This Is More For Me Than You

Disclaimer: This is all about a TV show.

There was a time before Scandal. Before the glorification of a bumbling, man-child. Before brain trauma that conveniently resolved over the course of an episode. A time when Tony Goldwyn was still Tony Goldwyn, the actor. The talent. A time before my view of him was stained. And during that time, he was a part of Law and Order: Criminal Intent.

Back story: in college, as I was studying such charming topics as “Deviance in the Family” and “Social Inequality”, I fell hard for a little ditty called Special Victims Unit. I mean, come on. It was pretty awesome. That and they insisted on working in story-lines reminiscent of some pretty famous cases. I remember reading a book by Paul Britton (a famed forensic psychologist) and then seeing the episode about the couple who had a bunch of kids, whose nannies might disappear and who buried their victims in and around the house. So basically the show was quite parallel to what I was doing in my own life. I could even overlook Detective Olivia Obvious, I mean Benson’s constant stating of the – you guessed it – obvious. But then I started to get weary. I was a bit tired of the hamfisted handling of religious figures (ie, if there’s a Christian – and don’t let it be a pastor – we know from the get that this is the perp), the beating us over the head with preachiness – where at one time they used having an ensemble cast to have heated exchanges wherein everyone had and was unapologetic in their own beliefs and opinions, it seemed increasingly, we were just being told what to believe in a really trite back-and-forth in which Benson and Stabler totally agreed and actually wondered aloud how anyone could not believe. So that got old, fast. Aside from which, it’s just corny and lazy writing.

So I stopped watching. (GASP.) I’d watched an episode of Criminal Intent and just did not get Vincent D’Onofrio’s Robert Goren. (I am shaking my head at myself right now, wondering how that’s possible.) But I decided to go back to it and…well, the rest is history. This character. He was a tortured Sherlock with obvious quirks that eventually became much more than that, but the way his world was weaved into it…so good. And then there was the end of season 6. When everything started falling down. In a good way…for the viewer. In a heartbreaking way for Goren. Let me just say, his family members are played by Tony Goldwyn and Rita Moreno. I mean.

I can’t.

So good.

And then season 7?? And MORE family stuff. And the undercover stuff. And the season finale that broke.me.forreal. ::falls across chaise:: All the best Goren storylines falling one on top of the other, creating the most amazing performances – not that one need rank D’Onofrio’s genius against D’Onofrio’s genius. It’s just, how much could this man take! GAH. So good.

So why am I blogging about this?! Because, like five years later, I’ve still thought about the satisfaction of that episode and some from the previous season so much that I’ve taken to reading episode guides and finally, last night, watching two from season six…in preparation to rewatch the season 7 finale. Again. Because I must. Because it was just so good. I can’t think of another series where a consistent viewer was so rewarded. I mean, I assume it wasn’t as powerful for people who hadn’t seen the years long build-up (AND YES I’M INCLUDING THE CRIMINAL INTENT PC GAME!).

Tony. You…you should know better. You were once a Goren. Why have your forsaken your rich heritage?! You were the bad guy I desperately wanted Demi Moore to learn to love in Ghost! (She didn’t even try!) What has Shonda Rhimes *done* to you? ::weeping, gnashing of teeth::

Siiigh. So anyway.

Write like that. So that five years later, I can’t.stop.feeling it.

 

My Heavy & Completely Justifiable Grudge

Jeanne Coyne. {Insert Louise Belcher laugh of insanity}

Ohhhhh, JeANNE.

You thought you could have it all, didn’t you? Didn’t you, JC?! You thought you could be Gene Kelly‘s fiancee AND a big Hollywood dancer, beside the likes of Tommy Rall, Ann Miller, Bob Fosse (DO YOU SEE WHERE I’M GOING WITH THIS?!) – and people have lied about you. LIED. Even on Gene Kelly’s IMDB page, some knucklehead wrote that you were a “major talent” in your own right.

And you know who *really* got hurt by your selfish shenanigans?! Bobby Van. Dear sweet Bobby. In what should have been his final chance to showcase his delightfully charming brand of breezy dance. Shoulda had his moment. Wedged between the break-out performance of Bob Fosse and the whimsy of Tommy Rall. But you know what happened? Jeanne Coyne.

Now, if you know me *at all*, I won’t have to point out which bent-leg-havin’, slow-coach-bein’ “DANCER” she is in this clip. But for those of you who don’t wanna be surprised and saddened, she’s the one in the yellow. And don’t be alarmed when the director just stops looking at her in the first bit of her “dance”. But seriously, can you find the one who does not belong??

TEN. SECONDS. He got ten seconds because of you, Jeanne.

::collects self::

You guys, this has been weighing on me since I was like EZRA’s age. I just. I had to get it off my chest. ::sigh:: I feel so much better. I feel like this is gonna be a turning point. Now I can focus all of my attention on how the brothers and REALLY NOTICEABLY MISMATCHED during the barn raisin’ scene in 7 Brides for 7 Brothers. ::pulls tapes, prepares case::

*NOTE: This all came crashing down today when Dina pinned a picture of Gene Kelly. Jeanne is the first thing that comes to mind. Which is just…not fair. Because… Gene Kelly.

 

Go Home, The Following!

I wish instead of being able to capitalize all of the letters, I could instead make them so tiny that you could SEE MY RAGE. (Through squinting.)

Are we still doing this, The Following?! Early morning call after late night prison break?!

“We need you back.”

“But I’m not an agent anymore. I’m drinking myself to sleep every night to escape the nightmares associated with everything I’ve seen in my celebrated career that ended badly!”

“I know things didn’t end well with the Bureau,” said every caller ever. “But you’re the only one who can PFFFFFFFFFFFFT!

STOP. STOP IT. No more! Oh and you were seriously injured in the line of duty, too? HAVE YOU NO DECENCY?!

::ahem:: Pardon me. I’ve lost my head. Where are my manners. ::shuffles papers::

I’m sorry. I’m upset the way one can only be when one has hoped. And I did, friends. I truly tuned in hoping – nay, DESIRING – to be *destroyed* by this show. You heard me right. That’s what I was signing up for. I didn’t realize it would be death by cliche, with moments – snatches of milliseconds, rather – of possibility.

….we’ve gotta stop meeting this way! This blog is quickly devolving into that place where I just yell at people who are innocently continuing their daily lives with no consideration of my irrational anger, and rightly so.

Okay, quick, here’s something I like!

Wait. That probably…didn’t make me seem any less craycray. Hmm.

 

Hear Me Roar

My husband and I were JUST. talking about this. This whole “hidden” experience of being a woman. Not just, you have no idea what it means to train yourself to be always observant because you cannot afford to tune out your surroundings lest you become someone’s prey, either. That I can chalk up to being life – it’s not hard and it’s definitely not a grievance for me, just not a privilege I own.

So I just read this blog about a woman being verbally abused, intruded upon, intimidated and mocked on the metro – all for not wanting to engage in conversation with strange men. (Yes, that’s a long hyperlink which is my way of saying READ IT NOW.) And I feel the need to further blog about this because it’s not.rare. Like, do men get that? That it’s not an isolated incident? That it happens even when you’ve got a ring on your finger and your child holding your hand? (That was the MOST.) Thank the LORD, I have not for years had someone verbally abuse me to the degree this young woman suffered  (but I can paint you a pretty vivid picture of the day it happened and I know exactly where I was and what I was holding in my hand, that’s the kind of “I remember” this is).

But here’s why this pisses me off. Aside from the part where even if I explain this, I’m still not convinced it can be understood without being true to your experience (which is why I can’t even begin to know whether reading Invisible Man could either… unless part of your experience is being trained and required to relate to the experience of someone else, ie unless you’re a minority which usually means a person of color, it seems there’s a wall and maybe that’s just another way of saying privilege).Okay, here is why: my first job was with Victoria Secret Beauty in the Arden Fair Mall in Sacramento, California. I was the Demo Diva, the lady who stands just inside the lease line for the store and debuts a fine fragrance or two, trying to entice mall goers into the store. I was pretty good at this job (hi, it’s sales). I was good enough that after a month on the job, they sent me to the national conference in New York to give a speech to managers about how people should be trained for this position – actually I remember this speech having more to do with how best to pitch the new-at-the-time laundry detergent for delicates.

One of the reasons I was good at this job was that I only sold to consumers. Meaning, I didn’t give off a carny vibe by verbally intruding on every person who walked by me and spraying the air like the potion would sell itself. No. I first made eye contact. If someone immediately dropped my gaze or, better yet, if they pulled their arm in and therefore away from me or stepped discretely to the other side so they wouldn’t pass directly in front of me, I let them pass. I laced my fingers behind me and looked away to let them know I understood. Sure, sometimes I ventured a guess and asked if they’d like to sample (not the people I just described but others who were less obvious), but I really tried to pay a lot of attention to people’s body language.

So when I’m on the subway or waiting for someone right outside of it and I’m accosted, I get really upset. Seriously. I can go from happy to indignant pretty fast at having my personal space invaded. What gives a stranger the right to command, “Smile!” as he passes too closely? I’m sorry. I’m supposed to be constantly smiling because? What, I need to please my audience? Right. That’s not my job. Or how about the guy who traced his finger down my back and then defended himself with, “I was just saying hello.” DO YOU EVEN GET WHAT YOU’RE SAYING?!

The guy at the same mall where I worked who then went and found his female friend to come pick a fight with me – I’m not kidding when I say she took her shoes off – after he stepped into my space and I told him so (after which he still tried to hit on me for several minutes). This is the response to a woman not letting a stranger stand close enough that our clothing touches?

This just boggles my mind. And I went to UC Santa Cruz aka Redwood Forest so I’m not a girl who walks with her head down and slowly or aimlessly. If these are the sort of advances *I* get while I’m going about my business, I can’t even imagine what happens to smaller, sweeter looking women. I hate that we have to “be careful” in how we assert our right to not entertain strangers for fear of how they’ll react – which doesn’t stop them from making sure we know they’re mad.

I don’t even know how to end this other than to say I’m pleased my son will have a good role model. I pray he never makes a woman feel as offended as I’ve felt.

 

Don’t Speak

‘Member that movie Bullets Over Broadway? (That name totally popped to mind and now I’m wondering if it’s really the right one because I haven’t thought of that movie in YEARS.) But Dianne Wiest says, at one point, “No, no, don’t speak” – and Imma need girlfriend to have a chat with this guy.

How…exactly…do you get that out of touch with the experiences of others? Now I’ve Anon-ed him and the recipient of this ridiculousness for their sake but I needed you to see the avatar for obvious reasons. At what point does a grown white American man feel like he has such a handle on the reality of institutionalized racism, cultural history of oppression and all the effects that are still woven into our country and dozens more that he trusts himself – IN HIS PRIVILEGE – enough to make that sort of statement. The sort of statement that is followed by a declaration that I’m actually going to overlook as an intellectual since I didn’t click on his page and read the rest of the conversation. I’m gonna give him the benefit of the doubt that he’s not compounding his insensitivity. But hey, just as a reminder, people are getting crucified (<–hyperbole) over their chosen words and “your kind” doesn’t exactly seem like the best way to describe a group of people, particularly given the first part of his message. See, there’s that demand to be the bigger person with which healthy people of color are so familiar. On top of still enjoying and appreciating our national heritage despite its flaws, we apparently must also put up with our experiences – the ones that hey may not be the end of the world to us anymore but they sure as heck would be the end of the world to you if you woke up in our place tomorrow – being disregarded or undermined.

That’s pretty much it. I just needed to say this: Shame on you.

*BTW, race is in quotes because its existence is still in dispute. >.>

 

Bits of Random

Is it possible that the last time I opened this document was five years ago to the day?! That just seems. O_O Creepy. And the last time I printed it was two years before that, apparently. Geesh. Who says you can never go home again. Of course, I’m opening it to destroy it. Strip it for parts is misleading – makes it sound like I’ll use what I keep for another project. So really I’m tearing it down but preserving the landscape? Something like that. #BoringYou

So then – like four days later – I returned. Mostly because I saw a headline about people who… interfere with children “fighting” for their right to be on facebook. Of course, my very succinct response is, “Say what? Once more? You want what? To not be taken care of by this unsavory bloke I found in a dark alley with an impressive collection of knives? Right, then stand down.” This is what happens when we forget that protecting children should trump a criminal’s “rights”. Question – that may have been answered in the article but probably not because it’s yahoo news – would they be required to have a Megan’s Law seal or some-such on their profiles so that we all know who they are, as is stipulated in their registration, or would their desire to engage in “normal public discussion” outweigh the fact that there are young teens on the site? #Curious

>.>

<.<

…this has been a man drawer post.

 

Cry Me A River

Seemingly random, but this is bugging me. I’ve seen multiple renditions of the following phrase: “I can’t believe ___ wouldn’t let me ____ simply because I can’t write PhD after my name.”

Can we start a movement to squash the sour grapes? [If I knew anything about wine, I'd potentially have something quite clever to say here. Pretend I did and let's take a moment to chuckle together, friend.] I mean, the petulance of downplaying the rigorous nature of doctoral study in trying to prove you [not you, love, the editorial] actually *are* qualified to do that thing that someone won’t let you do because you aren’t qualified is just maddening. I may be mistaken but earning a PhD is not a matter of learning to write three letters. In the words of one of Cronk’s shoulder buddies: come off it.

 

T.O’d. For real.

Come ‘ere, precious. No, seriously, get over here. ::grabs, roughly:: This shall not stand. I’m so dead serious right now, this is ludicrous, it’s borderline offensive and you *must* have known as you were dressing these little unfortunates up like preteen hipsters and feeding them lyrics so shoddy and trite that they actually insert breaks to pretend there’s a sustained pentameter happening that this was hot-tarded. NO.

::slaps One Direction::

NO.

I hate to be that person who got to enjoy something and now must decree that the time for it has passed but COME ON. Seriously, were you not even gonna try harder than this?

Horrible.

It’s not that you’re a boy band, it’s not the over-the-top-coolness and running around London being “cute” and “laid back” with your hair doing LORD knows what. It’s that this is garbage and I feel I must slap you across the face with a white glove that we both understand to indicate we will draw pistols at dawn. Of course, I have every intention of turning early and just shooting you in the back because – who are we kidding – there’s no honor at stake here. None. And I demand satisfaction.

STOP IT.

(Seriously, it’s gotta be the worst song ever written in bubble-bath-safe crayola.)

 

This Is The Story Of A Girl

If you were born before the 90s, God bless you. I mean, that title has you singing a really annoying song. If you weren’t…here:

And now we get to ponder why that video has a picture of the wrong band in it… hmm. Sidebar (totally used incorrectly) – I seem to recall frolicking down the Santa Cruz boardwalk beach singing this really loudly. Because I was an annoying teenager once, too.

That is not *even* where this was supposed to go. Let’s start again.

This is Ana.

Ana’s real name is Anastasia and Anastasia is my sister. Anastasia has a son six weeks younger than mine, whom I sometimes call Cabbage. Cabbage is blessed to be alive. Why, you ask? Because my dear sister is a Bake-A-Baby. You know how it is. Sometimes new mothers express love through bundling the baby in an unnecessary swelter-fest of clothing. Forget that our kids were born in sunny California. And hers in beautiful September, coming off the hottest summer of our LIVES. Suffice it to say, there’s never a time in that state for this:

Really. Never.

Not only did Anastasia have the Bake-A-Baby gene – taking the bun in the oven metaphor far postpartum – she has a debilitating case of jumping to infuriated and indignant conclusions about any woman she sees, anywhere, who is wearing more clothing than the child by whom said woman is accompanied. Once again, she lives in California. But still, the offending woman who has the audacity to wear a light jacket while her child wears a t-shirt, regardless of the weather, is an awful excuse for a bag of bones. O_O That’s why yesterday was such a good day.

So I get a call from Ana yesterday evening and she is upset. I can tell she’s already preparing for my response and there’s a slight amusement in her voice but it’s outweighed by her repeated use of the words “panic attack”. So apparently, Cabbage had refused to wear his jacket into Costco and she had elected to wear hers. (Do you see where this is going?) Along comes a LOVELY old woman who is my undisputed HERO and she is not only indignant at the sight, but not silently! She approaches Ana and demands why *she* is wearing a jacket and her *beautiful* little boy is *not*! (I like to assume she slapped Ana across the face with the back of her hand.) And only because of Ana’s history of being on this woman’s side, I’m sure, did she attempt to explain that her son had been asked to bring his jacket and had not done so…but the woman did not believe her. {Break for laughter} In short, Ana. Got. Told. BAM. That woman was not HAVING IT. Horrible, senseless mother!

I’m laughing my head off over this story, of course, particularly the part where Ana goes rushing from Costco – guess Cabbage don’t get no food neither! – and hyperventilates before calling me. I ask her, “So what have we learned?” in my sweetest, most syrupy voice ever.

There’s a long pause in which I can hear the wind in the hollow of her gaping mouth. Finally, and as though she’s actually racked her brain for the answer, Ana says, “Nothing!”

Bravo, my love. Bravo.

 

Annoyed Doesn’t Even Begin

Be proud of yourselves, parents who “finally revealed child’s gender after five years”. Be as proud of yourselves as you obviously are and don’t worry about the implications of using a CHILD to make your statements. So they didn’t want little boy Sasha to know he was a little boy. No stereotypes. No “slotting people into boxes”. So they did this.

“The big no-no’s are hyper-masculine outfits like skull-print shirts. In one photo, sent to friends and family, Sasha’s dressed in a shiny pink girl’s swimsuit.”

My first concern, of course, is where they got the impression there was something wrong with gender. Please keep all anecdotes at bay, lest we come to the conclusion that all relationships are disastrous and collectively drink the koo-laid.

My second concern is how bad of a job we do at being God. So, THEY of course knew Sasha was a boy and therefore keeping away stereotypes meant keeping away MASCULINE stereotypes. Which resulted in encouraging and embellishing FEMININE stereotypes as a show that being the opposite of what people say you are is empowerment as opposed to futile defiance? And explain to me how this keeps the child from experiencing all those horrible, horrible things that occur in childhood “because of gender”. Can I even pretend they would understand a sociological discussion of what occurs when you introduce someone into an agency of socialization such as public education schooling but whose culture has been purposely marred beforehand so that he is traumatically leaving his home AND being introduced as an alien only he doesn’t know he’s an alien because you acted like this was normal and WHAT PURPOSE DOES THIS SERVE FOR A FIVE YEAR OLD?! If you wanted to make a statement, why didn’t YOU make it?! Sending him to a school with a mixed uniform of a girl’s top and boy bottoms?!

This did not stop the boy from having a gender. Much of gendered behavior is established outside the home, but that’s beside the point. This is basically like my speaking only gibberish to my child for the first five years of his life and then sending him to school. I’m not even able to express all the ways this is unacceptable right now. Absolute foolishness and no amount of smug progessiveness is going to change that. Cheers.