5/7/2011 - history, then as legend, and eventually. . . god. . .

Other than a lovingly lingering shot of a shirtless Thor getting dressed (as well as all other shots of his clothes clinging to his body for dear life), the best part of the movie happened within the first three minutes.

By way of explaining how the Norse gods came to be, a narrator recounted a time years ago when Norway was attacked by frost giants, harbingers of icy destruction.  Though the people fought back, they would have completely fallen to the giants' ruthlessness had it not been for the intervention of Odin, a warrior-king from another world, and his clan.  They stepped in, drove the giants back, and then returned to their own land several galaxies away.  The legacy of Odin's actions lived on as history, then as legend, and eventually, the people grew to worship him as a god.

Though I rarely go to church and would never consider myself religious by any means, I do think of the subject often--not religion in any denominational sense, but more from an overarching, spiritual one.  (Sidenote: I actually hate saying 'spiritual' as it is so commonly used nowadays to describe one's belief system that I wonder if it means anything more than just a convenient way to seem enlightened, but simultaneously allowing license to not have to go to church on Sundays or actually take a stance on anything.)

So anyway, I'm spiritual, and Thor gave me a new way to think about religion and gods of worship: What if God (and for simplicity's sake, in the Christian sense) was nothing more than an advanced being from a distant planet who came to Earth, helped humanity in some way, then left and returned home, leaving us to marvel (See what I did there?  Thor belongs to the Marvel universe, so I was being clever, which I can be with nine-and-a-half hours of sleep. . . or not.) at his powers, his kindness, and eventually to deify him in the same way the Vikings did with Odin.

Thinking of God in this way alleviates any onus, any possibility of divine retribution should we misbehave.  Why would God care?  He belongs to a different world altogether, with a different family, with responsibilities and struggles all his own.  We are no more (or less) than a people he cared enough about to assist in some way once upon a time.  Whether we live happily ever after is not up to him and is likely not a burden he wishes to carry.

And who can say that this theory is wrong?  Just like I can't say that the idea of an all-powerful, benevolent God (at least in the New Testament) who sits in heaven and waits for our souls to return to him is wrong.  Nobody knows, but I will say this: I feel closer to God, in whatever incarnation of 'God' you choose to apply, after thinking about him in this ironically more human way, which I have been since last night.

And really, were it not for this nugget of wisdom at the onset of Thor, I would have had very little else to think about for the rest of the movie.

5/6/2011 - pretentious vernacular. . .

Sometimes, the corporate world baffles me with its lack of reality.  We dress in clothes we would likely never wear on our own accord, work on things that likely do not fulfill us or enrich our lives, and, as I've noticed lately, say things that likely would sound absolutely absurd to anyone not embroiled in the corporate construct and in love with this style of pretentious vernacular.  Some examples:

1. We have many masters to please,
2. but if we want to remain competitive, we have to get on the beach,
3. so given our budgetary constraints, it would benefit us most if we just focused on the low-hanging fruit.

In other words:

1. People have too many opinions;
2. we need to just get to work,
3. but since we're broke right now, let's just do easy shit.

Some co-workers are notorious offenders, and I've taken to jotting down and tallying how many occurrences I hear of these stuffed-shirtisms throughout my day.  For example, using the word 'hat' to signify 'perspective,' as in, "We have to take off our [Company X] hat and put on the customer hat if we want to succeed," happened six times this week in four different meetings, but only perpetrated by two different people.  I've heard the "many masters to please" gem five times since the inception of this anecdotal research a few weeks ago, all from the same person!

This morning, I had to laugh after an exchange of e-mails with a particularly demanding salesperson.  She wanted some information on the project I launched earlier this week IMMEDIATELY (her caps, not mine) to give to a client.  I was already working on other things at that moment, so my bandwidth was limited (when in Rome. . .), but still, I IMMEDIATELY (my caps, not hers) began digging through my files, found what she wanted, and summed it all up in an e-mail no more than 15 minutes later.

She wrote back almost IMMEDIATELY and proceeded to extol the importance of said client, how 'high-profile,' how this information could make or break the sale, etc.  And finally, could I send this information over in "addendum" format ASAP? 

I wrote back to ask her what she meant by that and this was her reply, verbatim: "I don't know... I made it up.  Just send me something ASAP.  Thanks!"

At least she admitted that this term does not exist (how she expected me to respond to her request, then, is a different story altogether).  So I copied everything from my e-mail, pasted it across three Powerpoint slides, and sent it again.  This seemed to satisfy her ill-defined notion of "addendum" format because I never heard back from her, not even an acknowledgement of receipt.

I recognize the levels of obnoxiousness this reaches, but really, what could I do but shrug it off and accept that this is the world in which I work and the people with whom I do?

Ah, Friday, never hesitate. . .

5/5/2011 - will you light my candle. . .

Rent changed my life.

For my 19th birthday, my ex-girlfriend-turned-best friend-turned-lesbian/kinky burlesque dancer (we obviously made quite a pair in high school) surprised me with a picnic in Golden Gate park, a nice walk around San Francisco, and last minute tickets to see Rent.  I knew little about this particular musical, thought it sounded like a bunch of slacker/hippie-types who were too cool for me to understand, and I admittedly had little interest.

Prior to Rent, I had seen a handful of musicals.  My parents, though not proactive, always supported my desire to see the latest blockbuster Broadway show that blew through the San Francisco theater scene.  We made the mandatory-for-Bay-Areans pilgrimage to the Curran Theater when Phantom of the Opera played night after night as its resident show.  I remember my fascination with the helicopter in Miss Saigon, the city-turned-barricades of Les Mis.  But aside from these spectacles and a few memorable songs, I thought musical theater was nothing more than something fancy to do occasionally in the City.

By the time Marie and I stepped into the Golden Gate Theater and found our seats, I was already eager for the show to be over so I could go home and go to bed.

The moment I reached my epiphany and regauged all expectations happened quite early in the show, maybe within 30 minutes, when Roger, the sensitive but tortured musician, meets Mimi, the friendly neighborhood stripper and crack addict.  She comes barging into Roger's apartment asking him to light her candle, and the innuendos go on from there.  I sat in the darkened theater, watched the darkened stage as they sang together and thought, "I can't believe how much I love this song right now!"

Leave it to Jonathan Larson to write a song about a drug addict needing a candle to cook her stash and turn it into a playful, flirty, endearing duet between two characters with similar qualities.  As resistant to the show as I was, I didn't stand a chance as each scene thereafter gave me new things to love.

I ended up wanting to jump out of my seat at the end of Act I, crying shamelessly through most of the second half, and felt an overwhelming need to call everyone I had ever known and loved to tell them just how much I missed them and how important they were to my life.  Afterwards, I went straight to the lobby and bought the cast recording and a white T-shirt with an artist's rendition of Mimi with the line, "Will you light my candle?" scrawled across the front, commemorating the first song that captured my attention.

The show itself certainly lit a candle for me, and it has led the way to more than I thought (now that I actually give it some).  Because of Rent, I fell in love with musical theater.  Because of musical theater, I abandoned my California teaching credential program and started working at Max's Showtunes Opera Cafe, a restaurant with singing waiters accompanied by a powerhouse pianist.  Because of Max's, I exponentially increased my knowledge of musical theater, and with this knowledge, I eventually desired to do more than just observe and listen to it.  And because of this desire, I found the Studio ACT in the City, took a class and ended up in the spring performance project of Stephen Schwartz's musical, Working, last year, and through Working, I learned that acting is not my forte, and though neither really is singing, the latter, especially doing so in front of people, inspires a rush in me incomparable to any other, which most recently led me to Rapid Transit A Cappella.

So to say that Rent changed my life is no exaggeration.  The fire it ignited in me burned for a long time, burns still, which is more than I can say for that T-shirt I bought some 11-odd years ago.  I first noticed holes near the collar, which were followed by more holes under the arms.  Then the collar itself frayed and I could see my skin through the threadbare fabric.  I had to face the reality that soon, it would simply fall to pieces.

The other night, I decided to apply my sewing skills (of which I really have none) and get creative.  I got a pair of scissors, cut out what I wanted to keep from the original shirt, and began sewing it onto another.  About four hours, needle wounds on various fingers, and a sore shoulder later, I emerged with a new Frankensteinian shirt that likely will come undone after its first washing.

Behold, my "Guys with iPhones"-inspired shot of my handiwork:

I do have to say that I am quite proud of myself.  For someone who barely knows how to sew on a popped button, I think I did alright.  At the very least, I honored the bohemian, 'la vie bohème' spirit of Rent by "making something out of nothing," as it were.

5/4/2011 - everything kind of wrote itself. . .

What follows is today's post, written in one sitting with barely any revisions.  I mention this because I wanted an opportunity to explain its faint aimlessness while also drawing a modest amount of attention to the irony that I really didn't know what to say today, yet found that once I starting writing, everything kind of wrote itself.

For better or worse.  You be the judge; I can take it.

--- 

Today is the first day in a long time, at least a few weeks, where I sat down and had no idea what I wanted to write about here.  Not that things are going badly in life--quite the opposite, actually--but I resolved at the beginning of this blog not to just rattle off things that I'm thankful for, like my health or my job or milk for my cereal.

I am, of course, certainly grateful for all of those things, and more, as I recognize that the alternatives are dire (with the possible exception of the milk item, even though it may feel like the end of the world to be let down first thing in the morning when all I want is a bowl of Frosted Mini-Wheats): a friend recently broke his knee; others are struggling with employment.  Another recently came home after a vacation to find that the doggy hotel/hospital erroneously doubled his dog's insulin medication, ultimately killing his beloved pet.  Can you imagine?  And of course, now that I own a dog, every other dog becomes a representation of mine.  When I heard the news, I could only think how grateful I was that Grr is alive, safe and troubled only by his desire to live in a sleepy suburb, a rural farm, a quiet cul-de-sac, anywhere but here in the City.

But see, that's just it; I don't have much more to say about Grr other than that, nor about any of those everyday morsels of gratitude other than 'I am glad I am healthy,' or 'Thank God I have a job.'  And as happy as I was to see Sam yesterday morning after a few days apart, I have tried really hard (and largely succeeding, I'd say) to avoid turning this blog into the Sam and Austin Show, where essentially I just gush about how much I love my boyfriend.  Nobody wants to read that; people hate you for that.

Such is the danger of writing for an audience, or, largely in my case, writing for an intended, imaginary audience: you start to cater the writing to the people who read it.  But the truth is that I am happy with Sam.  I am very much in love with him, so why should I shy away from saying just that?  An acquaintance chatted me up earlier today on Gmail, and what started out as a friendly 'hello' quickly turned into a session of couples' counseling (is that apostrophe in the right place?).  Peter repeatedly finds himself in the same arguments with his partner: partner is not affectionate enough; Peter himself doesn't put out enough; they both recognize that they are not happy, but neither has it in themselves to figure out a solution to the complex problems they share.  Throw in self-esteem issues, feelings of jealousy in an open-relationship, and a growing animosity toward the inequities that exist between them, and I quickly found myself in over my non-M.F.T.-trained head.

Besides, what can they do?  They have been together for over seven or eight years, live together in a house they recently bought together, share friends and acquaintances; in all ways--emotional, physical, legal--their lives are intricately tangled.  A separation, ironically, would require a huge amount of commitment, a quantity of which I doubt either had.  I felt bad about it, worse, actually, since I listened to what Peter had to say and interpreted it all as a cautionary tale, a story of how not to be if you want to have even the most remote chance at a realistic, but still fairytale-like, ending.

Toward the end of the conversation, he asked me how things were going with Sam.  What could I say, after spending 30 minutes talking about his imperfect relationship, other than, "Oh, we're fine," even though I repeatedly thought, as we chatted, how lucky I was to be in my imperfect-but-perfectly-fulfilling one?

5/3/2011 - good to be home. . .

For the past couple of days, Grr acted like that kid who went off camping, stayed up late, and had immeasurable amounts of fun with a seemingly endless supply of energy.  And just like that kid, he came home this morning after two days of constant companionship (of both the human and canine variety) and promptly fell asleep:

Not that I blame him.  My mom said he barely napped at all yesterday; how could he, between investigating every little noise in the house, wrestling with Elliot, and hamming it up for my aunt who made an impromptu visit after hearing that Grr was in town? 

And after two nights of nothing but canine companionship, which basically means heavily interrupted sleep and particularly early mornings, I am looking forward to falling asleep myself.

My parents took great care of the two of us during our stay, and Sam, too, while he was there; I would go as far as to say that Grr had the time of his little life.  But with my own bed waiting for me, a partner who will tend to Grr's nighttime needs, and the knowledge that vacations are again a possibility for us after securing two loving and willing doggysitters whom Grr loves to be around, it is good to be home again.

5/2/2011 - a bad person. . .

I know a lot of people are tiptoeing gently about the death of Osama bin Laden, cradling their reactions in their arms--should I feel joyful that he is dead?; should I condemn the killing of a man, regardless of his deeds and nature?  It's a polarizing question, and thanks to the wonders of social media, I can already see much of the dissention on how we all should, and shouldn't, process this event in the name of decency.

So I will take this opportunity, go on record, and say this:

I could not possibly want to celebrate the death of Osama bin Laden more.  Thank God it happened, and that it happened without any American casualties (at least in this specific strike, anyway).  Thank God the fight was brought to his 'home,' met with him face to face so he could see it coming, see his inevitable demise crashing through his walls, unstoppable in spite of however many wives he tries to throw in its way.  I hope it hurt.  I hope he suffered. 

I'll admit, I may be wrong in thinking this way.  Maybe this is just an example of how deep my flaws run, or maybe I am simply less evolved, less enlightened, than those who say that every human life has value.  But really, can we honestly hold bin Laden, the same one who claimed to rejoice at the sight of those bodies, sometimes only parts of bodies, plummeting to the ground on that sunny morning of September 11, 2001, in the same classification, the same species, the same genus as you and me?

So there you have it.  President Obama was right; it is a good day to be an American.  I am happy we got him, killed him decisively and unwaveringly, and though I should probably hold these thoughts closer to my heart and further from my mouth (or in this case, my fingertips), what can I do?  This was honestly how I felt when I received the news last night on TV, still how I felt this morning after sleeping on it, still after reading countless Facebook posts from friends who rebuke any feelings of joy one may hold at this historical moment. 

And it truly is a historical moment for America, for all the people who died on the planes, in the Pentagon and the towers, for their families and loved ones who might, just might, finally, after 10 years, feel the beginnings of closure. 

I just can't help but think back a decade to that morning when I woke up and saw those two towers burning like candles, how I was convinced for much too long that it could not be real, could not be terrorism; real buildings don't crumble like that.  It must be some horrible mix-up, a movie shoot, maybe.  I remember how the world seemed to have stopped on that day--traffic moved slower, stores were emptier--and how the world was changed every day thereafter. 

If feeling not an ounce of anything besides happiness at how bin Laden's death singularly has done more good than his entire cumulative life, if feeling joy at this American victory, this karmic comeuppance, makes me a bad person, then I am further from being good than I thought.  I'll just have to find a way to live with that.

5/1/2011 - the storm before the calm. . .

I expected Grr to be excited about our trip into the suburbs and visiting with his little cousin Elliot while we stayed with my parents for a couple of days.  I just failed to predict the scale of his excitement.

From the moment Grr charged through the front door of their house as if he owned the place, I could see a look of bewilderment in his eyes: space to roam, plushy carpeting, another dog to antagonize, and a quiet cul-de-sac outside with nary a bus or motorcycle, barely even any motor traffic at all.  This was everything he wanted: his Eden, his Shangri-la, his Vegas.

Because going outside to pee or poop does not equate to facing an onslaught of sights and sounds, Grr now absolutely can not get enough of the friendlier, quieter outdoors.  He purposefully drinks so much he waterlogs himself, then sits by the door, needing to go out every 20 minutes, at which point he'd pee, but also mill about, chew on sticks, and generally goofs off until I chase him back into the house.  Heaven forbid I hesitate or flat out ignore the request; the consequences are dire.  Grr definitely has the upper hand in this one.

Where Elliot is concerned, Grr acts like the little brother you wish would just leave you alone and develop a life of his own.  Where Elliot goes, Grr follows closely behind.  Not content with mere proximity, however, he would also bite at her heels as if to herd her, or nip at her cheeks, only to recoil and go into what Sam has coined the "puppy stance" when she responds: butt in the air, front legs down, and a face full of youthful exuberance while awaiting the craved-for attention. 

I've always thought that Elliot was not-so-secretly annoyed with Grr, yet if he loses interest or finds a new shiny thing to focus on, Elliot would sashay across the room with a ball in her mouth, sometimes right in front of him, which is more than enough to entice him.  Then they'd be off again to the herding, the nipping, the puppy stances and the growling. 

In an effort to curb the at-home chaos, Sam and I took them both to a nearby dog park where they chased after balls, each other, other dogs, and riled themselves up to a point where they could barely keep their eyes open during the car ride home.

Of course, as soon as we barely took two steps into the house, they both miraculously recovered, eager to begin another round of their endless game.  While they played, all Sam and I could hear were dog tags jingling, guttural growls, and gnashing of toenails on the hardwood floor.

I sat on the couch and marvelled at the sheer collision of dogs.  The frenetic energy was just about all I could bear when miraculously, Elliot jumped up beside me and Grr did not follow suit.  Instead, he trotted over to the rug, paced in a tight circle and plopped himself down.

And then it was quiet.  Unfathomable peace, as if the last half an hour was the storm before the calm.  I looked at Sam, not quite believing that we could actually exist in the same room with these two and still hear ourselves think and breathe.

I risked disrupting this delicate balance by sliding down on the couch and laying down.  The silence just begged me to take a nap in it.  I propped one leg gently on Elliot's back, smiled, and woke up an hour later to Sam saying, "Check out this video of three sleepy pups!"