Trash

So, finally I have made it to the "Trash" post: a counter-point to my "Treasure" post. Of course, I likely have forgotten half of what I was going to write about, but such is the nature of my blogging.

This post was inspired by my severe dislike of a couple of movies that I saw in the past few weeks. Over the course of a year, I see a few movies that I love, many that I like, several about which I feel ambivalent and/or completely forgotten and just a very few that I down-right loathe.

One movie that falls into the "loathe" category is "Superman Returns". If you are inclined to watch superhero movies, chances are that you have already watched or decided not to watch this particular piece of dour filmmaking. I don't think that there was a single thing that I actually liked about this film. I tried to pick something positive, but this was an absolutely unfun film. I can appreciate a serious drama, but, really, should Superman be such a serious drama? If the main cast members look as though they don't want to be in the movie, why would the audience feel any differently about watching the film?

As much as I disliked this film (I am trying to eradicate "hate" from my vocabulary, as I don't want my little ones using it), it was a gem compared to the steaming pile of yuck known as "The Last Kiss". Wow. I haven't disliked characters this much in a long time. And what a fun genre, one of those films with the message that all men are just immature babies and it is a woman's job to be mature and to drag the man kicking and screaming into adulthood. How fun. Basically what I got from this movie is that men can do whatever they wish while women should stand by and be infinitely patient and wise because eventually said men will grow up and realize that they want the dull, staid adulthood that the women already occupy. Did I mention that I didn't care too much for this film.

Speaking of things that I would like to toss onto a big pile of dung (not to be confused with Dung!), I got sucked into watching an episode of "The Moment of Truth". And now I feel really dirty. And not the good kind of dirty either.

Song of the day: "Ceremony" from New Order. No explanation, just a song that I like. Nothing trashy about it.

Kids

So, of course this blog was supposed to be entitled "Trash" and would be about a bunch of stuff I am disliking at the moment. Then, that idea got sidetracked and I wanted to blog about George Carlin because, hey, he was really smart and funny and thought-provoking. But, I don't have enough Carlin-related material to last for a whole blog and another thought came and pushed that thought away.

This morning as I was taking Jude and Sully to daycare (so I could head off to Satan's Den, where I am employed), Jude noticed a huge tent on top of a local grocery store. To be fair, it was very large and obvious, but had it been much smaller, Jude still would have noticed. Jude always notices.

"Mom, what's that?" Jude asked. "Why are people up there?"

"They're trying to raise money to help kids," I said. A local radio station does a "roof sit" to raise money to help prevent child abuse.

"Oh. Kids like me. Right, mom?"

That's when my heart just clenched up in that way it does when completely unwelcome thoughts invade. I looked into my rearview mirror and saw those hazel, not-yet-brown eyes with the long eyelashes looking at me.

"Yes, honey. Kids just like you."

Stories of child abuse have always been horrible and hard to hear, but now the thought is totally unbearable. I can't listen to stories about abuse on the news. I can't read about it in newspapers. It is too much to take.

And how will it be when I have to elaborate some day? When I have to tell Jude that not every little boy has parents who love him so much. That some moms and dads hit and hurt and worse. How do you say such things to an innocent little person who loves with his whole self and sleeps in monkey pajamas, dreaming his sweet dreams with his head resting on a Spiderman pillow?

When we got to daycare and I hugged him too long, he indulged me as he seldom does, resting his head against my chest like he did when he was a baby before he had to pull away to go "play guys" and show off his new Incredible Hulk figure. I know he doesn't understand why I pulled him so close and held him so long, wanting him to know that I love him. He doesn't understand, but I know he will. Someday. And even though maybe it shouldn't, that thought makes my heart ache. But, someday is not now. Not for a long, long time, Jude. Not for a long, long time.

Treasures

Last weekend, we had a garage sale (though, I think, technically, it would have to be considered a driveway sale). It was my first and an altogether interesting experience, laying out our belongings in the hopes that someone who needs these very items will happen along our sale. It was a positive experience and I will definitely be doing it again.

The biggest net of the day, however, came when I was looking through boxes in the basement. I opened a picnic basket (one of two that we own) and inside found not one but two lost treasures: a skirt and some CDs. When we moved almost 6 years ago, I thought I had lost my favorite skirt. It is a multi-color wonder, a skirt I purchased for $3.00 at a Goodwill store several years ago for a Jimmy Buffett concert. It is the most colorful skirt I own and I was so bummed when I couldn't find it after we moved. The CDs were a box set of Harry Chapin, the very music I had been listening to when I moved, so one of the CDs was in my car and, after a year, I misplaced that CD since I had already misplaced the case. It was a rare look into me of 6 years ago.




I came across another treasure over the weekend that I just had to share. I don't often recommend movies because well, I don't see many movies worth recommending, but any movie that makes me feel genuine affection for Steven Segal is a worthwhile movie in my humble opinion (the only opinion currently featured on this blog). I would highly recommed The Onion Movie. If you watch the film expecting supreme silliness, you will not be disappointed. Unless you will be. I can never gauge anyone else's sense of humor. There is such a crazy variety of things that make me laugh, but I never know if someone else will enjoy the same lunacy.

This week's movie review of a Movie You've Already Seen and Don't Plan to See: Dead Ringers. What a freaky little experience. Excellent performance by Jeremy Irons and a wonderful look into madness. Not a fun movie per se (unless your idea of fun is freaky twin gynecologists, in which case you should definitely call me so we can talk), but definitely a good one.

So, this week was a celebration of treasures, of skirts and CDs found, of trying (and mostly failing, but still trying) to push out negative thoughts and focus on more positive thoughts. (Oh new glorious job, you are out there somewhere. Just let me know where and it would be so much easier to find you.)

Song of the day (well, song of the week since this post has taken me about a week to finish): Harry Chapin's "Taxi". It is my favorite song of his, just a wonderful example of a "story/song" and one of my favorite song endings ever. Love it and love him. To completely veer off the topic of this week's blog, it occurs to me that if I were a princess (a big if), I don't think I would fall for a prince. The minstrels and court jesters have always been the ones to capture my heart (and anyone who can sing and be funny -- and yes, Jeff, I mean you -- well, how could a silly ol' prince ever compete with that).

The Three Faces of Me

Typically, I will start a blog in any given few spare moments I manage to steal, write a few sentences and fully intend to go back to the blog to finish what I started when I get a few more moments. Sometimes a whole week will elapse between these events, but such is the schizophrenic nature of writing. (Unless, of course, you are a professional writer, getting paid to do your work, with a set writing schedule and all that. Then you are more apt, I think, to finish something relatively close to the time that you began it.)

Let me begin, then, backwardly with this week's Movie Review of Movies You Have Already Seen or Don't Plan to See (or whatever it is that I call this feature). This week: Sybil. I refer to the television movie that played on CBS last week (I think it was last week - I lose track of time). Awful. Awful. Awful. I had the misfortune of watching this movie just a couple of weeks after the original mini-series (I really miss seeing mini-series, don't you?) finally made its way to the top of my Netflix queue.

The newer Sybil was four hours of material crammed into two hours, terribly rushed and the writing was awful. I know the source material intimately, having spent many hours of my childhood reading the book Sybil, one of the first thick paperbacks I would carry with me when I was likely too young to be reading about such things.

(Sidenote: I went through a period where I was obsessed with books about women and mental illness in various incarnations. I read every book I could about multiple personality disorder and anorexia and various other maladies. Insert your own joke about me here.)

The mini-series, Sybil, however, was slower paced (in a good way) and nuanced and featured wonderful performances by Sally Field and Joanne Woodward. Joanne Woodward was also so brilliant in The Three Faces of Eve. I adore her.

And that brings us to the three faces of me. For those who aren't aware, Sybil is the story of a woman with multiple personality disorder (now known as dissociative identity disorder) and who had 16 distinct personalities. The story also really fascinated me, but as I got older (as opposed to growing up, which I am still not sure I have done), I see that most people have so many different aspects to their personalities that it seems that we all have a bit of dissociative identify disorder (such a fancy name for a disorder). People adapt as they must to various social situations, relating to different groups of people in different ways (and yes, I have touched upon this in my blog before, but it interests me).

For me, I find that it is difficult for me to answer questions like "What is your favorite [insert item here]?" I used to think I had trouble answering this question because of my indecisive nature, but as I get older, I tend to think that it is more that different things appeal to different aspects of my personality. I've found this very true with movies: a list of my favorites changes pretty frequently because different movies speak to me in different ways. This week (last week?) I enjoyed Sybil, and then the next evening sat down to watch Tenacious D in the Pick of Destiny and I laughed. Yes, it was silly and juvenile, but I still laughed. I have a soft spot for Joanne Woodward and Jack Black equally -- though not the same.

Dealing with an almost-four-year-old requires me to use nearly every aspect of my personality (along with brains and resolve) because preschoolers are strangely intelligent creatures for people with little real-world experience. Let me preface this next part by saying that I do not, in any way, endorse cannibalism. However, Jude and I play this grotesque game where we pretend to tear each other's limbs off and eat them or discard them on the floor. I like to rip off his elbows and hide them behind the couch, while he likes to pull off my ears and throw them onto the top of the television set. Earlier this week he was struggling with his pajama top and I offered to "rip off his arms" to help him out. So, I did, tearing off his arms and setting them on the floor. Instead of laughing and reciprocating as he usually does, he just looked at me very seriously and said "Mom, that wasn't nice. How am I supposed to get dressed with no arms?"



Sully still has less moods. He is pretty much happy all the time (unless he is over tired), smiling and laughing which is really great. I think he must get his disposition from his dad. In other news, Sully has officially been introduced to all of his fruits and veggies and has just celebrated his eight-month-anniversary of birth with a simple ceremony in which I said "Hey, Sullivan is 8 months old today" and everyone else in the household nodded and smiled.

In other other news (or maybe I am up to other other other news), Dung! is revamped and running again. Of course the blog's owner refuses to burn his feed, but you can check out the link here if you're so inclined.

Today's song of the day: "Fake Plastic Trees" by Radiohead. It came up today when I was driving in my car, using my poor-woman's Ipod (a burned CD of various songs, set to play on "random" on my CD player) and I shrieked a little, excitedly, even though:
a. I burned the CD;
b. I only burn songs that I like.

Some times it takes so very little to amuse me.

Let Me Entertain You

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.

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 . . .

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).