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.

You keep using this word. I do not think it means what you think it means.

The most exceptional error in word choice in a student essay this semester is, without question:

"Groups of people like to consummate in the theater lobby before or after the movie."

The Few. The Proud. The Postmodern.

Yesterday evening I was driving home when I saw police lights at the intersection up ahead. I figured there had been an accident on the main road, so I turned down a side-street, only to realize that in fact, Lubbock had been temporarily shut down for the Christmas Parade. I decided to park in front of a local business to watch the illuminated floats, which included an array of pickup trucks and muscle cars coated with Christmas lights.

After a while, the profile of the parade participants started to shift from local businesses and church groups to military vehicles and Marines. Their uniforms, in this context, reminded me of toy soldiers and nutcrackers. This photograph, which I stole from the internet, is a good illustration of what was going on in my brain:

The vehicles had banners on the sides that read "Toys for Tots", and the Marines were cheerfully collecting presents from people in the crowd. I thought, "Oh, that's nice." But then, I saw something that made me wonder if someone had spiked the eggnog at the Marines' Public Relations Department office party. As is customary in Christmas Parades, the final float featured a guy dressed as Santa Claus, who sat in a big chair and waved to the crowds. This was all very expected, as were the assortment of elves, toys and illuminated candy canes that surrounded him. As the float rolled past, however, I started to make out other figures on the flatbed, positioned across from Santa. As it was dark, it took me a moment to identify them as cardboard cutouts of this photograph:

So, Santa Claus is on Iwo Jima? The Marines have just taken the North Pole? Do acts of war qualify as naughty or nice? So many questions.

The Good Ferret

Today we had the annual Blessing of the Animals service at my church. The furrier members of the congregation each received a sprinkling with holy water and a laying on of hands. Mollie was agreeable about the ritualized petting, but she doesn't like to get wet, so when the holy water was deployed she shot me a glance that asked "is this really necessary?"

We read one of St. Basil's prayers for animals, which includes a confession of guilt:

"We remember with shame that in the past we have exercised the high dominion of man with ruthless cruelty so that the voice of the earth, which should have gone up to Thee in song has been a groan of travail."

The instant the congregation said "groan of travail", one of the assembled schnauzers offered an appropriate sound effect, which got laughs, but also made it all a bit spooky.

As the priest blessed each animal, he said "May God make you a good dog [cat], and may you live a long, happy, and healthy life." There wasn't much variety in species at the event, in part because I failed to convince my friend Linda to bring one of her chickens, but I did have the privilege of witnessing the blessing of a ferret. "May God make you a good ferret..." I wonder, what constitutes a good ferret?