Successful Nations

Two nights ago, I heard Mikhail Gorbachev speak at Millet Hall. I had to go because, as I said more than once, "it's fucking Gorbachev." Which led to some rather disturbing reactions from others, mostly along the lines of "Who's that?" Granted, I was only 11 when he resigned and the USSR was dissolved, but I still remember where I was and what I was doing when I heard it announced on television. Still, I knew who he was, as well as his role in pop culture (as I remember, a number of jokes circulated in the late '80s and early '90s regarding "that thing on Gorbachev's head").

Although the circumstances of his speech were less than ideal (there was no closed captioning, as in previous speakers at Millet, and his microphone was turned up as high as that of his translator's so that it was difficult to discern the English from the Russian at times), I did pick up on a couple of key points that I found insightful. One was that, despite the fact that the USSR was a superpower in its day and one of the most powerful (if not the most powerful) nations in terms of natural and intellectual resources, it was not a successful nation because it could not care for its people. Poverty was rampant, and that is inexcuseable for a superpower. I thought perhaps at the time he was making a very underhanded reference to the current situation for many American citizens, but I was pretty sure it was all in my head. Then, toward the end of his speech, he made the point that it is wrong to question the importance and overall integrity of the UN. Yes, reforms are in order, but the UN is not designed to serve only one country. It is designed to serve all countries, and the efforts by certain parties (Bush and Blair, presumably) to undermine its authority through criticism is unacceptable and irresponsible. Go Gorby!

Perhaps the biggest impression Gorbachev's visit to Oxford will leave on me, however, is the fact that my boyfriend and I saw a white limo pulled off in front of Bruno's Pizza on High Street after the speech. Two men, one of whom I am almost certain was the translator, rushed out of Bruno's and into the limo carrying a stack of pizza boxes. I've not had Bruno's but have been assured that I am not missing anything. Mark was sad that Bruno's mediocre pizza is the impression of Oxford cuisine that Gorbachev will take away from our humble little town, but he later surmised that the former world leader was drawn to Bruno's because of its Russian-sounding name. I looked it up; it's German.

Employment

A fortuitous development in the last week: I have a job. Not a fantastic job by any means - I work in the floral department at Kroger - but it's employment, and therefore I won't be kicked out of my apartment for not being able to pay rent. And I'll probably be able to buy food, too. So, good stuff. Not sure why I bothered going to college though...

The best part of my job by far is helping the helpless young men who come in to buy flowers for their girlfriends. The first customer I assisted on my first day was a young man buying a single long-stem rose to put on his significant other's car. He was concerned that the cold would harm the flower if it was left there for more than an hour or so. My manager assured him that it would be fine, and I wanted to pat him on the head and tell him he was a good boyfriend. The next day he called ahead, told me he was running late, and could I pick out the prettiest rose I could find in the cooler and have it wrapped and ready for him when he got there?

Then there was the young man who came in to buy two dozen roses for his girlfriend. He wanted them in a vase, so I set about arranging them. He asked if it would be all right if he ran home and showered while I finished up. He did so, and while he was gone I took a peek at the card he asked me to set aside for him. It was one of those sweet-to-the-point-of-almost-making-me-gag cards that tend to make some girls cry (probably me too, if I received it under the right circumstances). He also picked out one of those mini balloons to stick in the vase - one that proclaimed, in large red letters, "I love you." As if there were any doubt.

He was falling all over himself with gratitude when he came back and saw my handiwork (never have a worked a job that earned me so much gratitude from men before!) and, as he was signing the card with a borrowed pen, he asked if he could also get the very cute (and very expensive) teddy bear set up in the gift section as well. I had to restrain myself, after I retrieved it for him, from saying, "Dude, you are so getting laid tonight."

Dookie

Today my dear friends Linsey and Dara and I made the trek all the way up to Dayton's Nutter Center to take in the last show in Green Day's American Idiot tour. It was definitely the best punk rawk show I've been to in a long time, possibly ever. And it solidified my suspicion that Billie Joe Armstrong is, indeed, a rock god.

Ever since teenage America stood up and took note of the genius that is Dooke back in 1993, Green Day has taken a lot of flack for "selling out" - that is, going from an independent band playing shows in basements and other small venues to playing nearly sold-out venues such as the Nutter Center. I can understand why their original fans were pissed - Billie Joe and company basically signed a contract, changed their sound, to a certain extent, so that wider audiences would appreciate it, and left them behind. I saw a similar thing happen with a little band called Relient K (which, by the way, used to be a lot less evangelistic and a lot more punk - not musical genius by any means, but they were a band that the Canton, Ohio area could call its own, and I faithfully went to every show I caught wind of). But I actually think the band has returned to its original "fuck you" attitude with American Idiot. Instead of churning out more of the familiar pothead slacker counterculture anthems, the boys take a political stance with this album. It's a 21-track flip of the birdie to George W. Bush and all his supporters. And while I still can't comprehend the concept of a politically conservative punk, I do know they exist (I even taught a few in College English last year) and that making such a bold statement against GWB (and timing it around election time last fall) cost them some fans.

But anyway, back to the show itself: it kicked ass. The boys played American Idiot from top to bottom. And it was beautiful. Their encore (at least half the show in length) was at least as good; they covered all the hits off of Dookie and then some, and they even played completely random stuff like "Gay for a Day" (complete with some very nice hats). And oh, how Billie Joe can turn a girl on when he's just a speck on the stage fifty rows down. Sigh.

Expectations

I expect too much of people. I really do.

For example: The pathetic little student newspaper at my alma mater. I visited last week to participate in a panel discussion of grad school that was put on by the Career Development Center. I was impressed by the fact that it was even taking place; I remember no such service being offered by the CDC (ha, ha) while I was a student. And then I was disappointed when a mere seven students showed up. I think (I can't be sure, since I wasn't the same person then) that, had something like that been held when I had thoughts of grad school dancing in my head, I would have leaped at the opportunity to be enlightened by past Blufftonites. The current upperclassmen should appreciate their good fortune.

However, if such a thing did take place, and I missed it, I'm sure the reason was because I was busy trying to drag the student newspaper further out of the pathetic abyss it had resided in for decades prior to my class setting foot on campus (not an exaggeration; I cleaned all the back issues out of the Wit office's closet). Two of my classmates started that trend the year before I got there. I wanted to leave some kind of journalistic legacy. And yes, I use the term legacy with a bit of poetic license.

Things looked promising until the second semester after my grand exit from the premises: the communication department, in a grave lapse of judgment, decided to rip the reins of the newspaper from the hands of my hand-picked and much-lobbied-for English major predecessor and drop it in the lap of a dim-witted, cheerleader-for-Jesus communication major. And it became the print version of the 700 Club, religious spin all around.

I had hope when I flipped through a current issue and saw that one of the freshman staff writers during the Sommers administration had taken over as editor. She'd shown promise as a journalist and seemed to have some idea of what she was doing by the time the year was out.

Then I read her editorial. And was disappointed.

I'm not trying to say my editorials were brilliant, New York Times-worthy works of staggering genius. But they did get a few people to read the newspaper, if only to see how I would offend people's political, religious, and/or moral values. Or how I would mock the college and/or myself. The editorial I read was none of the above. It was a brief meditation on young love (young meaning first-year students). It was trite. Simplistic. Completely forgettable. As my college English students would say, it had no flow.

This revelation has been simmering on the backburner of my mind for a week now. It's merely one of a hundred instances in the past week where I have been disappointed by someone. A person's relationship to me, or whether I can even see his or her face, has no bearing on whether or not I will be disappointed. The breaking point today was, sadly enough, the driver of a car who failed to signal that he/she was making a turn as I waited to cross the street. The lack of a turn signal cost me at least ten seconds, and that was enough to piss me off during the entire walk between CVS and my apartment.

I need to be more realistic. I'm sure I disappoint people every day without even realizing it.

Happy New Development

From a writing standpoint, it blows goats when your narrator stops talking to you. Mine stopped talking to me sometime last spring-ish. But she came back with a vengeance this week: multiple epiphanies in the shower. It's a good thing. So thanks, Theda. Don't shut up now.

Abby Says Hello from 250 Miles Away

I found a hair on my bath towel this morning. It came from my puppy.



I miss her following me around and staring at me.

I Know Some People Who Would Agree With This

You're a Cheetah!

You are fast. Really fast. So fast, in fact, that many people may
never see you as you pass them by. You definitely have your soft spots, or maybe
just a lot of spots in general. You'd like to think of them as freckles. When
others say your name very quickly, you think they're accusing you of
something.


Take the Animal Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid.

Retroactive Regret

(Emo Warning!)

I drove up to my beloved alma mater today to share my vast knowlege of graduate school (which still makes me laugh, considering I'm a bit of a fuckup in that department) with some like-minded undergraduates. And as I was travelling that familiar stretch of road, I couldn't help but think back on the period in my life when I made that trip in reverse, and driving north was the direction of home.

I'm not the kind of person who regrets much of what she's done in the past (aside from a few choice moments of utter stupidity I could have done without), because past actions are what make us who we are today. It's the things I didn't do that I regret. I didn't fully appreciate how good I had it during those four years - how completely surrounded I was by my kind of people. Sure, there were the obligatory shitheads, but they were far outnumbered by people I actually liked. And I had hot meals waiting for me in the cafeteria. I bitched and moaned about the food to no end, yes, but at the moment I'd much rather eat Marbeck than scour my cupboards for something decent to eat. And, most importantly, I didn't take all the risks I should have. I played it safe far too often. I stayed quiet when I should have said something. I settled for the status quo when I could have attempted something more progressive - and in all likelihood failed nonetheless, but at least I would know I tried. Cliche, I know, but I think a certain amount of living in the moment is healthy. At least it makes for a more interesting life.

Then again, I can't know for sure that I would be happier or more content with my life now if I'd done and said the things I wish I had. Milan Kundera comes to mind again (I swear, he's taken over my mind):

We can never know what to want, because, living only one life, we can neither compare it with our previous lives nor perfect it in our lives to come.

Maybe the almost certain humiliation that would have resulted from doing and saying those things would make me less happy now. Those moments have long since passed anyway, and contemplating them at length only makes me less progressive in my life now.

None of this is to say I'm unhappy with my life. Quite the opposite, actually; for the first time in a good while, I can say that I'm content - as long as I live for the moment. Anything beyond that is rather unsettling.

On a completely unrelated note, I make a whole lot of stuff:

You're Taiwan!

Despite enormous setbacks, including the fact that most people refuse to
recognize who you are or even that you exist at all, you've built yourself into quite a
productive person.  You've got a little trouble maintaining a sense of personal order,
but through the mess, you're still very industrious and have a small but pivotal impact on
almost everyone you know, and even people you don't.  You make a whole lot of stuff.



Take the Country Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid

Dave Barry Disproved

So I'm reading Milan Kundera's The Unbearable Lightness of Being as part of my reading list. It's pretty deep stuff; every page seems to have some major philosophical revelation about something that I have to pause and consider. It's really interesting, but it makes for slow going. This guy ponders everything. Which, naturally, makes me think of a certain Dave Barry column...

Anyone who reads this who started at Bluffton College as a freshman within a few years of me knows the reading called "The Difference Between Men and Women" in the First Year Seminar textbook. You may not know Dave Barry wrote it, as I'm not sure proper credit was given in the book (at least not in the 1999-2000 edition), but you should know the story, if you started college with the discipline to actually read all the reading assignments you were given. For anyone who doesn't know what the hell I'm talking about (out of the total of five people who will actually read this), here is an excerpt:

Let's say a guy named Roger is attracted to a woman named Elaine. He asks her out to dinner; she accepts; they have a pretty good time. A few nights later he asks her out again; and again they enjoy themselves. They continue to see each other regularly, and after a while neither one of them is seeing anybody else.

And then, one evening when they're driving home, a thought occurs to Elaine, and, without really thinking, she says it aloud: "Do you realize that, as of tonight, we've been seeing each other for exactly six months?"

And then there is silence in the car.

To Elaine, it seems like a very loud silence. She thinks to herself: I wonder if it bothers him that I said that. Maybe he's been feeling confined by our relationship; maybe he thinks I'm trying to push him into some kind of obligation that he doesn't want, or isn't sure of.

And Roger is thinking: Wow! Six months.

And Elaine is thinking: But, hey, I'm not so sure I want this kind of relationship, either. Sometimes I wish I had a little more space, so I'd have time to think about whether I really want us to keep going the way we are, moving steadily toward... I mean, where are we going? Are we just going to keep seeing each other at this level of intimacy? Are we heading toward marriage? Toward children? Toward a lifetime together? Am I ready for that level of commitment? Do I really even know this person?

And Roger is thinking: So, that means it was... let's see... February when we started going out, which was right after I had the car at the dealer's, which means...let me check the odometer... Whoa! I am way overdue for an oil change here.

That was a long excerpt, I know, but who can resist just posting a line or two of the genius that is Dave Barry?

Now, I just called Dave Barry a genius, but I'm about to provide textual evidence that at least one exception to his model of male thinking exists: Milan Kundera. He seems to have done a pretty big load of thinking about everything (relationships included) in his day. For instance, the narrator explains that the character Tomas, in trying to determine whether he loved his future wife Tereza, eventually concluded that

Making love with a woman and sleeping with a woman are two separate passions, not merely different but opposite. Love does not make itself felt in the desire for copulation (a desire that extends to an infinite number of women) but in the desire for shared sleep (a desire limited to one woman).

This guy is more analytical toward his relationships than I am. And, naturally, he comes to much more meaningful conclusions than I do; the book (or at least Part One of it) is full of these thoughts blended seamlessly with the narration of a love story about two characters named Tomas and Tereza. No thoughts of oil changes here...

So there you have it: the works of Dave Barry and Milan Kundera in dialogue with each other. Go figure.