Pop Culture – from the gen x files

May 11, 2018

Cracks in the earth, a tumbleweed invasion, and a lava outbreak: What’s next, a plague of frogs?

A few weeks ago, my 13-year old told me about a giant crack that had opened in Africa.

“Some scientists think this is the beginning of the African continent splitting in two,” he said.

After doing a little Googling, I discovered he was right. According to reports, the crack (more of a crevice, really, or a chasm) spans nearly 35 miles, and it is about 55 feet deep and 66 feet wide. Scientists do, in fact, think this could be the beginning of a rift, and that over the next few million years, parts of the eastern edge of Africa could separate from the rest of the continent.

A massive crack suddenly opened in Kenya last month.

My son had mentioned this casually, as he got himself an after school snack. Like, you know, part of the earth may be splitting in two, and, hey, are we out of Goldfish?

Maybe this whole giant-crack-in-the-earth thing wouldn’t have struck me as quite so alarming if I had not just read about the Giant Attack of the Tumbleweeds that recently hit the town of Victorville in southern California.

In April, when wind gusts hit up to 50 mph, so many tumbleweeds blew in from the Mojave Desert that, according to NPR, “dozens of homes . . . were seemingly swallowed up by mounds of the dry brush.”

About 100 homes needed help after their entryways were blocked. By giant walls of tumbleweeds. People were trapped in their homes. By tumbleweeds.

But, no problem, right? I mean, we’re all fine. Nothing to see here kids. Nothing to worry about.

Except lava.

On May 3^rd, lava started releasing from “vents” about 25 miles from the summit of Hawaii’s Kilauea volcano. These vents spread through neighborhoods, destroying homes and other structures. There is a chance that the volcano might blow soon. But the part of the story that really grabbed my attention was the use of the words “lava outbreak.” As in an outbreak of lava.

I don’t want to go full tinfoil-hat-talking-to-invisible-friends-on-the-secret-channel-on-my-transistor-radio here, but these things seem sorta, well, not great, right?

I feel, sometimes, when I hear the news lately, that I’m living in the early scenes of a disaster movie. Any minute, Tommy Lee Jones, or Dennis Quaid, or Jeff Goldblum, or Samuel L. Jackson, or Helen Hunt, or Pierce Brosnan, or John Cusack is going to come on stage and start looking at papers and computer screens and mumbling things like, “Just as I feared.”

And then we, the audience—the people buzz-sawing our way out of our tumbleweed-stricken homes—will be reminded that Tommy/Dennis/Jeff/Samuel/Helen/Pierce/John have tried to warn us all along.

I remember when Paul Thomas Anderson’s 1999 film Magnolia was released, and some audience members found the scene where the sky suddenly rains a plague of frogs too surreal, too random and unbelievable, too unsettling. It ruined an otherwise excellent movie, they claimed.

At this point, however, I’m not sure I would even be surprised to see “frog storm” make the news.

Hey, mom—did you hear about that frog tornado that hit Toledo? Oh, and do we have any juice?

So what’s a person to do?

I mean, I do a pretty job of recycling already. I even compost. Okay, my husband composts. But I’m the one who saves the eggshells and coffee grounds that he composts with. Sometimes. When I’m not in a hurry. But still, the lava.

And I’m a person of faith. I pray. But still, the tumbleweeds.

At some point, I feel I have no choice but to go into total-ostrich-head-in-the-sand mode. When the earth appears to start splitting in half, denial can be a wonderful thing. I think of the lyrics to an old Simon & Garfunkel song, “Flowers Never Bend With the Rainfall”:

So I’ll continue to continue to pretend

My life will never end,

And Flowers Never Bend with the rainfall

I’ll just keep trying to do my part, I guess, and, as Curtis Mayfield told us in the 70s, “keep on keeping on.” I’ll pop some popcorn, plan my library-as-shelter-escape-route, and wait for frogs.

January 26, 2018January 26, 2018

Ponies, Google, Ray Bradbury, and redefining effort in 2018

It’s hard to know, exactly, what this says about motherhood and about 2018— but this morning, I spent more than 10 minutes searching Google in an attempt to identify the name of a rather obscure My Little Pony.

I found it.

And finding it felt like victory.

In moments like these, I find myself thinking of the “Little House on the Prairie” books that I loved as a child. “Love” might not be a strong enough word. I read them and read them and read them again.

The Ingalls family didn’t grab the bottle of Log Cabin syrup and pour it on their frozen waffles. That log cabin wasn’t a logo. It was their home.

Who needs Nintendo? Or even Nerf? In “The Little House in the Big Woods,” Mary and Laura have fun playing catch with a pig bladder.

And those waffles weren’t frozen. They weren’t even waffles. They were flapjacks. Even the words were stronger. And in order to enjoy those flapjacks? They harvested the wheat. They made their own syrup. Their own syrup. Don’t even get me started with the churning and the butter. That bacon on the side, the item I shouldn’t eat because there is no room in my sedentary lifestyle to accommodate the calories? The Ingalls family butchered that hog in order to eat that bacon, thank you very much. They skimmed cracklings off of the fat. They knew what cracklings were.

And when the hog butchering was done? Laura and Mary played a lively game of catch with the pig bladder. The scene makes me imagine a side-by-side comparison of an eight-year old’s Christmas lists.

What I Want for Christmas: 1868 vs. 2018
1868
A new doll made out of an old corn cob
A shinier lunch pail
Vaccines
An inflated pig bladder

2018
A smart phone
An American Girl Doll, complete with her own Mars Habitat, Gourmet Kitchen, Groovy Bathroom, and Gymnastics Set
A Nintendo Switch

To be clear, I have no desire to go back to 1868, for a whole lot of reasons. I’m kind of partial to air conditioning and the right to vote, just to name a few. I am not suffering from the delusion that 1868 was better. Far from it. (Oh, really, so far from it). I just can’t help but wonder, sometimes, though, about what is happening to my sense of the word “effort” in these modern, high tech times. I don’t want to churn butter—though I do like the verb “churn” a lot. But I don’t want to confuse, you know, reaching for the tub of butter that I bought as being “hard work.”

In Ray Bradbury’s dystopian vision of a gadget-laden future in Fahrenheit 451, there is a scene where one of the characters, Mildred, is making herself breakfast. Except she isn’t making it, exactly. Bradbury writes, “Toast popped out of the silver toaster, was seized by a spidery metal hand that drenched it with butter.”

I don’t want to get to a point where I think I have to rely on some robot-hand to butter my toast.

Meanwhile, the Little Pony whose name I triumphantly found, after my exhaustive 10-minute phone search?

Mosely Orange. Also known, to his family, as “Uncle Orange.” He is from Manhattan. He is a sophisticated pony. I know this because the internet told me so.

I spent 10 whole minutes searching for the name of this pony. I mean, that’s a lot of minutes.

Here’s the really crazy part. If I owned one of those hockey-puck-internet-robot things, I could have, perhaps, even spared myself the labor-intensive 10-minute Google search. I could have just asked the device—spoken these words aloud to the ether: “Which My Little Pony is yellow with green hair and an orange cutie mark?” and a human-sounding voice probably could have given me the answer. And I would have been all the better for sparing myself that 10-minute search, I’m sure.

Those 10-minutes would be the greatest gift of all, right? The gift of time? There’s no telling what I could do with those 10 minutes. Climb a mountain, perhaps. Or at least find out what in the hell a crackling is.

January 9, 2018January 10, 2018

The Last Jedi deserves Best Picture nom

Academy Members, nominate The Last Jedi for an Oscar already. Please?

And not just for one of those technical sound editing type Oscars, though, don’t get me wrong, I believe all components of filmmaking are important and should be valued.

Nominate it for Best Picture. Why not?

As a devoted Academy Awards junkie and Star Wars fan, I have been keeping a close eye on the horse race leading up to the January 23^rd announcement of nominees. The Last Jedi has made it as a “dark horse” possibility on a few lists. But that’s it.

How is it possible that The Last Jedi, one of the best-reviewed films of the year, is barely scratching the surface of the conversation?

Most critics agree that Three Billboards outside Ebbing, Missouri, The Post, and Lady Bird are probably a lock for Best Picture nominations. Other likely contenders are The Shape of Water, Dunkirk, Get Out, Call Me By Your Name, and I, Tonya. Less likely but not-out-of-contention: The Florida Project, The Darkest Hour, and The Big Sick.

So why has The Last Jedi, so far, barely entered the discussion?

Its box office dominance doesn’t help. The Last Jedi ended 2017 having earned more than $1 billion worldwide, after being in theaters for just a little over two weeks, and it is still going strong.

This chart is featured in the Feb. 24, 2017 article “The Best Picture Oscar rarely goes to the movie that makes the most money” on marketwatch.com

A MarketWatch.com article (https://www.marketwatch.com/story/the-movies-that-make-the-most-money-rarely-win-best-picture-oscar-2017-02-24) demonstrates how The Last Jedi’s financial dominance is probably working against it. For the past twenty years, the Academy has favored the films that earn less, such as in 2010, when the low-grossing The Hurt Locker bested mega-hit Avatar.

The only three exceptions to this rule have been 1998’s Titanic, 2003’s Lord of the Rings: Return of the King, and 2008’s Slumdog Millionaire. To underscore this trend, with a domestic gross of $22.2 million, last year’s Best Picture winner, Moonlight, was the lowest grossing among the seven films nominated, and among the lowest grossing Best Picture winners ever.

More specifically, according to Market Watch, no Best Picture winner since 2003’s Lord of the Rings: Return of the King, “has come close to grossing $378 million domestically.” The Last Jedi, meanwhile, had earned more than $444.6 million domestically by the end of 2017.

I get it. Everyone loves an underdog. Even me. I’m all for championing smaller films that often have more interesting and challenging storylines than the latest churned out blockbuster sequel.

But sometimes, sometimes the box office giant is not evil. Sometimes the box office giant is awesome. Sometimes it is filled with a thought-provoking narrative, and excellent acting, and thrilling cinematography, and a fantastic score—and this is one of those times.

Academy members, please do not ignore The Last Jedi. In the year of #metoo, consider the vision we are given of female leadership in the characters of Jedi-in-training Rey, and General Leia, and Vice-Admiral Holdo, and maintenance worker Rose. And diversity. The latest Star Wars films have made good efforts to assure us that Lando Calrissian was not, in fact, the only non-white person in a galaxy far, far away. At a time when politics and government are . . . complicated, consider the resonance of the questions this films asks about individual sacrifice, about our loyalty to institutions, and about governance. About leadership, and faith, and bravery. One of the narrative undercurrents running throughout the film is even a melancholic meditation on mortality; do not disregard it just because it has crystal foxes, and porgs, and explosions, too.

Surprisingly, though it is a part of a franchise that began forty years ago, The Last Jedi is, in every way, a film for our time. Is there any question, really, that, looking back, The Last Jedi will have been THE movie of 2017?

The list of contenders is strong, of course. But many of its offerings also feel a little too quirky. A little too precious. Or, in some cases, very accomplished, but stale. The Last Jedi, by comparison, feels fresh. Visionary.

Academy, do not overlook The Last Jedi because it is popular. See it for what it is—a remarkable movie: serious and crowd-pleasing. Action-packed and funny. Timely and timeless. Give it the Best Picture nomination it deserves.

October 6, 2017October 6, 2017

When the world’s worst multitasker needs space

During the morning rush, as I pack lunches, sign neglected forms, twist hair into ponytails, and try to feed my children in 17 minutes or less, I find myself channeling the 1987 film Dirty Dancing. I don’t mean that I play “Wipe Out” whilst making sandwiches and learning to do the Pechanga, though that would be swell.

“Spaghetti arms!” In this scene from “Dirty Dancing,” Johnny Castle (Patrick Swayze) teaches “Baby” Houseman (Jennifer Grey) about the importance of personal space when dancing. My need for personal when making lunches is the Johnny Castle Principal of Cheese Sandwiches

No, I find myself quoting Johnny Castle when it comes to my personal space in the kitchen: “This is my dance space. This is your dance space. I don’t go into yours, you don’t go into mine.”

For a family of five, a morning routine is nothing if not a dance, five people all skating, sliding, and shoving their way around the most important room in the house: the kitchen.

And for me, until recently, mornings in the kitchen—specifically, making lunches in the morning—had been awful.

The actual task, of course, is simple. Get cheese out of fridge. Put cheese on bread. Cut sandwich in half and place in reusable, BPA-free, non-guilt-inducing container. Repeat. (The one upside of having picky eaters? Simple sandwiches).

So my problem wasn’t really making the lunches; my problem was being constantly interrupted, physically and mentally, while making them.

Now, I know there are people who work well in the middle of chaos. I am not those people.

On the sitcom WKRP, news director Les Nessman used tape to create a “wall” for himself in the office that he shared with others. He would make people knock at the “door” (dotted tape line) before entering. I haven’t added a line of tape to the kitchen floor. Yet.

I remember visiting the Chicago Mercantile Exchange and watching the crowded sea of people hollering and making hand signals on the trading floor. It was fascinating to watch—but the thought of being down there and trying to work? That seemed like a close neighbor to Dante’s Fifth Circle of Hell.

And if my difficulty with making lunches didn’t quite rise to Dante levels, it certainly felt like my very own trading pit. Like trying to rinse grapes and put them in a container while having a permission slip shoved in your face just as the NASDAQ falls and someone yells, “Sell 30 April at 142!” (Thank you Trading Places).

I was tired of such a simple gesture—making lunches—making me feel so irritable and anxious. There had to be a better way.

One of the good parts of getting to be . . . a-hem . . . a particular age is that you start to know who you really are, and what you need. And how to ask for it.

Me? I need space. Physical room to maneuver, quiet time to think. Space.

It was time to ask for it.

So, this year, on a particularly chaotic morning in our kitchen, I issued a decree. I looked at my fellow dancers, and I told them, “After 7 a.m.? When I’m making lunches? No coming into this space, and no asking me to do anything else or sign anything else until I’m done.”

I was standing between the kitchen sink and our small, butcher block island. I used my hands to demonstrate the invisible line: Everything on this side of the island? You. Everything on THIS side of the island? Me.

“Elbow room, elbow room . . . got to, got to get us some elbow room!” In hindsight, the cheerful and celebratory tone of this tune about Manifest Destiny from “Schoolhouse Rock” may be problematic. But it sure is catchy.

My children and my husband were pretty certain this decree seemed a little nuts and totally arbitrary, but they indulged me. And the most amazing thing happened, as if often does when a family has the good sense to indulge the mama—it worked.

I’m not saying our mornings are bliss. But bliss is boring and overrated anyway. Our mornings, though, are better.

My family and I have, as they say in mafia movies, an understanding.

The children stay on their side and eat breakfast. I stay on mine and make the lunches. Husband helps out by cleaning the kitchen before 7 a.m. then brilliantly stays out of the way.

While I make the lunches, we listen to music. We talk a little—but the pleasant sort of talk, not the “did you sign . . . ? Have you filled out . . . ? Where did my—, what time is—?” sorts of demands and questions that make me revert to air-traffic-controlling mode. I save those for after the lunches are made. One step, one task at a time. And it’s better.

Being a part of a family is not always easy. At its best, though, it allows us a safe space in which the people whom we care about the most accept our strange quirks and idiosyncrasies and love us just the same. I can’t multitask while making a cheese sandwich. I require an inordinate amount of personal and physical space. And I am prone to issuing decrees.

I am also, it turns out, inclined to create “we have an understanding” scenarios in my family, in which I am, apparently, the mob boss. Ah, well. If the cannoli fits.

September 19, 2017September 19, 2017

80s music: It’s Still Rock ‘n Roll to Me

There is a list tacked to the bulletin board in my kitchen with names of contemporary artists and bands that are probably fantastic. I say “probably” because I haven’t listened to them yet.

Our babysitter, Abby—it’s strange to use the word “babysitter” because she is more friend and family at this point—made the list for me about a month ago. Okay, maybe two.

“Have you listened to any of the music yet?” She recently asked.

“No,” I confessed. “I will. Soon. Soon!”

Soon? Why did I sound like I was being asked, around the first of April, if I had finished my taxes? Since when did listening to new music become a chore?

Music has been a passion of mine for as long as I can remember. It started with 45 records and an FM radio, progressing through boom boxes and mix tapes, all the way to CDs and playlists. I have camped out for concert tickets; spent three days in a muddy tent at several music festivals, sans running water, and living on oatmeal crème pies, just to see the likes of Bjork, Green Day, Hole, the Indigo Girls, Soundgarden, Weezer, Oasis, Pulp, Belly, The Dave Matthews Band, and the Cure. Instead of passionately pursuing a career or a calling with great zeal, I spent my early twenties accruing a stack of ticket stubs and concert t-shirts. With great zeal.

I always vowed that as I got older I would not become one of those people who only listens to music from their youth. I have spent much of my adult life teaching college students, and this has helped. Artists like Cat Power, Phish, Regina Spektor, and The Dropkick Murphys found their way to me mostly because of students.

It also helps to have that one friend who has remained fantastically plugged in to all things hip, who lives in a university town, and who sends you the occasional mix and playlist. You know this friend; she is the smart and artsy one with the most effortlessly cool glasses and the best shoes, the friend who can actually pull off the leopard-print haircalf flats (Julie of Wisconsin, I’m looking at you, and thanks again for The White Stripes and Neko Case). In recent years, Abby has helped, too. Or at least she has tried.

This summer, though, I realized that despite my best intentions, all the “new” bands I listen to—Spoon, The Avett Brothers, Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeroes, Grace Potter and the Nocturnals, St. Vincent, Alabama Shakes—aren’t new anymore.

So I asked Abby for the list. She was happy to oblige. But I still haven’t listened to anything on it.

I did, however, attend two live shows this summer: U2’s The Joshua Tree anniversary tour and Billy Joel, performing his greatest hits. Both were fantastic. The fact that these were my two concert choices, though, only exacerbated my concern that I had let myself grow out of touch.

Sidebar: My husband and I like to play a game called “Have you ever heard of this band?” when we watch Saturday Night Live these days. Good times.

As I stood there listening to Billy Joel play “Still Rock and Roll to Me,” I thought of Abby’s list. I promise I’ll listen to it, I thought. I really will.

But. U2’s The Joshua Tree, for Pete’s sake. Billy Joel in center field at Wrigley at a grand piano singing “The Piano Man.”

These are good things in this world. Good then, good now.

Meanwhile, that list is still tacked to my bulletin board, still untouched. That’s okay. I’ll get to it. Soon.

Billy Joel—funny, irreverent, and as crazy-talented as ever—chatted with the audience casually all night and swatted flies with a flyswatter—made it seem like we were at small piano bar watching a private show. A handful of times, he let the audience choose between two songs when determining what to play next. A surprise highlight was the blistering “Sometimes a Fantasy,” but my personal favorite was the classic “Scenes from an Italian Restaurant.”

July 22, 2017July 22, 2017

Eureka! Happiness is Just One Bottle of Coconut Lime Verbena Away

Happiness has been found! Repeat: Happiness has been found!

After centuries of poets, philosophers, and artists have struggled to find it. Religion, politics, and self-help, too.

It turns out, happiness has been waiting for us all along. Not in a creed or a mantra. Not in self-love, meditation, or a downward dog pose. Not even in an insanely catchy pop song by Pharrell Williams.

Nope.

We need look no further, it turns out, than a bottle of soap. Specifically, a bottle of soap purchased from Bath & Body Works.

I just placed an online order for some olfactorous delights—I mean, seriously, have you smelled the French Lavender? The Peach Bellini? The Japanese Cherry Blossom?—and I noticed on the bottom left of my screen a truly bold promise: “Happiness Guaranteed or Your Money Back.”

Happiness? Guaranteed? Really?

Wow. I couldn’t help but think of all of those great Don Draper advertising pitch scenes from “Mad Men,” always the best part of the show, and how Don would find these beautiful, romantic, nostalgic and subtle ways to make a hidden promise to consumers that if they buy this product they will, at least briefly, be happy.

Turns out, maybe the poetic and hidden messages didn’t need to be so poetic. Or hidden. Maybe the trick all along has been to slap a label on the product that says, “BUY THIS AND YOU WILL BE HAPPY.”

Poor Henry David Thoreau, spending all that time alone in his bean field. If only he had been born a few centuries later. He didn’t need to go to the woods. He just needed a fine mist fragrance that smelled like them.

Let’s be clear. Not even the founding fathers when writing the Declaration of Independence promised us happiness. Just our right to the “pursuit of” it.

Good news Mr. Jefferson, Mr. Franklin, Mr. Adams, et. al. No need for us to keep pursuing. Looks like it’s time for a rewrite, or at least an asterisk and a footnote: “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and a pomegranate-scented foot scrub.”

Ah, yes. Much better. I feel happier just thinking about it.

June 21, 2017June 21, 2017

A Letter to My Body Upon Its Unfortunate Betrayal

Dear My Body,

It has come to my attention recently that you have not been functioning and behaving in an optimal way. Let me be frank, Body. I’m not impressed. You’ve been slacking.

More specifically, we need to discuss my metabolism, and how it is changing. Many years ago, Body, we made an arrangement: All Things in Moderation = an Acceptable/Average-ish Shape and Size. I realize that this arrangement and my genetics may not have yielded a California beach bod, and more of a sweaters & jeans in the winter in Wisconsin physique. But I was okay with that. More or less.

However, these days, Body, you are not keeping your end of the bargain. What gives? Now when I indulge in the extra butter, or the cheese, or the occasional lager, these indulgences show up on my waistline. What do you have against butter, anyway, Body? Are you suggesting I should forgo butter the rest of my life and trade it in for sprinkles of that sad butter-like powder? It’s never gonna happen, Body. You have to take a stand sometimes in life, and this is mine. Butter.

Then there are the other issues, more evidence of your lousy attitude and negligence. There are the aches, Body. The pains. You seem to have mistaken me for someone old enough to have . . . oh, I can’t bring myself to say it (rhymes with “shmarthritis”). It’s not dignified. What is the point of owning cute shoes if I have to hobble in them? Hobbling is not a good look, Body. It does not scream “youthful vivaciousness.” You seem to be suggesting I am past the point of wearing cute shoes, Body. And I resent it.

I won’t even deign to talk about my eyesight. Okay, yes, my eyesight overall is still good, and I should be grateful. But the fine print, Body. The fine print. I would argue with you about what the fine print says, but I don’t know what it says because I can’t read it.

You get the idea.

To quote Miranda Priestly in The Devil Wears Prada, “Am I reaching for the stars here?” No. I think not. I am not asking to be Cher—though did you see her, Body, at the recent Billboard Awards, bespangled in next-to-nothing and rocking “If I Could Turn Back Time” at age 71? I mean, please. Her Body has its act together and would never be the recipient of such a memo.

This list should give you a good picture of my concerns, though make no mistake, the list is not complete. I look forward to your timely response and anticipate that you will remedy the situation.

Sincerely,

Dear Me,

I am sorry you feel this way. Or, more to the point: You Ungrateful Twit.

May I remind you: You have arms that work, legs that work, and eyes that see. You can hear. You can think.

You have a body that was able to carry and give birth to three children. Maybe you need to pause for a good long while on that one. Not everyone who wants to is able to do so. In your better moments, when you are considerably less whiny, I know you know that. And this body, the one you are complaining about, has the privilege of raising them.

Also, I know you love butter. Fine. Love the butter. But hey, here’s an idea: How about some exercise? Butter + exercise is going to yield far more desirable results than butter + watching Netflix. Don’t blame me. I didn’t make the rules. Blame math.

You think I’m slacking—are we supposed to pretend you have always treated me well? How about that time that you didn’t go to the dentist for three years? Or the eye doctor for, a-hem, eight?

You do not even want me to bring up the ages of, say, 17-25. Those years will not be found filed under “Treat Your Body Like a Temple.” Time to zoom straight towards Grateful Humility and move on. Do not pass go, do not collect two hundred.

What can I say? You’re getting older. Them’s the breaks.

Enjoy the cheese if you want to. Have a lager, too. Your waistline might be thicker, but you can choose not to care.

Meanwhile, You want to keep that body you’re lucky to have working as well as it can, and your brain, too? First, hope for a big bucket of undeserved luck. Then there are the parts over which you have some control. Drink more water. Go for more walks. Get more sleep. This isn’t rocket science, my friend. And go to the dentist every year, for Pete’s sake.

Sincerely,
Your Body

P.S. Regarding Cher—The rest of us Bodies do not understand, nor can we comprehend this phenomenon. We’ve had meetings. We’re working on it.