Subterranean Idiot Box Blues

I have to say that this is yet another nail in the coffin of literate society. In a world already completely saturated by TV and media, they want to make video inroads into one of the few places where the printed word could still keep a little toehold on the public consciousness. Loathe as we are as a people to strike up conversation with perfect strangers, and in the absence of a radio to fiddle with, a subway rider on the train for a long commute, is eventually going to pick up something to read. Even if all the riders are doing is perusing the latest issue of "People" magazine, reading is still an intellectually active way to pass the hours. The reader has to process the words; they have to take time to think about the information they are taking in, time to allow the words to form images in their minds, to connect to other ideas they may have buried in there. You never know; from the breakup of the latest celebrity marriage, they may be able to formulate an opinion on the demise of marriage as an institution.

TV, on the other hand, is entirely passive. The images are pre-packaged for you, and machine-gunned in your direction at the rate of 30 per second. The words fly by too quickly to make much of an impression on your brain, certainly too fast to promote deep thought and connection, and frankly, very little of what you'd see is original anyway. Plus, even if you do catch an idea that strikes a spark, it is gone in an instant. There is no way to bookmark it, to come back to it at a later time, and really chew it over. The words and images have disappeared into the ether, and with it has gone your sudden insight.

Check out Norman Mailer's essay in Parade Magazine for some insight into the destructive nature of TV and its by-products.

The British Infestation

My friend Heidi is very fond of Brits (see "Does This Car Make Me Look Fat"). I have always been a fan of them, in theory. Was wild about the Britcoms of old on PBS; I laughed for hours at "Are You Being Served?", "Benny Hill," and "Fawlty Towers." I am still a huge fan of "Monty Python's Flying Circus," "The Young Ones," and I never missed an episode, of "Absolutely Fabulous,"; in fact, AbFab-speak has become a kind of short hand for a cartoony uber-poshness my friends and I put on when we are lampooning the ladies who lunch. I think James Bond is a treat, Hugh Grant is pretty dreamy even now, and fish and chips are heaven on a plate. However, it occurred to me that while the culture at large is fantastic, not in 20 years have I personally met a Brit I really liked.

Oh, sure the accent is cool. It suggests class, breeding, the merest hint of money. I'd also wager that the average 15 year old from Britain has a much better grasp of history, literature, art and sociology than the leaping gnomes I have to try daily to beat some culture into. But taken individually, Brits can be a snotty, pushy, haughty lot of f-wits. To steal an insult from "Bridget Jones."

Let us take for example the Brit-iot I ran into this morning. Admittedly, I was running late, so my patience was already worn thin. He has run his flashy silver sports car into the parking lot right in front of school, and is in fact, parked in my regular parking space. The hood is up, and he is stalking back and forth chatting on a cellphone. I eased into the next empty place, cut the engine and started to gather my stuff, just short of the first bell (good gravy, where did the time go?), when he comes over and says to me "Would you please move your car elsewhere? I am trying to keep this spot free." Haughty, British tone, looking down his patrician nose at me, and not a "please, thank you" in sight. I was so taken aback by the rudeness, I couldn't even formulate a response. I just said "okay," got back in the car, started her up again, and moved over two spaces. But as I listened to the second bell bearing down on me as I once again collected my things, I started to steam. I am sure he was probably waiting for a tow truck or someone with jumper cables (which I had in my trunk and would have offered to help him out if he hadn't been such an arse), but how does that give him the green light to behave like a jerk? You know what I think? I think so many people fall all over themselves in response to that James Bond accent, that he has forgotten that he has to be a decent human being.

I had a student like that a couple of years ago. Straight out of London, second son, wealthy family, father was the head honcho of some big local company. Biggest pain in the behind you would ever have the displeasure of meeting. For 15 year old boy arrogance, I have never met his equal. In class, he snapped his fingers at me as if I were the household help. In the few minutes the kids spent packing up at the end of the day, he never neglected to come by my desk to tell me his idiotic opinions on women, minorities, and what was wrong with Americans in general. And when he failed my class, he enlisted his father to call and attempt to bully me into changing his grades. And after all that, he still persisted in asking me nearly weekly, "Miss Curley, why don't you like me?"; he was truly puzzled by this since, as he claimed, all women like him, because of his accent. Ugh! I will admit, when his father was let go by his company, and they all had to return to England in disgrace, the least dignified part of my soul danced a little jig at his misfortune. I didn't even worry about bad karma at this; I had already put much in the karma bank by not squishing the odious little toad when he got off on one of his diatribes about working women.

The last British person I met that I really liked was Alexandra. She was visiting Ocala the summer I was 10. We met hanging around the public library (for where else are you going find the best people), and became fast friends. We liked the same books, the same magazines and the same music, but fortunately not the same ice cream flavors. Which was cool, because when we walked over to the local burger barn for scoops, we could share each other's cups. We played board games, read Nancy Drew, and walked around discussing the big wide world. We both cried at the end of the summer when her dad came back from France to get her and took her back to jolly old England. Alexandra had a sweet disposition and impeccable manners, real ones, not the phony put-on kind that some people just use to make you feel bad about yourself. Alexandra had class. I hope I meet a few more Brits like that some day. Come to think of it, I hope to meet a few more Americans like that one day.

The Last Broken Heart

When you offer love, companionship, care, concern, passion and, if I do say so myself, really great kisses, and a guy tosses it aside, you can't help but wonder why. HE said he just "had some stuff to work out" and he "can't handle being in a relationship right now." Which I don't understand; you can't handle somebody caring what happens to you, listening while you talk, rubbing your back when you feel beaten down, sitting across from you and laughing through dinner. How funny, since that is the kind of relationship I live for.

I feel sick, dizzy. Last night, I cried myself to a migrane and I could not get my breath. I wondered if I was having a heart attack; well, I suppose in a way it was attacked, and quite viciously, I might add. The shock of it, of being so completely unloved, really should kill you. It might be kinder for your heart to just immediately stop beating. In time that isn't the case, in time, you are really glad you survived. But at the moment, and for so many moments after that, when you go through the world seeing black and white because he has, however temporarily, sucked every ounce of joy out of your life, the temptation to close your eyes and just never open them again.

Heartbreak is a great diet though. Food turns to ashes in your mouth, and you can't ever imagine eating anything again. Water is the only thing you can keep down and even that takes more effort than you feel you can spare. It is especially hard now, of course. Valentine's Day around the corner. I think I had better unplug every television I own, so I am not constantly blindsided by visions of happy women with their jewelry and chocolate. Not that I even wanted any of that crap.

It is hard to work like this. I have to teach my classes come what may. And teenagers are very perceptive, and they always want to insert themselves into your out of school life. I keep pretending I have a cold; I fake sneeze when I start to well up, so I can wipe away the tears discretely. I might not be fooling a few of them. I keep getting looks aimed my way, sympathy mixed with curiosity. No one has said anything yet, and that is good. If anyone is kind to me today, I will probably lose it altogether.

Last night, my friend rushed to console me, my beautiful friend with the adoring husband and baby on the way. She did her best, but really, let's be honest. She assures me that I will not die alone. I don't know if I believe that.

The only thing that separates spinster from married lady is the fine line that is the last broken heart. It's the one that finishes you for good, the one that kills off any last remaining trace of romantic belief. You are tired and battle-worn, and you don't want to drag your poor broken ego through that hell ever again. You start to think that another cat would be better company than another bad date. After that, it would not matter if Adonis, Brad Pitt, or Bill Gates swooped down on you, begged you on bended knees, with armloads of fresh roses, or the Hope Diamond in a platinum setting. It is too late. Never mind getting in the game. You won't even go near the ballpark. The happily married, well, they lucked out; they got the offer to go to the big show before they hung up their skates forever. The rest of us? We came through that last broken heart, that hurricane of hurt. We repaired the damage somewhat, patched it up as best we could. But we will never again test the repair with another go around.

I wonder if this one was mine.

Slate.com--The Thinking Girl's Way to Kill Time

I have rediscovered my love for Slate.com. The writing is great and not quite as big a pain to view as Salon.com, who want me to shell out for the content (which I can't afford to do), or watch their commercials daily in order to read full articles. As my beloved AB says, "oh, bother."

Of special note should be this terrific article in the law section about the Michael Jackson case. Dahlia Lithwick raises some interesting points on how Jackson's image may win or lose the case for him. Mostly lose. And I have to agree. If Jackson continues to behave like the circus come to town, then I think he will soon find himself doing some serious hard time. In this current puritanical climate, the mere suggestion of impropriety is enough to hang you.

Think about it. Last year his sister accidentally flashed a breast at the Super Bowl (a move, by the way that could have only been seen by a viewer with TiVo, and I KNOW there could not possibly be half a million of those who were really offended), and we are all paying for it still, to wit, this year's lame halftime show. They banned a TV commercial from that same halftime show for merely depicting a minister in the same vicinity as a little girl. Do you really think that twelve middle class folks from the burbs are NOT going to purse their patrician lips, turn up their noses at Jackson's sideshow life and send him off to the pokey, if only for the sin of being an oddball?

And quite frankly, despite the fact that MJ was my first celeb crush, I can't even really feel sorry for him. I have heard all the whining "oh, poor me, I didn't get a normal childhood. Boo-hoo, I had no friends, Dad beat me, etc.." Whatever! You know what Mike, we all have these terrible stories, these injustices from pre-school, childhood, high school that we would like to redress. Guess what, you can't! The past is the past; you are a grown man in your forties. Your famous childhood really sucked? Tough! Get some therapy, build a bridge and get over it. Cuddle-time and sleepovers with little boys are not going to fix your childhood. That ship has sailed, and you need to move on. And by the way, if you are using all of this outre behavior to try and avoid the fact that deep down you are a homosexual, I have to ask, "why bother?" Turn on the TV, MJ...homosexuals are in pretty good standing right now. Ever seen "Will and Grace?" "Queer Eye?" But pedophilia, MJ? That one is never gonna play in Peoria.

Book Drop

Recently, I started giving away some of my books. Anybody that has known me for a long time should be shocked at this. I never get rid of books. I have crates of books everywhere, my apartment, my mom's house, dating back to pre-school. This is one of the main reasons it takes me at least a month to pack; at least 17 boxes of books follow me from apartment to apartment. I think starting to part with a few represents real growth.

In particular, I gave one book I really enjoyed Five-Finger Discount by Helene Stapinski to my friend, Dave. The book was her account of growing up in New Jersey; the seedy, crooked underbelly of the state, the rigged politics and the hard-scrabbling, anything-to-get-by relatives drooping from the branches of her family tree. Helene Stapinski is a great journalist; she really gives you a sense of the places and people she writes about, and her tone is a loving head-shake at the gang of the holy and the hooligans that surrounded her childhood. I just knew that the combination of humor, personal, and social history would intrigue Dave, so I handed it over to him. A week later, I mentioned the book again and he raved. He loved the book; he had started it almost immediately, and he was only a few pages from finishing.

I get a big charge out of being able to match the right person with the right book. I like it even better when the book is one that I enjoyed, too. Makes me feel like my good taste in literature is being validated. Best of all is when I give a book to one of my students, notorious non-readers to a one, and they get caught up in it. They either come back and ask if they can have the book a little bit longer, or will I keep it for them to read next time. Some of the more unscrupulous ones will steal the book outright. I don't even really mind that though. I can always buy a new one if I need it, and frankly, the idea that they want to keep reading a book badly enough to run off with it, well, it is one of the few times in this job that I feel I may be doing something right.