Rude awakening, or: Thanks, Jane!

Waking up in the morning (or for some, the afternoon or evening) is something we all do, so we don't really think about it. Most of the time, I'll set my alarm clock to the local classical station, setting the alarm time for about half an hour before I actually want to get up. That way I can hit the snooze button, lie in bed for another half hour listening to music, or get up if I'm no longer feeling sleepy. But when I don't have to work in the morning, I'd rather just wake up naturally. If I am awakened by an outside force, I'd rather it be a benign one, like the tiny feet of my guinea pigs running around in their cages, or a beautiful woman gently nudging me awake.

Some mornings- most, really- I'm not that lucky. But aside from some highly unlikely candidates (a grizzly bear tearing off my arm, say) I can think of few wakeups that would be less unpleasant than the one I got this morning. Yep, I had a cramp in one of my calf muscles. Around 6:30 this morning, I was in the middle of a fairly pleasant dream when it hit me. I remember actually crying out in pain, that's how bad it was. What could I do? There I was, my mind still not alert, suddenly shocked into a waking state by a sharp pain.

Naturally, the first thing I did was reach down and try to massage it out, but that didn't really work for me. When I got my composure a little more, I hit on the idea of stretching out the muscle, so I turned over on my stomach, planted my big toe on the bed, and pushed back on the leg, which helped to alleviate the pain. But I think what helped just as much was the glass of water I usually keep by the bed. I started doing this a few years ago in the winter, when the heat would get me dried out, and I never got out of the habit. I think it helped that I had just watched Scott Stark's More Than Meets the Eye: Remaking Jane Fonda, which contains audio of one of Jane's old 20 Minute Workout tapes. As I lie in bed, trying to work out the pain, I thought of Jane saying, "now go drink a lot of water- muscles need to be hydrated," or something like that. Sure enough, after half a glass of water and some stretching, I managed to get back to sleep. Whew.

OK, just so you don't have to look at that horrible William and Mary post at the top anymore...

Over the past week I've come to the conclusion that I should look for a new job. This one just isn't cutting it. And it's not about the money. Check that- it's not JUST about the money. Getting paid more would be nice, especially so I don't have to blow my nest egg just to go to TIFF this year.

But more important than the simple fiscal consideration is my gradual realization that the banking industry really isn't for me. I'd had my doubts about this job before, but I was able to rationalize them away. But little stuff has really started to grate on me, and when that happens there's only a matter of time before it piles up and then spills out.

The weirdest conclusion I've come to lately is that I don't like banking's overreliance on numbers. This may sound like an odd objection, but hear me out. I don't mind math- in fact, I'm pretty good at it, if somewhat out of practice. But in banking, you work with two kinds of numbers. There's the kind that you use for their mathematical properties- to add, subtract, and the rest- and then there's the kind that is used just for identification purposes. And those I don't do so well with. When I look at something like 123456789, I immediately think one hundred twenty-three million four hundred fifty-six thousand seven hundred eighty-nine. But a lot of the time you can't do that. The kicker is that I probably work with more non-math-related numbers than I do with math-related ones.

Now, I don't confuse easily, but when someone asks me to do something and the key elements of the request are four or five series of numbers- say, "can you switch the thingy from 45798121 to 7965223 with an index of 518 and a reference of 86859?"- I usually have to ask him to repeat himself at least once. And quite frankly, having to do this regularly makes me feel kind of stupid. I don't like feeling stupid. Really, I'm sure nobody does, but being thought of as stupid is one of the things I fear most. So you can see why I might have some misgivings about this part of the job.

I think I'll call up my old temp agency- the one that got me this job- next week, to see if they can find me anything else. Hopefully something involving fewer numbers, or at least numbers I can add up if the urge hits me.

Offensive semi-jokes that will almost certainly get you slapped

This was inspired by a girl I saw while I was out driving today:

A rather healthily-chested woman is walking down the street, wearing a t-shirt with "William and Mary" emblazoned across the chest. A guy walks up to her and asks, "so... which one's William?"

Sorry about that, guys.

Religious debate, in license-plate form

When I came home from work today, I pulled into the parking lot and found a spot. As I was walked into my building, I noticed two cars parked next to each other. One had a license plate that read "LIV 4 HYM." The other's plate said "6SIXX6."

This could get reeeeeeeeally interesting...

So it goes.

I was saddened by the recent passing of Kurt Vonnegut, who was a major literary hero to me during my high school and college years. I’ve been meaning to either read or re-read his work lately, and maybe now I actually will. But for the time being, I’ve been reading all of the appreciations of his life and work, many of which reference a certain passage from his masterful Slaughterhouse-Five, one that I hope someone will be cool enough to reference when delivering my funeral oration.

But this isn’t one of those- plenty have been written, most of which are better than I could have done. And that’s what really moves me about this, how personal these writers’ reflections on Vonnegut are. There is a great outpouring of sadness whenever a majorly respected or even beloved public figure dies, but the tenor of people’s reminiscences is different when it’s an artist. Writers in particular inspire very personal reflections, which makes sense- whereas many other art forms are best experiences communally, writing is a one-on-one relationship between text and reader. When you read a book that really hits home, it feels like the author is speaking directly to you.

Strangely, in light of Vonnegut’s passing, I couldn’t help but contrast it in my mind with Anna Nicole Smith’s death a few months back- strange because the reactions to their deaths were as different as their lives. Vonnegut’s passing has inspired a passionate wave of emotion from a relatively small segment of the population, and respectful shout-outs from the mainstream media. By contrast, Smith’s death was a media circus, with feeding frenzies springing up in the press over her autopsy and the paternity of her child.

These contrasts are illuminating. In a way, they kinda come down to the basic fact that he was an old writer who died, whereas she was fairly young, thus turning her death into a "tragedy." But it goes deeper than that. Writing is a solitary activity, and when writers become celebrities, it has as much to do with their extracurricular activities as it does with what they actually write. Smith, on the other hand, was a media creation through and through, a beneficiary of a popular culture that values visibility over accomplishment, and in which no celebrity is ever forgotten provided that she keeps the cameras close by. This was why the occasional gush-pieces that suggested that Elton John re-record "Candle in the Wind" in her memory were so misguided- she never had a legend in the first place, much less one that would endure after her candle burnt out. What, is the guy supposed to trot out the old warhorse every time a famous blonde dies before her time?

Thinking about these contrasts just throws into relief how the media is as much about telling stories as it is about reporting the facts. And rarely is this more apparent when a celebrity passes, since it gives journalists the ideal opportunity to pare down the lives of the famous into convenient plots- the humble beginnings, the rise to fame, the salad days, the fall from grace, and the tragic demise. When it all comes down to it, Smith’s life fit this mold perfectly.

But with all the ink has been spilled over her death, people just didn’t respond to it the way they did with Vonnegut’s. While Smith’s fame was largely predicated on what took for herself, whereas Vonnegut’s was predicated on what he gave to us. And that makes all the difference, really- Smith’s legacy was some naked pictures, a few lousy movies, a dopey reality show, and lots of disposable press clipping, all of which will no doubt be swallowed up by the media abyss. Whereas Vonnegut gave the world some of the greatest novels to be written during his lifetime, which will endure as long as people continue to read them.

Words, music, light and life

- Watching CELINE AND JULIE and UP DOWN FRAGILE on two consecutive nights, besides reminding me once more how amazing a director Jacques Rivette is, also got me thinking about libraries. Nowadays, when you walk into a library, the architecture is contemporary-looking, with soft colors, fluorescent lighting, practical carpeting and metallic shelves. And lots of computers, of course. But for me, that's never felt right. Give me that old-school library look, with hardwood paneling and gigantic reference volumes. And the card catalog, naturally. Man, I could hang out in an big, old-style library all day, wandering through the bowels of the stacks, checking out what musty and rarely-unearthed treasures are just waiting to be found. And don't get me started on the fun that can be had with microfiche.

- My latest musical obsession: Patti Smith's "Birdland." I won't go too in-depth as to why this song is so awesome, lest I appear out of my depth in terms of my musical knowledge. But man, is this song ever amazing. What I love is how it starts off like a downbeat girl-and-a-piano tune, sort of like something Laura Nyro might sing. When I listened to it again a few days ago, I started grooving on it on that level when the roiling, almost dissonant guitar playing behind Smith started to sink it. It doesn't start up suddenly or anything, it just sort of occurs to you, like that pretty girl at work who you've never quite paid attention to before. And that ending- rather than building to the big finish, it just chills out. It's so simple and sublime. If you have a copy of HORSES (and if you don't you really ought to) do yourself a favor and listen to this one again.

- There's a fluorescent bulb almost directly above my cube, right in my line of sight, and it won't stop blinking. It's driving me completely batshit. I feel like I've woken up in one of those experimental flicker films from the 60s, the kind that always have a warning for people prone to seizures.

- Bad Cavy News: So the other day I was cleaning off Victoria babies, getting them washed so they would be good to give away when the time comes. It turns out that one of them is actually a boy, something I wasn't certain of before. They're small creatures, y'see, especially when they're that young, and their, ahem, naughty bits can be hard to distinguish when they're that size. But now it's pretty certain that she is actually a he. So I separated him from the rest post haste, much to his dismay. He seems pretty lonely all by himself for the first time, and he squeaks a lot more than he used to. I feel a little bad for him- it's not his fault he's a guy- but I can't have any more babies running around the place. The worst thing of all is that he's the cutest one, and had he been a female he would've been the one I would've kept for myself.

More adventures with fruit and meat

I usually try to make it home for Easter Sunday with my family. Not that I'm religious or anything, but they have a nice get-together every year with a big meal, so I get to visit them all and get some free food at the same time. But this year I had some stuff going on at work that necessitated my staying in Columbus, so I decided to call them after their meal instead. And in lieu of eating with the family, I decided to take the time to do my own home-cooked meal, rather than the frozen dinners or carry-out I usually get.

Anyway, I settled on a pork roast as a suitable dinner. More specifically, that wonderful and surprisingly inexpensive cut that has been rather unappealingly labeled "pork butt." Seriously, do they just call it that so that your casual meat-buyer will pass it over, thus keeping prices down for those who know better? Bearing in mind my grandmother's philosophy that half of cooking is knowing what foods go together, I tried to come up with something to pair with pork, either as a side dish or a sauce. And then it hit me- apples.

Here's the recipe I formulated:

Slow Cooked Pulled Pork with Applesauce Topping
1 5-lb pork butt (bone-in pork shoulder)
1 tbsp garlic salt
1/2 cup water
5 cooking apples, peeled, cored and sliced
1/2 cup granulated sugar
2 tsp ground cinnamon
1/2 cup apple cider
1 lb egg noodles, cooked

The night before you plan to serve, rub down the outside of the pork butt with garlic salt. Place in slow cooker with water. Turn slow cooker to low level and cover. The next morning, add apples, sugar, and cinnamon, turning the heat to high level. 1/2 hour before serving, remove pork butt from slow cooker and turn heat back to low. Pour cider in slow cooker. Let pork butt stand 15 minutes, then pull into small pieces with two forks. Just before serving, place noodles in slow-cooker with applesauce mixture.

It takes a little planning ahead, but it's easy and very tasty. The pork alone was worth it- literally falling off the bone. I hadn't originally intended to use the cider, but the trouble with pork butt is that it produces so many juices that they overwhelm the apple taste. 1/2 cup is just about the right amount of cider to balance with the pork juices, although you can add more or less to taste. Oh, and don't forget that when you serve this, serve in a deep place or a bowl, because it gets pretty sloppy.

Now the only problem is what to do with the leftovers. I'm storing the pork and the noodles separately, so I could potentially pick up some BBQ sauce next time I go grocery shopping and use it for that. Maybe I should just start dating again, so that I won't have to waste this awesome innate cooking talent on myself (he said modestly). Hey, there's an idea...

Buckeye blast

I don't really follow sports. Heck, I haven't watched a football game since I graduated from college. But after some ribbing by my co-workers at the bank last fall, I gave in and bought an OSU polo shirt to wear before big games. Every Friday, most of the employees sport their Scarlet and Grey in support of the Buckeyes, and during Michigan week participation is almost de rigeur. Heck, we even have a token Michigan fan to antagonize us. I don't really get into the games, but I do enjoy the energy that they create among my co-workers, so I play along so as not to be left out.

Now, I'm sure most of you out there noticed that Ohio State is playing for the NCAA men's basketball championship tonight. I don't follow college basketball any more than I do football, although I do fill out some March Madness brackets for fun, flipping a coin to pick the winners. So, anticipating the same Scarlet and Grey barrage at work, I dug my OSU polo out of the mothballs. But even though OSU was playing for the national championship- against the college the beat them in the football title game, no less- I and my scarlet-sportin' ways were in the minority. The energy that greeted every football game wasn't there.

Why is this? Why do my co-workers get less emotionally involved with the biggest, most important OSU basketball game in years than they do with your average football game? Why won't they break out the colors for this game even though they'll happily do so when Tressel's boys take on Podunk State? I'm not saying that my co-workers are a good representation of the mood in Columbus, but I'm pretty puzzled by this realization. When the football team lost the national championship, going to work was like attending a wake. If the same happened to the basketball team, will anyone care all that much?

Lester Bangs was right

The other day I was over at a friend's house, watching some of ALMOST FAMOUS. It used to be that I would watch the radio station interview with Lester Bangs and look at his statement about the Doors as being an eccentric viewpoint by an opinionated guy. "Jim Morrison? He's a drunken buffoon masquerading as a poet." But watching it again, I realized that I was agreeing with him now. While I've claimed to like the Doors ever since my high school years, when was the last time I actually listened to any of my Doors CDs? I dare say it's been years.

The Doors are a big band for high schoolers getting into the uncharted realms of "classic rock." With Morrison's lyrics and the funereal music, they feel serious and deep, especially compared to innocuous contemporary pop. "Morrison's words are poetry," we tell ourselves, sometimes through a pot haze, sometimes not.

But when I came home and popped in one of my Doors CDs, I had one of those Tom Wolfe, can't-go-home-again moments. Most of their songs are pretty unlistenable. Maybe if I still smoked pot, I might have gotten that old feeling back, but I'm afraid those days are gone. A few songs hold up- "L.A. Woman" especially- but most hardly justify the grandiose claims we once made. The groovy organ solos now feel like drug-fueled dicking around, no less wanky than the guitar noodlings at a Dead concert ("I know my friends always charged me $35 bucks to listen to them dick around on guitars"). And poetry? Saying Morrison wrote his lyrics as poetry isn't necessarily a compliment- couldn't the same be said of any wannabe songwriter who rhymes "mire", "wire", and "pyre"?

I think what I responded to at that age, more than the lyrics or the music, was the pageantry and the pretention. Morrison played a dual role in his career, a rock'n'roll artist and a doomed musical messiah. He conveyed these roles in his music and his short life, and we believed him, as the young are apt to do. But divorced from this belief, the music just isn't the same. Nowadays, I yearn for music, not mystique. Bangs extols the virtues of the Guess Who- "they've got the courage to be drunken buffoons, which makes them poetic"- and I took have my favorites. Yet I can't help but feel a bit like a kid who just found out that there's no Santa Claus. I know the truth, and objectively I should be satisfied. But Christmas won't be quite the same anymore.