People talk about things not being what they seem. They talk of hidden realities or false appearances. There are similes, analogies, and parables used for the education of the masses. They are, therefore, not necessarily negative. A certain amount of the unrefined seems permissible if the bad is not actually damaging and it achieves a real good.
Hollywood scriptwriters, producers, directors (aka, the film industry) seems to be willing to sacrifice so much good and subject it to being placed in a shell of dirt and filth. Messages of heroism, triumph, and values are debased by "the common" way they are portrayed. We hear that they touch the hearts of the poor individuals who are just generally down on their luck. Fair enough. I agree that you can't sell movies about rich kids succeeding and achieve the same thing that you can achieve by selling a movie about poor, basically illiterate Hispanics who live in East L.A. However, I believe there is a fine line between touching hearts and corrupting people.
Humans are creatures of imitation. That's how we learn. We even teach by imitation; we teach the subject in the same manner we learned it. Presented with beauty, we strive for beauty. Presented with ugliness, we stop striving for that beauty and start down the path of darkness and despair. Maybe it isn't that dramatic of a switch. You don't go from being a saint to a heartless wretch in a day (at least, that's incredibly uncommon). You try toeing the line. "It isn't really that bad..." until it really is that bad. To make a long story short, one must redeem the story with an ugly beginning with a beautiful end. The bad must cease to play an over-archingly influential role in the hero's life. Otherwise, the lesson learned is one which does not lift the individual to the true, good, and beautiful.
This rant is brought on by the movie I just finished watching: Good Will Hunting. Great story, great actors, etc. It's about an young adult who has no family, no money, and no education, but has an incredibly genius mind. He is brilliant like Albert Einstein. The story is about this man and his troubles. He has run-ins with the law which end up with him in a psychologist's office. Drama ensues, things get really bad, but it ends in happily ever after. But some of that happiness was lost on me because of the f-words that were in every sentence. I kid you not, I don't think the main character, his psychologist, or his buddies had the ability to not say that word. (Refreshingly, his girlfriend didn't swear as much. She did, but not to the distracting excess that the guys did.) There was no real turn around for this kid. He "found what he wanted" and that was supposed to be that. He had some healing from his past. Good stuff. He decided he actually loved the girl and wanted to be with her. This meant following her to California where she was going to medical school. Meh.
Why, why, why does the story have to be tainted with so much of the negative stuff from our culture??? Why can't it be a story of conquering sin and temptation, rather than getting through some of it and wallowing in the rest??? I do not understand this. It could have been a movie I loved. Instead, it was a movie I enjoyed moderately, but don't have any desire to watch again. Can anyone tell me, honestly, that having that many F-words made is a more touching movie? I thought not.
05 June 2010
04 June 2010
The Wanda Saga
Our dog has a fake eye. Yup, you heard (or rather, read) right. She visited the "doggy ophthalmologist" today and was diagnosed with severe glaucoma. Our two options were extensive treatment using prescription drugs or removing her eye. The latter was cheaper and had a higher success rate, so we picked that one. They gave her a fake eye for the sake of upholding appearances. Poor girl :( I hope this doesn't traumatize her too much.
01 June 2010
The Three Musketeers
Even though there is a stereotypical TACer, that does not negate the wide diversity of personalities that one encounters there. Even if they are not eccentric, you can have rather odd relationships with them. One prime example of this is the interaction between me, Nathan, and Conor. Mr. Dragoo, our latin tutor this past year, called us the "three Musketeers." He called us a few other things, too, but that's the nicest one ;-)
Nathan and Conor by themselves are a hilariously amusing dynamic duo. They go everywhere together, say and do ridiculous things, and are rather cynical - or as they prefer, realistic. The three of us in combination were a strange combination. My joyous optimism, which they pegged as naivete, was in a constant opposition to their life-view. I called Mr. Berquist a "cute old man"; their response was to look at me incredulously and pull out the dictionary and look up "cute." They liked to prove me wrong. In nine months, I think we all three of us learned things from the other. I learned to temper my happiness and they learned to not squash every little blossom of hopeful happiness they encountered. We argued and we will continue to do so, but I can honestly say that they are two of the kindest and most caring guys I know.
I sometimes wondered whether or not they considered me as a friend. Sure, we hung out together sometimes and had interesting conversations much of the time, but I wondered if they were being authentically friendly or if I was their charity project; perhaps talking to me was their one good deed for the day. I came to learn through various circumstances that it was the former.
One instance of their extraordinary was one particular afternoon wherein my knee was hurting an incredible amount. My kneecaps tend to slide off sideways, which causes both pain and instability. After lab class, I could barely stand, let alone walk. Nathan and Conor expressed concern about it, but I shrugged it off, promising to only walk the necessary places. I hobbled out, my knee buckling every step. I managed to get through the commons and to the mail room where I clocked in for work. I walk out of the mail room and almost ran into Conor. He was holding a banana (why I remember that little detail, I don't know) and Nathan had a wheelchair.
"Get in." he said
"Oh, come on, Nathan, I don't need a wheelchair."
"Yes, you do. Get in. Now."
"Nathan, really..."
"Stop being an idiot, Bridget. You're getting in whether you like it or not."
"What are you going to do, force me?"
("Not a bad idea" mumbled Conor)
"Bridget, please."
Alright, I thought. Fine. I was embarrassed 1) because I had to ride in a wheelchair and 2) that Nathan and Conor were being so insistent. I hobbled over and got in. "Thanks, guys."
We started wheeling out. Nathan says to Conor, "After we drop her off at work, I want a ride." Conor rolled his eyes, but didn't disagree. I, trying to negate some of the humiliation I was experiencing, started waving at people we passed.
"Stop it."
"Why?"
"Do you think you're the only one who's embarrassed here?"
Oh, right. I hadn't thought about that. I guess it could be rather embarrassing to be pushing me around campus in a wheelchair, especially with me waving like an idiot. Then someone across campus waved at me. I waved back.
"Seriously, Bridget, next time you do that I'm going to run you into a wall."
I laughed. "Yes, that would be taking care of me stupendously." I looked up at him and grinned.
Nathan and Conor then started complaining about me to each other. This is a favorite tactic of theirs when I become too illogical or aggravating to deal with directly. ("Why does she do that?" "I don't know, maybe because she's a girl." "I guess they do silly things sometimes." "Good thing we never do.") This is never meant seriously or insultingly, but they're trying to get me to see their point. I usually do.
They are both great guys who are good friends to me. Seeing me every day in class, they came to see how physically breakable I am. All of our section did, for that matter. One day I was limping as I went to collect my math test from her and she asked if I was okay. Nathan replied, "Never ask her if she's okay. The answer is never 'yes,' but only varying degrees of not okay." But we came to understand each other pretty well, even when others couldn't. Mr. Augros called me the translator of Nathan-and-Conor-speak. They did the same for me, but since it was less frequent, it was less noticeable to him.
I'm going to miss having those two in section next year... :-)
Nathan and Conor by themselves are a hilariously amusing dynamic duo. They go everywhere together, say and do ridiculous things, and are rather cynical - or as they prefer, realistic. The three of us in combination were a strange combination. My joyous optimism, which they pegged as naivete, was in a constant opposition to their life-view. I called Mr. Berquist a "cute old man"; their response was to look at me incredulously and pull out the dictionary and look up "cute." They liked to prove me wrong. In nine months, I think we all three of us learned things from the other. I learned to temper my happiness and they learned to not squash every little blossom of hopeful happiness they encountered. We argued and we will continue to do so, but I can honestly say that they are two of the kindest and most caring guys I know.
I sometimes wondered whether or not they considered me as a friend. Sure, we hung out together sometimes and had interesting conversations much of the time, but I wondered if they were being authentically friendly or if I was their charity project; perhaps talking to me was their one good deed for the day. I came to learn through various circumstances that it was the former.
One instance of their extraordinary was one particular afternoon wherein my knee was hurting an incredible amount. My kneecaps tend to slide off sideways, which causes both pain and instability. After lab class, I could barely stand, let alone walk. Nathan and Conor expressed concern about it, but I shrugged it off, promising to only walk the necessary places. I hobbled out, my knee buckling every step. I managed to get through the commons and to the mail room where I clocked in for work. I walk out of the mail room and almost ran into Conor. He was holding a banana (why I remember that little detail, I don't know) and Nathan had a wheelchair.
"Get in." he said
"Oh, come on, Nathan, I don't need a wheelchair."
"Yes, you do. Get in. Now."
"Nathan, really..."
"Stop being an idiot, Bridget. You're getting in whether you like it or not."
"What are you going to do, force me?"
("Not a bad idea" mumbled Conor)
"Bridget, please."
Alright, I thought. Fine. I was embarrassed 1) because I had to ride in a wheelchair and 2) that Nathan and Conor were being so insistent. I hobbled over and got in. "Thanks, guys."
We started wheeling out. Nathan says to Conor, "After we drop her off at work, I want a ride." Conor rolled his eyes, but didn't disagree. I, trying to negate some of the humiliation I was experiencing, started waving at people we passed.
"Stop it."
"Why?"
"Do you think you're the only one who's embarrassed here?"
Oh, right. I hadn't thought about that. I guess it could be rather embarrassing to be pushing me around campus in a wheelchair, especially with me waving like an idiot. Then someone across campus waved at me. I waved back.
"Seriously, Bridget, next time you do that I'm going to run you into a wall."
I laughed. "Yes, that would be taking care of me stupendously." I looked up at him and grinned.
Nathan and Conor then started complaining about me to each other. This is a favorite tactic of theirs when I become too illogical or aggravating to deal with directly. ("Why does she do that?" "I don't know, maybe because she's a girl." "I guess they do silly things sometimes." "Good thing we never do.") This is never meant seriously or insultingly, but they're trying to get me to see their point. I usually do.
They are both great guys who are good friends to me. Seeing me every day in class, they came to see how physically breakable I am. All of our section did, for that matter. One day I was limping as I went to collect my math test from her and she asked if I was okay. Nathan replied, "Never ask her if she's okay. The answer is never 'yes,' but only varying degrees of not okay." But we came to understand each other pretty well, even when others couldn't. Mr. Augros called me the translator of Nathan-and-Conor-speak. They did the same for me, but since it was less frequent, it was less noticeable to him.
I'm going to miss having those two in section next year... :-)
31 May 2010
Senility
Wanda is 11 years old. She is nearly blind and becoming more and more infantile by the day. Don't worry, she's a dog. This onset of insanity isn't ludicrously premature :-)
As I type this, she is staring at me, threatening to pull the same naughty stunt that she has been pulling the past few days. I spend most of my time sitting on the sofa-bed in the family room. The furniture is arranged much differently than it normally is and I more or less live in here. Both of these things are wayyyy out of the routine that our dear golden retriever has settled into. To make up for this bizarre situation, Wanda has decided that she belongs on the bed with me. This would be fine except for how she wants to do this.
I started out sitting on the left side of the couch, merely because that was the side I collapsed on when I got home from the hospital. Wanda got used to climbing up on the right side. She wasn't incredibly smart about it, though. She inevitably would end up trying to sit in my lap and/or jumping over the back of the couch. The former was simply irritating, while the latter was frankly dangerous for the silly dog. I don't know why she thought it was a good idea to make that jump... I'm blaming her cataracts.
Now I'm sitting on the right side of the bed. This move was made due to logistics; it just makes more sense. But now Wanda is super confused. She still tries to get up on the right side of the bed, i.e. on top of me. She gets up and I have no option but to have her continue walking over me until I get her onto the vacant half of the bed. There isn't enough room to have her turn around and get back down. If she was a puppy I would have no qualms shoving her off backwards, but an 11 year old dog? That doesn't seem prudent.
I was able to make her happy the other day by lying on my stomach and cuddling with her. Like so:
As I type this, she is staring at me, threatening to pull the same naughty stunt that she has been pulling the past few days. I spend most of my time sitting on the sofa-bed in the family room. The furniture is arranged much differently than it normally is and I more or less live in here. Both of these things are wayyyy out of the routine that our dear golden retriever has settled into. To make up for this bizarre situation, Wanda has decided that she belongs on the bed with me. This would be fine except for how she wants to do this.
I started out sitting on the left side of the couch, merely because that was the side I collapsed on when I got home from the hospital. Wanda got used to climbing up on the right side. She wasn't incredibly smart about it, though. She inevitably would end up trying to sit in my lap and/or jumping over the back of the couch. The former was simply irritating, while the latter was frankly dangerous for the silly dog. I don't know why she thought it was a good idea to make that jump... I'm blaming her cataracts.
Now I'm sitting on the right side of the bed. This move was made due to logistics; it just makes more sense. But now Wanda is super confused. She still tries to get up on the right side of the bed, i.e. on top of me. She gets up and I have no option but to have her continue walking over me until I get her onto the vacant half of the bed. There isn't enough room to have her turn around and get back down. If she was a puppy I would have no qualms shoving her off backwards, but an 11 year old dog? That doesn't seem prudent.
I was able to make her happy the other day by lying on my stomach and cuddling with her. Like so:
30 May 2010
Out on the Town
I suppose Sunday Mass doesn't really count as being out on the town, but it's only the second time that I've left the house in 10 days. It was wonderful to get out of the house for a bit. As difficult as crutches are to move about on, it's better to move than not. It was especially nice because I was going to one of the best places that I can go. I wasn't able to get to Mass last weekend (I was still way too drugged up) or at any other point since surgery. I'm spoiled at school, where I have four different options for Mass times. Barring extraordinary circumstances, I am able to get to Mass every day, so two weeks without it was difficult.
When I went this morning, I decided that I would sit on the end of the pew to give myself the most foot room (my cast, Albert, is quite bulky) and exit options if necessary. The one part of this plan that was not ideal became apparent at communion. Distance between pews is designed for space efficiency, not someone on crutches. I had to pick my way rather carefully. Even then, I had a couple of snags and almost falls. By the time I got to the center aisle, I had caused a bit of a traffic jam. I went as quickly as I could to the priest. Before giving me Communion, he whispered with a big smile, "Roller blades work marvelously, you know." I was so kerflummuxed by my little trip that I forgot to say, "Amen" (which is acceptable, although not the modern convention). Fr. Hal just patted me on the cheek.
My feet, as I play the piano at home before Mass. The drastic mismatch of my footwear made me laugh. I have to pedal with the wrong foot as well :-)
When I went this morning, I decided that I would sit on the end of the pew to give myself the most foot room (my cast, Albert, is quite bulky) and exit options if necessary. The one part of this plan that was not ideal became apparent at communion. Distance between pews is designed for space efficiency, not someone on crutches. I had to pick my way rather carefully. Even then, I had a couple of snags and almost falls. By the time I got to the center aisle, I had caused a bit of a traffic jam. I went as quickly as I could to the priest. Before giving me Communion, he whispered with a big smile, "Roller blades work marvelously, you know." I was so kerflummuxed by my little trip that I forgot to say, "Amen" (which is acceptable, although not the modern convention). Fr. Hal just patted me on the cheek.
My feet, as I play the piano at home before Mass. The drastic mismatch of my footwear made me laugh. I have to pedal with the wrong foot as well :-)
27 May 2010
Fickle Pickle
I am very fickle. I am not a pickle. But I wanted a word that rhymed with fickle. I generally don't think of myself as a fickle individual (disagree if you want to), but last night I was definitely being an inconsistent little nincompoop.
In the space of about an hour, I went from being mildly irritated to hopping mad. That isn't too unnatural of a jump, but I didn't stop there. I next went to a state of feeling really bad about being mad, so much so that I was crying. After a few minutes of that, I started happily talking about baseball. (Did you know that the Detroit Tigers are the only American League team to have dropped three consecutive World Series? They did, between 1907-1909)
I am not an angry person. I am a very happy person. Just not post-operatively: then I am incredibly emotionally fragile. *sigh* I wish this would be over soon. One week down, five to go :-)
And really, how could you be mad at boys like these for long?
In the space of about an hour, I went from being mildly irritated to hopping mad. That isn't too unnatural of a jump, but I didn't stop there. I next went to a state of feeling really bad about being mad, so much so that I was crying. After a few minutes of that, I started happily talking about baseball. (Did you know that the Detroit Tigers are the only American League team to have dropped three consecutive World Series? They did, between 1907-1909)
I am not an angry person. I am a very happy person. Just not post-operatively: then I am incredibly emotionally fragile. *sigh* I wish this would be over soon. One week down, five to go :-)
And really, how could you be mad at boys like these for long?
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