For the memoirists

Last night I finished reading Ann Patchett’s memoir Truth and Beauty, about her long friendship with Lucy Grealy, author of Autobiography of a Face.

During her book tour, a fan asked Grealy about the process of writing about her childhood battle with cancer:

“It’s amazing how you remember everything so clearly…All those conversations, details, were you ever worried you might get something wrong?”

“I didn’t remember it,” Lucy said pointedly. “I wrote it. I’m a writer.”

This shocked the audience more than her dismissal of illness, but she made her point: she was making art, not documenting an event. That she chose to tell her own story was of secondary importance. Her cancer and subsequent suffering had not made this book. She had made it. Her intellect and ability were in every sense larger than the disease.

Polarizing Film: Drive

Many years ago, when I was a student of the cinema, I considered a couple of popular films to be litmus tests. You laughed hysterically at Flirting with Disaster? You’re a philanderer with a misogynistic sense of humor. Wept at The English Patient? You’re pretentious. Please, that film was bo-ring!

The other day, we watched Drive, which I’d heard good things about. Let me tell you that I hated it so much I had to get up, find my iPod and tweet about how much I hated it. And it got a 93% from critics on Rotten Tomatoes! What am I missing? I recognize that many women (and men) find Ryan Gosling very appealing. I saw The Notebook; I understand the concept. But in Drive? What a tool. I don’t think he’s mysterious because he doesn’t talk much; I think he’s an idiot.

I didn’t hate the movie because the main guy didn’t have clever dialogue, nor did I mind the stylish film-making. Kinda reminded me of Taxi Driver. I love Taxi Driver. You know why? Travis Bickle is interesting! Jodie Foster plays a child prostitute, and Bickle takes Cybill Shepherd to a porno on a date, yet Taxi Driver does not come close to demeaning women the way Drive does. Carey Mulligan’s character is an idiot, fawning over stupid Ryan Gosling, looking at him with goo-goo eyes after he’s done exactly nothing to earn her desire.

Another female character (and this is a spoiler because there’s only ONE other female character) gets her head blown off in glorious slow-mo spattervision.

Aside: I noted that Quentin Tarantino killed off a female character in Inglourious Basterds (I have to look that one up to spell it INcorrectly) more graphically and with more zeal than he killed off the men. It bothered me there, but I appreciated his violence as an art form. In Drive, it all struck me as gratuitous.

Speaking of gratuitous, what was with the topless girls sitting around Ron Perlman’s character while he takes a phone call? It was a phone call scene! He could have been anywhere!

I can forgive a lot of a film if it’s well-enough performed, written, directed or even scored, but I can’t think of a single redeeming quality about Drive. No wait, I can. I liked the way the title of the film appeared in the opening credits. It was all downhill from there.

Wreck and effect

In the week since my high-speed* MVA, I’ve done some spacey things.

  1. I squeezed conditioner instead of body wash onto my washcloth in the shower.
  2. I flushed the toilet when I meant to turn on the shower.
  3. I tried to fax something upside down. (A blank page arrived at the other end.)

I can’t say for sure that these are the result of being in a car accident. I’ve done the first and the third before. Never the second, though, that was a new one.

* I referred to it as a high-speed collision the other day and Rob said, “You weren’t in a high-speed collision. You were barely moving!” Fair enough.

They used to call me Mr. Glass

M. Night Shyamalan’s Unbreakable is highly underrated. When I saw it in 2000, it was the most realistic rise-of-superhero-and-supervillain that I had ever seen on film. A comparable film in theaters now is Chronicle. Both films answer the question, What would the world be like if superpowers were real?

* Kick-Ass is a great film addressing What would the world be like if we really had masked avengers fighting crime? But no one has superpowers.

In Unbreakable, Sam Jackson has a disease that makes him especially frail. i.e. They call me Mr. Glass.

Bruce Willis can not be injured. He’s “Unbreakable.” He doesn’t get a cool superhero name, just goes by David Dunn. A name so forgettable I had to look it up.

For several years now, I have identified with Mr. Glass. Breakable as a starfish. I broke my foot doing step aerobics two years ago, and it’s still not all the way better.

I developed a stiff neck from carrying a heavy camera around my neck for an afternoon. The stiff neck lasted weeks. I had to do physical therapy.

I suffer from TMJ; I lack the jaw strength to chew food.

You know those self-esteem exercises, or whatever they are, where people identify the thing that makes them most self-conscious? Then they “own it” by wearing it on a T-shirt? It was on the “Born This Way” episode of Glee. That’s a thing right?

I thought about what my “flaw” is. Sure there are some physical things I’m self-conscious about, but none that haunt me enough that I need to wear it on a T-shirt. I realized that the word I should own was “weak.” The thing I like least about myself that I wish I could change. I want to be able to train in martial arts without aggravating my foot or my neck. I don’t want to be the girl who sank to the ground crying because she couldn’t make it to the Bat Caves in the rain. Oh, but waitaminute, I conquered that demon last September. I proved to myself that I’m not weak.

This is risky to put out there in the universe, because it’s only been two days, and maybe the whiplash just hasn’t set in yet…

…but I cannot freaking believe that I am not in more pain after being rear-ended on the freeway.

The chiropractor kept shaking his head in amazement. “This could have been so much worse.” It was actually embarrassing filling out the form. What level is my pain? Oh, about a 2. Which is less than it is on an average day. Was my body so out of whack that the collision simply knocked everything back into place?

I’m taking the preventative measures of chiropractic, acupuncture and massage therapy. I’m still waiting for the other shoe to drop. Any day now, I’m going to wake up and not be able to move. Since I have a history of chronic neck and back pain, I have every reason to believe this accident has done some damage that hasn’t manifested yet.

My point. Is. I do not feel like Mr. Glass today. I feel like David Dunn. I feel like I should have been really badly injured. And the fact that I don’t even have a bruise from my seat belt shoulder strap seems to me a minor miracle. Or like, really, really good luck.

Smash

Certain things happen at the same time every year. Like daffodils blooming, or finding mouse droppings in your kitchen. Or minding your own business when another motorist plows into your car.

I was on my way home from work yesterday when I noticed the cars in the left lane on I-5 slowing. Slowing a lot. Like to a stop. One car veered onto the left shoulder. Something was in the road. Something white and square. Can that be right?

The thoughts that went through my mind were, “Good thing I noticed these cars slowing, because I have enough time to stop. Hey, look at that car on the left shoulder. Guess he didn’t think he could stop in time. Maybe I should move to the right lane. Is anyone behind me?” (Looks in rear view) “Yeah, that SUV behind does not seem to be slowing, better move over. Oh, shit, I’m going to get hit.”

Smash.

The Lexis SUV pulled over in front of me on the right shoulder. I pulled out my insurance card and a business card. I wrote my insurance policy number on the back of my business card and grabbed a notepad. I waited for a pause in the whooshing of passing cars that shook my little Honda. When I felt safe, I slipped out of my car and walked around the back to determine that yes, in fact my rear had been smushed.

I walked along the passenger side of my car to the passenger door of the SUV. A white-haired lady was leaning forward clutching her knees. She gestured for me to come around to her side of the car.

“I don’t think it’s safe,” I said.

She offered to let me get in the car, but I couldn’t open the passenger door all the way because of the guard rail.

“Are you OK?” I asked her. I asked HER!

“I just had knee surgery.”

“Do you want me to call someone? Do you need medical attention?” Do YOU need medical attention?!

“I can’t tell how much damage there was to my car.” YOUR car?

I walked around to the front of the SUV and came back.

“Very minor. Just a little scuff. My car has significant damage. Here’s my card with my insurance information. Can I have yours?”

I had to squeeze through the passenger door to reach her purse, which had fallen on the floor. It took her a few minutes to find her insurance card. I took down her info and let her drive away.

I watched semi trucks whiz by and visualized getting run over while trying to get back in my car. I opened the passenger door, contemplating crawling in that way. Nah, easier to wait for a break in traffic. Man those cars are going by fast. Truck. Truck. Sedan. Oh, there was a little break, I could have made it in that time. I’ll wait for the next one. Truck. Truck. Whoosh. Truck. OK. Another break. Go. Go. Phew. Made it.

Back in the car. I called Rob. I called Allstate. While talking to Allstate and feeling the shudder of every passing car, Johnny Law showed up. Oops. Was I supposed to call him? He was a little irritated that I hadn’t, but I hadn’t wanted to wait around for the State Patrol to take a report. I didn’t care if the lady got cited. I got what I needed.

For sure I was rattled. My head started to hurt as soon as the SUV made impact.

I feel lucky that I wasn’t seriously hurt. And that the other driver didn’t seem to be injured. I’m really happy that Mia wasn’t in the car. She likes to sit right up against the tailgate, and even if she hadn’t been, she would have been knocked around worse than me.

I dropped my car off today, got a fun little rental. Reminds me of a hearse. Have to figure out how to transport my doggies around town, since pets aren’t allowed in rentals.

Nothing to do now but wait to hear from the body shop. Maybe watch that new NBC show about Broadway.

The King and Queen of Pop

Last week’s episode of Glee and the Superbowl halftime show have me thinking about the roles Michael Jackson and Madonna have played in my life.

Michael

I remember my first time with Michael. My brother’s best friend introduced us to him circa 1983, via the video for Billie Jean. I thought the lyrics were, “Billie Jean is at my door.” We had the Thriller album on vinyl and I stared dreamily at his picture. I was eight. My brother and I eagerly awaited the premiere of the video for Thriller and then couldn’t watch the whole thing because it was too scary.

I couldn’t connect with his earlier album, Off the Wall, not until much later.

I remember Bad, but then for a stretch it wasn’t cool to love MJ, even before the child molestation charges. Let me add, too, that I don’t think Michael was a pedophile. I think he was deeply disturbed, a child himself. And parents should not have their children spend the night at his house.

I was on a plane to Southeast Asia when Michael died. I learned about it during my layover at Narita. Interestingly, the Americans I encountered during that trip all pretty much took the attitude, Oh yeah, Michael Jackson, that child molester. But the Europeans fairly universally thought of him as the legendary artist that he was.

Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough became an anthem for me after college, when it was used for the warm up in a hip-hop dance aerobics class I took on Monday nights. The opening music still makes me want to party.

So, even though I forsook him for a number of years, I look back on MJ’s career with admiration and affection. I loved the Glee episode featuring his music, most especially the video for Scream. At first, I thought it was practically a shot by shot remake. I didn’t realize the choreography was new, and I thought, man, this just shows what good dancers Michael and Janet were/are because I never realized how awesome this video was. But then I rewatched the original, and dammit if I don’t think the Glee video is better!

Madonna

I don’t have as precise a memory of my first exposure to Madonna. I think it was probably the Borderline video, around 1984. That was also the year lots of nine-year-olds like me learned what virgin was. I didn’t know who Marilyn Monroe was before I saw the video for Material Girl. I walked out of Desperately Seeking Susan desperately wanting a really cool jacket with a pyramid eye on the back. Friends of mine had Madonna lookalikes at their birthday parties. I became penpals with one. Her name was Denise.

Like MJ, Madonna was uncool in my circle for a few years, until I met a girl in 1990 who unapologetically worshipped her. That was during the Vogue/pointy boob/Dick Tracy era, and I had to admit, there was nothing uncool about her.

I’ll admit, I haven’t really paid that much attention to Madonna in recent years, since her arms became all scarily muscular. But I do enjoy her songs when I hear them, and I still admire her.

The only part of the Superbowl that interested me was her performance during the halftime show, and she rocked it.

I never saw Michael Jackson in concert, and I regret it. Maybe I need to get tickets to Madonna’s upcoming tour.

Dream on, Angry Girl

The last couple of nights, I have had dreams where I’m screaming and yelling at someone rather irrationally. The night before last, a little girl and her mother barged in on my bathroom stall (in my dream). I won’t get into the graphic details, but I wound up in a screaming argument with them about it.

Last night, I screamed and yelled at a guy who ran a burrito stand (in my dream) because he was making my burrito too slowly. As a result, he refused to make my burrito. It was a “No burrito for you!” situation.

In real life, I’m feeling fairly well-balanced, happy and mellow. Maybe that’s because I’m taking all my repressed anger out on imaginary people while I sleep.

Getting rich quick on TV

I used to think Rob and I would kick ass on The Amazing Race. I’m an extremely savvy world traveler and he’s superhumanly athletic. However, I worried that my lack of strength and endurance might hold us back, coupled with the fact that I wouldn’t respond well to several sleep-deprived stressful days in a row. Plus, I don’t eat meat and he’s averse to strange food textures, so we wouldn’t excel at the weird eating challenges.

For that reason, I didn’t think Fear Factor would be our show either. We watched an episode the other day where the contestants had to drink a Crappaccino: Blended bugs topped with live bugs. Blech. Neither one of us could stomach much of that.

As the contestants approached the Crappaccino challenge, I asked, “What is it they’re hoping for? They know it’s going to be some gross eating challenge. Are they thinking, Gee, I hope this is one where we just have to sit in a tub of cow’s blood and carry beef hearts in our mouths, because I don’t think I’d be able to eat live scorpions.” I actually think I might be able to choke down live scorpions, and while beef heart is gross, I’m familiar with it; I feed it to my dogs.

The episode we watched today contained MY event. One partner had to sit in a vat fill with hundreds of live snakes while the other transferred snakes to another container using only their mouths. I’ve had pet snakes and kissed them. I could do either of those things easily, and Rob says he’d be able to lie with the snakes, so we would have killed at that challenge.

Plus, Fear Factor’s got these other stunts I think we’d enjoy. During each of the shows we watched recently, there were stunts that made me say, “Fun! I want to do that!” (Even if there weren’t a cash prize.) I totally want to put on crash gear and fly up through a five-floored structure. Catapult onto a rope grid suspended high off the ground? Sign me up. Can we get one of those so I can practice at home? Of course, I’ve also jumped out of an airplane three times and “fear was not a factor” for me then either. Guess I’m more of a thrill-seeker than I thought.

We’ve seen ads for another episode where some girl is crying while her head is being shaved. That happens a lot on America’s Next Top Model. I mean, I’ve cried over a bad haircut before, but if someone were paying me for it? I’d get over it.

I turned to Rob and said, “Something you should know: I’m not at all afraid of snakes, and I would totally shave my head for money.”

Yes, I am writer

I have no idea how I passed high school English. First of all, I never learned the formula for a high school English class essay. Secondly, I don’t think I actually read any of the books we were assigned.

And I love to read. I’ve always loved to read. But whenever I sat down to read the books assigned to me, my eyes just glossed over the words and I didn’t process them at all. The night before the English AP, I reread The Great Gatsby and thought, “Hey, that’s not a bad book.” (I got a 5 on the AP, by the way, but that’s because I was able to draw on my knowledge of Hamlet, from acting in it.) Even then, I must not have understood Gatsby, because last year, I reread it a third (?) time and it was all new to me. Did you know that all the characters do in that book is drink and party? How is this standard high school reading? How did I not realize that’s what it was about?

I reread Persuasion in college, like it was the first time, and very much enjoyed it.

I’ve been listening to some classics on audiobook while driving lately, because the last few contemporary novels I listened to pissed me off, and I wasn’t sure if that was because they were shitty books, or because I wasn’t experiencing them properly, having them administered through the ear. I’ve appreciated To Kill a Mockingbird (which I read as a young person, not for school, but I didn’t remember it well. I thought Boo Radley was the black guy Atticus defended.) and Of Mice and Men (which I’d never read).

Then I read that House of Mirth is Mindy Kaling’s favorite book. House of Mirth? You mean House of Boring! I couldn’t even get through that book in high school. Unless, maybe I didn’t really try? So I got it on audio, and you know what? Lily Bart’s kind of a kickass heroine.

So, for the record, I was an idiot when I was in high school.

Who hates the snow? Honestly!

Every year, when snow is in the forecast, I hear murmurings (and read them on The Facebook and The Twitter) of “Oh, no, it’s going to snow. Oh, I hope it doesn’t snow!”

I always think, “Seriously? I loooove the snow. How can you not love snow?” Saying you hate snow is like saying you hate sunshine or rainbows. Maybe you hate driving in it, or you hate having to shovel the driveway, but those are just the effects of the snow, not the fault of those frosty diamonds from heaven. Same as, maybe I hate it when it’s really, really hot out, but I wouldn’t say, “I hate sunshine.”

Today is my fourth day at home with the doggies, with 7-plus inches of snow in places. It’s a brisk 25 degrees outside. While I’m looking forward to it warming up tomorrow, I will miss the glorious sparkling snow when it’s gone. We’ve been taking magical daily walks through the white woods. Moonlight reflecting off the snow-covered backyard makes it bright enough to play out there after dark.

On my walk today, I thought of my childhood in Los Angeles. My family had a cabin in Lake Arrowhead, and relatives in snowy places like Indiana and Michigan, so snow wasn’t a complete novelty. It was a source of entertainment we sought out deliberately. We all have fond memories of the Thanksgiving it snowed in Lake Arrowhead. What I don’t get is, when do children make the transition from “Yay! Snow! No school!” to “I hate snow”? Maybe those people grew up in places where it snowed in the late fall and the ground stayed iced-over until spring. Maybe they had parents who grumbled all the time about snow tires and chains and black ice.

I still take childlike delight in seeing those fluffy flakes fall and am thrilled when it’s cold enough for the snow to cover everything. But then, I’m lucky to be able to hunker down and wait at home until the roads defrost. I don’t have to go anywhere. Rob, on the other hand, has to work. He hasn’t been able to enjoy this snow at all during daylight hours, and I think it’s going to wash away by the weekend.

So, if you do have to drive the icy roads, or walk knee deep through the snow in frigid temperatures, and you hate snow … I am sorry. I hope you can find something to enjoy about the weather. Hot cocoa, perhaps?