Just One Way In Which Everything Is Different Now That I Am Married

When people ask if I am married, I say "Yes".

Reasons I Am A Feminist

1. I love bitches.

Who Actually Wants An MPDG (And no, that's not a disease)?

First of all, this post is the thought process that came after reading an excellent article over at The New Statesman by Laurie Penny. That link will take you there. I highly recommend reading it first, otherwise this will make even less sense on its own merits than it will as a response piece. Also, the article contains naughty words. This piece may as well by the time I'm done with it (Update: It does. Proceed accordingly). No being impressionable while reading either, please.

The current rise of the Manic, Pixie Dream Girl (Hereafter referred to by an acronym, because WDLA?) in literature and especially cinema is a slightly depressing trend on multiple levels. For those of us who like characterization, this is a bad development, as MPDGs often lack exactly that (Both characterization and development). To an extent, they are the updated, cutely quirky version of the 1960s Hippy Chic(k), which is also bad for those of us in favor of realism, as such animals are often found to be mythical in the real world once they sober up and recognize the kind of lifestyle required by the character type. Sleeping on floors is not quite as attractive as it sounds, and sleeping in the woods leaves one wholly vulnerable to bear attack. Either way, it isn't worth it. But where is this all coming from? What is the root of this current evil in our popular culture?

I blame Zach Braff. While making The Royal Tennenbaums, it's reported that Gene Hackman told director/co-writer Wes Anderson, among other things, to "Pull up your pants and act like a man." I imagine Hackman would simply have walked off the set of Garden State while emitting a snarl of disgust. Garden State sets Braff's character up with an MPDG played by Natalie Portman and her helmet, here to save Braff. She does this primarily by being there while he stares blankly at the camera in a failed attempt to convey some sort of inner conflict, simply a foil used by the male lead. In this role, Portman is a prop. Her character being who she is is of almost no relevance whatsoever to the film, as she is portraying an hour and a half long deus ex machina rather than an actual person.

This gets towards the heart of the failure of the trope: These characters are not set up as people. The Penny article gets at this rather nicely, but then fails to turn around and look at the converse: Why would people try to imitate this two-dimensional character in real life? What is the possible appeal of mimicking a character who is mostly there as a reaction shot? Unfortunately, I have no rational idea, as it doesn't seem to make sense. Good art imitates life, but when life starts to imitate bad art you are left with a problem. It seems possible that our popular culture is getting so stale and homogenous (Even as innovations like the internet allow niches to go off and form their own corner of GroupThink™ away from the rest of the world) that anyone who doesn't simply fit into society in the most literal, physical-only sense has turned into some sort of mythical beast to be grasped at. Especially as the character gains in popularity, you simply are going a different route to attempt to fit in, setting yourself up as an obvious member of one group versus another. There's no actual individuality involved. Simply misguided brand homogenization disguised as individuality (Sprite was way ahead of cinema on this one).

Most of the movies made about this (And, according to her essay, Penny's ex-boyfriends) seem to be looking to the MPDG character for salvation. But what do they have to be saved from? We are living in a time of almost unmatched quality of life. We are living longer than we ever have before. We are making more money than ever before. Foods from all over the globe are available in our supermarkets. We have massive available entertainment options. Granted, most of them suck, but let's not whitewash the past here. The past still contains Jane Austen, no matter how much I personally avoid her (For the sake of gender balance, it also contains George Bernard Shaw. Ugh). These people mostly seem to need saving from a dull existence, but here's the thing: If your existence is dull, you're doing it wrong. You have the whole of human literature to pull from. Go read it. You can get it for free from the library. There are massive amounts of interesting music out there, and equally massive numbers of ways to get it for free by stealing it on the internet. Go listen. We have video games being made that push things forward in creative new ways, even if you only see ads for XTreemFaceShooter4 on the magic box. We are in a veritable golden age of board games (Because Monopoly sucks). Boredom is not an innate part of the human condition. It is the mind's response to your personal decision to not challenge it. You do not need a storybook character to save you. You need to try harder. Caring is certainly not creepy. This whole trend is the sad-sack hipster version of Scientology, a religion founded on the premise that it is not possible to be rich and still have negative thoughts, so aliens must be at fault. Pull your pants up and save yourself (Also, on a more personal level, should Laurie Penny read this: Laurie, if your boyfriends have been shocked to discover that you are not some mythical creature, but in fact are a real-life human being, please stop dating assholes).

And yes, the interpolation there means what you think it does: These characters are largely written by men. Men who are not looking to write a female character, but who are simply looking to write some sort of unchanging ideal. This whole thing is slightly Weird Science-esque, if not for the fact that it is influencing real life. So, to all the ladies out there (Shoutout!): If we (Men/assholes) are looking to use you for our own personal salvation but not actually looking to you as people, please do not enable us. Call us on it. That is incredibly inconsiderate behavior, and should not be tolerated. Just because Zooey Deschanel looks pretty doing it does not make it an attractive lifestyle. The whole thing reeks of First World Problems, which are certainly a thing, but not necessarily a concerning one. Right now we are growing up in an America that prioritizes higher education, even as costs for higher education spiral out of control. So students are amassing more and more debt, yet when they enter the workforce, the increasing globalization and corporatization of the world seem to have depressed the job market (I didn't major in economics. Bear with me and call me on it if I'm wrong), both in terms of available jobs and salary of said jobs. The majority of those graduating college probably would have been better off simply going to a trade school of some type and becoming a mechanic (If your trade school does not offer mechanic courses, you have chosen a defective trade school). And yet we still have it well. So the brain, trying to rationalize this, moves in the direction of bad, mopy art, which further influences real-life trends. But none of this is helping, so look, youth of America, let's have a chat.

You are probably screwed. There are many people out there who are smarter than I am who will tell you some variation of this theme. So just go with it. You still have a high quality of life. Learn who you are and like yourself for that. It matters more than some sort of materialistic arms race, or soft-focus filmed navel gazing. No one is going to save you. That's something you have to do yourself. And the easiest way to do it is to find out what 'yourself' actually means and be that, not imitating what you see around you. As a wise man once said, you are not your fucking khakis. But seriously, pull them up. You look ridiculous.

Important Baseball Update

Scheduled starters for the Toronto Blue Jays in their upcoming series against the Baltimore Orioles: Dickey, Wang, and Johnson.

Signs That You Work In A Kitchen

Wearing clothes without bleach stains on them counts as dressing up.

Important Thoughts

You hear people say things like "If I could go back in time, I'd stop Hitler". Yet no one ever seems to say "If I could go back in time, I would stop Steven Tyler". They should.

The (Unfinished) Sequel To "No Woman No Cry"

"No Penguin No Eat".

Pro Cooking Tip

You should probably not attempt to make any of these recipes. But if you do, it will be awesome.

Pro Cooking Tip

After measuring cayenne pepper by hand, resist the urge to scratch.

Presented Without Comment

(Source: Buzzfeed)

A Naked Singularity

Sergio de la Pava's A Naked Singularity is the most impressive debut novel I've read since William T. Vollman's You Bright And Risen Angels. And though I suspect that book is unfamiliar to you, I request that you trust me when I say that this is high praise. Want more familiar touchstones? Well, that would take a less interesting novel.

A Naked Singularity revolves around a young defense attorney named Casi who has never lost a case that went to trial. He lives in Brooklyn, a place the author bio on the back assures us that de la Pava does not live. We begin with a series of interviews he performs with the night's arrested, followed almost immediately by their bail hearings, a section of the book that is openly hilarious as well as clearly questioning the justice system. From there the book proceeds to continue with both the humor and questions throughout its remainder, to great effect. Often a loner at the office, Casi befriends a fellow attorney named Dane who is interested in the pursuit of perfection, a cause which in the past has lead him to smoke crack. Dane draws Casi to plan a perfect crime using information from one of Casi's clients, a cause which seems in no way complicated by the fact that Dane never appears when anyone else is around. In opposition to their proposed crime is a larger-than-life character called Ballena, who may exist or may be symbolic (This is not to say he does not exist in the world of the book. He certainly does. However, I favor a slightly-less-literal interpretation). Does this have your attention yet? If not, I don't think I want to spend time with you anymore.

Sprinkled throughout are scenes with Casi's family, Colombian immigrants on both sides of the law. These never really tie into the book's main themes, but they have the courtesy to not drag. As things progress, Casi's views of justice shake and change, leading to one especially wonderful legal brief. He runs afoul of both the judges he defends clients in front of and his co-workers. He has lengthy discussions on the nature of God with his Landlord and said authority figure's roommates, one of whom is attempting to bring Ralph Kramden to life by watching The Honeymooners endlessly via DVR (Other letters are involved in the acronym). And once again, yes, this is a comedy.

Are there bum notes along the way? Absolutely. One philosophical discussion with his fellow buildingmates involves the exponential pace of human invention, a conversation which calls into question the reverence the book places on Television, a noun which is always capitalized. Some of the family set pieces are not at all necessary. And the book does drag a bit in the middle part. But with the scope of the issues the novel tackles, which come to a semi-climax in Casi's co-defense of a mentally-challenged man sentenced to death in Alabama, more than merit a misstep or two for the insight and impact the book places on many of the issues we as humans face nowadays, both those covered by Dostoyevsky and those which have come up since. If you are interested in contemporary fiction in almost any way, and especially fiction attempting to push for importance beyond the medium, you should have stopped reading this a while ago and found yourself a copy of this book. And as to how it ends up, as they say:

"We're going to be all right,"he said.
"No," I said. "But we're going to live."

How To Know You've Been Working In A Kitchen Too Long

In the bar bathroom above the sink, someone has scrawled the words "You look good". When you see them, the upper-case L keeps curving into a 'C'.

On Working In A Kitchen

I've heard it said that working in a kitchen is nothing more than a 24/7 dick-measuring competition. I cannot think of anything that could be both more accurate and more wrong, all at the same time. Kitchen work is a survival of the fittest sort of thing. And I mean that in a very literal sense. You very rarely see people who have a similar body type as the customers standing next to the grill all night. And if that does wind up occurring, they either quit or sweat it off pretty quickly. Spending forty plus hours a week in that sort of environment is a challenge that many people are not up to. Forgive me if this gives those of us who can do it, sometimes well, a bit of an ego to match the callouses on our knife and saute hands. There is a continual showing off aspect to the whole thing, a bit of stage show provided, not for the customers, who will never be allowed near the whole lurid spectacle of professional food preparation if management has any idea what is good for them, but for one's co-workers. The basic premise of the enterprise is that, as kitchen work is not an office job, the goal should be to commit some sort of act that would get one fired from any self-respecting office at minimum once per hour. Working through hangovers, or while in the bag or on most any ingestible substance, is the mark of the line cook. If you manage to somehow (Probably through some sort of misunderstanding or trickery) find yourself in a stable relationship, you have committed a minor sin. Not vomiting over the railing of the deck to close the night because you wish to spend time in the company of said other may up the deal to felony level. Why would you want to go home for sex when the waitstaff is in such close proximity? In short, it is all about the Three B's: Booze, bluster and bullshit. And it is wonderful.

 Now, make no mistake, there is no actual dick-measuring competition going on back where your food is prepared. For one thing, there is little use for a ruler in a kitchen, and kitchens tend to get trimmed down to the essentials. This would leave any sort of serious contest woefully imprecise. But more importantly, unless you're running El Bulli, there is likely a limited amount of space in the back of house (If you are running El Bulli, the extra space is probably filled with unpaid interns. Perhaps stacked). To have a dick-measuring competition would likely mean having to wash your cutting board, and given the usual state of affairs in the dish pit, it's almost always best to simply keep it zipped up unless/until the new host walks by. Instead of taking a physical form, this leaves the favored game as verbal abuse.

There are rules to this sort of thing, but they vary from kitchen to kitchen depending on the backgrounds of the crew contained therein. The general policy is that if you think you can say it without getting stabbed, it will be coming out of your mouth. Sometimes even these remarks get uttered if it seems likely that their emittance will remain unpunished. If you ask anyone in a kitchen about this atmosphere, they will tell you they're just busting someone's balls. Nothing more to it than that. But this is incorrect. You see, there is an eventual goal to this eternal show of machismo. What everyone is trying to do back there is to be the one who pushes a fellow employee over the edge, dropping the final insult on some poor bastard who didn't have the intelligence or opportunity to choose a career path better-suited for his particular temperament. This goal remains unacknowledged, as talking with your co-workers about your continual attempts to get them to kill themselves would probably put a damper on the sort of camaraderie needed to get through a busy Saturday night. Yet it still exists. And the undiscussed reward is just as widely known as the contest itself: The winner gets eternal free drinks from the remainder of the staff. To help him forget.

Pro Cooking Tip

When making New England Clam Chowder, it is comforting to see the words "Made with natural clams" on the side of your bottle of clam juice. This way you are assured that your chowder is not made with gay clams.

(Probably) Undefinable Euphemism of the Day

"I'll frost your cinnamon roll."

Really Important Site News or Something

I talked about this blog with a man who knows about this sort of thing, and he said that it's not dead. It's merely mostly dead. So rather than going through the site's pockets for loose change, I have decided to hope for a miracle. It recently moved its head (The blog, not the miracle), so I have hope that this endeavor may be successful. For now I am going to make a list of my assets. If anyone has a wheelbarrow or a Holocaust Cloak, please let me know.

Thank you,

The Management

Company

Supposedly Steven Sondheim is some sort of musical theater genius. But from the two shows I have seen that prominently feature his name on the marquee (Into the Woods being the other one of these, that being a show that was completely derailed by a terribly-written second act featuring the most painfully obvious overarching metaphor I have ever had the misfortune of being exposed to), I will dispute that claim with anyone who cares to get into an unwinnable argument likely to leave both parties angry. Now, it is true that my issues may not be strictly with Sondheim, as I believe he sticks to writing the music and/or lyrics of his shows, not the scripts, which is where the majority of the fault lies. To this I say: tough. Either write it yourself or find a better scriptwriter. Odds are they'll all work for food, so cost is unlikely to matter. Go for the quality.

As you may have figured out, I recently saw a Sondheim piece. Company, to be specific, showing at Renegade Theater in what I'm sure the tourism department refers to as beautiful downtown Duluth. As you may also have figured out, it is not overly good. In fact, it fails on almost all counts. Perhaps the music was amazing. Whatever. Don't care.

More to the point, Company revolves around the central character Bobby, a man whose name is repeated a minimum of 5 million times by the various cast members. Bobby has problems, and we (the audience) are lucky enough to get to see them play out. You see, Bobby is unmarried and seems to be somewhere around his thirties, at an age where most of his friends have settled down. This makes him the titular company when he comes over for dinner, which he seems to do with great regularity. Beyond saving vast amounts of money on Bobby's food bill, this allows us a glimpse into multiple short, comedic marriage-related set pieces, which we shall discuss shortly. It also gives us some insight into Bobby, apparently quite the Lothario, as the parade of names his friends throw out as past romantic foils attests. But as things go on, we learn that Bobby actually really wishes to be married, he just hasn't found the right girl (Actually, this seems to be the only problem Bobby has. I shouldn't have pluralized that earlier. My bad). To show this, we are treated to scenes involving three romantic matches, ranging from recent to current. Two are presented as dimwitted (Technically I suppose one was more of a post-hippy stoner idiot, but I have no qualms about lumping them both under this banner), while the other one is never given more than a couple lines, leaving her a completely forgettable and unused character. If these are the types of women Bobby finds himself spending his times with while secretly yearning to be married then he is most certainly doing it wrong. Fortunately for the play as a whole (And audience by extension), the writers decided that this was all the characterization Bobby would be given in two and a half hours. This leaves us with, not a main character, but an utterly unconvincing piece of furniture who exists solely for the reason of giving us access to a number of marriage-centric vignettes, which occupy the bulk of the play.

These are certainly the foremost strength of the play, primarily the first scene, which is outright hilarious at points. After the opening high this brings, however, the rest could be safely skipped by an efficiency-minded theatregoer without missing a beat. The only impression these give off in the end are to repeatedly say that married people sure are wacky. This concept comes very close to matching in overall profundity Sondheim's follow-up masterpiece, Women Be Shoppin'. What we have here is an empty shell of a play, with a vacant hole where the lead should be, and nothing of any substance to say. It feels as though someone involved wrote a couple of the marriage pieces, showed them to someone who encouraged him to write more, then gave it a thin concept to try to tie it all together without bothering to put any effort into it. Then songs were tacked on at the end for no possible comprehensible reason, as many of them seem completely awkwardly shoehorned into a near-total void of a script that somehow still doesn't make room for the music. Some of the transitions are worse than mine have been so far here. I'm sure that the music is excellent, and I'm simply missing Sondheim's brilliance here. But you know what? Once he bothers to learn to write, I'll see if I can be bothered to care about his songs. Until then, I remain thoroughly unimpressed.

A Quote From The Babysat, Completely Out Of Context

"Wait, Dani! Don't beat us!"

R.S.V.P.

Dear Sir (Or, if we are now close enough friends that I may return your greeting of "Dude!" in kind, Dude),

I regret to inform you that I will not be attending your party tonight, July 7th, at ten p.m. Instead, I shall be working, and therefore occupied. My co-workers will not be attending either, as, depite your request, I will probably not bother telling them about this party; and if the topic does come up, it will probably not be in an overly positive light. Rest assured that should I somehow get out of work before this time, I will also not be attending, as I am somewhat averse to gatherings of people I don't know advertised by men in tight t-shirts drinking beer on the street at one o'clock in the afternoon yelling at random passers-by.

Thank you for your interest in spending quality time with me.

Regretfully yours,
Hollar

A Conversation That Apparently Happened

Broadway Producer 1: So, Fiddler on the Roof. That's Jewish, right?

Broadway Producer 2: Yeah, I think so.

Broadway Producer 1: So we'll make them speak with Brooklyn accents.

Broadway Producer 2: Can we mix the Brooklyn accents with Boston ones?

Broadway Producer 1: Why?

Broadway Producer 2: I don't have an answer to that question.

Broadway Producer 1: Perfect! Let's do it.

Dialogue Coach: Do you want me to work in some Slavic accents?

Broadway Producer 1: Whoa whoa whoa!

Broadway Producer 2: Hold up there. We freed those people. We can't call them that anymore.

Dialogue Coach: What? But...

Broadway Producer 1: I'm starving. Who wants lunch?

Broadway Producer 2: Pastrami on rye?

Broadway Producer 1: You know it! Who's buying?

(Dialogue Coach sighs, slumps shoulders)