Author Archives: Tata

A Sudden Sun Discloses

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One, two, three, four –
tell the people what she wore!

What we are, what we aren’t, who and how that happened. A turned ankle, a border incursion. The waving of the spear and the crashing of the wave. You are nothing, you are nothing, you dance with the Devil in the pale moonlight, which you forget when you wear the red shoes. The snap of bone as the machine rolls this way. All that is important and serious in this world arrives, brighter than a thousand suns. All she wanted was the quiet of the shoe store, or so you believed. But it’s too late now.

Neatorama:

The bomb will not start a chain-reaction in the water converting it all to gas and letting the ships on all the oceans drop down to the bottom. It will not blow out the bottom of the sea and let all the water run down the hole. It will not destroy gravity. I am not an atomic playboy, as one of my critics labeled me, exploding these bombs to satisfy my personal whim.

– Vice Admiral William “Spike” Blandy

That’s “Atomic Playboy” Vice Admiral William “Spike” Blandy, his wife (in the matching hat!), and Rear Admiral F.J. Lowry, celebrating the end of Operation Crossroads in 1946 with an ominously shaped cake. The photograph, titled “Atomic Age Angel Food” drew heavy criticism from around the world, presumably not because it wasn’t delicious.

Operation Crossroads [wiki] was a series of nuclear weapon tests, conducted by the United States in the Bikini Atoll, to study the effects of thermonuclear
explosion on warships.

Two weeks later, French fashion designer Louis Réard trademarked the name “bikini” for his latest swimwear collection. Bikini became famous shortly afterwards, because “like the bomb, the bikini is small and devastating” and the realization that “atom bombs reduce everybody to primitive costume.”

This guy in my office who is young enough to say something stupid to me now and then just said that the Olympic medal count was important because it gives us bragging rights. “It doesn’t,” I said, “I’m pretty sure I have nothing to say because I didn’t get up early and run a single lap.”

He said, “It’s the sports mentality! Aren’t you proud of your country?”

I said, “I come from a different sport. Every pushup I did I did for me. Not you.”

He said again, “It’s the sports mentality!” like it wasn’t stupid the first time. “What sport?”

I said, “I spent most of my athletic life involved with gymnastics, which teaches you you act for yourself.” What I didn’t say is that gymnastics schools talk big talk about team sports but they don’t really give a shit so long as their stars are going great guns, which means they’ll win anyway. Mostly. It’s complicated –

“Don’t you want to see your team win?”

“No.” I took a breath because I knew he wouldn’t understand: “I want to see each gymnast performing the best routines of his or her life and I don’t care who wins.”

So we talked about the mysteries of scoring, some of which I grasp. He walked away thinking, I’m sure, that professional sports with tribal identities are the only ones, and that I just don’t get it. I do get it, and I know that he is invested in his tribal identity to such a degree that he claims credit for the work of others.

Once, I visited friends in Wisconsin. We did what people do: we sat in a bar, talking. One guy said, “So, you’re from New Jersey. A Jets fan!”

“No,” I said. I was trying really hard to be nice. “I’m from New Jersey.”

“A Giants fan?” he asked, wide-eyed.

“No,” I said again. “I’m just from New Jersey.” When I refused to identify with a tribal structure he understood he didn’t understand. I felt a little bad about it. I was wearing a red sequinned dress, fishnets and combat boots and his wife was nice to me anyhow.

It’s tempting to remind the Guy With Guy Friends in my office that I was the only girl in the weight room in the seventies before he was born, that women athletes are real athletes, that individual accomplishments are seldom achieved without Mom and Dad getting up at 4 a.m. for long drives to the rink, the pool or the gym for decades on end and WE had nothing to do with it. In fact, if we had any contact with that kind of dedication, WE would probably regard it with scorn, because in real life, WE don’t believe anyone is that special and that person is not being realistic. So WE say, and I would tell him all this if I thought he would hear it, but I know better.

I know better because WE think that, even at 45, even in 2008, I am just a girl and girls don’t get sports.

Get Up And Run Away With It

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Yesterday, I climbed up and down a ladder to put up temporary paper shades in the kitchen and living room. If you haven’t seen these wonderful things, you should know that they soften light and create tranquility. I needed tranquility because climbing up and down the ladder caused my right hip to kick my ass from the inside. It would not be accurate to suggest I have a Home Decorating Injury, but I certainly sprained my mojo.

While we sit back and contemplate carefully sitting back and contemplating, let’s also consider how sometimes things take turns we might’ve seen coming. For instance: Zou Kai won the Men’s Floor Exercise with a routine that should have embarrassed him. Don’t get me wrong: it was crisply executed and stacked with difficult elements. He is a remarkable athlete, no doubt about it. But – and I know there are people ready to argue with me – it wasn’t a floor routine.

Yes, according to the code of points, it was. But no, it wasn’t. A floor routine is supposed to place into a harmonious and exciting whole an athlete’s skill and technique. By this stage of competition, with luck and good television coverage, we’ve seen the routines a few times. Twice during Zou Kai’s floor exercise he did this half-hearted leap for which his feet barely left the ground. For a man who can almost fly, he barely hopped, and the first time I saw him do it, I nearly dropped my refreshing adult beverage. I mean, really. Won’t anyone think of Me?

Besides the safety of my drink, there’s something else – if you believe that: many routines by both the male and female athletes have become little more than tumbling passes set end to end, with pauses and twitching to mark beginnings and endings. Zou Kai provided a particularly egregious example of this, and by egregious I mean that his tumbling passes were astounding, then he stopped, and then he would do another stratospheric tumbling pass. And astounding it would be, but that’s not a floor routine. In fact, there’s a whole sport dedicated to this called power tumbling, and that way lies Zou Kai’s destiny. Go with my blessing, Zou Kai!

The Danes are apparently monsters with the power tumbling. I admit: there’s something about a blond man in black tights doing a series of somesaults that makes me want to do handsprings.

Thing is: this is what the audience wants and the code of points now rewards athletes for pandering. So since we’re pandering, why not pander BIG? Let’s get rid of pommel horse which almost no one loves*, ditch floor ex and replace it with long, gorgeous, swooping tumbling runs. We can send Cirque du Soleil and TV talent shows perfumed thank-you notes for showing us the way. Because, in truth, we’re never going back.

*Kurt Thomas, you know I love you. Thanks for carrying my sister with the broken foot to the truck at gymnastics camp all those years ago. But that can’t make up for giving us the only reason to keep pommel horse in the lineup: the often vain hope that it might – if only for a moment – be interesting to look at, and let’s never again speak of GymKata. It can only open old wounds…

And Still My Light’s On

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Recently, two people I like very much and who were not addressing me at the time, said they didn’t want to be lectured about dietary differences around the world or green matters, also around the world. They – you – read PIC. Buckle up, pets, because I am going to heap compost upon you, not to mention cha cha cha all over your arguments. This is going to leave a mark.

Nobody’s perfect. Almost no one leaves this planet without leaving a trash pile, though there are people who do not. Few people consume less than their fair share of this planet’s resources, but some do. You, however, and I and everyone reading this are making a big, slimy, toxic mess. No matter how much you don’t want to hear about that mess, you’re soaking in it. Your children are soaking in it. Nature is on you like white on rice, so sooner or later you’re going to have to stop howling and listen. It’s not even hard to do – listening and living a little greener – and nobody is demanding perfection. Besides, your argument seems to be If I don’t want to think about that then I don’t have to think about that. Which as circular logic goes is genius but as good ideas go: not so much.

Your children are watching you. The little devils learn from the way you respond to life’s little pressures and big squeezes. Your children, who will live with the mess we’re making now, will remember whether you shut off lights when you left the room or cranked the air conditioning. You already know this. So what’s your job, here? Do you teach them to think clearly and act, or do you teach them that denial’s a fine bet until what’s undeniable comes knocking on the door?

You can make small changes now that will add up, both for that mess we’re making and for the children who observe your quirky behavior. Don’t believe me? How about a simple example: your morning coffee. I drink enough coffee that somewhere on a Colombian mountainside there should be a plaque with my name on it, and if there is a plaque with my name on it, that’s not going to change anytime soon. But I never, never walk into a Starbuck’s and drop $10 on one cup of coffee containing double my daily calorie limit, and if I march through a Dunkin’ Donuts it’s because I’m on a road trip and the caffeine patch is wearing off. I have a travel mug.

We are a technologically advanced society in which devices now exist to make coffee in your very own home. It’s true! You can make your own coffee. Should you be one of those people in a 10′ by 10′ apartment without counter space, there are devices you could probably suspend from the ceiling that could double as soothing water features. For most of us, there’s no reason why we can obtain one of these devices and teach those impressionable children that thrift is good. Not only that, but once you step out of line at the coffee joint and find money in your pocket, you will wonder why you were ever there in the first place.

How, you may finally be asking yourself, does making my own coffee count as going greener when it creates garbage in the form of coffee filters and grounds? This is an excellent question, and the answer is: it doesn’t have to. Coffee grounds can be dumped directly onto lawns, gardens or empty lots. Got a tree in front of your apartment building? Toss down the grounds!

Some coffeemakers use filters. You’re used to seeing those white ones but you can pick up unbleached filters instead. They’re right there on the shelf, they don’t affect the flavor of the coffee and less toxic goo was used in their creation. A small but important step, eh? You can take another one by buying these filters here made of hemp, if you can find them without incurring a misdemeanor. Or pick up a gold coffee filter and eliminate the paper filters entirely. Plus, you’d have the ruby slippers of coffeemaking devices.

A lot of people say they’re trying to save the planet. That is a crucial misstatement of what is at stake here and now. The planet itself is not in any danger. The planet doesn’t care, and will go on spinning. We, however, cannot say the planet’s natural resources will stretch to meet our needs. It’s not a matter of economics. Even if you can afford to cushion yourself against lectures, waste and the vagaries of the markets, you can’t protect yourself from air, water and toxins. You know it, your lungs know it, your family’s medical history shows it and your children take all this in.

So, what’s it going to be: do you teach your children to think clearly and cleverly adapt or teach them that you wouldn’t?

Friday Cat Blogging: Step Away, Walk Away Edition

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The other day, I was reading around the Blogosphere, as I am wont to do, and this made me spit my Joint Juice:

I’m going to guess that “men” (and by men, Gallagher also means several women, none of whom count because hey look ocelots. [sic]

Long story short, men have a culturally bred higher tolerance for risk which has a lot more to do with generations of expectations that men go out and risk themselves to provide while women stay home and tend to what’s provided. Except when women do it, which again doesn’t count because jungle cats!

Naturally, I resented this because Resentment is my middle name. Also: Frances. See how those go together? Anyway, the thing I learned was that we’re not looking at enough adorable ocelots, so here is one.

I feel smarter already.

Yesterday, I stayed home from work, where they get very distressed when I lie on my cubicle floor and complain about my back, not to mention my shoulders, my neck and that I’m not allowed to drink delicious, painkilling scotch on company time. But that’s not important. What is important is that I was at home, trying to hold very still when the doorbell buzzed. Sharkey hates my doorbell. He says it sounds like Dad got the wrong answer and here come Richard Dawson’s lips. Anyway, I grabbed a kimono because it was Grandma’s and who was more modest than Grandma and answered the door. My hair was standing up straight. The super asked if he could show my apartment so he could, you know, rent it. I looked at him. I looked at me in foundation garments, a cotton nightgown and my grandmother’s kimono and said, “Gimme ten minutes” knowing full well that if I hadn’t been there, he would’ve marched the people waiting on the sidewalk right through my door.

After the people left, I could not find Topaz and Drusy. Hang on, then –

Ocelots are the cutest thing since pink noses. Sometimes they have those! Anyway, I hunted for the invisible pussycats all over the one bedroom apartment. I searched the bathroom and the litter boxes. I searched the kitchen near the food. Nobody came running! I searched the carpet-covered cat-scratchy pillar o’ cat fun thing. I searched the top of the curtain rods, the laundry shelves and the dryer. I searched windowsills for inflatable stairs like for plane emergency exits. No dice! Topaz and Drusy had gone Full Kitty Invisible. There was nothing to do but wait for my darlings to reappear.

As I’ve moved things out of the apartment, new kitty resting spots reveal themselves – to the cats, anyhow. Drusy’s new favorite place to nap is the top shelf in my closet. I looked there. You’ll note this closet, pictured, is empty of anyone resembling Drusy or Topaz, but this is not my closet so that’s not really a surprise. I’m at work, where I don’t have digital images of my closet. Do you? Duh!

Anyway, after about half an hour, the Invisibility wore off and there was Drusy at my feet, making that adorable bugling sound that refers to me. I believe the cats all call me “Shep” but it’s a family name so I don’t mind. And there was Topaz, reflecting light again. I didn’t even ask where they’d gone. I was just glad to have them back.

Also: I called the super and told him to make an appointment next time. If I’m surprised I might be wearing something very high risk.

His Hair Was Perfect

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Pete took these beautiful pictures of my family being herded like cats on a beach in Cape Cod. Grandpa turned 96 and Miss Sasha’s baby Panky being seven months old meant Mom hired a photographer, issued a dress code order and refused to hear complaints from anyone. I do mean anyone. When Grandpa was done for the day, we got in the car and drove off while Mom was still threatening to cut off our inheritances. We weren’t fooled. While most people have some intention of dying and leaving their children something, if it means parting with her stuff Mom’s going to live forever.

Pete, lifelong observer of my family’s politics, dressed according to the dress code and appears in some pictures. This is because nobody ever gets to leave my family without getting a restraining against half the town, so he’s stuck with us. Mom had lots of pictures planned: Grandpa’s direct descendants, Mom’s and Tom’s children and grandchildren, smaller family units. So Pete had plenty of time to take pictures of the beleaguered yet cheerful photographer herding us like cats. By the time the little boys were bored, throwing rocks and digging for China seemed like an awesomely awesome idea. Pete loves Cape Cod. Plus: throwing rocks and digging for China – ya hunh!

Before the photographer arrived, we parked and wandered around on the beach rocks. I handed Pete the camera and asked him to take pictures of the chaos, and they are fantastically quirky. The beach, Tom told us, is one of the few spots on the East Coast where the sun sets over the ocean. Since the place was so special, we were all surprised when the photographer moved us across the street to a spot next to the salt marsh. The path was rocky and we all worried about Grandpa’s footing, but he managed with a cane and four nervous helpers. The spot where we stopped lay between two banks of rose hip bushes, all the more amusing because Daria’s wildly allergic to rose hips. So, you know, it’s not just a mildly hostile and odd image, it’s a brush with brushy death.

Mom wanted a picture of her grandchildren and great-grandson before the photographer arrived. They all sat on the rocks and Pete caught this wild image of babies crying, grandchildren arguing, children laughing, spectators like myself gasping for breath as the sun bobbed above the horizon behind them. My brother Todd’s little son was hysterical so Todd scooped him up and dropped him back down for the pictures my sisters frantically snapped off to Pete’s right. Here, Todd’s still trying to comfort the inconsolable toddler.

We spent two days with much of my family during which the screaming of children was pretty much to be expected. It was the incessant screaming of their parents that took Pete and me by surprise. Tonight, we watch the Olympics in near silence and listen for the padding footsteps of perplexed pussycats. For the moment, we are at home.

Rise Up In the Sweat And Smoke Like Mercury

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Sometimes you feel like a nut; sometimes you make a movie with Rula Lenska.

Fortunately, my stepmommy Darla is looking out for my best interests. The word cinematic doesn’t quite cover this career opportunity.

HENCHMEN NEEDED
(London, but planned worldwide expansion)

Turtleneck sweaters! Oh goody!

20-30 henchmen needed for moderately-sized supervillain organisation with large expansion potential (fortresses built into geological structures, corruption of government officials, possible genesis of ‘nemesis’ vigilante). Electrical theme.

Applicants must be willing to learn new skills, including but not limited to operation of specialised ‘lightning guns’. Applicants will also be required to wear specialised uniform when at work (functional rubber suits with my logo on front), except in cases where deception is required (posing as hostages in order to ambush vigilantes, etc).

Desired (but not necessarily required) in applicants:

-interesting deformations/obsessions/powers(?) giving rise to interesting nicknames (e.g. Claws, Pyro, Buzzsaw, and similar)
-unwavering loyalty
-being a corruptible government official
-ability to work as part of a close-knit team (unless interesting obsession is of the ‘lone wolf’ variety)
-grudge against any well-known vigilante
-flexible moral code

This seems ambitious. Can I apply for entry level Minion?

Equal opportunies employer. Both henchmen and femmes fatales absolutely welcome.

Great promotion opportunities – right-hand-man position constantly being unexpectedly opened. Would look good on any future supervillain resume/CV.

Send an email with details of any prior henchman work, or details of what is driving you to join the ranks of a supervillain organisation. Will reply to all serious applicants. Hope to hear from you, and with luck, welcome you into a rewarding and promising career!

– Jacque (The Zapper) Zerapi

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! I just read the words prior henchman work!

* Location: London, but planned worldwide expansion
* Compensation: £20,000pa starting salary, with added commissions based around success of supervillain operations. Contracts negotiable depending on applicant’s personal skills/powers.
* Principals only. Recruiters, please don’t contact this job poster.
* Please, no phone calls about this job!
* Please do not contact job poster about other services, products or commercial interests.

Well, of course not! Creating a supervillain organization is going to take up your whole day. Thus, we still have all night to puzzle over this vomity vomitrociousness:

Hat tip: the guy who sits next to me in the library.

Ephesians? You read your kid Ephesians and wonder why she can’t fucking sleep? How about something a little more secular and age appropriate like those lovely Bronte Sisters: “It was the only house on the moors and it was creepy. Beautiful and creepy. Cathy and I fell in love, which was beautiful and creepy. One day, she was annoyed and the next day she was dead of fever, which made her beautiful, though no less creepy. I mourned her as only I, Heathcliff, could mourn her, beautifully and creepily. And in death she hounded me to mine. Which is, you guessed it…” I suppose Goodnight Moon is out of the question because it might interest the little darling in science or bears or something – but listen, I have one important word for the maker of these terrifying pajamas: headbands.

A bazillion years ago, headbands became an overnight sensation. I can’t recall seeing them on the street, but I can’t remember if I’m wearing shoes, so that’s no certain indicator. Anyway, suddenly, everywhere a person turned, there floated the smiling face of Olivia Newton John sporting a headband and warbling Let’s Get Physical, which was hugely mortifying. If you had a pulse. I immediately understood what had happened: a small group of people in a closed environment had one stupid thought and because of the pressurized environment it blew up and made a giant, fashionable mess. Headbands would not have happened if even one person – one person! – had said in a stern voice, “You all look stupid. Cut that shit out and get back to work. Those thighs aren’t going to firm themselves.”

This has got to be said: Crazy person – and I mean that in the nicest, least judgmental and not at all spitting-mad manner – Crazy person, despite your best intentions and despite what you think you see, your children look like the best dressed Klansmen on the whole fashionably doomed Templar crusade. Burn these terrible costumes – not on Iman’s front lawn, mind you, no matter what she’s peddling at Target. Resist the impulse. I can tell you feel it! Get rid of these hateful things, plunk your kids into some soft, pastel footie pajamas and read them some motherfucking Winnie the Pooh. Save your children a lifetime of wishing YOU would get therapy.

The Bottom of the Bottomless Blue Blue

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Comedienne Paula Poundstone had an excellent bit about kittens. I can’t do it justice myself, so I’ll humbly paraphrase: Sometimes we’re proud of the wrong thing. My cat climbs the curtains. I don’t want her to do that, but she’s way up at the top. When she’s way up there, what does she say? “Mom! Mom! I’m up sooooo high!”

This protester, whose zen-like white middle class obliviousness has been disrupted by high oil prices, an uppity Negro with the gall to run for high office and Italian lettuce, is digging her adorable kitty claws into the curtain rod.

Via Dependable Renegade.