Los Angeles is not the greatest city in the world. It is not the greatest city in America. It is not even the greatest city in the state of California. That last statement is arguable, perhaps, but let's for now say that San Francisco is a better city than Los Angeles.
Los Angeles, however, is all that America is and stands for. It is all that America has ever wanted to be. For better or for worse, Los Angeles is the city that most represents the third largest country in the world.
How? Let me make the argument.
1. It's on the right - er, left - side of the country.
One of the most prominent American philosophies in the 19th century was Manifest Destiny. It was our right, as America, as the example of democracy to the rest of the world, to have our country stretch from coast to coast. We achieved our goal, and we have the cities and the culture on both sides of the country to prove it.
New York was around when we were colonies, but Los Angeles blossomed when we became a Superpower.
2. It's the Entertainment Capital of the World.
Hollywood is the biggest exporter of American culture in the world. Every foreigner's idea of American culture can, at this point in time, be traced back to something they saw on an American show or in an American movie. We imitate American culture. We create American culture. We are American culture.
3. It's a city built for the automobile.
Los Angeles was largely developed after the invention of the car, which means it's particularly engineered for motorized vehicles. It's true that other countries have cars, and that this is not specifically an American invention. However, there's something very American, in its individualism, modernism, and excitement, in cars that makes it a symbol of the modern day United States.
4. It's sprawling.
This argument draws on both point #1 and point #3. The reason its sprawl is so American is because America itself is vast (see: manifest destiny), demanding as much space as possible to keep up with our stature as the World's Superpower. In this case, a city that most represents America would have to be equally large.
The reason it's able to be as sprawling as it is is because it was built after the invention of cars (see: automobiles as American).
5. Much of it is suburban, with sections of hip urbanity.
New York City doesn't have homes in the middle that take up an acre. Chicago doesn't have a neighborhood with houses with gated yard space. Beverly Hills, sections of West Hollywood, Bel Air, Hancock Park are all uniquely Los Angelean, suburban neighborhoods that sit right in the middle of the big city.
How do suburban neighborhoods in the middle of a city make it the realization of the American Dream? The answer goes back to the idea of the ideal American family. Two parents, at least two kids, a white picket fence, a dog, a car, and a yard to run around in. Los Angeles, with its sprawl, allows for the space required to have suburban neighborhoods in the middle of the second largest metropolitan area in the country.
6. The weather is perfect.
When you dream the American dream, are you freezing in the dead of winter? No. You are with your perfect American family enjoying some outdoor barbecue by the pool or laying out on the beach. Los Angeles offers both of these options, at almost any time of year.
7. Our politics are not as progressive as we pretend they are.
For a nation that prides itself on offering opportunity to everybody, that prides itself on being able to allow for a rags-to-riches path to wealth that many other countries do not, the US is a country that hates taxes that specifically provide for these opportunities and often bedevils the less fortunate as lazy and amoral. Los Angeles is no different. Stories about a boss that votes straight Democrat but pays his assistant $22,000 a year for 60-hour work weeks is par for the course. Los Angeles pats itself on the back for being ahead of the curve in social progress, but it still lives in a state that voted down gay marriage.
8. It's a melting pot.
America also claims to be a city of immigrants. This is true of all major American metropolitan areas, but since it's also true of Los Angeles it deserves to be part of my argument.
Some other cities in America claim a few of these arguments for themselves as well. Houston is sprawling. San Francisco is on our side of the country. San Diego has perfect weather. Los Angeles, however, is all of these things, and that's what makes it so beautifully American.
For better, or for worse.
Sunday, June 23, 2013
Monday, June 17, 2013
The Feminism of Disney Princesses; or, I Grew Up Watching Them and I'm Just Fine, Thanks
I unabashedly love fairy tales. I love science fiction and fantasy to begin with, and I love romance, and I love magic, and I love pretty dresses and happy endings and dragons and witches and monsters and the merging of the very dark underbelly of the worst of fairy tale villains with the eternal optimism of their heroes and heroines.
I unabashedly love Disney's take on fairy tales too, which puts a glossy finish on some very dark stories. The original The Little Mermaid is crazy depressing (thanks, Danish people). The original Sleeping Beauty is rapetastic. The original Hercules is tragic. Disney puts a fun, light spin on its stories so parents are more willing to take their kids to see these movies, and that's great. Sometimes light is good. I love the dark and freaky fairy tales too, don't get me wrong. But I love these Disney Princess movies.
It's now trendy to go back and look at how un-feminist these characters are. Maybe I'm just referring to the feminist blogosphere. Or maybe I'm just referring to a handful of college kids who have taken one class about pop culture's effect on gender roles. But I'm about to defend the feminism inherent in some of these films, because everyone keeps underestimating the badassery of Ariel and Jasmine and Belle and even Mulan and Tiana, and that is just crazy talk.
*This list is comprised of Disney Princesses, not characters that are necessarily princesses in their films. They are the female protagonists in films aimed at children. Call me out on using Mulan and see what happens, you racist son of a gun.*
1. Snow White
I unabashedly love Disney's take on fairy tales too, which puts a glossy finish on some very dark stories. The original The Little Mermaid is crazy depressing (thanks, Danish people). The original Sleeping Beauty is rapetastic. The original Hercules is tragic. Disney puts a fun, light spin on its stories so parents are more willing to take their kids to see these movies, and that's great. Sometimes light is good. I love the dark and freaky fairy tales too, don't get me wrong. But I love these Disney Princess movies.
It's now trendy to go back and look at how un-feminist these characters are. Maybe I'm just referring to the feminist blogosphere. Or maybe I'm just referring to a handful of college kids who have taken one class about pop culture's effect on gender roles. But I'm about to defend the feminism inherent in some of these films, because everyone keeps underestimating the badassery of Ariel and Jasmine and Belle and even Mulan and Tiana, and that is just crazy talk.
*This list is comprised of Disney Princesses, not characters that are necessarily princesses in their films. They are the female protagonists in films aimed at children. Call me out on using Mulan and see what happens, you racist son of a gun.*
1. Snow White
Before we start pointing out the complete lack of agency Snow White possesses in most of her storyline, let's remember she's FOURTEEN. And as a fourteen-year-old child, she's pretty incredible. A child of privilege, she manages to make a home for herself in the forest by getting a bunch of little critters to do her bidding because she's just so likable, and then she gets taken in by 7 dudes and earns her keep by doing the few things a fourteen-year-old is capable of doing. And then like a naive dumb dumb, she eats an apple a stranger gives her (word to the wise: avoid fruit at all costs) and dies, but because she's so pretty a prince kisses her and her life is perfect again.
Yes, in most of this story, Snow White is not in control of her destiny. She is incredibly lucky that a royal boy thought she was pretty and kissed her. But she's likable, she did what she had to do to survive despite being way under-equipped for dealing with real life, and she is a fourteen-year-old who communicates with animals. If that's not a feminist hero, I don't know what is.
2. Cinderella
Honestly, Cinderella is probably the most boring of the Disney princesses. This is not a fact so much as my opinion, but I'm like 99.9% sure I'm right. You can make the argument for Sleeping Beauty taking that honor, but a) Princess Aurora is a baller name, and b) Cinderella was awake the whole time, and she still doesn't use that to her advantage. At any rate, she's sweet, and teaches young girls that persistence in sweetness means you'll win eventually. It's better than telling young girls to be mean. At this point, the most compelling argument for her feminism is, "hey, a female protagonist in 1950!" Thanks, 1950s America. Not sad I didn't live through you.
3. Sleeping Beauty
Princess Aurora/Briar Rose gets points for wanting to do things. The first two princesses listed are sort of happy to float along, accepting the terrible fates placed on them by older, evil women who hate them for their youth and beauty. Briar Rose wants to explore the world and the people around her She isn't given much to do in her own story, but she is at least given a curiosity about life outside her designated sphere. She wants so badly to be an active agent in her destiny, and beyond making plans to meet a boy later that night (which is pretty rad, that she'd be that bold), that agency is taken away from her by magic. She is not given the opportunity to be the master of her fate, which is more tragic considering her curious and bold personality - what little we get to see of it - than it would be for someone like Cinderella.
Cinderella sucks.
4. The Little Mermaid
If I hear one more crack about Ariel changing for her man and leaving her whole life behind for him, I'll flip out. Ariel is shown from the get-go to be obsessed with everything human. Her father is demanding and controlling. She didn't give up her life for a man - although that was a nice addition. She gave it up because it was a lifelong dream of hers to be human. Not only that, Ariel gets to be the HERO OF HER OWN STORY. Ariel is the one who defeats Ursula. Ariel is the one who saves Prince Eric's life - twice - while his main purpose is to stand around and look pretty. Ariel is arguably the most badass and most feminist Disney Princess. She takes off on her own when she finds her current life lacking, and she doesn't need saving from anybody - not in any way, shape, or form. She falls in love and marries a man for her feelings, not for any sense of security. She can take care of herself, she's curious about the world around her, and she's got a killer singing voice.
Damsel in distress? Not in this story. Team Ariel FTW.
Damsel in distress? Not in this story. Team Ariel FTW.
5. Beauty and the Beast
She's an intellectual, she's not interested in marrying the best looking guy in town (because he's positively medieval), she knows there must be more than this provincial life, and she likes to help her dad tinker with his inventions from time to time. Sure, she develops a slight case of Stockholm Syndrome, but Beast lets her go, fully expecting to never see her again. And she is definitely not about to let him act, well, beastly towards her, as evidenced by her constantly standing up for herself and pointing out when he's acting like a bit of a brat.
Belle was my favorite Princess growing up, and while since I've converted to loving Mulan, Rapunzel, and Ariel just a tad more, she will always hold a special place in my heart.
6. Aladdin
Jasmine is tougher to categorize, I think, than the other princesses. In every other Disney Princess movie, the Princess is the protagonist, and you can argue whether or not she controlled her own destiny, whether or not her choices were all about her man, whether or not she wanted more than just a marriage, without necessarily having a conversation revolving around the Prince (which is pretty feminist of Disney in its own right, if you think about it). But in Aladdin, the main character isn't Jasmine, it's, well, Aladdin. Jasmine is, by nature, the love interest, functioning solely as a romantic foil to Aladdin's street rat hero. Luckily, Jasmine's pretty badass (especially when you consider she's about 15). She dreams of freedom, she wants to be more than a political pawn in Jafar's marriage machinations, and she knows how to use the one weapon a woman in her situation has - her sexuality (remember? The scene where she seduces Jafar?).
Jasmine loses some points for being literally the only Disney princess who is not the main character in her story, but she more than makes up for it by being totally in charge of her own destiny.
7. Pocahontas
Pocahontas is the first princess with a legitimate cause - the first Disney Princess environmentalist. She has a lot more to teach John Smith than he has to offer her. She's spiritual, loyal, graceful, in amazing shape, adventurous, and wise beyond her years. She is not impressed with John Smith's crew and their plans for her land. She stands up for her beliefs.
I don't have anything to add to Pocahontas. I respect her, but hers was not a movie I went back to over and over again.
8. Mulan
HECK YES MULAN. While as a little child I related to bookworm Belle, as a slightly older child I 100% related to Mulan. Outspoken, clumsy, independent, not traditionally feminine - I could not get enough of Mulan. And then she went to war in her father's place and ended up being the best soldier in her division? Over everyone else? Saving China from the Mongols? MULAN. YOU ARE A HERO. Like Ariel, she saves everyone else, not the other way around. She is no damsel in distress. She is kick ass.
Mulan has always been seen as one of the most feminist Disney Princesses (when people aren't too busy complaining that she doesn't count because whateverwhateveryou'rewrongshe'sdefadisneyprincess), and that's probably because of her acts of heroism and dressing up as a dude to get the job done. If anything, her dressing up as a dude in order to be respected as something outside of docile femininity is a comment on society's refusal to take women seriously, only seeing her as a person worthy of opportunity when they believe she is in possession of other genitalia. Really, Mulan is a sociological masterpiece.
Also, Eddie Murphy is super funny.
9. Tiana
Tiana was not interested in any man. Kiss enough frogs and you might get a prince, but she didn't care enough about getting married to kiss any slimy amphibians, thankyouverymuch. She was going to run her own restaurant, and she was working for it too. She was going to be an independent lady. Instead, she found true love and got the cash money funds to open that restaurant after all. Tiana is a modern woman and a positive role model.
I don't have a lot to say about Tiana either, because I only saw her movie once, but I got respect for that princess.
10. Rapunzel
I love this movie. I watched it on Netflix (during the brief period of time it was on Instant), and then I immediately started it over to watch it again. Rapunzel wants out of her tower to see the world and explore, but she's also emotionally manipulated by her "mother" into staying. Her kindness gets Flynn and her farther than his streetwise cunning, but she's not so sweet as to be boring (like Cinderella, who sucks). She has a thirst for knowledge about everything and is truly compelling and fun to root for. If my daughter ends up like Rapunzel, I will be stoked.com.
Except for the part where she has a terrible mother. Because that would be my bad.
11. Merida
I haven't seen this movie. All I know is that she has red hair, she's Scottish, she's aces with a bow and arrow, and her mother is played by Julie Andrews. Also, she doesn't have a discernible love interest, not really, and that's pretty great that Disney trusted little girls to watch a movie about a Princess with no Prince. Way to go, guys. That's really chill.
I'll watch it eventually.
Well, I think I acquitted my princesses pretty well. I'm not alone in defending the Disney Princess as Feminists, but I wanted to add my two cents anyway. This blog post was Very Important. Thank you for reading.
Sunday, June 9, 2013
Behind the Candelabra: Matt Damon does not look 17, and this story is not a romance
This is late, I know, because the movie was released on HBO two weeks ago. And I saw it only a few days after it aired, but I had to think about how I felt about it for a time. It was well done. Well-acted, well-directed, beautifully shot - I even enjoyed the dialogue well enough. Rob Lowe's make-up tickled me. I was engrossed while I was watching it.
However, there is one major problem with the movie, and it totally changes the story. Matt Damon was the wrong age to play Scott Thorson, whereas Michael Douglas was fairly age appropriate (playing maybe 7 years younger, compared to Matt Damon playing 25 years younger).
Why does it matter so much? Because a 60-year-old hitting on a 40-year-old is a whole different story than a 60-year-old hitting on a 17-year-old.
And he wasn't just any 17-year-old. He was a 17-year-old that moved around from foster home to foster home his entire childhood. A 17-year-old who, when the 60-year-old first tried to sleep with him, turned the 60-year-old down - only for the 60-year-old to insist they sleep in the same bed, and then the next morning give the 17-year-old a blow job.
The way Liberace seduced Thorson as portrayed in this movie is disturbing and predatory, but it's negated by a totally age-inappropriate casting decision that lets the viewer overlook its inherent creep factor. As shown in the movie, this is sex between two consenting adults. As it happened in real life, Liberace took advantage of a child with an unstable home life.
Later on, Liberace discussed adopting Thorson, adding another lay of creep to the story. Perhaps even worse, Liberace insisted Thorson get plastic surgery to look more like him. Liberace wanted to control every aspect of Thorson's life, as demonstrated again and again in the movie. He was emotionally manipulative - every time the two argued, Liberace would bring up the gifts and lifestyle he had given Thorson instead of having a legitimate conversation.
There is a beautiful gay romance to be told. We've told enough beautiful straight romances, and it really isn't any different. But to act like this is a romance rather than a pedophile manipulating a teenager from a foster home because he looked pretty in a bathing suit is insulting.
However, there is one major problem with the movie, and it totally changes the story. Matt Damon was the wrong age to play Scott Thorson, whereas Michael Douglas was fairly age appropriate (playing maybe 7 years younger, compared to Matt Damon playing 25 years younger).
Why does it matter so much? Because a 60-year-old hitting on a 40-year-old is a whole different story than a 60-year-old hitting on a 17-year-old.
And he wasn't just any 17-year-old. He was a 17-year-old that moved around from foster home to foster home his entire childhood. A 17-year-old who, when the 60-year-old first tried to sleep with him, turned the 60-year-old down - only for the 60-year-old to insist they sleep in the same bed, and then the next morning give the 17-year-old a blow job.
The way Liberace seduced Thorson as portrayed in this movie is disturbing and predatory, but it's negated by a totally age-inappropriate casting decision that lets the viewer overlook its inherent creep factor. As shown in the movie, this is sex between two consenting adults. As it happened in real life, Liberace took advantage of a child with an unstable home life.
Later on, Liberace discussed adopting Thorson, adding another lay of creep to the story. Perhaps even worse, Liberace insisted Thorson get plastic surgery to look more like him. Liberace wanted to control every aspect of Thorson's life, as demonstrated again and again in the movie. He was emotionally manipulative - every time the two argued, Liberace would bring up the gifts and lifestyle he had given Thorson instead of having a legitimate conversation.
There is a beautiful gay romance to be told. We've told enough beautiful straight romances, and it really isn't any different. But to act like this is a romance rather than a pedophile manipulating a teenager from a foster home because he looked pretty in a bathing suit is insulting.
Wednesday, June 5, 2013
Ming is the reason you should be watching Awkward. Also, Awkward. is really good. Also, Ming should not keep getting shafted in her storylines.
High school is a perfect setting for a sitcom. They have rules and regulations that force arbitrary storylines into existence. When someone acts like an idiot, it's age-appropriate. Writers can basically spell out the theme as a "class assignment" and it's totally acceptable. And since most sitcoms have a lesson learned by the end of the episode, why not set the show in a school environment?
High school is a time of awkwardness and growth, which is perfect for both humor and storytelling - the whole point of stories is to watch the main character grow in some fashion, and the whole point of awkwardness is to eventually be able to use that quality to make someone laugh (Zach Galifiniakis agrees). Some of the most popular shows of all time are high school sitcoms. Or soaps. High school soaps are popular too.
Awkward. is a high school sitcom that's actually amazing. It's smartly written, funny, and full of characters that are easy to care about and sympathize with. Jenna, the main character, has made a few terrible decision in the third season and can turn a little dramatic, self-absorbed, and whiney at times - but then again, she's a high school student who dreams of becoming a writer, so that makes sense. She's also insightful and, for the most part, a very compelling character who is very easy to relate to.
One of the major issues I have with Awkward. is that one of their best, funniest, and most unique characters is often missing for episode at a time so that Jenna can deal with relationship drama. Ming's storylines with the Asian Mafia at school are so weird and so out there - especially with "grandmaster Chess player" Becca, who stays five steps ahead of Ming in order to maintain her social status as Queen Bee of Chinatown - that I usually wish we could spend entire episodes on those interactions and leave the whining Jenna does about Matty on the side.
Most recently, Ming is torn away from her love Fred Wu because Becca found out - and Becca, Fred's jealous ex-girlfriend, is definitely not okay with it. Becca masterminds a plan to get Fred kicked out of his new school (she got him kicked out of theirs when they broke up) and he has to go to Idaho to live with his cousins. This is the last straw for Ming, who punches Becca in the face on school grounds. The rest of the Asian Mafia? They sign affidavits saying Becca ran into a door. MING WINS AND MING WINS BIG.
For a character who's been put on the backburner for almost the entire show despite being the most fascinating of her trio of friends (Jenna is interesting but self-absorbed and I am so not into the Collin romance thing; Tamara could be used in smaller doses - her phrases can be clever but she slips into twee-annoying turf fast), it was refreshing to see her have such a victorious moment.
This is my (surely little-seen) call for more Ming in Awkward. MORE MING. IN AWKWARD. NOW.
Wednesday, May 29, 2013
Dinner was chocolate-covered pretzels
Sometimes I look at my life now and regret how judgmental I was back in high school.
This is not to say I'm not happy with where I am. I like my apartment, I like my job, I like the city I live in, and I like my friends.
(I probably should have put the "friends" part first, but, well, you know...)
Do I, at twenty-three, have the rock star glamorous career I thought I would? No. Do I get my Saturdays to myself to do as I please? Not quite. Do I still have to deal with customers even though I've sworn off customer service-based jobs multiple times in the last several years? Yes. Yes I do.
I'm happy - I am. But I'm prone to worrying that the dreams I've had won't be the life I'll live.
I write when I can, but I work a lot. I'm a naturally lazy person that has only recently been forced to shed that character trait, which makes it harder to push myself when I'm tired after a long day at the dealership.
For today, I'm not so worried my life won't work out like it's supposed to. Maybe it shouldn't. And maybe it's up to me to decide, through hard work and smart decisions, if I get to where I've always wanted to be. Or maybe what I wanted isn't still what I want, and I have to consider other options.
No, today I'm more preoccupied with my lifestyle. I'll catch myself mopping my kitchen floor and think, "well gosh darn. I really am a grown-up." On my next day off, it'll be 1 PM, and I'll still be in my pajamas.
I'm tired all the time.
I shouldn't be. I get eight hours of sleep. I drink coffee. I've started working out again. I try to be healthy. I'm twenty-three. I enjoy my work. I don't hate everything and everyone.
Maybe fatigue is a state of being? Maybe it's mind over matter? Maybe if I tell myself I'm not tired, then I won't feel tired and I can go out and live a life outside of work?
Maybe it's the motion. Maybe if I force myself to do things outside of work, I'll need to constantly do things outside of work. It'll be a self-perpetuating cycle, and I'll be more and more and more productive and less and less constantly tired.
It's 1 PM on a Wednesday and I'm still in my pajamas. That example I mentioned above? I'm living it right now.
There are nights when I think to myself, "man, I really am a grown-up." Those nights consist of falling asleep on the couch at 9:45 PM and calculating how many minutes stand between me and bedtime (two minutes to brush my teeth, two minutes to wash my face, thirty seconds to climb the stairs...). I know this is grown-up behavior because this is also a typical Saturday night for my mother. And my grandmother. And they're, like, super grown-up.
This was my Saturday night.
There are nights when I think to myself, "I'm still twenty-three, I need to have fun." Those nights consist of going out with friends, getting drunk, making out with some guy who later texts me to hang out - only to find I've passed out on my friend's couch before I get the chance to respond.
That may or may not have been my Sunday night.
There are nights where, after having gone out the night before and worked all day, I'm too tired to make food and too lazy to go out and find it, so I decide to have the rest of my chocolate-covered pretzels for dinner. At 8:45 PM I jolt myself awake on the couch, realize I'm missing out on some serious Arrested plot Development in the recently-released season, and go upstairs to go to bed. In the bathroom mirror I see there's brown stuff on my shirt and my arm - melted chocolate from the pretzels.
"Huh," I say to myself before I climb into bed and pass out.
Those nights remind me that a) twenty-three is still a dumb age and b) I actually might just be a gross person.
I'm not outright admitting this was my Monday night, but there's probably a reason I'm writing this.
Then there are the nights where I drive straight from work to the gym to get some exercise in, take a shower, and go to bed at a reasonable hour so I can skype with a friend of mine at 7 AM the next morning - on my day off.
"Man," I say to myself. "I really have my life together. Good for me. Good. For. Me."
(Until I curl up in a ball on the floor of my room because the leftover chili burger in the fridge was, apparently, not the best thing to eat right before working out.)
This was my Tuesday night. Last night.
I guess... there are going to be times where I feel like I haven't changed or grown since college. And there are going to be times where I'll find that I have - out of necessity, I've matured here and there. Like, I wear mascara to work now.
That's pretty grown-up of me, I think.
I'm going to change out of my Spongebob Square PajamaPants now.
This is not to say I'm not happy with where I am. I like my apartment, I like my job, I like the city I live in, and I like my friends.
(I probably should have put the "friends" part first, but, well, you know...)
Do I, at twenty-three, have the rock star glamorous career I thought I would? No. Do I get my Saturdays to myself to do as I please? Not quite. Do I still have to deal with customers even though I've sworn off customer service-based jobs multiple times in the last several years? Yes. Yes I do.
I'm happy - I am. But I'm prone to worrying that the dreams I've had won't be the life I'll live.
I write when I can, but I work a lot. I'm a naturally lazy person that has only recently been forced to shed that character trait, which makes it harder to push myself when I'm tired after a long day at the dealership.
For today, I'm not so worried my life won't work out like it's supposed to. Maybe it shouldn't. And maybe it's up to me to decide, through hard work and smart decisions, if I get to where I've always wanted to be. Or maybe what I wanted isn't still what I want, and I have to consider other options.
No, today I'm more preoccupied with my lifestyle. I'll catch myself mopping my kitchen floor and think, "well gosh darn. I really am a grown-up." On my next day off, it'll be 1 PM, and I'll still be in my pajamas.
I'm tired all the time.
I shouldn't be. I get eight hours of sleep. I drink coffee. I've started working out again. I try to be healthy. I'm twenty-three. I enjoy my work. I don't hate everything and everyone.
Maybe fatigue is a state of being? Maybe it's mind over matter? Maybe if I tell myself I'm not tired, then I won't feel tired and I can go out and live a life outside of work?
Maybe it's the motion. Maybe if I force myself to do things outside of work, I'll need to constantly do things outside of work. It'll be a self-perpetuating cycle, and I'll be more and more and more productive and less and less constantly tired.
It's 1 PM on a Wednesday and I'm still in my pajamas. That example I mentioned above? I'm living it right now.
There are nights when I think to myself, "man, I really am a grown-up." Those nights consist of falling asleep on the couch at 9:45 PM and calculating how many minutes stand between me and bedtime (two minutes to brush my teeth, two minutes to wash my face, thirty seconds to climb the stairs...). I know this is grown-up behavior because this is also a typical Saturday night for my mother. And my grandmother. And they're, like, super grown-up.
This was my Saturday night.
There are nights when I think to myself, "I'm still twenty-three, I need to have fun." Those nights consist of going out with friends, getting drunk, making out with some guy who later texts me to hang out - only to find I've passed out on my friend's couch before I get the chance to respond.
That may or may not have been my Sunday night.
There are nights where, after having gone out the night before and worked all day, I'm too tired to make food and too lazy to go out and find it, so I decide to have the rest of my chocolate-covered pretzels for dinner. At 8:45 PM I jolt myself awake on the couch, realize I'm missing out on some serious Arrested plot Development in the recently-released season, and go upstairs to go to bed. In the bathroom mirror I see there's brown stuff on my shirt and my arm - melted chocolate from the pretzels.
"Huh," I say to myself before I climb into bed and pass out.
Those nights remind me that a) twenty-three is still a dumb age and b) I actually might just be a gross person.
I'm not outright admitting this was my Monday night, but there's probably a reason I'm writing this.
Then there are the nights where I drive straight from work to the gym to get some exercise in, take a shower, and go to bed at a reasonable hour so I can skype with a friend of mine at 7 AM the next morning - on my day off.
"Man," I say to myself. "I really have my life together. Good for me. Good. For. Me."
(Until I curl up in a ball on the floor of my room because the leftover chili burger in the fridge was, apparently, not the best thing to eat right before working out.)
This was my Tuesday night. Last night.
I guess... there are going to be times where I feel like I haven't changed or grown since college. And there are going to be times where I'll find that I have - out of necessity, I've matured here and there. Like, I wear mascara to work now.
That's pretty grown-up of me, I think.
I'm going to change out of my Spongebob Square PajamaPants now.
Tuesday, May 21, 2013
Concerning the Death of Proper English
In school, grammar was always one of the subjects that came most easily to me. It was a set of arbitrary rules with one singular purpose: to make clear, without a shadow of a doubt, just exactly what it was the writer or speaker wanted to communicate.
Proper English has strict guidelines that dictate language beyond communicating one's ideas. Never ending a sentence with a proposition, for example, is a rule set up because your sentence sounds nicer that way, not because it affects the message one is trying to express.
To correct one's grammar in an academic paper is necessary; if one is going to write such a paper, one must use their education to write correctly.
To correct one's grammar in a casual conversation is obnoxious; if one understands what the other is trying to say despite the use of "ain't" or some other, similar example, then they should kindly refrain from correcting one's speech simply because it is not entirely "proper."
If one's grammar is so horrendous as to render one's speech unintelligible, perhaps at that time one can be corrected.
There are other forms of communication, of course. Novels, scripts, essays, poems are all forms of creative writing that play around with the rules of grammar depending on the exact tone one wants to set.
Their Eyes Were Watching God is grammatically very different than, say, Pride & Prejudice, but that does not make one novel lesser than the other.
Even in Their Eyes Were Watching God, however, there was some adherence to structure, and when Hurston diverged from the path of proper grammar, she did so with a very express purpose. She did so to highlight a point she was making about a person's personality or background or education level.
In today's world, major online publications will post articles without fully proofreading them, and grammar mistakes abound. Most of the time, the reader can reasonably understand what the writer is trying to say, but there have been a few instances where the grammar is so poor that the reader cannot understand the message of the blog at all.
Even if the reader can understand what the writer is trying to express, does that excuse the writer from misusing the English language, especially when said writer is trying to create a living for him or herself using the written word? No, it does not. Mistakes should not make it to print.
They do, though. A quick perusal of any of the Gawker websites will demonstrate this concept. Some sites are more focused on quickness of reporting and volume of articles they need to push out.
This tendency has seeped into most pop culture blogging sites. Proofreading seems to be almost archaic. If there's an edgy joke in there, or a salient point, or some halfway decent analysis, the article's poor grammar goes unnoticed.
This begs the question: are we doing a disservice to our language, or are we freeing ourselves from the constraints of nonsensical rules written centuries before our birth?
It depends on the medium, and it depends on the grammar mistake. Blogging is by its nature informal. It is perfectly acceptable to use informal speech in a blog post. However, if it's clear the grammar issue is a mistake rather than on purpose, the writer should consider reading through before posting his or her thoughts.
Using the wrong "their" for example, is distracting. Beginning a sentence with an "and" or a "but" is acceptable if the writer does so with a purpose in mind, assuming the format is supposed to be more casual.
With more formal writing it is imperative, as always, to use proper grammar.
The English language is constantly changing, constantly growing. Alright is a word now. Who knows what else can happen?
However, to assume grammar is a meaningless set of rules with no purpose will ultimately hurt one's writing. Boundaries and rules force a writer to work within that framework to better oneself.
By boundaries in writing, I am also including curse words. Curse words, when used sparingly, can force the reader to understand the gravity of the situation. I am guilty of over-using curse words. I will defend the right to use them, but not to over-use them. Too many curse words are for shock value only, nothing more, and this is something I have tried to fix in my last couple of posts.
(What number is "too many" is of course up for debate.)
Can one imagine if Shakespeare had been allowed to write his plays without any grammar boundaries whatsoever? What kind of mess would he have created? What if Mae West had been allowed to curse in public? What would have happened to her sly, subtle wit?
Grammar is still taught in schools, but college-educated writers online that presumably make a living with their craft are more and more guilty of eschewing grammatical tradition in order to make an earlier deadline. In some ways, strict adherence to grammar is considered outdated. However, if this is how one makes one's living, it is important to do the job as well as possible.
I retain full rights to spell the word "h8" however I'd like to prove a point.
Proper English has strict guidelines that dictate language beyond communicating one's ideas. Never ending a sentence with a proposition, for example, is a rule set up because your sentence sounds nicer that way, not because it affects the message one is trying to express.
To correct one's grammar in an academic paper is necessary; if one is going to write such a paper, one must use their education to write correctly.
To correct one's grammar in a casual conversation is obnoxious; if one understands what the other is trying to say despite the use of "ain't" or some other, similar example, then they should kindly refrain from correcting one's speech simply because it is not entirely "proper."
If one's grammar is so horrendous as to render one's speech unintelligible, perhaps at that time one can be corrected.
There are other forms of communication, of course. Novels, scripts, essays, poems are all forms of creative writing that play around with the rules of grammar depending on the exact tone one wants to set.
Their Eyes Were Watching God is grammatically very different than, say, Pride & Prejudice, but that does not make one novel lesser than the other.
Even in Their Eyes Were Watching God, however, there was some adherence to structure, and when Hurston diverged from the path of proper grammar, she did so with a very express purpose. She did so to highlight a point she was making about a person's personality or background or education level.
In today's world, major online publications will post articles without fully proofreading them, and grammar mistakes abound. Most of the time, the reader can reasonably understand what the writer is trying to say, but there have been a few instances where the grammar is so poor that the reader cannot understand the message of the blog at all.
Even if the reader can understand what the writer is trying to express, does that excuse the writer from misusing the English language, especially when said writer is trying to create a living for him or herself using the written word? No, it does not. Mistakes should not make it to print.
They do, though. A quick perusal of any of the Gawker websites will demonstrate this concept. Some sites are more focused on quickness of reporting and volume of articles they need to push out.
This tendency has seeped into most pop culture blogging sites. Proofreading seems to be almost archaic. If there's an edgy joke in there, or a salient point, or some halfway decent analysis, the article's poor grammar goes unnoticed.
This begs the question: are we doing a disservice to our language, or are we freeing ourselves from the constraints of nonsensical rules written centuries before our birth?
It depends on the medium, and it depends on the grammar mistake. Blogging is by its nature informal. It is perfectly acceptable to use informal speech in a blog post. However, if it's clear the grammar issue is a mistake rather than on purpose, the writer should consider reading through before posting his or her thoughts.
Using the wrong "their" for example, is distracting. Beginning a sentence with an "and" or a "but" is acceptable if the writer does so with a purpose in mind, assuming the format is supposed to be more casual.
With more formal writing it is imperative, as always, to use proper grammar.
The English language is constantly changing, constantly growing. Alright is a word now. Who knows what else can happen?
However, to assume grammar is a meaningless set of rules with no purpose will ultimately hurt one's writing. Boundaries and rules force a writer to work within that framework to better oneself.
By boundaries in writing, I am also including curse words. Curse words, when used sparingly, can force the reader to understand the gravity of the situation. I am guilty of over-using curse words. I will defend the right to use them, but not to over-use them. Too many curse words are for shock value only, nothing more, and this is something I have tried to fix in my last couple of posts.
(What number is "too many" is of course up for debate.)
Can one imagine if Shakespeare had been allowed to write his plays without any grammar boundaries whatsoever? What kind of mess would he have created? What if Mae West had been allowed to curse in public? What would have happened to her sly, subtle wit?
Grammar is still taught in schools, but college-educated writers online that presumably make a living with their craft are more and more guilty of eschewing grammatical tradition in order to make an earlier deadline. In some ways, strict adherence to grammar is considered outdated. However, if this is how one makes one's living, it is important to do the job as well as possible.
I retain full rights to spell the word "h8" however I'd like to prove a point.
Monday, May 20, 2013
All I wanted was a burrito
Thursday I got to work around 10 AM. I was already planning my evening: leave work around 8/8:30, go for a run, make myself something healthy for dinner, do some writing, go to bed at a normal hour.
At 10:30 PM it was clear we weren't going to be able to sell the ES350 we had spent the last hour trying to push out. I got in my car thinking how I could salvage my evening, and figured I could get a burrito (there goes the healthy dinner), go straight home (there goes the exercise), and write (at least one of the three).
A burrito would make everything better, because burritos are delicious, and I was in a bad mood.
I got to the taco truck nearest my home and parked in what passed for a "parking lot," but it was just a bunch of cars next to each other without much structure. I got out of my car to make sure it's situated in a place where other people can still back out - going so far as to even ask a gentleman if I'm blocking his way (to which he replied that I was not) - before going to pay for the burrito.
The employee spoke to the customers before me in Spanish before easily transitioning to English when I got to the front of the line.
"You're about to make my night," I told the employee while handing him some cash.
I was getting some sauce to put on my burrito when a gentleman announced, "whoever has the Honda Civic, someone just ran into your car!"
Well fuck. I have a Honda Civic.
I hurried over to the parking lot and saw the damage. My driver's door was caved in, and three dudes in a beat-up Nissan were about to drive off. I stood between their car and the driveway and took a good look. They hit my car, and they were just about to run.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" I shouted. "You do that to my car and you're just going to fucking BOUNCE?"
So maybe this wasn't the best way to go about it. I mean, starting the conversation with an accusation is bad, and it's not like it's going to make them want to work with me to fix my car. But I had had a long day, and I was angry these people were so shameless as to damage my car and then drive off without paying any consequences.
I continued to yell, my vocabulary laced with profanities, until they finally got out of the car.
"I'm so sorry," the driver apologized.
"I'm more upset you were about to drive off than about the actual damage. I mean, I'm upset about the car too, but... whatever, I want your insurance information."
"Ahh..."
"Are you insured?"
"Yes. But this is my brother's car."
"Is your brother's car insured?"
"Yes."
"Okay. Well let's do all the insurance information. Whatever you have, let's do it."
The boys hesitated. I wasn't sure why. That's the next step, right? Trading insurance information? I took a picture of the license plate while the boys deliberated.
"We know a mechanic," the driver tried.
"No. Absolutely not. I don't have fucking time for this."
"We'll buy your car from you."
"What?"
"How much for your car?"
"It's not for sale. It's a piece of crap that's going to run another 100,000 miles. I want to fix it."
"How much for your car?"
"$5,000."
"Your car isn't worth $5,000."
"I got it appraised for $5,000; it's worth $5,000."
"We don't have the money here-"
"I don't want your money, I want your insurance infor-"
"-but we can go home and get it! It's at our home, let us go home and get it!"
"Absolutely not! I want to take my car to a body shop, see how much it costs, and bill you for the damage."
"I'm sorry, my English isn't so good. I don't understand."
At this point, it's important to note that up until now we had been conversing easily enough in English that we had no trouble understanding what the other was saying. I was so emotional, however, that I didn't focus on the stupidity of pulling the language barrier card at that time - I was focused on finding a solution.
The taco truck employee spoke both English and Spanish. He could translate.
"Well let's find someone to translate," I responded. I lightened up. I began to feel bad. Maybe they were confused about how to act after a car accident. Maybe they really didn't understand. So I motioned for them to come with me but they stayed put.
"Come on," I tried again.
Still nothing. I was back to being irritated.
"I'll help you," a man in his car said. The same man I had asked earlier if I was in his way when I parked.
So we repeat our conversation, only this time with a translator. Nothing changes.
"Hey," a man pulling out of the parking lot called me over. "If I were you, I'd call the cops."
"Really? Do I really need to do that?"
"Yeah. Because they're not going to give you their insurance information."
"That IS shady, right? They're acting shady, right?"
"Yes. Call the cops."
So I called the cops. I have never really done this before - I've never had to resort to the police. The emergency operator tells me to turn on my hazard lights. I did so.
"I'm so sorry," the driver continued to apologize.
"It's cowardly," I told him. "You were about to leave."
This is the point in the story where I wish I had been more accepting of their apologies. But I was too angry, their apologies seemed too insincere, and they were still not doing the only thing required of them at this point - giving me my insurance information.
A tow truck guy - Keith - showed up and asked what was going on. Two of the guys leave. The third told us they went to the bathroom. Bullhooey.
The third finally walked off as well, carrying a backpack. I waited another 40 minutes for the police before I finally gave up.
"Nobody has left to come meet you yet," the emergency operator said.
"I mean, I think at this point there's a legitimate crime here. They just walked away from their car. That's weird."
"That is strange. They left their car? The doors open?"
"Yeah."
"Huh. Well, I think you have all the information you need. You can just go to a police station in the morning and report it."
Fine. Fine fine fine. I was tired enough as it was. I canceled the call, went inside the car for identification purposes, and made plans to make a police report at the station in the morning. I also took a picture of an empty can of Bud Light in the passenger seat.
Going through people's cars when they're gone is illegal, apparently.
You can't take things out of another person's car. It's a felony. So when I showed the cops the license plates in the trunk that I pilfered, along with the insurance documents I took (I was going to just take a picture, but Keith told me I should just take the actual copy), they told me this was the weirdest case they'd ever seen - specifically because I had committed a major crime, not because these guys were acting so strange.
This is probably the dumbest and most entitled I've ever felt. People get in hit and runs all the time. I mean, people don't have the perpetrators offer to buy their cars and then walk away from the situation with their OPEN CAR left behind, but I am not the first - and certainly will not be the last - person to be involved in this kind of accident.
(Well, except for a few minor, strange details.)
Was I always such an angry person? Why the yelling without stopping to listen to how ridiculous the boys in front of me were being? Is this a new development? Why can't I be calmer? I see flashes of my mother shouting at airline employees when we were kicked off a three-hour delayed flight because there wasn't enough room to the point that they threatened security, and I wonder about the role genetics plays in how we respond to stressful situations.
Next time, I need to take a breath and consider the situation. Calm is always always always better - because calm allows you to make the more rational and smarter decision.
My mom has told me multiple times that I could have gotten myself killed that night, and that I need to watch my temper. I agree with the second half of the sentence, but I don't think those boys were going to hurt me. They were idiots, out for a drunken munchie stop at a taco truck, not giving a single thought to why driving drunk is illegal.
Thursday was exhausting from start to finish, but for right now I'm in a Nissan Altima rental, which is sweet because it comes with automatic locks and windows, and I feel like a freaking Rockefeller driving that thing around. The body shop can take its time with my car. I'll be just fine.
I really like those burritos, man. I hope I can muster the wherewithal to return some time soon.
At 10:30 PM it was clear we weren't going to be able to sell the ES350 we had spent the last hour trying to push out. I got in my car thinking how I could salvage my evening, and figured I could get a burrito (there goes the healthy dinner), go straight home (there goes the exercise), and write (at least one of the three).
A burrito would make everything better, because burritos are delicious, and I was in a bad mood.
I got to the taco truck nearest my home and parked in what passed for a "parking lot," but it was just a bunch of cars next to each other without much structure. I got out of my car to make sure it's situated in a place where other people can still back out - going so far as to even ask a gentleman if I'm blocking his way (to which he replied that I was not) - before going to pay for the burrito.
The employee spoke to the customers before me in Spanish before easily transitioning to English when I got to the front of the line.
"You're about to make my night," I told the employee while handing him some cash.
I was getting some sauce to put on my burrito when a gentleman announced, "whoever has the Honda Civic, someone just ran into your car!"
Well fuck. I have a Honda Civic.
I hurried over to the parking lot and saw the damage. My driver's door was caved in, and three dudes in a beat-up Nissan were about to drive off. I stood between their car and the driveway and took a good look. They hit my car, and they were just about to run.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" I shouted. "You do that to my car and you're just going to fucking BOUNCE?"
So maybe this wasn't the best way to go about it. I mean, starting the conversation with an accusation is bad, and it's not like it's going to make them want to work with me to fix my car. But I had had a long day, and I was angry these people were so shameless as to damage my car and then drive off without paying any consequences.
I continued to yell, my vocabulary laced with profanities, until they finally got out of the car.
"I'm so sorry," the driver apologized.
"I'm more upset you were about to drive off than about the actual damage. I mean, I'm upset about the car too, but... whatever, I want your insurance information."
"Ahh..."
"Are you insured?"
"Yes. But this is my brother's car."
"Is your brother's car insured?"
"Yes."
"Okay. Well let's do all the insurance information. Whatever you have, let's do it."
The boys hesitated. I wasn't sure why. That's the next step, right? Trading insurance information? I took a picture of the license plate while the boys deliberated.
"We know a mechanic," the driver tried.
"No. Absolutely not. I don't have fucking time for this."
"We'll buy your car from you."
"What?"
"How much for your car?"
"It's not for sale. It's a piece of crap that's going to run another 100,000 miles. I want to fix it."
"How much for your car?"
"$5,000."
"Your car isn't worth $5,000."
"I got it appraised for $5,000; it's worth $5,000."
"We don't have the money here-"
"I don't want your money, I want your insurance infor-"
"-but we can go home and get it! It's at our home, let us go home and get it!"
"Absolutely not! I want to take my car to a body shop, see how much it costs, and bill you for the damage."
"I'm sorry, my English isn't so good. I don't understand."
At this point, it's important to note that up until now we had been conversing easily enough in English that we had no trouble understanding what the other was saying. I was so emotional, however, that I didn't focus on the stupidity of pulling the language barrier card at that time - I was focused on finding a solution.
The taco truck employee spoke both English and Spanish. He could translate.
"Well let's find someone to translate," I responded. I lightened up. I began to feel bad. Maybe they were confused about how to act after a car accident. Maybe they really didn't understand. So I motioned for them to come with me but they stayed put.
"Come on," I tried again.
Still nothing. I was back to being irritated.
"I'll help you," a man in his car said. The same man I had asked earlier if I was in his way when I parked.
So we repeat our conversation, only this time with a translator. Nothing changes.
"Hey," a man pulling out of the parking lot called me over. "If I were you, I'd call the cops."
"Really? Do I really need to do that?"
"Yeah. Because they're not going to give you their insurance information."
"That IS shady, right? They're acting shady, right?"
"Yes. Call the cops."
So I called the cops. I have never really done this before - I've never had to resort to the police. The emergency operator tells me to turn on my hazard lights. I did so.
"I'm so sorry," the driver continued to apologize.
"It's cowardly," I told him. "You were about to leave."
This is the point in the story where I wish I had been more accepting of their apologies. But I was too angry, their apologies seemed too insincere, and they were still not doing the only thing required of them at this point - giving me my insurance information.
A tow truck guy - Keith - showed up and asked what was going on. Two of the guys leave. The third told us they went to the bathroom. Bullhooey.
The third finally walked off as well, carrying a backpack. I waited another 40 minutes for the police before I finally gave up.
"Nobody has left to come meet you yet," the emergency operator said.
"I mean, I think at this point there's a legitimate crime here. They just walked away from their car. That's weird."
"That is strange. They left their car? The doors open?"
"Yeah."
"Huh. Well, I think you have all the information you need. You can just go to a police station in the morning and report it."
Fine. Fine fine fine. I was tired enough as it was. I canceled the call, went inside the car for identification purposes, and made plans to make a police report at the station in the morning. I also took a picture of an empty can of Bud Light in the passenger seat.
Going through people's cars when they're gone is illegal, apparently.
You can't take things out of another person's car. It's a felony. So when I showed the cops the license plates in the trunk that I pilfered, along with the insurance documents I took (I was going to just take a picture, but Keith told me I should just take the actual copy), they told me this was the weirdest case they'd ever seen - specifically because I had committed a major crime, not because these guys were acting so strange.
This is probably the dumbest and most entitled I've ever felt. People get in hit and runs all the time. I mean, people don't have the perpetrators offer to buy their cars and then walk away from the situation with their OPEN CAR left behind, but I am not the first - and certainly will not be the last - person to be involved in this kind of accident.
(Well, except for a few minor, strange details.)
Was I always such an angry person? Why the yelling without stopping to listen to how ridiculous the boys in front of me were being? Is this a new development? Why can't I be calmer? I see flashes of my mother shouting at airline employees when we were kicked off a three-hour delayed flight because there wasn't enough room to the point that they threatened security, and I wonder about the role genetics plays in how we respond to stressful situations.
Next time, I need to take a breath and consider the situation. Calm is always always always better - because calm allows you to make the more rational and smarter decision.
My mom has told me multiple times that I could have gotten myself killed that night, and that I need to watch my temper. I agree with the second half of the sentence, but I don't think those boys were going to hurt me. They were idiots, out for a drunken munchie stop at a taco truck, not giving a single thought to why driving drunk is illegal.
Thursday was exhausting from start to finish, but for right now I'm in a Nissan Altima rental, which is sweet because it comes with automatic locks and windows, and I feel like a freaking Rockefeller driving that thing around. The body shop can take its time with my car. I'll be just fine.
I really like those burritos, man. I hope I can muster the wherewithal to return some time soon.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)