Category Archives: random thoughts

MMM…DEEP FRIED TWINKIES

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I went to the Fair this saturday. Los Angeles County has quite a few redneck-type farmers. It was just like county fairs are supposed to be.

Except they had a Hollywood Section, where you got to meet stars of shows that you’ve never heard of.

But they had all kinds of animals. Goats and Pigs and Sheep and Cows and rabbits and chickens and everything!

The pigs were my favorite. I may have to tell a few pig stories later. I got to pet their hairy sides and wiggle the little piglets’ nose..They are so wonderful!

It was somewhat of a shock to pass an entire pig spitted and roasting at one of the BBQ stands. I had just been petting the little guys!

It made me wonder how they shave the pig before they roast it.

But there were a lot of interesting food items for sale. The usual caramel apples and popcorn and cotton candy were there. Also, Funnel cake and Pink’s hot dogs. The specialty this year was deep friend twinkies.

I abstained.

FINNISH WITH A TIMORESE ACCENT

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Of all the crazy things, East Timor appears to have chosen a new national language. Finnish.

I am thinking of The Swedish Chef, and I am thinking of Garrison Kiellor and the Prairie Home Companion. Finnish is a strange-sounding language, and it has no association with East Timor at all.

That is the point. It has no association with East Timor. I guess, from my broad base of ignorance about Finland, the Finns have had a history of minding their own business, and not raging about the world conquering things.

East Timor has a history of other people minding THEIR business and conquering THEM. They are tired of it. So many terrible things have been done to them, a quick glance through the web pages about East Timor shows up sites all about “help them!”

They’ve been trampled on by a lot of colonizing countries, and none of the world’s major languages hold good memories for them. Newly their own country, the officials are making decisions about what language to use, and they do not choose to use the language of their oppressor.

Their own language has become fragmented. They have not had the chance to cohese, under the dividing forces of colonialism.

They chose Finnish.

I see a kind of tragedy in their choice, and a heroism, too. They’ve been mistreated, and they choose to step away from those atrocities.

Language is incredibly important; it is the bearer of culture. If they chose the language of their oppressors, they are choosing also the culture that fostered that oppression. But the East Timorese say: no! no more and not for us. we will be something other than that.

Colonialism is a force and an influence which is hard to understand, especially if you are on the colonizers side. We Americans are a colonial power. We were not the first, there are many. So many, that the shadow of colonialism is cast over the whole globe.

It is time to realize it, and begin to come to terms with recctifying the situation. We must examine our heart and our attitudes to purge hurtful assumptions about others and ourselves.

I don’t know if the East Timorese will stay with their Finnish language program, but I admire their choice. They have chosen the language, and therefore the culture of a non-colonial power. They know the harm colonialism can bring, and they want out. More power to them.

SIX MONTHS

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Well, This is a special day.

Six months ago, TODAY, this wonderblog was born. My first blog post on my first blog was six months ago.

AND, because I am nerdy, I went back and counted. There are more than 80 posts in that time. I’ve done a good job of updating my blog pretty frequently. I’m proud of what I’ve done.

I wanted to say thank you, to my small cadre of readers…Some of whom I don’t know at all, which thrills me tremendously. I know that I’m hardly a top hit of the internet, but even the fact that a few people are interested enough to read what I write makes it very worthwhile. If any of my readers would like to email a response or question, I would be pleased to reply.

This has turned out to be a very worthwhile endeavor for me. I feel sure that it will be around for another six months, and be even better.

Stay tuned, and happy anniversary to me!

McMac

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I am sitting in a journalism class, which I have already mentioned. The teacher has been talking about the importance of keeping a source’s anonymity, and of course, is talking about deep throat.

We need some new famous anonymous people, here. What’s up with that? By the time everyone kicks the bucket and deep throat’s identity is revealed, no one will care.

I probably will not recognize the name, since I hate the news anyway.

But I am sitting here in front of an iMac. That’s what I’m wrting this on. Can you hear the accent? goodness gracious, it’s a juicy blue one, too, almost the color of Crest Gelpaste…Mmmm…Minty!

I am told that simply ALL the newspapers use Apple computers.

Ugh. I thought I left that behind. This silly little iMac is already proving annoying. I was unable to find the tool that lets me create a link to the previous blog where I talk about my journalism class.

SIGH

perhaps I am just bitching. Not being able to find a tool doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist…

My brother (hi~!) was a Mac-aroni from the beginning. He started out in desktop publishing and so my first experience with computers (not counting the wind-up tandy color computer, that really hardly COUNTS, especially since my brothers hogged it anyway) is with the mac. The FIRST mac.

Finally, as a wise and discerning adult, I discovered PCs and Windows.

It was beautiful. I am quite happy with my computer. It does EVERYTHING i want it to do, and I don’t have to save my word documents in an RTF format.

well.

that was a pointless rant, based on the fact that I am sitting in class being bored. I’m sure I added nothing to the holy war being raged by the Mac-ophiles against the mostly uninterested PC users.

If I become a famous journalist some day, i may have to use an iBook.
I suppose fame has its price.

FIRE IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD

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There was a fire across the street from my bus stop this morning.

I noticed it first because of the huge black plume of smoke. Actually, I noticed it before I noticed it. I thought it was foggy outside, and I was worried that the bench would be too wet to sit on. Then I noticed the pillar of smoke.

Since I was still stupefied from being up too early, I didn’t realize that the smoke was unusual. I just thought it was from a smokestack. Then I thought, hey, there’s no smokestack on that building. Which is when I saw the fire.

It was burning in a grove of trees by the highway. The orange glow flickered through the black outlines of the trees growing between me and the flames. It seemed rather small, especially when compared to the multi-acre fires we’ve been used to this year. I watched it for a while before I thought, should I call the fire department?

There were a few men in the parking lot across the street, they were closer to the fire. I thought they must have called, since they were obviously watching it. But it was quiet, and time dragged on with no sirens. I became suspicious and wondered if those people were the ones who had set the fire.

There are crazies out there, you know.

If I’d had my phone with me, I would have called. I’ve never called 911 before, it would be a good thing to know how to do, in case of emergency. But this was an emergency. There was a fire across the street.

I’d had a fire near my house before, at a nasty slummy place I lived in Anchorage. The building over burned down. We all got out on the balconies and watched it. But the trucks were already on the scene.

I was waiting for the bus, and I was concerned because it was late already. I had an important meeting at work I didn’t want to be late for. But there was a fire burning. What if no one called 911? In my sleep deprived state, I just watched it burn. I was reminded of how much I love the smell of woodsmoke. It always reminds me of fall in Alaska.

But this wasn’t a fire in a woodstove. What if it raged and I ignored it, because I needed to go to work?

That’s what’s wrong with the world today. People don’t care. Maybe I should go inside and call the fire department.

It seemed like an eternity before the trucks appeared. But they did blare up the road, and let me off the hook.

After they fire was put out, wispy flakes of ash began to rain on me.

I’m famous! Those of you

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I’m famous!

Those of you who read my boyfriend’s blog are familiar with the truly stupendous new website, Blogcritics.org. That clever man who created Blogcritics, Eric Olsen, sent me my password to join the Blogcritic cadre.

I’m so thrilled to see myself in print, I’m squirmy!

I reprinted my little review on Alanis over there. It’s exactly the same as the one below, but it is on someone else’s page, with a logo and links on the side.

You should check out the site, anyway. It is grassroots in the best possible way, and it’s interesting. I find out all kinds of things by checking it out.

This may have the result of focussing my posts, here, too. I may feel more motivated towards critically relevant topics, and less inclined towards introspective musings…Or maybe I will merge the two!

We’ll see.

Once, while on a visit

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Once, while on a visit to a zoo, I saw a jaguar. This shiny black animal was pacing back and forth in front of his cage, eyes intent on the direction he was headed, muscles rippling with the potential of all the things muscles can do.

I could not stop watching this pent up animal. He was caged, yes, but he also seemed pent inside himself. I wanted to catch his eye to see what he was feeling. Of course, he never looked at me. He was single-minded in his purposeful prowl.

I could not help remembering that magnificent beast when I saw Alanis Morrisette explode onto the stage at the Greek Theatre last Saturday. Her skin-tight black leather pants helped the illusion, but she had the same barely contained pacing that the jaguar had. She loped across the stage in strides that were far longer than most people would take. She stretched her legs, and her voice and her heart out as far as she could.

Her songs have always hit me like a Mack truck. When she sings about love and faith and pain she takes the lid off the things I’ve “kept bubbling under,” and makes me feel the need to move, to act, or to speak.

Her songs, no matter which one, express her spirit. She is not comfortable, she is not complacent. When I saw her relentless pacing onstage, I was not surprised. I feel like pacing too, when I hear her songs.

I am grateful to her, because she grapples with ideas and issues that many people grapple with. Most people, however, give up in exhaustion, willing to believe that answers or even questions are beyond their capacity. Alanis does not give up on them. After seeing her perform in person, I can see that she cannot. The person she is finds it physically impossible to back off.

She engages her experiences and her questions as if in battle. She finds a way to express them, and behind every single song is a harmonic drone, like a bagpipe, of “Why?” She dares to take it on.

And I, along with many others, am very much the richer for it. She’s given a voice to many of us, because she was able to express herself, She did not hold back and say, “that’s too personal, I’d better just be quiet about that.” It’s in the personal, in the subjective, that the universal human experience can be understood.

I appreciate her bravery, and I am so glad I saw her in concert. I really need to buy her latest album.

In LA, every waitress is

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In LA, every waitress is supposed to be waiting for her break to be an actress.

My Muzhik novelist from last Sunday was probably not a professional writer, not yet.
I don’t know what he did to earn a living.

One of my friends from book club was telling me about her career in Television. “They are grooming me to be a producer. But I just don’t know…I REALLY want to write coming-of-age books for children.”

The guy that I had coffee with was the director of a very respected news program. “But that’s not what I came here to do,” he says. “I have more in mind.”

And me?
I’m a video conferencing professional, but I just signed up for a journalism class.

Charles Dickens, author of Great Expectations, had his hero in Oliver Twist say it for us:

‘Please, sir, I want some more.”

Yeah, we all want some more. More from our jobs, more from life, more from ourselves.

And more from our JOBS. That’s a critical thing. After the basics are taken care of–food, housing, clothing, etc.–that job takes on a different meaning. The struggle for survival takes so little effort, that we think we can do it with one hand tied behind our back. That leaves us with an extra hand to do all kinds of other things! Maybe we begin to resent the effort it takes to have a job…And we want to get both those hands working together to do what we “really” want to be doing.

A lot of books are written about that. What Color is Your Parachute? and 7 Habits of Highly Effective People are just two well-known examples. These authors write out systems of how to articulate your values and line up your life according to what you believe is most important.

That’s great! that’s why those books are such bestsellers. Who wouldn’t want to achieve perfect balance?

And they continue to be top sellers, because people are not achieving that balance. In large droves, we continue to have difficulty finding the perfect job.

Does it exist?

I remember talking with my friend a long time ago, we were griping about work. I said, “Don’t you think that this is your dream job? I mean, when you were a kid, if someone told you that you would get to be a computer programmer at NASA, you would have been thrilled!”

“Yeah,” he said. “I remember taking a tour of NASA when I was about 14 and being completely impressed.”

“And you worked hard to get the chance to work there. But now, you complain about it! Being an adult sure turns out to be different than what we thought it would be like when we were kids.”

Maybe the idea of the perfect job is not for everyone. On This American Life, they ran a show that talks about it. In the last segment the narrator talks about his love of making things, crafty art pieces that engaged his whole self in the making.

He researched whether he could get a job doing crafts, but concluded that if it was his job, it would no longer be his passion. He would be compelled to do it, instead of free to do it.

That show has really stuck with me lately. I like my job a lot, it is satisfying and it pays my bills. But I have been struggling with pursuing it as a career, since I am not sure that it gives me the opportunity for expression of my best talents.

But maybe we as human being are more complicated than that. Maybe our best talents, that we are all trying to foster and get more opportunity to express, are not things that we can access 40 hours a week.