Jaime Likes You

Behest me to use the word behest, but fuck working.

In the morning, I stare at my laundry on the chair and think about what I’m gonna wear because instead of figuring it out the night before I drank four beers and watched YouTube videos of the White Stripes performing live then fell asleep with my iPhone on my chest and an empty beer bottle at the foot of my bed, like the cat I never had.  Two points for a run-on sentence.

Some mornings, the distance between where I’m at and my modern, light wood desk equipped with a brand new laptop and digital photo frame across town feels like a 700 mile trip that I can’t make today; I don’t have money for a plane ticket, a bus ride, whose gonna pick me up?  I stare at a ceiling fan that’s always turned off.  What the fuck am I gonna wear?

In the car, I drink a Red Bull I stole from my Dad and listen to audio books or podcasts or a new album by a band that gets too much or too little credit and sometimes I smoke a cigarette even though it tastes gross and I don’t really like it and it causes cancer and dirty looks.  Three points for a run-on sentence.

I know exactly which point on the freeway is halfway and when I finally get to my exit, I want the light to stay red so I have more time to myself.

I trek up three flights of stairs instead of using the elevator because, you know, obesity epidemic and shit.

The office is so perfect and modern; clean lines, beige blinds, giant windows, an office iPad, a refrigerator stocked with water and a printer that prints via email prompts.  Not at all like my last job where me and my dirty, arty co-workers would frequent dive bars on our lunch hour and send Craigslist dicks on GoogleTalk instead of… work.  Now, I have to sit up straight, be a go getter, take notes, be well spoken and professional.  Watch webinars.  Research.  Write.  Not go on Facebook.  Say things like, “No, thank YOU!”

The silence in the office is thick and sad, like a chubby third grader sitting alone at lunch.  I want so bad to pull out my iPhone and listen to sounds that are not the incessant tapping of computer keys or exchanges about DIV tags and Google’s algorithms.  I don’t though.  I write.  Studiously.  Like I’m getting paid to do it.  Because fuck, I am.  I pull my sleeves over my hands, my skirt past my knees, wrap my sweater closer around my chest; it is always fucking freezing in there.  

There’s a giant floor-to-ceiling window in front of me, but I never open the blinds unless its raining.

On my lunch hour, I buy a coffee, find a shaded parking spot and listen to comedy albums, audiobooks, podcasts, music in my car while feeling the minutes pass.  My eyes follow people walking by on the street: headphoned punk rock boys, moms with strollers, business men on their own lunch break.  I envy the people who don’t appear to be working at the moment.  “Look at him” I think, “I bet he doesn’t have a job.  Lots of people don’t have jobs.  The economy sucks right now.  No one would judge me.” 

Reluctantly, I sail into my underground parking spot and walk the three flights back up to the frigid office and finish articles, answer questions, try and make jokes that fall flat only about 30 percent of the time.  If someone has a sense of humor in that office, it’s buried deep deep deep under a blanket of conversion rates and keyword percentages.  Sometimes I forget I’m supposed to be normal and I accidentally make a joke about fisting or cocaine.  Nervous laughs all around.  I’ll take it.   

After about 4:30, I’m only pretending to work until 5.

I watch the minutes pass and I gather my things exactly on the hour.  I drive home ecstatic to be driving home.

The real tragedy is not that I stand in line with the other girls at Starbucks who work at the Bank of America building across the street and wear pantyhose and slick up their hair and order low-fat everything and feel like I blend, better than the baristas blend my coffee.  The tragedy is that I grew up in a generation which somehow led me to believe that I didn’t have to.  I’m tired of people telling me how lucky I am to have a good job.  I’m lucky I don’t have cancer (hopefully).  I’m lucky I have straight teeth.  I’m not lucky to have a job.  I find it decidedly UNlucky that while my philandering “artist” type friends are able to revel in unemployment and spew out nonsense about smoking pot for their “anxiety,” and living modestly and quietly off generous siblings or relatives— I have to pull myself out of bed every day and work for real, being annoyingly plagued with the idea of “responsibility” and just, like, paying for my own shit.

Maybe I’m the sucker though and it’s true what they say: if you have a back up plan to what you really want to do you’ll never do what you really want to do, because the back up plan is always easier.  And I suppose if you never know what you really want to do you’ll do something like what I do. 

My real concern here is that I just don’t think I have the body type for pencil skirts and pressed jackets.

Dear Motherfuckers,

I realize that it’s probably necessary for you to crowd my lane on the freeway during rush hour traffic because instead of driving you’re fantasizing about the KFC left overs you have in your fridge or stuck in deep contemplation about why you listen to Rush Limbaugh instead of Sports Talk on the drive home, but please move the fuck over, take a driving class and pay fucking attention. And I know it’s really hard for you considering you suffer from BABY DICK SYNDROME and only made it through Jr. High cause your parents have money and so giving you the keys to a 4000 pound machine that can potentially kill people makes you feel entitled, yet totally careless— but please for the sake of humanity buy a fucking bike.

I know, motherfuckers, that sending that text message to the boy you’re thinking about fucking while driving 25 miles an hour in the car pool lane on the freeway and blasting Des’ree’s “You Gotta Be” makes you feel young and alive but it’s not the time nor place to be self reflective and flirty. (Full disclosure: I’ve been known to crank that shit up too if it’s on the radio, I DO gotta be bad, gotta be bold, gotta be wiser).

To the motherfuckers who like to cut me off in their shit pile American made piece of spray painted garbage and then break suddenly for no apparent reason: I’d just like to suggest maybe smoking your crack rock at home, before you make the trek out to Folsom to buy bottom of the barrel yellow cocaine in hopes that chick who works at Pete’s Coffee will come out tonight and do rails with you.  FYI, if she does dude, she’s not gonna fuck you, so keep your ugly car at a steady pace and stay sober while driving if you can.

Look, I know you guys are busy fucking moms and probably won’t see this, I realize that’s what you do when you’re not driving in my vicinity around 5 p.m. on the 50 Monday through Friday, but I genuinely hope one motherfucker sees this.  If I can touch one motherfucker it’s all worth it.

There are things in life that suck motherfuckers, one of those things is driving home at 5 every day in rush hour traffic on six lane freeways in California and as such you have to adjust your fucking priority levels to make that experience suck less for everyone around you.  You have to stop and consider, “hmmm, maybe I shouldn’t speed up and ride along side this Pontiac while she’s trying to switch lanes so she can exit, maybe I should be aware and polite and let her over so she can go about her day as I’m trying to” instead of think, “look at this bitch trying to get over but can’t.”

A real quick shout out to not only the motherfuckers on the road, but those awesome motherfuckers who designed the road, specifically that part on the I50 headed West right after the 65^th St. exit when the freeway opens up to two more lanes yet CURVES AROUND so it’s a giant cluster fuck of motherfuckers trying to figure out which lane they’re in and subsequently almost driving into me.  It’s cool though you know, cause I get that if there aren’t lines on the road you motherfuckers can’t figure out where you’re supposed to be, especially when you’re 85 years old and lost in a debate with your wife of 100 years about whether you should go to Hometown Buffet or Waffle House for dinner. You want Hometown Buffet, but those little chickpeas in the salad make her diverticulitis act up.

You know motherfuckers, it’s really funny how you feel like your car is this over priced, gas guzzling shield which suddenly gives you license to be a total dick in a way you never would be if you were in line at a bank or taking a stroll through the park.  I know the fact that no one can see you, catch you, or know you makes it all the more easy to let your MOTHERFUCKER flag fly, but I’m asking you nicely, as a human being, please pay the fuck attention to what you’re doing and be considerate to others on the road.

It’s cool though guys, I can express all my anger right here because when I’m driving I stay calm, listen to Marc Maron or The Nerdist or The Weakerthans or Helium or Pavement and am far, far removed from your reality which is seemingly caked in… motherfuckerness.  My steady stream of hate for you is kept deep down in the pockets of my denim jumpsuit that I’d like to wear but totally don’t have the body type for.  I’m not angry, I’m disappointed.  I’m disappointed you were born. And that you have a nicer car than me.

Always Yours,

Jaime

10. Will Smith

One common hallmark in many of the best films of all time is the inclusion of an up and coming actor killing it in their break out role, one that takes them from a budding career actor to a huge superstar. Independence Day did for Will Smith what The Godfather did for James Caan. Great films, the creators of great films, recognize potential, take chances on an amazing choice and ultimately are validated with a completed film featuring some of the best cheesy one liners ever muttered by an unbelievably attractive black man. Independence Day is one of the greatest films of all time because Will Smith is fucking awesome, they saw that, they made him a star and now you know it too, so say thanks to Independence Day (I always knew though, Will, I always knew). His delivery of the material is so perfect that it’s even catapulted some of his one liners into the realm of “classic,” case and point: “now that’s what I call a close encounter” and “welcome to earth!”

9. It Revived Vintage Saturday Matinee B-Movie Type Science Fiction Films

Not since Star Wars had a science fiction film of any kind exploded so rapidly at the box office, and what naturally followed was a slew of films trying to capitalize on the public’s new hunger for B Movie type sci fi carnage. As a fan of B movie science fiction, as someone who thinks they’re kind of genius, I can only attest that this a good thing. A year after Independence Day was released big studios put out movies like Cube (while Cube was a box office failure, it’s become somewhat of a cult classic, and I strongly believe Trimark never would have given it an American release without Independence Day), Gattaca, Mimic, and Alien: Resurrection. Those were all just from ‘97, not taking into account the many more that were released in the late 90’s (Lost in Space, Deep Rising, Species II) as well as science fiction parody films such as Mars Attacks and Galaxy Quest.  Independence Day paved the way and opened up a whole new genre to those not usually privy or interested.  Being a catalyst and changing the film landscape is what great films do.

And it did this because it made money, therefore

8. It Raised the Standard, and The Budgets, for Action Science Fiction Films

Let’s not forget the bottom line here: Independence Day grossed over 800 million dollars off a 70 million dollar budget, making it one of the top 50 highest grossing films of all time and by far the highest grossing in 1996. While Hollywood seemingly puts out a steady flow of action and destruction, Independence Day allowed studios to take things to a whole new level, and a whole new budget. Following the success of ID4 were films like Armageddon (budget: 140 million), Contact (budget: 90 million, and seriously WTF did they spend 90 million dollars on in Contact?  It was all Jodie Foster being pensive and Matthew McConaughey being completely irrelevant), The Fifth Element (budget: 90 million), Starship Troopers (budget: 105 million), and even director Rolland Emmerich’s next film, Godzilla, got a huge budget bump to 130 million.  After Independence Day things had to be better, bigger, more expensive, more spectacular.  Unfortunately, a big budget isn’t what makes a great film (see: Armageddon), ID4 used a smaller budget by comparison, smaller movie stars and less commercial marketing than a film like Armageddon (see: that fucking song that played fucking everywhere) and was STILL able to bring in a 730 million dollar profit, almost double that of Armageddon’s profit (about 413 million).  Of course, Armageddon sucked and Independence Day is one of the greatest films of all time, which naturally explains it.

7. The Special Effects are Still Good Even Though it was Made in 1996

No other 90’s sci fi action thriller holds a candle to Independence Day as far as special effects. I was 11 when I saw it in the theaters and completely mesmerized by the jet fighting sequences, the realistic aliens and the initial alien attack scene which, on the big screen, at 11, was god damn amazing. Not since Jurassic Park had I been truly impressed by uncompromising spectacle. A truly great film is timeless, and while it’s often laughable to watch the special effects in big budget action or sci fi thrillers from the 80s and 90s (see: Deep Blue Sea, Anaconda) Independence Day has stood the test of time, employing innovative techniques and quality computer graphics make it watchable, without taking the viewer out of the setting because it’s so obviously dated. Great films like Bladerunner and Star Wars are able to handle the years that pass because they boast quality special effects alongside a good story. In addition to raising the standard, it started the whole “popular landmarks being destroyed” thing. How many films since Independence Day have creatively destroyed the Statue of Liberty? What makes it great though is that watching this 90’s film alongside a CGI heavy disaster movie put out years later, it is absolutely clear that Independence Day is the fucking original, the OG, the one that started things up again, the classic Pepsi to Sam’s Cola, the Norco to Hydrocodone/Acetemetaphyn, an Apple iPhone to a Motorola Titanium (a three megapixel fixed focus camera with no flash, seriously?)

6. The Representation of Government and Presidential Power

Many of the greatest films of all time have to have elements of modern government, right? Great films make a statement. They’re about war and struggle and a reflection of our time. Great films are notorious for their take on futuristic totalitarian governments (see: The Matrix, Star Wars, 1984.), the pending apocalypse (see: Dr. Strangelove, Planet of the Apes) and layered portrayals of presidential power (All the President’s Men, um… Air Force One?). In ID4 President Whitmore is an actual leader, a good, caring man in a position of power. I like to think that it’s portrayal of government and presidential power is a sort of whimsical approach to how things should be if this actually happened, but never really could be. Not a satire but a fantasy, a fairytale government: one with a war hero president who cares about his citizens, a right hand General who stays by his side, a press secretary who is sassy and smart, and just one bad apple in the government’s executive branch, the secretary of defense, who eventually gets “fired” cause, you know, he’s an asshole. Point being, while the film doesn’t offer up anything controversial, satirical or culture changing— it gives a representation of government that is equally interesting to watch, a fairytale government, a bad ass president, an executive branch that does the right thing. I feel like this one is a stretch (see: Air Force One again, Deep Impact, maybe a lot more).

5. The Comedy

Let’s get something straight, even the best films have elements of quality humor. Even when the standard of jokes in Independence Day are not at their best, they’re still better than most of the jokes you see infused within big budget action flicks. Independence Day raised the standard of humor that’s placed within these type of films by casting co-stars like Randy Quade, Harry Connick Jr. and the Old Jewish Guy (granted, they’re stereotypes, but you know what, so is everyone in your life) to bounce off the wit of our heroes. Independence Day is somehow able to perfectly balance cheesy one liners that are absolutely necessary for every movie of this sort and genuinely funny stuff: case and point “do you think they have those pens, those pens you get at the white house?”, “Dad, what?” as a genuinely funny moment and “I picked a hella of a day to quit drinking” as a funny, albeit sort of cheesy one liner. Titanic, another film considered to be one of the best, is one which seems to do this flawlessly. They both work, they both make you laugh even if you’re laughing for different reasons. The consistent and perfectly delivered humor is a necessary subplot, an essential element in making this, and every other great film, solid, enjoyable and funny.

4. The Area 51 Scene and the “What is it You Want From Us” Exchange

“Diiiiiiiiiiieeeeeee, diiiiiiiiiieeeeeee” is what the awesomely constructed alien puppet wanted from the human race, note, as a throwback to my special effects point, that this alien was a puppet, tangible material, and not a computer generated being. The revelation of the alien’s plan is shown in such a perfect, amazing, cheesy B-Movie horror science fiction way that even those who don’t regularly delve into the genre of B Movie sci fi get a small taste of what is truly great about it. The President is attacked by the creature and is able to have a conversation with it, tell it they want peace, and ask the creature what they want. I believe the communication between your protagonist and antagonist in a science fiction film is hard to pull off without being ridiculous (see: Sphere where they instant message) Independence Day does it the way it should be done: like a cheesy B Movie would. The cameo of Brent Spiner (who played Data in Star Trek) as Dr. Okun, though historically slammed by critics as “too much,” is really pretty great in my book. It was a small gift to science fiction nerds watching, and what’s wrong with that? (Side note: I didn’t know who the fuck that guy was until I read about him). An eccentric scientist that ultimately is taken down by the alien creature he’s been experimenting on is so B sci fi I wanna cry (in honor of corniness, I’m a poet and I didn’t even know it). This scene captures so many of the film’s greatest achievements: brilliant special effects, low brow charming dialogue, flawlessly delivered revelations, and just the perfect amount of spectacle to truly make the audience fawn. The natural end to this scene in President Whitmore’s powerful take-control question: “is that glass bulletproof?!” in which his entourage, lead by the handsome and strapping dude whose name I don’t feel like looking up, replies, “NO, SIR!” before pelting the alien with a steady array of presidential bullets. One of the best scenes in the film, a scene that gets engrained in your mind, a scene that makes it a great fucking movie.

3. Bill Pullman, Jeff Goldblum, and Robert Loggia

Behest me to use the word behest, and also to not mention any of the female actresses in this small list, but the reality is that Independence Day is a masculine film full of amazing dude actors. Would my feminist sensibilities be tickled if the Randy Quade character was played by a drunk Bonnie Hunt or even if the president was portrayed by a serious faced Glenn Close? Sure, but that’s not how it goes, and I’m okay with that when I’m not menstruating. Dudes can certainly get the job done sometimes.

Say what you will about Bill Pullman, that he’s about on the same level as Bill Paxton, which is what I’d say, but those who truly appreciate this film know this role could not be portrayed by any actor who would perform it as if they were going for an Oscar. Pullman’s campy, raspy voiced portrayal of President Thomas Whitmore pullmans everything together so perfectly (get it?). Despite, as you’ll see, delivering one of the most amazing scenes in film history, his understated and somewhat aloof performance only adds to its genius.

Goldblum is likable, funny and shares an odd and lovable chemistry with Smith, flannel shirt around the waste and all. I’ve seen The Fly a dozen times, and I dig him in Jurassic Park, but other that, like, what’s Goldblum really been in? He’s at his best here, and helps lift the film outside the box of just another action film. An unlikely hero with an equally lovable Jewish father is unmatched.

If you ever asked me to name films with Robert Loggia, with the exception of Big, this is the only one I could name, and I may recite “with your permission sir, I’d like to remain at your side” and then trail off and pretend I knew what I was talking about. Point being, no one sounds like Robert Loggia. The sheer gift of hearing his voice is enough to revel in the wonder of him being him in one of the best movies of all time.

2. The President’s Speech

The real triumph in this film is this scene. All great films have one great scene, one that people talk about for years to come, ones that are parodied and copied, ones that you always stop to watch no matter what you’re doing. One scene that stands out and lives on. This is that scene. And really, it’s the pipe dream we all love about it, the sense of real leadership, an ex-fighter pilot turned president inspiring his men before battle and in turn, somehow inspiring the audience. The same way some people get inexplicably choked up when then they hear the Star Spangled Banner because they feel a sudden wave of patriotism and pride. Is this a perfect example of blatant masculinity and a sausage fest where all the dudes want to wave their dicks as high as the American flag? Sure. Was it written by someone who is actually German and not American? Yep. Does Roland Emmerich write stereotypes, unlikely scenarios, rely heavily on cliches and, perhaps the most saddening, write 1998’s Godzilla? He certainly did. But that’s not the point. The point is that the Speech is actually a good little piece of writing: surface-ey enough for the dumb people in the audience, poetic enough for the smarter fans, corny enough for everyone who is watching, and that’s a pretty fantastic accomplishment, Roland Emmerich, if only you had considered the idea of quality writing more when you made 2012 (quick side note though, I fucking love The Day After Tomorrow, it’s my favorite bedtime story movie). Really though, I didn’t have to go on like this to prove my point all I had to do was say…

“In less than an hour, aircraft from here will join others from around the world. And you will be launching the largest aerial battle in the history of mankind. “Mankind.” That word should have new meaning for all of us today. We can’t be consumed by our petty differences anymore. We will be united in our common interests. Perhaps it’s fate that today is the Fourth of July, and you will once again be fighting for our freedom… Not from tyranny, oppression, or persecution… but from annihilation. We are fighting for our right to live. To exist. And should we win the day, the Fourth of July will no longer be known as an American holiday, but as the day the world declared in one voice: “We will not go quietly into the night!” We will not vanish without a fight! We’re going to live on! We’re going to survive! Today we celebrate our Independence Day!”

Come on, how can you not love that shit? Greatest. Movie. Ever.

1. If You Hate Independence Day You’re an Idiot

(less of a reason, more of a conclusion)

The best thing about Independence Day is that those who don’t enjoy it are one of two kinds of people: movie snobs who can’t see the genius and/or hate Rolland Emmerich and thus hate everything he’s ever done and feel they are totally above liking a movie of this kind (idiots), or those who have never watched it or don’t remember it (idiots). The real reason why ID4 is one of the greatest movies of all time is because it’s impossible not to like it. Even the smart ass movie snobs, the film critics, your great aunt, kittens, hookers, drug dealers will stop and watch the White House explode. Even those who may sort of be known to point out plot inconsistencies, bitch about the obviously sloppy writing, have an aversion to heavy action films, and perpetually complain about the lack of female presence in film or the blatant misogyny in every fucking thing she sees (totally not talking about me) can LOVE this movie.  Perhaps it’s not just because of these things I’ve pointed out, perhaps there is an X factor involved— an underlying through line that’s impossible to identify but so very present— an X factor that all great films have, something that separates “okay” and “fucking awesome.”  Maybe Independence Day is not in the critical vicinity of films like The Godfather, Casablanca or Citizen Kane but why shouldn’t it be?  Great films can be escapist spectacles the same as they can be voices of our generation, political statements, dialogue heavy stories or following all the rules of a “good” movie. “Good” is relative and bendable, “good” is just a matter of fleeting opinions sprayed all over Rotten Tomatoes.  And if “they” are going to finally include a good escapist spectacle film on the list of the top ten greatest films of all time, I wholeheartedly and without a doubt believe it should be Independence Day.

This is all bullshit, I just have a huge boner for Will Smith.

I wish I was a bigger fan of the cheesy romance flick. I am a female and I suppose there is something hardwired within me to crave a dilemma which forces me to choose between a rustic bad boy and a straight laced ad exec with really perfect hair.  Within the depths of my soul the movies tell me that I should probably want to be swept away on a horse in a wedding dress (gross) or have Patrick Dempsey bring me into a jewelry store full of wedding rings late at night so I can pick my favorite one (name those movies).  Maybe I do, in some way that is more based in my own reality.

I find it odd that I am able to be so forgiving with horror films, sci fi movies, action thrillers, etc.  I love that sense of heightened reality that comes with something spectacular, super gory and hideously unbelievable.  I am a fan of stories that are actually stories and not exact reflections of real life.  Real enough to relate to the characters, but fictional enough to be a great form of escapism and story telling.  A horror movie follows an unbelievable and deliciously fictional formula the same way a romantic film does, but yet I scoff at the new Rachel McAdams movie in a way that is much more sincere than when I scoff at a bad horror movie (see: all the Saw movies).  It’s not believable for Michael Myers to be decapitated and then survive in Halloween H20, the same as it’s probably unlikely for Andrew McCarthy to be waiting for you outside your prom (unless he was selling you coke).  Alas (that’s right, I used “alas”) though, as Emma Stone said in Easy A, “life is not a John Hughes movie, no matter how much you want it to be.” 

I suppose that’s the difference, girls want their lives to be like Katherine Heigl’s life in, like, um, every movie she was ever in, while one would not crave being at a summer camp where you and your buddies are being hunted and killed off one by one by a super scary looking psychopath (keep in mind, that’s Friday the 13^th not Halloween).  Perhaps that’s why I’m not as forgiving, instead of yelling at the big titted blonde to run out the door instead of up the stairs I’m yelling at the sense of longing, something not quite as enjoyable, something almost sad.  Shut up TV, no guy is going to sing a song to me on an airplane about how he’ll always let me hold the remote control (name that movie).

Despite the steady of supply of romantic bullshit being cinematically tossed my way, I like to indulge in a good romance sometimes, and I find that I like two kinds: ones that are incredibly real and I can relate, or ones that offer the perfect dose of heightened reality with scenes that get burned so severely into your brain that they naturally seep into the romantic parts of your heart.  In the nature of my fleeting addiction to writing about movies, here’s two of the best relatable romantic films and one from the heightened reality variety that I find are quite comforting on lonely nights.

Peter and Vandy

Peter and Vandy is perhaps the most realistic portrayal of a long term relationship you’ll ever see.  And in a different way than how, say, Blue Valentine is uncomfortably realistic, though they’re notably filmed in the same way; out of sequential order, in which you see them first towards the end, then at the beginning, them in the middle, their demise, and ultimate reconciliation. Peter and Vandyperfectly captures the tiny idiosyncrasies in a relationship, the ones that drive you crazy but are inevitable.  Notably, I love the scene in which the couple is home after work sitting around and he complains about being hungry and they have a semi-serious argument that goes something like: “what do you want to eat?” “I don’t know, what do you want?” “Lets try that new Thai place” “Nah, don’t wanna go out” “Fine, get whatever then” “Well, what do you want?” “I don’t care, I’m not that hungry, “ “So you don’t care?” “No, get whatever.” And he picks up the menu and dials and she, naturally, says “I’ll just eat something here then.” He hangs up. “Get your coat, we’ll try that new Thai place.” The film so perfectly captures the subtle nuances of having to agree on mundane things, and how it’s often one or the other who must submit to the other person’s wants.

As the film progresses in shows classic things that go wrong in relationships: he starts a new job, meets new people, tells her he feels like she’s always trying to change him, develops a connective friendship with another woman, and things fall apart.  This scenario isn’t exclusive to men which is obvious and nice, and the genders could easily be flipped.  The climax of the shows Peter finally confessing his feelings to her in both a heart wrenching and shockingly real scene on their apartment’s sofa: they fight, they talk, they fight, they fuck, they fight— he leaves.  What sets Peter and Vandy apart from other relationship movies is its ability to show the character’s subtle flaws, the ones that initially draws them to each other, and ultimately becomes what tears that apart.  Throughout the film it shows the couple, happy and bubbling as guests at a wedding, analyzing and picking apart the couples around them: “I’m not like that to you, am I?”, “We’re not like that, are we?” This is also the final scene in the movie, the couple dancing at a wedding that’s not theirs, back together, to a love song.  I would have loved this film whether the two characters ended up together or not, but the story of them coming to the realization that they do, in fact, love each other is sweeter and more satisfying that any Katherine Heigl movie.  The realism and likable characters coupled with a soundtrack filled with amazing love and breakup songs from Frightened Rabbit, Animal Collective and The Shaky Hands make it one of my all time favorite love stories.

Breaking Upwards

Breaking Upwards is a love story while simultaneously being a break up story, which is often more compelling and layered.  Zoe Lister-Jones and Daryl Wein co-wrote the film together, Wein directs and edits, and they both star in the title roles.  It is the epitome of a do-it-yourself hip indie flick which shows a seemingly awesome, perfect couple who feel stunted by co-dependency and decide to take “days off” from their relationship.  Four days they’re a couple, three days a week they are not.  I liked it right away as the comedic elements aren’t forced and come off as genuinely true and funny, sometimes even a little sad.  The initial concept was for them to not date other people, but rather work on themselves, be productive, read books they’ve been meaning to read, etc. which naturally spirals into both characters testing the waters with other people.

Breaking Upwards isn’t as good a film as Peter and Vandy or a classic like Say Anything, but it’s sweet and heartbreakingly real in its own right, which is why it’s worth watching.  It touches on things is like hacking into your significant others email and Facebook, calling all night with no response, founded and unfounded jealousies and coming to the ultimate realization that it’s time to move on.  The ride the film takes you on to get there is funny, smart and, for me, gives much needed reminders that you are not the only one in the world who may go crazy when pulling so hard for another, they write entire movies about it.  The film ends with Zoe realizing Daryl has fucked someone else, after which she admits, filled with tears, that she has done the same and says sincerely that she “didn’t like it.” Which, as the hard and dirty fucking from behind scene shows in the film, was the truth.  Daryl retorts, “that’s too bad, ‘cause I did.”  The final shot where the two of them see each other, after the break up is complete, when he is getting in a cab to leave the city, and both of them suddenly tear up is a rare and beautiful scene, one that somehow captures the heart of the film without being too cheesy and predictable.

Say Anything

Perhaps a cliche choice, but Lloyd Dobler’s efforts to win the heart of a beautiful valedictorian is so charming that no female could rightly watch the movie without fantasizing about a boy truly in love going to such great lengths to simply gain your company.  Say Anything has become a classic, notably, the scene of Lloyd outside her house blasting Peter Gabriel in hopes she’ll reject her Father’s advice and be with him.  That’s not my favorite scene in this movie though.  By far the very best scene, the one that always makes me cry, is after that scene, when she finds out her Father’s been lying to her and she goes to Lloyd at the kickboxing gym.  He gets kicked in the face and his nose is bleeding and she says, “I love you, nothing else matters, I love you” and he looks down and he wipes his nose, and she tries to hug him but he pushes her away, she hurt him and he’s battered and bloody and unsure about her advances, so he pushes her away and he says “Are you here because you need me or are you here because you just need someone” then he pauses, looks down, up at her and says “never mind, I don’t care” and they kiss and it’s awesome and I cry and fuck that movie is so good.

Say Anything is a movie I cannot help but love despite offering the same type of romantic sentiments that are not generally found out here in reality.  A perfect, sweet, funny boy who falls so quickly and deeply in love because… um… she was… valedictorian?  That’s not important.  What’s important is that she just, like, accept that and stop being such a bitch to him and get over her dumb Daddy issues and submit to some John Cusack love.  I will stop and watch it whenever it’s on and wait until the break up scene in the car and inadvertently find myself calling her a dumb bitch for being such a god damn cunt to Lloyd.  Say Anything offers the right amount of heightened reality without pushing you so far off that you couldn’t see it maybe kind of happening a little bit to someone, somewhere.

There is something about scenes in love stories that seem to make me swoon the same I’m sure as all the dumb girls watching When in Rome or The Notebook, and I can’t deny that.  My love for movies has become such big part of my head space that it’s only natural that I’d take a line from Sleepless in Seattle and remind myself of it time and again, “you don’t wanna be in love, you wanna be in love in the movies.”  Because of course you do, who wouldn’t want to be in love like people are in love in the movies.  Who wouldn’t you want to be rescued by Jack Dawson in Titanic or be someone’s Sally to their Harry?

There’s no reason we shouldn’t crave love like you see it in the movies, but no matter how much a girl might crave those cinematic elements, reality always falls down on you like the top of the Titanic crashing into the water when it finally breaks in two pieces.  Lloyd Dobler can never exist the same way Michael Myers can never exist, because there’s no way he can walk at such a slow steady pace and somehow still catch his victim sprinting down the hall.  The movies are the movies, that’s why they’re sectioned off in a dark room that you have to pay money to go into.  That’s why when the lights come back up there’s never a boy holding a stereo above his head at your car, and so you do what Lelaina Pierce does in the perfectly titled Reality Bites, you put a hoodie on, lay on your bed, chain smoke and listen to “Stay” by Lisa Loeb.

I have this problem I like to call “addiction to Netflix Instant,” though a doctor might call it “insomnia.”  Either way, I sleep little during the night, and am kept occupied only by writing bullshit no one will ever read or watching 90’s Science Fiction films starring Dusting Hoffman, Sharon Stone and Samuel L. Jackson.  Mostly I do both simultaneously (holy fuck I just spelled “simultaneously” right on the first try).  Browsing through the “science fiction fantasy” genre I saw this movie Sphere, but was almost deterred by Judgement Day starring Ice T.  One should never have to choose between Samuel L. Jackson and Ice T— it is a sad world we live in.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t sometimes seek out bad big budget studio made science fiction films which is why I don’t understand how I SOMEHOW FUCKING MISSED THIS.  I must of been, like, being a contributing member of society and having a really active social life or something.  Lame.

Sphere was made in ‘98, based on a Chrichton story, stars some big name actors who are really amazing at whispering badly written one liners right before something tragic happens, and seems to employ every stereotype that big budget science fiction flicks have:  a rag tag team of scientists, an impossible mission, a nonsensical scientific story.  And Samuel L. Jackson.  Even with all that, the movie was a huge flop— costing 80 million and bringing in barely 34— it was a commercial and critical failure.  Sharon Stone even spoke about the film saying, “I’m Sharon Stone, I’m really creepy and tall, I kill men with ice picks and show my vagina when I uncross my legs and am inexplicably a member of MENSA.”

In the film a psychologist played by Dustin Hoffman, in his best quirky but calm assertive role since Outbreak, wrote an article about who should make contact with alien life if ever the option presented itself, and thus our rag tam team is assembled: the psychologist, an asshole military leader whose purpose seems to be to do nothing but antagonize and yell at Dustin Hoffman (played by Peter Coyote who is actually, in my opinion, the best actor in the movie), an astrophysicist (played my some actor whose name I don’t know but if you saw him you’d totally know him because he’s in, like, every movie), and a mathematician played by Samuel L. Jackson.  Personally, I think the fact that the mathematician is played by a black man only further proves that this film is one of the most FICTIONAL science fiction films ever made.  Suspension of disbelief, Jaime, suspension of disbelief.

The rag tag team makes their way to the bottom of the ocean where the crashed spaceship resides along with an undersea control center akin to the one you saw in Sealab 2020. This control center is run by the less than sassy, incredibly stoic Queen Latifah who has maybe ten lines in the movie, six of them being “Yes, sir.”

While all of the characters are supposed to be geniuses, the film only talks about that in the beginning, in the remainder of the film they only bring it up before and after making really absurd and easily preventable mistakes and generally being morons.

“Hey, um, Atrsophycist Guy, if the ship was indestructible and didn’t suffer any damage during the crash, why was I able to open and break the main door so easily with this screwdriver?”

“Yeah. Good point… odd.”

As the film progresses the team ends up casually walking over to the giant spaceship, entering easily, finding dead people and other clues which lead them to believe it was from the future; time travel, black holes, etc. ensues.  They discover a giant golden sphere before the plot spirals into a paradigm of total nonsense, plot holes, inexplicable reactions and water snakes.  This may fall into the category of “bad movie” to you, but to me I was practically giddy at the idea of Dustin Hoffman being able to swim in the open water with no equipment on at the bottom of the sea.  I’m not a scientist (but I totally could be if I wanted to be), but I’m pretty sure you can’t just do a leisurely backstroke at the bottom of the sea without being CRUSHED TO DEATH or FREEZING.  Again, this is the same movie that has made the mathematician black— perhaps free swimming at the bottom of the ocean is more believable, eh?

Eventually it’s discovered that the sphere allows you to manifest your imagination which explains nothing and everything at the same time.  For example, I’m imagining that jellyfishes are attacking Queen Latifah, and so it happens.  Along the way, Sharon Stone becomes a crazy, irrational mental case totally obsessed with her old married boyfriend (Dustin Hoffman) while simultaneously being a really accomplished genius biochemist and many of them die one by one. The plot is not as important as the reasons it’s necessary for everyone to see the movie Sphere.  Any film, good or bad, but specifically bad, harbors a few key scenes which should make them watchable despite the bad writing, bad effects, bad characters, bad… everything.  For Sphere, there are two reasons to watch this movie:

Samuel L. Jackson shows his bare ass cheek in a gratuitous shower scene.

Note, I said ass CHEEK.  You only see one.  I imagine that perhaps this was in his contract.  Perhaps if they had offered him more money he would have shown his entire black butt.  Not the case though, you get only a glimpse, but nonetheless a noticeable and rather shocking look at Samuel L. Jackson’s ass.  Maybe he has shown his ass in other movies, but I’ve never seen it, and part of me feels like I might be cooler just because my eyes have taken a glimpse at this man’s private areas.  There was nothing sexual about this scene and, as a woman, I was not hungry for more black man ass or dong or anything, I was simply surprised and oddly delighted at this purposeless scene.

Queen Latifah gets attacked by a hoard of jellyfish.

Queen has to leave the control center for a reason that makes absolutely no sense at all and encounters a few jellyfish.  At first, she’s giddy, saying how pretty they are, how beautiful it is down there.  Then, suddenly, A LOT more come, a whole gaggle, surrounding her.  She keeps going, but the jellyfish are getting closer.  She tells the command center that they’re getting a little friendly, a little close, it’s getting tense.  One starts sticking to her leg— OH NO QUEEN! RUN!  Queen starts moving quickly but eventually falls on the ground (even though they’re under water) and the jellyfish totally fucking just attack her and kill her in one of the most awesome jellyfish attack scenes I’ve seen since Will Smith killed himself in the tub with a jellyfish in 8 Pounds.  They rip and tear at her legs, everyone is screaming, there are jellyfish everywhere.  It’s awesome.  Since her character was the character that talked the least, and was therefore my favorite, I was saddened at the loss.  Furthermore, I don’t even know what Queen Latifah was doing down there, she hates water, I’ve heard she “can’t stand the rain.”  Oh fuck, that was Missy Elliot, never mind.

Surprisingly, you get no boob shots from Sharon Stone— only crazy woman are totally irrational and will try and kill themselves if their boyfriend leaves them type stuff.  In the end, Hoffman totally nuts up and drives his comrades out of there with a little mini submarine that probably doesn’t exist but was really convenient for the plot especially since they were trying to escape explosives that were there for, um, I don’t know why, but they were there and going to explode.  Later, they all hold hands and imagine to forget what happens because if they imagine themselves forgetting then they will actually forget because, you see, their imaginations manifest themselves.  You follow?  I find it odd that with this concept everyone was somehow imagining things like jellyfish attacks, water snakes, giant monsters, death, fire and destruction or perhaps that was the point?  We imagine the worst?  Only Michael Crichton knows.  Or, as I suspect, Michael Crichton was sitting in a tiny theater at the Warner Brothers Studio after his viewing and was just, like, “yeah guys, that’s really not what I meant, like, at all.” And the studio execs laughed it off, told him not everything is going to be like Jurassic Park and shuffled him out the door.  Then they all had a sex orgy.

As a fan of many bad movies, it’s important for me to say that Sphere was ridiculous enough to keep my attention until the sun pulled up near my window and it was almost morning.  I love movies so much and have a strong affinity for good film making, but I must say, that sometimes the most surprisingly enjoyable ones are the ones that are so bad they make you yell obscenities at the TV in the middle of the night.  That considered, does that actually make it a GOOD movie?  I imagine it does, and if I imagine it does, that means it’s… reality… right?

modernproblemz:

I am pretty sure being in one’s twenties is a mirage. A shared, profitable hallucination you can’t see much of once you’ve reached it but before and after it’s all so clearly defined. Everyone else can see it
On tv
Bye

 A few years ago I was getting my hair colored by my smart gay colorist in Phoenix and he started telling me about a series of books he had been reading by a man named Stieg Larsson. We’d had discussions about feminism before, he knew I was a Women’s Studies major and he assured me I had to read these books.

Due to marathons of Hoarders and heavy drinking habits, I never got around to reading them, and admittedly still haven’t. Years later another friend of mine who regularly makes fun of my feminist sensibilities told me quite seriously that I had to see The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, that he’d be curious to know what I thought of it, as a “feminist.”

Due to late night rendezvous with pizza rolls and an addiction to campy B horror movies rather than smart foreign films, I never actually watched it.

Fast foward to nowish, when The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo has ditched the subtitles and adopted a hip director named David Fincher (oh, I loved Seven AND The Social Network) and is suddenly on Pay Per View on a Tuesday night when I have nothing to do but try and pirate the latest version of Final Draft (I have to update my torrent magnet WTFFF??) and drink vanilla vodka with Coke Zero. Okay, so, time to finally give it a chance.

I would like to state up front that I enjoyed the film. David Fincher is stylistic and brilliant and the film is visually sort of breath taking and each scene is noticeably dark and jarring. The story is twisted and compelling and unfolds at the perfect pace before you. It’s a good movie.

That’s all the beside the point, isn’t it? After all, I can’t call myself a feminist and not watch a piece of popularized high art that has suddenly put the word “feminism” higher up on the Google search engines and sparked controversy and debate in a very mainstream way and not, you know, watch it with that in mind.

Is The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo a feminist statement? Is Stieg Larsson a feminist or an extremist? Can a movie that so blatantly shows such real, visceral images of a woman being tied up, raped, and subsequently paid for her services really be considered good for women? Consider who is watching this and for what reasons we, as a society, enjoy seeing women being brutalized and beat down. Watch any movie and you can clearly see a woman’s dignity being stripped from her in the first 30 minutes or so, and despite the fact that Lisbeth comes back to the house of the man that raped her and sodomizes him as he did her, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo is no different in that sense. Before we know what a bad ass she is, she’s crying bloody in the shower. As an audience, no one seems to notice that female characters are always beaten down earlier on, it’s something we’re desensetized too, it’s simply a part of movies.

Of course, this is all to propel the story, the vigilante concept, the abused becomes the heroine, revenge on the man (or men) who made you suffer. I can dig that in a story telling sense. We certainly see enough action films portraying men seeking revenge on the antagonist who killed their wife or father or brother— it seems a good idea to show a woman, or women, seeking revenge on the men who abused them. The concept is taboo though, no one likes to talk about the fact that girls are raped, abused, sexually exploited, bought, sold, etc. as it makes us all uncomfortable, yet we certainly enjoy seeing images of it. When we see it now, in a film like GWDT, in which the abuse is not only seem but talked about, and ultimately drives the story, it suddenly becomes a “feminist statement.” Perhaps the real feminist route would be for the concept to be more visible already, and when I say “visible” I don’t mean more movies with rape scenes, as the whole “movie goers love to see women brutalized” thing is a little disgusting to me. I can’t help but consider that when I see a good movie like GWDT, with a good idea, I also have to consider who is watching this scene— and who is liking it for the wrong reasons, who is maybe rewinding it, watching it over and over. It’s important to remember that despite the ultimate statement of a piece of art, as a film, we’re still consuming the images and more often than not what we’re consuming are, in fact, images of women being beat down by men in one way or another which, in my opinion, is digressive for the overall feminist movement. It is one thing to see a woman beat down by her own demons, we don’t see much of those flawed female characters, it is somehow more popular to see images of a woman beat down by men.

Lizbeth is striking and visually compelling, though not in the tradition sense, which makes me curious about the author’s seeming addiction to extremes. While Lisbeth does not boast what is traditionally considered sexy: big tits, round hips, pretty hair, make up, color, femininity, she’s given a look that is quite obviously another extreme: stick thin, pale, gaunt, piercings, tattoos, disheveled hair. She is not a female heroine in high heels and red lipstick. Though make no mistake, you won’t get through the film without seeing her get a blonde haired make over, and while I understand it was an essential element in the plot for her to need a disguise, I can’t help but think it was also to satisfy an audience full of men (and probably women too) wondering what she’d look like without all those rough edges. That said, I can’t genuinely say that I don’t appreciate seeing this look on screen, even if it’s amped up to an extreme for all those Suicide Girls fans out there, it is a movie after all. Showing variations of beauty and sexuality in mainstream films is always a good thing, even if it is still created through a male gaze. Again, it’s all about the consumption of images, and if we’re consuming images that are showing there’s more than one very boxed in look that can be considered sexy and beautiful, I can get on board with that. Furthermore, when the studio execs finally figure out that there are lots of men these days who prefer a contrast to the blonde haired, big titted beauty, we’ll start seeing it even more. Variations of beauty in the media, even if it’s still for the men and still about the bottom line, is still a good start for women.

After Lisbeth gives a blow job for money, is anally raped, bleeds and cries in the shower, picks up a woman at a club to fuck (perhaps this was to show her sexual openness or addiction, either way, I comend David Fincher for not adding a lesbian scene), she meets Daniel Craig’s character, Mikael.

Their relationship provides undertones of father/daughter sex abuse love, and you gotta love the realism behind that. Mikael has to do little more than, you know, be Daniel Craig and she’s taking her panties off in front of him. It’s things like this that lift the curtain for me and I’m reminded that no matter how bad ass a chick is in in a film, the story was still created by men, and there are always elements of an overall male fantasy bullshit.

Maybe I’m too harsh about this, Lisbeth meets a man who is understated and sexy, smart and good to her, she wants to fuck him, so she does. Perhaps that is more “feminist” than anything else. I am one who likes a good sex scene in a film, and the scenes between the two characters were, dare I say, kind of fucking hot. It’s not a love scene, nor a scene of a woman getting pounded from behind, but one that shows a woman on top, fucking how she wants, and at one point she asks him to be quiet until she cums—- and it actually shows a woman cumming. These sexual images are good ones, different and effective. It’s still the female body that is on display, but her body is boney, waify, almost boyish to the viewer, and it shows her in control of her desire.

Sex is, essentially, the film’s star. While the sex scenes between the two characters were not gratuitous or exploitative, the underlying factor for Lisbeth was still love and connection, right? The basics behind a woman abused and let down by their fathers: they offer sex to a man who is a father figure, they hope they get love in return, and again she is let down. She presents herself to him, a seemingly complicated girl with obvious sexual issues, and he takes it, despite being involved with another woman, despite the working relationship, because he is a man, and the reasons to reject her do not outweigh his desire to fuck her.

As the movie comes to a head Lisbeth gets everything she wants… almost. I suppose this is why people call this a “feminist” story: it’s about a woman who avenges the men that wronged her, kills the killer of women, saves a good man, and emerges as an unlikely heroine. I feel like there are two ways you can assess the ending of this film. One way is to look at is that it’s, you know, bullshit. Lisbeth is a bad ass, inaccessable and seemingly in control of what she does, yet all that goes out the window because she has fallen in love with Mikael and wants him, maybe as a friend, someone to Father her, fuck her, give her love, whatever, but she wants him and he doesn’t want her anymore. She submits, as all women do in films, that all she really needed was a man to humanize her. No different than, say, Sandra Bullock’s character in The Proposal.

Or, you can see it differently. The final scene is perhaps what is different and somewhat special about GWDT, being a “feminist” movie. I wondered if she’d end up hurt and vulnerable, the same as she was in the beginning. She is excited at the prospect of “making a friend” she says, of Mikael, who she eventually sees with another woman, tosses his expensive gift in the trash and takes off on her bike. Ah, let down again. Yet, for me, the overall sense you get from the final shot of her riding off is one that is sad but hopeful: sure, she’s let down, but she’s been around the block enough, and maybe that’s the first and last time she’s going to expect anything more than a good orgasm from a man. She is not one to approach him in the night, shed a tear, or let it move her. Would the story be more “feminist” if he had fallen for her and she had rejected him in the end? I’d like to think that it wasn’t exactly about her letting a man get to her, but riding away from it unscathed once again.

SO. Is GWDT a feminist movie? And really, what does that even mean? Let’s not forget the big picture here: The Girl With a Dragon Tattoo is a film made by a studio run by men, written by a man, directed by a man, produced predominantly by men and Daniel Craig still got first billing over Rooney Mara and I’d imagine was paid more money despite her certainly being the star of the film. Though this is simply how things are, an industry standard, and shouldn’t necessarily speak to the credibility of a “feminist” story, right? I’m simply not sure. Feminism is, at it’s base, just about equality, so maybe a “feminist” film is a movie of any credence written, directed, produced and starring women and not slapped with a “chick flick” label. Maybe what would have been really great for their feminist street cred would be to just, you know, give the women in the film industry some jobs on the movie instead of making a lot of money off some pretty explicit images of a woman getting raped— but that’s being broad and somewhat unfair I think. The author of the original trilogy is a professed feminist, a liberal white man who is unafraid to use the word and label himself as such and it’s his story that has gotten so much attention and acclaim— and that’s better than some asshole prick making movies that aren’t trying to say anything, right? Yet I can’t help but wonder how it is that after all the great feminist literature out there the thing that makes it big was, surprise surprise, created by a white man. Maybe the books are just that good though, and the brutality against it’s heroine, overt sexuality, and pull at our love for extremism and violence has nothing to do with it, eh?

There’s also this to consider: while I am self proclaimed feminist, not ashamed of it, the only tattoo I have is a feminist symbol behind my ear and I regularly read, write and am immersed in its meaning: I’m also just a big movie fan, and a fan of cool bad ass shit in movies. Despite all the underlying and layered feminist elements here, I can’t deny that seeing Lisbeth sodomize her rapist with what appears to be a giant stainless Steele dildo and kick it inside him over and over is fucking awesome to me. In a sense, I can’t help but feel a kind of catharsis when I witness what is, essentially, female fantasy bullshit, even if it’s sandwiched in-between some male fantasy crap. You don’t have to be a child of sexual abuse or rape to cheer for this, nor do you have to be a beat down woman, a battered wife, or someone victimized in any way by a man: all you have to be is a woman in today’s society, a girl living day to day in what is a world run by men— and for that, I applaud this movie, I like it as a piece of art and that small piece of catharsis and escapism it gave to me, as a woman, is more than what most movies do. While I realize that me being a fan of violent sodomy may be counterproductive and hypocritical in any sense, I don’t care, if the male population can witness their fantasies before them in every other film guilt free, I should EQUALLY be able to be enjoy a little violent bad assness. After all, it’s all about equality, right?

• They’re long.  But, you know, fuck you, non-reader.  I have, like, six pages worth of shit in my head when I set out to blog and I do you A FUCKING FAVOR by narrowing it down to 1000 words about working at a pet shop and breast insecurities.  Don’t be so selfish.  Plus, it’s not like you’re doing anything, “doing laundry and watching Bones” doesn’t count as “busy.”
• They’re not about anything you care about.  However you care about watching Kim Kardashion (I don’t know how to spell her last name and will not contribute to the asinine and ultimately detrimental-to-society admiration for sex tape stars by Googling her name) buy fucking shoes or plan a fake wedding.  You don’t buy STAR magazine but you totally read that headlines at the checkout line at the grocery store and you’re totally interested in whether or not some chick you’ve never met has had plastic surgery.
• You have a Tumblr account for something very specific: fashion photos, children, you post picture of scarves, quotes, and videos of you wearing hats on the weekends, you had no intention of partaking in any kind of writing community. But you’re pretty, and artistic in your own right.
• You’re busy not writing pointless blogs.  In fact, you’re busy all around because you have a full time job, a hectic social life and strong opinions about the meat industry and sustainable cooking. 
• I don’t read yours, so why would you read mine? There’s something about that that sounds super sexual to me. Are you reading right now? What are you doing later?
• My writing sucks.  But you’re reading right now, which means I won.

On the days I work at the pet shop I get asked questions like, “my dog is drinking more water lately, do you have any idea why that might be? Does it have something to do with his food maybe?” This woman is saying these words but I can’t help but focus on the dog broach that is neatly fastened to her white button down blouse, she keeps talking, I continue studying it. “Miss?” She says, and I snap back into reality which, unfortunately, happens to be at an all natural holistic pet store. The best answer to the question might very well be, “cause he’s thirsty” but that might come off sarcastic or impolite. Instead, I tell her that maybe the food switch is upsetting their stomachs so they’re drinking water to alleviate that (in theory, that sounds good, but if you think about it, makes little sense). “Or maybe those digestive enzymes you bought are making their mouth dry so they’re drinking more.” I have no idea if digestive enzymes make your pug’s mouth dry, but neither do you.

The thing about working at an “all natural holistic pet store” is that the customers are especially wacky. I head up the grooming department so working the retail portion is limited to covering lunches and maybe watching the front during smoke breaks. The store itself is lovely: quaint and well kept, a place for water or hot tea in the front, light wood, clean lines, aroma therapy bullshit everywhere and those uplifting wooden signs atop all the shelves that read “LOVE,” “LAUGHTER,” and “HAPPINESS.” Happiness is, after all, making sure your dog’s shit is solid and curing allergies that make him chew off the tip of his tail.

The salon in the back, where I spend the majority of my time, is equally uplifting. A giant mural painted on the back wall of a beach setting featuring a poorly painted collie near a palm tree. There’s classical music for pets playing. Not, like, classical music that we put on for the pets, classical music FOR pets, music composed for the specific purpose of calming dogs down. This classical music consists mostly of soft piano which, if you listen closely, will have the ambient sound of dogs barking or cats meowing in the background, which is actually not ambient at all.

The entire spectrum of holistic dog loving: grain free food, raw food, dehydrated food, digestive enzymes, flower essence to cure their anxiety (which, upon further inspection of the ingredients I discovered is 40% Brandy), expensive boutique clothing, designer doggy shoes, a giant framed photo of the owner with her Papillion (who is a service dog but what service she serves is still a mystery to me as the owner is not blind), vitamins, lotions, Elk antlers as chew toys, the entire spectrum that surrounds me for a few hours a day is… dare I say… should I say… laughable to me. I wish that it weren’t and that I had the capacity to embrace these things but when I watch my dog lick his asshole for 40 minutes then happily move onto his dog wiener before begging for my banana peel which he’ll ultimately not eat but rather smear banana crap all over the carpet I can’t help but think that people are taking the love of their pets to a whole new, ahem, really fucking stupid extreme.

That being said, it certainly entices a lot of colorful characters, both the clients and those employed at such a shop. I’m willing to bet that most people who come into the shop do yoga and shop exclusively at Whole Foods OR the farmer’s markets on the weekends. It’s an upscale shop so it’s generally middle class yuppies but I did have a former crack addicted black woman who managed to successfully haggle me down on the price of her groom. Part of me thinks I had sympathy for her story, her husband just left her, she’s poor, etc, and part of me thinks that at the time I assumed that if I didn’t she would become that angry stereotypical black woman we all love to hate. Like fucking Michelle Obama, man, just go fucking ape shit right there in the salon. So I did them for cheaper.

Working the register is the time when I get to sit on a stool and stare at the bags of dog food and ask myself why the fuck I am working in a fucking pet shop at this point in my life and then feel really bad about myself which I may or may not subsequently take out on whichever customer asks me the dumbest question of the day. Which, for the record, today was “why are my dogs drinking more water than usual?” Generally the questions aren’t stupid, just annoying as I haven’t made the effort to learn all there is to learn about doggie nutrition and supplements. This is probably because my dog generally eats left over biscuits and gravy in the morning and a hardy, zesty pasta for dinner. With garlic bread.

The one redeeming factor about working at an all natural holistic pet shop besides the ten percent discount I get on my dog’s grain free, all natural food, Taste of the Wild (which I chose only because I thought the name was awesome and it had a picture of a bison or steer or someshit on the bag), is my iPhone. My iPhone allows me that which gets me through the day: podcasts and music. This pet shop has allowed me to burn through, like, over 200 episodes of WTF with Marc Maron, at least two year’s worth of This American Life, and a bunch of comedy albums that I’ve been meaning to listen to. Is Woody Allen’s comedy album any good? Eh, it’s okay. I know that. Because I listened to it while I bathed a 100 pound German Shepherd and rung up 20 pound bags of dog food. How’s the new John K. Samson solo album, Jaime? Oh man, it’s fucking poetry, I listened to it while I shaved down two Maltese/Poodle mixes then cleaned runny poop out of a kennel. You’re Epitonic playlists are really good, Jaime. I know, I listened to them while I squeezed the anal glands of a chihuahua then did mindless paper work. The best thing about having a mundane, spirit crushing job is that there’s not a lot to it, so your brain can be absorbing lots of awesome things. Like both Jen Kirkman’s comedy albums which, by the way, are hillllllarious.

I may never be privy to all this time in which I do nothing but listen if it wasn’t for this esthetically pleasing pet store. Unfortunately, I only have one ear bud in, and the other ear is entirely vulnerable to stupid fucking questions regarding the water intake of their pug.