close up of goddess eyes

goddess of clarity: a blog about politics, culture, and serenity

Archive: December 1 - December 15, 2005

December 14, 2005 — 09:26 EST

The Golden Globe nominations were announced a couple days ago and of the ten films nominated for best picture in the two different categories (drama and comedy), four haven't even been released in Rochester yet. And of the remaining six, I've only seen four of them. My Golden Globes report card is as follows:

Best Motion Picture - Drama

Best Motion Picture - Comedy or Musical

I always get kinda happily frustrated this time of year. There are so many movies to see, and so little time. It's like an embarrassment of riches.

Speaking of embarrassment (and riches), on what benevolent and rational planet does the criminally unfunny retread Yours, Mine, and Ours make almost as much money in its opening week as Serenity made in it's entire boxoffice run? Serenity is currently playing at our local $1 theater, and if I had the time I would happily plunk down my dollar every night this week. But tonight at least, King Kong beckons.

—lori.

December 11, 2005 — 20:43 EST

The Unflattering Politician Photo of the Week

('Holiday Tree' Edition)

President Bush singing

(Photo by Reuters of course!)

♪ Oh I saw Daddy kissing Saaaaaaanta Claus underneath the mistletoe last niiiiiiight ♪

Actually, I think it was Mommy that Daddy was kissing. 'Ol Babs looks a little like Santa, you know. Don't tell her I said that.

President Bush with Santa

(Photo by Reuters two for two, guys!)

Hey there, big guy. Do you think you could send me some of them WMDs we been lookin' fer? Just as a little stocking stuffer? Heh, heh, heh. Just kiddin' there, big guy. How 'bout a pony?

A double shot of our prez enjoying a bit of the Christmas spirit. The National Christmas Tree was lit on the White House lawn last Thursday, and the Capitol Christmas Tree was lit a couple days ago by Speaker of the House Dennis Hastert. Conservatives of course made a big hoo-ha about the fact that the Capitol "Holiday Tree" has be re-christened a "Christmas Tree." They claim this as one small victory in the battle against Hollywood liberals who want to kill Christmas and roast the baby Jesus on a spit and serve him up at their "Winter Solstice" feast over a bed of baby spinach with a side of soy polenta.

The War against Christmas. What crap. In a country where outwardly devout Christians control EVERYTHING, what do these people have their undies in a twist over? "We must save Christmas!" they cry. Save Christmas?! You can't fucking avoid Christmas if you tried! It's everywhere! And don't get me wrong. This is actually fine by me. I like Christmas. I'm getting a little sick of "The Carol of the Bells," which seems to be on the loudspeaker at Wegmans everytime I walk through the door. But other than that, it's all good. No saving necessary, thanks. The baby Jesus is just fine, hanging out and living large.

—lori.

December 8, 2005 — 13:15 EST :: permalink

Today marks the 25th anniversary of the death of John Lennon. I was only 10 years old at the time, but I remember the day.

I went across the street to my friend Bridget’s house, and her aunt Esther was sitting on the dining room floor next to her portable record player. She had those giant old headphones on and dozens of albums scattered around her. She was rocking slowing to herself, and crying.

“What’s wrong with Esther?” I whispered.

“An old singer died,” Bridget whispered back as we headed outside to the tire swing.

Fast forward to my teens. I went through a major (and now incredibly embarrassing) hippie phase in high school. I wore tie-dyed shirts, ponchos, and beads; I painted peace signs all over everything I owned; and I lamented the fact that I was born 20 years too late (I told you it was embarrassing). In my bedroom, posters of Duran Duran and U2 competed with The Beatles, The Monkees, and The Grateful Dead. At lunchtime I would bring my Walkman to the cafeteria to listen to the Beatles Lunchbreak on WPST, and after school I would head over to The Album Hunter to scour the racks for some obscure Beatles import. It was all deeply sad—in a clueless, teenage kind of way—but I couldn’t help but feel some kind of connection to the music. I’m still not entirely sure why; it’s like I was nostalgic for someone else’s past, for a past that I would never know. And I still love the Beatles. Maybe they just wrote good tunes—simple as that.

***

John Lennon got me in trouble with the nuns once. I was taking a quiz is Sister Gertrude’s algebra class, and Sister Gertrude was walking up and down the aisles, with a look that said she was secretly hoping one of us would cheat so she could have the pleasure of catching us in the act. As she passed my desk, she glanced down at my binder, which was lying on the floor. Like all of my notebooks and folders, it was highly decorated with the aforementioned peace signs, random doodlings, and (what I thought of as) deeply profound musings and quotations. As she looked down at my binder, one particular doodle jumped out at her: “ASSHOLES DO VEX ME!” which I had painted across the top in White Out. (This was a line from a live Robin Williams album. Profound, yes?)

“Miss Packer, I’m sure that this is not appropriate, don’t you agree,” she snipped, pointing down at my binder. “Could you at least turn it over?”

I reached down and turned my binder over to the other side to reveal a large cross painted in red nail polish over the words “JOHN LENNON DIED FOR OUR SINS.” For added impact, I’d used the nail polish to make the words “JOHN LENNON” look like they were bleeding.

I looked up at Sister Gertrude sheepishly and she just rolled her eyes. “Perhaps it would be best if you just put it away, Miss Packer? And don’t let me see it again!”

Rest in peace, Walrus. Goo Goo G’ Jub.

—lori.

December 7, 2005 — 20:50 EST

Parade of Crappy Christmas Lights

tacky Christmas lights

The photo doesn't do the place justice, but this is my parents' next-door neighbor's house. My nieces call it "Disney Land" for its sheer gaudy shininess. And the neighbors don't restrict their decorating zeal to the holiday season. Every square inch of lawn is covered with ornaments of every description, summer, fall, winter, and spring. There are weather vanes and wind chimes, gazing balls and bird baths, pink flamingoes and lawn jockeys. When the wind blows, it sounds like a carnival.

Of course they do go a special brand of crazy at Christmas time. The display above was the result of two days hard labor over plastic Santas and spiral Christmas trees and electric Nativity scenes. They were still fine-tuning it when I left after Thanksgiving. I'm sure this was just the beginning.

—lori.

December 4, 2005 — 19:55 EST

It looks like that iPod Flea spoof is becoming more fact than fiction. Walmart now offers this 1 GB MP3 player shown below, actual size (I kid you not):

tiny MP3 player

(Hint: it's the pink cube on the far right.)

Each MP3 player comes complete with its own toddler, whose tiny fingers you can use to press the tiny buttons. Toddler carrying case sold separately.

—lori.

December 2, 2005 — 13:37 EST

Overheard in West Chester: Like, Whatever

Where: West Chester University student union

Girl sporting a loud, guffawing laugh and pajama bottoms: “So, like, I drove all the way down there, and my dad was all, like, ‘   *   ’ and I was all like, ‘whatever, dude.’ You know?”

I'm not entirely sure how to punctuate that sentence, but I am entirely sure that it doesn't matter in the slightest.

I sat in the student union coffee shop for about an hour listening to this, "And he was all like, and I was all like" conversation, and all the while I'm reading Dickens and thinking to myself that there is no way these two people are speaking the same language. To offer a comparison:

Dickens English:

In the little word in which children have their existence, whosoever brings them up, there is nothing so finely perceived and so finely felt, as injustice. It may be only small injustice that the child can be exposed to; but the child is small, and its world is small, and its rockinghorse stands as many hands high, according to scale, as a big-boned Irish hunter.

Freshman English:

I don't know. It's all just so, like, you know?

Just, like, kill me now.

—lori.