Sick movies*

*meaning movies you watch when you’re sick, not nausea-inducing movies or movies not carried by Blockbuster due to adult content.

A friend and I had a long conversation last year about movies we like to watch when we’re ill. Sometimes, in the throes of a crazy time at work, I’ve secretly wished for some providential virus to knock me off my feet and let me rest for a day or two. But when such a virus strikes–and one is currently striking now–I remember how profoundly boring it is to be sick. Lying on the sofa or in bed, feeling individual air molecules pelting my body, unable to focus on much outside the ambit of my own suffering. (Melodrama is one symptom that runs through all of my illnesses.) Just about the only thing I feel capable of doing is watching movies.

The trick is to choose the right movie. Nothing too funny (comedies can be annoying and shrill if a person has no energy to laugh), too depressing, too violent/loud, or too convoluted (in deference to the very real possibility of dozing off). Familiar movies work well. The aforementioned friend, for example, cited the Harry Potter movies as his favorite sicktime diversion. I tend to go for the Star Wars trilogy (meaning, of course, episodes IV, V, and VI–I don’t acknowledge eps I-III). Law & Order reruns are good; even if I haven’t seen the episode in question four or five times, they’re very structured and formulaic and therefore easy to follow.

• Dead body
• Wisecrack
• Opening credits
• Red herring
• Red herring
• Red herring
• Arrest of the person you knew would be the suspect because she had more than two lines in the first half of the show
• Arraignment
• Jack McCoy argues with his subordinates and/or the DA
• DA acquiesces wearily to Jack’s bizarre yet ingenious legal strategy
• Big courtroom finale
• Pithy observation afterwards in the office
• Everybody goes home for the night

I dragged myself to the video store on my way home sick from work yesterday and came home with a combination of movies that can only be attributed to a diseased mind: Married Life, Sweeney Todd, and Iron Man. The first was pretty good, though the ending was a bit of a letdown, and the second was so revolting and so lacking in redeeming qualities that I abandoned movie-watching altogether. Today I plan to walk over to Blockbuster and return it so I can get it out of my apartment. But Iron Man should be entertaining. And if it isn’t, Law & Order is certain to be on somewhere in the cableverse.

Hope has finally arrived.

Conservatives, please feel free to stop reading now. I respect your right to hold your opinions, but now I’m going to express mine. [scattered though they may be--it is, after all, hours before noon.]

For the first time in a very, very long time, I’m hopeful about the future of our country. I feel like we’ve finally grown up. As a nation, we were able to get past the politics of hate and fear; we elected a sober, thoughtful, intelligent, humane, and decent man to the presidency. We knew that he’d ask us to make sacrifices and to participate in our communities, but we elected him anyway. I’m very proud of us.

AND many of the ballot initiatives broke in favor of progressivism, too. Little by little, the US is becoming a place that truly does respect human rights. All those faded “United We Stand” bumperstickers have taken on a different cast since last night. Suddenly, it’s a promise and a declaration that’s proactive rather than reactive, and “we” truly means all of us. Never mind. Looks like Prop 8 is going to pass after all. And Christmas has been cancelled.

Could be my election day…

As a rule, I don’t write blog entries before noon. My rational brain is prone to producing all kinds of random stuff during the morning hours, and my internal censor is very unreliable. But today is pretty crazy already, so let’s just go for it.

I wonder how many people are really focused on their jobs today. Of course, that begs a corollary question: I wonder how many people are as obsessed with this election as I am. Almost everyone I know seems to be similarly obsessed, so my sample is skewed.

Last night I dreamed I was watching archival footage of Sarah Palin, back in her TV news days, visiting various public places carrying a turkey she’d dressed in her neighbor’s silk blouse and pearls. Apparently, La Paline was making some kind of animal-rights statement (that we should treat turkeys like people?) and simultaneously sending up her neighbor’s bourgeois pretensions, presumably in contrast to her own cotton-and-canvas folksiness. Still, in my dream, I thought the stunt was original and daring, and I admired her for it. Then I woke up.

Meanwhile, the world continues to turn. The Supreme Court is weighing a case that may well determine the extent of pharmaceutical companies’ tort liability for the foreseeable future. In the words of the inimitable Dahlia Lithwick: “Wyeth is being called the most important business case of the year because, if the court finds that the FDA warning occupies the field of drug warnings, it will effectively immunize drug makers from many state tort suits. If it finds pre-emption here, the most business-friendly Supreme Court in decades can cancel the room with two queen-size beds and order a single king for itself and big pharma.”

When the FDA approves a drug, it also approves a label that must be included with the drug. Wyeth argues that the label can’t be changed or amended without jeopardizing the drug’s approved status. Levine, the plaintiff, argues that the approved label constitutes the most minimal warning permissible (a “floor” rather than a “ceiling”) and that drug companies are not only allowed but are duty-bound to add warning language as new risks surface. While I don’t miss law school, I do miss grappling with problems like this and delving into precedents, implications, complications, and the like.

Bonus: In that article, Lithwick introduced me to the idea of using “bigfoot” as a verb. How colorful! Love it.

The big D

I’m off to Dallas again tonight for a Halloween party. Sure, it’s a long drive, but Rishi and Halloween are definitely worth it. Plus, it’s giving me a reason to hum “Goin’ Through the Big D” by Mark Chestnutt (as in “I’m goin’ through the big D and don’t mean Dallas”). That song is ranked right up there with “I’m Gonna Hire a Wino to Decorate Our Home” by David Frizzell (“She said: ‘I’m gonna’ hire a wino to decorate our home/So you’ll feel more at ease here, and you won’t have to roam./We’ll take out the dining room table, and put a bar along that wall./And a neon sign, to point the way, to our bathroom down the hall.”) and my personal favorite, Tracy Byrd’s “Drinkin’ Bone”: “The drinkin’ bone’s connected to the party bone/The party bone’s connected to the stayin’ out all night long/And she won’t think it’s funny/And I’ll wind up all alone/And the lonely bone’s connected to the drinkin’ bone.” I was packing for a trip one day last winter, singing that to myself, until Jordie the parrot broke in and said testily, “No, it’s not.”

Dallas aside, what’s not to love about Halloween? Pumpkin carving (and roasting the seeds), caramel apples, beautiful fall weather, and the chance to become someone (or something) else for the evening. One year, I went as a zombie in drag; after my drag king friend had applied my beard, but before I’d put on the zombie makeup, I run out to Target for something. I think I passed okay–nobody gave me a second look–but it did require a surprising amount of effort and concentration.

This year, I wanted to go as The Dude, but his beard is a little tricky and it’s been tough to find the perfect bathrobe.

Scary Emmettasaurus

Emmett in his best-ever Halloween costume, made just for him by a very talented (and indulgent) seamstress.

If there’s one born every minute, I’ve got a lot of company

“If I owned Texas and hell, I’d rent out Texas and live in hell.”
–Gen. P.H. Sheridan

I had to go shopping this week. At the mall. Despite years of conditioning, this is an exercise that still fills me with dread. I’m not lying or exaggerating when I say I’d much rather go to the dentist. (This may also be due in part to my deep and abiding affection for Dr. Tara Meyer. I mean Dr. Tara Tehab Kaur. On my next visit, I hope I get the gossipy hygienist so I can find out the reason for the name change.)

To me, shopping is less a pleasurable excursion or treasure hunt and more a problem to be solved. Problem: I need new shoes, soap, and some of the super-extravagant moisturizing cream my mom got me hooked on “because it’s never too early to start taking good care of your skin.” Solution: Go to Marshall Field’s. Problem #2: That store no longer exists. Solution: Settle for Dillard’s, a department store chain we don’t have in Minnesota but one that seems to resemble MF.

First stop was the Lancome counter. A woman with a matronly smile and a barracuda’s heart located what I needed, then proceeded to upsell me into some related skin care products; she went too far, though, when she tried to interest me in the motorized mascara. Undaunted by my backing away from the counter, she desperately waved a sample bottle of perfume–the kind of perfume worn by someone I once went on a date with (and, repelled by said perfume, vowed never to see again).

I finally escaped the Lancome black hole and wandered around until I found the shoe department. Those people seem to be paid per shoe. In the space of two minutes, I was accosted by four different salespeople who made it their personal mission to make sure I was finding everything I needed. Finally, just to put an end to it, I caught the attention of the nearest circling shark, held up a shoe, and said, “I’m looking for something like this, only more dressy.” She produced the perfect shoe and I was out of there within minutes.

But the ordeal wasn’t over. Turns out Bath & Bodyworks was at the opposite end of the mall, so I was forced to pass thousands of kiosks run by eager entrepreneurs calling out hopefully to promising-looking passersby. I tried not to look promising, but was still beseiged by offers of sunglasses, cookies, novelty tote bags, cell phone plans, and heaven knows what else. My Midwestern politeness always makes it hard for me to pretend I neither hear nor see those people waving and calling, but somehow I manage.

So I felt pretty beaten down by the time I got back to my apartment complex, which may have made it even less possible than usual for me to ignore the stray dog loitering by the mailboxes. She was terribly skinny and wore an old leather collar with no tags attached. The guy in the rental office said she’d been hanging around all day. She sat patiently next to the door, occasionally wandering up and down the sidewalk in front of the office. Emmett was, of course, strangling himself in an attempt to get to her so he could tell her who was the boss of our pack, but I picked him up, carried him back to my apartment, and cloistered him in the bathroom. Then I went back for the dog.

She came when called, sat, and deployed her best, most devastating puppydog looks. I clipped Emmett’s leash to her collar and took her home, watching her closely as we walked. She was very well-behaved on the leash–a welcome change from my usual dog-walking experiences–and didn’t hesitate when we went into my apartment. I got her settled on the porch with food, water, and blankets, then shut the glass door and drew the blinds in hopes that Emmett would forget she was there.

Long story short (shorter, at least), after twenty-four hours of hiding her from Emmett and the building managers, and generally feeling like I was trapped in an episode of Three’s Company, I found a rescue group to take her. All’s well that ends well.

Look out, Tina Fey!

Here’s a serious contender in the Sarah Palin lookalike contest. I’m sure she’s every bit as articulate, too.

On a non-snarky note, I was delighted to see Chris Rose doing the play-by-play for the Lions-Texans game on Sunday. He managed the student radio station when I was in college. My friend Lynn & I had our own show, and I had a little crush on Chris. He was so handsome and so nice! I can still see him slouching against a table with his mop of curly hair & his worn flannel shirt. Poor, overworked guy… It’s good to see him enjoying such success.

Out and about in Houston (no, really!)

The forecast for Minneapolis, as reported this morning by the Strib:
Tonight’s low of 33 degrees will be the coldest of the season, and a cool week is in store after relatively warm highs in the 60s over the weekend. Highs this week will be mainly in the 50s with lows in the mid- to upper 30s. Frost is possible each night through Saturday.

The forecast for Houston (from the Chronicle):
Today: Mostly sunny. Highs in the lower 80s. Southeast winds around 5 mph. Tonight: Partly cloudy. Lows around 60. Southeast winds around 5 mph. [The rest of the week looks pretty much the same. We might see some rain on Wednesday.]

It’s been a quiet week here in Cypress, my current hometown… but the weekend made up for it. By attending a party on Saturday & hitting a sports bar on Sunday, I brought the number of times I’ve gone into the city to do stuff up to four (an increase of 100%!). I managed to overcome my shyness and my fear of strangers long enough to have a great time at the party–met some cool people, engaged in interesting conversations, etc. Many thanks to Amanda for persisting in her efforts to get me out of my apartment. And for throwing a good party.

Sunday’s trip to Lucky’s Pub to watch the Vikings game with friends was a mixture of positives and negatives. Positives: nice place, decent food, good company; the three of us weren’t the only Vikes fans there, either. The big negative, of course, was the game itself. My forehead was a little sore after the 400th time I clapped a hand to it in disbelief. Simultaneously watching the Cowboys take a beating on the big screen was some consolation, but not much. Oddly enough, I got into a fairly intense discussion with the manager about politics; I can now say that I know three liberals in the state of Texas. (Counting the Dixie Chicks, there are at least seven of us!)

The drive home after the game was enlivened by the fact that my GPS wanted me to drive directly through the middle of the art fair. My refusal to do this made her very testy. She kept saying “Recalculating…” in that icy tone of hers as I tried to find a road out of town.

TEXAAAAAS FIGHT!!

Rishi lured me to Dallas for the weekend by proposing a trip to the Texas State Fair. As it happened, this was also the weekend of the 103rd annual Texas Longhorns-Oklahoma Sooners game, aka the Cotton Bowl, aka the Red River Shootout. It was, quite possibly, the greatest football game in the history of the world. I hadn’t thought seriously about going to the game until Thursday night, when the chance to see something I’d never ordinarily see–and to be present at such a major event–overwhelmed me and I scrambled to find a ticket. Of all the impulsive decisions I’ve ever made, it was one of the best.

The game, the rivalry, the crowd… the whole spectacle was intoxicating. (Figuratively, of course. No alcohol was served inside the stadium, thank goodness. It would’ve been like throwing napalm on a bonfire.) I made some new best friends up in the stands–my actual friends had planned better and were down in the lower deck–and learned a bunch of new cheers. Fortunately, there was only one hand signal to learn. The oval of the stadium was split in half, one half Sooners red and the other Longhorns burnt orange. The line between the two was defined very clearly. It made for a great visual.

On the fairgrounds before and after the game, just about everyone was wearing red or orange. [I'll note, without comment, that the UT cheerleaders wear chaps over their short shorts.] There were a few very popular looks. Some worked; others were, um, regrettable.

The game itself was incredibly hard-fought and suspenseful. Fifth-ranked Texas ended up beating top-ranked OU, 45 to 35. We all screamed ourselves hoarse and rode a wave of jubilation out of the stadium. Just outside our gate, a pretty cool band was playing; as we floated out, they were tearing up a version of “Blitzkrieg Pop” that featured fiddle and bagpipe solos. Achtung, Ramones!

The Fair itself was fun, too. We walked in and out of the exhibit buildings and ate fair food, like fried green tomatoes, corn dogs, funnel cake, etc. The Fair’s mascot, Big Tex, gave his 2008 Best Taste award to a new treat: chicken-fried bacon. It was not very popular in our group. I decided I will never again take food suggestions from enormous statutes, even if they’re wearing Dickies and booming out messages about energy conservation.

We also saw a whole lot of brand-new, hot-looking cars in the (air-conditioned!) Auto Show building, as well as a belly-dancing exhibition and a few things that defied explanation.

Many thanks to Rishi, Manisha, and Rachel for being very gracious hosts–and a hell of a lot of fun.

A vast conspiracy

My sense of direction is not great. In fact, it’s not even adequate. But after living in Minneapolis for ten years, I could usually find my way around. All the same, I tended to stick rigidly to the routes I knew & avoided experimenting with new ones. Sure, that other road might have gotten me to my destination–more quickly, more directly–but it’s equally probable that the road would end, or be under construction, or veer off in an unexpected direction, or take me straight off a cliff. Best to stick with the known.

These street smarts were earned over the course of a decade. And now I’m back at zero. I’ve been here almost two months (?!), and I can now identify a couple of major streets and roads. I even experimented with a new way to get to work, and it actually got me to work! A major accomplishment.

For wholly unfamiliar destinations, I’ve been relying on Google Maps. But Google Maps is often wrong. My previous experiences with the site have been uniformly positive; I always got from A to B with minimal fuss. Here, it’s a different story. Either someone changed some of the street names without informing Google, or Google is deliberately trying to sabotage me.

A scenario much like this one has played out several times in the last two weeks:

–I start out with printed directions in hand. I’ve highlighted the turns & read through the directions a few times prior to departure.

–The trip starts out pleasantly enough. I know the major roads near my apartment building, so the first few steps in the directions give me no trouble.

–As I get closer to my destination, however, the sky takes on a menacing cast and road signs shimmer like far-off mirages. I scan the signs desperately for my exit–let’s call it the Electric Avenue exit in this example–but no such exit appears.

–Anxiety mounting, I drive on even though I’ve begun to suspect I’ve missed the exit. Eventually, I wind up crossing a major road I know to be waaay past my destination. I turn around.

–No Electric Avenue exit from this direction either.

–I get off the beltway again, pull over in a quiet neighborhood, and take the Houston map out of the glove box. But Electric Avenue is not marked anywhere on the map.

–I look at the directions, the address, and the map, and then decide to a) go home, b) call the place for better directions, or c) drive around aimlessly until the place has definitely closed, then pursue option a).

It’s not just Google Maps, either. Apparently, no online mapping service has ever actually visited Houston. They steer me toward streets that don’t exist or devise torturous, meandering routes involving U-turns, merges, and ever-more-extreme automotive acrobatics, all performed as I’m clutching the printed directions and trying not to hit other cars while reading those closely-printed lines and driving at 65 mph.

No more, I say!!

Another yet another frustrating navigational snafu last night, I marched right out at the earliest opportunity and bought a GPS for my car. I think this will change my life. I picture myself driving directly to each destination, guided by the soothing and infallible voice of the GPS. I will arrive on time and unruffled.

But part of me is afraid of a result like this.