yet again, it depends on what "is" is

So, I'm sitting here listening to Lynne Cheney on the Diane Rehm Show--why, why do I do these things to myself. But she's stating that Pres. Bush and VP Cheney never said there was a connection between Saddam Hussein and 9/11--there is no connection, she says. Any American who thinks that there was a connection is wrong, she says. I could go on with my horrified response to this, but you already know what I'm going to say. Who the hell are these people and who do they think they are kidding?

the week in review

Holiday weekends are a pleasure, the way everything relaxes and slows. Thanksgiving is especially lovely because there isn't much to do but cook and eat and chat (all among my favorite activities). And even though tv and movies cast Thanksgiving as sort of a frightening thing, requiring alcohol to get through all of the family time, I quite like my family (although I will admit I was quite ready to get away from them this morning). I let my 5-yr-old niece be in charge of the family photos and she did a surprisingly good job. I especially like this one of my mom looking a bit witchy (she is a much lovelier woman than this suggests):



She also took some charming pictures of the holiday decor:



I also got in some good desert hiking (only one day instead of two because of the impending snowstorm). The canyons we traversed were challenging (ever so slightly beyond our abilities), so they provided good adventure. My arms are bit achy today because of climbing and chimneying and I think I need to get in better shape. It was good to get away. There's this feeling I get when I arrive at the desert (actually it always arrives when I'm driving through Wellington, when I know the desert is just around the corner), this blissful moment, where I instantly feel completely content and calm. I love that. Here are a few shots of the canyon:






The big disappointment of the week was not getting to meet the Rolling Stones. There's this art gallery by work that was showing some of Ronnie Wood's paintings (which, by the way, were all of the Stones, and the gallery could only play their music during the exhibit--if I were part of a larger-than-life rock band, I think I would want to escape it occasionally). Anyway, Mr. Gallery Owner taunted us with the info. that the Stones themselves would be stopping by on the day of their concert for a private party/ art viewing. The date of the show coincided with my 32nd birthday, so I decided I was destined to meet Mick Jagger. I don't even particularly like the Stones (I mean I like them when I hear them, but I don't own any of their albums), but I know celebrity when I see it, and if Mick Jagger is going to be next door on your birthday, it seems like you should get to meet him (or at least catch a glimpse of him). But no. Even though there were photographers hovering outside the gallery (ok, maybe only one) and the place was busier than usual, the Stones never arrived.

weekend lost to cold

Things I didn't do this weekend because of a nasty cold:

*attend my friend's art opening
*watch the latest movie attempt of Pride and Prejudice
*hear Doug Peacock read from his new memoir
*catch up on housecleaning and laundry


Things I did do:
*slept until noon
*watched 4 episodes of Six Feet Under
*read the latest Atlantic
*planned Thanksgiving pie baking
*used up a box and a half of Kleenex
*cut off part of a fingernail with my new chef's knife

the real measure of a teacher

This week, Slate has been running a series of articles about higher education, all worth checking out. One of today's articles was about RateMyProfessor, the oh so informative site for teacher evaluations. I'm very upset that I'm not listed on the site at all. Am I so banal, so easily dismissed that no one wants to dedicate a few minutes to rating me? The article asserts that the folks who get rated are typically those who are either excessively loved or hated. That would mean that I am right in the middle, which sounds just about right. I am a middle sort of person. I'm a tall girl, but not excessively tall (not tall enough, for instance, to join the Tall Club of Salt Lake). I am a good runner, but not a fast runner (in nearly every race I've run, I rate almost exactly in the middle). So, I am used to being average and unremarkable, but still it's an insult to not be on RateMyProfessor. And where's my chili pepper? (the site's marker of "hotness") Really, who cares about the teaching? When I was at Knox, I was hot. I was hip. Freshman boys tried to pick up on me before they knew who I was. The college's alternative magazine published an interview all about me. They asked me to be their advisor. And now? Not one rating. Where have I gone wrong?

where the hell did I come from?

When I tell people that I grew up in Orem, I often joke that it feels like a confession. I just watched This Divided State, the documentary about the UVSC Michael Moore/ Sean Hannity controversy I'm thinking that I should stop telling people I grew up in Orem altogether. I followed some of the controversy, but I didn't fully realize how vitriolic the discourse became. Watching it all was so embarrassing to me. Nearly everyone portrayed in the film is pathetic in their vigorous anger towards the other side. The only key figure in the film who came across without any cause for reproach was the student govt. VP at UVSC (which is funny because I worked with his mom for a while at UVSC and I had very little respect for her). I would have to say, though, that the filmmaker made far more effort to make the conservatives look like asses than he did the liberals (many of whom, including Moore, were just as assinine as Hannity or any of the grumpy neocons).

I imagine that many liberals (from inside and outside the state) will watch this movie and stare open-jawed at the wacky conservatives--as represented by Kay Anderson, an Orem reactionary who cast everything in terms of good vs. evil. No doubt Anderson and his ilk in the film appear idiotic and at times dangerous as they conflate religious belief with political ideology. And I am often critical of Utah Valley and its excessively conservative bent. There's a reason I left the place and a reason that I don't go back except for family obligations. But to cast the entire county as backwards and narrow-minded is absurd. That's perhaps what made me angriest as I watched the film--watching Anderson assert his position as representative of "the community." I imagine that people watching the film who don't know Utah Valley or readily accept its reputation will believe that Anderson does in fact represent the voice of the community. But I grew up in that community; in fact, I lived all of my formative years there--from 4-24 (except for a brief stint as a Mormon missionary in London). I got my bachelor's degree at BYU. I have been immersed in that conservative haven for most of my life and I'm liberal, a registered Democratic, and no longer Mormon. I came from somewhere, so certainly in that conservative town there is room for dissent and independence. And certainly there is (or should be) room for us to discuss our differences.

The movie illustrated so well our dismissal of civil discourse. How embarrassing that both the Hannity and Moore crowds shouted down anyone who dared to speak from the other side (and how embarrassing that both Hannity and Moore encouraged this behavior). Who have we become (in Orem or in the nation) that we are so unwilling to talk to each other, to listen to the opposite view without feeling threatened? How pathetic our own beliefs and opinions must be if we believe that one person speaking can negate them.

ok--just me ranting.

if only it could all be like Candyland

When my sister M was a kid, she made up this board game called Getting Jabbed. It was sort of like chutes and ladders, in that it had a variety of encounters that led you either up or down the game board. However, you could never really make any progress in this game. The end result of the game was always death. Your first roll of the dice might lead you to a man wielding a knife (a bloody knife, mind you). This, of course, would send you to a lower level of the gameboard where you might fall into a boiling cauldron. This would mean that your game was over. You might also fall down to a blank square, but this would only mean that you were delaying your eventual end. Anytime you made some progress upwards, there would be another menacing figure with a knife or a hatchet or some other sharp object. We were laughing about the game today and I was thinking how my day (and recent days) felt just like this (not necessarily the boiling cauldrons and the knives).

By the way, M, despite her childhood morbidness grew up to be an extremely well-adjusted adult.

go see this movie!

Last night I finally saw New York Doll, the documentary about Arthur "Killer" Kane that I've been waiting to see since January, when I couldn't get tickets to any of the Sundance screenings. It's possible that a movie you've been waiting 10 months to see might ultimately prove disappointing, but this one did not. It was glorious.

The story itself is unbelievably charming and ironic (in the film Clem Burke from Blondie says how improbable it was for a New York Doll to become Mormon, like Donny Osmond becoming a New York Doll). I love the paradox of it and what a perfect narrative it creates--absolute symmetry. And there are more improbabilities, a story so perfectly constructed that you can't believe it's true. And Greg Whiteley does an amazing job highlighting the contrasts of Kane's life. Whiteley allows Kane to be both ridiculous and admirable. A fantastic moment is when Whiteley contrasts Kane describing his conversion as "an LSD trip from the Lord" and the Mormon bishop describing conversion as a warm feeling in your heart. Just look at the website, the contrasting images of the glam rocker and the nondescript white-shirted, middle-aged fellow--that says it all.

You need to see this movie. It's currently showing in NY, LA, and Salt Lake and will open elsewhere next week. I may be biased because I love the Dolls and I grew up Mormon, but even if you know nothing about the band (which the folks I saw the movie with didn't) you will still love it (which they did).

peter brady is stealing my memory!

During my Minneapolis crap-tv fest, I watched one episode of "My Fair Brady," The VH-1 horror that follows Chistopher Knight (aka Peter Brady) and his girlfriend (the first-ever "America's Next Top Model") as they try to (I guess) figure out whether they really want to be committed to each other. In the episode that I saw they were on a trip to Puerto Rico and they went to this restaurant in downtown San Juan where all the food on the menu are aphrodisiacs. The owner of the restaurant sits down to chat with them and puts poor Peter on the spot by asking them why they aren't married (and causing Peter, I'm sure, to wonder why they didn't just go out for "pork chopsh and and apple sausch"). After the chat, Ms. Peter goes on about how much she loved the owner of the restaurant, how comfortable he made her feel, how connected he seemed to life and love.

And as the whole scene is unfolding, I realize I've been to that restaurant. Slowly, I began to recognize the details of the courtyard and the inflections of the owner's voice. I didn't eat at the restaurant (way out of my budget), but I spent part of an afternoon in that courtyard, talking with the owner. We (me and various students from Knox, my former place of employment) were loitering outside of the restaurant (looking at a church I think), and the owner came out to chat with us. He told us the origins of San Juan's blue cobblestone streets and he invited us in to see his restaurant. The place was lovely, especially the courtyard. He talked to us about life and love and the importance of food and why he loved owning this restaurant. The afternoon seemed lovely and lucky and perfectly singular. And now Peter Brady and his silly paramour have stolen my lovely memory!

other peoples' habits

This morning, I was pulling an overfull bag of garbage from my garbage can and I noticed two spare bags at the bottom of the can. The last garbage had been changed out by a party guest (what lovely guests--taking out the garbage). I used to take this extra bag approach when I was a lowly Taco Bell employee, but I never do it at home. The person even tucked the extra top part of the bag tidily into the garbage can--unlike me who justs lets the extra plastic hang loosely from the rim. It was a funny moment, this, encountering someone else's habits at my house. It made me feel a bit guilty for not being a more efficient, tidier housekeeper.