Robots Are Sexier than Brad Pitt

If “The Curious Case of Benjamin Button” wins Best Picture, I’m moving to Canada.

Although I thoroughly enjoyed the film, I don’t understand how you could give Best Picture or (heavens!) Best Director to a movie that could be thematically improved by the discussion in my mother’s Corolla in the Chili’s parking lot.  Seriously, the committee of my family made some great suggestions. 

The Katrina framing device does not work.  We’re all worried about what happens to that daughter and those nurses.  The whole Luke-I-am-your-father thing does not work.  Why does Benjamin Button not grieve the loss of his mother, or his family home?  How come Brad Pitt plays him like an eerily emotionless Ken doll?  Isn’t the interesting thing about this character that he experiences life in this unique way?  We need to see how he feels about that.

How come it’s not sexy to see Cate Blanchett in bed with him (sigh)…?  Why does Benjamin seem to not even know his sister?  Is his adoptive mom married to that guy she sleeps with, or not?  And why not?  What about that clock motif?  Time goes backwards, but then it doesn’t, and why does it stop going backwards? 

When the movie was a great popcorn fest, like the last Indiana Jones, these discussions were just for fun.  Fine: I accept that a man could survive a nuclear blast inside a refrigerator.  But “Benjamin Button” is supposed to be a serious movie telling us about the meaning of life and time.  It’s all Katrina-ed up, for heaven’s sake.

“Frost/Nixon” is perfectly well-intentioned, if a little distant and dry.  It’s a lot more laughs than you might expect.

I’m trying to bring myself to watch Sean Penn go gay.  Why oh why is playing a gay guy such a spectacular transformation?  Is it really harder to pretend to want to kiss boys than to pretend to be a serial killer or Richard Nixon?  I’m not impressed by straight men pretending to be gay.  This annoyed me with “Brokeback Mountain,” too.  I liked the movie fine, but to me, pretending to be in love with someone you’re not in love with is the trick, not the gender of your pretend lover.

I’m also having a hard time psyching myself up to see Kate Winslet’s Holocaust/statutory rape film.  Honestly, these aren’t topics I want to focus on in my free time.

I’d also prefer “Doubt” to get a Best Picture nod over “Benjamin” or “Frost/Nixon.”  The subject matter really appeals to me– schools, power, faith, skepticism, hierarchy– and I enjoyed the visuals and performances, especially Philip Seymour-Hoffman.  He’s tricky, tricky, tricky, and, while not my favorite actor, worth a thousand Brad Pitts.  The debate between the old-school discipline and the new-school warm fuzzy hippie love is oversimplified, but I liked seeing it played out anyway.  Those mean old nuns! (I am an aspiring mean old teacher myself.)

But how could the Academy have pleased me?  Why don’t we go “Beauty and the Beast” style and nominate “WALL-E” for Best Picture instead of leaving it in the Animation ghetto?  I was enthralled by the visuals in “WALL-E,” I laughed at its silent-movie-style humor, I smiled at its simple optimism and morality, and WALL-E reaching out to hold hands with EVA is sweeter and more romantic than any scene in “Benjamin,” Brad Pitt be damned.

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Post-Inaugural

My students were less moved by today’s speech than by the election (as was I).  It was a big moment, but nothing compared to that night. 

They remain deeply concerned about Obama’s safety, suggesting that he is in danger from “all the white people who don’t like blacks.”  I ask them for evidence, and apparently one crazy woman falsely accused Obama supporters of attacking her.  That’s all they got.  I emphasize that all presidents get death threats, and that I haven’t heard anything about Obama being an unusually popular target.  It’s a common thing for these guys to worry about physical safety in situations I expect to be reliably safe.  Every time we go on a college visit, they ask about security right away.  Someone always asks if guns are allowed in the dorms.  Another thing I say again and again is, “College campuses are really safe.  The reason these college shootings get so much attention is that they are RARE.” 

We had some nice discussion provoked by the kid who says, “Why you like Obama?  Just cause he’s black?”  And by another kid who says, “Every president is great at first, but then people start to get mad at them.” 

All of them are choosing a quality that they share with Obama and signing their name underneath it.  Then they write and draw a little about this quality, so we can display them around the room.  The qualities are: raised by a single parent, in need of scholarships, inspired by Shakespeare, faith in the United States, able to overcome obstacles, religious, diverse background.  I do solemnly swear to promise to look at these names, and these qualities, next time I want to kill one of them.

The Last Frontier

On a day like today, I think about Going To Alaska.  I escaped work by trudging over to the gas station on the corner.  Slowly.  Slowly.  Keeping the snow below the edge of my sneakers, and keeping my feet under me.  I drive a stick.  I live upstairs.  I can’t be breaking my ankle.  It was cold, but I was bundled up well.  I stepped in someone else’s footprints, down the sidewalk.

One of my favorite wintertime games in elementary school followed this agenda: walk in large circles, following a pretend route on a pretend map, and speak solemnly of our preparation, progress, and hope for Going to Alaska.

My friend Eric was a valued member of our expedition.  I still see him occasionally, and he is probably also imagining himself Going to Alaska today.

In those days, children were sent outside for recess every day.  There was some windchill rule (which I never remember being enforced), and if you did not have snowpants and boots, you were not allowed out in the field on certain days, but everybody went outside.  It kept you healthy, all that fresh air.  No one was allergic to snow.  No one had asthma.  The athletic among us played soccer and softball, and nerds like Eric and me, we went to Alaska.

We learned a lot of valuable lessons on these days.  We learned to make our own meaning.  We learned to pretend like we knew where we were going.  We practiced complaining.  These are critical adult skills, whether you are Going To Alaska or Going to Buy a Snickers, as I was today.

Today’s Good News

We need good news at the beginning of January.

Several items today in New York Times pleased me.  First of all, I smiled at the article describing the ad campaign put up by atheists in Britain.  I have a soft spot for atheists.  It’s a very reasonable position, often taken up by smart, sensitive people who just can’t swallow that any God would let the shit go down that goes down.  I admire that, although I usually believe in God.  The ad, featured on London’s city busses, says, ” There’s probably no God.  Now stop worrying and enjoy your life.”  Which also made me smile.  It really makes no sense.  Whether or not you believe in God, you could worry like crazy.  Worry that if there is no God, you are totally responsible for making the best of things.  Worry that if there is a God, you can’t figure God out.  And if there is no God, that doesn’t naturally lead to enjoying life.  Maybe the thought of no God is so depressing that you can’t enjoy anything.  Regardless, I love that atheists are getting their message out there.  Especially British atheists.  All those Europeans think Americans are nutty for being religious.  God bless them.

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/01/07/world/europe/07london.html?em

Also, hey, we can copy our iTunes.  I believe in paying for music, and I faithfully and regularly pay for music, but I was always annoyed that iTunes kept me on such a short leash.

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/01/07/technology/companies/07apple.html?em

Finally, some guy wants to open a “civilian service academy,” where you “pay” in five years of community service.  I don’t know who works for the government, but I do know that lots of us here at my urban public high school had to bury ourselves in outrageous debt in order to teach.  It’s one thing to sacrifice salary for public service.  When you have to pay back student loans on that salary, it’s an additional burden, and it keeps a lot of people from working in urban schools, as public defenders, or in other low-paid government position.  It hasn’t always been this way– people in my parents’ generation didn’t take on this kind of college debt.  That’s another complaint about lack of state funding for education…. And I mean this as good news.  Maybe his civilian academy won’t work, but it seems like it might be worth a try.

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/01/07/us/07academy.html?ref=todayspaper

Nuclear Football

I enjoyed several bits of “SNL” last weekend.  There was a bit with a family that shoots off into grudges and attacks and fury without any provocation– specifics of the conflict were left out completely, all that remained were the common elements of neurosis, which, in a vaccuum, are quite recognizable and horrifyingly funny.

And then they did a bit about the Illinois governor on “Weekend Update” that was not as funny as it could have been, considering the fact that my fetish newspaper, The New York Times, has this to say of him:

…Mr. Blagojevich, 52, rarely turns up for work at his official state office in Chicago…is unapologetically late to almost everything, and can treat employees with disdain…for failings as mundane as neglecting to have at hand at all times his preferred black Paul Mitchell hairbrush. He calls the brush “the football,” an allusion to the “nuclear football,” or the bomb codes never to be out of reach of a president.

Then again, is must be challenging to satirize a man whose behavior is this absurd. 

I immediately recalled my old friend Jo-Megan (that was her name, and it’s not as odd as the governor’s).  Jo-Megan had a Paul Mitchell brush that she loved, too, and I remember her at one of my slumber parties, holding that brush up in the air after she ran it through her long brown locks, quipping, “Paul Mitchell Systems,” just like the commercial.  The thing is, Jo-Megan was ten years old at the time. 

The full article can be found at: http://www.nytimes.com/2008/12/15/us/politics/15blagojevich.html?_r=1&hp

Dancing

I went straight from a Midwestern Baptist-style funeral to summer-steamed New Orleans. One minute I was singing a hymn in a pew, and hours later I was on a bus staring at the rehabbed Superdome, seeing the ghosts of the abandoned along the clean sidewalk.

I had to say some firm, abbreviated goodbyes to get out of the church and to the airport on time.  Once I was installed behind the security lines, I disciplined myself to read the newspaper, as if it were a normal day.

I was woozy with exhaustion when I finally got to the New Orleans airport.  I just had to get a ride to the hotel.  Then I could let go and sleep.  But the van was the cheapest way, and the van was a while in coming.  The van drove us by the Superdome.  That was the first I saw of New Orleans.

People had told me, It’s like Europe, and as I looked out the dotted side window, I thought, This isn’t like anything else.  The darkness of it, the narrowness that suggests age, and the patina that proves a city values history—it was strange to me.  There was nothing out those windows that said America.  Americans prefer to tear down a building just when it is getting interesting.  Americans need things opened wide.  There could be aliens or time travelers hidden in this city.  I looked for ghosts.  I saw empty lots.

I was a ghost by the time we got to my hotel.  It was the very last stop on the van’s ring-around-the rosy drop off pattern.  It was also, blessedly, in the French Quarter, in an ancient building, and not part of the dull convention center zone.  I had time for only a few hours’ sleep before my convention began the next morning.

I stumbled through the next day’s work fueled with Styrofoam cups of coffee.  Since this was a business trip, I wasn’t sure that I would partake of New Orleans’ pleasures at the end of the day.  I had a one-drink-with-the-boss limit that I’ve always strictly observed.

However, once we were installed in a piano bar, the drinks began to flow, and almost all of them were gifted to me by other members of our party, and I counted slowly: wine, wine, sazarac, sazarac…. The waiters circulated, jacketed in neat red uniforms.  The cellar walls of the bar ringed us with darkness. The man next to me slashed song titles on a napkin with ballpoint pen, checked them with me, sent them up to the performers.  And I was gleefully tipsy, while safely less drunk than my colleagues, who were singing into their straws and swordfighting with their cocktail swords.

Back at the hotel, I looked at myself in the garish glare of the mirror.  I thought of the good Christian crowd at the funeral.  Boy, if they could see me now.  I drank four cups of water, glugged them down like a trouper, and lay down to try to sleep.  It would be another night of not enough sleep, and another long day of conference sessions in frigid, plain rooms.

My last night in New Orleans, I danced in a blues bar on Bourbon Street.  It was almost empty—a slow night. They sometimes have time during the funeral when people can stand up and say something about the dead person.  I had said something about Grandma.  I told a story about her dancing, although the room was full of dancephobic conservatives.  The story might have been awkward for the crowd, but I thought it did Grandma justice.