Becherovka Tonic

Meatnarrative

2009-04-18T14:40:00.005-04:00

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

2009-03-28T19:30:00.005-04:00

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

2009-02-20T23:28:00.017-05:00

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!

2009-01-06T11:56:00.010-05:00

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

2009-01-02T22:57:00.018-05:00

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.

Winter Holiday Playlist 2008

2008-12-20T09:57:00.008-05:00

The winter holidays are a special time to be celebrated with special music. I'm trying to figure out how to upload or link to these special wintery divine tracks. But until then:

Bobby McFerrin - Kalimba Suite (Beyond Words)
Curtis Mayfield - Little Child Runnin' Wild (Superfly)
Beach House - Holy Dances (Devotion)
Brian Eno - Put a Straw Under Baby (Taking Tiger Mountain [By Strategy])
Ben Harper - Picture of Jesus (There Will Be A Light)
Chip Taylor and Carrie Rodriguez - Son of Man (Red Dog Tracks)
Bert Jansch - Bells (After the Dance)
The Beach Boys - God Only Knows (Pet Sounds)
Joanna Newsom - The Fray (Walnut Whales EP)
Bon Iver - Flume (For Emma Forever Ago)
Iron and Wine - Swans & The Swimming (Our Endless Numbered Days)
Emiliana Torrini - Dead Things (?)
Chris Issac - Wicked Game
John Prine - Jesus The Missing Years (The Missing Years)
The Be Good Tanyas - In My Time Of Dying (Chinatown)
John Fahey - Jesus Is A Dying Bedmaker (America)
Ben Harper and the Blind Boys of Alabama - There Will Be a Light
Talking Heads - Heaven (Fear of Music)

Be me for a while. (A bald vampire, that is) [Movie Review]

2008-12-10T21:55:00.016-05:00

I just returned from watching Let the Right One In, a recent Swedish film that not only vies for the status of "most well-crafted piece of cinema I've seen this year," but also qualifies as a movie with which I very much personally identify.

The film tenderly, horrifically, and somewhat comically portrays the tragic friendship between a lonely, 12 year old boy who is bullied by his schoolmates, and an adolescent (looking) vampire girl who is wise and burdened beyond her years. This premise might, at first, sound hokey - and also have you questioning what compels me to relate so deeply - but hear me out.

For starters, the combination of wintery Swedish aesthetics, poignantly human characters, dark physical comedy, and blood-sucking gore offers plenty to reel me in and gain my fondness (and probably yours, too). Some of the murder scenes literally had me laughing, while others had me shielding my eyes. But far from being a kitschy vampire flick, as the premise might suggest, Let the Right One In also builds upon the undead-ness of its leading female to explore the loneliness that stems from social marginalization. (Imagine how society would perceive you if your genetic makeup mandated a strict diet of human blood and total daytime seclusion.)

At the theater tonight, as the theme of marginalization developed throughout the film, so did my personal empathy with the main female character. In the vampire's secret, sorrowfully-innocent life of murder, I saw my own clandestine experiences with (yes, I'm going there!) alopecia. At the risk of sounding overly dramatic, I felt like the vampire embodied an extreme expression of my own immutable physical secret - complete, irreversible baldness - which I often fear will cast me as a freak or social outcast if "discovered" by others unexpectedly. "Hiding" from and dealing with being bald colors each day of my life in a way that few people - not even my close friends - can relate to.

(I should note that some of my closest friends have taken rather bold steps to try to relate, and for that I am honored, blessed and extraordinarily grateful. Maybe I will blog about it sometime! :)

Like the movie's young vampire, my approach to my physical condition might be summarized as part pride, part shameful resignation, bolstered by a practical yet heady survival instinct, with a basic desire to be understood. And like her, I even hide in my sleep: we fear unwanted exposure.

Luckily, un-like her, dealing with my "secret" only involves avoiding public immersion in wind and water, and covering up my head - rather than avoiding all contact with sunlight, and murdering people for food. And unlike her, any negative consequences I face as a result of the condition are largely psychological and emotional - although this doesn't necessarily make them less real or less intimidating.

The film's most gripping moment, for me, happens when the vampire implores her friend for sympathy. "Be like me for a while," she urges him (after she has just grossly bled through her skin). At that moment, I recognized how vampirism completely inhibits her from living the normal, female, human life she craves - and once had. It floored me to realize that I can almost directly identify with her struggle (of course, being on neither a vegan nor a vampire diet, I do have less trouble finding snacks).

Loneliness as a result of difference is an experience to which I'm sure all you readers can identify - not necessarily in the particular way I do, but through some long-standing secret or painful experience of your own.

So, yes. I urge you to see this film, if you haven't yet. I'm convinced that most movie-going friends of mine will love it, whether or not you relate to it in the same way I do. And if you think of it, after sympathizing with its wonderful little vampire, then in your mind be awkwardly bald like me for a little while. Post a comment to tell me how you like the film. And in return, I'll also try to be you.

** Note: I realize this post is steeped in a combination of matter-of-factness about alopecia that may be new to some of my readers, and also, potentially, in self-pity. However, I figured that since I don't have very many (any?) readers, this blog would be a good testing-ground for me to more openly describe some of my feelings and experiences with alopecia in a semi-public sphere. This blog is pretty nascent, but if/as it progresses, I anticipate a continued mixture of personal anecdote and cultural observation. If anyone IS reading it out there, your feedback not only on the content but on the tone would be more than welcome :)

Cartoonists Around the Globe Get Sassy on Climate

2008-07-22T19:53:00.007-04:00

Props to The Guardian for sharing the results of the Ken Sprague Fund's International Political Cartoon Competition.

Apparently Sprague was a leftist political artist, and pretty good at his craft. The Fund seeks to further his vision by engaging artists to promote social justice, peace and tolerance through their media.

Having spent a year of college studying Art and Social Change, I must say, I am partial to him already. As further evidence of his merit, check out his mustachio:

The Fund's 2008 contest theme: climate change.

Of the 19 finalists and runners-up, my six favorites are below. The rest are worth checking out at one of the links above.

There's Wine A-Flowin' through Them Veins

2008-07-17T00:15:00.017-04:00

But that's apparently not how red wine conveys its coveted health benefits, reports a recent article in The Economist.

It has long been thought by scientists that a group of strong antioxidants called polyphenols, which are found in red wines, can protect against cancer and heart disease. But, says the article, those antioxidants never make it to the bloodstream. Thus, the exact process by which wines' benefits accrue "has been mysterious." Until now.

Researchers from the Hebrew University of Jerusalem recently offered evidence that red wine works its cancer-reducing magic in the stomach. There, the antioxidants in wine mix with other ingested substances. Like food. This mixing inhibits the production of harmful chemicals that are normally released when the stomach digests certain fats.

This important study has led the anonymous-but-clever authors at The Economist to observe, "pairing red wines [...] with red meat appears to be more than just a matter of taste."

And it leads ME to conclude that multiple vices cancel each other out - so go on and indulge!

If you just can't bear the thought of those happy-go-lucky antioxidants getting thwarted before they ever do reach a set of juicy veins, worry not. With these designer carafes, you might still be in luck - delicate, morbid luck: