Hunger Strikes and Other Corporate Pitfalls

Greetings from the office! Yes, it's true, yours truly has succumbed to the need for a stable cash flow and has since stumbled into the corporate realm. But, fear not, for I am helping the work world shirk its over amplified productivity by lounging on my blog! (You will all thank me later, no doubt.) As a receptionist at a psychiatric clinic (I am resisting the temptation to self-medicated, though it is oh-so feasible) I make a lot of faxes, garner a lot more paper cuts, and allow my brain waves to be sloshed around in the magnetic fields of a myriad of electronic office do-dads and gee-gaws. (The only really great thing about electronics is that they all have a universal repair button-- the "power" switch.) What does the white collar (gasp! Am I in a pink collar job? Oy! My gendered ghetto...) worker do to make the work-a-day world fly by? Dream of the one hour lunch break! (The Man took away our dreams of endless lackadaisical smoke breaks since invented the "100 Yards from a Building" rule and giving us the masochist's and denouncing "smoker's station" which consists of little more than a goose-knecked plastic trough in which to poke our extinguished butts, oy and oy!) True, the sack lunch at first glance seems regressive, and for me at least, calls up repressed memories of cafeteria bullies and the shames of sitting along or worse, sitting at the "nerd table," or worse yet, finding nothing but falafel in your lunch bag for weeks on end (why, mom, why?!)... Childhood traumas aside, it is time to reinvent the boxed lunch and reclaim it for mature adulthood. An insurmountable task, you gape, but nay, the quest is already begun. Behold: www.veganlunchbox.blogspot.com ! The website traces the trials and tribulations of an eastern Washington homemaker and animal rights activist as she tries to feed her young son, our little schmoo, a cruelty free and well-balanced school lunch. Ok, so we're not talking adult food per se, but nonetheless, schmoo's tastes are quite cosmopolitan. Check out schmoo's favorite lunch, "Chinese New Year", which features crispy sweet tofu chunks, sticky rice, chile green beans, kiwi fruit, and a scrumptious-looking dumpling. Some of the recipes, like the dumplings, are a little on the tricky side, and the site is definitely for the adventurous eater with an epicurean edge, but the site also offers many simple lunch ideas that I had never thought of, like spicing up raw veggies with a little jicama, (pronounced HEE-comma) a potato-like spud that tastes sugary sweet. Of course, it's a great resource for vegans and vegetarians, but I have no doubt that many of the recipes could be modified for the omnivorous among you (at your own moral peril, and the risk of food poisoning from unrefridgerated or uncooked e-coli!). I await anxiously the forthcoming vegan lunchbox cookbook which is slated to arrive in the fall, and meanwhile I pine for my own brown-bagged delights. Today's menu: Peanut Butter and Banana Sandwhich on Hemp Bread, Plums, and Organic Granola Bar. Yum Yum!

Movie Review: The Da Vinci Code

In his editorial in the June issue of The Rake, Tom Bartel (Carleton '73, I feel this entitles me to rag on him a little, yes?) comments on what he considered the uncanny likenesses between the central conflict and characters in The Da Vinci Code and the politics and personae of contemporary left/right, Democrat/Republican debates. According to Bartel, it all boils down to religious faith, or in particular, a conflict between dogmatic "believers" and a more "true" and compassionate secular humanism. I'm not sure if he was referring to the book exactly or to Ron Howard's filmic interpretation, but if the book does not emphasize this political conflict (and personally, having read it, I don't believe it does), Howard's film certainly does. To me, the film was a cross between Indiana Jones and Dogma, preserving the suspense of the former, the liberal politics of the latter (even similarities in the mythology in which a non-believing woman turns out to be the last descendant of Christ), but the DVC loses the humor of both. Fortunately, the film ejects the book's daddy-love romance between the young ingenue and the older professor, and instead spends more time on the mystery, literally illustrating (illuminating?) its points with visually lush historical flashbacks. But, by foregrounding the mystery, the film wades deeper into the tidepool of so-called heresy and tests the limits of the public's tolerance. The clues to the mystery are so compelling, and the ending so emotionally provocative, I couldn't help but feel persuaded to think that perhaps the bloodline of Christ might still survive, though maybe it's just getting harder for me to believe in a thirty-year-old virgin, whatever his parentage. The grail-quest in the DVC is portrayed as a quest for liberation and enlightenment, a freeing of the masses from the tyranny of a corrupt Vatican. I can't help but think that American audiences watching the creepy relationship between an elder Bishop Aringarosa and the self-flagellating younger monk must certainly be reminded of the recent scandals in the American Catholic church over molestation and pedophilia. According to Ron Howard, the history of the Catholic church is a bloody tale of despotism and corrupt patriarchy. In other words, if the church is not up in arms over this film, then they're either not paying attention or they have something sneaky up their papal sleeves.
I liked the film, if only as a beautifully shot and well-orchestrated puzzle. Any shortcomings, in my opinion, derive themselves from Dan Brown's novel. The story flirts with deeper questions like the nature of humanity and faith, yet ultimately these are reduced to the same dichotomies found through the symbology of the puzzles -- man/woman, good/evil, etc. The characters' motivations are pathologized as bland early childhood traumas, while faith and the ultimate good are left up to individual choice. On the other hand, the film invites us to answer the question that is left open at the end of the film. Do we put our faith in a belief system that divides us, pits us against one another, against certain "lifestyle choices," or even the pursuit of science? Or, do we place our faith in the resilience and creativity of humanity? As Robert Langdon (Tom Hanks) remarks at the conclusion of the film, we do not have proof that Jesus was married and had a daughter, nor do we have proof that he was the son of God and died celibate. If our beliefs no longer serve us, if they no longer describe or explain the world in which we live, do we cling automatically to outmoded ideas, or do we reach for new ideologies?

The Da Vinci Hype

(This is an article that I submitted for publication in the May issue of The Rake. It was rejected, but lucky for us that means I can print it here!)

Since the release of Dan Brown’s mega-hit bestseller The Da Vinci Code, pop culture hucksters have been scrambling to meet the demand of the novel’s millions of fans, numerous critics, and legions of fuming Christian fundamentalists. Hoping to stem the tide (and make a buck), Sony Pictures has assembled an all-star cast to adapt the novel to the silver screen, a hardly daunting task for talents such as director Ron Howard given Brown’s reliance on cinematographic diction such as the author’s description of protagonist Robert Langdon as “Harrison Ford in Harris Tweed.” Though it is Tom Hanks and not Ford playing the paradoxically sexy and distinguished religious symbology professor, the filmmakers are making up the difference by casting an authentic ingénue, Audrey Tautou (Amelie), to play Sophie Neveu. Sadly, no actual albino could be found to play Silas the spooky monk, though doubtless any controversy among the albino community will be drowned out by plenty of hell-raising on the part of Catholic and Evangelical Christians. Rather than placate the uppity religious right, the filmmakers have chosen to fully portray the central controversy of Brown’s novel, the once obscure theory that Jesus had actually married and beget a son with Biblical bad-girl Mary Magdalene. Though bible-banging ditto-heads could take comfort in some evidence that Jesus wasn’t gay, most feel that Brown’s novelistic rendering of this heresy marks a pointed attack aimed at the figurehead of the faith. Fortunately for publishers and booksellers, Christians are issuing their fatwa American-style – they are voraciously consuming Da Vinci Code spin-off books and anti-“code” screeds.

Hopping on The Da Vinci Code gravy train, authors have published over twenty-odd books claiming to explain the code, debunk the code, or best of all, unlock the secrets of the code to achieve personal fulfillment and self-actualization. For example, Fodor’s Guide to the Da Vinci Code: On the Trail of the Bestselling Novel by Jennifer Paull (Fodor’s 2006) is a straight-forward guide for the savvy traveler which provides details on the central locations as well as tips crowd-maneuvering at the Paris Louvre and where to stop for a snack while code-cracking near Rosslyn Chapel in Scotland. Fans might also wish to consult Da Vinci Code Decoded: The Truth Behind the New York Times #1 Bestseller (The Disinformation Company, 2004) written by Martin Lunn, a history scholar and Master of the Dragon Society.

For DVC fans having trouble distinguishing theology from campy plot devices, there are numerous titles now in print that help distill the Biblical “facts” from the cockamamie fiction. There is the popular Breaking the Da Vinci Code: Answers to the Questions Everyone’s Asking by Darrell L. Bock (Nelson Books, 2004), the sensational The Da Vinci Deception by Erwin W. Lutzer (Tyndale House Publishers, 2004), the authoritative Truth and Fiction in the Da Vinci Code: A Historian Reveals What We Really Know about Jesus, Mary Magdalene, and Constantine by Bart D. Ehrman (Oxford University Press, 2004), and the definitive The Real History Behind the Da Vinci Code by Sharan Newman (Berkley Trade, 2005), just to name a few. The truly faithful should check out Richard Abanes, a luminary in the confusing debate between bible-thumping believers and anti-Christian conspirators, with such books as The Truth Behind the Da Vinci Code: A Challenging Response to the Bestselling Novel (Harvest House, 2004), Harry Potter and the Bible: The Menace Behind the Magick (Horizon Books, 2001), and most recently Harry Potter, Narnia, and The Lord of the Rings: What You Need to Know About Fantasy Books and Movies (Harvest House, 2005).

Finally, for readers wondering what The Da Vinci Code can do for them, there are several self-help books modeled after the genius of the Renaissance man himself, including Michael Gelb’s visionary series How to Think Like Leonardo Da Vinci originally published by Dell in 2000 and repackaged as Da Vinci Decoded (Delacorte, 2004), as well as Garrett LoPorto’s The Da Vinci Method (Media For Your Mind, 2005), a guide to coping with ADD/ADHD. And, for the truly voracious reader looking to shed a few pounds, there’s even The Da Vinci Fitness Code by Joseph Mullen (Fitness Therapy Publishing, 2005) and The Diet Code: Revolutionary Weight Loss Secrets from Da Vinci and the Golden Ratio by Stephen Lanzalotta (Warner, 2006). Thankfully, Lanzalotta, the owner of an east-coast bakery, has apparently cracked the Atkins code as well. So, no need to feel guilty chowing down on a large popcorn as you watch The Da Vinci Code when it opens in theatres on May 19. Whether we love the hype or loathe it, I think we can all agree we’re glad carbs are back on the menu.

Long Time No Blog

There's really no point in apologizing, since I'm sure I'm more disappointed in myself than any of my readers would be in me, but it is nonetheless an unavoidable fact that I have been regrettably delinquent in my postings. I hope to turn this trend around, just as I turn my frown upside down after all the hullabaloo surrounding my graduation from college. Yes, I now have a B.A., which mostly means I am a bachelor of b. s. (Isn't it wonderful to think I could some day be a "master"?) It also means that I am unemployed, homeless, and buried beneath a mountain of debt. What a way to kick off adult life! Despite this rude awakening, I find myself finally in a state of intellectual liberty, and as such my unfettered mind shall unfurl itself here in these virtual pages. So, a toast to the bacchanalian gluttony that is liberal arts education as I cinch in my belt for the years to come!

Start Spreadin' The News!

That's right, folks! Tomorrow afternoon, this little blogger gets on a plane heading for NYC! I've been preparing by indulging in as much New York themed art and culture as I can get my hands on. Fortunately, there's no shortage of options! Mark Kurlansky's latest book The Big Oyster is already climbing the best-seller's list. Kurlansky is an amazing writer, whose background as a history scholar and food writer has endowed him with the power to make a rather peculiar argument, that an understanding of the oyster is central to our understanding of the whole concept of Manhattan, a compelling and enjoyable tale. It's a great read, though I still haven't made it out of the 1600's yet!

Colson Whitehead's opus, however, was a much quicker read. In fact, I devoured it in one sitting (kind of like eating an oyster, really, I sucked it down whole, alive and screaming!). The Colossus of New York is a gorgeous ode to the city that never sleeps, addressing the joys as well as the omnipresent malaise with insatiable zeal. Whitehead's technique, which is intended to recall the freeform style of jazz music, is unique and complex, while remaining thoroughly readable. Highly recommended!

I've also managed to pull my eyes away from the page, and set my sights on a few films. Woody Allen was a must, but since I've already seen quite of few of his films, I went with New York Stories, a trio of three shorter films, one of which is written and directed by Allen, but the other two are directed by Martin Scorsese and Francis Coppola. I enjoyed all three films, though I was particularly stunned by Nick Nolte's performance as an aging painter grappling with issues of self-doubt and desire in Scorsese's film. And, I just finished watching New York, New York, a film which I checked out from the public library, mostly for the sheer novelty of it. Robert DeNiro in a smash-hit musical??? Fortunately, he only sings once. And, fortunately, Liza Minelli sings a whole lot! Man, what a set of pipes! Again, Scorsese does an amazing job of portraying a vastly complicated relationship between two headstrong and richly talented individuals. It was striking to see a film that was both entertaining as a musical, but also gave space to develop each of the central characters into compelling portraits of real humanity. Of course, it took nearly three hours for Scorsese to accomplish this, but what the heck, the vibrant jazz music keeps everything flowing, and I was riveted to the edge of my couch.

So, I haven't left yet, and I'm already sure I've forgotten something. Oh well. If they don't have it in New York City, I probably don't need it!

Dr. Jekyll, Mr. Ambien

Ads for popular sleeping pills such as Lunesta, Sonata, and America's favorite, Ambien, suggest that these drugs provide the experience of deep, soothing sleep, the ideal remedy for the occassional insomniac and the stresses of daily living. My favorite commercial, I believe for the drug Lunesta, depicts a slender woman, prone on purple satin sheets, drifting off to sleep as an animated glowing butterfuly swoops over her. Emerging data about these drugs, however, suggests that perhaps the twinkling butterfuly is in fact a nefarious halluciation induced by these supposedly innocuous sleeping pills. In fact, if glowing insects are all you see, count yourself among the lucky ones.

A recent op-ed piece in the New York Times highlights several reports of bizarre behavior in users of zolpidem, also known as Ambien, the most prescribed sleeping pill. The editorial cites concerns about repeated occurances of "sleep-driving" as well as acts of violence commited by otherwise mild-mannered individuals while under the influence of Ambien. Yet another article in the New York Times discusses the rising association of sleep-eating disorders in Ambien users, in which insomniacs endanger their families by turning on stoves and gas ranges in the middle of the night and endanger their wastelines by cooking and consuming food by the thousands of calories in one sitting, only to wake up and recall nothing. Sanofi-Aventis, the French makers of Ambien, claim that these behaviors are either not related to Ambien use or are caused by mis-use of the drug, but repeated and outrageous testimonies by Ambien users tell a different story. (Besides, call me cynical, but since the makers of Paxil admitted to covering up studies linking Paxil-use with suicides, I'm not inclined to cut Sanofi-Aventis any slack.)

Though cases of traffic accidents caused by Ambien are perhaps the most troublesome, I find myself fascinated most by the sleep eaters. According to the NYT article, sleeping and eating are connected in "primitive" ways in the brain. Something in the drug itself seems capable of unlocking these animalistic desires, allowing insomniacs to get some shut-eye, while at the same time evoking other passions. One woman who needed to take sleeping pills in order to sleep during the day so she could work a night shift described this bizarre experience: "One day," she said, "I got up — my husband describes this in great detail — I got a package of hamburger buns and I just tore it open like a grizzly bear and just stood there and ate the whole package."

Of course, eating and sleeping are not our only primitive passions. The NYT doesn't discuss it, but a columnist for Salon.com writes that in addition to allowing him to sleep, Ambien made her boyfriend a more sensitive lover. Tessa Blake writes that by day her bourgeous boyfriend was a high-powered Type-A pain in the ass, but by night, and with the help of a couple Ambien, Dr. Dick became Mr. Wonderful. Sadly, Blake realizes the affair will never work after he awakens one morning and cannot recall that the night before he had proposed marriage. He claimed it was the Ambien talking.

The popularity of Ambien (and now the strange behavior spawned by its use and abuse) is attributable to a $130 million ad-campaign paid for by its manufacturer in 2005. As a result, 26 million prescriptions were written for the drug last year, making Ambien worth $2.2 billion annually. According to the NYT, use of the drug has more than doubled since 2001. Have cases of insomnia also doubled? Doubtful. Like anti-depressants and mind-altering drugs such as ritalin, Ambien is just the newest fad in the quick-fix "I'm Ok, You're Ok" world of modern medicine. After spending a summer working in the office of a medical clinic, I understand all too well the influence pharmaceutical companies have on the prescriptions doctors write for patients, and the affect that advertizing has on consumers who, more than ever, are liable to walk into a doctor's office and ask for a specific drug expressly. And, why not? It's a win-win for doctors and drug companies, since doctors make more off of more patients hooked on the drugs they hawk, and drug companies make a mint off the patents.

But, what I love about Ambien is that it seems to be working to prove a sort of Murphy's Law of human nature. Take a drug that promises tranquility, and you go postal, waking up in a pile of candy bar wrappers and other refuse or, in one case, walking out of your house in your nightgown, peeing in public, and then assaulting a police officer! Kudos to human nature for undoing all our inscrupulous attempts to avoid our primieval selves by dwelling in the oblivion of drugs and docile consumerism. How poetic that a drug like Ambien should cause us to sleep-walk, when it seems that we're sleep-walking through all of our days as it is.

Reading Emma in Northfield

Throughout this academic term I had been slowly slogging through the pages of Jane Austen's Emma, and now that the term has come to a close, so has the book. Finally. Don't get me wrong, I adore Austen for her subtle wit and attention to detail, but in the hustle and bustle of this reader's modern life, it is difficult to get a mental foothold in the lackadaisical world of the British bourgeoisie circa 1815. It would take some time, particularly those passages where the perniciously loquacious Mrs. Bates would ramble on for several pages, until I could to settle into the narrative and awaken to its ascerbic wit. Oh, Mrs. Bates, how you do ramble!

MTV generation beware! (Also, addicts of cult pomo fiction, who have become accustomed to brash shout-outs beginning in medias res such as, "My body was hurdling through the pitch black of metallica tunnel hell and all I could think was Julie and the way the nape of her kneck reminded me that we're all just robots encased in hideous sacks of flesh," and the like. Austen is many circles in hell above a sentence such as this.) Austen's fiction is driven by diction, not plot; so, in order to cope with the utter absence of plot devices to engage my imagination, I recalled a narrative form that was more familiar to me: Soap-Opera. I doubt I'm the first to recognize similiarities between Jane Austen and programs like Days of Our Lives in their parallel accounts of spiraling romantic attachments, family drama, and highly politicized female relationships. A friend of mine who was conducting research on audience responses to the popular HBO drama Sex and the City familiarized me with the work of Tania Modleski, who argues in an article on the soap opera genre that certain narrative devices such as unresolved conflict and an emphasis on relationships within families and between women make the form uniquely "feminine." Because they are expressly "feminine," these narratives empower women even as they reinforce feminine stereotypes. One of the ways this liberation takes place is by assembling real or imagined communities of women around the idolized work of fiction.



Hence, Karen Joy Fowler's enormously famous Jane Austen Bookclub, which may now be purchased in one of two highly fashionable paperback covers, either blue or red (to match your outfit, I suppose). Fowler imagines a group of women, and one male (lucky or desperate?), who gather to read and discuss the works of Jane Austen. Their first book? Emma, of course. A mise en abyme, so to speak, of the role of feminine literature in the lives of women, since readers of Fowler's book are invited to imagine themselves as part of a community of readers of Austen as well as the community of readers of Fowler. Leave it to contemporary women to make reading Jane Austen a thoroughly ironic act -- Anyone want to start a Jane Austen Book Club Book Club???

As distant as we are from the gentrified countryside of Austen's novels, it is fascinating the ease with which readers identify with her characters. I myself discovered, or perhaps fabricated, parallels between the characters in Emma and the people and events in my own life. I have to admit that my romantic life became a bit more interesting around the time that Emma discovered her true feelings for Mr. Knightly, but I'll leave it at that.

For as much as I enjoy these similarities and my associations with fellow readers of Jane Austen, particularly as the act of reading Austen's highly stylized depictions of ideal femine sexuality and romantic relationships seems almost rebellious on a college campus where relationships are more often characterized by libertinism than restraint, what I really love about Jane Austen is how difficult she is for modern readers, like myself, to read. Austen's books cannot be brashly skimmed or picked up and set down between bites of fast food take-out. To read her without feeling the urge to pull your hair out, you have to become absorbed by her delicate prose. Not only does your mindset have to adapt to her pace, but you must physically adapt to the experience of reading Jane Austen. I feel my breathing slow down as I follow her languid sentences, waiting for the pause of a long-awaited period. Descending into Hartford, the modern world finally slips away, and you enter a world without high speed internet, six-second sound bites, and the mass annoyances of mass media. I wound't trade places with Austen or any of her characters even if it afforded me that measure of peace, but I take comfort in having found a space for peace and orderliness in this chaotic world that is often as stressful as it is terrifically exciting. I would go crazy if I had to write like Jane Austen, sitting in a Victorian drawing room and covering up my work with my embroidery anytime someone would enter the room, but I'm glad she did it.

Spring Has Sprung! 

Ok, so we were just whacked with ten inches of snow. Tell that to my dwarf tomato plant friend here! That little globule of emerald flesh? That's right, folks, my very first tomato! They said you couldn't grow tomatoes on the windowsill of a poorly heated urban apartment complex in the middle of winter. What do they know?

Habitual Obituaries

A recent book by Marilyn Johnson entitled The Dead Beat: Lost souls, lucky stiffs and the perverse pleasures of obituaries chronicles the life and times of an avid obituary writer. The excerpt on her website describes the thrilling emotional roller coaster ride of waiting for one of her famous subjects to wade into the great hereafter. Her reviewers describe her as exhibiting reverence for life and death, yet this appetite for famous last words seems little different than the medias voracious appetite for paparazzi character assasinations. Nonethless, I admit that I too am fascinated by obituaries recently, though perhaps not for the same reasons as Ms. Johnson.

A colleague of mine at Carleton College, Lillian Waluconis, died recently, having succumbed unexpectedly to a liver ailment she had long suffered. Although she was a member of my graduating class, I admit that I never knew her. In fact, on a campus of fewer than 2200 students, I never even met her. Seeing her photo in the school newspaper, I couldn't even place her face. I'm not real socialite myself, but based on my inability to recognize Lilly, I assumed she was one of the many unwashed agoraphobes holding court in the basement of Sci-Fi house, gorging herself to death on Dungeons and Dragons matches and reruns of Red Dwarf. Then, I read her obituary. Lilly may not have had an abundance of acquaintances, but she was a delightful young woman with a handful of friends who adored her. Her employers in Campus Activities, a central unit of Carleton social life, in fact, treasured her as a diligent and cheerful worker. Lilly not only left behind friends on campus, but friends in Japan where she spent one year studying traditional Japanese artforms. Had she survived, she would have been married this summer. Like so many of my peers, hers was a life full of promise. That this life was so hastily snuffed out is more than shocking, it is the sort of tragedy that forces even the best, brightest, and furthest from death to ponder the inevitable. This is the sort of obituary that resonates with me.

The shadow of death hung with me in the wake of Lillian's passing. More than an acute sense of my own mortality, however, she left me wondering about what my own obituary might look like. Lillian's friends set up a livejournal website to honor her memory (something I find much more vital than some distant onlooker's take on a life lived and lost), and many of the posts lament the fact that they feel they never really knew Lilly. Cutepooface sums up the sentiment nicely: "I wish that everyone could have been on the [Japan] program, that everyone could see and feel what I felt. I wish Lily could have touched each and everyone of you like she touched me." Were I to die, would people say that they regret not having had the chance to really know me?

I admit that what bothered me most about Lillian's death was not that she had left behind so many friends (or so few, depending on how you look at it), family, and a fiancé, but that she had left her senior thesis unfinished. According to her faculty advisor, her thesis "centered on how Japanese social studies textbooks deal with the Shinto and Buddhist religions." This is a remarkable piece of new knowledge! Will this too die with Lillian? Would it be inappropriate to finish the work that she started? When someone dies, we distribute amongst family and friends the material possessions that the deceased have left, but we forget to carry-on the work they have begun and left unfinished. Or, is it only the work of celebrities that is deemed worthy of posthumous release?

Hail the Fallen Hero

I've never been much of a fan of baseball, so I was surprised when the news of Kirby Puckett's death hit me so hard. Growing up in Minnesota, talk of the Minnesota Twins was part of the background noise of adult conversations that I had grown used to, even if I didn't fully understand. I remember being 6 years old, standing in my pajamas in the living room, waving my "homer hanky" with fervor as my mom and my great aunt shouted at the television screen, cheering hysterically as they won the World Series, though never fully comprehending the importance of all this. Kirby Puckett was always the family-friendly face of the MN Twins -- it was his number on the back of the jersey on my Twins teddy bear, his face on my Twins t-shirt -- and so "Kirby" was synonymous with MN Twins fan-dom. More than an emblem, he was our hero in both his skill and his avowed fidelity to our home-town team. His rise from the slums of Chicago to the championship of the great American past-time makes his subsequent fall from grace all the more tragic in our minds.
Despite the PR, Puckett had a long history of abusive relationships with women, a fact that the male-dominated baseball establishment preferred to overlook amid accusations of sexual harassment within the league. According to an article in Sports Illustrated, Puckett not only cheated on his wife, but he also cheated on his longterm mistress who claims that his cheritable disposition was a front for his often obscene dark side. In 2003, his wife finally left him, claiming that he had not only beaten and verbally abused her, but that he went so far as to put a gun to her head while she was holding their child. Suddenly striken with glaucoma in 1996, Puckett was forced to retire from baseball, and his estrangement from the game and his true passion in life seemed only to worsen this dark side. With the onset of blindness, Puckett lost sight of his dream entirely. He abandoned the Twin Cities for warmer climes in Arizona, put on an unhealthy amount of weight, and then succumbed to a stroke at the tragically young age of 45.
It is a testament to the optimism of the American people that we continue to give rise to heros only to watch them fall from grace. Since Watergate, we have long accepted that our national leaders are subject to the same moral incontinence as the average human being. We watch our religious leaders pleading for alms on television, and we half expect the likes of an Oral Roberts to pocket his preacher's share. We understand the pressures on athletes, even as we poo-poo their doping practices. Superman long ago broke his back, yet we've resurrected him as a champion of stem-cell research, and we find new actors to fill the role (Superman Returns comes out sometime this year). But somehow, it still seems as though we are the victims when our heros take a tumble. How could Kirby Puckett betray us by cheating on his wife, pissing in public, and turning his back on the team? Yet, might we also ask if we set the bar impossibly high when our "heros" don't live up to our standards?
There is no doubt that Kirby Puckett was a great man who transformed baseball, and for a short time at least, united Minnesotans around a champion and a winning team. He was the man we wanted for our hero, but sadly, it seems as though he was never really up for the task. I doubt that he was unworthy of the designation, but his collapse under the weight of all our hopes and dreams makes it clear to me at least that it was not something he was prepared to bear.

Jousting With Our Past Selves

I spend a lot of time thinking about identity. My own identity, certainly, but also cultural identity. Last night, my mom asked me why I didn’t think of myself as physically attractive. We were watching Entourage on HBO, and Mandy Moore was on, and Mom said, “isn’t that that actress everyone thinks you look like,” and I said, “yeah, but like a cute version of me.”

Anyway.

I explained that I believe on an intellectual level that I am attractive, but that on a subconscious level I am now, and will forever be, the girl nobody wanted to dance with in junior high. I was the girl who begged the football player to go to the dance, and I was the girl he stood up. I was the girl with lots of “guy friends” but no “boyfriends.” And, I was the girl that even the nerds wouldn’t touch. Ten years later, my body having escaped the vicious, oily throes of puberty, I still feel exactly the same. The image of myself that I formed then is still the image of myself that I hold now, even though photographs of me tell a different story. I began to wonder how many of us are still grappling with these outdated images of ourselves. Like Don Quixote, are we all jousting with the specters of our past selves?

In one of my favorite movies, Waking Life, one of the scenes discusses the problem of retaining a continuous sense of an identity in an incessantly changing and evolving body. The characters in the film explain that in order to connect the person you are today with the images you are shown of yourself as a child, you have to invent a story that explains what happened to that child to cause it to become you. This narrative, essentially, is a fiction – the fiction of our lives. Sartre says, “nous sommes condamnés d’être libres,” that we are ultimately forced to create our own self-definitions, and moreover, that we do so without always realizing it. What are these moments that force us to change our self-definitions? And, when those around us no longer perceive us as they once did, if we go from being treated as ugly to then treated as beautiful, why do we not change our self-definitions? How can we and why do we change or not change the fictions of our lives?

These narratives remind me of an article I just read on Oriononline.org called “Telling Stories” by Kelpie Wilson. Wilson argues, not unlike many scholars (Bill Moyers comes to mind here), that we need myths or legends to understand the world around us, and more importantly, to understand our proper role in relationship to humanity and the world. In particular, Wilson is referring to the story of Noah and the Flood in contrast to contemporary reactions to Hurricane Katrina. Wilson argues that in both cases, human beings were culpable, though surely more culpable today than in biblical times since in Noah’s day it was only the abstract problem of human immorality, the “noise” of the Babylonians, and not the CFCs and other ozone depleting gases that are causing global warming and exacerbating tropical storms. Nearly every culture has a story of the great flood in which the moral of the story is never to incur the wrath of God, but so far nobody has come up with a way to explain Hurricane Katrina or the dozens of other natural disasters suddenly affecting the planet as a result of human failure. Despite the fact that a majority of the members of the scientific community assert that global warming not only exists but is a direct result of pollution caused by human beings, the Bush administration still proudly refuses to even considering restraining greenhouse gas emissions or deigning to sign the Kyoto treaty. It seems that to everyone but ourselves, we are the cause of our own self-destruction. What will it take to make us change our own self-definitions and take responsibility for the affect we have on the planet? How can we create a fiction like Noah’s legend of the flood to make ourselves aware of who we really are and what we are really doing?

Isn’t it interesting that we need fiction in order to awaken to our self-awareness?

The author escapes her milieu. Provence presents a profound change of scenery. 

Four Minutes

The early morning sunlight beamed into the alleyway, an immense shaft of golden light that dispersed the frigid darkness and dismissed Jake from the dream world. Wiping the crust from his eyes, he saw that the hot vapors emanating from the airshaft on which he had been sleeping were wafting toward the light and wrapping themselves like tentacles around the pile of trash he had used to make a bed for the night. The vision of the swirling light made his dreams appear more real to him, more concrete. The menacing presence, the chase, and then the light…. And food. The strange, intangible perception of food that entered his body, and filled him, without even needing to open his mouth, chew, not even swallow. Nourishment penetrated into him, and he was at last alive, awake. Not anymore. Jake pressed his eyelids together, squeezing and creasing them to shut out the daylight and the shit stink of garbage all around.

“Hey, Jakie, you wanna hit?” A voice, gruff, jovial -- a friend? Wishing to return to the dream, Jake tensed all his muscles against the sound and the light, making his body into a stiff cocoon. Then, a gloved hand slapped the pile of garbage above his chest. The hand smelled like urine. Yes, he was a brother here.

“Hey man, wake up! You okay?”

Jake opened his eyes to find an enormous round face just inches from his own. Greasy locks of black hair stuck out from under his knit cap, drifting down his fat face into a beard that seemed to Jake to hold all he owned, garbage, maybe some bread crumbs, liquor and glue, and a one filthy pock-marked face. Jake thought he looked familiar, but it was hard to tell, harder and harder to remember. The black haired man had rolled out of his own makeshift bed, bringing some of his own garbage bedding with him, and now this garbage-hewn body was half pressed against his own, grinning with what was left of his teeth.

“Here, man, have some more of this.” He pressed a container of glue close to Jake’s face, beckoning him to put it to his lips. “You’ll feel better.”

Now Jake remembered, or he thought he did, though maybe he was just assembling the pieces of so many nights before, hunkered down in an alleyway with other tramps, thieves, psychotics, huffing glue to stave off the hunger, to dull the desperation they felt. He couldn’t remember the details of the previous night exactly, but he didn’t really need them to know what had happened, to understand the darkness and the light and the food that penetrated his belly in the dream. His head throbbed.

Jake reached for the bottle of glue, discovering his hands under the piles of newspaper and food wrappers. He lifted his head toward the bottle, let his fingers just touch the smooth coolness of it, and he could smell it already. His stomach turned sour. The fumes sickened him, and yet he needed them to get through another day. As the light pierced into his squinting eyes he angrily jerked the bottle, hands shaking, up against his nose, mentally sending a “fuck you” to the day and its beautiful shaft of light. Then, he paused. He opened his eyes into the light, feeling his pupils overflowing, burning, the throb in his head deepening. He held his gaze as long as he could stand it, then he looked at the black-haired man. He was watching Jake expectantly, waiting for his turn with the glue, but this time when he looked at him, his black-hair had turned blue, and it seemed to be undulating in the air, sparking like an icy blue flame. The man’s ruddy skin had turned a bright pink, and the sparse teeth in his mouth shone like diamonds. Jake looked down at himself, at his gaunt arms and legs, his distended belly, white as abalone glinting at him in the space between his undersized shirt and pants, and the garbage everywhere seemed organic to him, like the litter of leaves on a forest floor. It wasn’t the glue, it was the light. The light of another day.

“No, man.” Jake shoved the glue bottle back at the black-haired man.

“What you say, man?” Jake had mumbled. He wasn’t even sure if he had said anything at all, his voice seemed so far away. He wanted to speak clearly, but the fog of hunger was all around him now.

“No thanks, man,” Jake said forcefully. He didn’t mean it to sound mean, but the black-haired man recoiled as if he had been insulted.

“Whatever you say, but you’ll be sorry later when you got nothing to eat again, and you’ll be runnin’ all over this city tryin’ to find me and get you some of this, that’s all I’m sayin’!”

“Not this time, man. I’m done with that shit.”

“Yeah, right, like you think you’re special now, or something? Well, I’ve heard all that before.”

The black haired man gathered himself together, and hobbled down the alley, around a corner, and out of sight. Jake sat up, and pulled his knees to his chest. He looked at his knees and began to worry about them absent mindedly, a worry that came out of habit. He remembered his life years before, when he used to run track, how he would run so hard and fast that his knees would seem to crack and shudder under the weight of his pounding footfalls. His coach worried about his knees. His parents worried about his knees. And, Jake also worried about his knees. It was a silly thing to think about now, but it helped him remember. The pain he felt in his stomach and his head was so different from the pain he ever felt before, but the pain in his knees was the same, and it connected him back to the memories of houses, of family, of lovers, and then to the memories of painkillers, of depression, and the violence that swept him up and away from all of that. It was the drugs that finally led him here, to the streets.

Suddenly, a door opened into the alley, and Jake remembered why he was there. He was waiting. A young woman, with long blond hair swept back and tied behind her neck, and a black apron wrapped around her thin frame emerged from behind the steel door, carrying a bulging white plastic bag. Crossing the alley, she set the bag in front of the dumpster, and sighing with disgust, lifted the enormous plastic lid, hurling the garbage bag into the bowels of the sedan-sized container, slamming down the lid, and wiping her hands vigorously on her apron. Turning away from the dumpster, she finally noticed Jake, still sitting in his trash bed.

“Oh my god!” Startled, the woman clutched at the apron strings hanging over her chest. Jake felt self-conscious around people. He knew what he looked like. Or, he knew what he must look like to other people who so often looked at him like diseased vermin. The woman straightened. “Looks like breakfast is served, old man,” she snarled, mocking him. As she disappeared back beyond the threshold of the metal door, Jake heard her utter, “Ugh, gross!”

Forgetting his knees, his whereabouts, everything but his hunger, Jake ran toward the dumpster, flung open the lid, and pounced on the bag and its contents. Stale baked goods caked in coffee grounds and wilting salad greens, the remains of putrid fruits liquefying among fetid deli meats, the stuff Jake was grateful for, but could never convince himself was anything other than trash.

Jake ate slowly, taking care to smell everything first, checking for any mould or rot that might make him sick, and when he was finished, he stuffed what he could in his pockets, and put the rest back in the dumpster. Feeling his faculties more or less restored, he left the alley and passed in front of the restaurant whose trash, by way of necessity, had become Jake’s treasure. Looking through the plate-glass window and past couples seated around square tables in wooden chairs, sipping four-dollar coffees, some chatting, some reading the paper, he saw the young woman who had mocked him in the alley. He couldn’t stop thinking about what she had said. “Old man,” she had called him. Did he look old? He wasn’t old, or at least, he didn’t think that he was. He probably wasn’t much older than she was. But, that wasn’t how he looked. The sunlight glinted off the window and reflected back an image of himself. It was true. The dirt that covered his body had crusted around his eyes and settled into the creases that had formed there and at the corners of his mouth. Jake had aged, though he was not really old. Jake then looked past the image of himself and saw that one of the café patrons was looking at him, scowling as though Jake had actually been staring at him and not his own reflection. Jake tried to smile an apology, he wanted to politely mouth the words, “oops, sorry, my mistake, silly me,” but the meanness in his look, in the dirt on his face, in the grease and tears in his clothes, spoke for him. The man on the other side of the glass rolled his eyes and returned to his paper, looking disgusted.

Jake headed down the street toward the public library where he usually went to get some rest in a remote study carrel, and as he walked, the cool dampness of the morning wrapped itself around his skin, sinking into his bones. He watched the businessmen and women in suits with their to-go cups of coffee enviously, imagining the sensuous feel of hot liquid sliding down his throat, warming his belly, or just sitting there in a cup between his hands. He noticed the way the suits would drape on the bodies of the passersby, shielding them from the cold, from the stares of other people that so easily penetrated his own tattered clothes, announcing their status and integrity. Before, he remembered being taken to a restaurant where you were not served unless you were wearing a jacket and tie. Jake hadn’t understood this about the restaurant, and when he arrived without a jacket and tie, they were provided for him. Looking around him now at all those suits, he wondered why someone couldn’t just lend him one, at least as long as it would take to get a meal, or go back and see the young woman at the café who called him old and have her smile at him just like she smiled at all the other customers.

Jake stopped suddenly in the middle of the sidewalk. His chest filled with air fast, so fast, his heart ached, and he thought he would be sick . Just then, a woman bumped up against him, tripping over his feet and her own match-stick heels. Holding tight to her to-go cup and cell phone, she interrupted her conversation long enough to swear in his face. The light expanded all around him, illuminating the people on the street, the water on the pavement shimmering like liquid silver. He turned around, and headed toward the Y.

. . .

Julia breathed a sigh of relief over his naked body. She had spent her entire Saturday afternoon waiting by the phone for him to call, deliberating over the outfit she would wear to seduce him, primping and pawing at herself in the mirror, applying and re-applying rouge and lipstick. Now, finally, she had conquered him. Her handiwork lay in a pile on the floor beside the bed, her makeup totally smeared. The vision and fulfillment of her fantasy was realized. The rush of victory and the intoxication of its spoils flowed like the sweat between her breasts. Reaching her arm over his heaving chest, she let her lips curl back into a smile that might appear to him to signify sexual fulfillment, but really it was the same smile she wore after she bought her favorite pair of strappy high-heels, sling-backs with an open toe. True, she likes to fuck, loves it in fact. She loves the feel of a man’s weight pressed against her body, the scent of their intermingling sweat, the release of orgasm, the rapture of the denouement. But, it isn’t a physical need. Owning a vibrator made her independent, and average, she thought. No, she does it to enjoy this moment, when she is lost in the twilight of sex, between the brusque brevity of the deed and a requisite few minutes of cuddling. It has nothing to do with this Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus ultra-sensitive new-age femininity pap. For Julia, it was about conquest, pure and simple. For the duration of intercourse, the woman possesses the man in mind, body, and spirit. Somewhere, Julia had read that for the average couple, sex lasts for a mere four minutes, and in her experience, this was a pretty accurate assessment. Nonetheless, for these four perfect minutes, Julia would do almost anything. The average woman, Julia thought, would do almost anything.

But, what the authors of all these hip new millennium over-the-counter couples counseling books were trying to get at is why the average woman, why Julia, feels the need for a man’s undivided attention and perhaps even the possession of his very soul. These hack therapists would delve into the woman’s childhood, Julia’s childhood, where they would find an absentee and emotionally distant father, a single mother, and sparse opportunities for true companionship. Not surprising, not because this information presents an extraordinary causal link but rather because it’s mundane, average. So, maybe all women are trying to replace the fathers they’ve lost or think they’ve lost. Or, maybe, just maybe for four minutes out of the day they want to feel they’ve got something on men; that, for all their hard work at 70% of a man’s salary they might actually be getting somewhere in this man’s world. Julia made enough money. Sometimes, she made more money than the men she dated, but she thought it best to keep that to herself. She didn’t think it was about money. She thought she probably resented the men she slept with in this abstract sort of way, the way her therapist, the way the therapists on TV, had described what she was feeling, but she didn’t resent any individual men. She wasn’t frigid, that was for sure.

Smiling, twirling her fingers around his fine chest hair, Julia knew her time was almost up. Most men had a limit of about fifteen minutes on the after-sex cuddling, and she could already see his eyes wander to the pile of clothes on the floor. It took her years to build up the emotional barrier to her tears at this moment. It was more than the moment of separation, even worse than rejection. It was the death of the dream. When the time was up, she no longer possessed him, was no longer the powerful one. She was weak again, and her weakness shot up to the surface like a drowning man gasping for air. She tried to think of a way to make him stay, to arouse him again even though she was already sore. Anything to grasp that power again, to take in his masculinity and make it hers, for at least four minutes, but it was no use. No, he would say, have to work early in the morning. So, gathering her last bit of strength, she told him to leave, that she was tired and needed to sleep. Perhaps it was spiteful, but the only way she knew to hang on to a bit of that strength was to reject him before he rejected her. And he left, and she felt hollow inside.

Julia wrapped herself in her robe and sat by the window to watch his car pull out away, sitting at an angle in the darkness so that he couldn’t see her watching him leave. When he was gone, she went back to bed and tried to sleep, but it was no use. She pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, and went down to the corner store to pick up a pint of ice cream and a copy of the Sunday paper. It seemed strangely reassuring that the she could always get the Sunday paper on a Saturday night. Returning home, she sat in her kitchen and slowly lifted spoonfuls of ice cream to her lips, absent mindedly leafing through tomorrow’s news. She read through the headlines quickly, hoping to find some crucial piece of information that might somehow make things seem different, but it was all pretty much the same news as always. War, famine in Africa, a robbery, corruption in Washington, a human interest piece about a life-saving dog, and a curious story about homeless man in the local section.

The night seemed especially dark. Her fluorescent kitchen light tried vainly to stave off the cold loneliness of it, giving off a warm low hum that she usually found comforting, but neither the light nor the news could distract her from whatever it was she was feeling. She tried to think about how much fun she had had that night, but when she thought about it, “fun” didn’t seem like the word to describe it. She padded back to bed, wrapping the blankets around her, still fully clothed, and closed her eyes. As she drifted off to sleep, she longed for those four perfect minutes and dreamed of the day when she might not need them anymore.

. . .

The polyester suit made a strange sort of swishing, squeaking sound as Jake walked down the street. His hands shook as he swept them through his still wet hair. He looked around him, at the other people on the street, waiting for one of them to point him out as an imposter. But, nobody did. He smiled at someone, an older gentleman in a suit that appeared almost as dated as his own, and incredibly the man smiled back.

Jake didn’t like to lie if he didn’t have to, but he needed the suit and the shower if he was going to eat. The suits and the showers are supposed to be for people with job interviews, and Jake didn’t have a job interview, but he didn’t see why he needed one just to get a suit and a hot shower, so he lied. The YMCA had acquired only a few of these charity suits, and the ones they did have were painfully outmoded and oversized, and Jake had to wait all day for his suit, the one that might fit him, to be returned before he had to go to his “interview” that evening. They let him nap on a cot, and when it was his turn, they gave him soap and a clean towel and showed him the showers, which were arranged communally, locker room style, and smelled intensely of mildew. The suit was powder blue with white pinstripes and broad shoulders, which made him think that all he needed was a pair of oversized shoes and a rubber nose and he might have actually been given a job as a clown, but he kept this thought to himself. He was grateful.

He wanted to go to the café and see the young woman, but he thought better of it. She might recognize him, though seeing himself again in the reflection of another restaurant window, he wasn’t so sure. The dirt was washed away, and the creases in his face were no longer visible. He didn’t look old anymore. It wasn’t exactly what he remembered from before, but it wasn’t what he expected to see now. He went, instead, to a nice Italian restaurant whose aromas had tempted him so many times before.

Table for one, please. Table for one, please. He repeated over and over in his head as he approached the host. Table for one, please. The smells of the restaurant were overwhelming. Warm, steaming plates of pasta, roasted tomatoes and peppers, oregano, yeasty smells of baking breads and pizza dough, the sounds of jazz music coming from somewhere, emanating magically from every corner of the place. It was still early for dinner, yet the booths and tables were already filling with couples, families, the music mixing with their excited voices and the tinkling of glasses. Table for one, please. Jake felt warm, dizzy. Table for one…

“May I help you,” asked the host sweetly behind his dais.

“Table for one, please.” Jake felt his lips move, but he wasn’t even sure if he had said anything.

“Right this way, sir.”

The host seated Jake in the back of the restaurant, at a small table near the kitchen. Probably where they kept the people they didn’t want seated in the window, the ones wearing bad polyester suits, he thought. But, it didn’t matter. The host was telling him about the specials.

Jake ordered wine. He ordered a mixed-greens salad with vinaigrette and feta cheese. He ordered an enormous plate of pasta with meatballs and marinara sauce. He politely requested extra bread, and resisted the urge to line his pockets with it. He ordered desert twice. Neapolitan ice cream and chocolate cake. Jake ate slowly, smelling everything, but not for mould or disease this time. He was careful that none of the food should intermingle, tasting everything in its proper sequence, exactly as it should be. He talked with his waitress, a lovely dark-skinned woman with short curly hair who was working to become a dancer, and had to work nights at the restaurant to get by.

“You look like a dancer,” he told her, “the way you hold the plates, the way you walk. You’re very graceful.” He thought he saw her blush when he smiled at her.

The chef came out from the kitchen to ask him how he was enjoying his dinner.

“Oh, wonderful, everything is so delicious!” Time seemed to stall, the world turned around him, around his whims and pleasures. When the waitress brought the check, he half expected to produce a wallet with a credit card from his jacket, thinking what a wonderful benefactor the polyester clown costume had been. The plan he had devised for himself was to feign as though he had left his wallet on accident in the car, and then when he left to go get it, he would just leave, and never come back. Now, though, he hesitated.

“Um, miss,” Jake beckoned the waitress, “I think I’ll have a cup of coffee before I go. I’ve got a long way home tonight, quite a drive!”

Jake sat with his cup of coffee, the warmth of the cup penetrating his hands, the sensual feeling of the hot liquid filling his full belly. Just a few more minutes, he thought, and then I’ll leave. Four minutes, maybe five. I’ll return the suit to the Y. He thought somewhat doubtfully that they might even have a bed available for him tonight, so he wouldn’t have to spend another night in the alley, waking up to another breakfast of garbage and glue, and the awful shit stink of the sewer vapors swirling in the daylight, smothering him in his garbage bed.

“Miss,” he called for the beautiful dancing waitress again. “I don’t have any money.” Jake looked into her eyes. He expected to see disgust there, but there wasn’t any. There wasn’t pity either. It was, Jake thought, a sort of recognition.

The police came and arrested Jake, and they told him he would have to spend a few days in jail. The food in jail was nothing like the fare at the Italian restaurant, but it wasn’t glue or garbage either. He thought about the dancer, and wondered if she’d still be there when he got out, or if she’d have gotten her big break by then. He hoped she would wait on him again, next time.

. . .

My first post...

Once upon a time there was a closet writer, whose closet became to snug. Let the genius be unleashed...