I am sorry to be so full of shit. I'm afraid your kindly offers of laxative tea won't help. I am FOS (which is a real clinical term, by the way, meaning Full of Stool) because I have been lax to regale you with tales of Louisiana and Texas. Maybe this hasnt even crossed your mind and you don't want to hear my stories.
I shall now attempt to do tell you -*despite that* - in point form in order to bring us up to current events.
BEGIN POINT FORM
- Houston is humid which was news to me, and I have a firm belief that it was designed by the same evil genius who engineered Calgary's grid-system-sprawl-hell. Requisite oppositional statement and truth: the people of course, were geniuinely awesome.
- The government put us up at a Ramada in the very south of Houston, almost in Sugarland. When I arrived at the airport, I had been given no info on where to go, who to call, who was meeting me etc..it was Comical!! I thought per chance that someone would be there to greet me, but alas, through some gutsy phone calling to Admirals and Captains, I got the name of the Ramada and sped there taxi-like lickety split.
- The Ramada had poor air circulation yet was conveniently located next to an Indian vegetarian restaurant serving delicacies in the Gujarati style, a Target and the MHMRA, also known in no uncertain terms as The MENTAL HEALTH and MENTAL RETARDATION AUTHORITY of Harris County.
- In Houston, and I'm assuming all of Texas, a sickeningly wealthy family of Greek immigrants, the Pappas, have birthed a series of hangar-type eating establishments. There is Pappas Seafood [300-seater designed to look like an old shrimp shack and/or Floridian highway seafood restaurant], Pappas Smokehouse BBQ [designed to look like an old BBQ hut with Big Jim out back, a'stirrin the sawse], Pappadeux [no identifiable Louisianan motif in the architecture, intense use of seasoned salt on its cajuny items, fried alligator], Papasito's Cantina, Pappas Burgers, Pappas Pizza and Pappas Brothers Steakhouse. I believe we went to 2/7 of their chains.
- I was sworn in by the oath of office by a commander from the US Deparment of Public Health. He was bedecked in the ubiquitous uni-beige uniform, complete with folded naval cap in belt. His name was Gene. I swore my oath and was nervous doing it. Thereafter I was a federalized, unpaid employee of the US Gov't. They never gave us any documentation, no badge announcing our titles, authority etc. In retrospect...WTF?
- I went to the G.R. Brown Convention Center in Houston on my first day. I did triage for the mindblowing medical unit that was set up there by the U of Texas and Scripps of San Diego. They had x-ray and lab capabilities (faster than most hospitals), two mental health trailers with big plastic signs on them that read MENTAL HEALTH (empty folding chairs in the waiting area), two Walgreens pharmacy trailers for filling the one-month free prescriptions that Katrina victims were entitled to.
- At the Brown Convention center, there were thousands of faith-based volunteers wearing bright yellow shirts that said Operation Compassion. If you were an evacuee (or not), you could ask them for directions, they could sit with you and hear your stories. They could sit with you and just hold your hand. The Brown center was brightly lit. There were three long tables lined with many bright red phones like the kind the president has, so that people could call anyone across country to locate lost relatives or arrange travel or just talk. There was an area designated to helping people find housing. There was an area for employment help, with lots of computers and pencils and pads of paper. Somewhere in the fold FEMA was registering people, but I didnt see them. Upstairs was a cafeteria run by volunteers. The sleeping area was the size of a high school football field dotted with neat rows of aerobeds. Volunteers were tucking in sheets and folding newly donated clothing. It was my fellow traveler Mr. Dr. Bill King of Tracy, California who pointed out the unique (and glaring) disparity between the Brown Convention center and the picture we saw in Louisiana. In Houston there was a dignity to that shelter...the spic and span-ness, the visible community of volunteers.
- The one comparable shelter in Louisiana we came across was the Cajundome in Lafayette, but we were denied entrance to it when we asked if we could take a look around to make an assessment of potential healthcare needs. The woman at the gateway wore a sad Red Cross vest, like the kind the Cards wear over the shoulder in Alice in Wonderland. She was a public health nurse from Orange County and she was more than ready to go home. She said she was doing "prison nursing with some mental health on the side". She was a long way from Newport. On the doors to the Cajundome were "no cameras, no photograph" signs. They had metal detectors and police dogs. Diabetics were not allowed to carry their own insulin needles but had to check them in with the Red Cross as if they were children or potential junkies. We saw a good number of military police outside of the Cajundome as well as a hefty Dept of Homeland Security trailer, antennae and satellite dishes pronging out into the night. There were barricades out in front, trash on the ground. There was a curfew. Orange sodium lights made everything that was slightly invisible seem suddenly dodgy, and the police presence didnt contradict such a feeling.
Next time on "Point Form"......The preacher's wife gets into a scrap!
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
Sunday, October 16, 2005
intake and output
My dad and I had a conversation about marine species this evening.
It is starting to rain.
Today was day two for me in the PICU. It is a different place from where I've been. Today my baby patient breathed helium and oxygen inside a plastic dome that looked like something belonging to a fancy person who happens to live in the Crab Nebula.
When he cried, everyone said it sounded like a person crying from five rooms away.
But no, there he would be, his head under the bell jar, right next to you.
The banana tree outside my bungalow sounds like a man in the bushes.
Don't worry, it really is a tree.
I'm not done telling you about Tx-La but I need to sleep.
It is starting to rain.
Today was day two for me in the PICU. It is a different place from where I've been. Today my baby patient breathed helium and oxygen inside a plastic dome that looked like something belonging to a fancy person who happens to live in the Crab Nebula.
When he cried, everyone said it sounded like a person crying from five rooms away.
But no, there he would be, his head under the bell jar, right next to you.
The banana tree outside my bungalow sounds like a man in the bushes.
Don't worry, it really is a tree.
I'm not done telling you about Tx-La but I need to sleep.
Friday, October 07, 2005
Around the week of August 30, 2005
It feels somewhat deflating to write about this so late, but as I was in Texas and Louisiana last month, I'll tell you about it.
At the start of it all, many of my colleagues and I signed up to be volunteer medical assists with FEMA when the levees broke. They actually called our hospital to make such a list. However, we didn’t hear anything more.
That was the week we all saw the baby held by its mama on CNN, the baby with the floppy arms and pale hands and sunken raccoon eyes held in a chubby embrace outside the Superdome. Perhaps that was the day we saw that man softly place a patchwork blanket over somebody’s grandma who died sitting up in her patchwork wheelchair (duct tape around the armrests, cardboard wrapped around several spokes in the wheels), the man trying not to let out tears as he calmly yet angrily protested such a way to die, to absolutely no one. Everything was like a one-way valve that week. The people of New Orleans emoted outwardly towards us all through the glass of our TV screens, looking up from tar-papered garage roofs, pleading through the lenses of network cameras that were steamed up at the edges from the humidity (those cameras of course imbued with magic powers enabling them to make an appearance where our government could not), teenagers eloquently expounding the disgrace of Iraq in light of their current needs...Their holler was clear but our response was stifled and retarded in the true definition of such a word; our reactions flew back, hit the impermeable surface of the TV screen and rolled right on back into our laps wherein their extreme helplessness became ours (though ours was much less important because it was softened of course, privileged and air conditioned and hydrated with Vitamin Water and adorned with diplomas and iPods and toilets that flushed and lights that clicked on when requested). And so all Our Brilliant Solutions (so passionately discussed over so many lunch hours) and emphatic I-hear-yous and all that Red Cross money at this point was in a sense without horsepower. It’s like that mechanism inside of engines that transfers chemical energy into power and then into movement, it was stuck or malrotated or simply was never there to begin with. I think the people in the Ninth Ward came to know this was true before the floods. For some of them maybe it was an appalling reminder of something familiar they already understood; for us it was simply an apalling revelation.
I wrote an angry letter that night to Bush and to Cheney, that no one will ever read.
I wanted to tell them that my colleagues and I were willing to jump from copters, each bearing 50 liters of IV fluids on our backs, because it was something that would very cheaply and easily arm people against death. Why the fuck weren’t they using us?
I wanted someone to kick and punch.
Later that week Anderson Cooper cried on television twice, one time during a split-screen interview with Governor Blanco wherein he fiestily noted that rats were consuming a corpse to his left and that her thanksgiving to other politicians was an inhumane response to the situation. (Blanco, white.)
So Blanco prayed to lord baby Jesus, suggesting the state of Louisiana do the same and asked for nonspecific help from the federal government. Mayor Nagin decided to enact a mandatory evacuation 2 days late. Heckuva-job-Brownie told Paula Zahn that people at the Convention Center in N.O. were receiving two meals-ready-to-eat per day, and when our anchor denied his data and asked about the situation at the Superdome Mr. Brown, well, Heckuva-job- Brownie says he only that morning knew that those people didn’t have food or water. Our anchor rhetorically spanked him as best she could, which was still feeble but better than nothing (a theme for this whole scenario –some anchor on Fox news even lost his shit) - by asking if that meant the public had better intelligence than the federal government?
Then this past week I read that Brownie, under questioning, stated said the media had been creating “hype” and “fabricating stories of rape and violence” and generally presenting the situation incorrectly. Gee, Brownie, the stories I was told by both 8-year old girls and 82-year old men, I mean, talk about overly vivid and painful imaginative capabilities! And those grandmas – especially the legally blind ones with the acute senses of hearing – well they’re spinning some yarns, I suppose, Sir.
But then they’re like, well…yarns so dark they couldn’t possibly be yarns, y’know?
[I didn’t want to resort to angry sarcasm, but there it goes.]
In response to those emails I sent to Bush and Cheney, I received a rote email requesting patience from the citizenry and reassurance that all arms of government had been activated in response to this national disaster.
I thought of Doc Octagon, because that sentence made me think of “arms”. I thought of how the ground shook in response when he thonked all around Peter Parker’s city, how the bricks sounded when he scrounched down on them. An active sound.
At the start of it all, many of my colleagues and I signed up to be volunteer medical assists with FEMA when the levees broke. They actually called our hospital to make such a list. However, we didn’t hear anything more.
That was the week we all saw the baby held by its mama on CNN, the baby with the floppy arms and pale hands and sunken raccoon eyes held in a chubby embrace outside the Superdome. Perhaps that was the day we saw that man softly place a patchwork blanket over somebody’s grandma who died sitting up in her patchwork wheelchair (duct tape around the armrests, cardboard wrapped around several spokes in the wheels), the man trying not to let out tears as he calmly yet angrily protested such a way to die, to absolutely no one. Everything was like a one-way valve that week. The people of New Orleans emoted outwardly towards us all through the glass of our TV screens, looking up from tar-papered garage roofs, pleading through the lenses of network cameras that were steamed up at the edges from the humidity (those cameras of course imbued with magic powers enabling them to make an appearance where our government could not), teenagers eloquently expounding the disgrace of Iraq in light of their current needs...Their holler was clear but our response was stifled and retarded in the true definition of such a word; our reactions flew back, hit the impermeable surface of the TV screen and rolled right on back into our laps wherein their extreme helplessness became ours (though ours was much less important because it was softened of course, privileged and air conditioned and hydrated with Vitamin Water and adorned with diplomas and iPods and toilets that flushed and lights that clicked on when requested). And so all Our Brilliant Solutions (so passionately discussed over so many lunch hours) and emphatic I-hear-yous and all that Red Cross money at this point was in a sense without horsepower. It’s like that mechanism inside of engines that transfers chemical energy into power and then into movement, it was stuck or malrotated or simply was never there to begin with. I think the people in the Ninth Ward came to know this was true before the floods. For some of them maybe it was an appalling reminder of something familiar they already understood; for us it was simply an apalling revelation.
I wrote an angry letter that night to Bush and to Cheney, that no one will ever read.
I wanted to tell them that my colleagues and I were willing to jump from copters, each bearing 50 liters of IV fluids on our backs, because it was something that would very cheaply and easily arm people against death. Why the fuck weren’t they using us?
I wanted someone to kick and punch.
Later that week Anderson Cooper cried on television twice, one time during a split-screen interview with Governor Blanco wherein he fiestily noted that rats were consuming a corpse to his left and that her thanksgiving to other politicians was an inhumane response to the situation. (Blanco, white.)
So Blanco prayed to lord baby Jesus, suggesting the state of Louisiana do the same and asked for nonspecific help from the federal government. Mayor Nagin decided to enact a mandatory evacuation 2 days late. Heckuva-job-Brownie told Paula Zahn that people at the Convention Center in N.O. were receiving two meals-ready-to-eat per day, and when our anchor denied his data and asked about the situation at the Superdome Mr. Brown, well, Heckuva-job- Brownie says he only that morning knew that those people didn’t have food or water. Our anchor rhetorically spanked him as best she could, which was still feeble but better than nothing (a theme for this whole scenario –some anchor on Fox news even lost his shit) - by asking if that meant the public had better intelligence than the federal government?
Then this past week I read that Brownie, under questioning, stated said the media had been creating “hype” and “fabricating stories of rape and violence” and generally presenting the situation incorrectly. Gee, Brownie, the stories I was told by both 8-year old girls and 82-year old men, I mean, talk about overly vivid and painful imaginative capabilities! And those grandmas – especially the legally blind ones with the acute senses of hearing – well they’re spinning some yarns, I suppose, Sir.
But then they’re like, well…yarns so dark they couldn’t possibly be yarns, y’know?
[I didn’t want to resort to angry sarcasm, but there it goes.]
In response to those emails I sent to Bush and Cheney, I received a rote email requesting patience from the citizenry and reassurance that all arms of government had been activated in response to this national disaster.
I thought of Doc Octagon, because that sentence made me think of “arms”. I thought of how the ground shook in response when he thonked all around Peter Parker’s city, how the bricks sounded when he scrounched down on them. An active sound.
Thursday, September 22, 2005
Returning, the heat dives down.
Started heading home two days ago, leaving the cut-it-it's-so-thick heat of New Iberia, Opelousas and Lafayette, Louisiana for the pressin-down-upon-thee heat of Houston to the smack-you-dry heat of Phoenix (en route to Los Angeles) to the hold-me-its-so-comfortable 76 degrees of L.A. at night, falling asleep sitting up in the Super Shuttle as it wove its way to my street down from others.
I'll return later today to start some entries about my journey to the soft, vulnerable underbelly of America.
I'll return later today to start some entries about my journey to the soft, vulnerable underbelly of America.
Thursday, August 11, 2005
Fall Film Roll Call
Look what I did for you! You're welcome!
Here are links to the trailers of some juicy fil-ims to come this year, picked personally by your favorite ellipitical machining-Registered Nurse.
And yes, some will be poop. Let's be honest, there could also be corn. Or peanuts.
But for now let's use our PMA - that's right, our Positive Mental Attitude - and tightly cross our legs in excitement.
Please feel free to respond in list form with your most eagerly anticipated of this lot (and others). Commentaries, addendums and insults are also acceptable.
JUST ADDED:
Jarhead
Mendes, Gyllenhaal, Saarsgard, Foxx. Gee-zus walks.
Shopgirl
Martin, Danes, Schwartzman
A clip from Green Street Hooligans...curious..may even work.
Get Rich or Die Tryin
Jim Sheridan! Fitty.
Revolver
Guy Ritchie, Liotta, Statham, Andre 3000
Zathura
Jon Favreau....Explorers, Goonies, Space Camp......
Stay
Marc Forster w/ Ryan Gosling, The Return of BD Wong, Naomi "bulimic cheeks pt. 2" Watts (guess who's pt. 1?), and Ewan McMember.
Lord of War
Gattaca/Truman Show's Andrew Niccol w/Nic Cage, Ethan Hawke, Jared "30 Seconds to Mars" Leto, Bridget Moynahan. I once read an interview with Elijah Wood in which he was asked, "Well, since you're so obsessed with music, will you ever start your own band?" to which he responded, "Jesus Christ, no! Have you seen 30 Seconds to Mars? I have seen what actors can do to music. I love music too much to ever hurt it like that" and from then on our imaginary friendship took off (he is reportedly starting up a label soon).
Proof
John Madden w/ Gwynies, Jake G., Hope Davis, A. Hopkins. I really do like her freckles so much, even if she wears repulsively cheesy tank tops that say "Mrs. Martin" as described in that NY Times interview this week.
A History of Violence
David Cronenberg w/ Viggo, Maria Bello, Ed Harris. There might not be anybody with spine-plug sockets or f-able scars in this one, but it looks juicy.
Everything Is Illuminated
Liev Schreiber w/ El Wood, Eugene Hutz. The trailer recovers itself at the end.
Green Street Hooligans
Lexi Alexander w/ El Wood, Charlie Hunnam and Catface McGillicuddy. American goes to England, falls in with soccer hooligans. Laughable concept, yes. Especially laughable in light of casting choices? Certainly.
Any good? Reportedly, very much so.
The New World
Terence Malick w/ the Hirsute Irishman, Batman and others. First trailer was better.
Waiting
Jeremy this one's for you...it might make you want to slam your forehead against the piano keys in aggravation though. Alanis' wife and Anna Faris and that kid from Freaks and Geeks.
Roll Bounce Like a Japanese cowboy, like a brother on skates. And how. Looks v. v. fun but might have corn in it.
Walk the Line
James Mangold w/ Joaquin Phoenix, Reese Witherspoon. What's that smell?
The Brothers Grimm
T. Gilly, Maaat Daaaamon.
Grizzly Man Werner Herzog, so far makes me teary. But we all know that might not signify anything.
Thumbsucker
Mike Mills w/ Vince Vaughn and some kid named Lou Pucci and shit. Lou Pucci is also in Chumscrubber (wherein Jamie Bell stars, it looks bad), which also has three syllables, and which is another movie about existentially tormented adolescent males in the suburbs, which shouldnt be confused either with Brick, which is supposedly the same idea but noir-y and with Joseph Gordon-Levitt (no trailer yet), and why are you wearing that stupid human suit?
Dear Wendy
Thomas Vinterberg (The Celebration) w/ The Suddenly Omnipresent Jamie Bell and Mark Webber.
Elizabethtown
Cameron Crowe and the Elf. Smelllll Baaaaaad. But I could be wrong, I mean, the trailer for Vanilla Sky was awful, right, and that didnt turn out half-....er....
good night, wisconsin.
Here are links to the trailers of some juicy fil-ims to come this year, picked personally by your favorite ellipitical machining-Registered Nurse.
And yes, some will be poop. Let's be honest, there could also be corn. Or peanuts.
But for now let's use our PMA - that's right, our Positive Mental Attitude - and tightly cross our legs in excitement.
Please feel free to respond in list form with your most eagerly anticipated of this lot (and others). Commentaries, addendums and insults are also acceptable.
JUST ADDED:
Jarhead
Mendes, Gyllenhaal, Saarsgard, Foxx. Gee-zus walks.
Shopgirl
Martin, Danes, Schwartzman
A clip from Green Street Hooligans...curious..may even work.
Get Rich or Die Tryin
Jim Sheridan! Fitty.
Revolver
Guy Ritchie, Liotta, Statham, Andre 3000
Zathura
Jon Favreau....Explorers, Goonies, Space Camp......
Stay
Marc Forster w/ Ryan Gosling, The Return of BD Wong, Naomi "bulimic cheeks pt. 2" Watts (guess who's pt. 1?), and Ewan McMember.
Lord of War
Gattaca/Truman Show's Andrew Niccol w/Nic Cage, Ethan Hawke, Jared "30 Seconds to Mars" Leto, Bridget Moynahan. I once read an interview with Elijah Wood in which he was asked, "Well, since you're so obsessed with music, will you ever start your own band?" to which he responded, "Jesus Christ, no! Have you seen 30 Seconds to Mars? I have seen what actors can do to music. I love music too much to ever hurt it like that" and from then on our imaginary friendship took off (he is reportedly starting up a label soon).
Proof
John Madden w/ Gwynies, Jake G., Hope Davis, A. Hopkins. I really do like her freckles so much, even if she wears repulsively cheesy tank tops that say "Mrs. Martin" as described in that NY Times interview this week.
A History of Violence
David Cronenberg w/ Viggo, Maria Bello, Ed Harris. There might not be anybody with spine-plug sockets or f-able scars in this one, but it looks juicy.
Everything Is Illuminated
Liev Schreiber w/ El Wood, Eugene Hutz. The trailer recovers itself at the end.
Green Street Hooligans
Lexi Alexander w/ El Wood, Charlie Hunnam and Catface McGillicuddy. American goes to England, falls in with soccer hooligans. Laughable concept, yes. Especially laughable in light of casting choices? Certainly.
Any good? Reportedly, very much so.
The New World
Terence Malick w/ the Hirsute Irishman, Batman and others. First trailer was better.
Waiting
Jeremy this one's for you...it might make you want to slam your forehead against the piano keys in aggravation though. Alanis' wife and Anna Faris and that kid from Freaks and Geeks.
Roll Bounce Like a Japanese cowboy, like a brother on skates. And how. Looks v. v. fun but might have corn in it.
Walk the Line
James Mangold w/ Joaquin Phoenix, Reese Witherspoon. What's that smell?
The Brothers Grimm
T. Gilly, Maaat Daaaamon.
Grizzly Man Werner Herzog, so far makes me teary. But we all know that might not signify anything.
Thumbsucker
Mike Mills w/ Vince Vaughn and some kid named Lou Pucci and shit. Lou Pucci is also in Chumscrubber (wherein Jamie Bell stars, it looks bad), which also has three syllables, and which is another movie about existentially tormented adolescent males in the suburbs, which shouldnt be confused either with Brick, which is supposedly the same idea but noir-y and with Joseph Gordon-Levitt (no trailer yet), and why are you wearing that stupid human suit?
Dear Wendy
Thomas Vinterberg (The Celebration) w/ The Suddenly Omnipresent Jamie Bell and Mark Webber.
Elizabethtown
Cameron Crowe and the Elf. Smelllll Baaaaaad. But I could be wrong, I mean, the trailer for Vanilla Sky was awful, right, and that didnt turn out half-....er....
good night, wisconsin.
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
I sometimes want one of these to come home to.
My Titi monkey would give me a very thorough massage after a long day of pushing, poking, pressing, extracting, teaching, and writing things down.
It could serve me americanos from my (fictional) Francis! Francis! espresso machine on rainy nights in Los Angeles.
It could hide in the closet and come out and say "surprise!" while waving a little white flag and doing a dance.
So, yeah, I saw Bill of Bill and Ted at Trader Joe's on Sunday. What do you got to say about it?
Have you ever eaten quail? I tried to. The articulation of the joints was too human and I couldnt follow through. Little crossed ankles, etc.
Today I was at work, by the elevators coming back from the blood bank, and I was holding a bag of platelets and some patient's dad asked what I was holding and I told him:"Oh, platelets".
Man: "Wow, it looks like gravy. Looks like something you'd eat".
Nurse L: "Yeah, kind of looks like mango juice to me".
And you'd think that was it for comparing blood products to food! But you'd be wrong!
Man (continuing): "Yeah, a sauce for meat. Or maybe clarified butter, like in Indian food. Crazy! You put that into somebody? Does blood look kind of like a sauce-thing?"
And....scene.
It could serve me americanos from my (fictional) Francis! Francis! espresso machine on rainy nights in Los Angeles.
It could hide in the closet and come out and say "surprise!" while waving a little white flag and doing a dance.
So, yeah, I saw Bill of Bill and Ted at Trader Joe's on Sunday. What do you got to say about it?
Have you ever eaten quail? I tried to. The articulation of the joints was too human and I couldnt follow through. Little crossed ankles, etc.
Today I was at work, by the elevators coming back from the blood bank, and I was holding a bag of platelets and some patient's dad asked what I was holding and I told him:"Oh, platelets".
Man: "Wow, it looks like gravy. Looks like something you'd eat".
Nurse L: "Yeah, kind of looks like mango juice to me".
And you'd think that was it for comparing blood products to food! But you'd be wrong!
Man (continuing): "Yeah, a sauce for meat. Or maybe clarified butter, like in Indian food. Crazy! You put that into somebody? Does blood look kind of like a sauce-thing?"
And....scene.
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
Amor Vincit Omnia
Ok, I dont want to lay a trip on you but it's getting hot in here. I've had to take off almost all my clothes. When cometing the bathtub, a piece of sweat fell twain my eyes and another right up in one. Whilst swiffering the kitchen floor in the halfassed way only the Swiffer is capable of doing, my *upper arm* began to perspire. My insecurities related to wearing sleeveless shirts have had to be chucked today.I am consuming high grade sticky icky New Zealand Artisan water from Trader Joe's, so don't worry, if you were about to start. My couch is filled with down, and is covered with fancy wool fabric. My chairs are similarly dressed. Where do I sit?
On the Soundock, a soundtrack to sweating:
The Ballad of Judas Priest and Frankie Lee: b. Dylan
No Cars Go: Arcade Fire
Something Queeny by Keane
Nautical Disaster: Tragically Hip
Auf Auchse: Franz Ferdinand
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
For your juxapositioning pleasure: A moment of silence for the Wonka that was.
Lemme get tutorial here for a moment....I wanna talk Wonka. I saw it last night. I've gone to Slate and the Times and Ebert and on and on. I don't understand how reviewers of the Burton film tend to repeatedly point out that his version is more sinister than Stuart's. Herein I have read the 1971 film described as mellow, even - holy crabcakes, Batman! - dinner-theater-esque.
Ok, so how is such a reading possible, I ask. Here's my take: Wilder's Wonka is more overt in his disdain for the brats. He knows what tools their parents are (Depp's does too but he's so distanced from everyone that it's almost a nonissue). Wilder's Wonka is clearly eccentric but you can tell he's anchored somewhere. Wonka's gravitas is so expertly revealed in the third act in his Half-of-Everything Office with the Gobstopper Theft/Slugworth subplot, wherein we see The Unveiling of Charlie Bucket's Integrity.
Then there is Depp's Wonka. Essentially he seems to cringe and then snap; his velveted man is all over the place and therefore, nowhere in particular. Please note that I do, however, love the braces headgear and Saruman wringing his latex gloves in a moment of angst..
Additionally, Wonka's Wilder drifted off into poetic reverie and when he did so, he was creepy because he seemed omniscient. Depp's Wonka relied on a generic sense of oddity combined with mood imbalance as the source material for "creepy". I think that's a bit cheap. His Wonka is inconsistent and I dont think he ever reveals himself to be someone that Charlie would admire. Weak, but that's just me.
Not everything demands comparison. This I know. In some instances, a work of art requires no contrast in order to make it relevant or revelatory. However, in this case I cannot hold back.
Let us just review some of the juicy wonder that littered Mel Stuart's less-in-accordance-with-the-source-material film of 1971, shall we?
Wonka: "Where is fancy bred, in the heart or in the head?" (Shakespeare + candy = jazz hands! Merchant of Venice)
Veruca Salt: "Snozzberry? Who's ever heard of a snozzberry? "
Wonka: "We are the music-makers, and we are the dreamers of dreams." (Irish poet Arthur O'Shaughnessy)
Tinker: "Up the airy mountain, down the rushy glen, we dare not go a'hunting, for fear of little men. Nobody every goes in, and nobody ever goes out." (Irish Poets Represent! William Allingham of Ballyshannon, Co. Sligo)
Wonka: "The suspense is terrible... I hope it will last." (Irish Trifecta! Wilde, Importance of..)
Wonka: "Not a speck of light is showing / So the danger must be growing / Are the fires of hell a-glowing? / Is the grisly reaper mowing?"
Wonka: "So much time and so little to do. Wait a minute. Strike that. Reverse it."
Mrs. Gloop: "My son. He'll be made into marshmallows in five seconds!"
Willy Wonka: "Impossible, my dear lady. That's absurd. Unthinkable."
Mrs. Gloop: "Why?"
Willy Wonka: "Because that pipe doesn't go to the marshmallow room. It goes to the fudge room."
Wonka: "Wrong, sir. Wrong. Under section 37B of the contract signed by him, it states quite clearly that all offers shall become null and void if - and you can read it for yourself in this photostatic copy - "I, the undersigned, shall forfeit all rights, privileges, and licenses herein and herein contained," et cetera, et cetera..."Fax mentis incendium gloria cultum," et cetera, et cetera..."Nemo bis punitor delicatum". It's all there, black and white, clear as crystal. You stole fizzy lifting drinks. You bumped into the ceiling which now has to be washed and sterilized, so you get nothing. You lose. Good day sir."
Wonka: "All I ask is for a tall ship and a star to sail her by. All aboard everybody." (Irish Poet Tetrafecta?! John Masefield )
Charlie Bucket: "Mr. Wonka, they won't really be burned in the furnace, will they?"
Willy Wonka: "Well, I think that furnace is only lit every other day, so they have a good sporting chance, haven't they?"
Mrs. Gloop: "Don't just stand there - do something!"
Wonka: "Help. Police. Murder."
Mike Teevee: "Look at me. I'm gonna be the first person in the world to be sent by television."
Mrs. Teevee: "Mike, get away from that thing."
Willy Wonka: "Stop. Don't. Come back."
Mrs. Gloop: "Aye. Mr. Wonka help I'm getting squooshed!"
Wonka: "Is it my soul that calls me by my name?" (ShakeySpeare: Romeo & Juliet)
Wonka: "For some moments in life there are no words."
Wonka: "A thing of beauty is a joy forever." (Keats, Endymion)
Wonka: "Around the world and home again, that's the sailors way." (William Allingham, second prop)
Wonka: "Candy is dandy but liquor is quicker" (Ogden Nash)
Wonka: "Bubbles, bubbles everywhere but not a drop to drink." (nod to S. Taylor Coleridge)
Mrs. Gloop: 'You boiled him up, I know it"
Wonka: "Nil desperandum, my dear lady. Across the desert lies the promised land."
Wonka: "So shines a good deed in a weary world." (Merchant of Venice)
And now we have:
Chewing gum is really gross. Chewing gum I hate the most.
Let's boogie.
Ha ha ha ha. You're really weird.
Everything here is eatable. I'm eatable, but that my children is called cannibalism and it is frowned upon in most societies.
Mumbler! (this one is acceptable))
Here we have the Puppet Hospital and Burn Center! (also ok)
Ok, so how is such a reading possible, I ask. Here's my take: Wilder's Wonka is more overt in his disdain for the brats. He knows what tools their parents are (Depp's does too but he's so distanced from everyone that it's almost a nonissue). Wilder's Wonka is clearly eccentric but you can tell he's anchored somewhere. Wonka's gravitas is so expertly revealed in the third act in his Half-of-Everything Office with the Gobstopper Theft/Slugworth subplot, wherein we see The Unveiling of Charlie Bucket's Integrity.
Then there is Depp's Wonka. Essentially he seems to cringe and then snap; his velveted man is all over the place and therefore, nowhere in particular. Please note that I do, however, love the braces headgear and Saruman wringing his latex gloves in a moment of angst..
Additionally, Wonka's Wilder drifted off into poetic reverie and when he did so, he was creepy because he seemed omniscient. Depp's Wonka relied on a generic sense of oddity combined with mood imbalance as the source material for "creepy". I think that's a bit cheap. His Wonka is inconsistent and I dont think he ever reveals himself to be someone that Charlie would admire. Weak, but that's just me.
Not everything demands comparison. This I know. In some instances, a work of art requires no contrast in order to make it relevant or revelatory. However, in this case I cannot hold back.
Let us just review some of the juicy wonder that littered Mel Stuart's less-in-accordance-with-the-source-material film of 1971, shall we?
Wonka: "Where is fancy bred, in the heart or in the head?" (Shakespeare + candy = jazz hands! Merchant of Venice)
Veruca Salt: "Snozzberry? Who's ever heard of a snozzberry? "
Wonka: "We are the music-makers, and we are the dreamers of dreams." (Irish poet Arthur O'Shaughnessy)
Tinker: "Up the airy mountain, down the rushy glen, we dare not go a'hunting, for fear of little men. Nobody every goes in, and nobody ever goes out." (Irish Poets Represent! William Allingham of Ballyshannon, Co. Sligo)
Wonka: "The suspense is terrible... I hope it will last." (Irish Trifecta! Wilde, Importance of..)
Wonka: "Not a speck of light is showing / So the danger must be growing / Are the fires of hell a-glowing? / Is the grisly reaper mowing?"
Wonka: "So much time and so little to do. Wait a minute. Strike that. Reverse it."
Mrs. Gloop: "My son. He'll be made into marshmallows in five seconds!"
Willy Wonka: "Impossible, my dear lady. That's absurd. Unthinkable."
Mrs. Gloop: "Why?"
Willy Wonka: "Because that pipe doesn't go to the marshmallow room. It goes to the fudge room."
Wonka: "Wrong, sir. Wrong. Under section 37B of the contract signed by him, it states quite clearly that all offers shall become null and void if - and you can read it for yourself in this photostatic copy - "I, the undersigned, shall forfeit all rights, privileges, and licenses herein and herein contained," et cetera, et cetera..."Fax mentis incendium gloria cultum," et cetera, et cetera..."Nemo bis punitor delicatum". It's all there, black and white, clear as crystal. You stole fizzy lifting drinks. You bumped into the ceiling which now has to be washed and sterilized, so you get nothing. You lose. Good day sir."
Wonka: "All I ask is for a tall ship and a star to sail her by. All aboard everybody." (Irish Poet Tetrafecta?! John Masefield )
Charlie Bucket: "Mr. Wonka, they won't really be burned in the furnace, will they?"
Willy Wonka: "Well, I think that furnace is only lit every other day, so they have a good sporting chance, haven't they?"
Mrs. Gloop: "Don't just stand there - do something!"
Wonka: "Help. Police. Murder."
Mike Teevee: "Look at me. I'm gonna be the first person in the world to be sent by television."
Mrs. Teevee: "Mike, get away from that thing."
Willy Wonka: "Stop. Don't. Come back."
Mrs. Gloop: "Aye. Mr. Wonka help I'm getting squooshed!"
Wonka: "Is it my soul that calls me by my name?" (ShakeySpeare: Romeo & Juliet)
Wonka: "For some moments in life there are no words."
Wonka: "A thing of beauty is a joy forever." (Keats, Endymion)
Wonka: "Around the world and home again, that's the sailors way." (William Allingham, second prop)
Wonka: "Candy is dandy but liquor is quicker" (Ogden Nash)
Wonka: "Bubbles, bubbles everywhere but not a drop to drink." (nod to S. Taylor Coleridge)
Mrs. Gloop: 'You boiled him up, I know it"
Wonka: "Nil desperandum, my dear lady. Across the desert lies the promised land."
Wonka: "So shines a good deed in a weary world." (Merchant of Venice)
And now we have:
Chewing gum is really gross. Chewing gum I hate the most.
Let's boogie.
Ha ha ha ha. You're really weird.
Everything here is eatable. I'm eatable, but that my children is called cannibalism and it is frowned upon in most societies.
Mumbler! (this one is acceptable))
Here we have the Puppet Hospital and Burn Center! (also ok)
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
"It's suicide for diverticulitis"
- overheard two seats in front of me at the 18:45 showing of Batman Begins at the Vista Theater, in reference to popcorn.
I feel a little TC-manic right now. But...
That movie.
Is fucking.
awesome. great.
He's all: "I'm not going to kill you, but I don't have to save you"
So pure, so good! (I don't trust myself when I start using exclamation points).
That is my kind of superhero. One who attempts to define himself by the most arduous of all human traits: the ability to keep an even keel.
And, not to brag, but I saw Nelly Furtado standing on the sidewalk outside of Malo on my walk home. So, I'm not sweating it either.
And I just read in Entertainment Weekly that Joseph Gordon-Levitt next project is a thriller wherein he - and I quote - "plays the shady pediatrician lover of ex-Parker's star Mo'Nique". Sigh.
Now, it's 21:25, so that means - that's right - I'm off to the gym.
I feel a little TC-manic right now. But...
That movie.
Is fucking.
awesome. great.
He's all: "I'm not going to kill you, but I don't have to save you"
So pure, so good! (I don't trust myself when I start using exclamation points).
That is my kind of superhero. One who attempts to define himself by the most arduous of all human traits: the ability to keep an even keel.
And, not to brag, but I saw Nelly Furtado standing on the sidewalk outside of Malo on my walk home. So, I'm not sweating it either.
And I just read in Entertainment Weekly that Joseph Gordon-Levitt next project is a thriller wherein he - and I quote - "plays the shady pediatrician lover of ex-Parker's star Mo'Nique". Sigh.
Now, it's 21:25, so that means - that's right - I'm off to the gym.
Byrne in the Fire
Sunday I was bumming, kinda hard.
But then I went last minute to see David Byrne and the Arcade Fire at the Hollywood Bowl with olde friende Karen and my neurotransmitters perked back up again.
(Nota bene to T. Cruise, re: the reality of imbalance of chemicals in the human body...sounds like someone didnt finish tenth grade human biology what with the learning about the homeostasis...ahem, excuse me).
So for those who havent been to the Bowl, it is a little piece of the Lord in Los Angeles. A little bit of Over the Pond, back in the Pond. Some Spain in America. All by which I mean to say you can bring bottles of wine or 24 packs of Pabst Blue Ribbon and drink them openly, in public, beside your Trader Joe's picnic of hummous and rough bread and fancypants cheese of many varieties all while watching the people pass by you. Also, the hills that compose your view look a bit like the dry hills of Mallorca, hence the Spain reference.
The teenagers were going apeshit behind us, requesting Arcade Fire songs from a 1/2 mile away from the stage. Perhaps they are Latin students and have studied the physics of ampitheaters, I dont know, but I do know that they threw peanut M&Ms at me, or in my general direction anyway. What is it with the teenagers? Because I'm not so sure we were so rad. The girl in front of me practically threw down when David Byrne whipped out I Zimbra. Really.
There was a man dancing feverishly on the stairs, he, Mr. The Focus of All Comedic Attention and digital photography-taking.
As my mom says, no one moves like David Byrne.
He wore a pink suit, as you can see. He had the Tosca Strings with him as well as a one man drum section. Those amazing kids from Montreal came out for Naive Melody (This Must Be the Place) and somewhere in the stadium a nurse was beaming.
But the nurse did not beam so much as she did when the DB called out the Extra Action marching band, which is a full marching band complete with flag girls - only the flag girls are also burlesque dancers - and they paraded through the crowd (the 35 dollar seats) and onto the stage where they assembled. Henceforth the horns began to play the refrain from :
Beyonce's "Crazy in Love" and I think you can imagine how DB would sound singin Whoa-oh-uh-oh-uhohuhoh and it was amazing I'll never see anything like that agin.
I would highly recommend that you go sit in the corner and meditate upon that, and try to conjure that very image and sound.
But then I went last minute to see David Byrne and the Arcade Fire at the Hollywood Bowl with olde friende Karen and my neurotransmitters perked back up again.
(Nota bene to T. Cruise, re: the reality of imbalance of chemicals in the human body...sounds like someone didnt finish tenth grade human biology what with the learning about the homeostasis...ahem, excuse me).
So for those who havent been to the Bowl, it is a little piece of the Lord in Los Angeles. A little bit of Over the Pond, back in the Pond. Some Spain in America. All by which I mean to say you can bring bottles of wine or 24 packs of Pabst Blue Ribbon and drink them openly, in public, beside your Trader Joe's picnic of hummous and rough bread and fancypants cheese of many varieties all while watching the people pass by you. Also, the hills that compose your view look a bit like the dry hills of Mallorca, hence the Spain reference.
The teenagers were going apeshit behind us, requesting Arcade Fire songs from a 1/2 mile away from the stage. Perhaps they are Latin students and have studied the physics of ampitheaters, I dont know, but I do know that they threw peanut M&Ms at me, or in my general direction anyway. What is it with the teenagers? Because I'm not so sure we were so rad. The girl in front of me practically threw down when David Byrne whipped out I Zimbra. Really.
There was a man dancing feverishly on the stairs, he, Mr. The Focus of All Comedic Attention and digital photography-taking.
As my mom says, no one moves like David Byrne.
He wore a pink suit, as you can see. He had the Tosca Strings with him as well as a one man drum section. Those amazing kids from Montreal came out for Naive Melody (This Must Be the Place) and somewhere in the stadium a nurse was beaming.
But the nurse did not beam so much as she did when the DB called out the Extra Action marching band, which is a full marching band complete with flag girls - only the flag girls are also burlesque dancers - and they paraded through the crowd (the 35 dollar seats) and onto the stage where they assembled. Henceforth the horns began to play the refrain from :
Beyonce's "Crazy in Love" and I think you can imagine how DB would sound singin Whoa-oh-uh-oh-uhohuhoh and it was amazing I'll never see anything like that agin.
I would highly recommend that you go sit in the corner and meditate upon that, and try to conjure that very image and sound.
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
Stop. Think. Tylenol, or Popsicle of Love
Which of the above will be your summer slogan?
I choose Popsicle of Love, though it's suggestiveness falls dead on my doorstep. (My neighbor is talk-yelling.)
The people at my gym read scripts, or audition sheets on the ellipticals and they talk on phones and some of them have been seen sipping Americanos in between reps. They don't so much actively read the scripts as have them lay about with highlighted lines on the machines. There is one old black man who wears one of those garbage-bag sweating-suits and he is on the bike for about an hour, making notes with a pencil and reading while cycling at a rep rate of about 5 a minute. I worry about him and hyperthermia and once I was looking down upon him from the elliptical behind (in between watching Britney and Kevin: Chaotic, subtitled as though for the hearing impaired) and saw he was writing down engineering stuff. Drawing figures and doing math. (My neighbor is yelling). Britney and Kevin is no shocker. It's vile but not as vile as MTV's "Prom Night" "docs" which nauseate me. Who (that wasnt this kind of person herself) ever asked to have a glimpse into the goings on of the richest, most tan and popular girl's life leading up to the prom? The show is filled with dimwitted adolescent females saying shit like "This is my night. He's not going to ruin my night. He's wearing the white tux" or "I love this spa, I think this is just so important..it's so relaxing because everything else is like, so stressful". Maybe we're supposed to harbor animosity here, because I sure wanted to.
Lately I've been toting my Pediatric Advanced Life Support textbook to the gym. Last week I went through a review on treating shock. Then the chapter on resuscitation drugs. Then the chapter on interpreting cardiac rhythms. I can reliably tell you what to do in case of certain rhythms now. Can be confident of the dose of the shock that is to be given and type of shock.
What do the people at your gyms do?
Bono's been laying down props to my people on this here tour. He gave a shout out in London last night, dedicating something to “the doctors, scientists and nurses who help to keep us alive… especially the nurses”. It's sad that it means so much for a public figure to make such a statement, considering how long my profession has been around and considering that RNs outnumber MDs by some number reminiscent of data from Roman times (slaves:slaveowners = rebellion). You'd think we were obscure or something considering our general lack of mention. But nurses don't do it for recognition, that's why we're nurses. But that has to change. We can't be invisibly going about our days and nights, our skill, our knowledge unseen by the public.
We have to be more concerned with power, more like MDs in that way. Not in a way that alters our aim, not to be greedy or focused on monetary gain, but any power/recognition we obtain will only serve the patient and community. I think nursing might be one of the only places where "trickle down" could work.
I need some laughing, etc.
Yer pal and token RN,
Sarah
I choose Popsicle of Love, though it's suggestiveness falls dead on my doorstep. (My neighbor is talk-yelling.)
The people at my gym read scripts, or audition sheets on the ellipticals and they talk on phones and some of them have been seen sipping Americanos in between reps. They don't so much actively read the scripts as have them lay about with highlighted lines on the machines. There is one old black man who wears one of those garbage-bag sweating-suits and he is on the bike for about an hour, making notes with a pencil and reading while cycling at a rep rate of about 5 a minute. I worry about him and hyperthermia and once I was looking down upon him from the elliptical behind (in between watching Britney and Kevin: Chaotic, subtitled as though for the hearing impaired) and saw he was writing down engineering stuff. Drawing figures and doing math. (My neighbor is yelling). Britney and Kevin is no shocker. It's vile but not as vile as MTV's "Prom Night" "docs" which nauseate me. Who (that wasnt this kind of person herself) ever asked to have a glimpse into the goings on of the richest, most tan and popular girl's life leading up to the prom? The show is filled with dimwitted adolescent females saying shit like "This is my night. He's not going to ruin my night. He's wearing the white tux" or "I love this spa, I think this is just so important..it's so relaxing because everything else is like, so stressful". Maybe we're supposed to harbor animosity here, because I sure wanted to.
Lately I've been toting my Pediatric Advanced Life Support textbook to the gym. Last week I went through a review on treating shock. Then the chapter on resuscitation drugs. Then the chapter on interpreting cardiac rhythms. I can reliably tell you what to do in case of certain rhythms now. Can be confident of the dose of the shock that is to be given and type of shock.
What do the people at your gyms do?
Bono's been laying down props to my people on this here tour. He gave a shout out in London last night, dedicating something to “the doctors, scientists and nurses who help to keep us alive… especially the nurses”. It's sad that it means so much for a public figure to make such a statement, considering how long my profession has been around and considering that RNs outnumber MDs by some number reminiscent of data from Roman times (slaves:slaveowners = rebellion). You'd think we were obscure or something considering our general lack of mention. But nurses don't do it for recognition, that's why we're nurses. But that has to change. We can't be invisibly going about our days and nights, our skill, our knowledge unseen by the public.
We have to be more concerned with power, more like MDs in that way. Not in a way that alters our aim, not to be greedy or focused on monetary gain, but any power/recognition we obtain will only serve the patient and community. I think nursing might be one of the only places where "trickle down" could work.
I need some laughing, etc.
Yer pal and token RN,
Sarah
Thursday, June 16, 2005
mash-up vol. 1
I'm having problems with ideas this year. The problem is that I have a lot of them that I halfassedly initiate or at least ponder before falling asleep. Then when I have a day off, I go to the gym, shower, clean up a bit and then god knows where the rest of the day goes. I find myself attending to unnecessary organizational activities like restructuring my iPod, then my iTunes library, then moving my only bookshelf from one side of the room to the other. And if I'm scheduled to do some time at 826, you can just write off my entire night with the drive back from Venice. I must say however that traffic on the 10, when at its worst, offers me the ability to practice singing along to traditional ten-minute ballads. This has an awkward consequence though because from it another idea is born,: maybe one day I'll get a 4-track, or garageband, and record my version of said 10 minute ballad. In turn, this then reminds me of a previously abandoned idea wherein I started to outline a workshop I would teach at 826 wherein we would explore the format of the epic poem by writing a Rock Odyssey as a group. I abandoned this idea because I thought it was ultimately stupid and only curious to me.
This week I started to make poster boards for my unit on "Lab Values: a Review" and another one on "Systemic Lupus Erythematosus". I stopped because I didnt have vellum to make the boards aesthetically pleasing.
Oh and then there's that novel, or something like that. I feel nuts on occasion.
(End topic).
Oh my days off. It is enjoyed time but it is almost missing time, especially if season 5 of the Sopranos arrives in my mailbox, or when I watch the three original Star Wars like I did this week, borrowed from my lovely neighbors to the north.
I forgot about the scene in Empire where Han cuts open the guts of the Muk-Muk, or Hua-Hua or Yub-Yub, or whatever that Harryhausen-animatic beast is called, and puts Luke inside to warm him up. Those guts were foul. They really burst forth from the cavity, huh?
I have a new plant on my porch. It is plastic, I got it at Ikea. I think it looks classy but my mother is embarrassed from 2000 miles away.
The new Coldplay is lovely. Why do they get all the guff from people like us when Ryan Adams is equally soundalikey but also very good at it? Also, what is it like to channel the spirits of musicians in the studio when those musicians are still alive? Let's listen in:
[in final playback]
Chris: Johnny, I dont know, don't you think it sounds a bit too, you know, like Mr. The Edge, mate?
Johnny: Yeah, I s'pose. But I really like the harmonic there...
Chris: Well if we just up the wall of sound, maybe it won't be so obvious. I love the way the organ builds, and the jangly bits come in..it's all done out of adoration really, it isnt intentional.
Johnny: Fuck. Reminds me of Where The -
Chris: Homage, ok? Homage. "White Shadows" is like, a prayer to "Boy".
Johnny: Then what are we going to do about "Low"? The bass makes it sound like Eno was at the boards and Lanois has his headscarf on and we're up in the Castle, like it's 1984 and hey there's Bono with his fishmullet. It's just going to be so awkward at the G8 you know? They'll give us hugs but we both know what the subtext is, why they smile when they see us.
Chris: Come on, we're going to be the 34th best band in the world. Give the people yearning and they'll be happy. Listen, I've got to get be at dinner with Apps and Gwyns at Versace's in Portofino by sundown, so let's send it off to print. Fair trade, y'all.
[Ok, so that was shit. apologies].
This week I started to make poster boards for my unit on "Lab Values: a Review" and another one on "Systemic Lupus Erythematosus". I stopped because I didnt have vellum to make the boards aesthetically pleasing.
Oh and then there's that novel, or something like that. I feel nuts on occasion.
(End topic).
Oh my days off. It is enjoyed time but it is almost missing time, especially if season 5 of the Sopranos arrives in my mailbox, or when I watch the three original Star Wars like I did this week, borrowed from my lovely neighbors to the north.
I forgot about the scene in Empire where Han cuts open the guts of the Muk-Muk, or Hua-Hua or Yub-Yub, or whatever that Harryhausen-animatic beast is called, and puts Luke inside to warm him up. Those guts were foul. They really burst forth from the cavity, huh?
I have a new plant on my porch. It is plastic, I got it at Ikea. I think it looks classy but my mother is embarrassed from 2000 miles away.
The new Coldplay is lovely. Why do they get all the guff from people like us when Ryan Adams is equally soundalikey but also very good at it? Also, what is it like to channel the spirits of musicians in the studio when those musicians are still alive? Let's listen in:
[in final playback]
Chris: Johnny, I dont know, don't you think it sounds a bit too, you know, like Mr. The Edge, mate?
Johnny: Yeah, I s'pose. But I really like the harmonic there...
Chris: Well if we just up the wall of sound, maybe it won't be so obvious. I love the way the organ builds, and the jangly bits come in..it's all done out of adoration really, it isnt intentional.
Johnny: Fuck. Reminds me of Where The -
Chris: Homage, ok? Homage. "White Shadows" is like, a prayer to "Boy".
Johnny: Then what are we going to do about "Low"? The bass makes it sound like Eno was at the boards and Lanois has his headscarf on and we're up in the Castle, like it's 1984 and hey there's Bono with his fishmullet. It's just going to be so awkward at the G8 you know? They'll give us hugs but we both know what the subtext is, why they smile when they see us.
Chris: Come on, we're going to be the 34th best band in the world. Give the people yearning and they'll be happy. Listen, I've got to get be at dinner with Apps and Gwyns at Versace's in Portofino by sundown, so let's send it off to print. Fair trade, y'all.
[Ok, so that was shit. apologies].
Sunday, June 05, 2005
A light in dark places when all other lights go out.
A crossbeam has come undone.
The house will still hold but it will shake a little more in the wind.
That is what I feel about the disappearance of Trajan Martin from this green earth.
I cannot claim to have known him for as long or in as much detail as others,
but I nevertheless am able to appreciate the great vacuum that trails behind him, that brushes up against us now.
Here is a glimpse, here you can look in through the window of that house, and just imagine.
The house will still hold but it will shake a little more in the wind.
That is what I feel about the disappearance of Trajan Martin from this green earth.
I cannot claim to have known him for as long or in as much detail as others,
but I nevertheless am able to appreciate the great vacuum that trails behind him, that brushes up against us now.
Here is a glimpse, here you can look in through the window of that house, and just imagine.
Friday, May 27, 2005
Up,up,up we goes
I may have already revealed the following information to you, but here it is, possibly again:
1) Lili Taylor does radio ads for Tylenol.
2) The voice of Mastercard? Billy Crudup. But maybe you already saw him in the *priceless* gas station ad.
For reals, I think I already told you this stuff.
I can't wait for Sinead O'Connor's new reggae album. She went to live with Burning Spear for many months. It will either be Jupiter-Genius or Pitiful-Sucky.
I was listening to KROQ on the drive back from the OC today in my 1989 U-Haul ten-footer and it's a Nineties weekend folks. That means Soul Asylum, Toad the Wet Sprocket, Foo Fighters, Gin Blossoms, Prodigy - sorry, THE Prodigy -Veruca Salt, Radiohead, Weezer, and the Presidents of the USA. Wow, I could barely type out that last band it's name is so god-awful embarrassing.
When I was driving from Seattle to Vancouver earlier this month, KNDD was having some President of the USA emesis contest. They played a rockblock, and it was somewhat revelatory to know that this could be done with a band like that. It was akin to listening to "Peaches" in 25-minute form, only the chant of "Supersonics" mixed in occasionally.
Folks, the 73, the 405, the 605, the 5 and the 101 shook with the joy of smeary 90's rock as I barrelled side to side back up into the city. Thank you KROQ for putting away your Linkin Park and assorted shit-rock for the afternoon so's I could breathe it all in.
I've been Netflixing season 3 of Six Feet Under. I dont know how they do it. They have so many different directors in a season but they are able to maintain the potency. The roots lie in the writing of course. My favorite character currently is Olivier. I would love to play Olivier, if ever I was asked to play a French-Moroccan male prick art teacher.
Compare with:
The L Word. Firstly, in contrast to Six Feet Under, let's look at title sequences. Where Six Feet has crows and roots of trees, the L Word has a title sequence worth torching. Here you will find a bad song, matched with a collage of gluttonous L.A. Gear images (palm trees, convertibles, sunsets over a downtown skyline, swimming pools, sunglasses, must I go on...).
In the L Word, you will find lots of bad bad bad music, but then you will find an episode with an awkward cameo by Peaches. It will involve dialogue such as: "You guys! Peaches!"
In the L Word there will be acting of a horrifically terrible calibre but then - poof - there is Ossie Davis (playing, notably - uncomfortably - a dying man). Who then dies. The best episode thus far was written by AM Homes.
The press has been asking me which character I would be most likely to want to kiss if forced to under social circumstances. The answer is simple! The guy that lives in the garage.
Fine, ok, that wasnt the answer that was looked for.
Sigh, I would have to pick Shane, and maybe this is because she looks the most like a boy, and she has a tough voice and an angular jaw. She is Gwyneth Paltrow's cousin, per Libby. Shane had a period of very bad hair for some time.
The character I most want to kick to the curb is Jenny, but everyone wants to do that. Mia Kirshner, your dialogue is awful, your dream sequences and literary imaginings make me fast forward on TiVo.
I would recommend a summer of the L Word on DVD for those who might be fans of such fare as America's Next Top Model, What Not to Wear, and Alton Brown's food network shows. Have it for dessert!
1) Lili Taylor does radio ads for Tylenol.
2) The voice of Mastercard? Billy Crudup. But maybe you already saw him in the *priceless* gas station ad.
For reals, I think I already told you this stuff.
I can't wait for Sinead O'Connor's new reggae album. She went to live with Burning Spear for many months. It will either be Jupiter-Genius or Pitiful-Sucky.
I was listening to KROQ on the drive back from the OC today in my 1989 U-Haul ten-footer and it's a Nineties weekend folks. That means Soul Asylum, Toad the Wet Sprocket, Foo Fighters, Gin Blossoms, Prodigy - sorry, THE Prodigy -Veruca Salt, Radiohead, Weezer, and the Presidents of the USA. Wow, I could barely type out that last band it's name is so god-awful embarrassing.
When I was driving from Seattle to Vancouver earlier this month, KNDD was having some President of the USA emesis contest. They played a rockblock, and it was somewhat revelatory to know that this could be done with a band like that. It was akin to listening to "Peaches" in 25-minute form, only the chant of "Supersonics" mixed in occasionally.
Folks, the 73, the 405, the 605, the 5 and the 101 shook with the joy of smeary 90's rock as I barrelled side to side back up into the city. Thank you KROQ for putting away your Linkin Park and assorted shit-rock for the afternoon so's I could breathe it all in.
I've been Netflixing season 3 of Six Feet Under. I dont know how they do it. They have so many different directors in a season but they are able to maintain the potency. The roots lie in the writing of course. My favorite character currently is Olivier. I would love to play Olivier, if ever I was asked to play a French-Moroccan male prick art teacher.
Compare with:
The L Word. Firstly, in contrast to Six Feet Under, let's look at title sequences. Where Six Feet has crows and roots of trees, the L Word has a title sequence worth torching. Here you will find a bad song, matched with a collage of gluttonous L.A. Gear images (palm trees, convertibles, sunsets over a downtown skyline, swimming pools, sunglasses, must I go on...).
In the L Word, you will find lots of bad bad bad music, but then you will find an episode with an awkward cameo by Peaches. It will involve dialogue such as: "You guys! Peaches!"
In the L Word there will be acting of a horrifically terrible calibre but then - poof - there is Ossie Davis (playing, notably - uncomfortably - a dying man). Who then dies. The best episode thus far was written by AM Homes.
The press has been asking me which character I would be most likely to want to kiss if forced to under social circumstances. The answer is simple! The guy that lives in the garage.
Fine, ok, that wasnt the answer that was looked for.
Sigh, I would have to pick Shane, and maybe this is because she looks the most like a boy, and she has a tough voice and an angular jaw. She is Gwyneth Paltrow's cousin, per Libby. Shane had a period of very bad hair for some time.
The character I most want to kick to the curb is Jenny, but everyone wants to do that. Mia Kirshner, your dialogue is awful, your dream sequences and literary imaginings make me fast forward on TiVo.
I would recommend a summer of the L Word on DVD for those who might be fans of such fare as America's Next Top Model, What Not to Wear, and Alton Brown's food network shows. Have it for dessert!
Monday, May 23, 2005
Everybody do the merkin!
Today I abandoned work in order to have my right eye examined for it has taken to being red and disturbing and in public places I become self conscious of my eye. Hath been plagued. Me.
So in the Kaiser Permanente waiting room, where I am seated next to an old black lady with a lace hat on who looks and breathes like a fish, they have Oprah on for everyone to be entertained by while waiting for their name to be hollered by the "Yes, a
Man or No, not a man"-receptionist. People can be so confusing what with the sizes of their jaws in proportion to their brows, cant they...
Tom Cruise is the guest, and what I and millions of others witnessed made me wither inside. I withered because of the reaction created by the audience in response to TC's presence and to his ensuing behavior.
I withered because I was stunned by my own powers of perception which allowed me to have a vision in which I could see the two contracts hovering in gold leaf over TC's and Oprah's heads. There was the one that was written between TC and Katie Holmes, wherein she agrees to perform merkin-service for a price and he agrees to fawn shamelessly as only an overcompensating closeted gay man can ("I love women. I love the way they smell. I want to treat my women the way they deserve to be treated. I love my woman"), and the one written between he and Oprah wherein she agrees to vomit forth only sycophantic mummenshantz in her interview, propositioning him with queries about forthcoming marriage proposals.
I wish you could have seen them as I did. In that moment I communed with both Van Morrison and William Blake.
And yet I cannot describe, you must only look
here.
As a palate cleanser, I would suggest you prance over here to see the so-adorable-it's-orgasmic Blur video referenced above.
A Word On Sith:
1) I held back from shouting: "Cast it into the fire!" during the last sequence
2) Why are all the Storm Troopers Maori? Was it always so?
3) Kiss me like you once did on the lake in Naboo!
4) Padme's Paradoxical Pandora's Box: a uterus the size of a woman in her 5th month, bearing full term twins!
5) Why can't it be like it was on the lake in Naboo?
6) Hayden is cut. Dewy. Skranky greasy hair. I bet he can throw down. Mm.
7) Noooooooo! (arches back in anguish). Cut to Vader. Skywalker now Dark.
So in the Kaiser Permanente waiting room, where I am seated next to an old black lady with a lace hat on who looks and breathes like a fish, they have Oprah on for everyone to be entertained by while waiting for their name to be hollered by the "Yes, a
Man or No, not a man"-receptionist. People can be so confusing what with the sizes of their jaws in proportion to their brows, cant they...
Tom Cruise is the guest, and what I and millions of others witnessed made me wither inside. I withered because of the reaction created by the audience in response to TC's presence and to his ensuing behavior.
I withered because I was stunned by my own powers of perception which allowed me to have a vision in which I could see the two contracts hovering in gold leaf over TC's and Oprah's heads. There was the one that was written between TC and Katie Holmes, wherein she agrees to perform merkin-service for a price and he agrees to fawn shamelessly as only an overcompensating closeted gay man can ("I love women. I love the way they smell. I want to treat my women the way they deserve to be treated. I love my woman"), and the one written between he and Oprah wherein she agrees to vomit forth only sycophantic mummenshantz in her interview, propositioning him with queries about forthcoming marriage proposals.
I wish you could have seen them as I did. In that moment I communed with both Van Morrison and William Blake.
And yet I cannot describe, you must only look
here.
As a palate cleanser, I would suggest you prance over here to see the so-adorable-it's-orgasmic Blur video referenced above.
A Word On Sith:
1) I held back from shouting: "Cast it into the fire!" during the last sequence
2) Why are all the Storm Troopers Maori? Was it always so?
3) Kiss me like you once did on the lake in Naboo!
4) Padme's Paradoxical Pandora's Box: a uterus the size of a woman in her 5th month, bearing full term twins!
5) Why can't it be like it was on the lake in Naboo?
6) Hayden is cut. Dewy. Skranky greasy hair. I bet he can throw down. Mm.
7) Noooooooo! (arches back in anguish). Cut to Vader. Skywalker now Dark.
Friday, May 13, 2005
Traumatic Brain Injury....and you!
I just got home into hazy nighttime Vancouver from Washington state following a two day sojourn at the Seattle Sheraton for "Brain Injuries: The Conference". I added on the colon, it was just called "Brain Injuries". This was my first conference experience. I spent the first five minutes glaring at the back of one fake-n-bake peroxide blonde in high heels and a booby bib in the front row whose name tag denoted her affiliation to be as RN. I was mortified.
Today in one session on managing challenging behaviors in brain injury patients, the lecturer played us a video of a man going apeshit during physical therapy and calling the RNs and PTs bitches and quentes and his head looked like someone had pushed in on one side with a very large thumb.
There was a knowing laugh that spread amongst the people. How odd that I belong to this community now. I drew pictures of stick people banging on drum kits during most of this session, then I had two episodes of tinnitus (in which I heard someone sigh in my ear, no joke, as well as ringing) so I imbibed a Perrier and was healed.
People with traumatic brain injury have been known to speak in tongues.
LADIES AND GENTLEMEN LEBRON JAMES!
LAKERS!
KOBEEE BRYANT!
CHIPS AHOY!
(the above is an outburst witnessed at my workplace. This was then immediately followed by the screamer falling into a deep sleep.)
This is a somewhat hyper post. I have edited it as I have annoyed myself with myself.
FYI to JEB: there is a saying amongst RNs and Physicians in trauma/code scenarios:
"Less than 8, intubate!" which means, if someone has a Glasgow Coma Scale rating of 8 or less, the hour has come for deep intervention.
I would like you all to know that.
S
Today in one session on managing challenging behaviors in brain injury patients, the lecturer played us a video of a man going apeshit during physical therapy and calling the RNs and PTs bitches and quentes and his head looked like someone had pushed in on one side with a very large thumb.
There was a knowing laugh that spread amongst the people. How odd that I belong to this community now. I drew pictures of stick people banging on drum kits during most of this session, then I had two episodes of tinnitus (in which I heard someone sigh in my ear, no joke, as well as ringing) so I imbibed a Perrier and was healed.
People with traumatic brain injury have been known to speak in tongues.
LADIES AND GENTLEMEN LEBRON JAMES!
LAKERS!
KOBEEE BRYANT!
CHIPS AHOY!
(the above is an outburst witnessed at my workplace. This was then immediately followed by the screamer falling into a deep sleep.)
This is a somewhat hyper post. I have edited it as I have annoyed myself with myself.
FYI to JEB: there is a saying amongst RNs and Physicians in trauma/code scenarios:
"Less than 8, intubate!" which means, if someone has a Glasgow Coma Scale rating of 8 or less, the hour has come for deep intervention.
I would like you all to know that.
S
Sunday, May 01, 2005
And it was all Coachella
I have:
a red nose and scalp from the sun
a sock and watch tan.
I wish:
I had remembered to bring my camera though I know the pictures that would result could only be disappointing. Crowd pictures can be lame. However I could have done a photo essay only on tshirts.
"Would you mind if I touched your butt?"
"More cowbell"
"I'm with Steve/John/Freddy/Chris"
"Me love cookies"
"Slap me some skin"
And on, and on.
I wish I brought my green sunhat.
I saw:
a)The Raveonettes, who are from Denmark, and are capable of speaking perfect English sans accent. They rocked very intensely and cleverly and were clean and well styled.
b) Snow Patrol,who are from Belfast and have been sainted by a reference from the OC, like many others. They suffered initially from sound issues and the lead singer's flat, vanilla voice but they came together towards the end. I forgive the lad his weak rocking abilities simply because he did what most people do not when on stage in that he smiled and laughed persistently throughout.
There was a guy in the crowd wearing the most unforgiveable of all Irish tourist items available for purchase: the tricolor viking hat plus flag as cape.
c) Keane, from "small town in England", were great. My friend Steve remarked that the pianist and the drummer looked like the Bobsy Twins. To me they were just two men flopping up and down in unison at their respective instruments, but the flopping was comedic like the singer's cute slapfaced cheeks. Nice to see a band with a instrument-less singer, a la Mick and Van and Bono.
d) Wilco, at sunset. That was nice. I'm not a huge Wilconian, but it was enjoyable. Tweedy has an unfortunate face but he is crafty at his craft. And the guy on keys looked like Nigel from Spinal Tap.
e)Weezer...what can I say? Weezer is for kids. It's true. I have never felt so old as I did yesterday as I fled out of the crowd after Keane only to have to push against what I will term The Incoming Tide of Utter Tools...alt frat kids, their tow-along girlfriends and high schoolers. Not only did I feel old but I also felt such a bitch. Rivers bowed to the crowd and said "this is fun" so I think he rather enjoyed himself even though he was off key. I used the bathroom at this juncture. I do not say this to point out how cool I am because I didnt want to see Weezer, but voiding felt more important and it won by a long shot as far as priorities go.
f) Bauhaus: Unbelievable. Like an Opera. The only band to have platforms to use for climbing onto simply for dramatic emphasis. First, all we heard was low bass rumbling, tones shifting up and then down again. But from my angle in the front, we could see that off stage right, a man was hanging upside down from a guy wire. For four minutes only we could see this, he just hung there, not moving. Then smoke was sent out and the man was pulled to mid-stage upside down, and he proceeded to arch his back slightly and bring his hand up into little claws like a bat and then he sang the opening number completely upside down. He liked to vamp at the camera like the dramatic German he is.
g) Coldplay. Where Weezer had The Tide of Tools, Coldplay's crowd (in my area) seemed to be mostly clean cut Asian American kids who said things like "Wow, I am smelling a *lot* of pot around here", and who were very cheery with their friends, snapping photos, baseball caps and buttonup shirts, lots of love going around. Coldplay did in fact blow me away, I will say that right now. I did not expect this, and I wouldnt buy a ticket to see Coldplay, but they seem to have learned a few things about live performance and engaging the audience (from, ahem, I wonder who) that works well. They have a formula, and they are very good at it, so much so that I was reminded of the fact that Yellow is one of the best pop songs ever written after hearing it live under a big desert sky. But something about Chris Martin remains unsettling. What is it? I get a wierd vibe off him. He goes to be with Gywneth Paltrow! So wierd, and so cute. He was visibly happy and grateful to be there too and he openly dissed the show they played in Vegas last night and then introduced a Johnny Cash song, or one he wrote for Johnny Cash, or something like that. And lept off the stage like a fool.
There were some other people there: Bloc Party, Spoon, Chemical Brothers, Buck 65, Rilo Kiley but I did not see them. Today is Arcade Fire, Aesop Rock, Gang of Four, Black Star, and a million others.
Next year, there shall be on-site camping and a two-day pass for me.
This has been Sarah Lebo, with a synopsis and a wrap-up.
a red nose and scalp from the sun
a sock and watch tan.
I wish:
I had remembered to bring my camera though I know the pictures that would result could only be disappointing. Crowd pictures can be lame. However I could have done a photo essay only on tshirts.
"Would you mind if I touched your butt?"
"More cowbell"
"I'm with Steve/John/Freddy/Chris"
"Me love cookies"
"Slap me some skin"
And on, and on.
I wish I brought my green sunhat.
I saw:
a)The Raveonettes, who are from Denmark, and are capable of speaking perfect English sans accent. They rocked very intensely and cleverly and were clean and well styled.
b) Snow Patrol,who are from Belfast and have been sainted by a reference from the OC, like many others. They suffered initially from sound issues and the lead singer's flat, vanilla voice but they came together towards the end. I forgive the lad his weak rocking abilities simply because he did what most people do not when on stage in that he smiled and laughed persistently throughout.
There was a guy in the crowd wearing the most unforgiveable of all Irish tourist items available for purchase: the tricolor viking hat plus flag as cape.
c) Keane, from "small town in England", were great. My friend Steve remarked that the pianist and the drummer looked like the Bobsy Twins. To me they were just two men flopping up and down in unison at their respective instruments, but the flopping was comedic like the singer's cute slapfaced cheeks. Nice to see a band with a instrument-less singer, a la Mick and Van and Bono.
d) Wilco, at sunset. That was nice. I'm not a huge Wilconian, but it was enjoyable. Tweedy has an unfortunate face but he is crafty at his craft. And the guy on keys looked like Nigel from Spinal Tap.
e)Weezer...what can I say? Weezer is for kids. It's true. I have never felt so old as I did yesterday as I fled out of the crowd after Keane only to have to push against what I will term The Incoming Tide of Utter Tools...alt frat kids, their tow-along girlfriends and high schoolers. Not only did I feel old but I also felt such a bitch. Rivers bowed to the crowd and said "this is fun" so I think he rather enjoyed himself even though he was off key. I used the bathroom at this juncture. I do not say this to point out how cool I am because I didnt want to see Weezer, but voiding felt more important and it won by a long shot as far as priorities go.
f) Bauhaus: Unbelievable. Like an Opera. The only band to have platforms to use for climbing onto simply for dramatic emphasis. First, all we heard was low bass rumbling, tones shifting up and then down again. But from my angle in the front, we could see that off stage right, a man was hanging upside down from a guy wire. For four minutes only we could see this, he just hung there, not moving. Then smoke was sent out and the man was pulled to mid-stage upside down, and he proceeded to arch his back slightly and bring his hand up into little claws like a bat and then he sang the opening number completely upside down. He liked to vamp at the camera like the dramatic German he is.
g) Coldplay. Where Weezer had The Tide of Tools, Coldplay's crowd (in my area) seemed to be mostly clean cut Asian American kids who said things like "Wow, I am smelling a *lot* of pot around here", and who were very cheery with their friends, snapping photos, baseball caps and buttonup shirts, lots of love going around. Coldplay did in fact blow me away, I will say that right now. I did not expect this, and I wouldnt buy a ticket to see Coldplay, but they seem to have learned a few things about live performance and engaging the audience (from, ahem, I wonder who) that works well. They have a formula, and they are very good at it, so much so that I was reminded of the fact that Yellow is one of the best pop songs ever written after hearing it live under a big desert sky. But something about Chris Martin remains unsettling. What is it? I get a wierd vibe off him. He goes to be with Gywneth Paltrow! So wierd, and so cute. He was visibly happy and grateful to be there too and he openly dissed the show they played in Vegas last night and then introduced a Johnny Cash song, or one he wrote for Johnny Cash, or something like that. And lept off the stage like a fool.
There were some other people there: Bloc Party, Spoon, Chemical Brothers, Buck 65, Rilo Kiley but I did not see them. Today is Arcade Fire, Aesop Rock, Gang of Four, Black Star, and a million others.
Next year, there shall be on-site camping and a two-day pass for me.
This has been Sarah Lebo, with a synopsis and a wrap-up.
Friday, April 29, 2005
rush, blood, head
here is my house
my bed is my furniture.
my floor is my shelf! there are bags everywhere of unimportant things like party lights and votive candles (we had a party last week)
the picture does not accurately complement the real courtyard mileu. And you cant see the spiders or hornets from here.
I now live in an area that could be mapped out by Beck's "Que Onda". I am between the Vista Theater and Rudy's Barbershop; or, between El Gran Burrito and Tang's Donuts ("I saw a puppet at Tang's with a mullet and a popsicle"); or between Cap N' Cork ("Let's go to Cap N' Cork, I hear they have the new Yanni cassette") and Griffith Park ("Vamos al Griffith Park").
Viva Michael Bolton!
I have a mystery itchy patchy rash on periphery of my face. I feel like Eric Stoltz in M.A.S.K.
This week I was able to tolerate hard contacts for an evening out at the Smog Cutter (1/2 mile from my house) for Alex's birthday. It felt so wierd to have my face exposed to the elements sans glasses.
The topic of hierarchy within the hospital is taking up too much mind-time in my practice of late... I found myself at the bedside the other day admitting a patient, and the medical resident came over from the neighboring unit to do his assessment. I mentioned a strange rash I had noticed on the kid's chest, and this resident - though emanating the rich stink of being in a rush with his quick mannerisms and speedy speech - actually took the time to brush off my observation....he said "All it takes is one sharp fingernail to make all those scratches", and see, he said this after I had already passed along that this child has absent fingernails - no nailbeds. Of course, two minutes later, he has a revelation: This child doesnt have any nails, how interesting!.
The point here is not that I felt my assessment was being ignored because with some physicians that is just true. Nor was I just peeved by his brief patronization during what I had interpreted as an interdisciplinary bedside moment.
No, the point is, at work I keep noticing that I get wrapped up in *their* rush, and it physically makes me want to scream. Both at myself for speeding along beside them, and therefore enrobing myself in the manner of one subserviant, but also at them for their obvious disrespect.
You could say - and they would say - they are very busy, they have many patients to see. This is true, but my colleagues and I also have patients to see, medications to give, parents to talk to, teaching to do, discharges and admissions coming and going, dressings to change, other phone calls to make to other physicians, documentation to make, the bathroom to go to...and yet we RNs make an effort to accomodate that particular kind of stress related to time management on their end.
So now I will resist even more, and I say this to us all: I will not engage in passive aggression, but when I feel the rush coming up inside of me, I will halt and remind myself that it is not I who must meet them but us who must meet each other. If they don't slow down to listen, I will call them on it outside the patient's room.
I have to sleep in my furniture now. Tomorrow Coachella.
In some movies, Adam Sandler makes me cry.
Like Spanglish, which is not that good, but still.
my bed is my furniture.
my floor is my shelf! there are bags everywhere of unimportant things like party lights and votive candles (we had a party last week)
the picture does not accurately complement the real courtyard mileu. And you cant see the spiders or hornets from here.
I now live in an area that could be mapped out by Beck's "Que Onda". I am between the Vista Theater and Rudy's Barbershop; or, between El Gran Burrito and Tang's Donuts ("I saw a puppet at Tang's with a mullet and a popsicle"); or between Cap N' Cork ("Let's go to Cap N' Cork, I hear they have the new Yanni cassette") and Griffith Park ("Vamos al Griffith Park").
Viva Michael Bolton!
I have a mystery itchy patchy rash on periphery of my face. I feel like Eric Stoltz in M.A.S.K.
This week I was able to tolerate hard contacts for an evening out at the Smog Cutter (1/2 mile from my house) for Alex's birthday. It felt so wierd to have my face exposed to the elements sans glasses.
The topic of hierarchy within the hospital is taking up too much mind-time in my practice of late... I found myself at the bedside the other day admitting a patient, and the medical resident came over from the neighboring unit to do his assessment. I mentioned a strange rash I had noticed on the kid's chest, and this resident - though emanating the rich stink of being in a rush with his quick mannerisms and speedy speech - actually took the time to brush off my observation....he said "All it takes is one sharp fingernail to make all those scratches", and see, he said this after I had already passed along that this child has absent fingernails - no nailbeds. Of course, two minutes later, he has a revelation: This child doesnt have any nails, how interesting!.
The point here is not that I felt my assessment was being ignored because with some physicians that is just true. Nor was I just peeved by his brief patronization during what I had interpreted as an interdisciplinary bedside moment.
No, the point is, at work I keep noticing that I get wrapped up in *their* rush, and it physically makes me want to scream. Both at myself for speeding along beside them, and therefore enrobing myself in the manner of one subserviant, but also at them for their obvious disrespect.
You could say - and they would say - they are very busy, they have many patients to see. This is true, but my colleagues and I also have patients to see, medications to give, parents to talk to, teaching to do, discharges and admissions coming and going, dressings to change, other phone calls to make to other physicians, documentation to make, the bathroom to go to...and yet we RNs make an effort to accomodate that particular kind of stress related to time management on their end.
So now I will resist even more, and I say this to us all: I will not engage in passive aggression, but when I feel the rush coming up inside of me, I will halt and remind myself that it is not I who must meet them but us who must meet each other. If they don't slow down to listen, I will call them on it outside the patient's room.
I have to sleep in my furniture now. Tomorrow Coachella.
In some movies, Adam Sandler makes me cry.
Like Spanglish, which is not that good, but still.
Saturday, April 16, 2005
grown
smoggiest day since I moved here yet
earthquake this a.m. that no one but me noticed
have a new bed. big and for adults. i am an adult now.
moved into apartment shaped like a house
had a love affair with Target and bought magnolia-scented dish soap,
wooden hangers (further proof of being an adult)
made a list with Libby of details for our Great Spring Festival
of this coming week
will seal the deal tomorrow by buying my first proper non
cross-strapped bag. some call it a purse.
dont call it a comeback
earthquake this a.m. that no one but me noticed
have a new bed. big and for adults. i am an adult now.
moved into apartment shaped like a house
had a love affair with Target and bought magnolia-scented dish soap,
wooden hangers (further proof of being an adult)
made a list with Libby of details for our Great Spring Festival
of this coming week
will seal the deal tomorrow by buying my first proper non
cross-strapped bag. some call it a purse.
dont call it a comeback
Thursday, April 07, 2005
Yes, I go to church.
Who told you I didn't? People are forever saying the damnedest things about me.
I don't go regularly; I go every 2-4 years. The city varies but the spiritual root always emanates from the same place.
Because you know, I think it is true that there are some who are holy who walk amongst us.
These individuals are human beings, yes, but are they are able to spread a rare kind of power in alternating forms of joy, integrity and passion.
So the choir numbers roughly in the 10-18,000s. It's that kind of choir.
Last night, my pew partners were the original two, which was the sweetest thing of all (Karen "Malkmus" Ma and Bonnie "Mullen Jr" Harrison).
Our two hour worship was fierce and loving, bedecked in bright lights and red wine.
Our beloved Stocky Irishman in Black, eloquent as per usual, used his lingual talents to devote the energy in the room to the sick of the world. A tear here.
At another juncture, he tried to bottle the energy in the room so that he could peddle it to the world's rich in such a way as to help the world's poor.
He said he had gifted the Pope with a pair of fly shades one summer. The Pope put them on and cocked his head sideways. Seemingly, the weight of the sunglasses pulled his head earthwards.
There was:
Electric Co.. And the Ocean! - The Ocean! I've never heard it live before: "picture in grey, Dorian Grey, just me, by the sea" - I think it's one of the simplest and therefore most efficient songs to lock down the anomie of adolescence. Sunday Bloody Sunday in the old school style: No more! (sing) No More! Wipe your tears away...
There was a grade A ho who jumped onto the catwalk when the Man was dancing with a girl from the audience. Bono grabbed his chosen girl's hand and began to run with her away from Ho, looking back every few seconds to check on Ho's progress. Security tried to take her down but Bono said (and it fit perfectly into the song structure) "It's alright, it's alright" and Ho then got on all fours and turned herself rumpwards. You could actually hear the audience stop singing outloud when her breasts appeared on stage. Only in Los Angeles, we said. And he said.
They closed with "40" and each man put his tool aside one by one (voice, bass, guitar) until only Larry (anointed with partial mullet, unaged, unchanged, pomade liberally applied, still loves Elvis) remained.
Then he was gone too and we went out into the night.
It sticks to you, nights like those. So good.
When I am a rich registered nurse, I am going to take one and all for an evening of singing out loud and love.
I don't go regularly; I go every 2-4 years. The city varies but the spiritual root always emanates from the same place.
Because you know, I think it is true that there are some who are holy who walk amongst us.
These individuals are human beings, yes, but are they are able to spread a rare kind of power in alternating forms of joy, integrity and passion.
So the choir numbers roughly in the 10-18,000s. It's that kind of choir.
Last night, my pew partners were the original two, which was the sweetest thing of all (Karen "Malkmus" Ma and Bonnie "Mullen Jr" Harrison).
Our two hour worship was fierce and loving, bedecked in bright lights and red wine.
Our beloved Stocky Irishman in Black, eloquent as per usual, used his lingual talents to devote the energy in the room to the sick of the world. A tear here.
At another juncture, he tried to bottle the energy in the room so that he could peddle it to the world's rich in such a way as to help the world's poor.
He said he had gifted the Pope with a pair of fly shades one summer. The Pope put them on and cocked his head sideways. Seemingly, the weight of the sunglasses pulled his head earthwards.
There was:
Electric Co.. And the Ocean! - The Ocean! I've never heard it live before: "picture in grey, Dorian Grey, just me, by the sea" - I think it's one of the simplest and therefore most efficient songs to lock down the anomie of adolescence. Sunday Bloody Sunday in the old school style: No more! (sing) No More! Wipe your tears away...
There was a grade A ho who jumped onto the catwalk when the Man was dancing with a girl from the audience. Bono grabbed his chosen girl's hand and began to run with her away from Ho, looking back every few seconds to check on Ho's progress. Security tried to take her down but Bono said (and it fit perfectly into the song structure) "It's alright, it's alright" and Ho then got on all fours and turned herself rumpwards. You could actually hear the audience stop singing outloud when her breasts appeared on stage. Only in Los Angeles, we said. And he said.
They closed with "40" and each man put his tool aside one by one (voice, bass, guitar) until only Larry (anointed with partial mullet, unaged, unchanged, pomade liberally applied, still loves Elvis) remained.
Then he was gone too and we went out into the night.
It sticks to you, nights like those. So good.
When I am a rich registered nurse, I am going to take one and all for an evening of singing out loud and love.
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