Dogfight Weekend

This was supposed to be my big weekend. It was packed full of significant things for me.

I went to Friday Night Group and listened to the story of a woman who has been in recovery from an eating disorder for 30 years. THIRTY YEARS. I get weak-kneed just thinking about the six months I’ve been fighting my own disorder. Six months has felt closer to forever than anything else I’ve dealt with, and so I seek out those pats on the back and words of encouragement from the old-timers because I have no sense of what 30 years of recovery must feel like.

I spent all day Saturday trying to keep my heartrate at a nice, steady pace because that night I was headed to an art opening with Steve the Caretaker, and the excitement was more than I could take. I went to Saturday Mass at the Basilica because the building is beautiful and it calms me down. No, I did not do the obvious thing and make a request for a great evening with Steve the Caretaker. (My discretion surprised me, too.) I went home and finished the film Dogfight - and for those of you who may not have seen this little gem - get it! River Phoenix stars as Eddie Birdlace, a young marine on his last night in the states before shipping out to Vietnam. He and his buddies host a dogfight, in which each guy competes to bring the ugliest date to the club. River chooses Rose, played to perfection by Lili Taylor, a shy girl with a love for folk singers. Rose discovers the dogfight, and is crushed. The rest of the film follows Eddie and Rose as he tries to make it up to her. It’s really a very sweet love story.

Art opening time rolls around and as I knock on Steve’s door, I’m hoping he didn’t forget. Sure enough, the look on his face as he opens the door is enough to start me laughing: “Do you have the attention span of a gnat?!?” He smiles and says he needs a minute to get ready. We head over to the opening and it was so much fun walking around the galleries and chatting about the art. I introduced him to a few friends, but pretty soon I could tell the event was starting to wear on him so we quietly ducked out for the evening. Back at the apartments, there was this whole, disastrous, awkward back-and-forth about the evening: ‘Are you mad?’ ‘No, I’m not. Honestly, I thought you might forget so it’s cool that we even made it there, right?’ ‘So, you’re not mad?’ ‘No! Well, I am mad, but only at the video clerk that laughed at me today for all the X-Files DVD’s I’ve been renting recently. But I’ll get over that.’

I wasn’t mad, I was deathly afraid that he’d had a terrible time and it was all my fault. After goodnight’s we went to our respective apartments, but I was too fidgety and had to go back over to his apartment to apologize again, at which point he said it wasn’t my fault (again), and that he just wasn’t feeling too social that night. Do people EVER get out of the stupid high school awkwardness?? Maybe not. I couldn’t take it anymore so I just hastily added that I liked spending time with him, and want to again. Then I made a run for the door in true high school fashion.

Sulkily heading back to my apartment, I ran into one of my residents and we stood in the foyer for a good 30 minutes laying out the woes of our respective days. Discovering that we were both in the midst of pining for boys, we decided the only good temporary solution would be a few drinks, so we headed down to King & I Thai for a few glasses of wine and some laughs. (Michele, if you ever leave my building, it might break my heart.)

I was so sure that I’d consumed enough alcohol to sleep like a baby, but that so wasn’t the case. Of course, I couldn’t get to sleep and my conversations with Steve just kept playing over and over in my mind. I wish I could turn that part of my brain function off. Then out of nowhere I burst into tears: “I’m Rose! I’m Rose! Someone’s going to take me to a dogfight. I’m a dogfight contestant! Why?!? It’s not fair - I won’t even get River Phoenix in the end!” And that’s how my Sunday began at 4am - convinced I would be a dogfight contestant.

Enter Christina. The following day I almost ditched out of the artist talk we were headed to, but I decided to go. I had spent all morning telling myself that everything was OK, and Steve wasn’t trying to get away from me, but rather get away from crowds of chattery art goers. After the lecture, Christina and I stood around waiting for the arrival of Isaac the Theologian, and Christina told me how much she appreciates love handles on people, and how everyone should have them. Bony girls are scary, she concluded. “If you want to fuck a twig, fuck a twig. Or a mayonnaise jar - I’m sure it feels exactly the same.” That right there made my day. Christina knows exactly the right thing to say, and I walked away knowing two things:

1. I am not a dogfight contestant.
2. I am not a mayonnaise jar, either.

Greyhound in the pipeline.

Got another call from my greyhound adoption agent. They have another dog! She’s a little brindle racer, 60 lbs of cute, and she’s a shy girl. So sweet! I’m meeting her on Wednesday. This could be the real deal - will keep you posted. Could she look something like this?

Happy thoughts of brindle…

Sakura Sweetness

Just started reading, among other things, Drop Dead Cute: The New Generation of Women Artists in Japan, and it is rockin’ me pretty hard. Join me now as I fall to my knees to worhip at the altar of Chiho Aoshima:

Japanese Apricot 2, 2004

Strawberry Fields, 2003

A space capsule built for two.

Abby and I were chatting last night about planning a little mini-vacation together. Former roommate and all-around supergrrl, Abby, recommended Fantasuites - SO typical of her sense of humor and style - but I didn’t realize that until she told me about the igloo-shaped room. So I paid a visit to their site, and I’m willing to admit to you, Abby, this looks kind of fun. I’m especially interested in the Space Oddysey room complete with in-room whirlpool and NINTENDO!! Do you know how fuckin’ sweet that would be if it was an original NES?? I’d pay extra just for the NES.

Freedomland.

Saw Freedomland this past weekend, and I’m a little puzzled at all the shit this film is taking. So many reviewers seem to be biting onto Julianne Moore’s performance, and touting much of the film as overacted drivel. But I think folks might be missing out on an opportunity for a larger and more interesting conversation about crime and race relations.

First of all, Samuel L. Jackson rocked me pretty hard as Lorenzo Council, a police detective with close ties to the predominantly black project neighborhood of Armstrong Houses. When called to investigate a reported car jacking of a woman from the white suburb of Gannon, the tenor of the film is still calm and quiet. When the woman (played by Moore) reports that her 4-year old son was asleep in the back of the car, the movie takes off at full-tilt. Add to it that the woman has family on the Gannon police force, and the situation escalates to dangerous levels between Gannon and Armstrong. Meanwhile, Council is left to negotiate the middle ground trying to not only solve the disappearance but to prevent an eruption of race-fueled violence between the two neighborhoods.

While there were a few moments during which I thought Moore’s performance was a little over the top, I nevertheless found the story taut, tense, and interesting. Makes me want to go out and find the book upon which the film is based.

In other film news, I am continuing to plow through The X-Files - now in the middle of Season 5. Also watched Addicted last night, a Korean film about two brothers simultaneously injured in separate car accidents. A year later one awakens seemingly possessed by his brother, and the story follows him as he tries to convince the wife left behind after the accident.

The art of Lucky.

Sunday was the grand opening of Lucky Star, and then Monday Steve the Caretaker stops by to install my new kitchen sink. Where is the connection, you ask? Over the hour and half that Steve the Caretaker and I spent covering numerous topics of conversation, he revealed that as a child his family owned and cared for a succession of dogs, all named: Lucky.

Lucky! More than a coincidence, to my thinking. Anyway, here’s a polaroid of Steve buried alive under my sink. Lucky me.

You must be my Lucky Star.

This past weekend saw the grand opening of Chinese restaurant, Lucky Star, on Nicollet. Formerly a soul food and jazz place, Sovady’s mom is one of the owners so I headed over on Sunday for the grand opening and a celebration dinner.

It turns out that they weren’t quite ready for opening day business, but everyone tried very hard. Sovady was there with her sister, Sophearvy (pronounced: so-FEAR-ee) and Sophie’s two kids, Tyler and Andru. The day was spent wrangling small children, listening to the smoke alarm go on and off seemingly at random, sitting around in our winter jackets for two hours only to have it pointed out to us later that no one had bothered to turn the heat on in the place, and sitting down to a yummy dinner of Cambodian food in a Chinese restaurant. We sat around the table and gossiped about the soap opera-like circumstances surrounding the new restaurant, and commented on the bizarre combination of newly installed Chinese deco and black folks memoribilia left behind by the last owners.

A multicultural view with: a little Chinese….

…and a little Black Americana.

…and Tyler pulling faces.

A small drawback to an otherwise perfectly likeable state.

I met Isaac the Theologian for coffee this morning - maybe a 1 1/2 block walk from my apartment - and I couldn’t believe how ridiculously cold it was. When I got in to work I initially resisted the urge to see just how bad it is, but eventually gave in.

Minus six degrees. A wind chill at minus thirty-one degrees.

Now I wish I could un-look at those numbers.

Fat: Not quite a Weapon of Mass Destruction.

The Journal of the American Medical Association has published a study headed up by the Women’s Health Initiative looking at the possible risk-reduction in women of invasive breast cancer by following a low-fat diet. The result? There was no significant statistical conclusion to indicate a higher risk of invasive breast cancer among women not in the low-fat diet control group. There was NO evidence to suggest that a low-fat diet reduces risk. The women in the low-fat group were getting about 20% of their calories from fat, while the comparison/control group, left to their own devices, averaged out to current recommendations of 30% of calories being from fat. What all this says to me is that moderation is key: get your fruits and veggies and whole grains, and balance out the protein and fats with that. The Church of Low-Carb didn’t have the answer, anymore than I think that the Church of Low-Fat does.

In the few articles that appeared in national newspapers that I’ve read about the study, the main researchers admit that they didn’t track the variable of exercise and it would be worth looking into that further. Maybe I’m oversimplifying, but if we try to eat good, nutritious food and get in some exercise a few times a week, can’t we trust our bodies to level out at the metabolic rate and function that best suits it?

Better to be beautiful and crazy, than fat and sane?

The February 2006 issue of Prospect Magazine features an article so ridiculous in its content that I’d be sure no self-respecting person could believe the story it outlines. (I’m probably wrong about that. People love to hate the fat.) It details the life of Nia, a 17-year old girl that develops a serious mental illness and is checked into a hospital. During the course of her treatment with antipyschotic meds, Nia seems to get better and better, but getting life back brings with it a lot of weight gain, too. The problem? The doctors see a tragedy in which Nia loses her stunning beauty, but worse than that, Nia seems unconcerned with the weight gain.

What the staff didn’t pick up immediately was Nia’s hunger. The nurses were so encouraged by her regular appearance in the dining room that they didn’t question the heap of beans and potatoes. But soon it became apparent that insanity had been replaced by appetite. Within three weeks she put on three stone. Now, for the first time, Nia’s features were being corrupted. She started to take on the shape of many of the chronically mentally ill. Her jawline collapsed below puffed-out cheeks. Her stomach sagged above her jeans. Even the consultant found the contrast alarming. “Get a dietician to see her; tell the staff to watch what she eats; change her to Quetiapine.”

If Nia did remain well, how would her old friends, and her boyfriend, have responded to her? She had been advised to stay on the Olanzapine for the foreseeable future. For a while the young psychiatrist worried about the consequences of the choices they had made in treating her. They had removed a stigma of the mind and replaced it with a stigma of the body. It struck him as strange that the patient had been the only one not to worry about a loss that the team around her found so tragic. Perhaps it didn’t matter. Perhaps, in fact, this was a merciful side-effect of medication, or even of the disorder itself; one that liberated Nia from the need to live up to the standards of an image-obsessed world.

The young psychiatrist wasn’t sure. The treatment had reversed a Faustian pact in which Nia had been beautiful and mad, and replaced it with another in which she was fat and sane. But was it really a blessing that Nia seemed to have no conception of what she had lost?

This is so revolting. Despite highlighting the standard misconception that fat cannot be beautiful, this story - in several places - posits the assertion that the real tragedy was not Nia’s mental and emotional suffering. The REAL tragedy is that Nia is now fat, ugly and will consequently be rejected and unwanted by the world as a whole. Those are some fucked up priorities. If Nia is unconcerned with her weight, might it be because she is so incredibly relieved to be free of a devastating psychosis? That would be my guess.

There are a lot of great comments about this piece over at Big Fat Blog.