Finally, a chance to sit and update the blog. Things are moving right along in the Barefoot universe, now that it is actually warm enough up here in the tundra to walk around barefoot without looking like a psychopath.
Sunshine isn't the only thing entertaining these days; though the warmth is inviting and butterscotchy, I wouldn't recommend staring up at the sun for entertainment. One pair of burned out retinas later and I have learned my lesson.
I think my constant need for entertainment has leaked through my genes (even spelled that way "leaked through my genes" just sounds horrible, doesn't it, like some disgusting olestra-related accident?) I know many people have kids who don masks and run through the house loudly declaring "I'm Batman. I'm Batman." (They do, don't they?) My child takes off his mask, runs around the house yelling "I'm Bruce Wayne. I'm Bruce Wayne."
I try, sometimes too hard, to control my inner geek, but then, out she comes. She just cannot be contained. The women where I work were briefly discussing movies they had recently seen and I unchained myself from the medieval leg irons that generally bind me to my desk long enough to insert myself into the conversation. I really had just intended to listen, to soak up a bit of actual human interaction before immersing myself back into the 47 pounds of paperwork threatening to buckle my otherwise sturdy desk.
During a lull in the conversation, I opened my mouth and where I had meant to just nod and say "Yes, that it good" I actually said "My latest obsession is watching all of the episodes of Mystery Science Theater on DVD". Yep. In those words. The room grew quiet and I could feel the looks upon me. I know those looks; those looks usually precede restraining orders. But, bless J, who looked up at me and said "I remember that show. Very funny. I love the robots." Her validation was the only thing that prevented the remainder of my coworkers from turning on me with their pitchforks.
But, as the sun shines brightly in the sky and the days are longer and gorgeous, and the television season is, at last, over, it is time to pull my loved ones close and reflect on that which really matters more than silly tv time: movies.
This week's Movie Review of Movies You Have Already Seen or Never Plan to See is Office Space. One word: hilarious. I admit that I have seen the movie several times, but it never gets any less funny to me. I wish I could affect such a cavalier attitude toward work instead of being a stressed out knotted-up ball of neuroses, but, alas, have never been able to mutter those immortal words: "I don't like my job and I don't think I'm going to go anymore". There are many movies that I love, Office Space, but you hold a special place in my heart.
Song of the day: "A Girl Like You" from Pete Yorn. I have a thing for guys and guitars and I tend to listen to everything with my heart and not my head. As my husband says, that is a Kimbers song if I ever heard one. Just a very sweet little song that doesn't try to be more than it is and is all the more beautiful for that.
Saturday, May 31, 2008
Sunday, May 25, 2008
This Just Isn't Working/Day of Memorial
Originally I had conceived these ideas as two different posts, but as time is limited (as it is, I am practically typing this while giving Sully a bath), I am combining two topics into one mega-blog.
First, there are the work woes which, instead of subsiding, have only grown worse. I won't go into detail, as I have already verbally bitched the topic out. Instead, I want to focus on the broader topic of work. It occurs to be that I have been working on and off (though mostly on) for 20 years. That feels rather like a prison sentence (and, given some of the jobs I have had, a prison sentence might have been less painful). A root canal and colonoscopy combo deal might have been less painful.
If I were still at my first job, well, I couldn't still be at my first job because when I was 14 I worked bussing tables at a restaurant (which has since burned down -- not while I was still working there, though). Of course at 13 and 14, I was a babysitter, but the job at the restaurant was the first where I had my own time card. Then, a job waitressing at a chain pizza restaurant. I am insanely polite to wait staff because I know how hard that job is. I was not a good waitress, based on the number of drinks I spilled on people, said number being more than the number of fingers I have on one hand. That same summer, I also worked the late shift at a sub shop and was equally good at that. My first night, a guy from my high school came in. I tried to cut a piece of bread, cut my own finger instead and ended up bleeding all over his sandwich.
Then, college, where I worked for four years as a library assistant. This was a standout job for me, in that it was actually a job I was good at. And, except for the instance when the county sheriff's office was called (I wish I was making that up), I was a good employee there. I know and love books. My first summer I spent as a counselor in a summer camp for inner-city kids. Then back to school where, in addition to the library job, I also worked as a tutor and in my last two years worked in the school cafe, slinging hash. I spent a summer working in a fudge shop on Mackinac Island. Then, graduation.
After graduation, I put in some time temping. I worked at one office where my sole job was faxing. I was actually engaged to that fax machine for a brief period and, it turns out, that was the most satisfying relationship of my early twenties. I worked as a tutor at the local community college. I spent evenings doing telemarketing (which is every bit as heinous as it sounds). I worked as a clerk in a furniture store. I prepared titles and abstracts at a title company. I worked in a hospital doing patient registrations. While at the hospital, I spent evenings working at a gas station doing second shift. I worked at a law firm as a legal assistant doing personal injury cases (a job I did for nearly 7 years). I cleaned offices during the evening while at that job -- my shortest-lived job (I discovered that the employees at the office where I was cleaning routinely left full cups of coffee in their trash cans and I ended up getting coffee all over myself one too many times). I worked as an assistant to a rabbi and at a private Jewish school. Currently, I work at a legal assistant in a law firm.
The point of that (pointless) work history is to illustrate that I have had jobs. Loads of them. And, I know when a job just isn't working and when I just can't stay. That's where I am now. In not one of the above-listed jobs did I find myself actually crying in the mornings because I dread going into work -- an uncomfortable position in which to find myself. I feel terrible for Jeff for having to listen to my misery every day. So, wish me luck (seriously. Just say it. Please. I need you).
The past three days, in contrast, have been wonderful. Jeff and I have actually both been off of work for three days in a row and have been able to spend time with Jude and Sullivan, quality time, as opposed to the time during the week that translates into my saying "We have to go. We need to hurry. Blah. Blah. Blah." (Half of whatever I say to Jude, I think, automatically sounds like "blah" to him.) Today is Monday, Memorial Day, and I am cognizant of the fact that I am cramming memory--making experiences into these three days. I want to freeze time, just for a little while longer, not only because I am enjoying just being here with my family but because things change so rapidly. Yesterday I had a baby and now we're looking at preschools for him. Three is such an awkward and wonderful age. Jude is getting to be so independent, pulling away from us, boldly declaring he is a "big boy" but then still depends so much on us. I love his freedom and try to foster it as much as possible by letting him make decisions. He sometimes uses that freedom to deliberately disobey. He has decided to share his beloved Mr. Pooh with his younger brother, such a generous act considering how attached he is to that piece of golden fabric.
And Sullivan? I swear that just last evening I was pregnant and now, my baby is over 7 months old. He is rolling over and sitting up and even has a tiny tooth that looks adorable in his perfect grin. How can I stop them from growing just a little? How can I get more days like these last three, days when I can soak up their tiny perfection and their individuals imperfections? More days of picnics and shopping, of going to the park and building sand castles in a little tiny sandtrap.
Okay, now that I have depressed myself on Memorial Day, it is time for an upbeat new feature to the blog which, like newly introduced features in the past, will likely appear in a few blogs and then never be mentioned again. It is time for Movies Reviews for Movies You Have Either Already Seen or Never Intend to See.
This week's Movie is Moulin Rouge. Jude "watched" this with me (he "watched" about half an hour while playing with his pirate ship) and his review is as follows: "This movie was boring. You should throw it in the trash." Now, my take on the movie (and I actually watched it) was a bit different. I loved it (this is my third or fourth viewing of it). It is bold and color, beautiful to look at and to listen to. I love the singing and the dancing, the theatrics and drama and it speaks to my inner bohemian. I fancy myself a bohemian with a full time job and a family and a bedtime of 9:30 p.m. And, of course, Ewan McgGregor, who does love-lorn with the same ease that he does drug-addled and Jedi Knight. If there ever is a film that stars Ewan McGregor as a love-lorn, drug-addled Jedi Knight, I will toss that to the top of my Netflix queue.
Song of the day: Pepper from the Butthole Surfers. Not a song about summer, exactly, but a great song to play with the windows down. I just love it.
Now, I am off to make a few more memories before returning to the work week . . .
First, there are the work woes which, instead of subsiding, have only grown worse. I won't go into detail, as I have already verbally bitched the topic out. Instead, I want to focus on the broader topic of work. It occurs to be that I have been working on and off (though mostly on) for 20 years. That feels rather like a prison sentence (and, given some of the jobs I have had, a prison sentence might have been less painful). A root canal and colonoscopy combo deal might have been less painful.
If I were still at my first job, well, I couldn't still be at my first job because when I was 14 I worked bussing tables at a restaurant (which has since burned down -- not while I was still working there, though). Of course at 13 and 14, I was a babysitter, but the job at the restaurant was the first where I had my own time card. Then, a job waitressing at a chain pizza restaurant. I am insanely polite to wait staff because I know how hard that job is. I was not a good waitress, based on the number of drinks I spilled on people, said number being more than the number of fingers I have on one hand. That same summer, I also worked the late shift at a sub shop and was equally good at that. My first night, a guy from my high school came in. I tried to cut a piece of bread, cut my own finger instead and ended up bleeding all over his sandwich.
Then, college, where I worked for four years as a library assistant. This was a standout job for me, in that it was actually a job I was good at. And, except for the instance when the county sheriff's office was called (I wish I was making that up), I was a good employee there. I know and love books. My first summer I spent as a counselor in a summer camp for inner-city kids. Then back to school where, in addition to the library job, I also worked as a tutor and in my last two years worked in the school cafe, slinging hash. I spent a summer working in a fudge shop on Mackinac Island. Then, graduation.
After graduation, I put in some time temping. I worked at one office where my sole job was faxing. I was actually engaged to that fax machine for a brief period and, it turns out, that was the most satisfying relationship of my early twenties. I worked as a tutor at the local community college. I spent evenings doing telemarketing (which is every bit as heinous as it sounds). I worked as a clerk in a furniture store. I prepared titles and abstracts at a title company. I worked in a hospital doing patient registrations. While at the hospital, I spent evenings working at a gas station doing second shift. I worked at a law firm as a legal assistant doing personal injury cases (a job I did for nearly 7 years). I cleaned offices during the evening while at that job -- my shortest-lived job (I discovered that the employees at the office where I was cleaning routinely left full cups of coffee in their trash cans and I ended up getting coffee all over myself one too many times). I worked as an assistant to a rabbi and at a private Jewish school. Currently, I work at a legal assistant in a law firm.
The point of that (pointless) work history is to illustrate that I have had jobs. Loads of them. And, I know when a job just isn't working and when I just can't stay. That's where I am now. In not one of the above-listed jobs did I find myself actually crying in the mornings because I dread going into work -- an uncomfortable position in which to find myself. I feel terrible for Jeff for having to listen to my misery every day. So, wish me luck (seriously. Just say it. Please. I need you).
The past three days, in contrast, have been wonderful. Jeff and I have actually both been off of work for three days in a row and have been able to spend time with Jude and Sullivan, quality time, as opposed to the time during the week that translates into my saying "We have to go. We need to hurry. Blah. Blah. Blah." (Half of whatever I say to Jude, I think, automatically sounds like "blah" to him.) Today is Monday, Memorial Day, and I am cognizant of the fact that I am cramming memory--making experiences into these three days. I want to freeze time, just for a little while longer, not only because I am enjoying just being here with my family but because things change so rapidly. Yesterday I had a baby and now we're looking at preschools for him. Three is such an awkward and wonderful age. Jude is getting to be so independent, pulling away from us, boldly declaring he is a "big boy" but then still depends so much on us. I love his freedom and try to foster it as much as possible by letting him make decisions. He sometimes uses that freedom to deliberately disobey. He has decided to share his beloved Mr. Pooh with his younger brother, such a generous act considering how attached he is to that piece of golden fabric.
And Sullivan? I swear that just last evening I was pregnant and now, my baby is over 7 months old. He is rolling over and sitting up and even has a tiny tooth that looks adorable in his perfect grin. How can I stop them from growing just a little? How can I get more days like these last three, days when I can soak up their tiny perfection and their individuals imperfections? More days of picnics and shopping, of going to the park and building sand castles in a little tiny sandtrap.
Okay, now that I have depressed myself on Memorial Day, it is time for an upbeat new feature to the blog which, like newly introduced features in the past, will likely appear in a few blogs and then never be mentioned again. It is time for Movies Reviews for Movies You Have Either Already Seen or Never Intend to See.
This week's Movie is Moulin Rouge. Jude "watched" this with me (he "watched" about half an hour while playing with his pirate ship) and his review is as follows: "This movie was boring. You should throw it in the trash." Now, my take on the movie (and I actually watched it) was a bit different. I loved it (this is my third or fourth viewing of it). It is bold and color, beautiful to look at and to listen to. I love the singing and the dancing, the theatrics and drama and it speaks to my inner bohemian. I fancy myself a bohemian with a full time job and a family and a bedtime of 9:30 p.m. And, of course, Ewan McgGregor, who does love-lorn with the same ease that he does drug-addled and Jedi Knight. If there ever is a film that stars Ewan McGregor as a love-lorn, drug-addled Jedi Knight, I will toss that to the top of my Netflix queue.
Song of the day: Pepper from the Butthole Surfers. Not a song about summer, exactly, but a great song to play with the windows down. I just love it.
Now, I am off to make a few more memories before returning to the work week . . .
Monday, May 12, 2008
Quick: Hide the Porn!
Caution: the following blog contains references to porn and to "The Boy Who Could Fly."
I am having woes at work once more and I want to write about that just as much as you, dear reader(s), wants to read about it. So, let's talk about something that interests me much more.
When I was much younger -- far, far too young to have anything to do with such books -- I happened across the book Xaviera This book, as the cover indicates, is the follow-up to The Happy Hooker. Holding the book in my hand, I was certain that I should not even have it in my possession, so of course, I read it. I had to.
It has been decades (yes, decades plural) since then and all I can remember of the book is thinking "Of course she's happy. She has lots of money and has lots of adventures." Those are my sole memories of the book. The sense of "I shouldn't be reading this" has stayed with me through the years and I find I am still drawn to the books and movies that, for whatever reason, I shouldn't see. Any book or movie that causes controversy or -- better still -- has for some reason been banned or otherwise restricted draws me in.
My lastest "you shouldn't be watching this" experience was "Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer". And how jaded I have become from my years of pushing that entertainment envelope. Of course, I already knew about the two controversial scenes in "Henry", so when they rolled around, I wasn't shocked or offended the way that maybe I should have been. Still, my curiosity as always got the better of me and I had to watch it.
Curiosity has lead me down some pretty interesting paths of entertainment. A chance discovery at the local library netted me The Sensuous Woman when I was a teenager and, of course, I had to read Forever as a teen because "some people" (and there are always "some people") complained about the frank depiction of sex between teenagers.
As soon as I read about the controversies created by books like Lolita The Story of Oand 9 1/2 Weeks, I knew that I had to read them. More than read. Devour. Discover what it was contained within those covers that "some people" thought that no one should read.
Ah, and some people shall always have a field day with porn. Porn. Porn. Porn. It is a silly word for what, more often than not in my own humble experience, manages to be silly iteself. I admit to a certain curiosity about porn as well. How could I not be curious about something that is so taboo? My local video store in my tiny home town years ago had the littlest "adult" section possible, a small room with a polite home-made sign reminding customers that "adults only" were allowed in there. What was all the fuss about? I wandered in there, as more often than not I would be the only person in the entire video store, browsing and snickering at the absurd pictures on the boxes. Perhaps I was just too young. But there came a day when I was not too young anymore, when I could actually rent some of this porn I had heard so much about. And, I must say, my initial impression was pretty accurate. What I saw was funny and absurd and it managed to take away everything sexy about sex and turn it into a laughable, poorly acted joke. I saw a porn movie once that contained a scene with a guy pumping away at some gal right on their dinner table -- and right on their dinner. So I was looking at this guy's naked hairy ass, watching him thrust away as peas and pork chops were flying all over and I just could not appreciate the ridiculous grunts that came from him and from her. All I thought about was why they would ruin a perfectly good dinner like that. There was nothing exotic or wonderful about the porn I saw; it was common and ordinary, bodies thrown together in sweaty masses that somehow managed to not be remotely erotic. But the beauty of porn (of course there is a beauty side) is the sheer variety. There are so many different tastes, different fetishes, different desires that I wonder whether there are even two people on this whole planet with the exact same sex drives, exact same sexual desires, exact same sexual preferences. There are so many variables to consider that it the fact that two people can ever align their sexual schedules and interests enough to engage in coitus (or not engage in coitus, depending on their preference). I have seen the women in movies and in magazines (ah, the magazines that are also so forbidden that of course I had to study them) and my overwhelming thought is "Wow. I don't look like that at all." But then I don't resemble the impossibly busty lasses from most of the porn films either.
Speaking of not even remotely erotic, there is that classic film "Caligula" that I just had to see and which I cannot remove from my brain -- though I have tried. I had read enough to be intensely curious and the best I can say is that I never have to see it again. Any movie that can suck the erotic out of an orgy scene doesn't deserve to be controversial.
I just can't seem to say no to controversy when it comes to books or movies. Sometimes, the decision is just a bad one, such as the aforementioned "Caligula" or "Crash." Don't even get me started on how awful I thought "Crash" was -- this being the "Crash" that involved people getting sexually amorous because of car accidents, not the overrated Academy-Award-winning film. Sometimes, though, such as in "The Last Temptation of Christ", I can discover something interesting and thought-provoking. I like having my thoughts provoked. A random, unrelated thread on a movie message board sent me straight into the cinematic arms of Michael Haneke's films. Much has been made of his film "Funny Games" -- particularly after he remade it recently with an American cast. "Funny Games", in particular, is an interesting study in psychological torture. Not only does the movie focus on the torment of the family, but on the audience, turning the voyeuristic quality of such films back on the audience, daring to ask "Why would you watch this?" And it was awful and wonderful at once to wonder why I would ever watch such a film and I was hooked on Haneke's daring, his way of saying "I shouldn't -- but I am." Then, I saw "Benny's Video", an earlier Haneke film and I was disturbed. Again, the voice within me asked "Why would you watch this?" And I knew that my own answer was, of course, because someone said I shouldn't. Then, "The Piano Teacher". Again, I was shocked and saddened for the main character, a women whose masochistic desires lead her down some seriously dark corridors. She made me feel positively well adjusted.
Jeff has watched me wach some of these movies and I must say that I don't drag him down with me (mostly). He has asked me how I can stand it -- particularly a grisly, stark film like "Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer". I reply that it is fiction. I want to absorb fiction -- books or movies -- that emigrate from the darker recesses of someone's mind. Fiction. I want no part of reality intruding on my entertainment, though Xavieria is autobiographical debauchery and the book 9 1/2 Weeks is purportedly also autobiographical. I had seen the movie and thought for certain that the book would prove to be tame as well, but there were passages of the book that haunted me. Crept into my brain and took up residence. I took a brief foray into nonfiction crime stories based on the movie "Blind Faith", which I only watched because the movie had Jay Underwood in it and I had liked him so much in "The Boy Who Could Fly".
Of course, these passages were pushed out by later readings of books like American Psycho. When I read that book, I was knocked out. Brilliant satire and disturbing, graphinc images. Of course, "some people" thought that the book was misogynistic and I think "some people" missed the point (and, of course, only made me want to read it more). The main character was misogynistic; that's rather the point of the book, a theme if you will. That, and identity. Oh, and a rather nasty bit with a nail gun and a mouse.
So, I say, if you can't warm someone's heart with a movie like "The Boy Who Could Fly" (which I saw a dozen or more times in my youth), then make something that provokes some other kind of reaction. I would rather be disturbed by the most graphic fictional account possible (and that award goes to you, Chuck Palahniuk, for your book, Haunted) than be indifferent. I want fiction to move me with its beauty or with its ugliness, to shake me to the core with its truth or to make me laugh until I am certain that I will vomit. Anything but indifference. "Some people" say that it is better to be indifferent, but I am just not listening.
Oh, and I have finally decided to do some research for the sake of my blog, so, sitting in the front seat of my car is the same well-worn copy of Xavieria from so many years ago. Yes, I managed to procure it so that I can read it and critique it as an adult (though the status of my adulthood is always subject to debate). Anything for you, dear reader(s).
I am having woes at work once more and I want to write about that just as much as you, dear reader(s), wants to read about it. So, let's talk about something that interests me much more.
When I was much younger -- far, far too young to have anything to do with such books -- I happened across the book Xaviera This book, as the cover indicates, is the follow-up to The Happy Hooker. Holding the book in my hand, I was certain that I should not even have it in my possession, so of course, I read it. I had to.
It has been decades (yes, decades plural) since then and all I can remember of the book is thinking "Of course she's happy. She has lots of money and has lots of adventures." Those are my sole memories of the book. The sense of "I shouldn't be reading this" has stayed with me through the years and I find I am still drawn to the books and movies that, for whatever reason, I shouldn't see. Any book or movie that causes controversy or -- better still -- has for some reason been banned or otherwise restricted draws me in.
My lastest "you shouldn't be watching this" experience was "Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer". And how jaded I have become from my years of pushing that entertainment envelope. Of course, I already knew about the two controversial scenes in "Henry", so when they rolled around, I wasn't shocked or offended the way that maybe I should have been. Still, my curiosity as always got the better of me and I had to watch it.
Curiosity has lead me down some pretty interesting paths of entertainment. A chance discovery at the local library netted me The Sensuous Woman when I was a teenager and, of course, I had to read Forever as a teen because "some people" (and there are always "some people") complained about the frank depiction of sex between teenagers.
As soon as I read about the controversies created by books like Lolita The Story of Oand 9 1/2 Weeks, I knew that I had to read them. More than read. Devour. Discover what it was contained within those covers that "some people" thought that no one should read.
Ah, and some people shall always have a field day with porn. Porn. Porn. Porn. It is a silly word for what, more often than not in my own humble experience, manages to be silly iteself. I admit to a certain curiosity about porn as well. How could I not be curious about something that is so taboo? My local video store in my tiny home town years ago had the littlest "adult" section possible, a small room with a polite home-made sign reminding customers that "adults only" were allowed in there. What was all the fuss about? I wandered in there, as more often than not I would be the only person in the entire video store, browsing and snickering at the absurd pictures on the boxes. Perhaps I was just too young. But there came a day when I was not too young anymore, when I could actually rent some of this porn I had heard so much about. And, I must say, my initial impression was pretty accurate. What I saw was funny and absurd and it managed to take away everything sexy about sex and turn it into a laughable, poorly acted joke. I saw a porn movie once that contained a scene with a guy pumping away at some gal right on their dinner table -- and right on their dinner. So I was looking at this guy's naked hairy ass, watching him thrust away as peas and pork chops were flying all over and I just could not appreciate the ridiculous grunts that came from him and from her. All I thought about was why they would ruin a perfectly good dinner like that. There was nothing exotic or wonderful about the porn I saw; it was common and ordinary, bodies thrown together in sweaty masses that somehow managed to not be remotely erotic. But the beauty of porn (of course there is a beauty side) is the sheer variety. There are so many different tastes, different fetishes, different desires that I wonder whether there are even two people on this whole planet with the exact same sex drives, exact same sexual desires, exact same sexual preferences. There are so many variables to consider that it the fact that two people can ever align their sexual schedules and interests enough to engage in coitus (or not engage in coitus, depending on their preference). I have seen the women in movies and in magazines (ah, the magazines that are also so forbidden that of course I had to study them) and my overwhelming thought is "Wow. I don't look like that at all." But then I don't resemble the impossibly busty lasses from most of the porn films either.
Speaking of not even remotely erotic, there is that classic film "Caligula" that I just had to see and which I cannot remove from my brain -- though I have tried. I had read enough to be intensely curious and the best I can say is that I never have to see it again. Any movie that can suck the erotic out of an orgy scene doesn't deserve to be controversial.
I just can't seem to say no to controversy when it comes to books or movies. Sometimes, the decision is just a bad one, such as the aforementioned "Caligula" or "Crash." Don't even get me started on how awful I thought "Crash" was -- this being the "Crash" that involved people getting sexually amorous because of car accidents, not the overrated Academy-Award-winning film. Sometimes, though, such as in "The Last Temptation of Christ", I can discover something interesting and thought-provoking. I like having my thoughts provoked. A random, unrelated thread on a movie message board sent me straight into the cinematic arms of Michael Haneke's films. Much has been made of his film "Funny Games" -- particularly after he remade it recently with an American cast. "Funny Games", in particular, is an interesting study in psychological torture. Not only does the movie focus on the torment of the family, but on the audience, turning the voyeuristic quality of such films back on the audience, daring to ask "Why would you watch this?" And it was awful and wonderful at once to wonder why I would ever watch such a film and I was hooked on Haneke's daring, his way of saying "I shouldn't -- but I am." Then, I saw "Benny's Video", an earlier Haneke film and I was disturbed. Again, the voice within me asked "Why would you watch this?" And I knew that my own answer was, of course, because someone said I shouldn't. Then, "The Piano Teacher". Again, I was shocked and saddened for the main character, a women whose masochistic desires lead her down some seriously dark corridors. She made me feel positively well adjusted.
Jeff has watched me wach some of these movies and I must say that I don't drag him down with me (mostly). He has asked me how I can stand it -- particularly a grisly, stark film like "Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer". I reply that it is fiction. I want to absorb fiction -- books or movies -- that emigrate from the darker recesses of someone's mind. Fiction. I want no part of reality intruding on my entertainment, though Xavieria is autobiographical debauchery and the book 9 1/2 Weeks is purportedly also autobiographical. I had seen the movie and thought for certain that the book would prove to be tame as well, but there were passages of the book that haunted me. Crept into my brain and took up residence. I took a brief foray into nonfiction crime stories based on the movie "Blind Faith", which I only watched because the movie had Jay Underwood in it and I had liked him so much in "The Boy Who Could Fly".
Of course, these passages were pushed out by later readings of books like American Psycho. When I read that book, I was knocked out. Brilliant satire and disturbing, graphinc images. Of course, "some people" thought that the book was misogynistic and I think "some people" missed the point (and, of course, only made me want to read it more). The main character was misogynistic; that's rather the point of the book, a theme if you will. That, and identity. Oh, and a rather nasty bit with a nail gun and a mouse.
So, I say, if you can't warm someone's heart with a movie like "The Boy Who Could Fly" (which I saw a dozen or more times in my youth), then make something that provokes some other kind of reaction. I would rather be disturbed by the most graphic fictional account possible (and that award goes to you, Chuck Palahniuk, for your book, Haunted) than be indifferent. I want fiction to move me with its beauty or with its ugliness, to shake me to the core with its truth or to make me laugh until I am certain that I will vomit. Anything but indifference. "Some people" say that it is better to be indifferent, but I am just not listening.
Oh, and I have finally decided to do some research for the sake of my blog, so, sitting in the front seat of my car is the same well-worn copy of Xavieria from so many years ago. Yes, I managed to procure it so that I can read it and critique it as an adult (though the status of my adulthood is always subject to debate). Anything for you, dear reader(s).
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