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.