I went to the dermatologist yesterday. Most of you will know that probably means another skin cancer scare. And, yes, that's exactly what happened. Apparently, 3-7 percent of the patients who have a basal cell carcinoma removed experience a recurrence of it. Guess who falls into that tiny percentage? I do so love being a statistic.
The doctor excised (such a nicer word that "cut," isn't it?) a piece of it to have it biopsied. However, this time, rather than remove it entirely, this dermatologist decided to refer me to a surgical facility in Panorama City for a more complicated procedure that apparently can last an entire day. My friend J has had this procedure done--something like Mohs?--and it doesn't sound like a lot of fun. There's cutting and biopsies and chemotherapy involved in several stages. The goal is to preserve as much of the healthy tissue as possible, which is admirable, I suppose, but I doubt I'm going to feel very comforted by that approach after I get home and have to look at the results. I may need to request a plastic surgeon be on standby.
I recall having the first visit to the dermatologist in April 2004. I was just going to have this spot on my face checked, a bump on the side of my nose that had been flaking and peeling and bleeding occasionally. I walked out looking like Jack Nicholson in Chinatown. Or the Phantom (as in ...of the Opera). Or maybe Claude Rains in The Invisible Man. Or perhaps Lee Marvin in Cat Ballou (you haven't seen it? you should). Maybe Joan Crawford in A Woman's Face (not that one either? you gotta catch up). I can laugh about it now, but I still recall the first time I had to change the dressing (so much nicer than saying Band-Aid, isn't it?) later that day. I saw how much of my nose had been cut out in an attempt to remove the carcinoma, and I almost fainted. I didn't want to go out of the house. I cried for days. I didn't realize how vain I am, but when someone cuts a piece of your face off, it's tough not to get emotional.
Unfortunately, that was in the middle of the semester, and I had to go back to work. I spent the next couple of days explaining skin cancer to my students and being the object of a great deal of pity and sympathy from colleagues. I quickly found out how many people just in the English Department have also had skin cancer. It's surprising how many of us have been affected by this particular disease.
What was most remarkable about my previous experience was the healing process. After some time with ointment and bandages, I could let the skin be exposed and scab over. That scab lasted for quite a while. (Well, not the same one exactly, but you know what I mean.) I still recall accidently knocking it off one day in the office and spending 10 minutes looking in the mirror until I was certain that I wasn't going to bleed again. It wound up healing so nicely that I don't think anyone could really tell that I'd had anything done to my nose (unless they knew already, of course).
Of course, I shouldn't have been surprised to get skin cancer. I have almost all of the risk factors. I was sunburned pretty severely several times when I was a child or a teenager. In fact, I couldn't tan unless I had first been sunburned, it seems. I have light blue eyes. I am somewhat fair-skinned. I have moles. And I'm the fourth generation in my family to be diagnosed with it (as is my brother). That's mother, both maternal grandparents, and my maternal great-grandmother. All I'm missing is the light hair. It's odd to think that sun exposure 20-30 years ago (or perhaps even longer ago) and genetics are responsible for this. What can I do about it at this point to prevent a future occurrence? I already try to stay out of the sun as much as possible. Sunscreen makes my glasses slide off my face, and I'm not sure I can single-handedly revive the wearing of hats for men (fedora, anyone?). I suppose a full-body suit like the one Tony Roberts wears in Annie Hall is the only answer.
This time, the cut is not so wide as a church door nor as deep as a well, to borrow a phrase, but it will do. I plan to keep my bandaged self (perhaps it's the Elephant Man I most resemble) hidden from public view as much as I can until it begins to heal. I've already stocked up on food for the holidays in the hopes that I could hibernate and avoid the crowds of people in the stores.
I did have a second spot removed yesterday, by the way. Turns out it was just an oddly colored freckle, or that's what the doctor thinks at this point. It's on my back so I don't mind as much if it leaves a tiny scar. My only problem is putting a bandage on it. Have you ever tried to apply a Band-Aid to your own back? I've had some interesting times with that one so far. Let's just say it's not been in the same place twice yet.
Please take care of your skin. Stay out of the sun as much as you can. Don't face your vanity this way.
Friday, December 21, 2007
Monday, December 17, 2007
Back to Back
My back is finally feeling better tonight. I'm hoping it may be back to "normal" tomorrow (or as close to "normal" as it can get at this point). I twisted it somehow and have spent the better part of the weekend lying down and filled with painkillers.
I know how it happened, to some extent. On Thursday, I dragged home a set of papers for each of my five classes--that's a briefcase and another satchel full, one on either side, about 115 essays--and some of the pottery I purchased at the campus art sale. I should have known better. I didn't feel any pain that night, though.
I was still fine on Friday morning when I got up, but as I was drying off in the shower, I felt my lower back tense up. I knew I was in for trouble then, and I hadn't even moved in any unusual way. Foolishly, I went ahead and did my laundry for the week. All of that bending over and straightening up while loading the machines undoubtedly complicated things. I started my painkiller regimen that afternoon and kept it up at regular four-hour intervals.
Friday's highlight was probably the delivery of the annual package of Christmas presents from my mother. I had to tell the postal carrier three times to wait for me while I grimaced my way to the front door. The package looked enormous, but he swore it wasn't heavy. I asked him to put it down by the door while I signed for it. After he left, I used my foot to move it out of the way, and that's where it still sits today. I just don't want to bend down and pick it up yet.
Saturday was a day primarily devoted to lying down and staying under the influence of painkillers. I did watch some TV on Saturday, but since I couldn't bend down to pick up the essays I had put on the floor Thursday night, I accomplished very little of substance.
On Sunday, I had to get some milk and bread, something, anything to eat since I hadn't gone grocery shopping as usual on Friday. I managed to ease myself into and out of the car a few times, but there was no joyous feeling upon either entering or exiting the vehicle. When you have back pain, sitting still feels okay most of the time. Standing still can sometimes be all right. Lying down and staying very still is usually when your back is most at ease. Bending, however, that's another story. Walking can even be painful because you're moving your back in small but significant ways. Apparently, lack of movement is the key.
Throwing my back out did lead to a few other interesting moments. (That's an odd phrase--"throwing my back out"--as if it's somehow useless and must be discarded.) I got all kinds of advice from people in the laundry room and the elevator, all of whom had no trouble telling that I had hurt my back from the way I walked. Getting acupuncture, going to see a chiropractor, lying flat on the floor for a day: you name it and I was given the advice to do it.
But the oddest experience had to be getting dressed. It would probably make for a funny YouTube video if it hadn't hurt so much. You forget how much you bend to put on your socks and shoes. I almost went barefoot for three days just to avoid the pain. And I don't even want to tell you how I managed to get into my Underoos for the past couple of days.
Today I did go back to work. I just didn't know how I would get someone else to proctor a 7 a.m. exam for me, so I got up at 4 a.m. and trudged my way through the morning. I stopped the painkillers Sunday afternoon so I wouldn't continue to fall asleep about an hour after taking one of the pills. I turned up the seat warmer in the car (such a nice feeling). And I managed to stay seated for most of the morning and early afternoon, with only a few minor episodes of walking here and there. Tonight when I came home, however, it was back to lying down. I'm going to have to figure out how to grade papers while flat on my back, obviously.
I know how it happened, to some extent. On Thursday, I dragged home a set of papers for each of my five classes--that's a briefcase and another satchel full, one on either side, about 115 essays--and some of the pottery I purchased at the campus art sale. I should have known better. I didn't feel any pain that night, though.
I was still fine on Friday morning when I got up, but as I was drying off in the shower, I felt my lower back tense up. I knew I was in for trouble then, and I hadn't even moved in any unusual way. Foolishly, I went ahead and did my laundry for the week. All of that bending over and straightening up while loading the machines undoubtedly complicated things. I started my painkiller regimen that afternoon and kept it up at regular four-hour intervals.
Friday's highlight was probably the delivery of the annual package of Christmas presents from my mother. I had to tell the postal carrier three times to wait for me while I grimaced my way to the front door. The package looked enormous, but he swore it wasn't heavy. I asked him to put it down by the door while I signed for it. After he left, I used my foot to move it out of the way, and that's where it still sits today. I just don't want to bend down and pick it up yet.
Saturday was a day primarily devoted to lying down and staying under the influence of painkillers. I did watch some TV on Saturday, but since I couldn't bend down to pick up the essays I had put on the floor Thursday night, I accomplished very little of substance.
On Sunday, I had to get some milk and bread, something, anything to eat since I hadn't gone grocery shopping as usual on Friday. I managed to ease myself into and out of the car a few times, but there was no joyous feeling upon either entering or exiting the vehicle. When you have back pain, sitting still feels okay most of the time. Standing still can sometimes be all right. Lying down and staying very still is usually when your back is most at ease. Bending, however, that's another story. Walking can even be painful because you're moving your back in small but significant ways. Apparently, lack of movement is the key.
Throwing my back out did lead to a few other interesting moments. (That's an odd phrase--"throwing my back out"--as if it's somehow useless and must be discarded.) I got all kinds of advice from people in the laundry room and the elevator, all of whom had no trouble telling that I had hurt my back from the way I walked. Getting acupuncture, going to see a chiropractor, lying flat on the floor for a day: you name it and I was given the advice to do it.
But the oddest experience had to be getting dressed. It would probably make for a funny YouTube video if it hadn't hurt so much. You forget how much you bend to put on your socks and shoes. I almost went barefoot for three days just to avoid the pain. And I don't even want to tell you how I managed to get into my Underoos for the past couple of days.
Today I did go back to work. I just didn't know how I would get someone else to proctor a 7 a.m. exam for me, so I got up at 4 a.m. and trudged my way through the morning. I stopped the painkillers Sunday afternoon so I wouldn't continue to fall asleep about an hour after taking one of the pills. I turned up the seat warmer in the car (such a nice feeling). And I managed to stay seated for most of the morning and early afternoon, with only a few minor episodes of walking here and there. Tonight when I came home, however, it was back to lying down. I'm going to have to figure out how to grade papers while flat on my back, obviously.
Laughing to Beat the Band
Today I lost it in class. I started giggling uncontrollably. Luckily, I wasn't teaching. But I have no doubt that it was still somewhat distracting to my Intro to Lit students, who were busy taking their final exam, an in-class essay on poetry. I did apologize, and I also promised never to bring a funny book to a final exam again.
I've never quite had such a fit of laughter in class before, but the cause of my outburst is understandable. My friend N had loaned me her copy of Nora Ephron's I Feel Bad about My Neck, and I was reading the chapter on how difficult it is to maintain ourselves at a certain age. You should pick up a copy and read it for yourself. What Ephron says about hair--in particular, her mustache--was the last straw. She does indeed know how to write funny.
It's a very quick read. I finished it during the two-hour final exam period, and I thoroughly enjoyed it (obviously). She does make you laugh, but she also makes some pretty trenchant observations along the way. I can't believe I've waited this long to read the book. N loaned it to me months ago (after I made some comment about how I was worried about Sally Field's neck on Brothers & Sisters--watch it and tell me I'm wrong). Only one student asked me which book I was reading, but I doubt he's going to pick it up for himself. Too bad.
I've never quite had such a fit of laughter in class before, but the cause of my outburst is understandable. My friend N had loaned me her copy of Nora Ephron's I Feel Bad about My Neck, and I was reading the chapter on how difficult it is to maintain ourselves at a certain age. You should pick up a copy and read it for yourself. What Ephron says about hair--in particular, her mustache--was the last straw. She does indeed know how to write funny.
It's a very quick read. I finished it during the two-hour final exam period, and I thoroughly enjoyed it (obviously). She does make you laugh, but she also makes some pretty trenchant observations along the way. I can't believe I've waited this long to read the book. N loaned it to me months ago (after I made some comment about how I was worried about Sally Field's neck on Brothers & Sisters--watch it and tell me I'm wrong). Only one student asked me which book I was reading, but I doubt he's going to pick it up for himself. Too bad.
Saturday, December 15, 2007
Reliving History
Last Sunday I went to the Ahmanson Theatre downtown to see The History Boys, and tonight I watched the movie again on cable. I remember seeing the film last year about this time at the Arclight. Hardly anyone else was in the movie theater, and the film itself got very little attention at the time (although I thought it was one of the best movies I saw last year). The play was somewhat well attended, but there were plenty of seats available and it was the last performance. And this for a production that won six Tony Awards.
I wonder if it's the subject matter that puts people off. It is about sexuality, of course, and I suspect the "ick factor" of a grown man, a teacher, who gropes his students (who, admittedly, put up with the groping out of their pity for someone they consider to be old and foolish) is just a bit too much for most people to bear. Certainly, it still makes me uncomfortable that even though the play is set in the 1980s, only one character (well, perhaps two) self-identifies as gay and he's pretty much a mess, falling in love with a straight boy who will never reciprocate and growing up to be just as sad and lonely as the teacher with repressed homosexual longings whose class he took years before.
Yet the play is about much more than sexuality, and that's the part that perhaps intrigues me more. It's a play about education and the ways that we learn. It's about conflicting ideologies and theories. One of the teachers, Hector, teaches in what appears to be a most haphazard way, letting his students re-enact scenes from old films, memorize poems, sing songs from the World War II era, even perform skits in French--using the subjunctive--about bordellos (even though he is an English teacher and the class is known as "general studies"). One begins to wonder what use all of this activity has, but of course, that is entirely his point. Education shouldn't be about usefulness or practicality. It should be for the development of a sensibility, a sensitivity, if you will. He tells Posner, the gay Jewish student from Sheffield, at one point: "The best moments in reading are when you come across something--a thought, a feeling, a way of looking at things-- that you'd thought special, particular to you. And here it is, set down by someone else, a person you've never met, maybe even someone long dead. And it's as if a hand has come out, and taken yours." For Hector, education is about emotion, about feelings.
His rival , Irwin, treats education as if it were a game. He advocates that in taking the entrance exams for Cambridge and Oxford, the students make their answers interesting rather than factual, that they attempt to see history from an alternative perspective. He emphasizes the critical thinking aspect of education. Are we merely to accept the answers that are passed on to us--the best example in the play or film has to do with whether or not the Holocaust can be taught or even examined--or do we question the supposed "wisdom" of others? He even suggests that the information the boys glean from Hector's class (what he calls "gobbets") might be useful in helping them to get the interest of those reading their exams or those who are interviewing them for admission. A quote from Irwin illustrates his ideology: "But this is history. Distance yourselves. Our perspective on the past alters. Looking back, immediately in front of us is dead ground. We don't see it, and because we don't see it, this means that there is no period so remote as the recent past. And one of the historian's jobs is to anticipate what our perspective of that period will be. . . even on the Holocaust." For Irwin, there are no "right" answers; there are no "facts" or "truth" in history. There is only the perspective on it that we are willing to present, and the more eccentric the interpretation, the better, it seems to him.
Of course, the headmaster has a completely different philosophy. He wants tangible results: students being accepted to prestigious universities, test scores, that sort of thing. What the boys do in Hector's class cannot be "quantified" and is, thus, of little or no use to him. That's why her hires Irwin, to help the boys "polish" themselves for the competitive admissions process. He reminds me of so many people in the academic world these days. Everything must be written down, and there must be a number attached to it to show some vague concept of "success."
Some of the best lines in the play (and film), I think, belong to the lone female voice, that of the history teacher, Dorothy Lintott. During a set of mock interviews, she assails the boys with the following: "Can you, for a moment, imagine how depressing it is to teach five centuries of masculine ineptitude? . . . History is a commentary on the various and continuing incapabilities of men. What is history? History is women following behind with the bucket." (She also gets one of my other favorite lines. In talking about her college days, she says, "Durham was very good for history. It's where I had my first pizza. Other things too, of course, but it's the pizza that stands out.") She takes a much more pragmatic view than either of the men or the headmaster, for that matter, in terms of her role as teacher.
I can't quite determine whose approach I most admire, and I think that's what I like about this play and film. The characters are complicated, not easily likeable, and the ideas they espouse are, at times, both enticing and foolhardy. Each time I see The History Boys, I wonder anew about my own teaching philosophy, the way that I attempt to teach. I'm not sure that it's as well defined as any one of those described above.
Maybe Rudge has it right all along. He's the rugby player who, in the midst of the mock interviews, describes history as "just one fucking thing after another."
I wonder if it's the subject matter that puts people off. It is about sexuality, of course, and I suspect the "ick factor" of a grown man, a teacher, who gropes his students (who, admittedly, put up with the groping out of their pity for someone they consider to be old and foolish) is just a bit too much for most people to bear. Certainly, it still makes me uncomfortable that even though the play is set in the 1980s, only one character (well, perhaps two) self-identifies as gay and he's pretty much a mess, falling in love with a straight boy who will never reciprocate and growing up to be just as sad and lonely as the teacher with repressed homosexual longings whose class he took years before.
Yet the play is about much more than sexuality, and that's the part that perhaps intrigues me more. It's a play about education and the ways that we learn. It's about conflicting ideologies and theories. One of the teachers, Hector, teaches in what appears to be a most haphazard way, letting his students re-enact scenes from old films, memorize poems, sing songs from the World War II era, even perform skits in French--using the subjunctive--about bordellos (even though he is an English teacher and the class is known as "general studies"). One begins to wonder what use all of this activity has, but of course, that is entirely his point. Education shouldn't be about usefulness or practicality. It should be for the development of a sensibility, a sensitivity, if you will. He tells Posner, the gay Jewish student from Sheffield, at one point: "The best moments in reading are when you come across something--a thought, a feeling, a way of looking at things-- that you'd thought special, particular to you. And here it is, set down by someone else, a person you've never met, maybe even someone long dead. And it's as if a hand has come out, and taken yours." For Hector, education is about emotion, about feelings.
His rival , Irwin, treats education as if it were a game. He advocates that in taking the entrance exams for Cambridge and Oxford, the students make their answers interesting rather than factual, that they attempt to see history from an alternative perspective. He emphasizes the critical thinking aspect of education. Are we merely to accept the answers that are passed on to us--the best example in the play or film has to do with whether or not the Holocaust can be taught or even examined--or do we question the supposed "wisdom" of others? He even suggests that the information the boys glean from Hector's class (what he calls "gobbets") might be useful in helping them to get the interest of those reading their exams or those who are interviewing them for admission. A quote from Irwin illustrates his ideology: "But this is history. Distance yourselves. Our perspective on the past alters. Looking back, immediately in front of us is dead ground. We don't see it, and because we don't see it, this means that there is no period so remote as the recent past. And one of the historian's jobs is to anticipate what our perspective of that period will be. . . even on the Holocaust." For Irwin, there are no "right" answers; there are no "facts" or "truth" in history. There is only the perspective on it that we are willing to present, and the more eccentric the interpretation, the better, it seems to him.
Of course, the headmaster has a completely different philosophy. He wants tangible results: students being accepted to prestigious universities, test scores, that sort of thing. What the boys do in Hector's class cannot be "quantified" and is, thus, of little or no use to him. That's why her hires Irwin, to help the boys "polish" themselves for the competitive admissions process. He reminds me of so many people in the academic world these days. Everything must be written down, and there must be a number attached to it to show some vague concept of "success."
Some of the best lines in the play (and film), I think, belong to the lone female voice, that of the history teacher, Dorothy Lintott. During a set of mock interviews, she assails the boys with the following: "Can you, for a moment, imagine how depressing it is to teach five centuries of masculine ineptitude? . . . History is a commentary on the various and continuing incapabilities of men. What is history? History is women following behind with the bucket." (She also gets one of my other favorite lines. In talking about her college days, she says, "Durham was very good for history. It's where I had my first pizza. Other things too, of course, but it's the pizza that stands out.") She takes a much more pragmatic view than either of the men or the headmaster, for that matter, in terms of her role as teacher.
I can't quite determine whose approach I most admire, and I think that's what I like about this play and film. The characters are complicated, not easily likeable, and the ideas they espouse are, at times, both enticing and foolhardy. Each time I see The History Boys, I wonder anew about my own teaching philosophy, the way that I attempt to teach. I'm not sure that it's as well defined as any one of those described above.
Maybe Rudge has it right all along. He's the rugby player who, in the midst of the mock interviews, describes history as "just one fucking thing after another."
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
If You Say It Fast...
A grown man probably shouldn't admit it, but during this past week or so, I've been rereading some books from my childhood. Yes, I know people do that sort of thing all the time, but I expect they're probably reading material that's a bit more... substantial or literary or "grown-up" than what I've been choosing to read: the series of Pippi Longstocking books by Astrid Lindgren.
I'd actually forgotten that I had these books. I've moved several times over the years, and you do tend to lose track after you've packed and unpacked hundreds of books several times. I ran across them the other day while I was looking for a different book and decided to see how they stand up after all these years. I realized today after finishing the last one that it's probably been at least 30 years since I last read them.
There are three books in my collection (and I think only three books in all): Pippi Longstocking, Pippi Goes on Board, and Pippi in the South Seas. They aren't truly narrative in form. Each book is more of a collection of descriptions of adventures that Pippi and her two friends (Tommy and Annika) have. There are some links between the various events that occur in the books, but for the most part, it's a string of vignettes. I recall that the movies based upon the books were very similar in structure: loose, sort of rambling, not really focused on a strong narrative line. They're really more about character, it seems, than plot.
When I picked up the first book (and I did read them in order just like a good little boy should), I started to remember almost immediately why I enjoyed them when I was younger. Pippi is a hoot. She lives alone and pretty much determines what happens to her. She's got superhuman strength and the ability to outsmart almost everyone who's supposedly wiser than she is. She is extremely devoted to her friends and incredibly generous with her money and her worldly possessions. She isn't educated--in fact, she only attends school twice, the first time with disastrous results--and she's prone to lying. Oh, and she loves adventure, no doubt a result of all those years on board her father's ship traveling to distant lands. Each day with her is an unexpected joy. What kid wouldn't want to read about someone like that? And what kid wouldn't want someone like that as a role model? And what kid wouldn't want someone like that as a friend?
I even like the way she introduces herself to strangers: "Pippilotta Delicatessa Windowshade Mackrelmint Efraim's Daughter Longstocking, daughter of Captain Efraim Longstocking, formerly the Terror of the Sea, now a cannibal king. But everybody calls me Pippi." Of course, they do, dear.
Reading these three short books was such a blast. Again, I know a 44-year-old doesn't often pick up children's books (unless he's teaching Children's Literature or something akin to that), perhaps especially books there were undoubtedly written with young girls in mind, but it's pretty rare these days for me to have a chance to read just for the sheer pleasure of it. I had a lot of fun this past week reliving a few moments from my childhood. The kid in me got to make an appearance, however briefly.
You're probably wondering why I even have these three books (or perhaps why I still have these books). My mother took us kids (me, my brother, my two stepsisters, and my stepbrother) to see all of the Pippi movies in the early 70s (available for purchase or rental on DVD). We loved their weird antic spirit, and I guess she figured the reader of the family (that would be me, naturally) would probably enjoy having the texts to go with the memories of the movies. I don't know if my family truly realizes how much they encouraged me to read when I was younger (and how unusual that was at the time for boys in Mississippi). I do owe them a great deal of thanks for that. Even to this day, I tend to have a book handy in case I have a few minutes to read. (My family says I have my "nose stuck in a book" all the time--I love that.) And I always have a list of more books I'd like to pick up and read. Now that I've had a chance to reread the Pippi Longstocking books, I won't have to add them to that list, but what a pleasure it was to add them to the list of books that I've read this year.
I'd actually forgotten that I had these books. I've moved several times over the years, and you do tend to lose track after you've packed and unpacked hundreds of books several times. I ran across them the other day while I was looking for a different book and decided to see how they stand up after all these years. I realized today after finishing the last one that it's probably been at least 30 years since I last read them.
There are three books in my collection (and I think only three books in all): Pippi Longstocking, Pippi Goes on Board, and Pippi in the South Seas. They aren't truly narrative in form. Each book is more of a collection of descriptions of adventures that Pippi and her two friends (Tommy and Annika) have. There are some links between the various events that occur in the books, but for the most part, it's a string of vignettes. I recall that the movies based upon the books were very similar in structure: loose, sort of rambling, not really focused on a strong narrative line. They're really more about character, it seems, than plot.
When I picked up the first book (and I did read them in order just like a good little boy should), I started to remember almost immediately why I enjoyed them when I was younger. Pippi is a hoot. She lives alone and pretty much determines what happens to her. She's got superhuman strength and the ability to outsmart almost everyone who's supposedly wiser than she is. She is extremely devoted to her friends and incredibly generous with her money and her worldly possessions. She isn't educated--in fact, she only attends school twice, the first time with disastrous results--and she's prone to lying. Oh, and she loves adventure, no doubt a result of all those years on board her father's ship traveling to distant lands. Each day with her is an unexpected joy. What kid wouldn't want to read about someone like that? And what kid wouldn't want someone like that as a role model? And what kid wouldn't want someone like that as a friend?
I even like the way she introduces herself to strangers: "Pippilotta Delicatessa Windowshade Mackrelmint Efraim's Daughter Longstocking, daughter of Captain Efraim Longstocking, formerly the Terror of the Sea, now a cannibal king. But everybody calls me Pippi." Of course, they do, dear.
Reading these three short books was such a blast. Again, I know a 44-year-old doesn't often pick up children's books (unless he's teaching Children's Literature or something akin to that), perhaps especially books there were undoubtedly written with young girls in mind, but it's pretty rare these days for me to have a chance to read just for the sheer pleasure of it. I had a lot of fun this past week reliving a few moments from my childhood. The kid in me got to make an appearance, however briefly.
You're probably wondering why I even have these three books (or perhaps why I still have these books). My mother took us kids (me, my brother, my two stepsisters, and my stepbrother) to see all of the Pippi movies in the early 70s (available for purchase or rental on DVD). We loved their weird antic spirit, and I guess she figured the reader of the family (that would be me, naturally) would probably enjoy having the texts to go with the memories of the movies. I don't know if my family truly realizes how much they encouraged me to read when I was younger (and how unusual that was at the time for boys in Mississippi). I do owe them a great deal of thanks for that. Even to this day, I tend to have a book handy in case I have a few minutes to read. (My family says I have my "nose stuck in a book" all the time--I love that.) And I always have a list of more books I'd like to pick up and read. Now that I've had a chance to reread the Pippi Longstocking books, I won't have to add them to that list, but what a pleasure it was to add them to the list of books that I've read this year.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
Why I Love Living in L.A., Part I
Yesterday I went grocery shopping at one of the Ralph's in my neighborhood. In the soda aisle, I noticed this guy looking rather intently in the area where the Pepsi products were, apparently searching for some hard-to-find drink. He was carrying one of the baskets rather than wheeling around a shopping cart, and it was already pretty full. Although he looked somewhat familiar, I kept moving on to the next aisle and the rest of my shopping.
When I finished, I took a place in a checkout line. There are never enough lines open, so I took the one that seemed to be moving the fastest. And the same guy was again in front of me. As he was speaking to the cashier, I realized how I knew him. He's on every Thursday night on CSI: Crime Scene Investigation. That's right. William Peterson was buying a rather obscene amount of beef and quite a few of those little half-cans of Diet Pepsi. I don't even think the cashier or bagger recognized him. He was just wearing a t-shirt and jeans and baseball cap--the uniform of an off-duty actor in this town. Oh, and the sunglasses, of course.
By the way, this is the same Ralph's where I saw Kyle McLachlin shopping in his pajama bottoms and t-shirt and black leather jacket a couple of years ago; this was just before he started on Desperate Housewives. The Trader Joe's across the street is where I saw Dan Futterman the day before the Oscar ceremony when he was nominated for Best Screenplay for Capote; even unshaven, he's still adorable. Jennifer Beals uses the same dry cleaner I do (and is even more heart-stoppingly beautiful in person, if you can believe it). I also ran into Nicholas Brendan, better known as Xander on the TV series Buffy the Vampire Slayer, in (of all places) the 7-11 nearby and at Mani's Bakery a couple of days later; I began to think we were destined to "meet cute," as they say, but such was not the case, alas. And there's no way I could list all of the people who like to go to the movies at the Grove down the block (the most recent was John Krasinski of The Office). The highlight of celebrity sightings for me, though, was going to see Finding Nemo at the now defunct Beverly Connection cinema and standing in line behind Matthew Perry, Hank Azaria, and Craig Bierko. When the promo for The Whole Ten Yards came on the screens above the concession stand, Matthew Perry turned and asked me (me?!) if I thought I'd go see it. I didn't, of course, but at the time, I assured him that it looked funny--they are all rather insecure, aren't they? I think I was still a bit mesmerized by Bierko's eyes; he's a very tall fellow and quite the looker. The list of celebrity sightings could go on: Mr. Blackwell in the produce section with his partner, Ed McMahon and a huge family in tow at the Beverly Center, tiny little Leeza Gibbons on her way to see The Horse Whisperer (don't ask me why), Doug Savant (when he was still on Melrose Place) shopping for Christmas presents at the Glendale mall, former supermodel and extremely high-maintenance diva Janice Dickinson, Robert Urich shopping with his mom at the Farmer's Market (and almost being stalked by my mother, who had never seen a famous person that close to her).
Now perhaps none of these people is the most famous star in the entertainment business (although I did also sit in the same movie theater as Halle Berry once--also stunning enough to take your breath away), but they are all well-known to a degree, certainly. It's a bit disconcerting to see them doing such normal, mundane things as shopping or picking up dry cleaners or going to the movies. You wonder why they have to get their hands dirty the way we do. It really does, to me, reduce the level of mystery surrounding "celebrity status" when you know that they too need a chocolate fix and have to run to the neighborhood 7-11 in the middle of the night. Or even that they have to stock up on meat products for the week ahead. Yet there is something that sets them apart from us, even when they are engaging in the same kinds of chores and errands we are. I'm not prone to fawning--in fact, other than Matthew Perry, I've never spoken to any of the celebrities I've seen--but there's something about them that allows them to maintain a sense of distance from us even in close proximity. I guess that's what they call "star quality."
When I finished, I took a place in a checkout line. There are never enough lines open, so I took the one that seemed to be moving the fastest. And the same guy was again in front of me. As he was speaking to the cashier, I realized how I knew him. He's on every Thursday night on CSI: Crime Scene Investigation. That's right. William Peterson was buying a rather obscene amount of beef and quite a few of those little half-cans of Diet Pepsi. I don't even think the cashier or bagger recognized him. He was just wearing a t-shirt and jeans and baseball cap--the uniform of an off-duty actor in this town. Oh, and the sunglasses, of course.
By the way, this is the same Ralph's where I saw Kyle McLachlin shopping in his pajama bottoms and t-shirt and black leather jacket a couple of years ago; this was just before he started on Desperate Housewives. The Trader Joe's across the street is where I saw Dan Futterman the day before the Oscar ceremony when he was nominated for Best Screenplay for Capote; even unshaven, he's still adorable. Jennifer Beals uses the same dry cleaner I do (and is even more heart-stoppingly beautiful in person, if you can believe it). I also ran into Nicholas Brendan, better known as Xander on the TV series Buffy the Vampire Slayer, in (of all places) the 7-11 nearby and at Mani's Bakery a couple of days later; I began to think we were destined to "meet cute," as they say, but such was not the case, alas. And there's no way I could list all of the people who like to go to the movies at the Grove down the block (the most recent was John Krasinski of The Office). The highlight of celebrity sightings for me, though, was going to see Finding Nemo at the now defunct Beverly Connection cinema and standing in line behind Matthew Perry, Hank Azaria, and Craig Bierko. When the promo for The Whole Ten Yards came on the screens above the concession stand, Matthew Perry turned and asked me (me?!) if I thought I'd go see it. I didn't, of course, but at the time, I assured him that it looked funny--they are all rather insecure, aren't they? I think I was still a bit mesmerized by Bierko's eyes; he's a very tall fellow and quite the looker. The list of celebrity sightings could go on: Mr. Blackwell in the produce section with his partner, Ed McMahon and a huge family in tow at the Beverly Center, tiny little Leeza Gibbons on her way to see The Horse Whisperer (don't ask me why), Doug Savant (when he was still on Melrose Place) shopping for Christmas presents at the Glendale mall, former supermodel and extremely high-maintenance diva Janice Dickinson, Robert Urich shopping with his mom at the Farmer's Market (and almost being stalked by my mother, who had never seen a famous person that close to her).
Now perhaps none of these people is the most famous star in the entertainment business (although I did also sit in the same movie theater as Halle Berry once--also stunning enough to take your breath away), but they are all well-known to a degree, certainly. It's a bit disconcerting to see them doing such normal, mundane things as shopping or picking up dry cleaners or going to the movies. You wonder why they have to get their hands dirty the way we do. It really does, to me, reduce the level of mystery surrounding "celebrity status" when you know that they too need a chocolate fix and have to run to the neighborhood 7-11 in the middle of the night. Or even that they have to stock up on meat products for the week ahead. Yet there is something that sets them apart from us, even when they are engaging in the same kinds of chores and errands we are. I'm not prone to fawning--in fact, other than Matthew Perry, I've never spoken to any of the celebrities I've seen--but there's something about them that allows them to maintain a sense of distance from us even in close proximity. I guess that's what they call "star quality."
Working for the Weekend
I've been grading all weekend. Again. Third weekend in a row. I don't know why this semester is so work-intensive. I don't feel as if I've had much free time since we began school in August. I have taught the same number of classes and the same number of students (roughly) before, and it's never taken me this long to get through a stack of papers. Each weekend, I slowly make my way through the stacks I have laid out on the rug in the living room, and then I pick up more papers during the week to add to the stack. I'm trying to finish up the out-of-class essays and impromptus for the ENGL 100 classes this weekend because I know I'm picking up two more sets of papers from my ENGL 059 classes on Tuesday. Happy Thanksgiving, indeed. Some of what I'm missing: going to the movies and eating dinner with friends and watching old movies on Turner Classics and reading books of poetry (or reading anything that isn't a student paper) and catching up on my favorite shows and sleeping (I think I miss you most of all, old friend). The DVR is full (as always), I have magazines collecting dust (I just keep throwing them away unread), and the apartment looks as if no one has bothered to clean it since I moved in 11 years ago. I'm very much looking forward to the end of the semester and the few weeks that we have off until the spring semester begins (a week earlier than usual).
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)