not falling down

Almost exactly three years after I started Sad and Happy Movie Day, Jon and Amanda finally maneuvered me into actually watching Hotel Rwanda. We didn’t even have a happy movie to chase it with, but a couple episodes of Arrested Development made do.

I could have sworn that was Julia Sawalha playing the Red Cross worker, but IMDB says I am wrong. Dang. Oh, also the world is going to burn and we all deserve it.

We’ve officially been in Louisville long enough to hit a residency landmark: The Favorite Restaurant That Always Seems Packed But Now It’s Closing. That’s right. The Mayan Gypsy is going away in a little over two weeks, and the world will be poorer.

To get in while we can, Maria and I are telling you to come eat with us there at 6 pm EST this Sunday, June 25th. Update: Not Sunday, they’re not open on Sunday. Monday? Call, email or comment if you want in on our reservation. We’ll get corn cakes and chocolate. I envision a pitcher of sangria and an 18% gratuity. Walls will tumble. Men will die.

There are certain words I never expected to see my mother use in print, and “pimped” is one of them. Just one reason why I’m happy to see her blogging again.

If you read Mo-Jo, you’re already aware that after years of mounting mismanagement, condescension and outright lies from the diocesan administration, my mother’s willingness to stand up for her school and her students finally got her fired. She has another job now, but (no offense to any booksellers present) she deserves a better one; if you happen to be aware of teaching or library-related jobs in central Kentucky for someone with an MAEd (but not an MLS), please let me know and I’ll pass the news to her.

It’s okay, Michelle Kwan. You are still invited to my birthday party.

Sony has resorted to the tactics of virus writers to stop people from listening to music. Paris is burning with frustration from the bottom up, and the response from the top is “zero tolerance.” And we, the United States–without public approval, without accountability, without even visibility–have been literally putting our prisoners in the gulag.

We are circling a black hole.

When I was in fourth grade at St. Mark Elementary, a once-fine school now under the purview of fools, there was a pair of brothers a year or two older than me–both in the same grade. I don’t remember their names, which were pretty generic, like Joe and John or something. Also in their grade was a kid named Ricky, who pretty obviously had a learning disability.

Pretty much the only reason I remember these kids is that at lunch, most days, Joe and John would tease Ricky with essentially the same patter, day after day. I knew what they were doing was wrong, but I was very small and very timid, and anyway if I could hear what they were saying in that tiny lunchroom then so could the supervising adults.

The routine went something like this. Joe, the (much) larger brother, would lean over and mutter something in John’s ear. John, who did almost all the talking, would prod Ricky and ask him whether he liked a big’un.

Ricky would shake his head and laugh.

John would ask again, to see if Ricky was sure.

“Yeah,” Ricky would say, laughing harder. “Okay. Yeah. Yeah.”

Joe and John would laugh too. Sometimes John would turn and announce to the room that Ricky had confirmed his affection for a big’un.

John would continue the interview, asking Ricky to if he liked lamb fries.

Ricky, laughing louder and in exactly the same tone, would say “Yeah. Yeah. No. No I don’t.”

Ricky, John would repeat, do you like them lamb fries.

Ricky would laugh harder yet, the way slow people laugh when they think laughing is what they’re supposed to do. He would be laughing too hard to speak by now, so he’d just nod, up and down and up and down. Joe and John would exchange high fives.

I could tell by the tone of the participants that this was not a kind thing to do. I tried to imagine what big’uns and lamb fries could be; I came up with vague and unsettling and unhappy ideas. I didn’t understand the jokes, but I knew I would one day.

I’m twenty-four with Master’s degree and I have no idea what they were talking about.

Update 10.24.2005 1544 hrs: The Internet has informed me that lamb fries are fried lamb testicles, and that a big’un refers to, well, you can probably deduce that from context.

Thanks, the Internet.

NOT COOL. My mom is supposed to leave for London tomorrow. That is quite enough with the bombing.

Only two fatalities so far, but as of this morning there were still people trapped underground.

Update 1046 hrs: Thirty-three.

Update 1329 hrs: Thirty-seven.

On a less happy note, I had been wondering for a while why almost all of Rebecca Borgstrom’s protagonists are brave children in great danger. I suppose her column today is an answer of sorts.

Argh. Unbelievable.

KENTUCKY.

Okay, the other reindeer were a bunch of whores. What about the next year, when Christmas Eve wasn’t foggy? I bet Rudolph was out in the snow again while the rest of them played reindeer games (like Monopoly).