Meatnarrative

Not to be confused with META-narrative nor any typo there-of, the MEATNARRATIVE is a new form of intellectual theory being coined by me, right now, in this very blog post, that involves:

A) any sort of thoughtful and/or off-the-cuff commentary on life and society, conveyed through the medium of: meat;

and/or

B) any sort of commentary on meat, conveyed through the medium of: anything.

For example, here is a meatnarrative on love:



By publishing this blog post, right here, right now, I am officially claiming my title as the leading scholar on the meatnarrative. In case you don't believe me, know this: At the time of posting, a Google search for "meatnarrative" returns only 14 hits, total - all of which either contain typos of "metanarrative," or contain two independent words in posts having nothing to do with meat-theories nor intentional puns.

Check back for updates on this emerging scholarly field when my thesis on watershed planning is done!

Update: I should give credit to this one other blogger who, in 2007, did intentionally use the phrase "meatnarrative" in a post. However, he used it only in the context of "har har, isn't it funny that I mistyped 'meta-narrative' in my Philosophy essay, and here, I'll call my self-aggrandizing post about my good grade 'nudie girls' in acknowledgment of the (Freudian) slip." Clearly, not worthy of the official title, for he did not recognize the true, weighty value of the term upon which he stumbled.

American Idol Grandma

My maternal Grandmother is rapidly losing her mental capacity, and in return she is gaining a sense of never-before-mellow, which is amazing. She probably doesn't remember this story, but I find it hilarious and briefly blog-worthy.

In the early 1950s, before my mom's birth, Grandma fancied herself an up-and-coming pop star. She would write cheesy love ballads, record them and send her demos to record companies. Although she never heard back from any of the companies, several years later she began hearing her lyrics on the radio, in pop songs sung by greats like Nat King Cole!!

For example: Big band standard, "The Party's Over."

The part I think is the funniest is how sappy the lyrics are:

"They've burst your pretty balloon
And taken the moon away
It's time to wind up the masquerade
Just make your mind up, the piper must be paid.

Now you must wake up, all dreams must end
Take off your makeup, the party's over
It's all over, my friend."

Complete lyrics here.

Does this story contain fact or fiction? Who knows. My mom swears she recently saw old notes in my grandparents' handwriting from the early fifties, with all sorts of swoon-inducing, pop-cheesy love poetry. "Yep, that was grandma!" says my mom. Sadly, we're probably beyond the cognitive point at which my grams could actually weigh in. Until I hear otherwise, though, I'm sticking to it.

Over and out!

Sandwich Shrugged: On Two-Word Reviews

Before tonight, This is Spinal Tap laid claim to my favorite bitingly sarcastic and deprecating "two word review" of a cultural object.


You know. The scene when Rob Reiner, playing mocumentarist Marti DeBergi, remarks,

"The review for [the album] 'Shark Sandwich' was merely a two word review, which simply read: 'Shit Sandwich.'"

Ha! Excellent. My iPod is even named Shark Sandwich in honor of this line.

But now, there's a new, witty two-word review vying for my love.

The cultural contrivance eliciting said commentary is the book, Atlas Shrugged.

The forum, Goodreads.com.

And the review:

"I shrugged."


For some reason I just loved that. I guess since I've hated this book for so long, it was great to see someone else immediately dismiss the idea that it's even worth discussing. I felt so refreshingly validated in my disdain!

The reason I felt that I NEEDED validation is because I'm seemingly the only masochist I know who, while despising every aspect of Rand's Social Darwinist fantasy/philosophy, actually struggled through the entire 1,000 pages. Everyone ELSE who read it must have done so because they actually LIKED it, so there's generally no one around to get my back when conversation turns toward this book. Thus, every time I've discussed it, I've felt like a lone voice of dissent amongst passionate John Galt evangelists. Oy!

So thank you, Goodreads anonymous user, for providing a more zen-like perspective on my least-favorite author, in just two little words.

Let me close with a bad, dual-referential witticism, to tie together the theme:

It's like, how much more black could Ayn Rand's heart be? And the answer is none. None more black.

Digital Rediscovery of a Long-Lost Work, or, My Day Is Made!

Just when I thought I'd never again see this paper on Art, Environment, and Czech Politics from my undergrad days, (or at least, not without going through a lengthy series of international exchanges to do so,) a simple Google search ended literally years of my agony over having lost it.

So, hurray! Not only is my work flatteringly featured on the SIT study abroad website, but it's accessible in entirety via a quick mouse click!

To my darling readers (read: sister), next time you've lost something important, don't underestimate the power of the interweb. (At the very least, you can always check Craigslist for a cheap replacement :).

Someday perhaps I will post on the paper's (blog-relevent) topic, but today is simply for rejoicing in its rediscovery.

Tak, cau!

{Image, above: The Rajter Family by Ibra Ibrahimovic, from the "Three Generations" photo project on family farming in Moravia.}

The Comedic Genius of Justin Timberlake Under Heavy Sedation

During my junior year in college, I underwent surgery that required total sedation via general anesthesia. Yes, this is the beginning of a story about Justin Timberlake.



So there I lay, on the operating table, basically conked out with an IV in my arm and a caring, professional anesthesiologist by my side. When you get anesthesia, it's imprudent for the doctor to just shoot you up and assume you'll eventually snap out of it. Rather, the highly paid medical specialist sits by your side and performs the technical job of: holding a dialogue with your unconscious body, to make sure that you don't slip into la la land for... the duration (of, you know, your life).

Let me give you some background details. The date was mid-Spring, 2003. I had just returned from a week-long desert backpacking trip. It was during the peak of my "fiesty student environmental activist" days, and I was interested in things like renewable energy, the anthropology of consumerism, and hidden meanings conveyed by work chants of the oppressed.

At the time, I had little interest in such matters as TV and celebrity gossip. In fact, I considered myself the 1990s female version of the star of that Onion article roughly titled, "Man's Knowledge of Pop Culture Ends in Late '80s." If, back then, someone had asked me to ID, say, Justin Timberlake in a criminal line up (or music video), it would have been a request beyond my capabilities.

So - back to the operating table. There I lay, sedated by drugs. The surgeon was doing her thing. And the druggist, also doing his; that is, shooting me up and keeping me babbling.

The next part of this story is told from the perspective of a barely-conscious individual under the influence of heavy sedation:

It all started as you would expect. The pusher-man asked me something simple, probably what I was studying in school. From my hypnotized dream-state, I began to try and convert him to renewable energy use, espousing the numerous benefits of wind and solar power. If I do say so myself, I was very persuasive.

Next, we got to talking about the time I rode around Italy on a moped. (Note: At this time in my life, I had never actually been to Italy. The closest to this actually happening was to be the day I would spend walking around Venice, well over a year later.) But at the time, I had *numerous* vivid details to relate to the doc. The cobblestone streets, the little mountainside villas, olive trees everywhere, and best of all, ample low-emission vehicles such as the moped I was riding around in the Mediterranean clime. (OK: In truth HE may have been telling ME the story... but in my mind at the time, these were all my independent thoughts. Beware the hypnotist!)

Then, though, we really cranked it up to eleven. Somehow, we jumped to the subject of music. In retrospect, there were many ways I could have participated sincerely in such a conversation - for example, "I like bluegrass" or "I play guitar." Or I could have been all situationally-meta/corny, and said "One good thing about music is, like surgery under anesthesia, when it hits you feel no pain."

But instead, I spoke - *at length* - to the doctor regarding my extreme fanaticism for Justin Timberlake. This time, I'm certain that I'm not confusing my drug-pusher's words for mine, because one of the specific reasons I cited for my celebrity love was Timberlake's intense physical desirability. (My words: "God, he's like, so hot. I think he's just like, so sexy." I believe I even confessed, so to speak, to wanting to "jump his bones.")

I then doted on the high quality (read: "total awesomeness") of JT's music. (Which at the time, I would realistically never have been able to distinguish from Backstreet Boys, N Sync, 98 Degrees or whatever other late-90s/early-2000s boy band you (but not I) could name. Remember: this was even BEFORE the infamous "wardrobe malfunction." I just honestly did not have an inkling who he was!)



And then, surgery was over! Sharp tools were readied for the autoclave and bits of my bodily tissue tossed into bright red hazardous waste bags. Feeling groggy, to say the least, I was then roused by the anesthesiologist, who had the nerve to look me in the eye, shake my hand, and TEASE ME ABOUT MY CRUSH ON JUSTIN TIMBERLAKE! There I am, young woman in lots of pain, under sedation, just had part of an organ removed, and the most highly paid person in the hospital is mocking the comments I made while under the influence of HIS DRUGS! I remember being part mortified (thinking, "what ELSE did I 'confess' in there?"), part amused ("good one Audrey!"), and part apathetic ("can I go home please?").

Five years later, I must admit: JT was a good one for me to fawn over unconsciously. The original goal of this post was to comment on how his awesomeness - and my appreciation for him - have grown immensely since his first days on the celeb scene. I'm convinced that around the time of my surgical confession, a few choice members of the SNL crew (e.g. Andy Samberg) hand-picked JT and began priming him for greatness. (Maybe, like me, one of them had a sedation-induced vision.)

I'd say their efforts succeeded! NOW, even in a non-hypnotic state, I would more than happily sing the praises of Justin Timberlake. Of course, these praises have less to do with his looks, only a bit to do with his music (great gym soundtrack), but are mostly based on his comedic genius.

You will recall the now-classic Christmas short, ("Not gonna get you a diamond ring; that sort of gift don't mean anything!"); the more recent and differently wonderful ode to premature ejaculation ("it's your fault, you were rubbing my butt"); and most recently a hilarious cover (I know, some say "parody"), of Beyonce's much-discussed/much-acclaimed "Single Ladies (Put A Ring On It)" video (comedic excerpts below, because apparently the original has been subject to some internet-wide SNL copyright removal):



(I know you loved the Paul Rudd cameo!)

And if you'd like more, check out the amusing, Spanish-language "making of" where they innaccurately refer to the third dancer as Michael Myers.

So, that, dear readers (ALL of you), is the end of my tale about Justin Timberlake under sedation.

Over and out.