What Movie is This? Part 2

Today, while walking Mollie, I noticed an SUV cruising the neighbourhood. It was painted with the logo for a local television station, and it contained an intrepid reporter and her videographer, hot on the trail of a big story. At one point I observed them interviewing an elderly lady in front of her house. I was a bit curious about the big news, but not enough to stray within earshot.

A few minutes later, the same SUV pulled up next to me, and the journalist asked me what I thought about "all the birds." I wasn't sure what she meant, so she elaborated: "People have been saying that there are large numbers of birds in Lubbock these days." I assured her that this didn't bother me, as "We live on a planet where there are birds." She seemed disappointed that I don't respond to flocks of birds with explosions of rage, and they moved on. I noticed her some time later, knocking on doors, looking for enthusiastic ornithophobes.

It occurred to me that this could easily be the opening scene for a re-make of Alfred Hitchcock's The Birds. I started to wonder how a contemporary version of that movie would play out, as it seems clear that my safety would depend very much on the film's politics. If it were an environmentalist fable, I would hope that my refusal to regard nature as a nuisance might be rewarded with survival. The birds, noting my unwashed car and vegetarian kitchen, would pass over my house and instead attack the global-warming-deniers with the unnecessarily large vehicles down the street. However, if the film had a more conservative world-view, and the overpopulation of birds was caused by a government conspiracy, then granola feminist intellectual types like myself would be the first to go.

I'll be watching the local news to see if I can get any insights.

What Movie is This? Part 1

I haven't written lately in part because I've been finding it harder to be positive about life in Lubbock, and really, a list of complaints doesn't make for good reading. I think part of the difficulty is that I'm finding it more and more difficult to figure out what kind of movie I'm in. As a film scholar, I tend to think about life situations in terms of movies, as in "If this were a romantic comedy, that thing that just happened would mean..." Of course, it never actually means that, because life is not a romantic comedy, but it's still a fun game and it's useful to pretend that things make sense and follow genre conventions. A number of recent events have caused me to wonder, which film am I in? Consider this the first in a series.

American Pie/American Beauty/American Psycho

The other day, one of my graduate students came to speak with me about ideas for her final paper. When she arrived at my office, she apologized for not having more material to show me, but her notes had been stolen. She is working on a Master's degree in Education, so she spends much of her time working in the local high schools. It seems that one of her students is a kleptomaniac, and he had stolen all of her things from her desk, including her research notes for my class. When she left the school to come meet me, he was still be interviewed by the police, and was being tight-lipped about the location of the purloined items. I offered my sympathy, and I considered revealing that it was really empathy, but thought that might be overstepping a boundary. Why empathy, you may ask?

Some weeks ago, I arrived home from teaching a night class, and realized I had forgotten my cell phone on campus. I hemmed and hawed about going back to retrieve it, but decided that it wouldn't be smart to spend the night without a cell phone. I ate some dinner, and then put Mollie in the car to head back to campus, as it is mildly safer to have your dog with you. After getting the phone, I stopped by the grocery store for a few things, then headed home. I had been gone for about 40 minutes.

When I went inside, I walked first to the kitchen to put away my groceries, where I noticed that the back door had been smashed in. In a move that reveals my priorities, I ran to my office to see if my computer was still there, and was relieved to see its power light blinking in the darkness. Then, I called the police. The dispatcher asked me if I had checked the house to see if the robber was still there. My feeling at this moment would be well expressed through what cinematographers call a "throw and go" - an effect where you simultaneously move the camera while adjusting the zoom lens to create a feeling of disorientation. It was famously used in Jaws to represent the feeling you might have when you realize that a shark is about to eat everybody. Or, say, that a person who kicks in doors is hiding in your house, in the dark, with you.

I took Mollie and ran outside, then called my neighbours, Ann and Miles. Miles came over to wait for the police with me. When the cops showed up, they had their headlights off, asked me if anyone was supposed to be in the house, then drew their guns and searched the place. Fortunately, the culprit was long gone, and the police asked me to check what had been stolen. As I looked around, I was surprised that seemingly, nothing had been taken. My jewelry boxes were open, but nothing had been removed. Miles suggested that I had probably arrived home seconds after they broke in, so they ran away before taking anything. This sounded like a plausible explanation. The police agreed, and told me to secure my back door. I thought "How? Late-night carpentry?" but they suggested that I just move my fridge in front of the door. Miles helped me with that, and I packed a bag to go spend the night at their house.

The following day, my landlord fixed the door first thing, and I returned home. I thought "Well, this has been a stressful experience, so I'm going to be sure to go to yoga class after I teach today." To be sure I would make it on time, I decided to get my clothing organized. I started to put together my yoga stuff - mat, t-shirt, pants - and then I went to get my sports bra. I opened my dresser, and paused. I thought for a moment "Did I do a bunch of laundry?" Then it dawned on me - the thief had stolen all of my brassieres. All of them. And only them. He (I'm assuming) was very precise on that point.

When faced with a situation like this, the question that comes to mind is "What movie am I in?" since that information will dictate my emotional and practical response. Is it a teen sex comedy in the spirit of American Pie, where I am the target of harmless youthful hijinks? If that's the case, it's stupid, but not terrifying. Or, am I in an independent film in the spirit of American Beauty, where people are acting in obsessive, neurotic ways, but are ultimately only hurting themselves? Or, alternately, am I in American Psycho, and I'm about to find myself on the business end of a chainsaw? Note that there is a whole series of movies that have "Texas" and "Chainsaw" in their titles, so that's a factor to consider re: the local culture.

I reported my discovery to the police, and received a call back from a detective. He asked if there were any "ex-boyfriends we should know about." I thought "You, sir, have not been reading my blog." No, an excess of boyfriends has not been a problem. He asked if any other items were missing, such as shoes or stockings, i.e. things that people have fetishes for. Nope. (Although, I have to say, if someone had taken my shoes, they would find themselves in a vengeance fantasy directed by Quentin Tarantino, and I'd be the one using the chainsaw.) At the end of our conversation, I mentioned an incident that had happened the previous summer, when I was walking Mollie and a creepy guy groped me on the sidewalk (yes, the men of Lubbock are really putting their best foot forward). The detective said it wasn't far-fetched to think that those events might be related. This added credence to the American Psycho interpretation of events, so I moved into Ann and Miles' guest room until my alarm system was installed. I shared my anxieties with Ann, who tried to reassure me that if I were in American Psycho, I would already be dead, so there's nothing to worry about. Oh, in that case, carry on.

One thing the detective suggested is that I ask my neighbours if they had experienced any similar incidents, as people often don't report such things to the police. I didn't really feel like discussing my underwear with the frat boys who live next door, so I told Ginger about it, and I felt confident that she would canvass the neighbourhood in short order. Apparently, she sent Norman over to speak to the boys, who mentioned that another house just a block over had been broken into last Christmas, and all the thieves took was men's underwear and white socks. I found this news reassuring, as it slides the creep-o-meter closer to American Beauty -- we have an area weirdo, but he (again, I'm assuming) is equal-opportunity and only interested in inanimate objects.

The upside of this is that my friend Renee responded to the situation by holding a "bra shower" for me to help restore what had been lost. Most people got me gift cards, but one friend was considerate enough to get me a camouflage-pattern number in my size. I unwrapped it and said "Awesome! Now I'm ready to go hunting!" I suspect that there is also a film genre devoted to women in camo underwear carrying big guns, but I never imagined it would serve as a model for my life experience.

Theatre of the Absurd

I have commented in the past about the difficulties of finding a gentleman friend in Lubbock. I can assure you that it is not for want of trying. I am assiduous about going to mixers, art events, and happy hours, not to mention informing everyone I know to be on the lookout for suitable men. So far, the result has been a series of strange encounters and baffling behaviours courtesy of the less-fair sex. The upside is that I now have many hilarious stories to tell, stories that flow into one another like a montage sequence in a romantic comedy where you watch the heroine go on a series of increasingly ridiculous dates. This sequence usually culminates in her exasperated plea "Why can't I meet a decent guy?!" I can't help but feel, however, that the romantic comedy I'm starring in really needs to get romantic sometime soon, or the audience is just going to get mad and demand a refund.

Just the other night I went to an event sponsored by "Lubbock Social" - a new group that is trying to establish networking opportunities for young professionals. Their first event was to be held in the garden courtyard at a local winery. Sounds promising, right? You would think so, but it is not so easy. The event was quite pleasant and I did talk to some nice people, and as it drew to a close, someone suggested that we all should go out and get a drink at another establishment. People started to make recommendations, and I noticed a pattern - the people in their 20s wanted to go to the (slightly) more sophisticated places in town (one of which, I'm happy to report, has finally figured out how to make a sidecar), while the single men in their 30s wanted to go to college bars. My analysis is that the 20-somethings were excited about being grownups and wished to celebrate by going to grownup establishments, while the men who are still single in their 30s want to embrace opportunities for immature behaviour. I sense that there is a causal relationship between this tactic and their continued bachelorhood.

One man in particular kept suggesting student dive bars, and the twenty-something woman next to me asked him why. He said "I have no intention of entering my 40s gracefully." I tried to prevent my eyes from visibly rolling, and asked "Are you near 40?" I was wondering, well, gee whiz, is it your birthday tomorrow or something? The conversation continued:

Him: No, I'm 36.

Me: 36 is actually quite a distance from 40.

Him: It doesn't feel like it!

Twenty-something woman (who means well, turns to me and asks): How old are you?

Me (thinking "thanks a lot, twenty-something"): Actually, I'm 36, and I expect I'll do a fair bit of living in the next four years.

Him: [Pause, then, loudly] Let's go to a bar so I can look at beautiful college girls!

I shared this story with a friend of mine, who observed "He is certainly succeeding in his plan to not age gracefully." Alas, this man is by no means unique. We eventually did go to a student bar - I decided to go because I figured being in public is a better bet than sitting alone in my living room. I had a lovely conversation with the twenty-something woman, who kept announcing loudly to the men in the group that I was far more interesting to talk to than any of them. This would be fine if we were lesbians, but we are not, so instead it is just depressing. This establishment had a mirror over the bar, and at one point in the evening I caught a glimpse of my reflection, along with the rest of the clientele. My first thought was "One of these things is not like the others. I am not among my people." (I was in New York last week, where I went to esoteric movies all day. The crowd at the art house? Those were my people.)

Now, you might think that my complaint is that the men of Lubbock are not interested in me. If only! There are men who are very much interested in me, however, they are best described as characters from Christopher Guest movies (Best in Show, Waiting for Guffman, This is Spinal Tap), which is my way of saying that they are too bizarre to be regarded as suitable. A prime example is The Librarian. The Librarian works for the University library, and he is the film studies "expert." He has a rather huge crush on me, but I can't avoid him entirely because not only is he the film librarian, and he is involved with every film activity in town (the film festival, campus film series, etc.) so I run into him fairly regularly. You might wonder, what is wrong with dating the film librarian? Wouldn't you have a lot in common? You would think that, but you'd be terribly wrong.

Let me offer an illustrative anecdote: We are both on the committee for the local film festival. During one of our festival events, he approached me and asked "Hey, do you want to see a picture of my girlfriend?" I was somewhat creeped out by this question, but in the spirit of collegiality I said "Sure!" He held up his phone and showed me a photograph of him holding a prairie dog. Mull that one over for a moment. Not only does the guy have an extensive collection of novelty neckties (a fashion choice that is only acceptable if you are a pediatrician), but his house is overrun with "pet" prairie dogs he has "rescued." May I remind my reader that prairie dogs are wild animals? Do you have any more questions?

This brings me to the events of Wednesday evening. I decided to go to a local movie theatre for a show called "Rifftrax," where the comedians who brought you Mystery Science Theatre 3000 (MST3K) provide running commentary over an old movie while it is broadcast live to theatres. For those of you who are unfamiliar with MST3K, it was a tv show where guys would make funny comments about cheesy movies. It was hilarious, and it has cultivated a substantial cult following. I have been to a few of these screenings in Lubbock, but this time I strategically arrived a couple of minutes late in the name of self-preservation. See, The Librarian recently edited an anthology on MST3K, so I felt certain that he would be there. I wanted to avoid running into him in the lobby, being invited to sit with him, etc.

I arrived just after the show started, and peered cautiously into the auditorium. I spotted a mostly-empty row and sat down, one seat away from a man who was by himself. I noted that he looked kind of cute, and thought about how I might strike up a conversation with him after the show (See? I'm ever vigilant!). About ten minutes later, the fire alarm went off. I realized that in all my years of constant film-going, I had never been in a theatre during a fire alarm. I was intrigued that the alarm consisted of both a noise and a row of strobe lights on the theatre walls. The lights are a good idea, since many film soundtracks are pretty much indistinguishable from sirens.

An announcement came over the PA system telling us to evacuate the cinema, forcing me to weigh my options. I could take the exit beside the screen, which would put me outside faster but which meant I would come into contact with more audience members and risk a Librarian encounter, or I could leave through the lobby, and increase my chances of speaking to Cute Guy. It occurred to me that while the prospect of an awkward conversation was lousy, it was probably better than being trapped in a fire, or, this being Texas, encountering the "active shooter" who might be taking out the teenagers at the concession stand in a meth-fueled rage. (An "active shooter" is what they call people who go on shooting rampages. I'm not sure what constitutes a "passive" shooter, but let's return to my story.) I headed for the quickest exit while trying to keep my eye on Cute Guy behind me, and scanning the crowd for Librarian. I felt like I was in some kind of terrible video game called "Single Intellectual Woman Coping in the Bible Belt" (SIWCIBB).

As I approached the door, I spotted Librarian coming down the stairs, but I was able to use the semi-darkness of the theatre to convincingly pretend not recognize him. I was pretty sure he had spotted me, so while people were loitering outside the door, I knew I couldn't safely stay there. I hustled around to the front of the building, figuring that everyone would eventually follow, but this way I would have tactical advantage because I could see them coming. I spent the next twenty minutes in the parking lot, maneuvering between pickup trucks for cover so I could remain invisible to the Librarian, but accessible to Cute Guy. Alas, Cute Guy turned out to be less cute in the daylight, so that didn't go anywhere. Still, it was neat to watch the fire trucks pull up. (You might be hoping that the romantic comedy I'm living in could have a scene involving sexy firefighters. Nope. In fact, shortly after I moved here, I did attempt to chat up some firefighters at the station near my house. My efforts failed, mainly because Mollie pooped on their lawn while they were in the midst of a landscaping project. Thanks a lot, Mollie.)

It seems there was a problem with a gas main, so the cinema would have to be closed for the night. I wanted to wait and see about the theatre's refund policy, but my loitering strategies had to become more sophisticated as time went on, since people were getting into their pickup trucks and driving away, thus leaving me with fewer hiding places. It was clear that I had advanced to level two of SIWCIBB. In the midst of all this, I spotted another man who was actually good looking in the daylight, and we had several moments of sustained eye contact. He seemed to be with his family (his mother and two sisters) and as I overheard their conversation, it was clear that they were major dorks. While that might sound like an insult, I say this with great affection. When I describe them as "dorks" I mean that they would be right at home at a Star Trek convention. I have been to a few conventions in my day, and I used to teach at an engineering school, so I know how to talk to this particular demographic and I can appreciate their charms. I struck up a conversation with one of the sisters, hoping that the guy would take the opportunity to speak to me. No luck. He quite literally hid behind his other sister the whole time. My forensic analysis is that either he was gay, or too much of a dork to talk to girls.

The cinema manager announced to the crowd that we would receive two free movie passes for our trouble. If I may continue my video game analogy, it's like I got two bonus "lives" to keep advancing to higher levels of gameplay, so the evening wasn't a total loss.

Armadillos

Today my friend Amanda called and asked if I needed to go to Target. I said ok, since my shopping list was eclectic enough that it required an all-purpose store: vanilla extract, bathtub stopper, yoga pants, lamp, travel-size hair mousse... When she picked me up, she mentioned she had just heard an ad on the radio for Boot City, and that they were having a sale.

Boot City is your one-stop shop for all your cowboy boot needs, but since we are in West Texas, there is no need to include "Cowboy" in the name of the store. Since moving to Lubbock, I've been meaning to get some cowboy boots, but I haven't been able to find anything quite right. I have a great pair I got in Nashville a few years back (seen below - I'm on the left) but I've always wanted a black pair as well.

When we walked in, we found it a bit disorienting, but were soon directed to the clearance aisles. I had a hard time finding anything in my size, so when a salesman approached, I asked him "Do you know if there's anything in a 7?" He looked around a bit, and said "Well, I don't want to tell you we do, in case we don't. Then I'd be a liar." Conversations like this make me happy to live here.

A few minutes later, I started to try on a black pair, and a saleswoman approached and said "Oh, good. You found some armadillos." We looked at her in confusion. She then realized that she had mixed us up with some other customers, so she apologized. I said "No problem. What's an armadillo?" Turns out, armadillos are cowboy boots with patterned leather on the upper (the part that covers your foot, as opposed to the shaft, which covers your calf). I am always happy to learn new shoe terminology, so we thanked her for the tutorial. Not having found anything that suited me in clearance, I started to wander the rest of the store (which is how they get you, of course), whereupon I saw an object of beauty:

The carpet in this photograph is in my house, so it's clear that the boots and I have established a relationship. The display model was in my size, so I tried it on, then immediately searched for its mate (this is a store where the boxes are on the display shelves). We hunted high and low, but to no avail. I went and found the owner, a charming older gentleman in a large black hat, and said "I'm looking for the mate of this boot. It's beautiful, but I won't buy just one." The search was on, and finally he found it at the bottom of a stack. As I took them for a spin, they were a little tight in the toes, but I was assured that "If you're having trouble busting them out, bring them back and we'll stretch them for you." Busting them out? Awesome. Meanwhile, Amanda was trying on a lovely pair with brown uppers and a raspberry and indigo shaft, and found it impossible to leave without them. Another customer said "You girls are gonna have a hard time rolling your jeans down on top of those" (i.e. covering the shaft with your pant leg). I said "Are you kidding? I'm getting a dress!"

When I took my new friends up to the cash, the saleswoman exclaimed "Oh! You got armadillos after all!" I jokingly told her that I saw through her strategy of walking up to customers and "accidentally" planting the idea of the armadillo boot in their minds. She laughed and told her colleague, "See? I just psychoanalyzed her!" Now, that isn't exactly psychoanalysis, but then again, she's not entirely wrong, as I'm sure these boots do communicate a great deal about the unconscious mind of the wearer.

The Walking Desk

This contraption is what's known as a "walking desk" - a treadmill with a desk surface that allows you to work while you walk. I read about this on a nerdy blog, and was intrigued by the argument that since sitting is an unnatural position that lies at the root of back problems, carpal tunnel, heart disease, etc., then walking is a good alternative. Plus, since you exercise all day, you end up with buns of steel. So, I thought I'd give it a shot.

If you google "treadmill desk" you will find many expensive and elaborate contraptions for sale, but you will also find instructions for building your own. Most of these, as you might imagine, involve carpentry. I am not equipped for carpentry, so I thought to myself "I'm a Girl Guide - I can figure this out on my own." I started to look around my house for materials that could be suitably re-purposed. In the back of my closet I unearthed the "Handi Bed" - a camp bed with a metal frame. Since I have no intention of camping anytime soon (specifically, not until the day that I have a child of my own who feels the need to experience camping), I felt like it was time for the bed to start a new chapter in its life. I was pleased to discover that the metal poles were long enough to span the distance between the armrests on the treadmill. I dug around more and found some rope that my Dad had used for securing furniture when he moved my possessions down from Canada.

Finding the rope was a eureka moment. My readers should know that as a Girl Guide, I was a knot-tying maniac. I would read books on knots for fun, and challenge myself to replicate the patterns until I could whip up a bowline-on-a-bight or a sheet bend with my eyes closed. You never know when you're going to have to shorten a rope in the dark. I applied this store of knowledge to affixing the poles to the treadmill. Then, I needed a platform to put my computer on. The solution was to use the lid from a storage bin, and secure it with duct tape. Voila!

It is surprisingly easy to walk and work. I've found that one doesn't get as distracted when doing boring things, and it can be quite good for keeping one's energy up. I'm now walking between 2-3 miles a day while I write. The treadmill is at home, where I do most of my work anyway, but someday I look forward to having one in my office on campus, and having it contribute to my reputation as a weird professor.

The World of Coca Cola

When is a Coke machine not a Coke machine? When it's a carefully disguised door to the employee area at an art gallery in Chicago.

The Proper Topper

I think we can all agree that one of the most enjoyable things about the Royal Wedding was the array of whimsical hats worn by the guests, with top honours going to Princess Beatrice for pulling off a Philip Treacy masterpiece of millinery madness. Of course, I have always liked hats - apparently, as a child, I would wear multiple hats at once, such that my parents developed a "Two-Hats” nickname for me. I've become especially devoted to hat-wearing since living at this latitude, where the practice is crucial to staving off heat stroke, sunburn, and squinting. Indeed, I almost never go out without one, and I’ve learned that hats can come in handy in surprising ways.

For one thing, they are conversation-starters, and I have met many interesting people through hat-related discussions. I vividly recall an encounter in Atlanta where a lady exclaimed with delight “Well, look at you, wearing a hat!” As I replied “Honey, you can do it too!” it occurred to me that since I had just addressed a stranger as “honey,” it was clear that my acclimatization to Southern culture was proceeding apace.

Finally, hats can help you appear put-together, even when your hair is a disaster. Today was such a day. Late this morning I resolved to drag myself to the gym for an exercise class. It is the end of the semester, and I’m exhausted, but I figured aerobics was better than grading, so off I went, grabbing a baseball cap on the way out the door to conceal my unwashed hair.

As I approached the athletic center on campus, three young women were walking in front of me, and I could overhear their chatter. One turned to her friend, and playfully said “…you totally jewed me on that!” For my readers who are not familiar with the nuances of West Texas anti-Semitism, “to jew” is a verb meaning “to cheat” or “to swindle.”

I was immediately angry, and started to think about how to respond. I said to myself “now, don’t go all Inglourious Basterds on them, that won’t help…” but I needed to say something. As we entered the building, it became clear that they were going to the same class that I was, and I thought “Good. This will give me time to think.”

To help you picture the scene, it was a Zumba exercise class. Zumba is essentially aerobics that appropriates various Latin, hip-hop, and middle eastern dance styles. I’m not very good at the Latin parts (see earlier post “The Curse of the Merengue”), but it’s fun, and it doesn’t involve sitting at my desk and thinking about film. On the contrary, today it involved doing hip shimmies and thinking about anti-Semitism.

As I gyrated around the room and tried to keep up with the choreography, I weighed my rhetorical options. Do I bring up my Jewish grandfather, who died in WWII in the effort to bring down, y’know, Hitler, and query as to why she felt it was acceptable to defame his character? I nixed that because I didn’t want the point to be “don’t use ‘jew’ as a verb because there might be a Jew, or a Jew-affiliate in earshot,” but rather, “just don’t be a racist.”

I considered asking if “to jew” meant that you rendered someone analogous to one of God’s Chosen People, or perhaps a descendant of Holocaust survivors. I stepped away from that option too, since the Holocaust is something of a conversation-stopper.

As the class was winding down, and we were stretching our hamstrings, I settled on a Socratic approach. At the end of class, I grabbed my bag, put on my hat, and approached the three students. I introduced myself, and this being West Texas, they responded with a friendly hello. I continued in a high and cheerful voice:

“I wanted to ask you something. I couldn’t help overhearing you when we were walking into the building. You mentioned to your friend that she had ‘jewed you’ - could you tell me what that means?”

I gazed at her with what my friend Amanda calls my “bullsh*t naïve question look.” Her face fell. She replied:

“Oh, no, that’s just something we’ve always said at home.”

I lowered my voice to the “don’t mess with me” timbre I use on bad students:

“Never say it again.”

I have no doubt that she grew up with this, and has never thought about the implications. She quickly apologized:

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“It’s not so much about offending me, as it is about perpetuating stereotypes.”

Her friend chimed in, with “She’s a really nice person!”

“I’m sure she is, but it’s what nice people do, or don’t do, that allows evil to persist.”

She started to cry, so I put my hand on her shoulder, and said “I’m not out to devastate you, but your words matter. Get it?”

“Yes ma’am!”

I exited the scene with “Ok, have a good one!” and walked off to get my Zumba card stamped (if you fill the card, you get free stuff!).

While walking through the parking lot, I thought, “you know, I’m a good teacher.” As I got into my car, I took off my hat. It was then that I noticed that I had been wearing my National Civil Rights Museum baseball cap. It displays the name of the museum, and the numbers 306. The museum is located at the Lorraine Motel in Memphis, and Martin Luther King Jr. was standing on the balcony of room 306 when he was assassinated. Not only do hats protect you from the elements, but it turns out they can lend moral authority as well.

It's that time of year...

It's that time of year again, when I am grading my students' final papers. Grading is a chore, but the bright side is that it often yields unintentional hilarity. My students are writing papers on their experiences of going to a movie at a public cinema - they are asked to think about how things like the architecture and interior design influence audience behaviour, and also to contemplate the way people act while watching the movie.

One student went to see Red Riding Hood. The paper wasn't very good, but I was especially annoyed at the time-worn strategies she used to make me think that the paper is longer than it is - using space-consuming fonts, and unusually large margins. I want to tell her, "Honey, I've been hanging around universities for most of my life, so you're not going to trick me with your margins." Still, I'm not that annoyed, because it gave me the opportunity to write the comment "What big margins you have." See, it's Red Riding Hood, so...get it? I feel like it would be a fun challenge to come up with a pun-based comment for every paper.

Even more delightful is when students' papers contain unintentional double entendre, usually caused by a combination of bad grammar and a misplaced faith in spell-checking software. Get a load of this sentence:

"The staff itself was very friendly, in fact, one of the employers who checked my ticket was 'very good' and he hoped I enjoyed it."

I hope she enjoyed it too, "it" being a man employing a friendly staff. Where is this movie theatre, and when can I go?

The Unsuitables

As my readers know, I am a good sport about Lubbock. I love the big sky, the kind neighbours, and the unapologetic expressions of frontier culture. However, there is one crucial area where Lubbock has let me down. I have alluded to this issue in the past, but West Texas has proven to be a land of epic romantic failure. Allow me to offer some illustrative anecdotes. This will likely be the first in a series.

Tonight started out as a high-calibre Lubbock evening. It began with a potluck at my house, with my friends from the vegetarian dinner co-op. We had lots of laughs and talked about strategies for using all the chili peppers from the CSA shares we'll start receiving in a few weeks. After dinner, I headed to campus for a meeting of the Secret Movie Club. The Secret Movie Club (don't tell anyone) consists of a group of faculty members and their cronies who make use of an auditorium on campus that is equipped with a fancy high-definition projector. It's "secret" because technically we aren't supposed to be in there, but we are a lawless bunch of cinephiles. Each week one member is responsible for picking the film, but they don't tell anyone what it is, so it's a lovely surprise every time. When it was my turn, I showed the Blu-Ray of the newly restored Metropolis. Other evenings have featured The Terror of Tiny Town, among other classics. Tonight it was Black Narcissus, everyone's favourite insane nun movie. After the film I went to the gym, then stopped off at the grocery store. While I was shopping, a guy at the store noticed my t-shirt, and he asked if it was a joke about the heavy metal band Iron Maiden. I held my breath for a moment. Allow me to explain.

Last year, when I was in Los Angeles, I purchased a t-shirt with this design on the front:

I found this hilarious. See, the font is based on the logo for Iron Maiden:

But instead of Iron Maiden, it's Ingmar Bergman, creator of many a depressing Swedish art film. If you're not familiar with Bergman's filmography, it is heavy on bleakness. In his masterpiece The Seventh Seal, a knight returning from the Crusades plays chess with Death. No, really. So, here we have a t-shirt that combines heavy metal with Swedish art cinema. It's incongruous! Ha ha! Let's all be witty together!

When I acquired this shirt I had a bemused moment where I thought that if I ever met a guy who got the joke, then he would be a promising candidate for the Tapdancing Aviatrix Experience. So, when grocery store guy expressed this inkling of recognition, I wondered if he might have potential. We discussed it further, but it turned out he was only halfway there - he recognized the font, but hadn't heard of Ingmar Bergman. Then he tried to crack a joke about John Lennon's murder (!), but referred to Elton John instead. I found this inappropriate on several levels, so I departed the store without securing a date.

Now, this may not seem like a big deal. Don't I know that there are people starving in the world, and my biggest problem is that a guy doesn't fully appreciate my t-shirt? Really? Well, what you need to understand is that this is just the latest in a stream of encounters with the unsuitable men of Lubbock.

On Friday evening I had yet another excellent Lubbock outing - I went to the First Friday Art Trail, a monthly event where all the galleries in town have an open house. I got myself dolled up and went out with some friends to admire paintings and drink local wine. As we were walking through one of the galleries, my friend Renee gestured toward me and accidentally hit a guy who was standing right behind me. She apologized to him, but the reason this happened is that he was following me so closely he was very much in my personal space. I turned around and he introduced himself. Now, his description of his professional status - a chemist at Texas Tech who works on counter-terrorism - seemed quite promising. He informed me that I was gorgeous, which is also a good sign, but alas, he was rather inebriated. I was forgiving about this at first, since the local wine is not to be trifled with, so we had a chat for a little while, and even exchanged numbers. Ok, I thought, maybe I'll hear from him sometime.

Later that evening, when my friends were driving me home from a late dinner of enchiladas and margaritas, I received a text message from the chemist that read as follows: "2 first names.. One is followed by Dr?" People, whatever you do, don't drink and text. For readers who don't know me, both my first and last names can function as given names. My interpretation of his message is that he can't remember which name comes first, but he has a vague notion that I have a PhD. This does not impress me. C'mon, man, remember my name.

Ok, two unsuccessful encounters in one weekend is a bummer, but surely this is an anomaly?

Wait, there's more. Since moving to Lubbock I have tried many dating websites, but with limited success. This January I joined eharmony.com in hopes of meeting someone suitable. I realize that eharmony is part of a right-wing conspiracy (more on that another time) but I figured I should give it a shot. Now, to be fair, it did allow me to meet one guy who was very nice, but there just wasn't any chemistry. Other than that, it has been a nightmare. For example, I recently met a guy who seemed suitable on paper - he's doing an MFA in photography (artsy! educated!) and we seemed to share a number of interests. I met him for a coffee date. This date was so unsuccessful that every time I think about it, I remember yet more reasons that it was a disaster. I met him after returning from New Orleans, where I was speaking at a conference. I had given a paper on 3D movies, and I mentioned this early in the date. He immediately started to tell me all the reasons that he thinks 3D movies are lousy. Emotional intelligence, anyone? I just told you that I do research on 3D movies, so now might not be the time to complain about how you don't like the glasses. I felt like getting up and walking out at this point, but I wanted to be polite and give him another chance. Silly me.

He mentioned that he is from Sweetwater, a nearby town that is famous for its annual Rattlesnake Roundup. The Roundup is a festival where like-minded people get together to hunt, kill and eat rattlesnakes. Now, you would think that if you came from a town with such a tradition, you would have interesting stories to tell. Alas, you would be wrong. I asked him if he had "ever had a rattlesnake burger," and he replied that rattlesnake doesn't taste very good. Instead of following that up with a description of rattlesnake meat, like an interesting person would do, he instead offered a boring story about how he enjoys pork sandwiches. I kept trying to extricate a rattlesnake anecdote from him, but to no avail. Any sensible person would realize that the very utterance of the word "rattlesnake" automatically makes a story more exciting, but this was lost on him. He said something like "It's a fun festival overall" and I attempted a witty retort along the lines of "I imagine the rattlesnake community doesn't agree." He then proceeded to explain to me that rattlesnakes don't think like that. I was momentarily dumbstruck - did he think that I was anthropomorphizing reptiles? Did he think that I believed that Diamondbacks all get together for community meetings, produce a monthly newsletter, and keep in touch over facebook? Things weren't looking good.

I tried to change the subject, and mentioned that I was working on ideas for my graduate course next fall. The course is called "Planes, Trains and Automobiles" and it is about the relationships between transportation and communication technologies and the cinema. I mentioned something about how many nineteenth century films are about trains. He jumped in and made the fatal error of trying to impress me with pronouncements about film history. He began by saying that in the early days of cinema, they didn't have any editing. Now, there is a way in which this is true (it's not really, but I can understand why one might think that), but the kicker was the following statement: "They didn't edit their films because they didn't have the technology for that." I thought, "The technology for film editing? Like, scissors?" To be clear, the problem is not that he isn't a film historian, the problem is that he says dumb things, and is persistent about it.

Stay tuned, there are lots more where these came from.

Terminology

Last night I enjoyed an evening of roller derby. The bout was between the local team, the West Texas Roller Dollz, and their opponents, the Oklahoma Victory Dolls. As we sat in the stands trying to figure out the rules, we noticed a few significant differences between the teams. The Oklahoma women look like they actually go to the gym, and their outfits were quite modest and athletic-looking. We speculated that they might be a Christian team. By contrast, the Roller Dollz come in all shapes and sizes, sport a significant number of tattoos, and their "uniforms" consist of personalized combinations of shiny tights, hot pants, sequins, and in the case of a skater who goes by "Wild Wookie," purple fur leg-warmers. The Oklahoma team ended up winning the bout, but the local girls put on a great show.

As one might imagine, half the fun of these events is in watching the crowd, and there are some truly devoted followers. There was a young man in the audience who was a passionate Oklahoma fan, and he came equipped with a sign. The sign was meant to indicate that the Oklahoma Victory Dolls are a fine team, and therefore "kick ass". Since roller derby is a family activity, he was considerate enough to spell the potentially offending word like so: "A--". Meanwhile, the abbreviation for Oklahoma is OK. So, his sign, which he held aloft while running back and forth in front of the bleachers, read:

"OK VD Kicks A--".

This gave me pause.

It occurred to me that given the man's youthful appearance, he probably grew up in the era of the STD, the sexually transmitted disease, as opposed to the more euphemistic VD or "venereal disease." Either that, or he's issuing a warning to anyone who feels a powerful attraction to women in skates and helmets.

MSY --> IAH

I just returned from a trip to New Orleans, where I was speaking (and partying) at a conference. When I upload my photos I'll accompany them with more details, but I'd like to share a friend's observation that sums up the diversity of experience that is the USA.

He looked at my itinerary, which showed that my return flights would take me from New Orleans to Houston to Lubbock. The airport in New Orleans is named after Louis Armstrong. The Houston airport, meanwhile, is named after George Bush. He said "From Louis Armstrong to George Bush - same planet, different worlds."

2nd Amendment

Today I happened upon one of Lubbock's liquor stores. This was for sale:
It is a bottle of tequila shaped (roughly) like an AK-47. This seems like a dangerous mix of associations, particularly since, if you were to drink directly from the bottle (and I'm sure that never happens), it would involve placing the barrel in one's mouth. Of course, this would result in a grimly ironic performance of the bad choices one is making in life.

Some day I'll offer a lengthy post about dating in Lubbock, but in brief, it has been a dismal failure. The fact that there is a market for this item in Lubbock tells you all you need to know about the sensibilities of local gentlemen.

LHUCA

I recently joined the planning committee for the Flatland Film Festival, which takes place every October at the Louise Hopkins Underwood Center for the Arts, or LHUCA (pronounced "luca"). When I arrived for my first meeting, I was greeted by this dog, who belongs to the center's director, and has a successful career as the mascot of Lubbock's art scene.

When he was a puppy, he turned up, alone and injured, on the front step of the gallery. The director took him in, named him Lhuca, and introduced him to a perfect life. He even has his own chair in the director's office. I look forward to seeing him again at the next film festival meeting.

Le mot juste

Vanity plate outside local party establishment.

Country Swing

This evening I decided to take in some live music, which is one of Lubbock's strengths on the cultural front. Some band that was supposed to be good (indeed, they were) was playing at a bar in the "Depot District", a neighbourhood of clubs and restaurants that surrounds the Buddy Holly Center, itself a tribute to the city's patron saint. I ordered a Jack and Coke because I felt it was appropriate, and settled in for a great night of people-watching.

The first thing I noticed was the very impressive array of cowboy hats. One young man in particular was in full peacock mode, with feathers jutting off the back of his hat. As he got closer I also noticed his turquoise necklace. So much finery! I was pleased to see him leave the establishment a couple of hours later with a young lady who had many tattoos and big hair. A good match.

I also made some observations about local vernacular dance. The style appeared to be Country Swing, but the kids these days use an unusual arm position, where the gentleman, instead of holding onto his partner's waist while she places her hand on his shoulder/back, seems to put the lady in what I can only describe as a near-headlock, with his arm all the way around her shoulders. I had actually observed this before at another bar in Lubbock, but I assumed that the strange arm positions had more to do with alcohol consumption than an actual dance style. Next week I'm going to a dissertation defense in the Department of Theater and Dance, so I'll ask somebody there if they can explain this element of local dance culture.

Basketball meets the French Avant-Garde

The other day a friend of mine invited me to a Texas Tech Basketball game. I had yet to attend a university sporting event, so I thought this would be an appropriate introduction to a dominant part of campus culture. The opponents were the University of Texas Austin, who are major rivals. When I say "major rivals", I mean that I have seen bumper stickers around town that include both the UT and TTU logos, with the caption "A House Divided." The proportions of this rivalry are, apparently, Biblical.

We bypassed the concession stand (Refined Carbohydrates R Us!), and made our way to our close-to-courtside seats. The man next to me asked "You yellin' for Texas?" (By Texas, they mean Austin - it's a bit confusing for the uninitiated). My friend said "No, we're not yellers." The Tech fan replied, "Well, as long as you're not yellin' for Texas. That I can't tolerate." No, certainly not. After the national anthem, the players were led onto the court by the Masked Rider, one of the school icons. She looks a bit like Zorro, but in a red cape. As she walked onto the court, the lights were turned down, and to my surprise, they played the score for TRON Legacy on the sound system. Suddenly, the Rider's costume was electrified - trimmed in blue lights, not unlike the characters in TRON with their day-glo outfits. I found this association puzzling, but I am always pleased by infusions of science fiction into everyday life.

The game was compelling enough, I guess. I am not a sports person, but things really got interesting for me during the second period. The crowd behind the home team's basket were given large disks with spiraling designs on them. They would spin them when the other team was trying to make a shot, thus disorienting the players. Naturally, the first thing I thought of was everyone's favourite Dadaist movie, Anemic Cinema. The Dadaists were a group of "anti-artists" who, having witnessed the horrors of the First World War, decided that the Western world needed a kick in the butt, so they sought to use art against itself - to shock and disorient the viewer so as to destroy the systems that had lead their civilization to such destructive ends. They did this with a combination of offensive stunts, baffling performances, and dirty jokes. Anemic Cinema consists of a series of rude French puns (the best kind!) and shots of spinning disks, called "Rotoreliefs", just like the ones at the Basketball game. I will be teaching Dadaism in my Intro to Film class this semester, and I can't wait to demonstrate its connection with local basketball culture.

Spotted!

One of Lubbock's main cultural events is the monthly "First Friday Art Trail", where all the galleries and other artsy venues (including the tattoo parlours) have an evening open house. It's quite civilized, including shuttle buses to move people around, free local wine, and a very diverse crowd. Another local institution is the "Spotted!" feature in the local newspaper, where photographers roam the city, getting shots of people at events and posting them online. Last night, Amanda (in the hat) and I were spotted with this nice woman we don't know at the local Arts Center. I'm pleased at the opportunity to announce to Lubbock that I have a new coat, which I acquired in an antique shop in Bellingham.

Space Donut!

In Bellingham I visited a wonderful establishment - a donut shop with a retro science fiction theme. Here I am with the rocket out front - a hyperbolic statement of modernity and pastryphilia. When we returned the next day for breakfast, I got to meet one of my heroes.

This is Gort, from the 1951 film The Day the Earth Stood Still. If you get him upset, a laser will come out of his visor and vaporize you, so don't forget to pay for your donut.

While we waited for our espressos to be espressed, we watched the televisions, which were playing scenes from The Deadly Mantis. This film is a shameless ripoff of Them!, the giant radioactive ant movie, but I do feel a certain affection for it because its horde of giant radioactive praying mantises are, like me, Canadian. They emerge from the Arctic ice after a nuclear experiment gone wrong.

The Sidecar

I am not a big drinker, but I have come to appreciate the art of the cocktail. Some years ago I was at the bar in the Mercer Hotel in New York when my friend ordered a Sidecar. I had a sip, found it delicious, and decided that this would be "my" cocktail. If you conduct a google image search for "sidecar cocktail", you will see this:
Isn't it pretty? Now, you would think that if you were to go into a cocktail bar and order a Sidecar, you would receive something that resembles the drink in this photograph. I have discovered that it is not so simple.

I moved to Lubbock about eighteen months ago, and as my readers know, I've been a good sport about the place. I have resisted the tendency, particularly among academics, to complain about the ways that Lubbock is neither Manhattan nor Los Angeles, and instead to appreciate the ample supply of big sky and friendly neighbours. My state of inner peace, however, has been strained by the matter of the Sidecar.

There are a number of institutions in Lubbock that present themselves as cocktail bars, complete with fancy leather chairs and mood lighting. Alas, not a one of them has been able to provide me with a Sidecar without a degree of Sturm und Drang. Here's how it goes: I order my drink, and the bartender meets my gaze with a confused stare and a "What's in that?" I realize that a Sidecar only has three ingredients (cognac, orange liqueur, lemon juice), but I find it hard to remember the recipe. This mental block arises from the fact that Sidecar-making is not my job. I am a film studies professor, not a mixologist. Indeed, if we take the name of the drink literally, when it comes to cocktails, I don't want to drive the motorcycle. I want to sit in the sidecar.

When I go to a cocktail bar, I want the bartender to take the proverbial handlebars. Think of it this way - when I go to the dentist, I don't want to have to tell them how to clean my teeth. In fact, that would be quite disturbing. Similarly, I want my cocktail bar to take care of me and know how to make cocktails.

In an effort to salvage my drink order, I will then ask the bartender if they have a book of cocktail recipes. They never do, which makes me question their status as a cocktail bar. At this point in the exchange, if my friend Amanda is with me, she will reach into her bag, pull out her iPhone, and look up a Sidecar recipe to show to the bartender. I of course appreciate this, but it opens up another problem pertaining to gender norms and West Texas.

In West Texas, people marry young. It is unusual for women to not only remain unmarried into their 30s, but also get PhDs, wear clothes they bought in Paris/Montreal/New York, and order fancy-pants cocktails. This means that when in public, I do not fit into any of the established categories of West Texas Femininity. Amanda, who is also a professor, is in the same boat, but it's even more complex for her because she has alopecia and is therefore bald. It's a good look for her, but it's certainly atypical in a part of the country where local businesses include Bumpits in their displays of back-to-school supplies.

On one level, we are extremely happy about not fitting into this aesthetic, but it does create a problem. Imagine, if you will, Amanda and I standing at the bar. I order a "weird" cocktail. Amanda orders a scotch. I can't remember what's in my weird cocktail. Amanda looks it up on her iPhone. We exchange some repartee with the bartender about how "This always happens". The bartender hands us one bill. Amanda and I look at each other and realize that we've been typed as a lesbian couple. (To my readers who may not know me, I'm not a lesbian, and neither is Amanda). As far as the cocktail bar is concerned, I'm the ditzy blonde femme who can never remember what's in her drink, while my butch, bald, scotch-drinking girlfriend handles the situation with her iPhone. Being typed as lesbians does not bother us in itself, but it does exacerbate the problem of finding suitable men in Lubbock, which is a whole other story.

As you can see, the Sidecar issue has become quite fraught - not only is it hard to get the drink that I like, but it also sets off a cascade of anxiety about the nature of specialized labor, the performance of gender roles, and the general state of civilization. It was starting to get me down, but in November, as I was planning a trip to Milwaukee, I thought that maybe I could get a Sidecar there, and everything would be better.

I visited Milwaukee for a film conference, where I met up with some of my old classmates for drinks. I pointed out that we needed to go to a cocktail bar so I could get a Sidecar. We were driven there by a woman I had just met, and who lives in Milwaukee. As we drove, she kept offering us alternate destinations: "Actually, there's a really good brewery..." "If you want a good wine bar..." "If you're hungry there's a good Thai place..." I kept interjecting that we absolutely needed to go to a cocktail bar. My insistence probably struck her as odd, and perhaps indicative of a drinking problem, but she didn't understand what was at stake. At last, we entered a bar at a posh hotel, and sat down with the martini menu. I was overjoyed to see "Sidecar" right there on the menu, and I ordered it with enthusiasm. My drink arrived and I raised it to my lips, gleefully anticipating the sugar crystals on the rim of the glass...

It was salt. Salt and cognac are a bad mix. Really, Universe?! Not funny! The drink was quickly replaced, but my recovery was long and difficult.

A month later I was in Winnipeg for Christmas. We all went for a fantastic Christmas dinner at the Fort Garry Hotel, and the plan was to meet up in the bar beforehand. I decided to order a Sidecar to see what would happen. The waiter didn't balk at the request, so I had high hopes. I received this:

If you compare this with the earlier photo, you'll note the substantial differences in appearance. This drink was quite tasty, but it was in no way a Sidecar. I declared cynically that the day I actually get a Sidecar without complication will be the day I die. My cousin advised me to stop ordering that drink in the name of self-preservation. I thought, oh, great, I've jinxed myself. Cruel world!

The next stop on my trip was Bellingham, Washington, to visit some of my old Chicago friends. I told them my tragic tale of the elusive Sidecar, and they suggested that we have a day of Pacific Northwest fun, i.e. walking by the ocean and eating at organic tree-hugger restaurants, and that we stop at a fine restaurant on Lummi Island. "I'm sure they can make you a Sidecar" they said. We took the ferry and enjoyed our constitutional by the sea, before stopping by the Willows Inn. My friends all ordered Sidecars in solidarity with me, and we agreed that the restaurant's avant-garde take on the recipe, substituting pear brandy for orange liqueur, broke the spell of my fatalistic prophesy.

The following day I took the train to Vancouver for a friend's wedding. (The bride, a fellow blogger, writes Yam I Am - see link at the top right.) It was a fab party, and at one point the bride, being a good hostess, advised me to drink more hard liquor. Since it was her day, I felt it would be rude to ignore her suggestion, so I asked the bartender, as usual, for a Sidecar. She looked at me and said "Yes! I will make you a Sidecar, but, wow, I haven't made one of those in years!" She asked if I could give her a few minutes to assemble the ingredients, as she had to send her assistant into the back to find the appropriate brandy. Also, she didn't have enough lemons to make juice, but she did something clever with lemonade, and I figured that would do. It's never easy. The drink was tasty, and I'm pleased to say, my obvious delight in it started a trend, and before long many wedding guests were sporting Sidecars. I thanked the bartender for her competence, and explained how nobody knows how to make this drink anymore. She said "That's because everyone who drinks brandy is six feet under." Cocktails of the Living Dead.

My Sidecar saga is still ongoing. In spite of myself, I have in fact learned the Sidecar recipe, but I still hold out hope that I will never have to use it. I have also learned to embrace the suspense and excitement that comes with ordering a Sidecar. As with everything in life, you never know what you're going to get, and it's more about the journey than the destination.