overlook their importance was to deny a foundational component of why they had become as deeply buried under my skin as any of my tattoos.

I hang out with way too many record store snobs who only listen to eighth generation Pussy Galore bootlegs, so I usually keep my relatively mainstream musical choices to myself, lest I suffer their condemnation—but album covers seem to hold a universal power over the collective unconscious.  They tap into different crevices of the brain and leave fingerprints as indelible as the melodies contained within their sleeves, music snobs be damned.

Album jackets used to obsess me, from my earliest memories of coveting my mom’s admirable collection to building my own archive.  As a latchkey kid from my first kindergarten days, my afternoon routine was set: 1) Get out homework, 2) Make butter and sugar sandwich [Jesus, how did I avoid juvenile diabetes?], and 3) Fill the quiet by sitting with said stack of vinyl, spinning records until my mom got home.

I loved the music to be sure—but often, it was the art and the liner notes that truly infatuated me and kept me company.  I sensed, at a ridiculously early age, that album covers were cryptic texts which held keys that would unlock the garden where the grown-ups hid the tree of good and evil, filled with the fruit of knowledge for which I was already developing a preternatural appetite.

To fill the sunshine today, may I present an extremely truncated list of the album covers that most captured my imagination and still vibrate within that delicate balance of fading innocence and eventual awareness that lives within us all:

 

Rod Stewart, “Blondes Have More Fun”—Yes, I loved the album…but oh, those photos.  The photos.  The way Rod’s eyes were directed into my tiny five year old (yes, you heard me right) soul?  I genuinely remember opening the album vertically and dancing with the Rod’s giant head, kissing his cheeks (and maybe the lips…as long as my mom wasn’t home).  I probably logged more hours on those eyes as a child than I have in my entire marriage.  Whoops. 

   

 

Bob Dylan, “Blood on the Tracks”—The music of this album often made me feel like I’d walked into one of those taboo conversations between adults, but the album itself did not judge my awareness of it.  From the pointillism of Bob falling apart in the cover art to the archaic bits of notes from deeper within, I knew something was wrong, but I was too young to know what…and the dichotomy of that confusion was intoxicating. 

   

 

Ohio Players, “Honey”—I was seven when I discovered this album amongst my mom’s stash.  If you’ve seen the cover or, God help you, opened it, you know damn well why this jacket would sear itself in a brain: it was the aural equivalent of finding your father’s stack of stroke magazines.  There is nothing esoteric or ironic about “Honey”, it is straight erotica…and it still works  (I stand by my theory that “Honey” is the single greatest influence on Frank Ocean's uncut “Pyramids” video).  Pure hormonal confusion.

  

Linda Ronstadt, “Living in the USA”/ Barbra Streisand, “Superman”/ Carly Simon “Playing Possum”—The thing with these three albums was that they completely inverted my (ridiculously young, admittedly) world view of women in general, not just women in music.  As a daughter of the seventies, perhaps I have a different take on this than the gentlemen, after all, I was only at the precipice of the idea that women could be smart and sexy, talented and desirable—and that these concepts were not mutually exclusive.  I mean, women with rare talent, torching it up with raw sex appeal—unafraid to show as much of their bodies as they were their intellect?   Fuck yeah.  [And for those guys who just stared at their legs?  You suck.]

 

 

  

The Eagles, “Hotel California”—Minute for minute, probably the album that charted more time burning itself into my retinas than any other.  I NEVER tire of listening to the album—those badasses of bluegrassy rock are in my blood and therefore always in my heart, so music snobs can step off—but damn.  That jacket.  Oh, the controversy!  Oh, the inside meaning!  Oh, who GAVE a SHIT?  I just loved the drama of interpreting its meaning as much “Abbey Road” or “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band”, manufacturing stories from their implications.  God bless those crazy fucking seventies musicians—I think they single-handedly made a writer of me.

 

 

Fleetwood Mac, “Rumours”—Do I even really have to explain this one?  The music is unquestionably amazing—but that photo…that PHOTO!  Mick’s lanky dominance?   Stevie’s elegant acquiescence?  The absence of everything but these two bodies, locked in a dance of mastery and submission?  I’m still breathless.

 

  

 

Patti Smith, “Horses”—Fun personal fact: I have a thing with androgyny.  I find the malleability of sexual identity fascinating…and any David Bowie album could have made this list for that very reason.  [There’s a story involving a drag club in college and my falling in love for a night with a stunning queen with red hair and an emerald dress and the greatest laugh I ever heard that would explain this all further—but you’ll have to take me out for drinks if you want that one.]  Suffice it to say that the cover of “Horses” conveys an underlying intimacy that sucked me in, even as a young girl—Smith exudes this strange quality of harmony with herself that is completely devastating.  I was drawn to this decades before her fabulous memoir “Just Kids” delineated the relationship she shared with the photographer, her former lover and best friend, the inimitable Robert Mapplethorpe.  You can almost feel the ache behind the bravado.

 

The Ramones, “Ramones” / Rolling Stones, “Sticky Fingers”—the moment I pulled the Ramones album  from the stack was the moment a little girl’s palate for men was forever set for the rest of her life.  I mean, come ON:  Hair.  Legs. Jeans. Leather.  Honey-badger-don’t-care-expressions.  Legs.  So many inches of legs.  Yeah, so the Stones’ “Sticky Fingers” caused the same impulse, but with far less subtlety.  I’m actually a little embarrassed to admit how much I studied this cover (sadly, more than I ever listened to the album)—but, personal note: I can attest that I learned to draw the human form off of the delicate lines of Johnny’s body.  The way he’d stepped forward and claimed dominion over the photo?  Yeah, I really, really liked that.  [What was I saying again?]  

Prince, “Purple Rain”—This was one of my very first vinyl purchases of my very own, so loving this album (and its cover) were easy statements of my own burgeoning independence and autonomy in my musical sensibilities.  The photography is straight-cheesy-80’s gloss—but undeniably attractive to ten-year-old eyes.  The directness of its message was inescapable to little-me: I mean, just look at the rack on that woman waiting in the doorway for her Prince to come [don’t you just love what I did there?] and yet he’s still looking at ME with those eyes—holding out for ME to hop on the back of that bike with him and ride off into the night…!  Goodbye adolescence…

 

Nirvana, “Nevermind”—Sigh.  Kurt Cobain.  It still hurts so bad.  I could write volumes on the impact this man has had on my world.  His role in my psyche vacillated from lover to father to messiah and back again.  His time in my life was too brief and I still know exactly where I was and what I was doing the moment I learned of his death.  I wept.  But, I’m here to talk about the album cover, not the mythology of the man.  Prior to Nirvana, I was listening to a lot of early 90’s R&B after withdrawing from my hair-metal addictions.  Once “Nevermind” arrived, it was all over—I dove head first into rainy West-Coast cities and boys who wore flannel and Ethan Hawke films.  The taste of it all still lingers in my mouth—I’m an English teacher and I still write nevermind like this, despite its complete inaccuracy.  I remember when this album was first available in the tiny town I lived in; there was a ridiculous Walmart-related outcry over the baby’s weenie.  I was seventeen and in utter loathing of the very basis of the controversy, so I refused to buy the weenie-less copy and drove forty five minutes away to the nearest real city to purchase the uncensored version of the album.  The message of the album jacket may not have been subtle, but “Nevermind” made me connect the myriad of unconscious choices we make every day as we train our children to covet the wrong things… and forever solidified the album as one of the greatest in my memories.

It’s kind of hard to stop at ten…there are countless other album covers that entertained, delighted, and enthralled me.  It’s even harder to admit that my vinyl and I parted ways several moves ago [I actually think it was all left behind in a cold, dark basement in a move after college…and the thought haunts me every day.]  I think sometimes about starting over…finding a shop and sharing the experience with my kids.  I miss the sound of a record and the familiarity of sitting down, perusing a jacket—but, then I remember that I’m already mocked mercilessly for my lack of smartphone technology or fuel efficient vehicles…so perhaps I have to let this one go. 

It’s lonely being a dinosaur in a digital age.  Rawr.

 

“It is what you read when you don't have to that determines what you will be when you can't help it.”

I may not have a beach, but I've got a shitton of books and a wading pool, bitches.

 

Too much time alone in my own head = not a good thing.  In response to my apparent need to keep myself busy and per the request of a couple of friends, may I present…MY summer reading list:

Like a David Lynch film on paper.  Serious WTF-ville.

1) Stephen Dobyns, “The Burn Palace”  Okay.  I’m cheating.  This made my list because I’m already reading it…but it’s messing with my head so hard I can’t help but finish before I begin anything else.  There is something very wrong about what’s happening in this book…and I’m just messed up enough to really, really like that.

 

 

 



It just better not eff with me like Lost did.

2) Alan Moore, “The Watchmen”  I suppose the train left the station a long time ago on this one, but some people I care about a great deal swear it is life-changing.  For under ten dollars on Amazon, how can I pass up a shot at altering the course of my own existence?  A bargain.

 

 



I'm fairly sure that THIS is what really killed Marilyn.

3) James Joyce, “Ulysses”  Honestly, Joyce and I have been locked in a battle of wills over this novel for nearly twenty years.  This is no longer anything but a quest now.  Imma finish SOMETHING by this man before I turn forty, even if it is this impenetrable lump of conceit and confusion.

 

 

 



What I wouldn't do to...I mean FOR...this man.

4) John Irving, “Last Night in Twisted River”  I’m pretty certain it’s the only book of his I haven’t read, so…yeah.  Considering he’s my literary lover, this is an unpardonable sin that I must remedy.  Forgive me, John.

 

 

 



Predicting this to be the "Gone Girl" of 2013.

5) Marisha Pessl, “Night Film”  This is my “all-the-cool-people-are-talking-about-it-already-and-it-deoesn’t-even-come-out-until-August-so-I-better-hit-it-before-the-bandwagon-leaves-without-me” selection.  Besides, nine out of ten hipsters agree it will be hot, so…yes, please.

 

 

 



You all say Imma love it. 
I think you just know something about my secret crush on Peter Dinklage.

6) R.R. Martin, "A Game of Thrones"  It’s no fun being on the outside, looking in—so I’m crashing this party, even if I am a fucking day late, as usual.  =P

 

Amanda Palmer's husband.  Double yum. 
Oh, and he writes real good, too.

7) Neil Gaiman, “The Ocean at the End of the Lane”  He’s dark, unapproachably moody, and twisted—every woman’s dream and every mother’s nightmare.  The fact that he’s married to the only woman I’d leave my husband for doesn’t hurt.  Clive Barker-lite…perfect for summer.

 

 

 

My favorite penmonkey.

8) Chuck Wendig, “250 Things You Should Know About Writing”  I pretty much never stop reading this book.  I can, without exaggeration, open it at any time, to any page, and be inspired by his no-bullshit advice on writing.  His thoughts are simple truths cloaked in parabolic elegance—he’s like a literary Jesus Christ.

 

 

 

Literary snobs suck. 

9) Yann Martel, “Life of Pi”  I absolutely adored the elegiac, haunting-and-yet-still-life-affirming tone of the film, but my very good friend and literary brother swears to me that this book must not be missed, so read it I will.

 

 

 

Arguably the greatest opening lines of any novel. 
Like, ever.

10) Vladimir Nabokov, “Lolita”  It’s been fifteen years since I read this magnificent ode to the perversions of man for the first time… and it forever split my mind in two about literature.  I usually reread at least one beloved book once a year; this summer, it will be this book.

 

 

 

Word.

11) Dave Sedaris, “Let’s Explore Diabetes with Owls”  Let’s be honest…this list is heavy as hell.  Everyone needs a little levity and David Sedaris spoonfeeds the thinking-person hysterically sardonic essays drizzled with just the perfect taste of sour-sweet wit.  Unlike a lot of other humorists, Sedaris never makes you feel like you’re doing the literary equivalent of the walk of shame to the register to purchase his work. 

Eleven to start.  Think I can’t do it?  Watch me…with the exception of “Night Film” I’ll be done in a month.  Well, except for maybe Joyce.

(Why the hell do I keep torturing myself???) 

#masochist #keepingoutoftrouble #ifthebrainisbusythemouthstaysshut 

Be sure to see what my crazy soulmate is up to over at The Suburban Acrobat.  You just know he's going to have his own plan of attacking the summer days and nights. 

“Life isn't fair, it's just fairer than death, that's all.”

So, a funny thing happened the other day when the internet IMPLODED. 

No…no.  Not the Benghazi exposure. 

No…no.  Not the IRS scandal. 

No…no.  Not even Angelina’s pro-active mastectomy. 

It was, of course, the revelation of Disney’s overt feminization and blatant sexualization of their most recent princess, Merida, the Scottish spitfire from Brave... DUH. 

You must remember her, right?  The one that caused all the hysteria because she made the conscientious decision to remain unfazed by the wealth of suitors at her disposal and chose to remain single?  This was unnatural, “they” spat.  This meant she was gay, “they” decried.   This was not His plan, “they” disparaged.  (And by “His” I can only assume they meant Uncle Walt?)  This broke the Disney-code, “they” complained.

Only in America, folks, would any of this be headline news.  But, I digress.

Man-hating Merida is back in the headlines for her big makeover—one that has swept the mainstream media and a myriad of mommy-bloggers itching for something to say (present company… *ahem* …excluded, of course) into a frenzy of heated opinions and half-baked hyperbole.

Quite honestly, for me, it was one of those moments where I took a look, experienced a flicker of annoyance at some ancient, arcane notion of what a girl could-or-should be…and I moved on. 

Moved on, that is, until I ran the story past my favorite male friend, hoping for a spot of co-parent-righteous-communal-anger at the never-ending subjugation of our daughters by a multi-billion dollar toy and entertainment industry.  Or, you know, so we could bitch about it and smugly pat one another on the back for our sublime sensitivity to the plight of the pre-adolescent American female.

His reply, however, knocked me off my suburban mom soapbox:

“Don’t hate me," he reluctantly replied, "but her dress is lighter.  The end.  What else is different?  I don’t get the fuss.”

Damn it.  I thought this was going to be an easy one. 

I rather callously told him that—despite his proclivity for musical theatre—this was unequivocal proof of his fully intact heterosexuality.  (I’m pretty sure as a married father with two beautiful children, he and his wife are probably okay with my denunciation, though.)

For those blind to the animated transgressions being committed by the Big D™ here, I’ve composed a brief list of the primary changes that I (humbly submit) are glaringly obvious, at least, to any card-carrying member of the uterine union:

1)      Merida’s original measurements—approximately 32-28-36.  Merida’s updated measurements—approximately 34-26-36.  When the boobs go up and the waist goes down, you know it’s a man’s world.

2)      Merida’s face and expression before: quirky, fresh-scrubbed, wide-eyed teenager with the world at the tip of her bow and arrow.  Merida’s face and expression after: twenty minutes of “smoky” cat-eyed shadow/ blush/ lipliner/ and lipstick application upon a face that says “Yeah, I once got busy in a Burger King bathroom.  You mad, bitches?”

3)      Merida’s hair.  Come ON.  Before: Unruly, untamed authentic ginger.  After: Two shade rinses and a highlight at Mario Tricoci and at least $2K in extensions for “fullness” and “body”—a.k.a. stripper hair.

4)      Merida’s dress.  Before: honest (spelled h-o-m-e-l-y), earth-mother, utilitarian fashion—perfect for bareback horse riding through misty glens and winning her own hand in marriage.  After: impractical sparkly, gilded fashion monstrosity surely crafted from an exploitive, third-world sweatshop by malnourished, elfin orphans.

5)      Finally—weapon of choice.  Before: Merida’s trusty bow and arrow… and even sharper wit.  After: WHAT’S THIS?  No weapon?  Oh, she’s got a weapon all right…her hands are firmly planted on either side of it.  And you just KNOW that “New”-Merida ain’t wearin’ no chastity belt under there.

Bottom line? 

Before the overhaul, Merida looked a little like my precious ten-year old daughter.  Now she looks way too much like my foxy next-door-neighbor (whom, incidentally, my husband spends a wee bit too long checking out when he’s mowing the yard.  The mother-fucker actually FLEXES the entire time he landscapes!!!  Can you IMAGINE the energy that wastes???) 

I suppose we have no one to blame but ourselves—after all, my husband and I were the ones who chose to sacrifice our children’s college tuition to visit the house of mouse, thereby leaving us completely culpable for the transformation of our precious daughters who had, up to that point, been more interested in Spongebob Squarepants, the Museum of Science and Industry, and all things art-and-craft, into drooling, blabbering little moppets the moment they were within spitting distance of the princess du jour.

*sigh* 

Look.  I’m not trying to get into it with you Disney-acs.  You know who you are and your tribe is strong.  I respect that.  More power (and less cash) to you. 

I suppose I just thought I was raising little Jean Louise Finches—but they became tiara toddlers right before my very eyes.  We will, of course, love our daughters for whoever and whatever they become; I just wish Disney would stop dicking around with what my vulnerable and incredibly impressionable daughters think and feel.   

You see, Merida was all right already, too. 

While I liked the direction that Tangled took us in, it was Brave that sent the message I so wanted my precious progeny to receive.  Merida restored the natural balance of Lego tea parties with Woody and Buzz and Pinkie Pie and Strawberry Shortcake and Dora the Explorer and the gang.  She was one of us—the real people—and we loved her for it. 

 

I’m just left to wonder: Why wasn’t that okay?  Why wasn't Merida enough...just the way she was?