Friday, November 30, 2007
Cubicle Glory
I got my very own cubicle today. It has walls, and a shredder and file drawers in which to stash chocolate reserves. It has a nice lamp and a irritating neighbours with loud, nasal voices. It has a trash can and poker chips. It's great for posing.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Folk Wisdom
Last week I took two cab rides. Usually I like talking to cab drivers, but for both of the rides I was looking forward to sitting quietly in the back on the super-squishy cab seats that you know are filthy and watching the scenery. Scenery-watching is something one gets to do very little of in this city. We're all steering something usually. I wonder if fewer drivers and more passengers, just as state of travel, would change how we look at the city and make the city feel different. Most of the shapes that make up this city are very ugly; it's the crannies and the pockets where you find the beauty.
Anyway, both cab drivers were from Armenia and they cracked open the door of conversation with the thin wedge of one question.
The first cabbie asked me if I drank coffee (it was 7am). I said no, and the verbal heavens opened. He talked long about the evils of caffeine and at barely an interjection from me, jumped quickly into the topic of how to eat foods properly (no liquids with your meals and fruit only on an empty stomach) which is an easy slide into the medical industry. It was amazing how much mileage he got from my responses. I probably put forward thoughts and responses at the rate of one every five minutes. I would say he was quite happy to keep talking except for how generally disgruntled his tone was throughout.
The second cabbie asked me why I got my car repaired so far away from my house, which is a question I was asking myself at the time. That took us through old cars, foreign cars, to being foreign. This seemed to be the nucleus of his conversational mojo. We took some brief detours through the cabbie strike at city hall (they didn't want to have to wear uniforms) but mostly we stayed on the main route of leaving Armenia in 1992 and coming to America. The best part about this story was his immigration story: After the fall of the Soviet Union, it was not longer almost impossible to leave the country, but the US subsequently made it much more difficult to emigrate in. The old reasons to flee didn't hold water anymore so when he pleaded his case, he did it on the basis that he was a communist and he was persecuted in his homeland by people who hated communism (having recently escaped it). And it worked and he got in.
That part of the story made up for the loss of two quiet car rides looking out the window.
Anyway, both cab drivers were from Armenia and they cracked open the door of conversation with the thin wedge of one question.
The first cabbie asked me if I drank coffee (it was 7am). I said no, and the verbal heavens opened. He talked long about the evils of caffeine and at barely an interjection from me, jumped quickly into the topic of how to eat foods properly (no liquids with your meals and fruit only on an empty stomach) which is an easy slide into the medical industry. It was amazing how much mileage he got from my responses. I probably put forward thoughts and responses at the rate of one every five minutes. I would say he was quite happy to keep talking except for how generally disgruntled his tone was throughout.
The second cabbie asked me why I got my car repaired so far away from my house, which is a question I was asking myself at the time. That took us through old cars, foreign cars, to being foreign. This seemed to be the nucleus of his conversational mojo. We took some brief detours through the cabbie strike at city hall (they didn't want to have to wear uniforms) but mostly we stayed on the main route of leaving Armenia in 1992 and coming to America. The best part about this story was his immigration story: After the fall of the Soviet Union, it was not longer almost impossible to leave the country, but the US subsequently made it much more difficult to emigrate in. The old reasons to flee didn't hold water anymore so when he pleaded his case, he did it on the basis that he was a communist and he was persecuted in his homeland by people who hated communism (having recently escaped it). And it worked and he got in.
That part of the story made up for the loss of two quiet car rides looking out the window.
Sunday, November 25, 2007
Overheard in Target Yesterday
Kid to dad: But there's no limit, you didn't say a limit, so I can get something worth a hundred bucks!
Dad: Uh...
Mom: There's a limit, there's a limit, tell her the limit.
(Toy section)
. . . . .
Mom: I'm not spending all the money I made yesterday. I'm just not.
(Toy section, next aisle over)
. . . . .
[CRASH!splinter!tinkle!]
Kid: waaaaAAAAA!
(Clock aisle)
. . . . .
Despite this, shopping for things to deck the halls with was really fun. There's a doc coming out called WHAT WOULD JESUS BUY (great title) about consumerism during Christmas. I'm hoping it takes a more interesting tack than "Wow, Christmas is supposed to be about the spirit and we turn it into a chaotic buy-, eat- and drink-fest." Because I think people need a time of year in which to go slightly insane and eat too much. And anyway, the Christians just moved the date of Christmas to bump a pagan festival so they could make people pick Jesus over their own pantheon. As a result, I have no qualms not mentioning Christ except in pretty songs during Christmas. I also have no qualms about buying, eating and drinking more than I otherwise would.
Of course, it is only November at this point.
I also think it's completely normal for people who would not describe themselves as Christian to celebrate Christmas or otherwise get down with the tinsel and hors d'oeuvres and nog and tree. I don't think of myself as particularly Christian and I don't think you have to be to enjoy raising a glass to how good the year has been.
Dad: Uh...
Mom: There's a limit, there's a limit, tell her the limit.
(Toy section)
. . . . .
Mom: I'm not spending all the money I made yesterday. I'm just not.
(Toy section, next aisle over)
. . . . .
[CRASH!splinter!tinkle!]
Kid: waaaaAAAAA!
(Clock aisle)
. . . . .
Despite this, shopping for things to deck the halls with was really fun. There's a doc coming out called WHAT WOULD JESUS BUY (great title) about consumerism during Christmas. I'm hoping it takes a more interesting tack than "Wow, Christmas is supposed to be about the spirit and we turn it into a chaotic buy-, eat- and drink-fest." Because I think people need a time of year in which to go slightly insane and eat too much. And anyway, the Christians just moved the date of Christmas to bump a pagan festival so they could make people pick Jesus over their own pantheon. As a result, I have no qualms not mentioning Christ except in pretty songs during Christmas. I also have no qualms about buying, eating and drinking more than I otherwise would.
Of course, it is only November at this point.
I also think it's completely normal for people who would not describe themselves as Christian to celebrate Christmas or otherwise get down with the tinsel and hors d'oeuvres and nog and tree. I don't think of myself as particularly Christian and I don't think you have to be to enjoy raising a glass to how good the year has been.
Saturday, November 24, 2007
Volvo Odyssey
The week before last, I was supposed to take my road test to get my California driver's license. That's right: I get to show that I know how to signal and shoulder-check and parallel park. This is because I don't have a license from another state already. My British friend Claire told me that during her road test the examiner spent the whole time talking about his kids and showed her pictures of them while she was driving. Was that part of the test? I guess not: she looked at them and still passed. It is kind of comical to think of being examined on your driving skills in Los Angeles. How hard can it be to pass? Can you drive really fast on the freeway? Yes: pass. My favorite LA driving move, is the blinker signaling one direction and then the car turning in the opposite direction. Along with people in neck braces and mattresses on the side of the freeway, a sign of my California home.
But I didn't take my road test, because my car's brake lights weren't working. Come January, my car will be 20 years old. I'm seriously considering throwing it a party when it turns 21. Taking it to Vegas maybe. It's a Volvo, the old kind, the kind that shows up as a character's car in a certain kind of movie more than any other car. In fact, my car has been in a lot of movies, from the first thing I ever made for school, to other people's shorts, to the 546 I produced, to the feature I worked on this summer. It's a famous car.
And because I love my car so much, I stand by it during the tough times. This year, I've probably dropped 2 grand on repairing it and getting it shipshape for registering it in California. I do this because I still see many Volvos of the same age and older on the road, and a lot of the parts that I'm currently replacing are original. This is my car's tough year. This is its return of Saturn year (the planet, not the car). The bureaucratic process of getting the car registered in California has taken six months of appointments and paperwork and repairs. I just got the plates in the mail last weekend, and it's now officially a California car. Too bad the California plates are so boring and cheesy.
Anyway, just got it back from repairs: the brake lights are working, it has new spark plugs and new fuel filters and changed oil and topped up washer fluid. And the back compartment continues to be maggot-free.
But I didn't take my road test, because my car's brake lights weren't working. Come January, my car will be 20 years old. I'm seriously considering throwing it a party when it turns 21. Taking it to Vegas maybe. It's a Volvo, the old kind, the kind that shows up as a character's car in a certain kind of movie more than any other car. In fact, my car has been in a lot of movies, from the first thing I ever made for school, to other people's shorts, to the 546 I produced, to the feature I worked on this summer. It's a famous car.
And because I love my car so much, I stand by it during the tough times. This year, I've probably dropped 2 grand on repairing it and getting it shipshape for registering it in California. I do this because I still see many Volvos of the same age and older on the road, and a lot of the parts that I'm currently replacing are original. This is my car's tough year. This is its return of Saturn year (the planet, not the car). The bureaucratic process of getting the car registered in California has taken six months of appointments and paperwork and repairs. I just got the plates in the mail last weekend, and it's now officially a California car. Too bad the California plates are so boring and cheesy.
Anyway, just got it back from repairs: the brake lights are working, it has new spark plugs and new fuel filters and changed oil and topped up washer fluid. And the back compartment continues to be maggot-free.
Monday, November 19, 2007
Current Obsession
I've known this song for a long time, but only the Rod Stewart version. I liked that enough to put on an album I made for my mom of all songs about trains (next up this Christmas: album of songs about planes). Suddenly I've decided to listen my way through all the Tom Waits tracks I have on my computer, and I get this revelation.
Ah, this is how this song is supposed to be: deranged and messy, howled at the moon. "They're just thorns without the rose/Be careful of them in the dark"
Wonderful.
No Country for Old Men
Last night I saw No Country for Old Men and I'm still thinking about it. I'll probably be thinking about it all week. Everyone I know who has seen this movie has seen it twice. I'll probably make my way back to the theatre sometime this holiday week.
But this movie has one of the best endings of a movie that I've ever seen. For one, there's nothing like a cut to black for a bold ending. It seems like a minor thing, but the psychology of a fade versus a cut is very different, especially for the last frame of picture. The first Pirates movie has a great ending that uses this (an ending, I would argue, that did as much to secure the subsequent sequels as the overall fun of the preceeding hundred-and-something minutes). In fact, the cut to black in both these movies seems to point out the greatness of the ending. Like the editors throw in that hard cut while yelling "BOOM, howdya like me now?" in their heads. The New World has a very good ending. Eyes Wide Shut has a very good ending. Brokeback Mountain has a spectacular ending.
And No Country. Well, I don't want to be spoiling anything for anyone, but when a filmmaker manages to find a moment so telling that it cuts right to the heart of the matter and encompasses all that has come before in a deft flick of the wrist, and then places that moment on screen, right when the film is leaving you alone with your thoughts, that can be called a masterpiece of the medium. I think anyone who loves movies is looking for that moment-- when you get dropped down again in your world and realize you are in a different place than you were when you started.
But this movie has one of the best endings of a movie that I've ever seen. For one, there's nothing like a cut to black for a bold ending. It seems like a minor thing, but the psychology of a fade versus a cut is very different, especially for the last frame of picture. The first Pirates movie has a great ending that uses this (an ending, I would argue, that did as much to secure the subsequent sequels as the overall fun of the preceeding hundred-and-something minutes). In fact, the cut to black in both these movies seems to point out the greatness of the ending. Like the editors throw in that hard cut while yelling "BOOM, howdya like me now?" in their heads. The New World has a very good ending. Eyes Wide Shut has a very good ending. Brokeback Mountain has a spectacular ending.
And No Country. Well, I don't want to be spoiling anything for anyone, but when a filmmaker manages to find a moment so telling that it cuts right to the heart of the matter and encompasses all that has come before in a deft flick of the wrist, and then places that moment on screen, right when the film is leaving you alone with your thoughts, that can be called a masterpiece of the medium. I think anyone who loves movies is looking for that moment-- when you get dropped down again in your world and realize you are in a different place than you were when you started.
Monday, November 12, 2007
Skin Glue
My recent domestic mystery is what the hell do I keep slicing the fingers of my left hand open on every morning? This is still happening. Investigations of the shower door and the bathroom mirror have proved fruitless. It's something small, razor sharp (I don't notice the cuts until a couple of minutes after it's happened) and something I touch after I get out of the shower (because if it was before the soap would sting).
This is like in high school when Katie's dad was so persnickety about his computer and what you were and weren't allowed to do on it that Katie and I programmed it to make a weird sound every time he hit the "Z" key but with a ten-minute delay. I'm sure I'll be on the other side of learning not to antagonize smart teenagers at some later point in my life, but right now, I still think it's pretty brilliantly annoying.
Having razor cuts on the pads of my fingers is not brilliant, however, it's just annoying. Especially when I spend all day typing things. Bandaids are big and clumsy and make me look like a cutter.
Luckily Rite-Aid sells "Liquid Skin", which paints on and is weird, but oh so handy. My personal arsenal on my desk at work now: tissues for uncontrollable snot problems, lip balm for mouth-breathing, and liquid skin for my open wounds.
This is like in high school when Katie's dad was so persnickety about his computer and what you were and weren't allowed to do on it that Katie and I programmed it to make a weird sound every time he hit the "Z" key but with a ten-minute delay. I'm sure I'll be on the other side of learning not to antagonize smart teenagers at some later point in my life, but right now, I still think it's pretty brilliantly annoying.
Having razor cuts on the pads of my fingers is not brilliant, however, it's just annoying. Especially when I spend all day typing things. Bandaids are big and clumsy and make me look like a cutter.
Luckily Rite-Aid sells "Liquid Skin", which paints on and is weird, but oh so handy. My personal arsenal on my desk at work now: tissues for uncontrollable snot problems, lip balm for mouth-breathing, and liquid skin for my open wounds.
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