Baiting for Hobnobs

Once upon a time, I was a mingling champion. I was at home in any scenario: art opening, baseball game, youth gathering held with various religious organizations or schools. I could spend the afternoon discussing the finer points of the Container Store's fabric closet shelves with my neighbor to hitting a friend-of-a-friend's impromptu pool party for some light skinny dipping and jello shots with strangers. Musicals, potlucks, school dances-- I could take to the mix like a well-timed toss of a twist of lemon or pinch of sea salt to, well, everything. I was amazing.

...in a dream I had once. I'm not saying I suck at fraternizing with strangers at any given function, but I'm not saying I'm awesome either. It's nothing, in short, that a few glasses of complimentary cheap red wine can't cure (or so I like to believe. It is, however, somewhat of a joke amongst my loved ones that I'm a surefire champ at The Intense Drunk Conversation. "It's your way of dancing topless on tables," said my college roommate).

In any case, somewhere along the line, I developed a small case of pre-mingling jitters I can't seem to shake. I blame the zodiac-- between the social Libra and the moody crustacean, I seem to have developed performance anxiety. Once or twice, this unfortunate habit ended in either the telling of a super inappropriate topic way too early in the event (because I'm certain David's boss would have thought that my joke about octopus vaginas was hilarious after a third round of cocktails), or in the incredibly unfunny, esoteric stories about poetry ("I mean, seriously, what's John Updike's deal anyway? I'd rather have a colonoscopy than read one of his masturbatory characters again. Hahaha-- get it? Colonoscopy? Get it??").

The thing is, I've got a penchant for names and faces (it's actually listed as an extra skill on my resume and has, not just once, garnered additional interest for a job). But most people seem to lack the attention span required to remember the names of their coworkers, let alone the surnames and birthdates of their Kindergarten classmates (it's true, I remember all 12). My gift served me well as the sidekick of my ever-forgetful stepfather at pretty much every social occasion in memory, but most of the time it's simply a burden that appears to reap far more embarrassment than accolades (try explaining to someone you haven't seen in 9 years why you remembered to ask about Vanilla, their cockapoo, or whether their mother Sandra ever figured out how to get around her shellfish allergy at the family restaurant).

And so, as my enthusiasm for mingling has been replaced with self-consciousness, I don what appears to be a pleasant but serious expression of interest (as pictured above, courtesy of Bmore Art) while I nod diplomatically and await the magical properties of alcohol to take effect. I look like an semi-understanding, partially medicated Kindergarten teacher.

Tomorrow, I'm heading to Roanoke to attend the Last Jitterbug and to do the good thing and reacquaint myself with the faculty and staff I will be working with come fall. And, truth be told, I am terrified of that whole awkward half-recognizing one another thing: you know, the "Hey-" oh, they weren't looking at me. Oh wait, yes, "yea-- HEY, oh," but not that friendly they don't remember my name. Hands? "Yeah-oh yes, let's shake.. no! Haha, just kidding" ha, yeah, no need to touch, I'll just scratch my arm here and rock back a step or two.. "Right, so.. did you say there was a bar?"

But here, here! Let it be known that this trip will mark a new direction for my pre-hobnobbing apprehension. Utilizing a kind of carrot-on-a-fishing-pole-technique, I'm going to pretend I am that elbow-rubbing warrior of my dreams. I am going to allow myself to react, to smile, to express emotions that don't denote a recent round of Botox regardless of how many times I remember the person's name (..and rank and serial number) only to be introduced as "She," because: I booked myself a fancy room in the big fancy hotel with my grant money (travel for a reading = poetry funding, YES) and I fully intend on sinking into my pillow top King with a big-ass glass of not-so-cheap red wine at the end of the night.

Disquietude be damned.

In Which I Lament Early Blooming

My breasts came in when I was 9. I remember the latter parts of elementary school not as the joyful, carefree days spent doodling in textbooks with my smelly peers, but as a time of overwhelming self-consciousness. It happened overnight: I came down to breakfast in my nightdress, quite unaware of the new addition to my chest, and stopped cold at my brother's wild-eyed, ecstatic face. It was the look wrought only from a gift passed down from on high, a sign that you are being blessed by the hand of God himself: it was the undeniable recognition of your older sister's greatest humiliation. He ran from the room, and, standing in the grey morning light I felt the slightest tenderness coming from something swelling over my breastbone. Ringing out, as though shouted from the highest mountaintop, I heard my brother's now-infamous cry: MOM, Steph's got big ones!

With the misguided logic of a hormonal preteen, I began wearing my brother's left over Beefy T's-- you know, all the radio and sporting event freebies that the chubster himself couldn't fill out. I refused a bra, under the equally as misguided notion that to wear one was toacknowledge them, thereby making them real. So I endured the 4th and 5th grade in shin-length Umbro soccer shorts and enormous white t-shirts that draped in two stiff tents from my budding chest. Shortly thereafter, my brother was blessed further: I had developed a ruddy case of acne and acquired round, wire-rimmed glasses. Did I mention that I was in my 3rd year of braces? And that the braces were an experiment in orthodontia by my elderly and somewhat blundering dentist?

In short, I had it going on.

While my forehead remained a breeding ground for volcanically active whiteheads and I kept the braces, wire-rimmed glasses and, for a short while, a blunt shoulder-length haircut in the shape of a yield sign, it was really only my breasts with whom I waged war. Not until my flat-chested comrades began donning tiny training bras would I even consent to a sports bra (6th grade) and I would often wear 2 and sometimes 3 shirts to buffer their shape. I crossed my arms over them, covered them with my books, hunched my back to counteract how horribly convex they were. And the boobs fought back: they just kept growing. They grew and they grew....

Until..

Just kidding.

I do, however, consider myself the gracious loser of this round of "My Pubescent Stories Are Sadder and More Embarrassing Than Yours." If you're in the mood for a good cry, and you think you can handle the classy kind of journalism over at The Sun, here's the link:

Bed-Bound By My Big Boobs.

How Lady Gaga got schooled

A few posts ago, I lamented the lost art of the Pop Music Video. I never thought I would have to look to the military to appease my need for booty-shakin' good.

I mean, really: group choreography is the scientifically proven answer for pop success. They didn't even need cleavage, and it's still better than the over-budgeted, over-acted weakling skin flick that was the original Gaga video.

El muerto en motora

Yesterday, my boss had me Google "custom made men's underwear." I spent the day discovering companies like buffdbod.com and yourprivates.com.

Today, my students told me I was too old to have children.

"Miss Lohmann, you got kids?"

"No."

"Just babies?"

"...no. Two cats."

*student wrinkles nose*

"Miss Lohmann, how old are you?"

"24."

"Well whatchyou waitin' for?? You can't be havin' them in your 30's. You supposed to be a grandma then."

And all I could find on the internet was this:

Grandmother makes a baby! With her grandson.

and this:

Incidentally, it's been a rough week.

A very tiny soapbox

I generally don't like to get involved in political discussions over the internet, as they are often polarizing and easily misinterpreted, but this new law in Oklahoma is making me completely sick to my stomach.

Regardless of one's stance on abortion, the fact is that it exists. It has always existed.* And whether or not it is legal, it will continue to exist.** The question to abolish it is nonsensical; the question to regulate it is complicated. However, requiring that the pregnant woman must undergo an expensive and invasive procedure (from which the doctor retains the right to lie to his patient about the developmental status of the fetus) begs the bigger question: is Oklahoma going to be spending an equivalent amount of money and effort on this child after they manipulate the woman into keeping it?

Somehow, I believe the answer is, "Well, no. She's in charge of the thing now, isn't she?"

I believe in shades of gray and exceptions to rules.*** And I believe that laws like these do not consider the complexities of a very muddled issue (these screenings require the woman to hear a detailed description of the fetus' heart, limbs and features, and are mandatory for all women, including rape and incest victims). It is in this regard that the law is not only ludicrous, but also downright disgusting.

*The "Concerned Women of America," Conservative, Anti-choice site dedicated to spreading biblical principles throughout the land.

**"National Abortion Federation," Liberal, Pro-choice site dedicated to spreading awareness about women's health and safety across the land. Both sites acknowledge the rich and dangerous history of the black market abortion.

***I do not readily identify with the Elephant or the Donkey. I was raised in an extremely conservative household but went to an arts high school and then a women's college: I've visited both sides of the mirror. While I do not believe entirely in either political party as they currently present themselves in our country, I do believe in certain inalienable rights: everyone, not just the financially privileged, should have the opportunity for healthcare and a safe educational environment. Both the Elephant and the Donkey have ignored these rights when they don't best serve their respective agendas. (Because isn't voting what politics are all about anyway? We're only fooling ourselves if we believe that any time a politician is faced with a national dilemma they don't poop their pants over voter's retention before having a go at a real solution. If they ever have go at a real solution.)

How Pop Music Saved My Life (or, Disillusionment and the Music Video)

While driving, I exclusively listen to top 40 stations. It began in college when I found myself road-tripping through the Blue Ridge on a weekly basis, sometimes driving straight through the night on an ill-advised Red Bull and cigarette high. When the caffeine buzz waned and my car companions had all gone comatose, I found myself completely alone on a deserted highway at 3 am. Virginia is not big on the street light, and being the lone car in the pitch of early morning puts you at considerable risk for Death by Deer. I remember once, while driving from Roanoke to Houston (a nonstop 26 hours), I found myself in what appeared to be the drop point for the local serial killer-- limbs were strewn across the road as though they had been dumped from the back of a pick up truck, and all I could make out were their spindled shapes, sometimes flattened, studding the bloodied ground. As I slowed (which still baffles me; in my right mind the instinct would surely be to flee) I caught site of the tapered nose from a decapitated deer. Some poor truck driver, no doubt, had unwittingly come upon a pack of deer; the impact was clearly so immediate that the bodies more or less exploded, leaving nothing behind but a 50 yard stretch of solid carnage.

Despite the fear induced by facing what appeared to be the opening shot of a B horror film (or worse, a Tarantino/Rodriguez mashup) I still found myself overwhelmed with exhaustion. Nothing in the world made more sense than to fall asleep. Right there. Wheel in hand. Surrounded by dismembered roadkill. And so I turned to the radio.

Sometimes, it's the obvious appeal of pop music: the catchy beats, the flashy vocals, the simple lyrics. One year, I went through a phase where the only thing that could keep me from nodding off were the first three songs on Britney's Blackout album, blasted at decibels rivaling the crowd at a Hanson concert circa 1998. I will be in my car, on hour 12 of straight driving, past the point where food or caffeine retains any kind of effect whatsoever, and Rihanna is my upper. The Black Eyed Peas. Justin Timberlake. Lady Gaga. The Pussycat Dolls. Basically, all the stuff you would never list under Facebook's "Favorite Music" section.

But sometimes I listen to top 40 stations because they get me riled. Some of these songs are so poorly written, so blandly executed, that I am baffled at their success. Take, for example, Ke$ha. Now, I have no animosity towards the girl herself-- she, like all the rest of the pop starlets out there, is a carefully crafted, heavily marketed image for the pop crowd who needs a breather from Gaga. She is plain ol' easy-to-swallow vanilla pop, whose heavily synthesized music can get your foot tapping despite her stupid name and asinine lyrics (The boys are lining up cuz they know we got swagger/ but we kick 'em to the curb unless they look like Mick Jagger). The less I know about the puppet behind the song that keeps me from crashing into a tree at night, the happier I am to sing along to, laugh at, and rant about the songs themselves.

But we all have YouTube. And I have the relatively common habit of looking up the photos and music videos of the people whose music prevents my untimely demise. Sometimes, I am pleasantly surprised: take Kanye's Love Lockdown, JT and Madonna's 4 minutes, or Gaga's Bad Romance (the Cremaster of pop music videos: over-budgeted, overrated, heavy with semi-ambiguous symbology... but visually delicious). But then you get videos like this, where the song is a flimsy pretext for an outrageous plot with bad acting and over the top product placement. It's like a bad porn without the sex, and maybe a little Super Bowl ad campaigning thrown in for good measure. Vomit.

But nothing could stop me from searching for La Roux's "Bulletproof," a somewhat "breath of fresh air" amongst all the Chris Brown and Train my Top 40 station has been overplaying lately. And this is what I found:

No! No! No!!!! It's like watching Kate Gosselin on Dancing with the Stars--those vacuous eyes, the plastered expression of unmasked discomfort. Elly Jackson, what were you thinking?? I can run with the geometry-- I don't generally need to know "why" for my music-video-viewing pleasure-- but why did we go with "sad face" for this one?? I really thought, when I heard the song on the radio, we'd have some humor, something a little more energetic-- think Depeche Mode's gogo dancers from "Personal Jesus."

The music video is an absurd thing. To go back to my former comparison, it is not unlike a porn-- there's the basic premise of a song (sex), for which the video is responsible to accommodate. The storyboards these days seem to attempt the "plot line" more and more, which (as in a porn) generally feel groundless and wanton. I'm more into "Pick a theme" videos, where they run with some kind of general aesthetic and add some dancing. It's MUSIC. We don't need a 4 minute sitcom or documentary. We need costumes! Synchronized jazz squares! Maybe a few booty shakes and a little animation!

There's the old joke about rap videos showing nothing but booty, cars and money, and honestly I feel like it's a much better formula than the crapshoot that occurs when pop strays from their own group choreography, sexy faces, and glittery costumes. If you MUST stray, just don't axe the choreography-- we don't want to see you cry in your video and stare soulfully into the camera's eyes (or, the case of Elly Jackson, attempt to stare soulfully). We want to see you strut, pop and lock it. I'm not even going to qualify the statement as a generalization. It's practically science.

An example of how a well-crafted video made me overcome initial gag-reflex to the song. Well done Michel Gondry: we are not worthy.

Bibliophilia

For the sole, arbitrary reason that the book is sitting on my bookshelf, I've decided that my summer will look like this:

1. Don Quixote Miguel de Cervantes
2. War and Peace Leo Tolstoy
3. Ulysses James Joyce
4. In Search of Lost Time Marcel Proust
5. The Brothers Karamazov Feodor Dostoevsky
6. Moby-Dick Herman Melville
7. Madame Bovary Gustave Flaubert
8. Middlemarch George Eliot
9. The Magic Mountain Thomas Mann
10. The Tale of Genji Murasaki Shikibu
11. Emma Jane Austen
12. Bleak House Charles Dickens
13. Anna Karenina Leo Tolstoy
14. Adventures of Huckleberry Finn Mark Twain
15. Tom Jones Henry Fielding
16. Great Expectations Charles Dickens
17. Absalom, Absalom! William Faulkner
18. The Ambassadors Henry James
19. One Hundred Years of Solitude Gabriel Garcia Marquez
20. The Great Gatsby F. Scott Fitzgerald
21. To The Lighthouse Virginia Woolf
22. Crime and Punishment Feodor Dostoevsky
23. The Sound and the Fury William Faulkner
24. Vanity Fair William Makepeace Thackeray
25. Invisible Man Ralph Ellison
26. Finnegans Wake James Joyce
27. The Man Without Qualities Robert Musil
28. Gravity's Rainbow Thomas Pynchon
29. The Portrait of a Lady Henry James
30. Women in Love D. H. Lawrence
31. The Red and the Black Stendhal
32. Tristram Shandy Laurence Sterne
33. Dead Souls Nikolai Gogol
34. Tess of the D'Urbervilles Thomas Hardy
35. Buddenbrooks Thomas Mann
36. Le Pere Goriot Honore de Balzac
37. A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man James Joyce
38. Wuthering Heights Emily Bronte
39. The Tin Drum Gunter Grass
40. Molloy; Malone Dies; The Unnamable Samuel Beckett
41. Pride and Prejudice Jane Austen
42. The Scarlet Letter Nathaniel Hawthorne
43. Fathers and Sons Ivan Turgenev
44. Nostromo Joseph Conrad
45. Beloved Toni Morrison
46. An American Tragedy Theodore Dreiser
47. Lolita Vladimir Nabokov
48. The Golden Notebook Doris Lessing
49. Clarissa Samuel Richardson
50. Dream of the Red Chamber Cao Xueqin
51. The Trial Franz Kafka
52. Jane Eyre Charlotte Bronte
53. The Red Badge of Courage Stephen Crane
54. The Grapes of Wrath John Steinbeck
55. Petersburg Andrey Bely
56. Things Fall Apart Chinue Achebe
57. The Princess of Cleves Madame de Lafayette
58. The Stranger Albert Camus
59. My Antonio Willa Cather
60. The Counterfeiters Andre Gide
61. The Age of Innocence Edith Wharton
62. The Good Soldier Ford Madox Ford
63. The Awakening Kate Chopin
64. A Passage to India E. M. Forster
65. Herzog Saul Bellow
66. Germinal Emile Zola
67. Call It Sleep Henry Roth
68. U.S.A. Trilogy John Dos Passos
69. Hunger Knut Hamsun
70. Berlin Alexanderplatz Alfred Doblin
71. Cities of Salt 'Abd al-Rahman Munif
72. The Death of Artemio Cruz Carlos Fuentes
73. A Farewell to Arms Ernest Hemingway
74. Brideshead Revisited Evelyn Waugh
75. The Last Chronicle of Barset Anthony Trollope
76. The Pickwick Papers Charles Dickens
77. Robinson Crusoe Daniel Defoe
78. The Sorrows of Young Werther Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
79. Candide Voltaire
80. Native Son Richard Wright
81. Under the Volcano Malcolm Lowry
82. Oblomov Ivan Goncharov
83. Their Eyes Were Watching God Zora Neale Hurston
84. Waverley Sir Walter Scott
85. Snow Country Kawabata Yasunari
86. Nineteen Eighty-Four George Orwell
87. The Betrothed Alessandro Manzoni
88. The Last of the Mohicans James Fenimore Cooper
89. Uncle Tom's Cabin Harriet Beecher Stowe
90. Les Miserables Victor Hugo
91. On the Road Jack Kerouac
92. Frankenstein Mary Shelley
93. The Leopard Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa
94. The Catcher in the Rye J.D. Salinger
95. The Woman in White Wilkie Collins
96. The Good Soldier Svejk Jaroslav Hasek
97. Dracula Bram Stoker
98. The Three Musketeers Alexandre Dumas
99. The Hound of Baskervilles Arthur Conan Doyle
100. Gone with the Wind Margaret Mitchell

I love setting realistic goals. For the sake of time, I'm going to skip over the books I've already read (highlighted). I figure that, if I'm seriously going to attempt an MFA (and shortly thereafter, a PhD) in creative writing/literary arts, the least I can do is read all the books that are archetypal standards for comparative literature. You know, all the books we were supposed to read in school. (I cannot believe I've never read a stitch of Dickens, but am super grateful to have already trudged through the hobby horse that was Tristram Shandy.)

Aiming to read 75 books whose average page count is hovering around 500 before September is totes reasonable. An achievable goal. Lest you forget that I once hit the entire Harry Potter series in less than a fortnight.

What's a delusional knight got on preteen wizardry, anyway?