I can do this, you know.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
KIDS
"Larry Clark's controversial film about New York City adolescents walking the AIDS tightrope is also an unblinking look at the dehumanizing rituals of growing up. But it really doesn't add up to more than the sum of its various shocks--virgin busting, skinny-dipping, male callousness--overlayed with middle-class disapproval. Clark is hectoring us for cutting kids loose at a terrible time in modern American history, but so are a lot of other people, who also offer alternatives and ideas. The film does nothing to push us toward new thoughts, new solutions, new dreams. It is more like a window onto our worst fantasies about what our children are doing out there on the streets." --Tom Keogh
This movie is not funny. In fact it disgusted me. It made my tummy uneasy, and as my mother and I watched it together in our cozy little living room, I had to tell her on several occasions to "knock it off with the noises or I'll turn the movie off." She could just barely handle the scenes of 7-year old boys high off of pot, or depictions of rape and teenage violence. But who could blame her?
The director, Larry Clark, is known for his grotesque and brutally honest direction in his films, but Clark did not create this film out of thin air. Instead a young 18-year old boy named Harmony Korine wrote and sent in the script for "Kids". What demented 18-year old fuck could have created this piece of gut-wrenching grossness!?
This boy.
Not what I expected.
What a "pleasantly odd" fellow.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Nicknames
We all had nicknames in high school. Whether it be an abridged version of a longer name, a name for a jock, a goth, or a loser, you could always spot these names being tossed back and fourth in the hallways of the institution. Nicknames are usually developed out of some sort of look or trait: a dweeb wearing glasses would be a “four-eyes,” the fastest runner on the track team would be “Rocket,” and the popular tramp of the school would get the well deserved “cum-dumpster.” I too was branded a nickname, but instead of receiving it from my peers, I created mine out a daily routine.
It happened to me one of my first few days of 9th grade. I had just transferred into a small school located on the top floors of a large building that was once a warehouse. This modern version of a high school offered loft-sized windows and stunning views of Lake Superior and it’s lovely lakeside city of Duluth. Every day I would glance out these windows and wish for an escape out of the boredom of being a friendless new-girl, but my salvation didn’t come until I realized the potential that these windows had.
Alone in a room, I looked out one of these windows and planted my face flat on them. I pulled back my head and noticed the substantial grease smear that my face left behind. There was a ghostly figure starring back at me, and I had just created an imaginary friend.
Rushed with excitement for my newfound artwork, I began again at making oily figures on every inch of glass in the room. Flared nostrils, smashed skin, and the occasional spit mark dotted the serine landscape of Lake Superior. But I did not stop there. After there was no more room for duplications overlooking the lake, I went to the opposite side of the school and set my troops to takeover and blur the overview of the city.
I was cautious in my practice not to get caught, but a few days after my marks appeared, a girl named Emily entered into the room where she saw me in the act of taking pleasure over the facial grease that I was leaving behind on the windows. I was instantly ashamed, but was surprised at the lack of shock this girl projected. Instead she was curious, and after a round of simple questions she asked if she could “join in the fun.”
So I had a partner in crime, which would mean that when the questions would arise as to who created these marks on the windows, I would not be alone. We would band together and agree at how disgusting it was while simultaneously laughing at our fiendish deeds. Emily quickly became my best friend, and together we formed a term for our regular practice. We called it “greasing” and from that, both Emily and mine’s nickname became “Grease.”
Only long after fresh marks stopped appearing on the windows, did Emily’s nickname and mine become known to the rest of the school. No one really knew why people called us “Grease”, and as I glanced over “Four-Eyes” and “Rocket’s” shoulder at the perfectly oiled mark on the far window, did I know that I would never tell.
It happened to me one of my first few days of 9th grade. I had just transferred into a small school located on the top floors of a large building that was once a warehouse. This modern version of a high school offered loft-sized windows and stunning views of Lake Superior and it’s lovely lakeside city of Duluth. Every day I would glance out these windows and wish for an escape out of the boredom of being a friendless new-girl, but my salvation didn’t come until I realized the potential that these windows had.
Alone in a room, I looked out one of these windows and planted my face flat on them. I pulled back my head and noticed the substantial grease smear that my face left behind. There was a ghostly figure starring back at me, and I had just created an imaginary friend.
Rushed with excitement for my newfound artwork, I began again at making oily figures on every inch of glass in the room. Flared nostrils, smashed skin, and the occasional spit mark dotted the serine landscape of Lake Superior. But I did not stop there. After there was no more room for duplications overlooking the lake, I went to the opposite side of the school and set my troops to takeover and blur the overview of the city.
I was cautious in my practice not to get caught, but a few days after my marks appeared, a girl named Emily entered into the room where she saw me in the act of taking pleasure over the facial grease that I was leaving behind on the windows. I was instantly ashamed, but was surprised at the lack of shock this girl projected. Instead she was curious, and after a round of simple questions she asked if she could “join in the fun.”
So I had a partner in crime, which would mean that when the questions would arise as to who created these marks on the windows, I would not be alone. We would band together and agree at how disgusting it was while simultaneously laughing at our fiendish deeds. Emily quickly became my best friend, and together we formed a term for our regular practice. We called it “greasing” and from that, both Emily and mine’s nickname became “Grease.”
Only long after fresh marks stopped appearing on the windows, did Emily’s nickname and mine become known to the rest of the school. No one really knew why people called us “Grease”, and as I glanced over “Four-Eyes” and “Rocket’s” shoulder at the perfectly oiled mark on the far window, did I know that I would never tell.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
You Won't Get It
He doesn’t answer when I call, and when I do get him on the other line (usually through a friend’s phone) he doesn’t acknowledge my existence. This one time I called him on Kighle’s phone (our mutual friend). Jason answered with enthusiasm in his voice,
“Heyyyy buddy!”
But it was not Kighle, no it was me. And knowing Jason’s proneness of hanging up when I call, I did the only wonderful thing I could think of for him: I sang him a song.
It was “You Are My Sunshine,” and I would add in Jason’s name here and there.
“Please don’t take me Jason away.”
I ended the song to the sound of busy signals on the other end. That’s just how he is, I guess.
However, it seems that Jason always has the ability to know exactly where I am when he hangs up on me, for he showed up at the spot Kighle and I were at a few minutes later.
With a jaunty step in his walk, Jason gave me a big hug, and then called me a bitch.
He is my best friend.
Friday, September 5, 2008
In My Father's Closet
“Shh... don’t let him see it”
“See what!?” my scrawny 5 year-old cousin said, tugging at the shirts of me and his sister, who were both four years older than him.
He wasn’t allowed to see what I had found. It was too damaging…
A full hour into an intense game of hide-and-seek at my father’s place left all of the good hiding places known to its players. What was left of all the good spots centered around the forbidden space of my dad’s bedroom. Only the bravest of players would enter into such a place. Little Adam wouldn’t do it, and Sarah was too noble, but me, well, I was fearless back then. So I mustered up every ounce of strength inside me and waltzed into dad’s bedroom whilst Adam counted down from 40.
Oh and I made it. I could taste the sweet aroma of victory as I examined the possible places to hide within the bedroom. Under the bed- too obvious, behind the door- that’s child’s play, the closet- maybe, but inside one of the cardboard boxes in the closet- now that was a place for a winner!
I could hear Adam counting down, “29, 28, 27…”
Racing to the closet I spotted my box. Built to the top of my soon to be winning hiding spot was a pile of socks that quickly needed to be removed. Like a rabid dog I leapt at the red, green, and black cotton balls, almost foaming at the mouth, and began to tear them away, digging deeper and deeper until finally I hit what I thought was the bottom.
But this was not the bottom. No, they were books!
“15, 14, 13…”
Quick, quick! Take the books. Throw them ou… “HOLY #%&@!!!”
A quick glance down and I realized that these were no ordinary books. Instead of rolling hills dotted with cute wildlife creatures pictured on the covers of the books my dad normally read were now two large pairs of rolling double Ds dotted with the occasional mole (not the cute kind) and, dare I even say it, nipples.
Starring at these large developments of a full grown woman, I failed to notice that the rest of the time left for me to hide had been counted away, and soon Adam came to view the scene of me hypnotized by my findings.
A quick “What’chu got there?” from Adam got me moving again and I hastily hid those obscene books behind my back. I told Adam to get Sarah, to call out for her and say that I needed her immediately. He did just that and within minutes Sarah too entered into my father’s bedroom.
My logic was that she too was a girl, and seeing the great number of these nudie books in my father’s closet and Adam’s intense eager to see what we had, made me come to the conclusion that even the most respectable of men had no power against these books, but we girls did. They could not harm us.
“Sarah, look at what I found.”
“Oh my gosh! What are these!?” she said as she sifted through the piles of boobies and peepees.
“My dad is sick, he needs help. I have to tell someone!”
After much debate as to who should find out and help my dad with his addiction, we decided that my grandma would be the best candidate for the job. She has a love for all creatures, including sick old men who loved nudie papers, and I was going to be spending the night later at her house anyways, so she was the convenient choice.
After an hour of planning what I should do and say, I gathered up what appeared to be the raunchiest of books (including one entitled How to Have Good Sex) and packed up for the ride to my grandma’s, which of course would mean that I would have to endure a full forty-five minutes in the car with the dad.
“So what did you do today Nick?”
“NOTHING.”
“Oh, well did you have fun with your cousins?”
“YEAH, I GUESS.”
“Okay… you alright?”
“I’M TIRED!”
It went like that for the whole length of the car ride. The only moment of fresh air from an endless stream of good-hearted questioning came when a song that my father liked played on the radio, to which he would occupy himself while restlessly tapping his thumbs against the steering wheel. I had this time to think about what he could possibly ask next, wondering if he knew.
In the end, he didn’t know, or he didn’t dare to ask, because we made it to my grandma’s house without ever mentioning any of those books, or boobs,
After a quick “goodbye” said to the carpet, my father left. Hardly a moment passed by when I stopped my grandma from asking about my weekend and ushered her into the next room. I closed the door.
“Grandma, when I was at my dad’s I found something in his closet. Now don’t be alarmed, they won’t get you, but you need to look at these and help my dad… He has a problem. I think he might be crazy.”
So at that I dumped out the contents of my backpack. Mouth slightly ajar, my grandma looked over the books with photos of the naked women, picked up the How To Have Good Sex book and said;
“Oh! I’ve got to read this one.”
“See what!?” my scrawny 5 year-old cousin said, tugging at the shirts of me and his sister, who were both four years older than him.
He wasn’t allowed to see what I had found. It was too damaging…
A full hour into an intense game of hide-and-seek at my father’s place left all of the good hiding places known to its players. What was left of all the good spots centered around the forbidden space of my dad’s bedroom. Only the bravest of players would enter into such a place. Little Adam wouldn’t do it, and Sarah was too noble, but me, well, I was fearless back then. So I mustered up every ounce of strength inside me and waltzed into dad’s bedroom whilst Adam counted down from 40.
Oh and I made it. I could taste the sweet aroma of victory as I examined the possible places to hide within the bedroom. Under the bed- too obvious, behind the door- that’s child’s play, the closet- maybe, but inside one of the cardboard boxes in the closet- now that was a place for a winner!
I could hear Adam counting down, “29, 28, 27…”
Racing to the closet I spotted my box. Built to the top of my soon to be winning hiding spot was a pile of socks that quickly needed to be removed. Like a rabid dog I leapt at the red, green, and black cotton balls, almost foaming at the mouth, and began to tear them away, digging deeper and deeper until finally I hit what I thought was the bottom.
But this was not the bottom. No, they were books!
“15, 14, 13…”
Quick, quick! Take the books. Throw them ou… “HOLY #%&@!!!”
A quick glance down and I realized that these were no ordinary books. Instead of rolling hills dotted with cute wildlife creatures pictured on the covers of the books my dad normally read were now two large pairs of rolling double Ds dotted with the occasional mole (not the cute kind) and, dare I even say it, nipples.
Starring at these large developments of a full grown woman, I failed to notice that the rest of the time left for me to hide had been counted away, and soon Adam came to view the scene of me hypnotized by my findings.
A quick “What’chu got there?” from Adam got me moving again and I hastily hid those obscene books behind my back. I told Adam to get Sarah, to call out for her and say that I needed her immediately. He did just that and within minutes Sarah too entered into my father’s bedroom.
My logic was that she too was a girl, and seeing the great number of these nudie books in my father’s closet and Adam’s intense eager to see what we had, made me come to the conclusion that even the most respectable of men had no power against these books, but we girls did. They could not harm us.
“Sarah, look at what I found.”
“Oh my gosh! What are these!?” she said as she sifted through the piles of boobies and peepees.
“My dad is sick, he needs help. I have to tell someone!”
After much debate as to who should find out and help my dad with his addiction, we decided that my grandma would be the best candidate for the job. She has a love for all creatures, including sick old men who loved nudie papers, and I was going to be spending the night later at her house anyways, so she was the convenient choice.
After an hour of planning what I should do and say, I gathered up what appeared to be the raunchiest of books (including one entitled How to Have Good Sex) and packed up for the ride to my grandma’s, which of course would mean that I would have to endure a full forty-five minutes in the car with the dad.
“So what did you do today Nick?”
“NOTHING.”
“Oh, well did you have fun with your cousins?”
“YEAH, I GUESS.”
“Okay… you alright?”
“I’M TIRED!”
It went like that for the whole length of the car ride. The only moment of fresh air from an endless stream of good-hearted questioning came when a song that my father liked played on the radio, to which he would occupy himself while restlessly tapping his thumbs against the steering wheel. I had this time to think about what he could possibly ask next, wondering if he knew.
In the end, he didn’t know, or he didn’t dare to ask, because we made it to my grandma’s house without ever mentioning any of those books, or boobs,
After a quick “goodbye” said to the carpet, my father left. Hardly a moment passed by when I stopped my grandma from asking about my weekend and ushered her into the next room. I closed the door.
“Grandma, when I was at my dad’s I found something in his closet. Now don’t be alarmed, they won’t get you, but you need to look at these and help my dad… He has a problem. I think he might be crazy.”
So at that I dumped out the contents of my backpack. Mouth slightly ajar, my grandma looked over the books with photos of the naked women, picked up the How To Have Good Sex book and said;
“Oh! I’ve got to read this one.”
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