Package Deal

Today's Groupon offer (Groupon is an e-mail coupon system) in Lubbock features both tattoo removal and concealed handgun classes. This is a great combination if you're thinking about a career change.

Cryptozoology

This weekend I make the substantial journey to Maine for a friend's wedding. She was getting married in Farmington, a little town two miles from Portland. Flying from Lubbock to Portland is not a simple process, so in order to make it for the Saturday wedding, I had to leave on the Thursday and return on the Monday. This meant I had a fair bit of time to explore Portland, so naturally, I took the opportunity to visit the International Cryptozoology Museum.

As a kid I always enjoyed books about monsters, and was a huge fan of the TV shows like In Search Of... and Unsolved Mysteries, hosted by Leonard Nimoy and Robert Stack, respectively. That's where I learned to scrutinize Bigfoot footage, and observe the rhetorical trends in UFO narratives. My favorite science magazine, Equinox, once had a feature on Mokele-mbembe, a brontosaurus-type creature that apparently lurks in the jungles of the Congo. On more than a few occasions, I have been able to use my knowledge from this article to start conversations with a certain kind of person, i.e. the sort of person who runs a cryptozoology museum. More on that later.

After you enter and pony up your seven dollars for admission, your first priority should be to get a photo with Bigfoot. While Bigfoot is tall, I should note that he was also standing on a pedestal, which I think is cheating.

The displays were, in many senses, even stranger than I would have imagined, in that most of them consisted of well-known animals, like foxes, squirrels, and in this case, beavers. The sign asks the enduring question "Do Giant Beavers Still Exist?" After looking at this display, I feel confident in saying "No." And yes, those are action figures of Indiana Jones and Steve Irwin, one of whom was a real person. I am tempted to read this arrangement of real and fictional people with a real beaver who only looks giant because of the scale of the plastic people as a clever commentary on the ambiguities of cryptozoology as a field of study, but I'm probably giving it too much credit.

Yetis are not white, you racist fools! I should note that this sign was placed in front of a collection of white Yeti dolls, which doesn't really clarify anything.

 This sign, which as you can see, was not well secured to the display case, seems to make a claim for the rationality of the field. However, the contents of the case consisted of stuffed animals with extra parts glued on to them, so I don't think their authenticity was ever in question:

The Bigfoot footage I remember so well from my youth is here presented on a TV, but with a picture frame around the screen, and old-timey flourishes on the sides to make you take it seriously. Are you convinced?

After making the rounds, I approached the curator to ask if he had anything on my old friend, Mokele-mbembe. He admitted that he didn't have much, but that it was one of the most likely candidates to be a real animal, almost as much as the "Giant Panda." I was tempted to inform him that the Giant Panda is a real animal and I've seen them at zoos, in youtube videos, on greeting cards, and just about everywhere else, but I didn't want to seem disrespectful. He lead me over to a display case to show me this:

This, my friends, is a plastic dinosaur toy that was autographed by a guy who wrote a book on Mokele-mbembe. On one level, this is a wonderful object and I would like to have one myself, but I also felt like in this case, they weren't even really trying.  

Rolling Roadshow

Texas is made for road trips, so last summer I took advantage of the state's abundance of weird small towns. I have been encouraged by the Alamo Drafthouse, a cinema in Austin that shows cool stuff and serves drinks, and their "Rolling Roadshow" - a scheme where they put on open-air screenings of Texas movies, in the towns where they were filmed.

One of their features was the Paul Newman 1963 movie Hud in Claude, which is just a few miles from Amarillo. I packed up my lawn chair and headed north. Now, when it comes to landscape in West Texas, I hear a lot of complaints about its flatness. Yes, it is flat, but I choose to perceive it as living in a Mark Rothko painting. For example:

Except, of course, when you come across a canyon. The transition is so rapid it is actually startling, to go from flatness to deep, red and rocky. I pulled over in the bottom of a canyon just to contemplate things for a moment.

Of course, the Grand Canyon gets more press, but the mini-versions thereof in West Texas are pretty impressive. I drove through the canyons, enjoying the novelty of their verticality, and I was pleased to notice a sign for a lookout up ahead. I pulled in, and noticed a big rig stopped there, with the driver leaning against it. I have seen enough movies to know that this is not a great place for a single woman to stop, so I pulled a U-turn and continued on to Claude. I didn't want to miss the big show, of course.

Claude is an archetypal dying town. It's close enough to Amarillo to get a bit of traffic, but the downtown was quite depressed. I stopped at the Dairy Queen, as that is a staple of the West Texas diet, and explored the main street before the movie. Attractions included the Gem Theatre, which plays itself in the film.

The old schoolhouse:

And an assortment of abandoned shop windows full of mysterious objects, such as this old car:

Or this, a bathtub with sides covered in carpet. This strikes me as a bad idea, or at least something you can only get away with in a desert climate. I'm not sure if the yoke and lantern were included in the original package.:

Finally, no small western town is complete without a cigar store Indian. This one is adorned with a sacred white buffalo. I'll tell that story another time.:

As the sun started to set, the Alamo Drafthouse crew got their projection booth truck into position and inflated their portable screen in front of the town hall. You can see the projector lenses peeking out.:

One of the delightful things about the process is we got to see things that are normally hidden at a movie theatre, like the process of calibrating the projector for the screen.

The local Legion was selling hot dogs, and some kids had been recruited to distribute free popcorn. We all staked out our spots in the parking lot with our lawn chairs, and the show began with some vintage movie trailers that might have shown before Hud back in the day. An unexpected thrill in watching the movie in the middle of town is that since it was shot there, one could perform shot-by-shot comparisons with the surrounding space. There'd be a shot of the courthouse, and then you would look to your right, and there's the courthouse. Not much has changed, except none of Claude's residents resemble Paul Newman in the slightest. 

As the sky grew darker, the light of the screen started to attract moths, which in turn attracted the local bat population. I've written before about the ways nature often competes with outdoor screenings (lightning at the drive-in, etc.), but this was quite spectacular to watch the cloud of bats swirling above us, and occasionally cruising in front of the screen. 

When the show wrapped, I drove home, but took the big highway through Amarillo, since the canyon is not such a good option in the dark. 

I think this guy winked at me on Match.com

Click here for an explanation of the Lubbock problem: Well said, Jimmy Kimmel.

Kennedy Space Center

While in Orlando, I took a day and drove out to Cape Canaveral. I sprung for the "behind the scenes" tour at the Kennedy Space Center, and was delighted to hear that this would include a visit to the Vehicle Assembly Building - a structure I've seen in many IMAX space movies. They don't normally let visitors into this area, since vehicle assembly involves enormous quantities of rocket fuel, and it would be bad PR if a bus tour was incinerated because someone ignored the No Smoking signs. Fortunately, the only spacecraft in the building was the now-retired Shuttle Atlantis, who is being prepared for permanent museum display.

I felt a bit sad to see her there, looking tired, with her nose cut open. I remember my excitement at watching launches on tv as a kid, assembling a Shuttle model kit and playing with it, and poring over the satellite images Dad would bring home from work. I was one of those who felt sentimental when the Shuttle program ended last year - much the way I feel about the decline in celluloid film projection. Dream machines being laid to rest.
We got back on the bus and went out to the shuttle launch pad. The tour guide noted the railroad tracks, which were used back in the early days of the space program, before the equipment got too heavy for trains to handle. I was so pleased that these examples of frontier-exploring-infrastructure were good enough to pose together in perfect composition.

Orlando

Last summer, my friend Elizabeth called me and asked if I'd like to do a half-marathon with her at Disney World. I figured, why not? So, this morning Ginger and Norman picked me up before dawn to take me to the airport, and now I'm sitting by a pool in Orlando. I was most impressed with the Orlando Airport's level of preparedness for Ash Wednesday. As soon as I got off the terminal monorail, there were two airport chaplains with a table, a modest sign, and ashes. As you can see, they fixed me up:

Tomorrow I'm going to the Kennedy Space Center to look at stuff at the Kennedy Space Center. Sunday is marathon day, so to prepare and scope out the scene, we're going to do Disney theme parks on Friday and Saturday. Fortunately, Elizabeth is a Disney World veteran, and I emailed her a list of my points of interest in advance so she would have time to develop a strategic plan. Of course, I have a research agenda, which is to see lots of historically-significant 3D film installations at Disney World, such as the Michael Jackson science-fiction music video Captain EO. This film hadn't been screened for years, but I gather that with Mr. Jackson's demise, the film was resurrected.

What Elizabeth doesn't know is that I've brought a special present for her. We used to be roommates in Chicago, where she developed a taste for my macaroni and cheese. Over the years, she has periodically phoned me from her kitchen to guide her through making it herself. Last weekend I made a big vat of it for the vegetarian co-op, so I froze some of it and managed to get it past the TSA. This is my contribution to our pre-race carbo-loading. Not that it's hard to find carbohydrates in Orlando.

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.