“A hot dog at the ballgame beats roast beef at the Ritz." ~Humphrey Bogart
It’s finally here! Whether you go for the $1 beer, the sumo-wrestling in between innings or for the love of the game, the Joe is the place to be when the temperature starts to rise.
And what’s not to love? Peanuts, beer, friends, girls showing off their brand-new tan lines in the stands… Americana.
It is a sign that many count on every year- a sign that we can finally put those space-bags we bought from the commercial to good use and store away those sweaters (WOW 20 in one bag!). It’s time for shorts and sunscreen, NOT jackets and hot chocolate. For flip-flops and toe-rings, NOT boots and wool socks.
I don’t know the first thing about baseball. I know there are 9 innings, but sometimes there isn’t, right? I grew up playing basketball-- I’m used to a scoreboard that doesn’t have much to it, so I have a hard time following the stats. I get really nervous every time the ball or bat flies up toward the stands because a history of bad luck makes me think it’s coming for my face every time. But yes, I love it.
If nothing else, I love to watch the sunset. The Ashley reflects the pink and purple and orange of the low country twilight and my heart melts. The green of the field becomes deeper. The temperature drops just enough to cool the crowd. The kids jump into a plastic pool of grits. I love this place.
I can’t wait to get sun burnt and have raccoon eyes after the first day game. I can’t wait to eat my first Dixie Dog of the year and use 15 napkins to sop up the chili and pimento cheese. I can’t wait to stand in line for the ATM. I can’t wait to see that announcer with the curly mullet, and I cannot wait to meet my friends at the Joe.
Apr 6, 2010
Dec 1, 2009
Where the Wild Things Aren't
Just wait till you see what Spike Jonze has done to “Where the Wild Things Are.”
On second thought, don’t.
Half of the pages of the beloved children’s book were illustrations of the “wild rumpus” that ensued once the main character, Max, met the wild things and became their king. Somehow, Jonze found a way to turn the sententious children’s story into a 101 minute feature film.
There is no doubt the scenery and the puppetry were amazing. The Wild Things looked exactly the way we all remember them from Maurice Sendak’s cross-haired illustrations. The scenery was gorgeous and beautifully filmed, but it looked more like my back yard than the colorful jungle fantasy world that Sendak created. And the desert? Don’t get me started.
Half-way through the film, I desperately wanted to quote young Max by shouting, “NOW STOP!” I wish I could have borrowed his sadness shield.
Then I got it: This is one of those read between the lines moments. Well, there’s no “between the lines” here. There is literally one line per page, if that. The simplicity of the book is what made it a classic. Did Sendak want us to read between the lines?
The story is about a boy who is sent to his room (without supper!) for being a jerk to his mother. While in his room, his fury excites his imagination, and from the posts of his bed grow ancient and exotic trees. He sails away to where the wild things are, convinces them not to eat him and becomes their king. He then grows tired and hungry, and returns to his bedroom, where there was a hot bowl of soup waiting for him. The moral of the story is clear enough: we get mad and we get scared and sometimes we want to escape, but no matter what we do, our moms still love us. Fantastic!
But the film incorporates all forms and fashions of fear, confusion and fury: parents dating, and aversion to frozen vegetables, sibling rivalry, arms being ripped off, THE SUN EXPLODING!
Did I read a different book?
The movie makes sure you are on Max’s side from the beginning, when he is hurt in a snowball fight. Should we be on Team Max? Hell no. He’s jealous, controlling, disrespectful and rude. There is nothing about this movie character that we should like. Even in the book, after Max lies to the wild things, he still leaves them without a king the moment he gets hungry! What a little punk! I put Max in the category of the O’Doyles in Billy Madison or maybe Scut Farkas in A Christmas Story, because even when these bullies are getting theirs, you don’t feel bad for them because they are such ass holes.
The only character I feel bad for is Max’s mother, because she has to deal with that mess of a child. But wait-- is it her fault? Is Jonze making a parenting message here?!
Oh and don’t forget about the wild things, who have deal with the disaster that Max made of their little island and their little pack.
It’s clear that he’s trying to make some sort of message, we just have no idea what it is.
I would never make a child sit through this film, because I imagine they would be terrified. And bored. To those who say it’s not a children’s movie, I say get real.
I give the costumes and computer graphics five big stars. As for the content, well, I’m not sure I found any that made sense. The next time some quirky director is looking to make an abomination (I mean, a message) of a film, we can only hope that they stay away from the classics.
On second thought, don’t.
Half of the pages of the beloved children’s book were illustrations of the “wild rumpus” that ensued once the main character, Max, met the wild things and became their king. Somehow, Jonze found a way to turn the sententious children’s story into a 101 minute feature film.
There is no doubt the scenery and the puppetry were amazing. The Wild Things looked exactly the way we all remember them from Maurice Sendak’s cross-haired illustrations. The scenery was gorgeous and beautifully filmed, but it looked more like my back yard than the colorful jungle fantasy world that Sendak created. And the desert? Don’t get me started.
Half-way through the film, I desperately wanted to quote young Max by shouting, “NOW STOP!” I wish I could have borrowed his sadness shield.
Then I got it: This is one of those read between the lines moments. Well, there’s no “between the lines” here. There is literally one line per page, if that. The simplicity of the book is what made it a classic. Did Sendak want us to read between the lines?
The story is about a boy who is sent to his room (without supper!) for being a jerk to his mother. While in his room, his fury excites his imagination, and from the posts of his bed grow ancient and exotic trees. He sails away to where the wild things are, convinces them not to eat him and becomes their king. He then grows tired and hungry, and returns to his bedroom, where there was a hot bowl of soup waiting for him. The moral of the story is clear enough: we get mad and we get scared and sometimes we want to escape, but no matter what we do, our moms still love us. Fantastic!
But the film incorporates all forms and fashions of fear, confusion and fury: parents dating, and aversion to frozen vegetables, sibling rivalry, arms being ripped off, THE SUN EXPLODING!
Did I read a different book?
The movie makes sure you are on Max’s side from the beginning, when he is hurt in a snowball fight. Should we be on Team Max? Hell no. He’s jealous, controlling, disrespectful and rude. There is nothing about this movie character that we should like. Even in the book, after Max lies to the wild things, he still leaves them without a king the moment he gets hungry! What a little punk! I put Max in the category of the O’Doyles in Billy Madison or maybe Scut Farkas in A Christmas Story, because even when these bullies are getting theirs, you don’t feel bad for them because they are such ass holes.
The only character I feel bad for is Max’s mother, because she has to deal with that mess of a child. But wait-- is it her fault? Is Jonze making a parenting message here?!
Oh and don’t forget about the wild things, who have deal with the disaster that Max made of their little island and their little pack.
It’s clear that he’s trying to make some sort of message, we just have no idea what it is.
I would never make a child sit through this film, because I imagine they would be terrified. And bored. To those who say it’s not a children’s movie, I say get real.
I give the costumes and computer graphics five big stars. As for the content, well, I’m not sure I found any that made sense. The next time some quirky director is looking to make an abomination (I mean, a message) of a film, we can only hope that they stay away from the classics.
Nov 5, 2009
17 again...
Ah, to be 17 again.
Wait. Let me rephrase that. Thank God I’m not 17 anymore.
For some reason, when you say the word seventeen, people smile. What about being 17 was pleasant? Most 17 year-olds spend their days cleaning out the bagel slicer at their crappy job, putting air in the tires of their crappy car, paying for their lunch in dimes (it took 12 of them for a Jumbo Jack), staring at their bodies in the mirror thinking it looks disgusting, when usually the most disgusting thing in the reflection is their facial expression.
17 year-olds spend their nights unraveling the gossip of the day—comparing different versions of the same story, hoping to God that no one finds out that their shoes came from Payless or that their parents can’t afford to send them on the class trip.
They stare at boys. All. Day. Long.
17 is an age of constant uneasiness. Always wondering what people are thinking about you. Assuming it must be bad. Spending $40 on a T-shirt from Abercrombie because that’s what the cool girl wears.
What the hell was wrong with us? Always trying to blend in and stay out of everyone’s way.
It is when I think about all of the nasty things that happen in high school that I am reminded of those other things. You know, the things you got in big trouble for. Despite how awkward or unpopular you are, everyone seems to find a group of a few friends to get into trouble with. Your parents don’t even notice anymore when they come in the house without knocking or open the fridge and help themselves. It is these people that you will never, ever forget because they were the ones that you were forced to pass the time with.
When you are seventeen, you aren’t allowed out on school nights, but when you figured out that the window right above the stairs to the deck doesn’t have an alarm, you made it count. These were the nights that you smoked your first cigarette, got that ridiculous speeding ticket… maybe made your way into the backseat of a car with that cute boy.
They aren’t nights that anyone is necessarily proud of, but being 17 sucks so bad that you have to find ways to have fun. This is the one time in life that doing bad things still somehow seems innocent.
It seems like the stars were brighter when I was 17. I have several memories where my friends and I were outside sitting in a circle, surrounding whatever item it was that we were not supposed to have (cigarettes, a case of beer, WEED!) and reveling in the glory of having it. The mental picture seems more like a movie set than someone’s rickety old tree house or the football field.
I remembering keeping Febreeze and mouthwash in my glove box because I really believed that it would mask the odor of whatever I had gotten into that night. I remember kissing a co-worker in the walk-in freezer at Panera Bread. I remember my girlfriends and me taking the football coach’s jeep during weightlifting class to go get Chic-Fil-A. I remember toilet papering our rival campus with my volleyball team.
I remember falling in love with Charleston on a speech and debate trip, where we snuck into an art show and sampled their fine selection of wine and cheese. Mostly just the wine.
I remember having 22 missed calls from home on prom night knowing I would be in trouble, but thinking it was worth it. I remember tipping cows (yes, we did that in Greenville) and all of us being hung-over on the way to Mr. Martin’s house the next morning to apologize. I remember laughing at the irony throughout our youth group’s Christmas play when my best friend Amanda was cast as the Virgin Mary.
Ok, so 17 had its ups and downs. It’s an odd age. You’re taken a little more seriously than when you were 16, but you still can’t buy cigarettes or porn. You have a crappy job, but your coworkers are usually your friends. You really don’t have any responsibilities other than to show up at school. Yes, there are always bitches at school. Yes, sometimes your parents suck, and at 17 you can’t do a damn thing about it. But at 17, there was no such thing as rent or utilities or credit cards or student loans.
What a simpler time?! Now, I don’t care what the girls around me are wearing. I know that gossip is worthless. I don’t care quite as much about looking cute for the boys. I can go out and come home whenever I want, if I even want to.
I am, however, 22. I have a real job and real responsibilities. I have a relationship that I am proud of. I am now a grown-up. I can’t kiss random boys in the freezer anymore. I can’t stay out playing with my friends till sunrise when I know I have appointments in the morning. I can’t get crazy speeding tickets because I pay for my insurance now.
Of course, I don’t want to do some of these things anymore. Now that I’m 5 long years wiser, I know a few things about conduct and restraint. But I am glad that God gave us sort of a grace period—a time to dip our toes into the pool of adult things without real consequence. We all thought we were just passing the time till we could get out of town and do something great. But we were learning. We were experiencing and experimenting. We were doing things that are really only acceptable if done by mindless, innocent 17 year-olds and thank God we did them.
Would I ever want to be 17 again? HELL NO. Being awkward, boy-crazy, and bad-mouthed were not things that occurred in my imagination. I am, however, glad that I took advantage of this little window of time where all we wanted to do was wave good-bye to childhood and let the good, grown-up times roll.
Wait. Let me rephrase that. Thank God I’m not 17 anymore.
For some reason, when you say the word seventeen, people smile. What about being 17 was pleasant? Most 17 year-olds spend their days cleaning out the bagel slicer at their crappy job, putting air in the tires of their crappy car, paying for their lunch in dimes (it took 12 of them for a Jumbo Jack), staring at their bodies in the mirror thinking it looks disgusting, when usually the most disgusting thing in the reflection is their facial expression.
17 year-olds spend their nights unraveling the gossip of the day—comparing different versions of the same story, hoping to God that no one finds out that their shoes came from Payless or that their parents can’t afford to send them on the class trip.
They stare at boys. All. Day. Long.
17 is an age of constant uneasiness. Always wondering what people are thinking about you. Assuming it must be bad. Spending $40 on a T-shirt from Abercrombie because that’s what the cool girl wears.
What the hell was wrong with us? Always trying to blend in and stay out of everyone’s way.
It is when I think about all of the nasty things that happen in high school that I am reminded of those other things. You know, the things you got in big trouble for. Despite how awkward or unpopular you are, everyone seems to find a group of a few friends to get into trouble with. Your parents don’t even notice anymore when they come in the house without knocking or open the fridge and help themselves. It is these people that you will never, ever forget because they were the ones that you were forced to pass the time with.
When you are seventeen, you aren’t allowed out on school nights, but when you figured out that the window right above the stairs to the deck doesn’t have an alarm, you made it count. These were the nights that you smoked your first cigarette, got that ridiculous speeding ticket… maybe made your way into the backseat of a car with that cute boy.
They aren’t nights that anyone is necessarily proud of, but being 17 sucks so bad that you have to find ways to have fun. This is the one time in life that doing bad things still somehow seems innocent.
It seems like the stars were brighter when I was 17. I have several memories where my friends and I were outside sitting in a circle, surrounding whatever item it was that we were not supposed to have (cigarettes, a case of beer, WEED!) and reveling in the glory of having it. The mental picture seems more like a movie set than someone’s rickety old tree house or the football field.
I remembering keeping Febreeze and mouthwash in my glove box because I really believed that it would mask the odor of whatever I had gotten into that night. I remember kissing a co-worker in the walk-in freezer at Panera Bread. I remember my girlfriends and me taking the football coach’s jeep during weightlifting class to go get Chic-Fil-A. I remember toilet papering our rival campus with my volleyball team.
I remember falling in love with Charleston on a speech and debate trip, where we snuck into an art show and sampled their fine selection of wine and cheese. Mostly just the wine.
I remember having 22 missed calls from home on prom night knowing I would be in trouble, but thinking it was worth it. I remember tipping cows (yes, we did that in Greenville) and all of us being hung-over on the way to Mr. Martin’s house the next morning to apologize. I remember laughing at the irony throughout our youth group’s Christmas play when my best friend Amanda was cast as the Virgin Mary.
Ok, so 17 had its ups and downs. It’s an odd age. You’re taken a little more seriously than when you were 16, but you still can’t buy cigarettes or porn. You have a crappy job, but your coworkers are usually your friends. You really don’t have any responsibilities other than to show up at school. Yes, there are always bitches at school. Yes, sometimes your parents suck, and at 17 you can’t do a damn thing about it. But at 17, there was no such thing as rent or utilities or credit cards or student loans.
What a simpler time?! Now, I don’t care what the girls around me are wearing. I know that gossip is worthless. I don’t care quite as much about looking cute for the boys. I can go out and come home whenever I want, if I even want to.
I am, however, 22. I have a real job and real responsibilities. I have a relationship that I am proud of. I am now a grown-up. I can’t kiss random boys in the freezer anymore. I can’t stay out playing with my friends till sunrise when I know I have appointments in the morning. I can’t get crazy speeding tickets because I pay for my insurance now.
Of course, I don’t want to do some of these things anymore. Now that I’m 5 long years wiser, I know a few things about conduct and restraint. But I am glad that God gave us sort of a grace period—a time to dip our toes into the pool of adult things without real consequence. We all thought we were just passing the time till we could get out of town and do something great. But we were learning. We were experiencing and experimenting. We were doing things that are really only acceptable if done by mindless, innocent 17 year-olds and thank God we did them.
Would I ever want to be 17 again? HELL NO. Being awkward, boy-crazy, and bad-mouthed were not things that occurred in my imagination. I am, however, glad that I took advantage of this little window of time where all we wanted to do was wave good-bye to childhood and let the good, grown-up times roll.
Jun 2, 2009
These are a few of my favorite things...
One of my favorite sensations happens not during sex, but the next day. It is when I'm daydreaming on a swing at work, or when I'm reaching for laundry detergent at the grocery store.
It is that moment, in the middle of a mundane, likely sex-free day when I get a quick flashback from the night before. Like a moment from the previews of a movie: the music grows intense and images from the film appear on the screen. Nothing is cohesive, just images of the frightening battle, the passionate kiss, the lady screaming "NOOOOOOOOOO!" at whomever she screams to.
Only when this happens, you imagine the strap of your dress sliding off of your sunburnt shoulder and then immediately think-"That was fucking hot," and then "Oh, Gain is cheaper than Tide today!"
You don't have to play out the whole sex scene in your mind- one flashback is enough to give you butterflies in your stomach ALL DAY.
I love it.
It is that moment, in the middle of a mundane, likely sex-free day when I get a quick flashback from the night before. Like a moment from the previews of a movie: the music grows intense and images from the film appear on the screen. Nothing is cohesive, just images of the frightening battle, the passionate kiss, the lady screaming "NOOOOOOOOOO!" at whomever she screams to.
Only when this happens, you imagine the strap of your dress sliding off of your sunburnt shoulder and then immediately think-"That was fucking hot," and then "Oh, Gain is cheaper than Tide today!"
You don't have to play out the whole sex scene in your mind- one flashback is enough to give you butterflies in your stomach ALL DAY.
I love it.
May 11, 2009
A bit of advice...
Heed my words: If you are in a committed relationship, and your other half decides to start working out- there is trouble brewing. If your significant other suggests that the two of you join a gym together, this is healthy and could even be beneficial to your relationship- its good to do things together...
HOWEVER,
If your significant other decides to start working out without you- leave before you are left. By the time your partner decides to start working out (WITHOUT YOU!), you already know how their body looks and have probably accepted their flaws- maybe even grown to love them, so why would they try to start looking good now? It could mean several things: 1) the sight of your unsightly body motivates them to get in shape, or 2) << and the most likely>> they are fixin' to be on the prowl and want to look HOT.
DISCLAIMER: This theory came from a drunken conversation with two very intelligent gay guys who, I believe, know everything about everything that matters.
HOWEVER,
If your significant other decides to start working out without you- leave before you are left. By the time your partner decides to start working out (WITHOUT YOU!), you already know how their body looks and have probably accepted their flaws- maybe even grown to love them, so why would they try to start looking good now? It could mean several things: 1) the sight of your unsightly body motivates them to get in shape, or 2) << and the most likely>> they are fixin' to be on the prowl and want to look HOT.
DISCLAIMER: This theory came from a drunken conversation with two very intelligent gay guys who, I believe, know everything about everything that matters.
Likes and Dislikes, continued.
We like to talk about our dead relatives.
My family spent Mother's day searching our family's archives for my great-granddaddy Fuller's hand-written recipe for Coca Cola. I've never seen it, though it is said to be written on a slip of pharmacy paper and dated March of 1931.
To many people, this isn't really worth the trouble. To us, well, we're still looking. The same way people who claim to be related to William Wallace or George Washington stick to their accounts of, "My great great great great great uncle fought under Robert E. Lee, we're related because........."
Our ancestors are our claim to fame. By telling people that our family history spans more than a few decades, we affirm our own beliefs that we come from something greater than the cookie-cutter houses we grew up in.
Of course everyone's family goes back, way back. But knowing your family's history- having written records like in a Bible suggests that your family was worth recording.
Those old, crisp pictures with writing on the back- lead for sure, and in a script that cannot be replicated by those educated by pencils that were over one inch in diameter and the paper with the dashes in the middle of the lines- those are history. They have names written on them- Albertus, Estelle, Carrie Nell- that tell who you are and whose you are.
Maybe having a hand-written recipe for Coke isn't much. In our defense, a Georgia native who could read and write in the 1930s is quite impressive. Many people talk about the huge houses that their grandparents live in and the Cadillacs that sit in the driveway with 8 miles on the odometer. Others would reference the guy who sold his recipe for Dr. Pepper a few weeks ago for over $100,000. Whoever's side you take is irrelevant, because everyone in our family believes like hell that we will find that damn paper and *never sell it*.
My great-aunt Leesie lost her mind a while ago, and gave a silver tea service and a monogrammed walking stick belonging to Lyman Hall, signer of the Declaration of Independence and our ancestor on daddy's side- to the Salvation Army. The person who bought those for roughly $5 will never know that the monogram is that of the 12th governor of Georgia. They will never know that some of the only tangible history of our family now belongs to them.
Either way, we know it happened, and we love to name-drop (or product place? in reference to coke). Ancestry is definitely a southern LIKE.
My family spent Mother's day searching our family's archives for my great-granddaddy Fuller's hand-written recipe for Coca Cola. I've never seen it, though it is said to be written on a slip of pharmacy paper and dated March of 1931.
To many people, this isn't really worth the trouble. To us, well, we're still looking. The same way people who claim to be related to William Wallace or George Washington stick to their accounts of, "My great great great great great uncle fought under Robert E. Lee, we're related because........."
Our ancestors are our claim to fame. By telling people that our family history spans more than a few decades, we affirm our own beliefs that we come from something greater than the cookie-cutter houses we grew up in.
Of course everyone's family goes back, way back. But knowing your family's history- having written records like in a Bible suggests that your family was worth recording.
Those old, crisp pictures with writing on the back- lead for sure, and in a script that cannot be replicated by those educated by pencils that were over one inch in diameter and the paper with the dashes in the middle of the lines- those are history. They have names written on them- Albertus, Estelle, Carrie Nell- that tell who you are and whose you are.
Maybe having a hand-written recipe for Coke isn't much. In our defense, a Georgia native who could read and write in the 1930s is quite impressive. Many people talk about the huge houses that their grandparents live in and the Cadillacs that sit in the driveway with 8 miles on the odometer. Others would reference the guy who sold his recipe for Dr. Pepper a few weeks ago for over $100,000. Whoever's side you take is irrelevant, because everyone in our family believes like hell that we will find that damn paper and *never sell it*.
My great-aunt Leesie lost her mind a while ago, and gave a silver tea service and a monogrammed walking stick belonging to Lyman Hall, signer of the Declaration of Independence and our ancestor on daddy's side- to the Salvation Army. The person who bought those for roughly $5 will never know that the monogram is that of the 12th governor of Georgia. They will never know that some of the only tangible history of our family now belongs to them.
Either way, we know it happened, and we love to name-drop (or product place? in reference to coke). Ancestry is definitely a southern LIKE.
A tasty quote.
All well-raised Southern girls know it's far easier to get forgiveness than permission.
-- Virginia Darmer
-- Virginia Darmer
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