How does it feel to be one of the beautiful people?

You promised not to eat the Rousseau!!!

2006-08-25T00:58:00.000-04:00

This is the Holy Grail of my childhood.

Don't Eat the Pictures.

I figured we could use a change of pace.

More on the Muslim world.

2006-08-14T23:06:00.000-04:00

I don't know why this isn't more widely reported.

Another e-mail I received. This one's an interview.

Subject: Interview with Pierre Reehov French Filmmaker

By - Pierre Rehov, documentary filmmaker
MSNBC's "Connected"

One of the guests was Pierre Rehov, a French filmmaker who has filmed
six documentaries on the intifada by going undercover in the
Palestinian areas.

Pierre's upcoming film, "Suicide Killers," is based on interviews
that he conducted with the families of suicide bombers and would-be
bombers in an attempt to find out why they do it. Pierre agreed to a
request for a Q&A interview here about his work on the new film.

Q - What inspired you to produce "Suicide Killers," your seventh
film?

A - I started working with victims of suicide attacks to make a film
on PTSD (Post
Traumatic Stress Disorder) when I became fascinated with the
personalities of those who had committed those crimes, as they were
described again and again by their victims. Especially the fact
that suicide bombers are all smiling one second before they blow
themselves up.

Q - Why is this film especially important?

A - People don't understand the devastating culture behind this
unbelievable phenomenon. My film is not politically correct because
it addresses the real problem, showing the real face of Islam. It
points the finger against a culture of hatred in which the uneducated
are brainwashed to a level where their only solution in life becomes
to kill themselves and kill others in the name of a God whose word,
as transmitted by other men, has become their only certitude.

Q - What insights did you gain from making this film? What do you
know that other
experts do not know?

A - I came to the conclusion that we are facing a neurosis at the
level of an entire
civilization. Most neuroses have in common a dramatic event,
generally linked to an
unacceptable sexual behavior. In this case, we are talking of kids
living all their lives in pure frustration, with no opportunity to
experience sex, love, tenderness or even understanding from the
opposite sex. The separation between men and women in Islam is
absolute. So is contempt toward women, who are totally dominated by
men. This leads to a situation of pure anxiety, in which normal
behavior is not possible.

It is no coincidence that suicide killers are mostly young men
dominated subconsciously by an overwhelming libido that they not only
cannot satisfy but are afraid of, as if it is the work of the devil.

Since Islam describes heaven as a place where everything on Earth
will finally be allowed, and promises 72 virgins to those frustrated
kids, killing others and killing themselves to reach this redemption
becomes their only solution.

Q - What was it like to interview would-be suicide bombers, their
families and survivors of suicide bombings?

A - It was a fascinating and a terrifying experience. You are dealing
with seemingly normal people with very nice manners who have their
own logic, which to a certain extent can make sense since they are so
convinced that what they say is true. It is like dealing with pure
craziness, like interviewing people in an asylum, since what they
say, is for them, the absolute truth. I hear a mother saying "Thank
God, my son is dead." Her son had became a shaheed, a martyr, which
for her was a greater source of pride than if he had became an
engineer, a doctor or a winner of the Nobel Prize.

This system of values works completely backwards since their
interpretation of Islam worships death much more than life. You are
facing people whose only dream, only achievement goal is to fulfill
what they believe to be their destiny, namely to be a Shaheed or the
family of a shaheed.

They don't see the innocent being killed, they only see the impure
that they have to destroy.

Q - You say suicide bombers experience a moment of absolute power,
beyond punishment. Is death the ultimate power?

A - Not death as an end, but death as a door opener to the after
life. They are seeking the reward that God has promised them. They
work for God, the ultimate authority, above all human laws. They
therefore experience this single delusional second of absolute power,
where nothing bad can ever happen to them, since they become God's
sword.

Q - Is there a suicide bomber personality profile? Describe the
psychopathology.

A - Generally kids between 15 and 25 bearing a lot of complexes,
generally inferiority complexes. They must have been fed with
religion. They usually have a lack of developed personality. Usually
they are impressionable idealists. In the western world they would
easily have become drug addicts, but not criminals. Interestingly,
they are not criminals since they don't see good and evil the same
way that we do. If they had been raised in an Occidental culture,
they would have hated violence. But they constantly battle against
their own death anxiety. The only solution to this deep-seated
pathology is to be willing to die and be rewarded in the afterlife in
Paradise.

Q - Are suicide bombers principally motivated by religious
conviction?

A - Yes, it is their only conviction. They don't act to gain a
territory or to find freedom or even dignity. They only follow Allah,
the supreme judge, and what He tells them to do.

Q - Do all Muslims interpret jihad and martyrdom in the same way?

A - All Muslim believers believe that, ultimately, Islam will prevail
on earth. They believe this is the only true religion and there is no
room, in their mind, for interpretation. The main difference between
moderate Muslims and extremists is that moderate Muslims don't think
they will see the absolute victory of Islam during their lifetime,
therefore they respect other beliefs. The extremists believe that the
fulfillment of the Prophecy of Islam and ruling the entire world as
described in the Koran, is for today. Each victory of Bin Laden
convinces 20 million moderate Muslims to become extremists.

Q - Describe the culture that manufactures suicide bombers.

A - Oppression, lack of freedom, brain washing, organized poverty,
placing God in charge of daily life, total separation between men and
women, forbidding sex, giving women no power whatsoever, and placing
men in charge of family honor, which is mainly connected to their
women's behavior.

Q - What socio-economic forces support the perpetuation of suicide
bombings?

A - Muslim charity is usually a cover for supporting terrorist
organizations. But one has also to look at countries like Pakistan,
Saudi Arabia and Iran, which are also supporting the same
organizations through different networks. The ironic thing in the
case of Palestinian suicide bombers is that most of the money comes
through financial support from the Occidental world, donated to a
culture that utterly hates and rejects the West (mainly symbolized by
Israel).

Q - Is there a financial support network for the families of the
suicide bombers? If so, who is paying them and how does that affect
the decision?

A - There used to be a financial incentive in the days of Saddam
Hussein ($25,000 per family) and Yasser Arafat (smaller amounts), but
these days are gone. It is a mistake to believe that these families
would sacrifice their children for money. Although, the children
themselves who are very attached to their families, might find in
this financial support another reason to become suicide bombers. It
is like buying a life insurance policy and then committing suicide.

Q - Why are so many suicide bombers young men?

A - As discussed above, libido is paramount. Also ego, because this
is a sure way to become a hero. The shaheed are the cowboys or the
firemen of Islam. Shaheed is a positively reinforced value in this
culture. And what kid has never dreamed of becoming a cowboy or a
fireman?

Q - What role does the U.N. play in the terrorist equation?

A - The U.N. is in the hands of Arab countries and third world or ex-
communist countries. Their hands are tied. The U.N. has condemned
Israel more than any other country in the world, including the regime
of Castro, Idi Amin or Kaddafi. By behaving this way, the U.N.
leaves a door open by not openly condemning terrorist organizations.
In addition, through UNWRAP, the U.N. is directly tied to terror
organizations such as Hamas, representing 65 percent of their
apparatus in the so-called Palestinian refugee camps. As a support to
Arab countries, the U.N. has maintained Palestinians in camps with
the hope to "return" into Israel for more than 50 years, therefore
making it impossible to settle those populations, which still live in
deplorable conditions. Four hundred million dollars are spent every
year, mainly financed by U.S. taxes, to support 23,000 employees of
UNWRAP, many of whom belong to terrorist organizations (see
Congressman Eric Cantor on this subject, and in my film "Hostages of
Hatred").

Q - You say that a suicide bomber is a 'stupid bomb and a smart
bomb' simultaneously. Explain what you mean.

A - Unlike an electronic device, a suicide killer has until the last
second the capacity to change his mind. In reality, he is nothing but
a platform representing interests which are not his, but he doesn't
know it.

Q - How can we put an end to the madness of suicide bombings and
terrorism in general?

A - Stop being politically correct and stop believing that this
culture is a victim of ours. Radical Islamism today is nothing but a
new form of Nazism. Nobody was trying to justify or excuse Hitler
in the 1930s. We had to defeat him in order to make peace one day
with the German people.

Q - Are these men traveling outside their native areas in large
numbers? Based on your research, would you predict that we are
beginning to see a new wave of suicide bombings outside the Middle
East?

A - Every successful terror attack is considered a victory by the
radical Islamists. Everywhere Islam expands there is regional
conflict. Right now, there are thousands of candidates for martyrdom
lining up in training camps in Bosnia, Afghanistan and Pakistan.
Inside Europe, hundreds of illegal mosques are preparing the next
step of brain washing to lost young men who cannot find a satisfying
identity in the Occidental world. Israel is much more prepared for
this than the rest of the world will ever be. Yes, there will be more
suicide killings in Europe and the U.S. Sadly, this is only the
beginning.

Israel's Media Crisis

2006-08-10T02:22:00.000-04:00

I'm going to be gone for a few days but I want to give the small few who read this blog some thought food.

Israel is grossly misrepresented in the media. I received the following bits and pieces as e-mails. Please read them, and realize that the Israelis are not the violent infidels in this conflict. We are dealing with an enemy that is powered by the wrath of their God.

Anyhow, read on...

Article One:

Islam's Torture of Lebanon

By Jamie Glazov

FrontPageMagazine.com | August 11, 2005

Frontpage Interview guest today is Brigitte Gabriel, a survivor of Islam's Jihad against Lebanese Christians. She is now an expert on the Middle East conflict who lectures nationally and internationally on the subject. She's the former news anchor of World News for Middle East television and the founder of AmericanCongressforTruth.com.

FP: Brigitte Gabriel, thank you for joining us today.

Gabriel: Thank you for inviting me. I'm delighted to join you.

FP: First things first, tell us a bit about your background.

Gabriel: I was raised in the only Christian country in the Middle East, Lebanon. A lot of people think the Middle East has always been made up of Moslem countries. That is not true. There once were two non-Muslim countries in the Middle East. One is a Jewish state called Israel which is under attack for its existence today and the other was a Christian country called Lebanon now under a Moslem majority controlling influence.

When Lebanon got its independence from France in the 40's the majority of the population was Christian. We didn't have any enemies. We were merchant, descendents of the Phoenicians, strong in commerce in which we prospered. In no time Lebanon became the Paris of the Middle East the banking capital of the Middle East. We were the only westernized Arabic speaking country in the region.

I was an only child to older parents. My parents were married for twenty-two years before I came into their lives. They were unable to have any children. My mother was 55 years old and my father was 60 when I was born. I had the ideal childhood, the love, adoration and attention of two mature adults who looked at me as a miracle in their lives, and were thankful for god for blessing them with a child.

Even though I was raised in a Christian country, it was still an Arabic country trying to please its neighbors, the Arab Muslims. Even the Christian private school I went to was effected. When we studied the Bible, we only studied the New Testament. I never saw the Old Testament or heard anything about it, because it was considered the enemy's bible. All I heard was Israel is Satan, Israel the devil, Israelis are demons, and they are the source of the problem in the Middle East. The Jews are evil, they are unstoppable and they want to control the world. I heard nothing but hatred toward the Jews.

FP: Can you expand a bit on some of the tragedy that befell your family? I am sorry that this is painful territory.

Gabriel: The Christians in Lebanon always had problems with the Moslems, but we never thought our neighbors would turn on us. That situation was aggravated by the influx of the Palestinians coming from Jordan after King Hussein kicked them out in Black September. That's what tipped the scale in Lebanon. Not only had Moslems become the majority but they now also felt empowered by the presence of the Palestinians and Yasser Arafat wanting to attack the Christians, take over Lebanon and use it as a base from which to attack Israel.

When the Moslems and Palestinians declared Jihad on the Christians in 1975 we didn't even know what that word meant. We had taken them into our country, allowed them to study side by side with us, in our schools and universities. We gave them jobs, shared with them our way of life. We didn't realize the depth of their hatred to us as infidels. They looked at us as the enemy not as neighbors, friends, employers and colleagues.

A lot of Muslims pored in from other Muslim countries like Iran -- the founder and supporter of Hezbollah, one of the leading terrorist organizations in the world today. They came from Somalia, Sudan, Syria, Jordan and Egypt. The Lebanese civil war was not between the Lebanese, it was a holly war declared on the Christians by the Muslims of the Middle East.

They started massacring the Christians, city after city. Horrific events the western media seldom reported. One of the most ghastly acts was the massacre in the Christian City of Damour where thousands of Christians were slaughtered like sheep. The Muslims would enter a bomb shelter, see a mother and a father hiding with a little baby. They would tie one leg of the baby to the mother and one leg to the father and pulled the parents apart splitting the child in half. A close friend of mine was mentally disturbed because they made her slaughter her own son in a chair. They tied her to a chair, tied a knife to her hand and holding her hand forcing her to cut her own son?s throat. They would urinate and defecate on the altars of churches using the pages of the bible as toilet paper. They did so many things I don't need to go into any more detail. You get the picture.

Americans just don?t realize the viciousness of the Militant Islamic fundamentalist. I think the biggest disservice for the American people was the denial by the networks to air the beheading video of Daniel Pearl. I think we as a society need to see what type of enemy we are fighting. People have been so sheltered in this country they have not paid attention to what was going on in the last 20 some years. They were more interested in watching a documentary about Madonna than paying attention to world events.

The majority of the Lebanese army was Muslims. Christians went to universities, not to the military. The Muslims began taking over military bases across Lebanon. They combined their forces with the Palestinians and formed what they called the Arab Lebanese Army and started attacking the Christians. I lived 50 yards below the last military base left in the hands of the Christians. While attempting to bombard the military base their shells missed landing directly on my home bringing it down and burying me under the rubble. I was 10 years old.

I woke up from a dream life into a nightmare. My eyes were blinded by the bright light of the explosions. But the light faded quickly as a hot liquid started poring into my eyes burning and shutting them closed like glue. I was wounded by shrapnel, which cut the artery in my arm that was twisted on top of my face. Blood was poring over my face and into my mouth. By the time I was rescued by my parents and taken to a hospital the next morning at 8:00 AM I was on my last breath. I was put on a bench in the emergency room and operated on without anesthesia. As the nurses held me down the doctors cut my flesh with scissors and sawed into my bone to get out the embedded shrapnel. As I faded in and out of consciousness, between my screams I prayed to God to stop my torture. I ended up in the hospital for two and half months.

While there, I would ask my parents why this happened to us, they would say because we were Christians and the Moslems want to kill us. So I knew ever since I was 10 that I was wanted dead simply because I was born a Christian.

When I returned home my new home was no longer the one that I knew. We ended up living in a bomb shelter under ground without electrify, water and very little food. Little did I know that this would become my life for the next seven years. Our bomb shelter was an eight by 10 feet cinderblock room buried underground, that my father used as a storage room for our restaurant.

FP: What is life like under the threat of Islamic terror?

Gabriel: We borrowed life one day at a time. After sleeping in cardboard boxes for a month that had been stored in the bomb shelter, thinking this will be over soon, we realized this situation is getting worse and worse. We finally furnished the bomb shelter with two old mattresses from our garage. My mom and I slept on one and my dad on the other. To get food my mother and I would go out and find different types of grass and dandelions to eat around the shelter in between the bombing. My mother would soak chickpeas, rice, lentils and beans over night so we can eat something during the day. My father couldn?t get out because in the bombing of our house, he lost his hearing and he wouldn?t hear the sniper?s bullets nor the bombs coming so he can hide. He had to stay put while my mother and I got out. To get water we would crawl in a ditch under snipers bullets to a near by spring. Every time we?d leave we would say our last good-byes because we didn?t know if we would come back alive. My mother would use her stocking on top of the bottle to filter all the worms and the debris so we can drink it. Then we would crawl back with bullets flying over our heads. Sometimes it would take us hours just to crawl 100 feet back into the bomb shelter.

One day when I was 13 one of our soldiers warned us that we are no longer able to fight and we are going to be attacked viciously that night. He wished us a merciful death as he left. Knowing we were going to be slaughtered that night I put on my Easter dress because I wanted to look pretty when I was dead, knowing that there would be nobody to prepare me for burial. I stood in my dress in front of the mirror crying as my mother combed my long hair and tied a white ribbon in it. I told her: ?please I don't want to die I?m only 13.?

FP: Discuss your intellectual journey about your view of Jews and Israelis, from what you were told in your childhood to when you started questioning whether it was true, to what you think today.

Gabriel: My town was 2 and half miles from the Israeli boarder. We in our Christian town were faced with the combined Muslim and Palestinian forces waiting to slaughter us. We knew our fate, knowing what they have done to other Christian towns and cities in the rest of Lebanon. To our back was Israel. The enemy, Satan, the demon possessed Jews. We had no where to turn but one way, to the devil Israel. After all we knew the Jews wouldn?t slaughter us because we had more shared values with them than we had with the Moslems. Under the cover of darkness, few men from our town went to the border, flagged down an Israeli boarder patrol, explained the situation and begged for help.

Israel agreed to help the Christians. Israel became our lifeline. The Israeli military would come during the night and bring food and ammunition to the military and milk for the children. They would take the Christian men anyone from age 13 to 70 and train them to fight; most of them have never held a rifle before. Most of the Christian men had degrees that decorated their walls, but all the degrees in the world can not defend you when an enemy is facing you with a gun, wanting to kill you by what your enemy believes is an order from God.

The only reason we stayed alive is because Israel came into Lebanon and drove the Muslims away from the surrounding hills and set up positions in our town to protect us. Things got worse as Syrian, Libyans, Iranians Egyptians became enraged and flocked into Lebanon to fight the infidel Christians and Jews.

The Muslims had one vision, to take control of the only Christian country in the Middle East and than attack Israel. Syria, with its military already suffocating the Christians, Iran with its militia Hezbollah, The PLO with the number one world terrorist Yasser Arafat, and all the other Muslim zealots on a holly mission, were using Lebanon as a terrorist breeding ground exporting terrorism into the rest of the world. Under the auspices of a peacekeeping force in Lebanon Syria shelled Israel along with Hezbollah the Iranian financed holly warriors. The world press which was getting its information from the Muslim controlled areas in Beirut were saying that Israel is occupying Lebanon and the poor Lebanese were fighting back to kick the Israelis out.

By 1982 Israel was fed up with Syria?s repeated attacks on its northern boarder. They invaded Lebanon declaring war on the terrorist infrastructure, going all the way into Beirut. During the first two days of the invasion as the Muslims were retreating they shelled us frantically. In their last artillery barrage, they scored a direct hit on the front of our bomb shelter. My mother was seriously wounded and would die without immediate medical attention. My father was too old and weak to take her to the hospital, the responsibility fell on my shoulder. We had to take her to Israel for treatment. For her it was a life saving experience. For me it was a life changing experience. It was my first lesson in the difference between the Arabs and the western world particularly the Jews.

Before we left my father gave me $60 dollars in case I needed some money since we were going to Israel for treatment. We took her first, to the Lebanese hospital in town which was vacant and bombed out. There was an Israeli doctor on duty for first aid situations. He gave my mother first aid and we put her in an Israeli ambulance and drove her under the bombs to the border. It was about a ten-minute drive, the driver was a friend of the family. When we got to the border we changed ambulances. The Lebanese driver asked me if I had any money for the ambulance fee. Like an innocent teenager who never handled money I took it out of my pocket and handed it to him and asked him how much did he want. He said: give me 30 dollars, which was half the money I had. I thanked him for driving us with tears dripping down my face and got in the Israeli ambulance and we drove off.

The drive to the hospital inside Israel was an hour long. The driver was a middle-aged soldier. He treated me like his own daughter with such respect and compassion. He listened to the radio and explained to me how the war was going in Lebanon. I felt alone and afraid. My mother was fading in and out of consciousness and moaning from pain. We got to the hospital and I walked around the ambulance to pay him the fee. I took the money out of my pocket thinking (God I?m sure this is not going to be enough for this man) If the 10 minute drive cost me 30 dollars I?m sure this is going to be much more. I extended my hand with the money asking him how much I owed him. He looked at me surprised and said: ?you don?t owe me anything. The ambulance ride is a free service from us to you. Keep your money, I wish everything goes well with you. I wish your mother, health, and speedy recovery.?

I thanked him from the bottom of my heart and thought to myself: what an honest man!!! What an ethical man! He could have taken my money and partied all night and I would have not known the difference. Yet he didn?t. And all of a sudden I felt this anger towards the Lebanese driver who was supposedly a friend of the family. I realized that he actually stole my money. I didn?t have to pay a fee for the ambulance, he basically robbed me. I felt violated. I thanked the Israeli driver from the bottom of my heart for his honesty and help.

We went into the emergency room and I was shocked at such a scene. There were many wounded people lying all over the place. Israeli soldiers, Lebanese Muslims, Christians and even Palestinians brought in from Lebanon! I was stunned at such a scene. I thought to myself why the heck are the Israelis helping the Muslims and the Palestinians? I am a Christian, I am their friend, but why are they helping the Palestinian and the Moslems? Little did I know about the principles and values of the Israeli people? The doctors treated everyone according to their injury. The doctor treated my mother before he treated the Israeli soldier lying next to her because her injury was more severe. They did not see religion, they didn?t see political affiliation, they did not see nationality, they saw people in need and they helped.

They took my mother to the 4th floor of the hospital and put her in a room with two other Lebanese ladies one Muslim and one Druze. We were in the room for 5 minutes and we heard this loud commotion outside our balcony. People were walking through our room to go out and look. I went out to see what was going on. Two Israeli helicopters had just landed to deliver wounded Israeli soldiers. I stood at that balcony feeling sick to my stomach. I felt Ashamed, Humiliated, Embarrassed, Broken hearted. After all these people are wounded because of the war with my country. I didn?t even look at any one around me I kept my eyes down. I was surrounded by mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers and children of wounded soldiers. I felt out of place, I felt uncertain I didn?t want to make eye contact with anyone because I didn?t know how they would react to me.

While I was standing there, I felt someone tapping on my shoulder. I looked up to see a nurse standing next to me. She asked me: ?You are new here aren?t you?? I said yes they just brought my mother to this room. She put her arm around me and looked into my face and said don?t worry we?ll take good care of her, everything will be fine.?

I broke out crying, I never felt such compassion and love. For the first time in my life I experienced a human quality that I know my culture would not have shown to their enemy. I experienced the values of the Israelis who were able to love their enemy in their most trying moments. That nurse didn?t even know if I was a Christian, a Moslem or a Palestinian. I spent 22 days at that hospital, those days changed my life and the way I believe information, the way I listen to the radio or to television. I realized I was sold a fabricated lie by my government about the Jews and Israel that was so far from reality. I knew for fact that if I was a Jew standing in an Arab hospital I would be lynched and thrown over to the grounds as shouts of joy of Allahu Akbar, God is great would echo through the hospital and the surrounding streets.

When Israelis heard there were Lebanese wounded in the hospitals they came barring presents, they brought chocolates, they asked people what they wanted and what they needed. They said our home is your home if you need anything let us know. They came extending a peaceful hand. I became friends with Israeli mothers staying at the hospital with their wounded sons. One in particular Rina, her only child was wounded in his eyes. One day I was visiting with her and the Israeli army band came to play national songs to lift the spirits of the wounded soldiers. As they surrounded his bed playing a song about Jerusalem Rina and I started crying. I felt out of place and started waking out of the room, and this mother holds my hand and pulls me back in without even looking at me. She holds me crying and says: ?it is not your fault?. We just stood there crying holding each other?s hands.

I thought: "What a contrast between her, a mother looking at her deformed 19 year old only child, and still able to love me the Arab, and between a Moslem mother who sends her son to blow himself up to smithereens just to kill a few Jews or Christians."

The Moslem woman who was in the room with my mother stayed in the hospital for about 12 days. And even after 10 days the doctors would come and change her bandages and check on her in their morning tour, as they would be leaving the room she would have the evil look on her face and say: "I hate you all. I wish you were all dead." For the first time in my life I saw evil. I realized that this Muslim couldn?t love the Jews even after they saved her life. And when you are unable to be grateful to the people that saved your life there is no hope.

I had to go back to Lebanon because I had to take care of my parents but I vowed that one day I would return to Israel. That one day I will live among those people. These are the types of people I want to be like. These are the types of values I want to adopt. I knew they had something even I did not. They were able to love the Palestinians and forgive them much more than I was able to, and I was a Christian who was supposed to love like Jesus taught.

FP: What hope is there? I doubt that if the Palestinians get their own state that they will suddenly love the Jews and that the whole Islamic-Arab world will put anti-Semitism on the backburner. What do you think?

Gabriel: Israel is stepping out in ?good faith? again to do whatever it takes to achieve peace with its neighbors. As if Hamas is going to appreciate the goodness of the Jews and re-write its charter accepting Israel as neighbor and a friend. Hamas has only one goal and that is to eradicate Israel one piece at a time until it becomes vulnerable to Arab military aggression and conquest.

As one who knows what's in the hearts and minds of Arabs, let me repeat what seems to be the hardest thing for world opinion to accept: The Arabs have no intention of having peace with the Jews period, exclamation point, end of discussion. No Jews can exist free and unencumbered in the Middle East. "What an outrage. Jews are dhimmis, how dare they come back and live in our midst, make the desert blossom and create a country more advanced than any other in the Middle East. And they don't have any oil?"

So far all territory concessions made by Israel have been an illusion of land for peace. In Egypt, who was given the Sinai Peninsula back in 1979, or Jordan, who signed a peace treaty with Israel, the phone books go from Ireland to Italy as if Israel never existed? What type of peace is this without full acknowledgement of statehood? What type of peace is it when Egyptian government, run and controlled television, airs the "Protocols of the Elders of Zion?"

Intelligence sources say there are plans to create a terrorist state in Gaza where world terrorist operations will be planned and carried out. This is equivalent to Somalia & Afghanistan terrorist controlled societies, but within striking distance of Israel proper. The mini Hamas Terror State would have an airport and port facilities from which to export terror to the rest of the world.

U.S. security officials have received multiple confirmations of a meeting in March [2003] between al-Qaeda, Hamas, and Hezbollah figures. Most alarming is Hamas' move towards embracing global jihad as evidenced by its publishing the messages of Osama bin Laden mentor Abdullah Azzam-Palestinian, originally from Jenin. Hamas openly publicizes its support and alliance with al-Qaeda organizations jihad action in Chechnya, Kashmir the Balkans and Afghanistan. As Al Qaeda associate Jordanian terrorist al- Zarqawi firmed up his relationship with bin Laden in Iraq, it is only a matter of time for Hamas to follow suit under the sovereignty of an independent mini-terror state free from the demands of the weakened PA leadership under Mahmoud Abbas in Ramallah..

They will form an instant terror base from which to attack every corner of Israel bent on jihad and revenge for al Nakbah-the catastrophe of their defeat in the 1948 War of Independence. Israel is engaged in an existential crisis of Armageddon-like proportions. Another piece for a peace? You have to be kidding, right?

FP: It is interesting that most people think of Hamas as an Israeli problem. Which it is of course. But it is also an American problem. And it will become a great American problem. Can you comment on this?

Gabriel: Many terrorist organizations have already set up shop here in America. The three most threatening ones are Hamas, Al-Qaeda and Islamic Jihad. Some of their operatives and supporters have entered the country illegally using visa fraud.

Of all the Islamic militant groups in the US. Hamas has developed the most sophisticated American infrastructure. Under our liberal un-restrictive environment of the United States these people are operating and were able to set up a whole array of cells that spread across the US from sea to shining sea. According to intelligence information they have cells in the top 31 cities in the US. Right in many of our towns and cities. Right in our back yard. And it?s our lazy government officials and lax laws that allowed them to come here to plan our destruction. Many are still blind in this country to the threat that we face. When are we going to wake up? Yes, we now have enacted Homeland security but without all Americans supporting the war on terrorism today our success will be limited.

What we need is to know our enemy better. And I?m not just talking about Al Qaida. How many Americans have read the Hamas charter published August 1988. Excerpts for the charter of the Hamas, the charter of Allah, the platform of the Islamic resistance movement Hamas: Article 22: "Our enemies have planned from time immemorial in order to reach the position they?ve obtained now. They strive to collect enormous material riches to be used in the realization of their dream. With money, they?ve gained control of the international media beginning with news agencies, newspapers and publishing houses, broadcasting stations. They also used this wealth to stir revolutions in different parts of the world in order to fulfill their interests and reap their fruits. With their money they created secret organizations that spread around the world in order to destroy societies and carry out Zionist interests. Such organizations are: the freemasons, rotary clubs, lions clubs, b?nai b?rith and the like. All of them are destructive espionage organizations. With their money they?ve taken control of the imperialist states and pushed them to occupy many countries in order to exploit the wealth of those countries and spread corruption there."

How many rotary club members, Lions club members know they are mentioned in the Hamas charter the largest militant Muslim infrastructure in the United states that they are considered the enemy to be destroyed.?

We really need to realize?All Americans need to realize that these people hate us and want nothing but to eliminate us because as far as they are concerned we are the infidels. These are religiously motivated fanatics who you cannot negotiate with. These are people who are convinced that god has ordered them to kill us. Their motivation is tremendous. They believe that the minute they die, at the first drop of blood, a crown of pearl will be placed on their head and they will be carried by the angels to heaven and placed at the right side of god and 72 virgins are offered to them. We cannot drop our guard for a minute. We must be more vigilant than ever before. Wake up America.

FP: Brigitte Gabriel, you are an incredible person with an extraordinary, inspiring and vital story to tell. Thank you, it was an honor to speak with you.

Gabriel: Thank you for giving me the opportunity to join you today. Organizations like yours make it possible for people like me to get the word out. Together we can make a difference.

Article Two

About major Roy Klein ZL (of blessed memory):

The very least that we can do for someone who sacrificed his own life so heroically, is to tell his story. It's unclear why the media has kept this story from the eye of the public opinion.

Major Roy Klein Z/L, the IDF Golani assistant battalion commander, from the settlement Eli (yes, yes, a settlement), was the most senior rank officer among his fighters in the village of Bint El G'bel in Lebanon. During battle, he suddenly noticed a hand grenade thrown to his men. Since it was too late already to defend and prevent the deadly hit of the grenade, he immediately jumped over it in such a way his body completely blocked the grenade?s blast, thus saving his subordinates. His sacrifice bore the fruit. His troops who were saved told afterwards that he shouted "Sh'ma Israel !" (hear oh Israel ! a traditional Jewish prayer which is also usually said before one?s death) while he jumped over the grenade.

Roy Klein, a true hero in age of an anti-hero admiration, was buried in his 31 year old birthday.

Friends tell about him that was a very talented saxophonist and a brilliant intellectual, who graduated his engineering studies with distinction. Who traveled with friends in Africa, who had an uproarious laughter, whom all of his acquaintances described him as a gentle, calm guy, whose widow's only wish is her children will be much alike their late father.

Instead of lighting a candle, let his story be heard by forwarding this message. He's deserved much more than this, but that's all we can do?

Identity Crisis Part I

2006-08-03T01:23:00.000-04:00

Hey kids, guess what time it is?!

It's time for my annual summer identity crisis!

In honor of this event I'm going to do a brief run through of my major formative teenage years in an attempt to trace the stages that have led me to today.

And we're off!

I remember being fourteen and joining my high school's Drama League. I was very impressed by the wit and ease with which its members tossed around directors, authors, films, obscure actors. That year I was in high awkward state. My apex arrived with the French Revolution Simulation we played in my freshman World History class. I was elected (elected! It made me feel like I was actually accumulating friends) Robespierre and proceeded to command my class with a certain amount of sadistic glee. Power does go to one's head, even fake power, and I took delight in knowing that the fate of France lay in my hands. Of coiurse that made no difference when my head was chopped off at the end of the simulation--but this decapitation did not occur until after I beheaded the entirety of my class, including my teacher. This was also the year that I entered my rather embarassing pseudo-goth phase.

I pause here to ruminate on goths.

I existed, for a period of time, in a state of false self-degredation. Oh woe is me, I thought, and my misunderstood self. I wrote awful poetry, wore a lot of black and Doc Martins, and ripped my jeans, only to doodle on them with black permanent marker. I listened exclusively to the Smashing Pumpkins and NIN, usually in the dark, often in the middle of the night. I developed a rather serious online relationship with a boy who was to die, five years later, in a late-night car accident. He'd write me e-mails saying he'd lie awake at night thinking of me and crying with happiness. Was I alarmed by this? Perhaps. But it fit my notion of myself as the "deep goth girl." Everything was so fucking deep--I could've drowned in the misery.

This is all very amusing in hindsight because I had no reason to be so gloomy. I lived, and still do live, a fairly priveleged upper middle class lifestyle. My parents never fought. I was never abused, never molested, and never deprived emotionally. So was I milking the poor little rich girl thing? Not really. I think I was just amused by the so-called darkness. About the only positive development at this time was my introduction to Neil Gaiman and to anime.

By now we're in the middle of my sophomore year, and I have become friends with the (slightly more) stable members of Drama League. Their influence led me from the pseudo-gothy darkness into a more sophisticated ennui of Radiohead and canonical drama. And David Bowie. I spent a lot of time in the President of League's black jetta, listening to excellent music and asking myself: "Do I have to be so gloomy?"

The answer--and I am sure this will delight my sister--"NO! NO! NO!"

So I began to, I think, mature. There is no reason to be so angry at the world, though I suppose every teenager endures their angry time.

Junior year was the highlight of my so-called high school experience. I had a wonderful group of friends, in particular the three people with whom I shared a lunch table. Together the four of us formed a fairly sex-in-the-cityish group. All we talked about was sex, which was amusing because we were all virgins in every sense of the word. There was the gay, the Amerasian Vegan Buddhist lesbian, and then there were KT and me. Junior year was the year of many APs, including AP Art History which sparked the path I'm still on today--to art history greatness, that is, though hopefully not documenting post medium. (Art history greatness, goodness). I had thoroughly emerged from my pseudo-goth phase (actually that's a lie, I still like to slather on the black eyeliner come Halloween but, really, I just like the makeup) and had managed to slightly detangle myself from the drama crowd. Just slightly--KT would always moan to me how I would so quickly ditch my foursome to hang with the drama crowd. I did stop this fairly early in my Junior Year, however, when I realized that the senior class of that year didn't like me all that much. Oh well.

Senior year brought me a long-distance relationship, brought the Amerasian Vegan Buddhist lesbian a tumultuous relationship with a friend of mine, brought the gay some romping with boys, and brought KT to the status of homewrecker. But a homewrecker for love, so it was okay (don't worry KT, you still have my adoration). Senior year wasn't quite as enjoyable as junior year, in hindsight, though it was my year of speech and debate greatness. It was also the year of embarassing relationship with younger foreign man, but that is not a story to be shared. However, the story does include the death of my maternal grandfather--the first of my grandparents to die. The funeral was fairly traumatic and involved my giving a eulogy and my great uncle's fainting before the kaddish. Very strange. Senior year also allowed me to realize that somehow, through my relative loner status, I had acquired the respect of many of my classmates. This was an odd realization, because I still held grudges toward many of my classmates for crimes they'd committed in middle school. So I suppose this taught me a measure of forgiveness--it also taught me that maybe I should attempt to socialize with the rest of my class. So I did. And it was, ultimately, a rewarding experience--and a decent way to end my high school career.

And that is how I'll end tonight's post. Tomorrow I'll begin with the tale of the debacle that was my freshman year.

A Letter from John McCain's brother.

2006-08-01T23:58:00.000-04:00

Sent to me this evening:

Senator John McCain's brother on The Jews & Israel:

There is a lot of worry popping up in the media just now -- "Can
Israel Survive?" Don't worry about it. It relates to something that
Palestinians, the Arabs, and perhaps most Americans don't realize --
the Jews are never going quietly again. Never. And if the world
doesn't come to understand that, then millions of Arabs are going to
die. It's as simple as that.

Throughout the history of the world, the most abused, kicked-around
race of people have been the Jews. Not just during the holocaust of
World War II, but for thousands of years. They have truly been "The
Chosen People" in a terrible and tragic sense.

The Bible story of Egypt's enslavement of the Jews is not just a
story, it is history, if festooned with theological legend and
heroic epics. In 70 A.D. the Romans, which had for a long time
tolerated the Jews -- even admired them as 'superior' to other
vassals -- tired of their truculent demands for independence and
decided on an early "Solution" to the Jewish problem. Jerusalem was
sacked and reduced to near rubble, Jewish resistance was pursued and
crushed by the implacable Roman War Machine -- see 'Masada'. And
thus began The Diaspora, the dispersal of Jews throughout the rest
of the world.

Their homeland destroyed, their culture crushed, they looked
desperately for the few niches in a hostile world where they could
be safe. That safety was fragile, and often subject to the whims of
moody hosts. The words 'pogrom', 'ghetto', and 'anti-Semitism' come
from this treatment of the first mono-theistic people. Throughout
Europe, changing times meant sometimes tolerance, sometimes even
warmth for the Jews, but eventually it meant hostility, then
malevolence. There is not a country in Europe or Western Asia that
at one time or another has not decided to lash out against the
children of Moses, sometimes by whim, sometimes by manipulation.

Winston Churchill calls Edward I one of England's very greatest
kings. It was under his rule in the late 1200's that Wales and
Cornwall were hammered into the British crown, and Scotland and
Ireland were invaded and occupied. He was also the first European
monarch to set up a really effective administrative bureaucracy,
surveyed and censused his kingdom, established laws and political
divisions. But he also embraced the Jews.

Actually Edward didn't embrace Jews so much as he embraced their
money. For the English Jews had acquired wealth -- understandable,
because this people that could not own land or office, could not
join most of the trades and professions, soon found out that money
was a very good thing to accumulate. Much harder to take away than
land or a store, was a hidden sock of gold and silver coins. Ever
resourceful, Edward found a way -- he borrowed money from the Jews
to finance imperial ambitions in Europe, especially France. The
loans were almost certainly not made gladly, but how do you refuse
your King? Especially when he is 'Edward the Hammer'. Then, rather
than pay back the debt, Edward simply expelled the Jews. Edward was
especially inventive -- he did this twice. After a time, he invited
the Jews back to their English homeland, borrowed more money, then
expelled them again.

Most people do not know that Spain was one of the early entrants
into The Renaissance. People from all over the world came to Spain
in the late medieval period. All were welcome -- Arabs, Jews, other
Europeans. The University of Salamanca was one of the great centers
of learning in the world -- scholars of all nations, all fields came
to Salamanca to share their knowledge and their ideas. But in 1492,
Ferdinand and Isabella, having driven the last of Moors from the
Spanish Shield, were persuaded by the righteous fundamentalists of
the time to announce "The Act of Purification". A series of steps
were taken in which all Jews and Arabs and other non-Christians were
expelled from the country, or would face the tools and the torches
of The Inquisition. From this 'cleansing' come the Sephardic Jews --
as opposed to the Ashkenazis of Eastern Europe. In Eastern Europe,
the sporadic violence and brutality against Jews are common
knowledge. 'Fiddler' without the music and the folksy humor. At
times of fury, no accommodation by the Jew was good enough, no
profile low enough, no village poor enough or distant enough.

From these come the near-steady flow of Jews to the United States.
And despite the disdain of the Jews by most 'American' Americans,
they came to grab the American Dream with both hands, and
contributed everything from new ideas of enterprise in retail and
entertainment to becoming some of our finest physicians and lawyers.
The modern United States, in spite of itself, IS The United States
in part because of its Jewish blood.

Then the Nazi Holocaust -- the corralling, sorting, orderly
eradication of millions of the people of Moses. Not something that
other realms in other times didn't try to do, by the way, the
Germans were just more organized and had better murder technology.

I stood in the center of Dachau for an entire day, about 15 years
ago, trying to comprehend how this could have happened. I had gone
there on a side trip from Munich, vaguely curious about this Dachau.
I soon became engulfed in the enormity of what had occurred there
nestled in this middle and working class neighborhood.

How could human beings do this to other human beings, hear their
cries, their pleas, their terror, their pain, and continue without
apparently even wincing? I no longer wonder. At some times, some
places, ANY sect of the human race is capable of horrors against
their fellow man, whether a member of the Waffen SS, a Serbian
sniper, a Turkish policeman in 1920's Armenia, a Mississippi
Klansman. Because even in the United States not all was a Rose
Garden. For a long time Jews had quotas in our universities and
graduate schools. Only so many Jews could be in a medical or law
school at one time. Jews were disparaged widely. I remember as a kid
Jewish jokes told without a wince - "Why do Jews have such big
noses?"

Well, now the Jews have a homeland again. A place that is theirs.
And that's the point. It doesn't matter how many times the United
States and European powers try to rein in Israel, if it comes down
to survival of its nation, its people, they will fight like no
lioness has ever fought to save her cubs. They will fight with a
ferocity, a determination, and a skill, that will astound us.

And many will die, mostly their attackers, I believe. If there were
a macabre historical betting parlor, my money would be on the
Israelis to be standing at the end. As we killed the kamikazes and
the Wehrmacht soldaten of World War II, so will the Israelis kill
their suicidal attackers, until there are not enough to torment
them.

The irony goes unnoticed -- while we are hammering away to punish
those who brought the horrors of last September here, we restrain
the Israelis from the same retaliation. Not the same thing, of
course -- We are We, They are They. While we mourn and seethe at
September 11th, we don't notice that Israel has a September 11th
sometimes every day.

We may not notice, but it doesn't make any difference. And it
doesn't make any difference whether you are pro-Israeli or you think
Israel is the bully of the Middle East. If it comes to where a new
holocaust looms -- with or without the concurrence of the United
States and Europe -- Israel will lash out without pause or restraint
at those who would try to annihilate their country.

The Jews will not go quietly again.

Joe McCain

Everyone has their own special dream...

2006-08-01T00:49:00.000-04:00

It has been awhile since one of my loopy posts and, in lieu of world events, I think it is time for some levity.

I am really really really looking forward to Dreamgirls. It is either going to be really bad, or really great, or so bad it's great which works as well.

Either way, it'll be soulful. And glittery.

On Gardens.

2006-07-29T14:05:00.000-04:00

This afternoon I will be roped into helping my parents mulch the yard. We're waiting until it clouds over, as it is unhealthily hot right now and, well, who wants to be bent over in the dirt in the sun?

I used to mulch with enthusiasm when I was younger. I remember on one excursion finding a plump, green caterpillar. The caterpillar spent the rest of the mulching experience curled in my palm--I was afraid that if I released it to the wild then it would get smashed up in the mulching. I sent it home when the gardening was complete.

...apparently as a kid I had compassion for insects. Ick.

Regardless, there is something to be said for getting one's hands in the dirt and communing with the flora. Fauna. And Merriweather.

Inconvenienced.

2006-07-11T01:37:00.000-04:00

Saw the Al Gore movie today. Who ever thought we'd be saying that: "The Al Gore Movie."

Anyhow, please go see it. This past year I've tried to be more environmentally friendly. I started recycling my stuff in Gainesville and I've made more of an attempt to conserve electricity. I've become manic with turning off lights and other electronics when I am not using them. I drive a low emission Honda Civic. I still have to force myself not to turn the A.C. to freezing (not an easy task) and I have yet to give up my marathon showers, but I am taking steps. Baby steps, but steps nonetheless. I even calculated my carbon output at www.climatecrisis.net and discovered that I am actually outputting less carbon than the average American. I don't feel quite so guilty now.

Still, there is more I can do, and this has been a goal of mine for some time. Maybe I'll plant a tree. My sister planted a tree of unspecified specie in the empty lot next to our house. She planted it less than ten years ago. It caught my eye today and it is enormous. It has blossomed (yes, blossomed) from a little bush into a full grown tree with green leaves, a thick trunk, and powerful roots. The lot next to our house is parched and barren, but this tree gives it some personality. Perhaps if we planted a few more we'd have a mini-grove next to our house--and that would be magnificent.

I tend to have causes that I inform myself about but don't do much about--but this is something on which I can take action, because all it takes are changes within my own personal life. And that is entirely possible.

And perhaps if we all make little changes to our lives we could influence the powers that be to make larger changes--so that my house doesn't become waterfront property, and so that we don't become Planet Ocean.

I've decided to start blogging again...

2006-06-19T22:49:00.000-04:00

...And in typical trivial tradition I am going to start by saying that I have an enormous celebrity crush on Anthony Bourdain.

I'm back, and I'm actually going to try this time.

P.S.: Tony Bourdain, call me.

Eulogy.

2006-03-14T23:33:00.000-05:00

I gave the one and only eulogy at my Grandpa Robert's funeral, which would have been uneventful had my Great Uncle Irwin (my grandmother's brother) not fainted. Ah, family.

Today I was one of six eulogies (My grandfather's friend, my cousin Rachel, myself, my father,and his brother and sister) at my Grandpa Merle's funeral. Other happenings of the rather exhausted day: longest funeral procession in Akron, my aunt's pouring out her heart to me, meeting half of my father's childhood, various deep discussions with family. Ah, family.

I'm glad that "Funeral Day" is over. But anyhow, I want to post the eulogy:

My Grandpa Merle was a big grumpy bear.

No, really, when I was younger I thought he was a bear. He lived in the Cave of Buckeyes and Browns in the Enchanted Forest of Big Ten Sports. He was tall and hulking and always wandered around with a slight scowl. He was a big skulking bear.

As a child I was mildly afraid of my Grandpa Bear. You see, I never knew when the bear would attack. My grandpa’s attacks were unique, though--they were more secretive and sinister. My grandpa’s plan of attack was the “Grandpa Smooch.”

I really dreaded these “Grandpa Smooches.”

This was a ‘Grandpa Smooch”: I would be sitting peacefully, probably with a coloring book and crayons, doing my thing. Then my grandfather would approach me with a grin and a glint in his eye.

“Time for a ‘Grandpa Smooch’!” He’d growl.

I’d squeal and giggle and protest and before I could run away he would have me in his grip. He would then make his lips all wet and slobbery and plan a big sloppy kiss on my cheek. Afterwards he’d skulk back to his cave. I’d sit and wipe the kiss residue from my cheek.

Some time later, when I was eighteen and a senior in high school, my Grandpa Robert died. Grandpa Bear and my grandmother were in their condo in Sarasota at the time, so after my mother called with the news I went to the condo to calm down. My grandfather and I sat talking for hours--I’m not entirely sure about what, probably my Grandpa Robert and my fast-approaching graduation. I remember, however, mentioning the “Grandpa Smooch.” Grandpa claimed not to remember it, but I’m positive he did.

I realized, then, what was behind those “Grandpa Smooches.” What was being played out as my grumpy Grandpa bear sat patiently listening to me talk about my Grandpa Robert. Grandpa Merle really loved his grandchildren. He was proud of his grandchildren. He was a bear, yes, but not so grumpy--you just had to learn how to speak his language. He could not give his grandchildren regular smooches--they simply would not convey the amount of love he felt. Only a “Grandpa Smooch,” dripping wet and smacking loud, could describe that love.

My Grandpa Merle was my friend. I loved and I understood my grandfather, and I hope he knows that he has passed his grumpy bear traits down to me--because I’ve grown into a bit of a grumpy bear myself. I hope he knows that I understand what he meant through those “Grandpa Smooches” that I so feared, and that I would gladly, gladly, have a hundred more.

My 21st Birthday.

2006-03-12T23:23:00.000-05:00

Well, it has been awhile since my last entry--but I'll blame it on the obscene computer problems I've been having lately. I'm on Spring Break, now, and I turned 21 on Friday, March 10th, but it really wasn't that great.

You see, my grandfather died this morning.

For all intents and purposes I should be in Las Vegas right now. My parents have been planning to take me to Las Vegas for my 21st birthday since, oh, I was seven. On Friday, however, my mother calls me to tell me that my grandfather's condition had worsened. He's been battling Non-Hodgkin's Lymphoma for about nine years and I knew that this time he wouldn't win. I just didn't know it would be so soon. He went to the doctor's Friday to see if he would be able to return to Ohio. The doctor told my grandmother to call the family.

So my paternal family spent the weekend congregated at my grandparents' condo here in Sarasota, where they--and the rest of the American population older than 65--spend their winters. Yesterday my grandmother's brother an his wife, my uncle, my aunt and her family, and my family were all there. All of us. My grandfather was in and out--he was on morphine, and an oxygen tank, but he knew we were there. We celebrated my 21st birthday with Coldstone ice cream cakes and candles and, yes, singing. And though my grandfather had to look and listen from the adjacent room, I'm glad that the last thing he was able to celebrate was my birthday.

When I was little my grandparents were always in Sarasota for my birthday. When my grandmother's mother, my great grandma Dorothy, grew ill they had to stay in Ohio--and this devastated me. Recently, however, my grandparents have been able to share my birthdays with me. I'm glad I got one more with my grandfather.

The funeral is Tuesday. We fly to Ohio tomorrow. My aunt is being ridiculous and is making this ordeal much harder than it needs to be. But she always was Fran-centric, wasn't she? I don't know how my father doesn't hit her and I don't know how my grandmother stands it. But she does.

I don't know who reads this blog anymore. So I don't really know to whom I am writing. All I know is that I don't have any grandfathers left. After my Grandpa Robert died (on March 3rd in 2003, my family likes to die around my birthday I suppose) I went to my grandparents' condo and spent three hours talking to my Grandpa Merle. About what? I'm not sure. But we had a similar sense of humor. There was a period of time when I was very close to my grandfather. He was sharp. He was funny. He was a cranky old man but he was also a kind old man and when he died I didn't know who to go to--no more grandfathers, after all.

I'm just glad I had one more day with him. One more birthday. Vegas? It'll happen in May. And hopefully I'll win the jackpot with the gambling money he gave me for my birthday--I think it'd please him.

But for now it is off to Ohio to honor the grandfather I loved.

The Grizzly Factor.

2006-02-10T00:52:00.000-05:00

Is Emily Dickinson a closeted lesbian or what?
Actually I don't know. I've just longed to begin a post like that.
This is my effort to begin posting more often. This means that some posts will be absolutely meaningless. Like this post. In this post I think I'll ramble, slightly, about Emily Dickinson.
Shall we count the ways, then?

Her poetry-it makes-minute-sense
To me

TANGENT. (Actually, the end of the Dickinson rant--for now. I knew I'd find something...else).

I watched Yes the other night. And it was all in iambic pentameter. This did not bother R. Richard. I, however, wanted to bash my head into the wall.
I also watched Grizzly Man which was unspeakably haunting and beautiful and profound in a way that was neither forced nor obvious. It simply was. I recommend this film with all my heart--if only for the fox pups. So cute! SocuteIcouldeatitupohcutecutecute.

I want a fox pup.

This is where I return to reading about the Southern Question in Italy and gazing at my empty suitcase which needs to be full for my sojourn home this weekend.
But at least the blog is reactive. Yes?

Joseff of Hollywood.

2006-02-09T00:19:00.000-05:00

For my pseudo-internship at the Harn Museum (I'm a MUSE. I feel that I should prance around in a toga and affect poses with masks while intoning the verse of the Muse of Tragedy. Or Comedy. Or hysteria) I have to "research the evolution of design elements," which is certainly vague. I began by browsing the Design and Architecture page on MOMA's site but quickly tired of this.
Then I moved to jewelry.
When my mother joined me for my second of two weeks in Paris in 2004 (post study-in-Rome) one of the first things we did was go to the Clingancourt flea market. My mother collects antiques, particularly antique costume jewelry. She loves big confusing flea markets. Such things amuse me...until I get overwhelmed and then I have a tendency to wander around and get lost. Neither of us expected that she would find a treasure chest:
A woman with crazy red hair who sold rare Joseff of Hollywood pieces.
I'd never heard of Joseff of Hollywood. But the jewelry. Was. Beautiful.
And, more importantly, beautiful people wore it: Joan Crawford and Bette Davis and Greta Garbo and oh the shining stars! Madame Redhead had befriended Joseff's widow who had slowly bequeathed her bits of the collection. And now Madame Redhead was selling the collection to discerning buyers.
Needless to say my mother was one such buyer.
So when I was researching "design elements" for my internship I really just spent an hour or so browsing various Joseff's of Hollywood pages.
This probably won't be useful for my internship but it was far more entertaining than perusing MoMA's design catalogues.

In what is, perhaps, far more importantly news (certainly important enough to make the picture of the NYTimes homepage this moment) is the reconciliation of Barbie and Ken. I guess Ken's sudden turn to Buddhism and Nora Jones gets Barbie's plastic panties wet.
My heart flutters.

Where's the light?

2006-01-26T14:54:00.000-05:00

...Well. This is unfortunate. And will probably complicate matters in the world. Just a bit.

Being alive.

2006-01-17T22:16:00.000-05:00

So why don't they revive Company?

Meat pies for one and all.

2006-01-17T21:00:00.000-05:00

Hello everyone. I am still here. I did not disappear into an eternity of orgasmic ecstasy after seeing the artistic definition of my life Sweeney Todd the Divinely Wonderful Masterpiece Jaw-Dropping WOW Demon Barber of Fleet Street.
The eternity, alas, only lasted into the middle of the second week of Spring Semester.
Well I suppose, since I've been salivating over this tale of the homicidal barber and his cannibalistic conniving landlady since, oh, bloody fucking JULY, that I should get around to telling you dear patient readers what, exactly, I thought of John Doyle's production.

MY VIEWS OF MUSICAL THEATRE HAVE CHANGED.

Well. Not changed. A slight alteration has certainly occurred, one that enables me to realize that musical theatre--indeed, theatre itself--can be so much more than anyone ever anticipates. That a complex narrative can be convincingly told and sung by ten actors with no sets, minimal costuming, and a myriad of instruments (and talent!). That this can be done outside the dismal constraints of improvisational theatre.
This was not "Sweeney Todd Lite," as so many might assume. This was "Sweeney Todd Right." It inspired such horror, such suspense, such edge-of-the-seat-clinging tension that it completely obliterated any reality other than that which existed on the stage. And what on earth was that reality anyhow? Was it really a bunch of inmates in a mad house staging a show? Tobias certainly thought so, as he pranced about in his little ward nighties playing the violin AND the piano AND the clarinet while singing AMAZINGLY and acting insane and being the only character in the cast given the privilege of watching all the events with a rapt gaze. Certainly the actors portraying Jonas Fogg and Pirelli, who doubled as insane asylum attendants while playing the classical bass AND the accordion AND the flute, would have to agree with this interpretation.
Where do Johanna and Anthony fit in this equation, however? They were spectacular too, as was the Old Beggar Woman with her little clarinet.
But Sweeney. And Mrs. Lovett. OHMYGOD. Patti Lupone is a big fucking whore and she pranced about in a miniskirt and wedge-heels (for the second act she had SEQUINED WEDGE HEELS) and this sinister little Weimar bob and bright red lips and oh, she was terrifying. There was nothing maternal, nothing Angela Lansbury about her. She took a role that had been immortalized by the divine Angel and she owned it, and that is not an easy feat.
And Michael Ceveris is a god. He really is. His Sweeney was so wrought, so pain-filled, so agonized that the audience could feel, could sympathize with his maniacal need for revenge. I was lucky enough to see the production twice while I was in New York City, and I still cannot fathom what this man has within him to enable such a storm onstage. He owns the stage--he jumps around the stage, the sings, he plays the guitar, he is tormented and I loved every minute of his agony.
By the way...the ten-piece orchestra does not harm Sondheim's masterpiece at all. It magnifies it, intensifies it--the reorchestrations bring a new and different and chilling clarity to the music. It personalizes the music. It demonizes the music.
The staging is minimalistic. Metatheatrical. Marvelous. I have to agree with the NYTimes review that the little white coffin Sweeney hauls around during the second act is strangely pretentious but the rest of the staging was magnificent. The blood splattered lab coats, the silent deaths accompanied by the pouring of blood, Sweeney's bone-chilling death-rattle, that terrifying instant at the end--Tobias alone in the light, in the madhouse, in his mind...I was there, in his mind. Reality, with its calming pseudo-sanity, was light years away.
Nobody should miss this production. It redefines theatre. It reaffirms theatre.

But back to reality--and I am back in reality. Classes are here, classes are fine, I would gladly be back at the Eugene O'Neill having the living daylights scared out of me, however.
I pinch myself. Ouch.

True. Man.

2005-12-28T01:14:00.000-05:00

I saw Capote earlier tonight and was somewhat upset. I have never read In Cold Blood (but I need to and probably should because I am taking a creative nonfiction class next semester) but, of course, I knew the general gist. Still, Truman Capote, you're a bastard, even if you are gay.
The film was compelling and torturous. The pace was fantastic: I was simply dying for the case to finally end, just as Truman was. The atmosphere was one of utter agony.
Phillip Seymore-Hoffman is amazing. He shades Capote perfectly: you know what the man is thinking--but do you? Also, I had my idiot moment with Catherine Keener's Nelle Harper Lee. It took me a moment to connect the Harper Lee to To Kill a Mocking Bird but what can one do.
So yes: writing is destructive. Your art can both create and destroy you. And maybe it isn't worth selling your conscience for a killer story. Or is it.

Potato Peels.

2005-12-26T23:48:00.000-05:00

Today was our annual ecumenical celebration with the Schaub family. As usual we made orgies of latkes and as usual I peeled the potatoes. I did not draw blood, per usual. I managed to get away with merely hacking off half of the fingernail of my left index finger. This makes typing mildly uncomfortable but what can one do.
I do hope that everyone's post-holiday merry-making is going well.

I saw two films this weekend, both thoroughly mediocre.

King Kong was an unnecessary remake of a rather fantastic original film. The film, while beautiful, was excessive. Overly long. Overly drawn out. Overly chock fulla CGI and FX and giant sucker insects that EAT ANDY SERKIS ALIVE. A lot of people died. There were some planes and some indigenous savages. And dinosaurs. And VELOCIRAPTORS. Kong grunted. So did Naomi. Jack Black was showy and somewhat obnoxious and Adrien Brody was merely morose (but still inexplicably HOTT. Two ts). Peter Jackson clearly felt entitled to three hours of my time but it was no Two Towers. On the contrary, I felt as though Peter Jackson had whipped out his cock and masturbated in my face for three hours. What a money shot.

On a sidenote: Congratulations on losing all that weight, Peter Jackson. Though now you look oddly like Dominic Monaghan.

The Producers was another unnecessary film, a mediocre movie made from a fantastic musical that was made from a hysterical movie (OHMYGOD MY HEAD). Susan Stroman is a marvelous theatrical director. This, however, does not translate into being a marvelous film director. I feel that the musical would have been better captured by simply taping the actual stage performance--because really, Stroman's film adaptation was just a little too literal. Too splashy. Too reminiscent of the stage version without improving upon or altering it. Even William Ivey Long's costumes were barely altered--maybe let out for Matthew Broderick, but otherwise, nothing. The best performances were given by Uma Thurman as Ulla and Will Ferrell as Franz Liebkind. Also excellent: cameos by people such as Jon Lovitz and Andrea Martin and Jai Rodriguez in a turban and belly button jewel. Yay cameos. The Producers was fun. It just wasn't...noteworthy. However, do stay through the credits. Will Ferrell does a marvelous rendition of his character's "The Gutten Tag Hop-Clop" and closes the credits with subversive whispers involving Mein Kampf. Also, Mel Brooks finally makes his cameo.

Tomorrow's my first day where I have nothing to actually do. I saw much of my paternal family yesterday and, per usual, was harassed by my aunt for not being "Jewish" enough, whatever that might mean. I am sorry that I don't have any immediate ambitions to study in Israel, my dear aunt--I kind of have two degrees, a minor, and two impending theses on which to work, thankyou.

And that, my lovelies, is all I have tonight.

Cholera?

2005-12-25T17:43:00.000-05:00

You Have a Choleric Temperament

You are a person of great enthusiasm - easily excited by many things.
Unsatisfied by the ordinary, you are reaching for an epic, extraordinary life.
You want the best. The best life. The best love. The best reputation.

You posses a sharp and keen intellect. Your mind is your primary weapon.
Strong willed, nothing can keep you down. Your energy can break down any wall.
You're an instantly passionate person - and this passion gives you an intoxicating power over others.

At your worst, you are a narcissist. Full of yourself and even proud of your faults.
Stubborn and opinionated, you know what you think is right. End of discussion.
A bit of a misanthrope, you often see others as weak, ignorant, and inferior.

What Temperment Are You?

Merry.

2005-12-25T17:40:00.000-05:00

Oops, didn't realize I'd turned the comments off--they're back on now, for those who so wish.
Also, Merry Christmas and Happy Chanuka to one and all, etc.
And yes, I have a new template again--I'm a little fickle.
Hope everyone is having a good holiday and spending it with their families and loved ones.

Gift wrapping is complicated.

2005-12-22T22:04:00.000-05:00

I, like the majority of the world, wish I were more competent at certain things. Tonight I had to gift wrap several books (Divine Wind, The Year of Magical Thinking, and Bar Mitzvah Disco, all for my parents). I had to call my mother in to help me wrap the hurricane book for my father. Then, when I was wrapping her gift, I had to call her back in again to help me deal with the too-much-dreidel-covered-paper I had twined around Joan. Embarrassing, but luckily she didn't glance beneath the gift wrap (isn't it sad that my mother had to wrap her own gift?) I was able to wrap the third book, but not without tearing the paper. Poor dreidels.

I also just realized that I could have saved a lot of money by using Amazon.com instead of Barnes and Nobles--but then I wouldn't get my super-duper 10% members discount, so who knows.

Anyhow, the point of this post is that there are a lot of things I wish I were able to do.

Shall we make a small list?

1) Sew Buttons. I have this fantastic black velvet jacket that I've been wearing buttonless because I'm too lazy to try to remember how to sew buttons onto fabric. My mother taught me once, but lessons of minor skill tend to flit out of my head (she taught me how to gift wrap once but that, obviously, was useless).
2) Cook. I mean really cook. I can do the standard cooking nonsense but I'd love to be able to whip up a souffle or maybe some excellent risotto with odd ingredients or even a bizarre Asian dish with spices that aren't available at the local super market. That way I can really feel exotic.
3) Sex. Alright. I'm not terrible. But I could be better. I could be more flexible. Maybe I should take yoga or study up on the kama sutra. I want my sexual prowess to be like the spices I can't get at the local super market. Dammit.
4) Remain 100% organized 100% of the time. I can pull it off at the beginning of things: such as the year, or the semester, such and such...but come finals everything's a bloody fucking mess.
5) HTML and fun on the blog. It really is a dull blog. Not like the unavailable spices at all.

I just realized that this list resembles New Year's Resolutions and I swear to you that this is not true. Last year's New Year's Resolution was my standard "LOSE FUCKING WEIGHT" and I did lose fucking weight but not until oh, August. So maybe if I just ponder improving myself and doing 100 sit-ups a day and sewing millions of buttons onto millions of fabulous velvet jackets while contorting myself into the Salivating Lotus-Tiger I'll one day be competent and skilled.

The way we all wish we could be.

Baby its cold outside.

2005-12-21T17:13:00.000-05:00

I'm back in Sarasota for two weeks of Winter Break. I spent last Thursday through Tuesday in North Carolina with my uncles and R. Richard, drinking lots of red wine and relaxing and seeing various North Carolinian sites.
We spent last night in Gainesville and then went our separate directions this morning, alas alas.
So now I'm home and slowly unpacking. And watching Charmed. And nibbling hummus and crackers.
Ah, the life.

Confidence Interval.

2005-12-09T19:13:00.000-05:00

I am 100% confident that my joy at having watched my last stat lecture is 100%.
However, I am less than 95% confident that my test score on my final tomorrow will be between 99 points and 110 points.
Lets see if we can make some significant differences in the positive direction.

Mrs. Moony has a pie shop?!

2005-11-27T00:56:00.000-05:00

What what what?!
I go onto IMDB and find this.
Sweeney Todd the movie?
Allright, I'm obsessed, I know. This is what happens when I am left to my own devices for too long.

I was someone in a tree.

2005-11-27T00:12:00.000-05:00

I was younger then.

Over the past few months I've embarked on learning about Sondheim. So far I know Into the Woods, Sweeney Todd, Follies, and Assassins extremely well. I have a decent knowledge of A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum (who doesn't?) through various student productions and the movie with Zero Mostel and I saw The Frogs with Nathan Lane and Roger Bart. Today I listened to the majority of Company. I know selected songs from Sunday in the Park With George, Pacific Overtures, and A Little Night Music.
Of course this list doesn't even cover musicals for which Sondheim wrote the lyrics.
So what have I learned? That Sondheim is God? Maybe.
More that Sondheim took an old-fashioned narrative form and transformed it in a way that had never been seen before. His work isn't easy, and he makes no compromises, and he seems so utterly nonchalant about it.
Of course I don't know Sondheim. I wonder if his attitude is like that of Dionysus in The Frogs:

"And eyes that looked at me as if I were a god, which I am..."

Sondheim is the history of musical theatre. The modern musical.
Epiphany. I love three things, someone once told me: Art, English, and Theatre.
Why am I not studying theatre? What is wrong with me?
I would give anything to be involved in the theatrical community. Even as a critic, a historian.
Why didn't I get involved with theatre here in Gainesville? I don't know. I just don't know.
I don't want mediocrity. I want...
...immortality? I don't know. (Gee, what a common theme).
Forgive me. My life is too full of what ifs. Maybe I should just quit school and become a stage director.
For now I am locked in academia and rules and academic appeals.
I'll survive. And perhaps figure out my path.

"There are no stars in Hell. Just as well."

I'm getting some work done, dahling.

2005-11-25T13:58:00.000-05:00

Changing up my blog: the format, the links, going to try to compress the archives a bit, etc.
Yes, it is very pink, but the template formatter insists that it is rose, which I can tolerate.
Pink, I cannot not tolerate.
Anyhow, a face lift or two can do a girl good.

Post-Thanksgiving.

2005-11-25T00:17:00.000-05:00

I wish I had six stomachs.
Anyhow, welcome bizyrem to the blogging community.
Mm, more converts. Time for the blood sacrifice.

Step in time.

2005-11-24T01:14:00.000-05:00

My mother has purchased four tickets to see Sweeney Todd the weekend before Spring Classes start. This fact has me changing my panties on the hour, every hour.
I'm home for Thanksgiving (a brief visit as my parents and I have tickets to the Florida/Florida State game and, therefore, we'll be off to Gainesville Friday) and life has been traumatic, mainly because I spent Sunday night in the emergency room to get a prescription for a treatable but irritating ailment and because yesterday I found out that I got fucked over academically. We're talking Fucked. With the capital F. Study the capital F carefully.
But I'm sane, and I've survived. The ailment has been cured and I'll soon be solving the Fucking by forging some academic war of sorts (but everyone says I should go forth, so forth I go).
Tonight my family and I saw Rent the film. I was surprised by how much I enjoyed it. When I was younger I loved Rent, until everybody loved Rent. When the show became the darling of the teenage-girl sect who really knows nothing about musicals (or theatre, for that matter) I decided that it was time to put my orange double discs to rest.
Still, I was impressed by the movie. The cast, much of it original, was still impressive (most aged well) and the two newcomers--particularly Rosario Dawson as Mimi--were excellent. The Sarah Silverman and Anna Deveare Smith cameos pleased me to no end. Chris Columbus staged several visually impressive scenes, particularly the opening when residents of buildings on Avenue A burn eviction notices and drop the flaming papers from their fire escapes. The music was actually better because--unlike the music in the live performance, which is played by a deafening rock band--you can actually hear the singers and the lyrics. The story was granted a deeper meaning to me because I have experienced being in love--a realization that struck me midway through the film. Rent is, after all, about love--and I can understand that kind of love which is "is true as the sea is," now.
So tomorrow I'll eat turkey and not do very much, and this is good. I hope everyone has a jolly Thanksgiving, etc.

Inter.

2005-11-20T21:39:00.000-05:00

My boyfriend isn't Jewish.
This bothers my grandparents. This bothers my parents. And as much as I try to deny it, this bothers me.
I know that my own "discomfort" is a result of my family's disapproval. I'm a young liberal free-thinking woman. I know that inter-relationships can and do work. I know that marriage isn't the end all and be all of a happy romance. I know that plenty of happy and monogamous couples aren't even allowed to be married.
I know that I am twenty years old and shouldn't even consider settling down. I'm in college. I'm having fun, sex, romance, my first experience with love, true and requited love, and my realization that I might have, for version Lindsay 20.0, a match.
So why am I unsettled?
Earlier today R. Richard and I were jesting about the nonexistent other man in my life.
"I'll run off with him," I said.
"Well what does he have that I don't?" R. Richard asked.
I paused for a moment, searching for a witty answer.
"A Bar Mitzvah."
R. Richard was, understandably, upset. I, in turn, was upset that I had angered and wounded him.
I brooded over this all day, shed a few tears, felt various incarnations of guilt.
Last week at my cousin's Bat Mitzvah I met various responses to this goi-boy. My more distant relatives were amused, a little supportive. My poor grandmother tried to talk me out of it, broke my heart--she was so disappointed, so disapproving.
This is an issue, yes. How big an issue? I don't know. I just know that I refuse to lose R. Richard over a question as seemingly mundane but as terribly serious as religious faith.
The question, it seems, is familial disapproval. Can I weather that? Well, let's hope so.
Until then I'll continue my inter-relationship and state of delirious bliss, family be damned.
So silly, people should just be happy for each other...
...besides, my uncles have an inter-relationship, so why can't I. Tsk.

Maggie Grace.

2005-11-09T22:04:00.000-05:00

GYAH LOST OHMYGOD UPSET SAYID AND SHANNON UPSET WAAAAHHHH.

We are the goon squad and we're coming to town, beep beep.

2005-11-08T22:28:00.000-05:00

Arcade Fire and David Bowie collaboration on Arcade Fire's next single.
Enough said.

Pumpkins!

2005-10-31T18:22:00.000-05:00

Happy Halloween guys.
Today=Writing about the five lancet windows in the north transept of Chartres. This=A little sad. But at least I'll finally be finished thinking about it...
...mm, Halloween.

I fell right into the arms...

2005-10-28T15:56:00.000-04:00

This is my Halloween costume.

That's right y'all, I am the Venus de Milo. Tres exciting.

Also, apparently, the revival of The Odd Couple was massively overhyped and is, from what Ben Brantley says, rather self-conscious.

Chronic Me.

2005-10-27T20:18:00.000-04:00

For the first time in my brief life I am the lone relationship-ed person in my tiny circle of friends. The break ups! The melodrama! The madness!
It has been awhile since my last post. An eon. The dinosaurs have died in my absence (y'all). Other things have happened too. It is exciting. Such as:

-Got into my little nonfiction creative writing class.
-Took many a midterm.
-Witnessed a few breaks ups and together agains.
-Bought a neat coat on Bluefly.com (we hope it fits we hope it fits)
-Planned a Halloween costume (link forthcoming after I debut said costume. This will happen in T-minus two and a half hours)
-Went to a NIN concert and was impressed by Trent Reznor's good health and good tone and the utterly bad taste and enormous self-absorbtion of my fellow concert-goers. Also, NIN puts on a damn good show and, for a bit, Trent got mildly performance arty and political. And stuff. Y'all.

Um. So. Tomorrow I register. Tonight I Halloween Party. This weekend I work on papers and go to the Florida/Georgia game with my mother and a slew of drunk alumni. Monday I play with children. Next week will have many a test and a paper and good lord, y'all, I just dunno I just dunno.
Anyhow, I'm still alive. Cheers.

Guido.

2005-10-11T14:48:00.000-04:00

I'm working through some writer's block. Bear with me.
Allright, when I was younger I went through my much talked about pseudo-goth-phase where I hung out with people who wrote shitty fucking poetry. We spent a lot of time talking about how "deep" we were. Everything was "deep" and if it wasn't "deep" it was "superficial" or "bad."
Our vocabulary was somewhat limited, you see.
So we sat around talking about depth and angst and how angsty we were. We'd listen to the Smashing Pumpkins and Nine Inch Nails and A Perfect Circle and we felt that Maynard and Billy spoke our language. Occasionally art would be made and occasionally, as befits a group of people who thought they were deep, this art was smeared with blood or the inner remnants of the soul or something like that.
Since I was young and naive and fifteen I thought these shennanigans were all well and good. I even had a big soulful crush on one of the characters in this group. Typical.
Now my brainwashing did not last long and I quickly wised up and rejoined the world of the living and the joyous (though I still have a penchant for black and dark eyeliner) but I had been swayed enough by the world of the gloom for one little comment to stick in my head forever and ever and ever.
I took to playwriting during this period and the object of my affections, after seeing a staged reading of my play, proclaimed it "cliche." Now the only thing worse than being deep was being cliche so this affected me deeply. Even when I got over the goth and got over the boy (even when the boy was sent to an institution yadda yadda what can I say I was fragile). Now I don't want to say that it ruined me for life as a writer, but it certainly increased my sensitivity to criticism and reaction to my work from others.
Not that this is a rare thing, mind you. If I were to swim out to see and wave my arms while drowning in my inherent fear of criticism I would not be alone. And besides, the following year I met Edward Albee and realized maybe I wasn't a shitty fucking awful writer-cum-playwright.
But still, I'm fragile, and I'm trying to write this piece about how I got over my fragile-fucking-ness and it only occasionally sounds truthful and I'm afraid my audience (consisting of one professor) will look at it and go: "Gee. Cliche. Fuck off." and that'll be the end of me. Poof.
Also I can't think of an ending so I'm blogging abotu to maybe find an ending.
Maybe that'll be my ending. Ambiguity and dicking about on my blog. Oh it is so very 8 1/2 and "celebration of the creative process" of me.
Allright, the end of this affair. Onto another self-indulgent writerly process.

Fritango.

2005-10-08T18:05:00.000-04:00

Carolee Carmello is playing Gabrielle in The Vampire Lestat musical (Elton John did write the music, yes Jessica?) and for some reason this pleases me--despite the fact, of course, that the musical will probably be some kind of terrible.

Naked Girl on the Appian Way has been getting lots of whisperings. Here's the review. Read it. Etc.

I have to admit that I'm getting tired of giving up entire Saturdays (sometimes near-entire weekends) for football. Yes it is entertaining blah blah go Gators blah but really, I'm disliking the heat and the boorishness of the surrounding crowd and the lugging myself to campus more and more. Can't I just stay at home and sleep in and dine on doritos and fried chicken in the comfort of my own air conditioning and not with 90,000 or so of my beer-soaked foul-mouthed closest friends?
Ah, well, the things I do to keep my mother from disowning me.

Let's get physical-physical.

2005-10-02T17:57:00.000-04:00

I have an Italian exam tomorrow. But a bit of writing before studiero italiano:

I've come to discover a newfound appreciation for sweat. Before sweat was just associated with the gym and hot days and the air conditioning breaking but now I realize that it is a beautiful human symptom and should happen more often.

I met the parents this weekend and I survived and, hopefully, passed with flying colors.

The High Holidays start tomorrow night and I sort of want to throw myself from a cliff.

Allright, that's all. I'm schvitzing like a Valkyrie so I think I'll down a bottle of Evian and get crackin'.

Oh, by the way Bratface, I found a copy of Sweeney Todd on video and the twenty minutes I've watched of it are like God. We should videofy sometime when I'm home, if you ever have time when you're not bop-shoo-bopping in Grease.

Loch Ness.

2005-09-28T14:11:00.000-04:00

Perhaps not Nessie or Sasquatch (Satchmo!) but still highly entertaining:

Giant Squid Footage! So much ink! Oh my stars!

Its like Moby Dick but with tentacles. TENTACLES.

Coincidentally there's an exhibit on "The Search for the Giant Squid" at the Natural History Museum. I snicker idly and make plans to visit and gawk.

Color me.

2005-09-25T15:42:00.000-04:00

This is for my own purposes and records. You can peruse the results if you want, some are more accurate than others:

I took the free ColorQuiz.com personality test!

"Wants to make a favorable impression and be recogn..."

Click here to read the rest of the results.

Allright. Onto studying.

TVLand.

2005-09-18T01:53:00.000-04:00

Lost is the only new show on television worth watching today--besides South Park, of course.
NYTimes piece on how Lost can survive its sophomore season without being voted off the proverbial island.
New season starts Wednesday. Yay.

Don't it always seem to go...

2005-09-16T16:09:00.000-04:00

This will be a quiet weekend of study and the Tennessee game. R. Richard is out of town, as are the roommates (what bad timing) and the family is not coming up for the game because of a Bar Mitzvah in Ohio. Therefore I am all alone.
Also: I'm as corny as Kansas in August. If you know South Pacific you'll understand my drift.
This is going to be an endless weekend, I can feel it, and I can hear it in the quiet tone of my voice.

The Ring Cycle.

2005-09-13T17:24:00.000-04:00

Well, didn't get the Harn internship because my schedule conflicts with the meeting time. This is officially lame.
Just looked at the TSF website. I should probably never do that again. I became filled with righteous fury and shot lightning bolts from my eyes and now I won't get the deposit back on my apartment God damn.
This is all so Wagnerian.
If you understand what I mean.

Let us see how they handle their own.

2005-09-12T20:21:00.000-04:00

This is really classy.

My global-political background is really lacking but behavior such as that exhibited in this picture and the following excerpt is really barbarian and classless:

" 'I was ordered to keep guard over this building," a Palestinian Authority policeman this morning, as young men behind him busily stripped the window frames and metal ceiling slats from the main synagogue in this former Israeli settlement. "But the people got here first.' "

Go ahead, blame everything on the Israelis...
...Palestine (a word I use hesitantly, for Palestine does not exist as a nation, so I have to blink my eyes whenever people speak of Palestine as a country, for it does not yet have such status) lacks government, control, care for it's people. Both sides have committed atrocities, yes, but until "Palestine" gains some order, nothing is going to change...
...I should stop reading the news. It really destroys my faith in humanity.

Worship at the altar,

2005-09-12T00:58:00.000-04:00

Alright. So I can resume blogging about whatever I used to blog about I'll quit beating around the bush: Yes, I am seeing someone. Yes, it is official. Yes, I throw the term "boyfriend" about liberally and with school-girlish glee. Suffice it to say that he (who will henceforth be known as R. Richard, yes he did grace us with a guest post) treats me the way I finally realized I deserve to be treated. It is criminal to be this happy.

Onto business.
My productive late-Sunday night/Monday-morning has been shattered by the realization that VISTA, the web-service upon which my statistics lectures and quizzes are hosted, is not operational and that I will have to find sometime tomorrow to squeeze in a stat lecture and a quiz. This is what procrastination gets you, and by this I mean fucked.

On more Lindsaylike subjects, the NYTimes has posted the fall theatre preview. Of course we all know how excited I am for Sweeney Todd, but there are countless other goodies in the works, so take a looksee.

Also--and this is directed pointedly at my film afficionado friends--why did no one ever tell me that I am Diane Keaton's character (Mary. I know.) in Manhattan? That woman takes takes words quite literally from my mouth, I swear.

Tomorrow, I think, will make my head spin.

Small blessings.

2005-09-07T18:53:00.000-04:00

I should be watching a stat lecture but I'm blogging, alas.
The past two weeks have been a blur. This isn't my life. I'm not this lucky.
How can I reconcile my happiness with what is happening in New Orleans? In Darfur? The Middle East? I don't understand. My euphoria has blinded me to world events. I barely read the paper anymore, I'm behind on the times--but how can I tear my eyes away from you to peer at visions of suffering? Call me selfish, but I just don't know.
Your words mean more to me than I can possibly say. You inspire me to do this, to write, to create...
...dear readers, do feel free to smack me, I'm skipping about on clouds and I'm sure I sound ridiculous but I cannot help it. (Jessica, do I sound like Charity Hope Valentine? Gag me).
I'm blessed. I must be. That's the only explanation for everything.
Thankyou.

In the wings.

2005-09-06T18:36:00.000-04:00

Words fail me as well.

Coffee break.

2005-09-05T12:28:00.000-04:00

I don't usually do this. I have only a few minutes.
He's out. Getting coffee. To which he is addicted. My hair is rumpled. My pillow and bed smell vaguely of him. He ghosts here, even when he is not here.
Is ghost the proper word? Ghost connotates unfriendly. Insubstantial. Cold.
He is none of these things. Warm. Almost too warm. Sometimes I worry that he is feverish.
He's back now. In bed with me and his laptop and his Starbucks which, I believe, paints a ridiculous picture of the two of us. In bed with coffee and a cheap croissant, 12:30 in the afternoon on a school-less Monday with my roommates out of town and something akin to blissful-solitude-but-not because this is so far from solitude...
...difficult to write this, with warmth next to me. Scent. Substantiality.
Break's over. Resume.

Mixer.

2005-09-01T14:59:00.000-04:00

This will be a brief post and it will cover many an issue.
I've been terribly busy lately, as is evident by the scarcity and brevity of my posts. Just know that I am well (if not a bit irritated at TSF but I think, as my father so wisely put it, that I have outgrown it and that I should start pursuing more important issues...such as my career and impending graduate education) and quite happy.
Before I get serious: Sweeney Todd. Thanks Jess. That is, of course, Michael Ceveris as Sweeney and Patti Lupone as Mrs. Lovett.

Allright. New Orleans.
It's been hard because I've been in my happy-busy-crazy state and then there's New Orleans and my friend David who I have not yet heard from...
...just know that it is on my mind. What a beautiful city. Watching the news is painful.
I'll write more on this later, when I don't have to rush to a film screening for class (it is difficult, and seems insanity, to go through the banal and mundane aspects of daily life when there is chaos in death and suffering so close to home...)

Seen through glasses.

2005-08-30T01:50:00.000-04:00

I did mention that I am doing very well yes?

The Garden Party

2005-08-30T00:33:00.000-04:00

Tis' here. Yes, the garden party; where one is allowed to praddle about this or that, find a motion which conceals a wave or flash. And then, there is the inevitablity of saying what ever god damn thing one wants to (some call it braying). Its benign; its, oh, that time when at once, at once, a connection is felt but only through a sort atmospheric mist that, well, oh, is merely seen via the skyline in a painterly jaunt above and beyond this point--this point. Again, this is merely breathing; tis'. And you--you haven't the faintest (but in fact you do). It is over, left, beyond; seek it.

R. Richard

Allegria.

2005-08-29T18:10:00.001-04:00

Let's go down my checklist:

Loving my classes. Check.
Social life and friends. Check.
Great apartment situation. Check.
Road to foxiness. Check.
Miscellaneous fantastic developments in my life. Check. Check. Check.

Things are going fantastically well right now.
I simply wanted to share.

Foxy Lady.

2005-08-27T21:40:00.000-04:00

I remember sitting on the floor of Foxy Lady, an upscale woman's clothing store in Sarasota, as a little kid. My mother would spend hours in the store, doing that thing where women try on clothes. I would typically sequester myself in a corner with my coloring book and crayons, looking up occassionally to nod in approval at my mother--who never looked less than flawless. I loved going to Foxy Lady. The name spoke of glamour, the allure of the '30s and '40s film sirens who had that extra oompf which made them fabulous. Which made them foxy.
I never considered my own potential foxiness until I sixteen, which was about the time I started to outgrow my awkward phase. I was a hideous child, the proverbial ugly duckling, but when I was sixteen a stranger in New York City told me I was beautiful and since then I have been on a quest for foxiness.
I've achieved foxiness several times. Some occassions were notable, such as my senior prom (I barely recognize myself in the photos) and the debutante party I attended the day I stepped on the scale and weighed 132 pounds. Others are smallers, day-to-day: my makeup looks awesome, hair is perfect, tits look magnificent in this shirt, etc.
The other day I noticed that I had cheekbones. Cheekbones. I'm going to assume that this is related to the thinning of my face as I drop weight. I stared at myself in the mirror for perhaps fifteen minutes, examing the shadows my newfound cheekbones made as I turned my head this way and that. Call me vain. Call me superficial. Call me vapid and idiotic but oh my God I have cheekbones and it is a little shocking.
Cheekbones! Guess I'm one step closer to foxiness.

Pinot Grigio.

2005-08-27T13:40:00.000-04:00

It is always pleasant to let the wine go to your head. Here's to socialization, cigarettes, spirits, and Edward Albee.
Another lazy Saturday (lazy meaning that I just woke up and I still feel a bit like someone kicked me in the head. I have errands to run, and then I think I'll go to the gym, because it is like torture but at the same time I am into that whole S&M idea so why not cause myself pain for the greater good? Besides, I won't be sweating with the masses today (not that I don't enjoy sweating with the masses, it has a very "we're all in this together"-ness to it) because I'm going to crush my muscles with iron and wine. Er, I mean, iron and cable. Whatever.
I'm thinking of giving this site an overhaul soon because it's been awhile and my links are outdated and the background is starting to irk me. One of my acquaintences has another skin for blogger and I'm really pleased by it, so I think I might steal it and hope he doesn't mind. Sorry kid.
Allright, guess I should drag myself from my currently silent apartment.

Gilly flowers maybe, 'stead of daisies.

2005-08-26T14:32:00.000-04:00

I'm really disappointed that Terry Gilliam's The Brother's Grimm got poor reviews (not that I'm surprised, it looked sort of iffy from the previews). Oh Terry Gilliam, I know I haven't seen many of your films. I have never viewed Brazil and really I've only seen snippets of Fear and Loathing and yes, dear, I know that I need to get nice and drunkity drunk drunk drunk or some level of high before I watch it in it's entirety shut your yap.
However, it is upsetting, Terry Gilliam, that the most substantial project with which you've been involved recently was that flopped Don Quixote that got turned into a documentary about movies that flop.
I thought you were supposed to be prolific and visionary and genius and whatnot.
Here's hoping for Tideland.

In other news I'm rockin' out at school again. I forgot how much I love running around like a madwoman--and the sad part is that statement is not sarcasm. I had such a productive day yesterday and when I passed out at 1:30 am after watching my dreaded Stat Lecture I felt as though I'd ridiscovered my purpose in life...
...I love classes. I'm so lame. Here's an overview:

Italian Grammar and Composition: My fifth semester of Italian allows me to graduate into the big leagues which means the remaining twenty-or-so of us are now sequestered in a tiny room in Dauer with miserable acoustics. My flamboyant divino Gianfranco is back. O', how I fondly remember the dinners we spent in Italy, clustered in a corner sharing a bottle or two of wine while he lectured me on how "we oppressed peoples" must stick together. Sigh.

History of Photography: The professor is tall and spindly with a rather startling hairline and a greasy mullet. He'd be attractive if not for the mullet. He is in his own world and scheduled our midterm on Yom Kippur. Good times. But the class is theory based which excites me beyond belief--yes. Theory excites me. Get over it. (Also, I'm going to have a nice advantage, since most art history students get very little theory...I do my dance of double-major nerdom).

History of Romanesque and Gothic Architecture: Professor Stanley reminds me of Mrs. Patricia Johnston, shaper of my life and academic pursuits, in that he has odd mannerisms but he's brilliant and knows many things. He says "allright," quite a lot while regarding the class with a fairly skeptical expression. I love it. And I've already started working on my research paper (hopefully the lancets underneath the North Rose Window at Chartres? Fingers crossed. More dance of nerdom, yes).

Italian Cinema: New Italian Professor. She's fresh out of school, from Ireland, she's working the Euro-Charm and I love it. We're watching 8 1/2 and reading Deleuze (!)

Introduction to Statistics: Read over my other classes. Consider the terms "statistics" and "math." I think you'll figure it out.

I'm also back at the gym, hopefully back at the improv, and slowly backing into my social life (crash).

I'm thinking all will be well.

Everything old is new again.

2005-08-21T23:25:00.000-04:00

Hey y'all, Lindsay here, me and Bit-Bit are back in Gainesville and we're pretendin' to talk like a combination between Britney Spears and the guidance counselor on South Park, mmkay?
Mmkay.
Anyhow, I'm back in Gainesville, I'm slowly settling myself into my apartment. I'm pretty much in, right now I'm just reorganizing my bookshelves (I'm organizing my books--art books in one section, plays in another, etc.--and alphabetizing them via section. Yes, I am sick, and I do have a bit too much time on my hands.)
Classes start Wednesday.
Yay. Life!
Mmkay, bye y'all.

J.C.

2005-08-15T17:26:00.000-04:00

Now stands for Jenny Craig.
My mother and sister are on it, I just jumped on the bandwagon.
I know it's a dumb pay-for-your-food diet program but, you know what? I eat well, I don't eat a lot, I work out quite often, I'm active, I'm doing everything I can to lose weight and I am not losing weight and I'm really tired of it.
I'm not overweight, I know this, but I know I could look better. I weigh 143 pounds and I'm not happy about it.
So I'm doing something about it.
Call me superficial, call me a conformist, call me "buying into the thin fad." I will never be thin, but I can be healthier than I am now, and I want to weigh less for various reasons, not the least of which is I like myself when I'm thinner (also up there are smaller breasts, better self-esteem, and not having to worry about some punk-ass college freshman saying I was a bit chubby for his tastes).
Allright, so I'm doing this, the end.

A picture's worth a thousand words, huh?

2005-08-15T03:59:00.000-04:00

Hey guys.
I decided to open a flickr account.
I don't have many pictures up yet, but I'll be loading more in as the days go by.
I have a photo host, bizarre.
Anyhow, here's the link:

Lindsay's Flickr Site.

Enjoy...?

God damn live journal nonsense.

2005-08-15T01:18:00.000-04:00

I don't usually do this, but whatev:

one) Reply with your name, and I will respond with something random about you.
two) I will tell you what song, movie, book, or fictional character reminds me of you.
three) I will pick a substance to wrestle with you in.
four) I will say something that only makes sense to you and me. Or… at least me.
five) I will tell you my favorite memory of you.
six) I will tell you what animal or plant you remind me of.
seven) I will ask you something that I have always wondered about you.
eight) If I do this for you, you must post this on your journal.

No one will respond because no one reads this and because I come off as cold, elitist, and overly severe.
Hurray.

Belated back in Florida.

2005-08-09T20:19:00.000-04:00

New York Times article on the amazing Kevin Calhoon spurs me to post.
We saw him in Chitty Chitty Bang-Bang and he was astounding...and he fronts a glam-rock punk band!
I'm in love!

The only task of a writer...

2005-08-02T22:20:00.000-04:00

...is to write.
I'm blogging from New York City, fresh from my viewing of Martin McDonagh's The Pillowman, starring Jeff Goldblum and Billy Crudup.
I've seen a lot of theatre in my brief time. I've never seen anything quite like this.
I can't lie: I went into The Pillowman expecting to be moved and inspired and swept off my feet etc. etc...And I was. I was all these things. And more.
At surface glance the story is about an interrogation involving child murders and tortures, but this is only superficial, for the play really speaks about stories. About storytelling. Not the meanings behind stories, not allegories or bullshit metaphors, simply the telling of stories. The human need to tell stories, to be remembered by and for one's stories. Just stories. It is all very Derridian, if you think about it.
The play was...it was magical. The performances were all first rate, the actual structure of the play was unbelievable, and there were a number of coups d'theatre which acted out stories written by Billy Crudup's character. Yes, it is a difficult play, and there were a number of times when I had minor heart attacks. And yes, there were decidedly less people in the theatre after intermission. But my God, if a play can move people like that, if a play can reach into someone's gut and rip out their fucking hearts...
...Well, I think that says something, I really do.
All I know is that my response to this play, as a writer, as someone who writes, someone who tries with all their heart and soul to write, was utterly, heart-breakingly visceral. As I said to Jeff Goldblum (who was wonderful, and so generous! He was so patient at the stage door I couldn't believe it) when he was signing my playbill: "The play was like a series of successive punches to my gut." He smiled a rather kindly smile and put his hand on my wrist and oh, I was quite pleased...
...on a similar note, Billy Crudup is gorgeous. And talented. If not a little short, but these things can be forgiven.
Fuck fluffy theatre. The Pillowman has strength and soul and force of wit. It was better than Doubt, in my humble opinion, but the content is a bit too...dark. For spoon-fed American audiences.
And what I love, love, love about this play...McDonagh, like Crudup's character Katurian, doesn't want you to dissect it. It is a story. And sure, there are levels and subtleties...but just take it as a story. As a piece of writing. As a testament to someone's life and existence...
...for in the end, all that remains of a writer is her writing, am I correct?

...Time to go find my family at the Lennon stage door. Forgive me for the sloppiness of this entry. I'm frazzled, my nerves are fried, I feel like I've just been put through theatrical boot camp and oh the ache is wondrous.
I'll be back in Sarasota on Friday. Until then, know all is well in the City, etc.
Back into the souless pit that is Times Square...

Is it fall yet?

2005-07-28T03:01:00.000-04:00

Going to New York City from the 'morrow (technically today) until August 5th, so don't expect any activity until then.
Not that I've been posting on a regular basis, mind you...
...regardless, tah kids.

Inevitable.

2005-07-20T23:40:00.000-04:00

I can't avoid this any longer.

Anti-Abortion.
Anti-Woman's Rights.
Anti-Gay Rights.
Pro-prayer in school

Judge John G. Roberts...I'm not sure you're doin' it for me.
See, I was afraid of this. To paraphrase a rather pointless and not-intellectual and purely-emotional rant I made to a friend the other day: fuck fuck motherfuckers fuck theocratic conservative bullshit motherfuckers fuck fuckity fuck fuck fuck theocracy fuck.

Okay. I feel better.
But not really.

The Obi-Wan Law.

2005-07-20T23:31:00.000-04:00

Okay, so this weekend (between moving from my old apartment to my new apartment, which was utterly fucking exhausted) I bought and devoured Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. I correctly predicted the "big death" (c'mon guys, the mentor isn't allowed to live through the entire series. Said mentor must die to enable the hero to step out on his own. I call it the Obi-Wan Law.) but was pleasantly charmed by the book. Well, except for the utterly dark and grim and awful ending (and death, just because it's predictable doesn't mean it is easy) which set me up on my feet and pacing about, back and forth, back and forth while cursing and pulling my hair.
Other updates: I'm back on Philip Pullman's His Dark Materials trilogy, I'm pretty much giving up my job search, my efforts at the gym are beginning to show(!), I'm bored, I miss my friends, I'm ready to go back to school.
Hey, all my friends that decided to go incommunicado for the second half of the summer, you suck. I could use you right now, because I just learned some upsetting news about one of my family members. So come back. Please. And like, be here, or something, because my parents have clammed up and I need someone to listen to my worries.
...Is it fall yet?

What a strange enterprise, popping pussies into pies.

2005-07-15T02:29:00.000-04:00

I picked up the cast recording for Stephen Sondheim's Sweeney Todd the other day and it is so utterly breathtaking.
I've never experienced a piece of music quite like this--that they're reviving it on Broadway in the upcoming year thrills me to the very core. I think, to see this show performed, would inspire within me many levels of happiness.

Hopefully Renaissance has this in it's archives. Oh PBS...

This is not a test.

2005-07-13T19:04:00.000-04:00

Listen Missy, honey, I've heard not-so-great things about your Cookbook, so I doubt I'll investigate anymore, and for that I am sorry, because you've worked so hard to make yourself beautiful and you know I love you but babygirl, go back to Timbaland. You and Timbaland, y'all made sweet sweet crunkadelic music together and I miss those days baby, we all do...
...but OH MISSY, your "Lose Control" song is, as you would say, suppafly.
Missy Elliott baby, welcome back to my playlist.

My Trip to New York City. By Lindsay Gordon, Age 20.

2005-07-13T12:46:00.000-04:00

I've been out for a few days because I have been skipping about the delicious city that is New York City. And here is what I did:

Friday was our day of departure and depart we did (though we nearly missed our plane because of a God-awful traffic jam on the Howard Franklin bridge and there was much anxiety, oh yes). We arrived in the City around midday, and it was pouring bloody rain because the remnants of Cindy were crashing through the Northeast (just as the monstrosity of Dennis was preparing to batter lil'ol'Florida). So we cabbed from JFK into the City, to our hotel in Times Square--I hate Times Square, by the way, we just stay there because we see an orgy of theatre and it is convenient--dumped out bags, grabbed a quick slice of pizza, and then I ran off by myself to catch an exhibit at the Japan Society. The exhibit is titled Little Boy, and it was curated by the man I consider to be the Andy Warhol of contemporary Japan, Takashki Murakami (of fabulousness). Y'all probably know Murakami as the man who designed those Louis Vuitton purses all the sorority girls and Jewish American Princesses tote about. Anyhow, the exhibit was about Japan's otaku (nerd) culture and the artistic response to Japanese society in the aftermath of the atomic bomb. It was a small exhibit, but it was astounding--it included clips of anime (Akira, Neon Genesis Evangelion, etc.) and 2-D flat work as well as 3-D installation pieces and a wall of Hello Kitty merchandise. Wide variety, lovelies.
Oh yes, I walked to the Japan Society, by the way. And all I knew was that it was on 47th St. I did not realize that it was by the U.N. Headquarters. So I walked from Times Square to, essentially, the U.N. Headquarters (which is on the waterfront) in the rain and the cold in open-toed shoes and, yes, I walked back as well (impossible to get a cab and I was too lazy to seek out a subway). My feet, I fear were numb and sad, but it was an adventure in exploration, nonetheless (I found a lovely little park known as the Katherine Hepburn Garden. Future exploration must occur when the weather allows).
Anyhow, back to Times Square went I, to clean up and dry off and change. My father and I walked to the Time Warner Center (while my mother and my sister skipped about 5th Avenue and spent money) to go to Whole Foods to grab something quick to eat. Mother and sister joined us there and food was had, but as we were leaving my sister spotted my father's friend, Beth Nissen (she's a reporter and investigator for CNN and appears, occassionally, on Aaron Brown's segment) so a bit of chatting was had. And then my family was off to Lincoln Center...
...or I should say, the Vivien Beaumont Theatre, to see The Light in the Piazza, our one musical for this trip. The show was stunning--or, rather, the music, written by Adam Guettel (the grandson of Richard Rogers) was unbelievable, as was Victoria Clarke's performance as Margaret Johnson (she won the Tony for Best Actress in a Musical this year). The musical was not a large splashy affair. It did not depend on wit or slapstick comedy. Instead, it was merely a testament to the power of beautiful music and profound performances. Modern musicals lose sight of such things, so The Light in the Piazza is certainly a rarity. Regardless, many tears were shed. Many many many.
After the performance we waited about while my sister did her groupie-at-the-stagedoor thing. While we were waiting about the stagedoor we saw an old (and very pregnant) friend from our Urinetown days, the fabulous Spencer Kayden. Miss Spencer, we discovered, is married to one of the cast members of The Light in the Piazza and was waiting about to greet him. Ah, old friends doing new things, like marriage and children, le'sigh.
And that, my friends, was day one. Errands to run now, so I'll wander back and continue day two and so one another time.
Jolly good and enjoy.

"Dad is it the terrorists?!"

2005-07-05T20:41:00.000-04:00

Because it has been too long since I have posted a Frank Rich link:

Lies vs. Film.

Frank Rich writes on how Spielberg's War of the Worlds evokes more of an emotional response for most Americans than the War in Iraq. He also talks about Bushie's repeated opportunities to speak the truth. Alas, he can only tell a hyperbole.

In other NYTimes news there is a very pertinent article which questions the existence of bisexuality in men (Voila, link). This article is of particular interest to me because, just last night (or should we say in the early hours of this morning) I had a rather stimulating conversation about bisexuality.

Happy Post-4th of July.

2005-07-05T03:13:00.000-04:00

I have a few movies to review in upcoming posts (War of the Worlds and Miyazaki's latest, Howl's Moving Castle) but for now, to ensure y'all that I am not dead, I'll just vaguely reminisce on this year's 4th of July...
...'cause last year's was in Paris. Oi. Anyhow.
So I ate hot dogs and saw fireworks and watched the Boston Pops on CBS and it was lovely.
And I do hope that that satisfies your curiosity.

One final note: Dakota Fanning, you do not impress me.

Wow. Spain. Really?

2005-06-30T22:37:00.000-04:00

And not us.

Several days after Canada's move of fabulousness....

Spain legalizes gay marriage, which is odd, because Spain is predominantly Catholic and just a smidge conservative. Yay Spain.

Why is America so backward?

I got jobbed.

2005-06-29T23:38:00.000-04:00

So I got my job at Express, I'll be orientation-ed next week, and then maybe I'll start making money in between my jaunts to NYC and my jaunt to Gainesville to jauntily move my apartment from one place into the abode of the Vanilla Girls.
I'm still reclusive. I'm still reading my book. I'm still watching the great films of my lifetime, etc. blah.
Quiet summer. I don't mind.

...Florida...ungh...

2005-06-26T01:12:00.000-04:00

Wow, Hillsborough County, you officially lose at existence.

Talk about close-minded and idiotic: Hillsborough County is really fucking homophobic.

And this on the eve before I finally sit down to read the apparently endless Vanity Fair article on the events that occurred behind-the-scenes in Florida in Election 2000 (coughkatherineharriscoughcoughdoomcough).

Good times.

Would you fight? Would you die?

2005-06-25T22:24:00.000-04:00

Because I think it's time for me to begin getting political again:

Everyone's posted this link, but there's a point to it. Young Republicans on the War in Iraq, and on (not) enlisting.

Also, I found this on the United States Holocaust Museum website: Pictures from Darfur. The exhibit is titled: "In Darfur My Camera Was Not Nearly Enough." No one is doing anything. The people involved aren't white and there is no oil. I hate the "West," sometimes, I really do.

Forescore years living down in this rainswept town.

2005-06-22T01:47:00.000-04:00

Yes, I am in Sarasota.
Yes, I am currently jobless.
Yes, I am going stir-crazy because my confidante is incommunicado in Mexico City.
Let's go in phases, shall we.
Sarasota still maintains it's charm, but this is probably because I have only been here since Saturday. Rain does not plague the skies on a daily basis and there is actually a seabreeze and, most importantly, pink-orange-purple sunsets of majesty. I frolick slightly with the few individuals in town. I frolick with my sister and my parents. I frolick, quite frequently, at the gym, which is one of my many projects this summer. Listen, I used to be fit, and I miss those days, so let us bring the golden age back, no?
I'm working on the job situation and, hopefully, will be working at Express soon--since Express is the only place that has shown me any real interest.
I've been listening endlessly to the Decemberists, who are pleasing to me. Some of their songs sound like Victorian sea shanteys and others are plaintive love ballads but there is a preciousness to their tunes and their lyrics that I simply cannot resist, a frivolousness and a loveliness that appeals to me. The old-romanticism of their music appeals to me, right now, probably because I am, typically, a little melancholy, and a little lonely.
And, yes, very tired of sleeping alone. But we needn't go down that road.
I'm trucking through the enormous volume that is Susanna Clarke's Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell. Fiction, fantasy, period-piece--again, I'm pleased, because I need a bit of escapism in my life. Yes, if you can't tell, I'm a little wistful and sad.
Leaving Gainesville has plunged me into loneliness. I'd settled into a comfortable routine and it was ripped rather violently from me. Melodramatic? Sure, but I'm entitled. So now I'm just watching mailboxes, in their various incarnations (electronic and snail) for signs of life from my collegiate existence.
And in the meantime I pass time: I'm working on my scrapbook, I'm reading, I'm going to start renting films soon to broaden my filmic knowledge (we're talking the old stuff, the classic stuff) and perhaps I'll allow myself a social life. I'd like to assemble my Europe memoirs into a comprehensive travelogue and maybe send it to someone. My mother has also charged me with the task of planning our trips to New York City. Which I can do.
This summer, I can do. I don't really have a choice now, do I?
By the way, did I mention that I'm tired of sleeping alone? Yeah. I thought so. Thanks.

Summertime Blues.

2005-06-18T02:04:00.000-04:00

Summer A's over, I'll be back in Sarasota later tomorrow afternoon. Or, I suppose, this afternoon.
I already miss my friends, here in Gainesville. They've come to mean more to me then, well, then I ever felt possible...
...Well, at least this ache in my heart lets me know that I am alive.

God, that was emo.
Speaking of emo, keep your ears peeled for Lovelost's first single, "Diagonal Sleeper."
...Don't ask.

I love Hayao Miyazaki.

2005-06-12T03:42:00.000-04:00

And so does A.O. Scott.

I think my next CD/DVD splurge will result in my owning Miyazaki's filmography.

Andy Warhol, Silver Screen.

2005-06-10T15:10:00.000-04:00

Methinks I'll be taking a day trip to Beacon when I'm in the city this summer.

Andy Warhol equals love.

I cannot lie, I am thoroughly enamored with the legend of Andy Warhol.

In other artistic news, I saw Laputa: Castle in the Sky last night (and it was amazing). It was a roller-coaster of emotion. The highs! The lows! And the tears, oi vey. I am waiting anxiously for Howl's Moving Castle to open in a theatre near me.

Miyazaki also equals love.

Here's to you, Mrs. Robinson.

2005-06-08T01:13:00.000-04:00

Okay, I should stop discussing things with my friend, because they ultimately translate into real life...
...like talking The Graduate with him on Sunday night and now Anne Bancroft is dead. This saddens me, quite a bit. She was a gifted actress, and I had a lot of respect for both the woman and her work.
My condolences to Mel Brooks and the other family members she left behind.

Torque and Avant-Garde.

2005-06-06T22:10:00.000-04:00

I've had a small love affair with the works of Richard Serra ever since I first encountered him at the Dia: Beacon (here's his page on the website) in the summer of 2003. His works are enormous, mazelike, and fully interactive sculptures: giant forms of twisted steel through which one can walk and fully experience the work.
Think I can make up an excuse to go to the Guggenheim Bilbao to see his new exhibit? Granted, it's a permanent exhibit, but the critic's description of it is so thrilling that I sort of want to pack up and jet off to Spain...
Kimmelman captures Serra's essence as well as one can through words. He really has to be experienced. His work caused me to reconsider modern art, and the role of the viewer toward art. Encountering one of his pieces is a truly visceral experience.

On a related note, I was having a conversation with a friend last night about art and communism (particularly Soviet art) and the Harn, the local art museum, just happens to have an exhibit on avant-garde artists in Soviet Russia. Happy coincidence. Now this I did not know. Looks like I'm making a museum visit before I depart the Gainesville.

The show was dominated by Sara Ramirez's giant....red dress.

2005-06-06T02:13:00.000-04:00

Sigh. As much as I enjoyed Spamalot, it always hurts me when the "Little Musical That Could" (this year it is The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee) doesn't when. Because lord knows I love the underdog. And I've heard nothing but golden praises sung for Spelling Bee. Guess I'll see in a few weeks.
My brief impressions of this year's show:
AWFUL. BORING. DREADFUL. PREDICTABLE. Yes, Hugh Jackman, you can sing and you can dance and you look fantastic in gold lame pants but the one man show at the beginning? Um? Self-indulgent? And this year's opener, when looked at next to last year's tour de force, sad. Sad my friends. Sad sad sad.
Bill Irwin winning the best actor of a play was a surprise. Sara Ramirez drugged out and falling out of her dress was hysterical. Most of the winners were predictable: Glengary Glen Ross, Doubt (Hello, it won the Pulitzer) La Cage, and now big splashy silly Spamalot. Are you happy Eric Idle. Are you?!?!?!
But quite simply the problem with the show was this: There were a few golden musicals this year but there wasn't really any one show that made people stand up and waltz around. Except for Spelling Bee. And, to be honest, it shows in the show (ha, silly) because the musical performances really do make the show.
But this was a stellar fucking year for dramas. It really was. Mm, plays.
Speaking of plays, and I wish that they had broadcast this: Edward Albee won the lifetime achievement award. Now, those of you that know me know that I have this quiet desire to be a playwright and there was a time when I wrote plays. And one of those plays, based on my life (because, isn't everything?) allowed me to meet Edward Albee...He wrote Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf and The Zoo Story, which are two of my favorite plays--particularly the latter, which I cannot read without crying (I'm talking the "Jerry and the Dog" monologue people, which is pure theatrical genius) and he is just...he's a force. I met him when I was sixteen and impressionable and he sat in a large arm chair in a tweed jacket and was so quiet and witty and acerbic and very assuming. He knew who he was. He knows who he is. He will be remembered when he died and it was just an enormous honor to meet him, if only for a few minutes.
Apparently his partner of 35 years, the artist Jonathan Thomas, died last month. When I heard that my heart broke, just a little. Just a little.

So the Tony Awards was a calm end to a weekend that wasn't calm and was, in fact, one of the strangest weekends of my life. Oi vey.
Time to start another week. Huzzah.
Also, break a leg on your audition tomorrow Jessica my brat sister.

I could never lie or keep a secret to save my life.

2005-05-30T21:32:00.000-04:00

The New York Times is running a feature on a fabulous blog site.
Here's the address.
This is really fascinating and artistic and unbelievable and meta and contrived and incredible.
I love it.

Where there's a will

2005-05-27T00:02:00.000-04:00

Well, I was waiting for this to get some notice.
The majority of my gay male friends want children. Why should we stop them.
Yes, I'm alive. I have an astronomy midterm tomorrow. I am the queen of procrastination.

Only a Sith thinks in absolutes.

2005-05-15T22:18:00.000-04:00

Allright, most of you know I was a total Star Wars nerd as a child and that, deep within me, the nerd still remains. But the newest trilogy has, of course, upset me in it's sheer awfulness and Lucas' inability to write dialogue or direct actors. So I'm approaching Episode III with a bit of trepidation and caution because, hey, it could be awful...
...but A.O. Scott just gave it a good review. The NYTimes liked Star Wars Episode III: Revenge of the Sith.

Read:

"This is by far the best film in the more recent trilogy, and also the best of the four episodes Mr. Lucas has directed. That's right (and my inner 11-year-old shudders as I type this): it's better than "Star Wars."
"Revenge of the Sith," which had its premiere here yesterday at the Cannes International Film Festival, ranks with "The Empire Strikes Back" (directed by Irvin Kershner in 1980) as the richest and most challenging movie in the cycle. It comes closer than any of the other episodes to realizing Mr. Lucas's frequently reiterated dream of bringing the combination of vigorous spectacle and mythic resonance he found in the films of Akira Kurosawa into American commercial cinema. "

...I don't know what to say. I really don't.

As the world falls down.

2005-05-15T02:33:00.000-04:00

Lately I've been having nightmares. I don't usually remember them, I just wake in the morning with this dull ache in my chest.
Last night I had a horrific nightmare. And I was unlucky enough to remember it. To remember almost every detail.
I'm not going to post it in detail, because there are many personal aspects, and it was unsettling. I wonder why my dreamworld has taken a turn toward the nightmare.

In other news, I'd like to attend an old-fashioned masquerade ball. The gowns. And Venetian Carnivale masks.

But of course, that would come straight from a nightmare too, wouldn't it.

Bjork won best actress at Cannes one year. That was weird.

2005-05-14T15:24:00.000-04:00

Yay! Cannes!
I do sort of keep my eye on this festival. Last year's winner has finally come to a theatre near me, so I think I'll check it out sometime this week.

May Day. May Day.

2005-05-12T01:10:00.000-04:00

Allright, I haven't updated in eons, I know. But I am here (and by here I mean Gainesville), and I am alive. I'm taking one very dull class (Astronomy 1002, Discovering the Universe) and one unbelievably interesting, frustrating, head-achingly complicated class on Derrida. I leave the classroom mentally and emotionally exhausted.

Um, Tony Award Nominations were announced. I'm a bit behind, but here they are:

Tony Award Nominees.

There was such a...lack of good musical theatre this year. Two worthwhile new shows, from what I understand (Spamalot, which I saw and loved. And the Spelling Bee show, which everyone loves...and everyone keeps talking about Chitty Chitty Bang Bang and I'll be seeing it this summe so we'll see) and an orgy of fantastic plays and...

Okay. This is why I haven't updated recently.
My computer is dying.
Someone help me save it.
I beg of thee.

Darfur.

2005-05-04T21:39:00.000-04:00

I have a very hard time reconciling myself with this world at times.
I'm in a moral crisis.

Bush isn't doing anything about Darfur, so maybe I should.

Part of me wants to drop everything and join the Peace Corps.
I know I'm too cowardly to do this. I know I'm too attached to my academic goals and my career goals and my ultimate goal of being part of the snobby intelligentsia of the academia and universities and museums.
But still, someone has to do something.
If not us, then who?
And if not now, then when?

Tomorrow is Yom HaShoah, Holocaust Remembrance Day.
Think about it.

Pocket Rocket

2005-05-03T21:52:00.000-04:00

So I'm home for the week (until next Monday, when I start Summer A, more classes a-go) and I was poking around on the Questionable Content archives and I found this old strip which captures my life a little bit too well...

Thanks Mom.

Mind you, mine wasn't a random gift, it was a "birthday present" but I still turned bright red and stammered and...
...wait, that was probably way more than any of you wanted to know about me.

Republicans are people too...?

2005-05-03T01:48:00.000-04:00

Huh.
I guess so.

I wonder what he does after he swallows me whole.

2005-05-01T01:12:00.000-04:00

One of my favorite sequences in Philip Roth's The Human Stain involves a stream-of-consciousness poem written about Coleman by Steena Paulson:

He has a body
He has a beautiful body--
the muscles on the backs of his legs and the back of his neck.

Also he is bright and brash.
He's four years older,
but sometimes I feel he is younger.

He is sweet, still, and romantic,
though he says he is not romantic.

I am almost dangerous for this man.

How much can I tell
of what I see in him?
I wonder what he does
after he swallows me whole.

I adore The Human Stain.
And I adore this odd, strange little poem. Thanks Philip Roth.

Nailed.

2005-04-30T02:50:00.000-04:00

Ha ha life, very funny, ha ha...
So I'm leaving for the summer on Sunday and life's thrown me a fast ball and, being the klutz that I am, I stumble and let it slip through my fingers/stumble and have it hit me in the face (pick whichever makes you laugh the hardest).
I'm half way done with my college career which is a little unbelievable and, to quote the fantastic Princeton from Avenue Q:

"And oh yeah, I still haven't found my purpose."

Well, here's to never finding it I suppose.

The rest of this weekend is devoted to packing and getting out of Gainesville.
See everybody in Sarasota.
Ciao Gainesville...
...oh, by the way, this time last year I was preparing to go to Rome.
Oi vey.

Procrastination!!

2005-04-26T00:50:00.000-04:00

A - Age you got your first kiss: Fourteen, at Camp Ramah Darom aka Jew Camp
B - Band listening to right now : Interpol
C - Crush: Well he already knows, so it isn't an issue.
D - Dad's name: Scott Edward Gordon
E - Easiest person to talk to: KT Michel, Nora, Joe Murphy, my mother.
F-Favorite bands at the moment: Interpol
G - Gummy worms or gummy bears: Bears, bite-sized morsels of cute and yummy.
H - Hometown: Sarasota, FL.
I - Instruments: Piano and viola, but not anymore.
J- Junior High: Pine View School for the Gifted
K - Kids: No thankyou.
L - Longest Car Ride: Driving from Gainesville to Chapel Hill, North Carolina, through the night and the rain and the pain and Richard's bladder
M - Mom's name: Cheryl Lasris Gordon
N - Nicknames: Lin, Linds, Lindseluh, yutz, G-Spot, Jew, Tesoro.
O - One wish: Love.
P - Phobias: Being normal.
Q - Quote: "No real artist sees the world as it really is. Otherwise he would cease to be an artist."--Oscar Wilde
R - Reason to smile: An impending conversation.
S - Song you sang last: "Alla Fiera dell'Est," an Italian Passover song.
T - Time you woke up: 11:30 alla mattina.
U - Unknown fact about me: I have a tendency to swim, full-speed, into the walls of swimming pools. I've also taken to smoking about once a week. Cigarettes, loves.
V - Vegetable you hate: I like vegetables. Um...lima beans?
Worst habit(s): I have an addictive personality and I constantly fidget.
X - X-rays you've had: I've had an ultrasound done on my thyroid, does that count?
Y - Yummy food: Anything Asian or Middle Eastern, like Sushi, falafel, and love.
Z - Zodiac sign: Pisces, Sagitarius Rising, Scorpio Moon.

So once I ran into Madonna at Spice Market and it was totally hot.

2005-04-25T21:37:00.000-04:00

Allright, I didn't meet Madonna at Spice Market, but I did eat at Spice Market last summer and I did spend an inordinate amount of time in the Meatpacking District so this article on the proposed High Line park, very interesting, especially since I have a friend studying architecture at Syracuse who worked with one of the designers.

There's an exhibit featuring the proposed designs at MoMA right now. I'll check-check-check-check it out soon enough.

Lindsay Lohen, I used to like you.

2005-04-25T21:32:00.000-04:00

What do you think guys, should I start giving these charming trinkets to my friends?
Didn't think so.
P.S.: Trucker hats are so passe, Linds.

Stella was a diver and she was always down.

2005-04-24T23:40:00.000-04:00

I don't do well late at night, alone, surrounded by books and self indulgence (common theme?)

I'm torn between cynicism and idealisim-cum-loyalty to my father and Judaism and so-called God Our Father in Heaven Who May or May Not be in Heaven and Who May or May Not be God or Who May or May Not be Father. I'm a good liberal humanitarian who despises guns and fundamentalism and loves freedom-of-choice and freedom-of-marriage and freedom-of-trees but I'm pro-Israel because I'm Jewish and, you know what, neither side is right on this issue so I don't even want to discuss it. A new friend of mine has a Palestinian buddy who is hyper-pro-Palestine for obvious reasons and I can barely hold a conversation or even listen to him holding a conversation because of the perhaps-filth coming from his mouth that makes my ears burn and my face flush then drain and my anger rages and bam, I have to take a walk and a count-and-breathe-to-ten just to avoid impaling my palms with my fingernails as my hands ball themselves into teeny-tiny Lindsay Fists of Doom and Destruction.
Truth of the matter is I need to speak with someone with half a brain and a whole heart but oh, everyone's off being fucking responsible while I sit listening to Interpol and reading Rolling Stone's tribute to Mr. Gonzo Hunter S. Thompson and maybe that's why I'm feeling so fucking acid reflux.
Or maybe it's Passover and my necessity to be Jewish because good lord, assimilation would be terrible. And assimilation would be terrible but if this world is so global and if we are all one then what is wrong with assimilation? Well everything is wrong with assimilation but doesn't that just prolong racial and cultural tensions and the possibility of genocide and HOW CAN WE MAINTAIN OUR CULTURAL DIFFERENCES WITHOUT FUCKING KILLING EACH OTHER?!
And why am I consigned to the state of loveless virign for the rest of my life?
Actually, this stream-of-consciousness nonsense probably explains it. I should be consigned to an insane asylum for the entirety of my life or maybe I should just lock myself into a room with a single light bulb, my reading glasses, a bottle of water and a few notebooks and write until my hands cramp and the writer's callous on my right-ring finger swells and cracks and bleeds all down the back of my hand. That would be fitting.
This is what happens when I think too much. I go bloody fucking insane and start rambling...
...I'm sitting at my desk in Sarasota and also at my desk is my first self-portrait. It's in this silver and golf-leaf frame with a scallop shell that my mother discovered in the depths of God knows where. I'm wearing black and red, which is fitting because my favorite color combination is black and red, and I have a dopey grin and rosy cheeks and red glasses and eyes that are just brown. No cornea, no pupils, just brown irises. My nose is yellow. My eyelashes grow from my hair--and all of this is black. I lack hands are my feet are little red balls. The Portrait of the Artist as a Young Girl and all done in basic Crayola Crayons, circa 1989. Or maybe 1988. It's so hard to date art nowadays.
My shoulder muscles are cramping. It's time to stop and take a long deep and soothing breath and perhaps an advil or a valium or a shot of something or other.

Well, this was highly angsty. Wasn't it.

Un topolino mio padre compro.

2005-04-24T02:34:00.000-04:00

Happy Passover.
So I'm in my bed in Sarasota having my bimonthly (or are we at biweekly by now? I lose track) existential crisis of dark-angst-lonely-self indulgence and I'm dreading, oh yes, dreading the impending eight fucking days of matzah which lay ahead of me.
Seder tonight was held at the Grossbards, hyper-old family friends who I see semi-annually because, well, I'm in Gainesville and they're in Sarasota. Grossbard reunions are always slightly odd for me because their younger daughter and I used to be best friends. We were inseparable as children but, as we grew, we went in polar opposite directions and split to either side of the earth and, well, I needn't be a gossip.
But tonight she looked well. She looked happy. And I'm happy for her.
Still, nostalgia and memories of mischievous little girls getting into mudfights and wreaking general havoc. Her older brother is almost twenty-seven. TWENTY-FUCKING-SEVEN. When he was thirteen and we were six we would bring him utter torment and now he's twenty-seven and graduating veterinary school and moving to Boston.
Time flies when you're living.
Night two of Passover domani. I'll be back in Gainesville on Tuesday. Finals on Wednesday and Thursday (7:30 in the morning?!?! Robert Westin, you are a sadist) and then finiro. Which will be nice. To be done.
Then? Summer a'go-go, io suppongo.

Bohémienne, bohémienne, c'est écrit dans les lignes de ma main.

2005-04-21T01:47:00.000-04:00

Well, classes are done.
I have a paper due Friday. This equals hyper-procrastination.
I also have a show Friday Night. Stadium Black Box. 9:00. Apprentice Group and F Group...
...part of me just isn't excited for it. Maybe it's because of the whole F Group thing? Wow am I ever petty...
...and self indulgent.
Self indulgent time: Vorrei che la vita fosse "certain." Certo? Who knows. I wish that life were certain. And. I wish that I were as cynical and emotionally unaffected as I pretend to be. As I'd like to be. But no, I'm an open book.
I don't do well in these situations. I wasn't made for them.
Yay ambiguity. Back to work I go.

Uncle Fester

2005-04-19T19:44:00.000-04:00

Yes, it's true, the new Pope is creepy looking (thanks Chris). I think it's because he has enormous bags under his eyes. I want him to take a nap. I want him to take sixteen.
He's also super arch-fucking conservative and fundamentalist but what else would one expect?

"But many in the crowd were openly and greatly distressed by the choice of the new pope - widely regarded as an extreme conservative on a wide variety of social issues. This included many Catholics who said he would take the church in the wrong direction.
'I am very, very upset because I was hoping for a more open pope, one who was more open to the problems of the world,' said Paolo Tasselli, a retired bank worker and a practicing Catholic, who said he had hoped the church would give more rights to women and be more involved in social issues. "

Tsk.

Benedict XVI.

2005-04-19T12:52:00.000-04:00

This is unbelievable. Pople are racing down the Via Concilizione, through the streets of Rome, to get to St. Peter's square.
Can you imagine what is going through this man's mind as he looks out over the throngs and the crowd of the Vatican?

Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger of Germany is elected 265th pontif and takes Benedict XVI as his name.

Wow.

POPEPOPEPOPEPOPE.

2005-04-19T12:32:00.000-04:00

I don't know much about him I'm watching CNN and waiting to hear his name.
They announced it around half an hour ago: White smoke and bells.
Waiting excitedly, hopefully I'll find out who he is before I go to class:

New Pope.

Here we go!

2005-04-18T11:32:00.000-04:00

It's as though I just fired a gun at the racing course. Bang.
Conclave.

P.S.: I'm still irritated that I missed the funeral. Anyone, maybe, make a copy? Maybe?