This blog will be the creative equivalent of the junk drawer - full of some random stuff that might end up useful or interesting, but often lacking in a unifying theme. So welcome to our junk drawer.
In honor of my mother's birthday, here is a picture of Robert Moses (this is where my mom is saying, "May he burn in hell" and then spitting on the floor. Sicilians!). I may have altered the image slightly to include stink lines, a mustache, devil horns, and an arrow through his head. I may also have placed a stick figure rendering of my mother shooting laser beams out her eyes at him from the bridge (not drawn to scale.) But the manipulation is so sophisticated, you'd be forgiven for not noticing it.
If you don't know why I did this, you've never met my mother (or more clearly, you've never met my mother 2 beers in at a barbecue or 3 glasses of wine in at Thanksgiving.) That, or you didn't grow up in the Bronx in the 1950's.
Anyway - hope your birthday is awesome, Mom, and free of being rudely interrupted by the Cross Bronx Expressway.
I got the flu shot back in October, so imagine my surprise when I was on my way home from work on Monday to find the little cold I had been nursing morphing into some kind of full-body immune-system assault. I was in total denial, of course. No, not happening, I'm fine, I'm just tired, I just need NyQuil. Ridiculously sore muscles? Lack of sleep. Unbearable back pain? Desk job with uncomfortable chair. Headache? Lack of coffee. Sneezing, sore throat? Well, I had a cold, that's...cold stuff. The fact that I felt like I got hit by a bus? Well, maybe the Crosstown 86 actually did hit me that morning and I just hadn't been paying attention. So I was on the train coming home, a train that was stuck underground and stopping for 5 minutes at every station north of 125th street, huddled on the bench against the corner of the car, being a gross sniffly, sneezy mess, arms crossed on my lap, faced buried therein. And getting sideways looks, because everyone knows about the flu epidemic and nobody wants anywhere near me (and really, who could blame them?)
Also, at work, my colleagues had been (kindly) encouraging me to go home if I felt sick. "Awww it's just a cold, I'm fine," I said, ignoring the tunnel vision and weird way the wall had switched places with the floor. I must have known on some level it was bad news though, because I washed my hands Lady MacBeth-style before touching anything I was going to hand off to someone, and I wiped everything I touched with a clorox wipe every time like I was trying to get rid of my fingerprints from a crime scene.
At long last I got home to the Bronx, and then I proceeded to stagger through CVS for provisions (why is there ALWAYS a line in that place?) The checkout guy looks at me and says, "Whoa." (more Ted "Theodore" Logan-style, less Joey Russo-style, for those of you playing at home.) And not because he found me stunning, but because his favorite song in high school was "Living Dead Girl," and he never thought he'd meet the subject of the song herself in person. And boy, she must really like Gatorade, huh?
It took almost 2 hours to get home from work that night, and I almost crawled into my apartment. I found out that my digital thermometer starts reading question marks and hieroglyphics when the body's temperature climbs over a certain point. It's like that counter in the hatch from Season 2 of LOST. And clearly, I had forgotten to push the button.
First it read 102.6, then 102.7, then I thought I'd cover a few more radio stations and then it was like, "103.HowAboutYouGetInAnIcebath?"
So of course I end up Googling the effectiveness of this year's flu-shot, and learned what a lot of people already knew. Stupid vaccine! I did my part for myself and society! And now I managed to be freezing while my skin was on fire. How was this possible?
And then I knocked back some NyQuil and had dreams like this.
Every day, I'd email my boss and say, "I'll totally be better by tomorrow, I'll definitely be in!" And she, a realistic person who knows what the flu is and doesn't want me anywhere near her in that state, would reply, "Uh, no you won't. Seriously." And I'd think to myself, "Psssshhh, what does she know, I'm getting better. I'm gonna get up and go over here and get some clean socks and oh my god why is my dresser so far away I need a nap zzzzzzzzzzzzz...."
Fun fevered delirium aside, I was not loving the cough that I was developing. I called my doctor, who was not letting flu patients into the office AT ALL, and he did a kind of phone diagnosis and prescribed a codeine cough syrup. I... don't love codeine. It makes me nauseated. But I took it anyway, because, well, there's the old saying:
I'm better today, but for a few days there, I was the most disgusting, cranky lump of sweaty misanthrope alive, subsisting on tea, gatorade, broth, and crackers. As a result, I was starting to resemble Skeletor.
I grow tired of your SOUP!!!
(Facially, anyway. He's way more jacked than I remember.)
I just wanted to sleep. (All the better to plot my takeover of Eternia that way, really.) I haven't been this sick since I was 15 and got the stupid Chicken Pox. During that particular illness, I remember waking up in the middle of the night in a fever, and was convinced that my pillows were homework assignments. And I freaked out because HOW was I supposed to finish it all?!
It's been kind of like that all week. I've been stuck in a confusing and endless loop of Netflix and naps. I chose The Walking Dead over The Stand, because I like my T.V. shows like I like my illnesses - lengthy and debilitating.
It took about 5 days for me to start feeling like myself again, but a walk to the corner today was still enough to send me back to bed for a couple of hours.
I had taken it *very* personally that I had gotten the flu. Stupid? Absolutely. But understandable, I think. Because the very weekend I started with the seemingly innocent cold symptoms, I was catching up with former coworkers and telling them that even though I missed teaching, I was "happy to say that I haven't gotten sick yet this year!" That, my friends, is hubris.
Oedipus and the riddle of the flu-shot
And it doesn't help that people talk about the immune system like it's a measure of someone's worth. Everyone knows that friend who brags that getting sick is something only other people do. They boast about it, sometimes with a smug sense of moral and physical superiority. And when they find out you're the kind of unlucky human who gets sick from time to time, they either tell you you're coddling your immune system too much (I don't) or not washing your hands enough (I do.) No, clearly, I get sick because of some kind of character defect.
I actually am glad I got the flu shot, because the more I read, the more I learn that even if it didn't keep me from getting the flu full-stop, it probably did keep me from getting the debilitating version that's got a lot of people laid up for 2 weeks or more. So while I'm annoyed that this past week of my life has flown off the calendar, I'm glad I didn't end up in the hospital, wearing my pants around my neck like Leslie Knope, or worse, like Chris Traeger.
It has been HELL trying to get into the Christmas spirit this year. Between a new job that reaches a high in workload in late December, the dregs of humanity constantly filling the airwaves, internet, and front pages, and the general seasonal malaise, there are many things I'd much rather deck than the proverbial halls. But I ended up at my parents' house the other day (drink!), and while they were napping (drink!) I was hanging out with the Stella and perusing the DVR for something to watch. Lo and behold, Mom and I had recorded the 1984 production of A Christmas Carol starring General Patton George C. Scott as the unfortunately-named Ebenezer Scrooge.
Next stop, the NYC Beard and Mustache Competition.
Category: Mutton Chops, Extra Fierce
So I decided to revisit this Christmas and childhood classic, figuring the Saturday before Jesus' Birthday (observed) was as good a time as any. Well, the following 90 minutes were a nostalgia-filled and navel-gazing Dickensian journey for me, which I feel nicely paralleled the theme of the tale I was watching.
First of all, let's address the fact that this thing was produced in 1984. Nineteen-eighty-fucking-four. I was just a wee girl who still believed in Santa, though not for much longer, according to Mom and Dad. A little handwriting analyses of both the Tooth Fairy and Santa's notes to me combined with some subtle questioning about the alleged Easter Bunny tipped my parents off that I had worked things out, apparently. Which is kinda sad, but funny when my parents tell the story, so ask them about it when you see them. My dad uses the phrase "stalking horse." It's great. And I guess it's also further proof that Christmas Spirit hasn't been plentiful with me for years. (This makes me less special than it does normal, methinks.)
Anywhozle, we had a tape of this that my brothers and I watched A LOT. It didn't even have to be within shouting distance of Christmas, because we were weird kids. We'd still watch this rather frightening and dark tale pretty much anytime, which might explain a lot about our dispositions. (Or be appropriate to our innate ones. I flip-flop on the whole nature-nurture debate. Still think it's both.) So revisiting something that we could recite by heart before the age of 10 was kinda fun. And when I hung out with Charlie later that evening, it turned out he had done the same earlier in the week and had a similar take on things.
It's also been years since I read the actual book, so I was kind of surprised by how well the plot holds up. (And I'm having a "no duh" moment as this blog post is forming. No wonder people still read Dickens.) As I was watching it, especially in the beginning, I found myself thinking, "Wow, Scrooge really is a dick." I mean, for Dickens (haha, dick, Dickens, so many jokes) to set up this character with absolutely no redeeming qualities whatsoever only for the readers - or audience, in the case of this really good production - to be rooting for his redemption halfway through and celebrating with him in the end is a testament to his work as a storyteller. In this case, anyway. I've only read 2 books by Dickens. The other one was Great Expectations, which I also liked, though wasn't surprised to hear that he was paid by the word for it.
So yeah, Scrooge. A dick. I mean, he's practically knocking over old ladies in the icy English streets and setting fire to the very poorhouses he frequently mentions as a solution to the rampant poverty around him, cackling and rubbing his hands in glee while doing so.
Are there no prisons?
He just seizes every opportunity to shit all over anyone's optimistic take on the season, or family, or charity, or anything, really. You like it, Scrooge shits on it. Coal, caroling, and Christmas-related anything. People remind him that Christmas is a time for generosity and why not make donations (hey, they must work in the Development office!) and he's like, yeah, I'm gonna have to say fuck off. He treats his assistant like dirt, barely acknowledges Tiny Tim on his way home (more on that dude later) and acts like Clint "Cranky Old Man" Eastwood toward all the public carolers. Who, by the way, are totally laying waste to the Christmas classics and playing a tuba in the street, like you try rocking the brass section in this weather, Ebenezer! His nephew, who really does come across as sweet but none-too-bright, asks him over for Christmas dinner and he's like, No fucking way, I hate everything and everyone and most of all, I hate you (paraphrasing here). I mean, wow, what the hell is this guy's problem, right? But then Dickens goes and SHOWS you what his problem is, and that's when you're reminded of what good writing is.
I'm screwed!
GHOSTS! First up Jacob Marley. THE CHAINS, people. (I had a Dickens-themed Christmas party last year and my parents were some of the only guests to dress according to the theme. Dad wore Stella's chain and went as Marley. Mom had a newsboy cap and crutch and went as Tiny Tim. It was pretty awesome.) Nice metaphors, those chains. I really would have liked to see a good slap from Marley to Scrooge, because you'd think seeing a reanimated long-dead coworker would inspire you to cut the sarcasm, but not here. So, he gets more ghosts for his sass.
Childhood is really the best time to lay some solid emotionally-destructive groundwork on a person, won't you agree? And clearly the Scrooges wasted no time. When the ghost of Christmas Past shows up and brings him back to gaze at himself as a boy, the poor little sap is sitting all alone in a freaking schoolroom on Christmas Day reading Robinson Crusoe. And then we see him later as youngish man, when he gets a visit from his sister and finally perks up a little. And lemme tell you, at this point in the film, so did I, because I never realized who played Fan all those times I watched as a kid. That's right, the future (and now once) bride of Mad Martigan both on and off screen - Joanne Whalley!
You know, Sorsha?
Sorsha? I don't love her - she kicked me in the face!
YES! SORSHA! I'll tell you who loved Sorsha - this girl! She kicked ass (among other parts, when the situation called for it). And got to smooch Val Kilmer. And by the way, she is still gorgeous, according to IMDB.
But our hero's happiness is short-lived, because his dad is outside, and he looks like the ultimate sinister version of the Quaker Oats guy with his perma-scowl and pilgrim hat.
Ooh, Juxtaposition...
Edmund and the White Witch Scrooge and the Ghost then hit up a bumpin' party at Mr. Fezziwig's place (that guy rules) but we get to see Ebenezer strike out royally with the nice girl who got away, and then flash forward to watch her happy with another guy and their 42 kids. Nice going, Neezy. Those brats coulda been yours.
Tangent re: The Ghost of Christmas Past. Earlier in the week, Morgan and I went to Santaland in our...12th(!?) annual Morgan+Rosie+n* trip to Santaland, where I decided that I needed a nice self-pic to have as my G+ icon (instead of the Bullock? Never.) so I turned the phone on myself and came up with this masterpiece.
I am surrounded by toddlers running amok.
And my mom saw this pic, and always knowing how to make me feel particularly pretty, told me I looked like David Doll.
Thanks, Ma.
Which is actually kind of perfect timing, because David "Doll/Buster Poindexter" Johansen was the world's GREATEST ghost of Christmas Past in the Bill Murray movie Scrooged. Which is amazing.
Niagara Falls, Frankie Angel...
So I didn't mind the comparison, because it's seasonally appropriate. But back to Patton and Company.
After he snuffs the Ghost of Awkward Adolescence and Fumbled Romances, THIS GUY shows up.
Bitch, please.
This guy looks like a '70s porn star and Grizzly Adams had a baby. In a Christmas bath robe. This is when we get to see Tiny Tim in all his preachy glory and feel horrible about ourselves because he's so damn pious and holy and can't freaking walk and oh my god, gimme a break already. Nobody is that well-adjusted.
Plate 267 from The Big Book of British Smiles
My mom had joined in the rewatch at this point, and she and I were trying to figure out Tiny Tim's deal. Birth defect? Scarlet Fever? What? My mom changed her diagnosis from Polio to Diptheria based on geography and historical context. I choose to believe it's some sort of Rickets-Consumption-Scurvy hybrid that would have landed him a guest spot on House about 150 years later. Also, I like to reference consumption whenever I can, because it is an awesome word (albeit for a terrible disease.)
But how the Cratchits put up with Tim's incessant optimism, I'll never know. I just know that I'd feel like a terrible person all the time around the kid, because he's knocking at Death's door and selling cookies, and I am Abe Simpson.
I lied about being Scrooge McDuck. Sorry.
Once the ghost of Christmas Present is done with him, the next ghost shows up, and it's actually pretty creepy for a while here. First of all, the ghost looks like Emperor Palpatine, and doesn't speak. It just points at things, and the Foley artists make with the squeaky gates. This used to TERRIFY me.
Holy crap, I forgot about the fog. Fog always makes it scarier!
It takes him to a Christmas yet to come where Tiny Tim is dead and people are sad, and Scrooge himself is dead but nobody gives a shit. In fact, his maid fences all his stuff, and he's just lying there dead, all alone. And it's really, really sad.
And then he wakes up and turns into Oprah.
AAAAAAAAND *you* get a goose!
And at this point, I had (temporarily) drunk the Dickensian Christmas Kool-Aid. I was like, yeah, Scrooge! You go! You buy people geese and be nice to your nephew and actually treat people like they exist for reasons other than to piss you off with their humanity! YAY! Give your clerk a raise! Kiss the crippled boy! Give the Whos down in Whoville their Christmas presents back because your heart grew three sizes that day!
I'm not saying that catching this on TV turned my Christmas frown upside-down and cured me of my seasonal ails (consumption?) and changed my life forever. That crap only happens in TV-movies based on hit Dickensian novels. And ABC family movies. But it was a lot of fun re-watching something that was a childhood staple as a somewhat jaded adult and still get a little caught up in the excitement of watching this shmuck turn his life around for the better.
So the lesson? Don't be an asshole. You'll die alone. Also, there might be ghosts involved.
Now I'm on my way to midnight Mass. Whatever perky lessons I learned from Dickens may very well be snuffed out by the homily. If I can stay awake...
