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the latest
waddle: good morning, wordpress - 10:36 a.m. , 2009-07-03 elaborate murder attempt - 2:56 p.m. , 2009-07-01 building a tractor in the basement - 10:42 a.m. , 2009-06-19 ask no questions tell just a few lies - 3:17 p.m. , 2009-06-09 my long lasting flavor really lasts long - 1:10 p.m. , 2009-06-04
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Watched this video recently and couldn't help thinking about the somewhat privileged position of the filmmakers (which, to be fair, they acknowledged). Because they had Israeli passports they were able to go back and forth to settlements and cities and Occupied Territories and interview whomever they chose. A Palestinian filmmaker would not have the same freedom, at least not without dozens of humiliating checkpoints every day. A few scenes really stuck out, though: the aforementioned humiliating checkpoints, with one Israeli soldier yelling over and over, "Who speaks English or Hebrew? Does anyone here speak English or Hebrew?" (Shouldn't at least one soldier at every checkpoint be able to speak basic Arabic?) There was also a spooky interview with a spooky settler kid who, when asked what a settlement was, answered, "It's a place where people who want to kill Arabs live." (Again, to be fair, the Palestinian children interviewed were not exactly a bunch of doves either.) The film tracked a bunch of different children---settler, Palestinian (both those from cities and those from refugee camps), religious Israeli, secular Israeli---and at the end got them all together to play and for face-to-face dialogue. (The spooky settler kid, unsurprisingly, opted out of that part.) I thought the film contained some overly sentimental bits---having one's buttons pushed is not exactly the same as having one's thoughts provoked---but overall it's worth watching. Do you think most people have this constant undercurrent of longing for something else? To paraphrase Kat: Were we the only ones who didn't get issued the "Get Out of Psychic Jail Free" card at birth? Dear Self: I'd like to not think so much, please. Just a day or so of being satisfied and self-actualized would do fine. Sincerely, Me. Here comes Dr Smartypants with your dose of freaky medical links: 1. Tissue Grinder! It should be the title of a Big Black song, but it's not. "Easy cleaning afterwards." (Don't you love that "afterwards"?) Also, "less effort to achieve complete homogenization." (Oh good. Because as it stands, achieving complete homogenization is a fuck of a lot of effort.) 2. Yes! Yes! Yes! Oh yes! "Experimenters are urged to adopt precautions to avoid potentially detrimental effects of pharmacologically manipulating the space-time continuum." 3. The absolute Now. It doesn't get much more beautiful (at least not in scientific abstracts) than this. Did I explain how I'm in a fight with the Lyric Opera of Chicago? Long story short (yeah right), when I had to reschedule the trip to India last year because of LT's broken foot, the rescheduling came during a time when I had opera tickets. No problem, I thought: I will exchange the tickets for a different day, either before or after India. I was even willing to pay the difference if I couldn't get the same-price seats or the same show. So I call, and I get a very snotty woman on the phone who tells me that exchanging tickets is the sole privilege of subscribers. But I can return them, if I want, and they will re-sell the tickets to someone else. You've got to be kidding me, I say. So no opera for me and you get paid twice? I think not. She gets even snottier, and implies that I'm not really cultured enough to subscribe anyway. That I am an opera dilettante. Which I am, in a sense, but aren't you a CULTURAL ORGANIZATION? Aren't you trying to get people to GO TO THE OPERA? I gave the tickets away and went to India. Because I do have a mini-subscription to the CSO and because I obviously bought opera tickets once, the Lyric telemarkets me relentlessly, to try and get me to donate. First off: No. I give lots of money to charity. Although I love the arts, if it comes down to homeless children or the Lyric Opera, the homeless kids win every time. (And it's about time they won something, don't you think?) Second: I CERTAINLY am not donating cash to the opera after all that ticket-exchange crap last February. Every few days, for like a year, the Caller ID shows "Lyric Opera of Chicago" and of course I do not pick up. Here's the funny part. (Whew, you say, peeling your sweaty pants away from your ass. The funny part, thank god. You've certainly made me sit long enough in this task chair, Mimi Smartypants, with your long-winded and not-very-interesting story.) Last week LT was home alone one night, probably (if I know him at all) watching the Discovery Channel and drinking beer, and the opera calls. And on a whim he decides to pick up. They ask for me and he says, "You know, she's mad at you." Stunned silence from the sad telemarketing boy. May they ask why? So LT tells them the ticket-exchange story, which is like a year old at this point. They apologize. They want to know when I will be home so they can talk to me in person. LT is trying really hard not to laugh, saying, "Oh I don't know if she'll come to the phone, she's pretty mad." GET THIS: ever since then the opera calls at least twice an evening. They never leave a message, just hang-ups on the voice mail. It amuses me mightily to picture myself in a lovers' snit with the opera, refusing to answer the phone late into the night. The opera is going to have to write me a note and stuff it through my locker's vents (to continue with the the high-school childish-fight theme), or get their friend to tell my friend to tell me they're sorry, before I'll speak to them. You're still here? After I took close to a thousand words to explain what is essentially a private joke in my head? Oh god, I love you. You're the best. No no, put your wallet away, this round's on me. ---mimi "shut up, I'm not crying" smartypants back/forward |
