Category: Angst

The Central Ethos of Harry Potter

September 29, 2005 /

I’m not sure what Fantine was going to say, but here’s my overanalysis: the central ethos of Harry Potter–that one should trust children to be competent, but shield them from the consequences of failure; that a parent should protect them from harm, but never information–is a highly political one. It’s also already stated in about a jillion other YA books, but when was the last time it was distributed on such a scale? When was the last time it was internalized so widely, so willingly, outside the classroom, by children and adults?

It’s at that question that I start to wonder what the book-burning groups are really out to fight.

September 22, 2005 /

Today’s Anacrusis will be late because the one I was going to put up is just too awful. Too awful. I couldn’t inflict that on my readers.

Here it is!

C H I L I   J O H N

– – – –

“I was told we’d be noncombat!” shrieks Lester as he presses up against the trench wall. Phosphorus shells scream and gob-smack.

“That’s right,” Chili John nods, “you’re the civilian component of Operation Wombat.”

“Oh, that’s much better,” Lester says. He looks relieved.

“See that metal-plated monstrosity over there?” Chili John points. “That’s the Tomcat. Your job is to carry some fuel to it–here, use this top hat.”

Lester scrambles off with the crude naptha. Moments later, he and it are splashed all over the ironside, burning happily.

“You’re a bad man,” chuckles Moon.

“Stop that,” Chili John snaps.

September 18, 2005 /

I saw my paternal grandmother again today.

Mam-Maw: When are you going to quit growing?

Me: (totally inured to this question from grandparents) Oh, gosh, I think I’m done growing now–

Mam-Maw: No, I mean fatter.

I am waiting for familiar resolve

September 16, 2005 /

Got the first search referral for “thinspiration” today. That story is currently the #113 Google result for it. Think I’ll get any mail?

I’m not sure whether it counts as irony that I only realized this morning that “Me and Mia,” one of my favorite songs ever, is about, um, ana and mia. Ted Leo should enunciate better, and I should listen harder. It’s a vicious song.

What the hell, B button.

September 16, 2005 /

Everyone’s a-tizzy about the controller for Nintendo’s next console. By “everyone” I mean “all my friends are nerds.” In case the article I linked is still down, allow me to summarize for you:

  • it’s a TV remote
  • with a thingy that goes in it

The general reaction is positive. It’s new and different! It’s not the ten thousandth attempt to recreate the Dual Shock! You move the whole controller to move things on screen! (Yes, lovely, and check out the front end. That’s an IR panel. Want to know what happens when you point it straight down?)

My reaction is not positive, and this morning I remembered why: I am one of a rarefied set of humans who have actually played a video game with a remote before. That’s right. There was, for some time, in my living room, a Philips CD-i. I tried to swing a katana with it. I directed a claymation man through an Egyptian sewer. And, though I’m not ungrateful to Bruce for letting us play his video games, the fact of the matter is that its user experience

STOP READING HERE, MOM

sucked a dog’s penis.

Metaphorically.

You didn’t stop reading, did you, Mom? Sorry.

August 24, 2005 /

I just said goodbye to Ian. He’s going to work for a month in Utah before heading on to Los Angeles. He beat me to Louisville, and now he’s going to beat me to California. He’s been taller than me for as long as I can remember.

Ian’s got a new used truck and everything he owns is in its bed. He’s let his hair get too long because he thinks it’s rock ‘n’ roll. Last night was the biggest Tuesday Night Basketball I think we’ve ever had–everyone showed for a sendoff to its lynchpin. We ordered so much food and Lisa made a cake. We played games.

Sometimes I wonder how much I damaged Ian, growing up, by expecting him to be my peer and treating him like an inferior. Then I realize I’m assigning myself too much influence. Ian’s his own man, smart and ethical and a past master of all the social skills with which I still grapple; he didn’t need me to teach him about jokes or girls or writing code.

Ian will say his Saint Michaels. He’ll be fine.

Conflict.

August 23, 2005 /

I hate my crutches like magnetic north hates… other magnetic north. They are a pain and an endless-conversation curse, and I can’t walk ten feet without sweating. I have raw places on my sides from where they rub through three layers of cloth. They’re borrowed from Maria’s mom, so I will return them eventually with a smile and a thank-you; otherwise I’d snap them, burn them, sow their fields with salt yea look ye mighty &c.

But I’ve been using them for less than two weeks and I’ve visibly lost weight and gained muscle mass. Upper-body muscle mass, as much as I’ve had in my entire life.

My uncle Jerome recommended staying on the things for four weeks, absolute minimum two weeks. I really want to get rid of them come Wednesday night. But the huge blood-pool bruise on the side of my foot isn’t gone yet, and I don’t want to screw this up and compound my tendonitis, and I like weighing less and having triceps.

The two things I’m really worried about are my hands, which never stop hurting even after Epsom-salt soaks and hours of rest. The pain when I first pick up the crutches is worse every morning. Working at a keyboard every day occasionally gives me carpal-tunnely twinges; those have become more frequent since I started using the crutches. The fear is obvious.

I know I won’t work out after I start walking normally again. I don’t want my ankle to heal badly. I hate being slow and painful and not being able to carry things. I don’t want carpal tunnel.

Conflict.