Good morning

Monday morning, 8:23 am when I start writing. I'm awake, but only barely, and since getting out of bed have been putting on more and more clothes in an attempt to stay warm. Because what I really want to do is go back to sleep.
There's no food in the house, no bread, no breakfast-appropriate meal items, unless I were the type to eat "just eggs", which I'm not. In high school, eggs were a major pet peeve. I called them "chicken abortions", knowing full well that's not really what eggs are. I just liked saying "abortion" for the shock value. 10 years later, I've grown up a lot, and gotten over (most of) my egg disgust, but I'm still not the type to wake up in the morning and be like "mmmmmm.... time for eggs", you know?
So. Liquid breakfast. Coffee with the last dregs of the milk. 4 1/2 hours till class. 12 1/2 hours till I'm home again. But it's not that bad.
Saturday night was my birthday party, and in the hours leading up to the event, I got really nervous. Both Henrik and I were worried that, because of my fragility over the past few weeks, I might.... I don't know. Have a panic attack or something. Have a crying fit in the bathroom. I don't know. First I worried no-one would show up, like maybe they all had the day wrong. Then I worried that I had the date wrong. Then I worried that we'd get there late and forfeit our reservation. Well, none of these things happened. There were actually MORE people there than I anticipated, and even though only a few (three) of us were drinking, and only a few (three) of us continued the party after dinner, I had a great time. Being purposely vague because I don't want to talk about people who don't want to be talked about.
...she says in one breath, and in the next she starts to talk about them. :)
An interesting question was raised over dinner on Saturday. See, half the people at the table were over 30, while the other half were sneaking up on it pretty fast. I don't remember how it came up, but someone asked "what did you want to do before you were 30?" and the question went around the table. One person said they'd wanted to go back to school, and they'd done that, so they were happy. I said I wanted to own a house by the time I hit the big 3-0, and I realized it probably wasn't going to happen. Did this mean I was less successful than I'd expected to be?
Well... yes and no. In my teens, any ideas I had about success were related to "coolness", not to money. Getting married, having kids, owning a house... these weren't things I considered important. I just wanted a cool job and lots of money. Once I had that, I could change my goals.
Well, of course, priorities change fast when you get out into the real world. I found the cool, high-paying job, and I didn't like it. I met a guy who was working on a Masters degree, and all his friends were working on high-level degrees too. ALL his friends had some sort of extra education. Except me.
It didn't bother him at all, because I think deep down, if we'd stayed together, he'd expected me to be a stay-at-home mom like his own, perfecting the art of dishwashing, making hot lunches for the kids. But it really bothered me, because I couldn't see myself as equal to him or his friends without an education. Which is stupid, really, isn't it? Education isn't a gauge of intelligence. You can be brilliant with a 5th grade education, and you can be a moron with a PhD. But as far as class structure goes.... in this day and age, to get ahead in life, it seems like having a degree is almost a requirement. Why? I don't know. What is a degree supposed to prove? What does it prove? These friends of his, with their doctorates and whatnot... they might have lots of letters after their names, but they didn't know much about "real life", as my mom would say.
I don't know how much I'm learning in university. I went through my academic summary today, and it seems like the only thing I've really learned how to do is get better grades. My first year at UVIC, I got all B's. Second year, B+, A-. Third year, A-, A. This year, all A. All I've done is adapt my style to fit the school's criteria. Will this help me get a job? Probably not. Will it make me a better person? Definitely not.
Do I need those letters after my name in order to reach my goals? Yes. Yes I do. I'm not saying everybody does, because I know lots of people who get along fine without a degree. But for me, if I want a house, a new car, kids, vacations... a "normal" life, the life I wanted when I was a kid and my mom worked at Kmart... then yes, I do need those letters. But why? Because society says so? Because there's too much information in the world today, and public schools don't have time to teach kids everything? It used to be a degree would set you apart from the others. Now, the degree makes you blend in. Blah.
But I digress. The question was "what did you want to do by the time you were 30?" Seeing as how I'm 28 now, I'm in the strange position of still *possibly* being able to achieve my goals, and also seeing how far away they truly are. What I really want before I'm 30? I want to be pregnant. I want to have a kid. But I know I can't do that, at the very least, until I'm done school. And then I have to think about maternity leave. And living arrangements. We can't have a baby in this apartment, our neighbours would complain about the noise. We can't afford a house. Do we stay here or go to Sweden? If we go to Sweden, do I qualify for maternity leave? How does it all work? And can I get it all sorted in 24 months, in addition to getting pregnant, taking the proper vitamins, reading all the books, etc etc... it's probably not going to happen.
When I was 18, all I wanted by the time I was 30 was... well, I'd wanted to make a name for myself. I'd wanted to meet important people, make them like me, and become important myself. But the word "important" is a bit vague, a bit abstract, a bit arbitrary. Who would decide if I was important or not, you know? It was an unattainable goal because it wasn't concrete. So I have to give up on it. Being important doesn't matter as much, these days, as being comfortable. And healthy.

Malaise

What day of the week is it? Thursday? It's Thursday, right?
Henrik nods and says mmmhhhmm, so I guess that means yes. The Canucks are playing, which also lends credibility to the idea that it is, in fact, Thursday. So we're going to say it's Thursday, even if it actually isn't... oh, and Lost was on last night, which means yesterday was Wednesday. Okay. I truly believe it's Thursday now.
See, I'm having trouble keeping the days straight, because I've barely left the house in a week. This is what happens when I have "time off": I stay indoors, sometimes not even getting dressed (like today, I'm still in pj's (although a different pair than the ones I wore to bed last night... "day pj's", if you will...) and have no plans to leave. I tried convincing Henrik to check the mail for me, but no dice. So, putting the shame of being in pj's at 5pm aside, I went and checked the mail. And of course, there wasn't anything in our box.
Yesterday I went out for a little while... I drove Henrik to work, and we stopped at Starbucks for cappucinos. Then I came home, got (properly) dressed, did my hair, etc etc. Then I went up to the Uni for a minute, got a new sticker for my student card. Then... well, then I went home. I had so many plans for my "big day out", too. I was going to buy some new lipstick (a nice dark pink, like Blair Waldorf...), maybe a new brow liner, maybe get my hair done, and most likely hit the fabric store. But after going to school, I got... I don't know. Not anxious, necessarily, but... just... not in the mood. I didn't want to do anything except go home. I thought "what's the point of buying makeup when you never leave the house?" "what's the point of looking at things in a store when you can look at them online?" and so on.
Then on the radio they were talking about the big cruise ships at Ogden Point, and I thought, "okay. Let's go see the ships." Not that this is anything I'm really interested in... I live close to Ogden Point, I see cruise ships all the time. It's just boats. But hey, the biggest ships EVER to Ogden Point? That's kind of exciting. So I drove towards the ocean. But then, a few blocks from my house, I got... I don't want to say nervous, but I didn't want to go anymore. I worried about traffic along Dallas Road. I worried about hitting one of those horse-drawn carriages. I worried about thousands of Americans milling about. So, at the very last second, I turned and headed home instead.
Then when I got home, I had nothing to do. This past week, I've spent more and more time each day reading. Just reading. Mostly blogs, the type that get updated every few minutes with inane stories. And every hour I spent reading these blogs was an hour of productive time that I lost. And I KNEW that, but I kept reading, kept hitting "refresh", hoping against hope that some story would spark my creativity and I'd start writing. Needless to say, that didn't happen. I did see lots of pictures of Rihanna in a black suit, though.
I'm just... blah. My mom once told me that every day, you should do something, at least ONE THING that makes you feel like you've accomplished something. Every day, you should have some sort of project. Even if it's something small like doing laundry or cooking dinner, every day you should be able to say you DID something. Today? I feel like I've done nothing. I've done stuff: I've cleaned, I've done laundry, I've looked online for a new apartment (Henrik got a raise! woohoo!). But it still feels like even though I've done stuff, I haven't ACCOMPLISHED anything.
It's like working out. I work out 3 or 4 times a week, either at the gym or at home. I've been doing this for a few months now. But... well... it seems no matter how hard I work, no matter how many calories I burn, I never see results. I measured myself the other day, and I'm the exact same size I was a year ago. On the one hand, I'm glad I haven't gotten bigger, considering I spent the winter in a semi-vegetative state. But on the other, I haven't lost any bulk either. I'm dieting now as well, and I've been doing that for about two weeks... and yeah, you guessed it, no results from that either. I don't understand it. It seems the only way I ever lose weight is through illness. The last time I lost a significant amount of weight, I had a kidney removed. The time before that, I caught a horrible horrible flu. In between, I ate right, went to the gym, counted calories, tried to take care of myself. But no matter what I did, the most I could hope for was to maintain. I just can't seem to lose weight without illness or major surgery.
Maybe that's what this blog should be about. Maybe if I force myself to write about it, it'll actually start happening.
No... everyone and their pet has a weight loss blog. And anyways, mine would be a total disappointment.
I've been getting more and more depressed these days, and when I get depressed, I always focus on things like weight. I, personally, don't mind my body. And neither does Henrik. I can buy (or make) nice clothes, I can do my hair, etc. I can be pretty when I want to be. But when I get depressed, I worry about what OTHER people think of me. My depression always comes back to this feeling that I'm being judged, not by any one particular person, but by society as a whole. I'm too fat, I'm too old, I'm too poor, I'm not talented, no-one likes me, I'll never do anything with my life. The question "too fat for what?" or whatever never comes up... that's not the point. The point is, when I'm depressed, it's because I don't live up to some sort of self-imposed bar that I've set. Has weight ever stopped a writer from expressing themselves? No. Has age ever stopped someone from buying lipstick? Probably not. Has talent ever stopped someone from watching a ship dock? I doubt it.
So I should focus on the positive. Okay, by society's standards I'm "fat." What can I do about it? Diet and exercise. Check. What else?
Learn to sew. I'm kind of excited for tomorrow, because Butterick patterns go on sale at Fabricland, and Butterick has some AWESOME historical patterns... 50's-era retro party dresses, Victorian bustle skirts, corsets... yeah :) I'm not quite down with their "contemporary" patterns, but the historical stuff is really good, and I'm glad they've re-released some of those old patterns. Same with Simplicity, whose patterns go on sale at Fabricland NEXT week... and they have a pattern for the exact dress I want to make for Sever and Tansy's wedding. Tansy says it should be purple, so therefore it will be. To go with that Blair Waldorf lipstick I will eventually go to the store and buy.
Writing and sewing are the only things I'm really excited about these days. I love the idea of making my own clothes, wearing what I actually want to wear instead of whatever I can find in my size. I love the idea of having complete control over my own image. I have so many ideas, especially for dresses, in my head, and I want to GET THEM OUT, but I'm not skilled enough (yet) to draft my own patterns. Hopefully after I've made a few more pieces, I'll get the hang of things. So far, my only really successful (meaning wearable) pieces have been two black dresses that I made with the same pattern, but one I modified so it was a bit less "casual". I've tried making a few skirts, but none of them have really turned out. Soon, though: soon I'll be making my own clothes, my own jackets, my own... hopefully everything. Except sweaters. I'll still buy sweaters.
The worst thing about being depressed is seeing how it affects other people. Poor Henrik, every time I'm sad he thinks it's his fault and tries to make me better. He does silly little dances, or he kisses me all over my face, or he makes up a song. It's very cute, and it makes me love him a bit more every time he does it, but sometimes I just don't want to smile, you know? And then I feel bad because I know he's trying to make me smile, and then I'm letting him down, and then... the cycle continues. I know he's been through it too... I've spent the past few years, while HE was stuck in the house, trying to keep him in good spirits. Maybe on some level, he feels like he's returning the favour. Maybe that's the problem... I'm so bored these days, my boredom has turned into malaise.
Well, soon it will be done. Next week I'm back to school, and then I've got to find myself a full-time job. Once I'm working, I won't be so bored. And I'll have more money, which means I'll be able to do more stuff. Not that I WILL do more stuff... but at least the option will be there. And in the meantime, like I say, Butterick patterns go on sale tomorrow, so I'll have something to occupy my time until Monday.

Writing exercises / The Room

My goal is 750 words per day. Think I can do it? I do. 750 words isn't all that much, especially when (like me) you're reading Tom Wolfe, and it takes DAYS to finish one article. My god, that man can go on.
Anyways, 750 words a day. I'm not saying I'm going to post the products here, but then again, maybe I will. If you have any topics to write about, any writing exercises, any ideas, let me know in the comments.
...and no, I'm not counting this as part of the 750 words. I filled my quota this morning.

And also. The Room. If you haven't seen it, you MUST. They have two copies of it at Pic A Flic, and from what I read, we're very lucky to have that. Because the film is independently distributed (by Mr. Wiseau, I believe), video stores have to be "approved" before they can buy copies of the film for rental purposes.
I'm not going to explain what The Room is to you, as many people have done it better than I can:
http://www.theroommovie.com/
http://www.avclub.com/articles/the-room,25723/
http://www.ew.com/ew/article/0,,20246031,00.html
http://www.youtube.com/results?orig_query=the+room&search_query=the+room+tommy+wiseau&orig_query_src=4
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Room_(film)

...I just wish this film had been around when I was in film school, because everything we did wrong in those student films, they did wrong here too: plot holes, continuity errors, focus problems, scenes out of context, bad dubbing, overly dramatic lighting... this movie is BEAUTIFUL. And priceless. And best of all, it's SINCERE. Tommy Wiseau likes to say, now, that the film was intended to be a comedy. But once you see it, you'll know that's SO not true. What makes the film so priceless is the earnestness of it, the seriousness. After seeing the movie, watch the "Behind The Scenes" montage. No-one on set was laughing. Or smiling.

Maybe the best way to describe how great the film is is this conversation I had yesterday at the video store, when I rented The Room for the 2nd time:
Me: Hi *gives cashier name and phone number*
Cashier: Oh, you have a 2 dollar late charge.
Me: Right, for The Room.
Cashier: Right.
Me: And now I'm going to rent The Room again.
Cashier: Awesome.
Me: Have you seen it?
Cashier: No, but we (she points to the guy behind her) were just talking about it. It's definitely on my list.
Me: It's AMAZING. There's this one scene where 4 guys are playing football. In tuxedos. For no reason at all.
Cashier: Ohmygod. That sounds awesome.
Guy: Are you talking about The Room?
Cashier: Yeah, weren't you just saying...
Guy: How it's the best movie ever? I had a dream about it last night. William Shatner and I were acting out scenes from it.
Me: Wow.
Guy: What do you think about the tuxedo scene?
Cashier: She was just talking about that!
Guy: My theory is that it's supposed to be the wedding rehearsal...
Me: Maybe, but why would the wedding rehearsal be before the birthday party, when the birthday party is a WEEK away and the wedding is a MONTH away?
Guy: Good point. I don't know. But that's the beauty of The Room.
Me: Very true.

See this movie... not because it will make you cooler in my eyes (which it will), but because if you're a fan of movies that are so bad they're good, this movie will become your next great obsession.

Outliers

A few months ago, I read Malcolm Gladwell's book Outliers, and it changed my outlook on what it takes to be successful in today's world. In the book, Gladwell provides case studies - biographies, if you will - of a variety of succesful people, from lawyers to hockey players to Bill Gates. But rather than just charting their career histories, as would happen in a business case study, Gladwell probes beyond the surface to discover the hidden secrets or advantages certain people had. For example, Bill Gates is successful because he know computers. Okay. We all know that. He dropped out of Harvard to start Microsoft. He didn't need college anymore. Why? Well, by the time he started Microsoft, he'd spent almost 10 years working on computers full-time, not to mention studying them in school. He surrounded himself with computers, and even though he might've been frustrated with them at times, he was never bored. And by the time he quit school, he'd probably logged 10,000 hours working on computers. He'd been in the high school computer club (which his school had because he was from a wealthy neighbourhood), because computers were so new when he was in high school, him and his friends got jobs setting up networks for large companies arround Seattle. Then he bought a "make your own PC kit" from a magazine, and that was about that. 10,000 hours.
This is the secret, says Gladwell: if you do something for 10,000 hours, you become an expert in it. If you play hockey for 10,000 hours, you're probably really good at it... and you're probably in good shape, too. If you write for 10,000 hours, you're probably good at it as well.
So the other night I sat down and tried to calculate how many hours I've spent writing. I took my 12th birthday as the starting point, because that's when I started journalling, and calculated up till Saturday. I figured that, on average, I've spent 3 hours a week writing. Sometimes more, of course, but I've also gone months writing nothing except emails. And I came up with a figure. According to my calculations, I've spent approximately 2340 hours writing since the age of 12. That's well short of 10,000. It's possible this number could be higher or lower - I haven't really been keeping track - but it just goes to show that I have a LONG road ahead of me if I want to become an excellent writer.
And it also goes to show that our professors are right. The only way to become a better writer is to WRITE. Constantly. Even if you're writing shit, you have to put in the time.
If you write 20 hours a week for 52 weeks, that's 1040 hours. Do that for 10 years and you're past the 10,000 mark.
If I write 20 hours a week for 8 more years, I'll become an expert. Most likely I won't do that. So if I keep writing 3 hours per week, it will take me another 49 years to log 10,000 hours.
Look for my first book 2058!

So Mickey Rourke walks into a bar...

...and walks out with an open beer. Sorry, it was an Italian restaurant.
How is this news, people? I mean, really? I thought news was supposed to be about things the average person wouldn't do. I've done worse than that. I know someone who stole a complete set of cutlery from Earl's - they really liked the fork-spoon hybrid thing they had.
I mean, really. Isn't smoking a bigger crime than taking an open beer out of a restaurant? In Victoria it is. They'll confiscate your beer, but they'll fine you for smoking.

http://www2.canada.com/victoriatimescolonist/news/story.html?id=956d25ed-59d1-4c9b-875b-94bcb525a8ed&k=66036

Now, for the record, I quit smoking a while ago (and as far as my mother knows, I never started. Although there was this one time I was smoking a Camel Light out my bedroom window, and the dog started pawing at the carpet, trying to dig a hole through the floor and save me... mom came running up the stairs and asked me what was going on... she must have known, but ignored it. Like she ignored so many things for the sake of politeness. I wish I was able to be as demure as my mom sometimes. But anyways, I digress...)
And I think every smoker should quit, if only for the extra lung capacity. But I don't think the government should have so much control over where and when people do things they want to do. Smoking isn't the greatest thing in the world, but it's a choice people make. If the government is allowed to outlaw smoking, what next?

I remember the first time I had a cigarette. I was 11 years old, in seventh grade. My friend Jess snuck some DuMaurier Lights from her mother's purse, and we stood outside my apartment building, right next to the intercom. I lived in this strange multi-building complex on a hill. Next to us was an empty parking lot, and beyond that, an abadoned pool. The pool had been dry since we'd moved into the building. The buildings were labelled A, B, C, D, and each was named after a kind of tree. We lived in the Cedar building. Once I found human feces in the stairwell. But anyways, I digress. Again.
My mom was still at work, and I was in seventh grade. I'd skipped a grade so I was younger than everyone, and even though seventh grade is like desperation in a can, I was extra desperate becase I was younger. I'd changed schools the year before because the girls in class picked on me - I was younger than them but had boobs, and they didn't. They wouldn't let me join the "special girls" club, where they all talked about "growing up" and getting their peiods and having boyfriends and french kissing. They said I was too young. Even though, like I said before, I was the only one with boobs. And house keys.
And once again, I digress. Jess and I are standing outside, in front of the intercom. Bushes hide us from view of the cars that, if they drove by, would be parking in the abandoned parking lot. Ghosts froliced in the empty swimming pool. Jess was extremely short, and she wore big glasses. She kinda looked like Velma from Scooby Doo, except she was 12. And she hated her life. Then again, what kid in grade 7 doesn't hate their life? Jess was so desperate to be in what she perceived to be the "popular" group, which at our school consisted of pretty much everyone. There was the one girl who was, like, the head of the group, and we'd all meet up before school and walk to her house and meet her, then walk to school - there was a group of, like, five of us that would do this. She only lived a block away from school, though. Anyways, she was the queen, and anything she said was gold. She said it was cooler to smoke filterless cigarettes, so Jess snapped the filters off the DuMauriers she'd stolen from her mom's purse and threw them into the bushes.
"It's cooler to smoke them without the filter," she said, as though she was telling me something I hadn't heard before.
She'd stolen a lighter, too, although lighters weren't hard to come by. Everyone in my class had a lighter, although we only used them to light schoolbooks on fire or to burn illicit, filterless cigarettes, as Jess and I were doing.
It took a few tries to light the thing, although eventually the smoke filled our little orb of secrecy. It smelled, to my nose, like grandfathers. And like when my mom would come home from the bar and kiss me goodnight. And Jess's house. What it didn't smell like was coolness.
Jess smoked first, of course, since she's the one who stole them from her mom's purse. She put it to her lips and sucked in the weird-smelling smoke, quickly, as if gasping. Then she blew it out right away. Her saliva soaked into the paper, turning it from white to dirty grey. She handed the cigarette to me. I took it and, following Jess's lead, inhaled quickly. The paper felt wet, and wrong, against my lips.
"If this is smoking," I thought, "then I don't like it."

In high school, everyone smoked. They stood outside at lunch time, across the street from school grounds, and smoked like there was no tomorrow. The cool kids, the weird kids, the stoners. Everyone smoked at one time or another. It intimidated me. I wanted to hang out with the punks, but I didn't have access to cigarettes. I didn't have anything to offer them. My best friend smoked, her best friend smoked too. Seriously, the only one who didn't was me. I was even in a movie, "The Politics of Saturday Night," holding a lit cigarette but not inhaling. The voice-over said "look at me, I'm cool. I smoke. Really I do. I do. I'm cool."
One friend, Angela, was so addicted that she'd scour public ashtrays for butts, collect the tobacco into little piles, and roll her own. She became an expert at peeling the foil from the back of the paper in the cigarette pack. In the morning, on the way to school she found a whole cigarette on the ground. It was a bit wet from the rain, but whatever. It was part of her persona, though; part of what made her so endearing. She was a slave to her bad habits. But she could laugh about it. It was a great joke she'd tell to her friends, you know, yesterday she went to the pool just to dig through the ashtrays.
Then we were all 19, all old enough to buy our own cigarettes. And alcohol. I started smoking when I got drunk, "bumming" them off friends, saying I'd pay them back but never actually doing it. My favourite were Benson & Hedges, because they sounded British. Classy. I smoked "Black", which in Port Alberni was known as "Black and Gold." Why? Because that's what the guys smoked, and if I smoked it too, there was a good chance a guy would ask me for one and that means they'd have to talk to me. But on special occasions, like birthdays and picnics, we'd all split a pack of Camel Lights. Why? I don't know. It was a tradition that I stumbled into when it was already in full-swing, but it's something I did even just a few months ago. Even if I wasn't going to smoke them, it somehow seemed important to have a pack of Camel Lights.
Cigarettes were good, especially for someone like me who isn't really a "party girl", to make conversation with strangers. I knew if ever a scene got to be too much, I could escape outside with a cigarette and make small-talk with someone. Everyone wanted a cigarette at some point or another, you know?
My first serious boyfriend and I bonded over cigarettes. Vanilla cigarettes. I have an empty package of them somewhere, and it still smells like... those times. Like losing my virginity. Like standing on the veranda, him holding me from behind, cooing sweet (though overly intense) nothings in my ear. Like his family home, which in it's former life had been a slaughterhouse, but at the time made me feel serene. I could see the Alps from every window in the house, I could smell cigarettes from every room, and I felt comfortable. Like being in Austria in 9/11, imagining that the whole world could explode and I wouldn't even notice.

What am I trying to say? I don't smoke anymore, and surprisingly, I haven't even felt tempted to. But I don't fault anyone who DOES smoke. There is so much attached to the act of smoking, in our culture, over and above the health issues. Smoking, for me, marked quite a few rites of passage, and I don't feel bad about that. If people want to smoke, it's their choice, and the government shouldn't be able to regulate rites of passage.

Update:
http://www.avclub.com/articles/quit-smoking-or-theyll-abandon-this-kid,26109/

Hit Me With Your Rhythm Stick

I'm trying to write this stupid piece for stupid writing class. No no, class is not stupid. But my idea for this piece, perhaps, is. So I thought "okay, I can't just write this thing, my ideas are too jumbled." So I made a graph. I did a brainstorming session, with the little work-bubbles and all that, like we used to do in elementary school. I've only done that one other time since starting University, for a short story about Nanaimo. It was a bad story. Some of you have read it. Anyways, I did it for this piece, which means my mind's going in all directions, and I have no idea where to begin. So I thought maybe if I wrote them down here, they'd fall into order. Hopefully this will work.
So here's the idea. I can't stand heavy metal. No, really. It drives me crazy, and it always has. I just don't get it. But, you know, my luck, I married a metal fan. He likes to play it loud. He likes to watch metal videos on Youtube. He doesn't think it's funny when a guy dresses up head-to-toe in studded leather and paints his face to look like Skeletor. My husband seriously thinks that's cool. So, because I'm a good wife, I've tried to deal with it: I've listened to metal in the car (but only when he's driving), I've gone to some shows with him, I even brought metal into the bedroom for a while. I even, one year for Halloween, did corpse paint on hubby's face. But... I still... I just don't get it.
Here's what I don't get: guys talk about these dudes in metal bands, they talk about the "hard core" things they've done, like MURDER, like BURNING DOWN ANCIENT CHURCHES, like DRINKING BLOOD, like CUTTING THEMSELVES ON STAGE, like kicking the shit out of fans for no reason, like turning into f'ing berzerkers, like all these things are COOL. Like "wow, dude, that's so hardcore." What's the appeal in that? Is it a macho thing?
That's my theory - heavy metal is popular because it's macho. Metal is all a big dick-slapping competition.
How? Well, one, all the violence. Two, what are most metal songs about? War - whether about mythology, history, Nazis, the government, or anything else, most metal songs are about fighting. Not "rise above", but "I'm going to cover myself in your blood."
Two, who are the most respected names in metal? The ones with the most technical skill, be it nimble fingers on the guitar, an extremely fast drum beat, or a voice that can wail & growl with equal intensity. It's not about fluid creativity, or even originality. It's about who can play the hardest and fastest.
And that's why you don't see many women in metal. Most of us can't play as hard or fast as the guys. And when we CAN, like Lita Ford, we have to be sexed-up. We have to be turned into objects. Men get respect, women get objectified. Because metal is a macho dick-slapping competition.
What's the most important part of a metalhead's outfit? The tshirt. Why? It's like a dick. The more violent and obscure the tshirt, the bigger the dick.
But back to me. I don't like metal because:
1) I can't relate to the lyrics. I'm a writing student, lyrics are very important to me.
2) Not to mention, I can't understand what anyone's saying with all that growling and screeching.
3) Go to any metal show, and you'll see, the ratio of men to women is 10 to 1. I went to this one show a few months ago with some friends. We were the only table with more women than men. I think I counted maybe 20 chicks, and the place was full to capacity. (I'm not counting the wait staff who were, of course, all female)
4) Technical skill doesn't impress me as much as creativity. In the bedroom or otherwise.
YES! That's what it is! The essay isn't about heavy metal, it's about sex. It's about sex, gender, the differences between men and women. And the spark was my dislike of metal.
I wanted to write this essay to understand my husband a little better, so last night I kinda sort interviewed him while I was washing dishes (and he was playing Warcraft). Here's what I remember:
The difference between death metal and black metal is that in death metal they growl, while in black metal they screech. Cradle of Filth (one of the only metal bands I can stand) is black metal.
First metal album that struck him: "The Number of the Beast" by Iron Maiden. Also, he thinks, probably the first metal album he bought. And also possibly the BEST one he ever bought. (So I have to listen to that this weekend, I guess.)
What are metal songs about? Mythology, demons, war, etc. Depending on the type of metal and where the band comes from.
Metal helps him release agression without breaking stuff.

Then I cooked dinner and we watched LOST. Sawyer and the doctor lady are a couple? WTF?

I've read a couple books on metal now - one a sociology book about "tshirt culture" where one of the interview subjects, wearing a Slayer tshirt, claims "everyone knows this stuff is fake, it's all just image, you know?" But DO they? Because one guy really did go to prison for murder, and another one really did burn down some ancient churches. They went to prison. But their fans still think it's cool.
Maybe it's, like, "yeah they're totally hard core, they're not faking it for money or fame, they're the real deal." If they do it, other people don't have to. It could also be, like, male posturing. "I'm more of a man than you because I killed someone." I don't know.
Hokay. Those are my thoughts. Now I have to try and write this essay.

Obama Day

8:43 am: I'm watching CNN. Obama is walking towards the crowd, head held high, smile broad. The crowd hasn't seen him yet, they're still quiet and anxiously waiting. But here he is, on camera, walking towards the future. Why does this make me cry?

8:49 am: A while ago, someone on CNN interviewed John Cusack. Cusack has been an Obama supporter since he ran for Senate. If Cusack is in, then so am I.

8:58 am: Biden has quite the tan, hey?

9:08 am: "My fellow citizens", not "my fellow Americans."

10:30 am: So what is it about Obama that makes me cry? Why do I, a Canadian, care so much? I think it's because I LIKE him. Okay, I've never met him, but I can relate to him, as most people can. He's been the weird kid, he's been the outsider, and we can all relate to that.