The Silence of Our Friends

I'm on the metra. I didn't have my ticket pulled up on my phone when the conductor came by. He walked away to check other tickets. The black man behind me had purchased a weekend pass when he meant to buy a Ravinia pass. They are the same price. The man calmly argued that he didn't want to buy another pass, because they are the same price. Can't the conductor just rule it as a mistake this once? The conductor said he was making a scene and to please exit the train at the next stop. He did. Calmly. The conductor walked right past me and smiled.

I never had to show him a ticket. I was silent on the train. I probably shouldn't have been. So I'm making noise here.

"In the end, we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends."

I'm not mad, just disappointed.

Hi, you guys.  I haven't written a blog in a while.  I thought I didn't have anything to talk about, but I think really I just got worried about how many times I mention myself in my blog.  How egocentric it is.  When I admitted that to my husband, he said that as soon as he realized that he's writing for himself and no one else, posting blogs was easy.  Thanks for mansplaining that to me, darling.

I'm totally kidding about the mansplaining.  He did not do that.  If he ever did, I don't think we'd be married.  I just wanted to add that term because I like it and I honestly am not sure if I can fit it in this blog, even given the topic.  The topic started out as "Ghostbusters," but I don't really know where it's going now.  Here we go.

I watched Ghostbusters.  The new one with Kristin Wiig (kinda Venkman), Melissa McCarthy (kinda Stanz), Kate McKinnon (kinda Spengler) and Leslie Jones (pretty clearly Zeddemore.  Sorry, but it's part of the problem, although I didn't cringe as much as I thought I would.  About this, anyway).  These ladies are fucking funny.  If you don't think so, and are attributing that opinion to the fact that they are women, then you're wrong.  (See?  I can also have opinions, which is all your argument is.  Sit down. The grownups are talking, and some of them have vaginas. No reason for panic.)

Now, I always regret reading the comments on anything posted on the internet.  There has never been a time that I did not regret this.  I read a lot of the comments on the reboot of Ghostbusters' trailer.  I was truly blown away.  I've read about men's activist groups.  I've seen them parodied on TV.  I've watched "Women Aren't Funny."  I've been called "abrasive" and "emotional" at work because I said what I was thinking out loud and cared about the issue. I've been asked to smile by strange men on the street. I know the drill.

Still. The animosity this trailer had triggered because the new comedians are women. And not just women, y'all. Some of the funniest fucking women in Hollywood right now. (I know, an opinion! I have so many, just like you!) I mean.  THIS.  Try to keep it together, Ryan. 

So I was going to LOVE this movie. Like, TO SPITE YOU ALL if that had to be the only reason. Then I saw it. It's not good. *coughOPINION* As I watched it, I even thought about lying to everyone including myself because the fear that these ladies in the movin' pictures had generated in the hearts and minds of a sea of 42 year old men tweeting from their granny's basement was too much for me to accept.

I didn't, though. Because you might be frightened of me and my terrifying inverted genitals, but you don't scare me.  I quit trying to be what you wanted me to be (and then started mocking me for like your gender didn't back me into a corner of icky "girliness" in the first place) years ago. 

Ghostbusters is bad. It's a mess, but it's a mess because it looked like they had 10 minutes to make a movie, so they slapped some proton packs on it and put it in the theater. NOT because it stars women. So everybody just relax. DON'T MAKE ME COME DOWN THERE and slap the laptop off your enormous cheeto stained belly. 

And you, Ghostbusters. I'm not mad, just disappointed. Go back and do it again.

NIMH vs NIMH

The Secret of NIMH was one of those Staple Movies of my childhood, one of the movies we had a bootleg copy of on VHS that my dad had taped from the cable channels that we weren’t exactly paying for.  I can still picture the tape.  It had Follow That Bird and Pee Wee’s Big Adventure on it, too.  We watched that movie to death.  It’s actually very violent for a kid’s movie by today’s standards.  It was probably a mile marker on my journey to loving horror movies.  I always knew it was based on a book, Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH, but I had never read said book.  Well, I just finished it today and it’s so boring and conflict free, it may as well be a lab created sapphire.  And that’s generous; lab created sapphires are still pretty.  I wrote a comparison so you never have to read that book and lose a little chunk of your childhood.  If you've been meaning to see it, you should know I'm about to completely spoil a movie from 1982.  Otherwise, you’re welcome.

BOOK: Timmy Frisby gets sick.

MOVIE: Timmy Brisby gets sick.

Mouse Pneumonia is bad news. 

BOOK: “Mrs. Shrew” has one scene and she’s awful and everyone hates her.

MOVIE: Auntie Shrew has a few scenes and she’s awesome.  She’s overbearing, but Mrs. Brisby’s (they even changed her name to something less stupid) kids love her.

So wise.

BOOK: Mr. Ages (their doctor, kinda) tells Mrs. Frisby that under no circumstances can Timmy be moved.  He. Will. DIE.  This is not good news because it's spring, and the plow is coming.  The Brisby's have to move from the garden in like, two days.

MOVIE:  Pretty much the same, actually, but I needed to mention Mr. Ages for those of you who haven't seen it, so you can keep up. 

Grumble grumble don't you move Timmy because: DEATH.

BOOK: Mrs. Frisby meets Jeremy on her way back from Mr. Ages. He is just stuck on a piece of string because he is stupid, not because he’s looking for love.

MOVIE: Mrs. Brisby meets Jeremy (who is more like a middle aged Jewish New Yorker than a rural crow, but somehow it works much better) who is trying to find love by adding some colorful string to his nest.

The whole world!  Will hear us singiiiiiiiing!

BOOK: The plow never even starts until it’s not a danger anymore. Seriously, the farmer goes outside to the plow and is like, "Gonna start this plow in a few days." End of chapter.

MOVIE: The plow starts up and CrazyPants Brisby jumps on and tries to stop it, so Auntie Shrew comes to her rescue and ACTUALLY STOPS IT because she is a damn HERO. 

Plow Shmow, y'all. SHREW OUT.

BOOK: Jeremy takes Mrs. Brisby to the owl for help.  The owl is not scary, nor is anyone scared of him, and then we never see Jeremy again.

MOVIE: Jeremy takes her to the owl, and they are both ***king terrified because they are MUCH lower on the ol’ food chain DUH.  And that owl is scary as all hell.  He tells her to ask the rats to help her move her house.  Remember when he squishes that spider and then eats an adorable little moth? THE TERROR.  Plus, we get plenty more Jeremy in future scenes.

See you later in my nightmares, Owl.

BOOK: Dragon, the farm cat, is also not terribly scary.

MOVIE: That is the creepiest freaking cat I’ve ever seen.  My grandmother is oddly scared of domestic cats, and if they looked like that, I probably wouldn't think she was nuts.  Like, WHERE DID YOU FIND THIS CAT.

Another nightmare joke goes in here.

BOOK: Mrs. Frisby goes to the rats, and Brutus (one of the rat's guards) has lines, and sounds a lot more like Martin (Mrs. Brisby's punk of an oldest son) than Martin does. 

MOVIE: Brutus doesn’t talk, and he tries to SPEAR MRS. BRISBY TO DEATH FOR TRESPASSING, and then later, Mr. Ages, is all, “Oh, that’s just Brutus, he’s cool and it’s fine that he TRIED TO IMPALE YOU WITH HIS RAT SIZED SPEAR.”

Yep.  Spear.

BOOK: Mrs. Frisby meets Justin (the good guy guard), notes that he's handsome, then moves on.

MOVIE:  Mrs. Brisby meets Justin and is a little bit wooed by his cuteness and charm.

Resist me.  I dare you.

BOOK: Jenner, the main villain in the movie, NEVER EVEN SHOWS UP in the present tense and is probably dead by the end of the book, although we never actually find out. Meaning there is really no direct villain in the book.  

MOVIE: Jenner is all over this movie.  The short story is he wants to lead the rats and is against The Plan (more on that below). He’s super evil because the screenwriters knew that no conflict equals no story.

Is a caption really necessary?

BOOK: Nicodemus (The Rat Leader) and Mr. Ages go ON AND ON AND ON about life after NIMH, like we care about the intimate details of The Plan. Like, oh, my God, what kind of soil are you going to use for the crops you're going to grow in The Plan?  Also, there is no necklace, and it doesn’t matter.  You’ll see.

MOVIE: Mr. Ages mostly bolts while Nicodemus tells the story of how they were trapped and drugged and made really smart by a group of scientists called NIMH (National Institute of Mental Health), so smart that they escape their scientists/kidnappers even though most of the mice die trying.  

OW. 

He tells her how her husband Jonathan saved all of their lives and was greatly respected by the rats (The Brisby’s are mice).  Oh, and he died this past summer doing something brave again for the rats. She's still pretty bummed about it, which is why she's only a little wooed by Justin.  

He looks like he'd know the words to the Mission Impossible theme if there were words.

Then Nicodemus is all, “Oh and we have a Plan to stop stealing, but I won’t bore you with details. Hey, here’s a cool necklace Jonathan would have wanted you to have. It does magic if you’re a really good person and passionate about something, in this case, I imagine it will be your children.  Foreshadowing!”

Anyway, she asks him to help move her house and offers to help them with their Plan in return and he's like, "Anything for Mrs. Jonathan Brisby." *finger guns*

In retrospect, I guess this is kind of a clunky way to incorporate magic into a story that doesn't really have anything to do with magic, but it makes the climax of the movie awesome, so shut up and relax.  

BOOK: Mrs. Frisby gets trapped by a kid in the farmhouse and put in a cage while she's trying to drug Dragon (long story having to do with The Plan and also how Jonathan got himself killed, FYI), but Justin saves her.  Then she’s like, “Maybe I should tell the rats what the farmer said on the phone with NIMH about bulldozing their home?  I dunno…”

MOVIE: Mrs. Brisby gets trapped and put in a cage and she gets herself out because: BADASS.  Then she runs straight to the rats to warn them that NIMH IS COMING, YOU GUYS. HIDE YA KIDS.

BY THE POWERS OF NIMHSKULL

BOOK: The rats never even have to move her stupid house (fine, they move it like a foot away, and it's so brief and uneventful that I actually missed it the first time I read it).  Timmy just gets better and they walk to their summer house.

MOVIE: The rats start moving her home while she looks on because Timmy is super sick and can’t move, and then ALL. HELL. BREAKS. LOOSE.  Jenner goes off the rails, kills Nicodemus, goes for Mrs. Brisby. 

STOP.  KILLING EVERYBODY. Love, Justin

and his toady has to kill him to make him stop. 

I couldn't find an image of Jenner's actual death, but it's pretty gruesome for a children's cartoon.

But by this time, the ropes and pulleys on the house are all cut (Jenner cuts them because: evil) and the house has sunk into the mud. The necklace starts glowing because it’s powered by Mrs. Brisby’s CRAZY/STUPID/LOVE for her children and it makes her strong enough to lift the house and move it all on her own.  HERO.

I cry every time, and so do you.

BOOK: NIMH comes for the rats, but they are mostly gone.  They left like 10 of the younger rats in the rosebush so it wouldn’t look abandoned. NIMH fills their home with poison gas and only 8 rats make it out. They don't say which rats died.  More on that below.  (I’d say the author is making a metaphor about how the rats are so human now that the old ones send their young ones off to die for their own interests much like humans in war, but I don’t think the author implied that metaphor as much as I inferred it.) 

MOVIE: The rats are SO already gone. All of them. Like, there are dust trails.

BOOK:  The End.  Oh, wait no.  JUSTIN IS PROBABLY DEAD AND NO ONE REALLY CARES. 

I am adorable and brave.

MOVIE: Justin doesn’t die and if he did, IT WOULD BE A BIG DEAL.

He's so adorable and brave.

BOOK: Timmy's fine. The End. AWFUL.

MOVIE: Timmy's fine. The End. AWESOME.

And this image is for my husband, who might be Auntie Shrew's biggest fan.  

Cast not pearls in front of SWINE I always say!  And that includes impudent little piglets.  GOOD DAY. 

StreetWise

When I first moved to Chicago, I learned about the Streetwise magazine.  For those of you who don’t live here, StreetWise, Inc. is a social enterprise designed to help the homeless and those at risk of homelessness out of poverty. It is a workforce development agency providing under-served individuals with support and opportunities for professional growth and real employment.¹  You mostly see these individuals outside of Walgreens or CVS selling their magazines.  In 2003, everyday on my way home from work, I would pass a woman selling StreetWise.  I was 23 and had no respect or sensitivity for these people, even though I thought I did.  I would buy the magazines when I could (which wasn’t very often; I lived in a rundown hotel room with one other person, and would often have to skate to and from my temp jobs because I didn’t have bus fare) and I felt that gave me the right to do impressions of her for fun.  What a dick, right? 

Recently, I walked past a different woman selling StreetWise in my new neighborhood, and I realized that not only had I not seen the woman I joked about in years, but I actually hadn’t seen any other women selling StreetWise at all.  

*Walking past CVS*

Woman: StreetWise!

Me: I’m sorry I don’t have any cash.

And I really didn’t.

My Brain: Huh.  Jesus, I wonder if that woman from Boystown is even still alive.  Or if she was even ever able to turn her life around.  I can’t believe we used to laugh about her.  What is wrong with me?  Early 20 somethings are the worst.  Or maybe just I am.  I mean, did she have children or anyone she could have turned to for help?  Maybe she didn’t.  Maybe she was all on her own.  Oh my God, I’m 35 and I’m barely considering having children.  I could be that woman in 30 years.  Would it be worth it to get pregnant just to be sure that someone takes care of you when you’re old?  I mean, you’d still have to do a pretty good job of parenting if you wanted them to stick around for your diaper years.  Look at all those indie films where the kids only come back for the funeral and it turns out they are dysfunctional, selfish pricks.  I bet they get that from their dysfunctional selfish prick parents that we never get to meet.  Not that this woman is a selfish prick, Jesus, why am I so awful?

Why are we expected to like those characters?  Because we’re just like them?  I talk a big game about how I don’t enjoy watching antiheroes on TV, like Walter White and Don Draper.  It’s weird how their names use alliteration, kinda like a superhero name does: Clark Kent, Peter Parker, Wade Wilson… 

   

Now, I want to write that I got cash and bought a Streetwise, but I didn’t.  I thought about it.  I guess I’ll go home and start up Mad Men again.  

¹ http://streetwise.org/

If you change the way you look at things, the things that you look at will change.

I wasn't going to write today.  When the allegations about Bill Cosby came out (he is not the topic of this blog, at all, so stick with me) I instinctually wanted to defend him.  He was a part of my childhood.  That child inside me KNOWS he couldn’t be this person that women are accusing him of being. 

Of course, the adult woman that I am now, knows that he absolutely could be.  That he probably is.  A rapist.  (I said it.) 

So, I just didn’t want to talk about it. 

THAT is the topic of my blog. 

Recently, I updated my resume, and my writing portfolio (it’s just a smart thing to have handy).  In my portfolio is a feature article that I wrote when I was 21 years old.  It was in a small magazine, and it won an award.  I was so proud of it.  To me, it was the best thing I’d written.  I hadn't read it in years, so a few weeks ago, I read it again. 

The article is about me, living in a house with other roommates, in an impoverished neighborhood of Decatur, IL.  I thought I was shining a light on poverty and racism in the city.  What I was actually doing was writing from the point of view of a privileged white girl from a farm town of 10,000 people, who thought she understood and empathized with underprivileged urban black people.    

My biggest problem with Orange is the New Black, is that it felt like I was watching a show where an upper class blond girl teaches Important Life Lessons to poor black women, and it made me pretty nauseous.  Now, that’s how this article, that I penned, makes me feel.  The naivety of this article makes me cringe.  I included it here if you want to read it to see what I mean. 

That’s not the only reason I included it here.  This morning I saw the news that the Ferguson police officer would not be indicted in the shooting death of an unarmed teenager.  I cried as I watched the riots.  I thought to myself, “I won’t be able to avoid this conversation today, but I am going to try to.”

I didn't want to talk about it.  The feeling of despondency overwhelmed me, and I wanted to ignore it.  I arrived at work with my eyes closed and my fingers in my ears, and I immediately ran into a co-worker of mine.  He didn't want to talk about it, either.  He had to.  It was consuming him. 

He’s right, you guys.  I’m wrong, and if you think you shouldn't talk about it, or just don’t want to, you’re wrong, too.  We can’t just hide from it, or smugly (or violently, while we’re at it) insist that we aren't part of the problem, because we are.  WE ALL ARE.  This isn't someone else’s mess to fix.  IT BELONGS TO ALL OF US.  Are you human?  Then you’re a part of this. 

I don’t understand what it’s like to be the people I wrote about in that article, and I didn't even TRY to understand them.  What I DID do was exploit them to advance my station, and I've been patting myself on the back for it ever since. 

I posted this article I wrote when I was 21 years old because I am a part of the problem.  I will talk about the Ferguson injustice today, because I am a part of the problem.  And while I agree with those who, at the core of their argument, are saying that these violent riots aren't the answer, it sickens me that you've chosen to care more about a burning 7-11 than you ever did about the murder of an unarmed human being.  

And maybe, by talking about it, and listening to other opinions about it, whether I agree with them or not, I will understand.  I might never be able to empathize, but I have to believe that the best way to extinguish fear (see also: racism, sexism, homophobia, classism, ageism) has GOT to be open conversation and understanding.  

Just TRY to walk a mile in someone else’s shoes.  TRY to understand what it’s like to be feared for a physical attribute that you cannot hide, or for an orientation you were born with.  Hell, try to understand what it’s like to be automatically placed at an advantage for a physical attribute you cannot hide, or an orientation you were born with.  How that might put up blinders that you never noticed were so damaging to other people.  Or just ACKNOWLEDGE THAT YOU CAN’T EMPATHIZE WITH IT!  Admit that to someone today. 

I am ashamed of the tone of this article, and after nearly 13 years, I've removed it from my writing portfolio.  

Girly is GOOD.

Is it irony that Maya Angelou passed away in the wake of a tragic shooting in California that inspired #YesAllWomen tweets?  Probably not (I dunno; Maya probably understands irony better than I do).  It’s most definitely a big loss for my gender. 

We, as women, must continue to support each other. We must continue to work to change our social status, but it can’t stop there. Let’s also take some responsibility for the men we produce in our society.  Men, I am obviously speaking to you, too. See the soapbox?  Let’s do this:

Vulnerability is NOT weakness. 

Stop using the word “girly” to describe actions or activities that we should be ashamed of because they may be viewed as feminine.  Femininity is NOT. A BAD THING.    

Stop using the word “rape” as a metaphor for something else.  You take away the weight of this word.  It is not a joke.  And it sure as shit is not what happened to you when you lost at HALO. 

Stop telling your brothers, your sons, and your grandsons, to “be a man,” or “man up.”  Or at the very least, change what these statements mean.

Stop implying that strength comes from possessing testicles.      

Stop inadvertently teaching boys that, while women should hate themselves for being rejected by men, men should hate the women for rejecting them. 

We can support each other without offering the men in our lives the double-edged sword they are offered from a very young age: Respect women, but not the things they do or feel.  What kind of a lesson is that? 

But I Took a Selfie with James Franco, Plus I Don’t Live in Nigeria, So My Life is Still Pretty Awesome

The best part first, guys.  My parents’ good friends’ daughter is married to a guy who is besties with Chris O’Dowd.  Of course that makes us practically related, so on Mother’s Day weekend, when my mom, sis and I went to see Of Mice and Men in New York, we got to go backstage and meet him. 

For my friends who don’t watch movies (although I don’t know why we’re friends) Chris O’Dowd is the painfully adorable love interest of Kristin Wiig in Bridesmaids. 

So cute, right?? He’s playing Lenny opposite James Franco on Broadway.  O'Dowd was nominated for a Tony, and rightfully so.  He was wonderful. 

So, blah blah blah, we watched the play.  Play Highlights:

• Someone brought their pocket puppy, that started barking right before (spoiler alert!) Lenny accidentally kills Curly’s wife.  If you know the play, then you can probably see the irony in this. 
• If you don’t know the play, I overheard a teenaged girl sum it up for her mother after the play.  “It’s about these two men, and one of them keeps accidentally killing mice.” 
• That’s actually not a bad one-sentence synopsis of that play. 

After the play, we went backstage and waited in the greenroom for Chris.  He was super nice, guys.  He even apologized for keeping us waiting.  He immediately pulled my mom in for a big hug (he is a big dude) and a kiss.  While she turned red, I turned green.  We talked for a bit, and then let him be on his way, but as we walked out, Mom realized we forgot to get a picture.  I turned back and asked the stage manager if we could come back in, and before he could say no, James Franco literally ran into me. 

Four years ago in Vegas, I grabbed Patrick Stewart.  He wouldn’t take a picture with me, so I had to squeal like Brooke Adams and grab him instead. Totally logical.  This time, I was going to play it cool, dammit! 

Me [shaking and stumbling backward]: OMG, sup, James Franco!  Great show! So, can we take a selfie??

My Inner Monologue: Yeah. Smooth.

James Franco: Well, sure.

And he even held the camera.  **** you, Patrick Stewart!  (I don’t really mean that, like, AT ALL. But also?  I do.)

The rest of our weekend was great, too.  Which reminds me, check out this comedian, Sherrod Small. He is really funny. 

Now to the airplane ride home!  I left my mom and sis early because I had to be at work on Monday.  Lots of important work stuff happening blah-bitty blah shuffling paper around work.  It was storming in Chicago, so we had to re-route to Grand Rapids, MI.  We sat for two hours waiting.  I’m not complaining about that part.  It sucks, but the miracle of human flight is not always flawless.  (There’s a joke to go with this understatement, pertaining to recent events, but I think it’s still too soon, so you can just make it to yourself and try not to piss anyone off.)

After two hours, the captain assures us that we have clearance, so we’re just going to be towed into the gate for fuel, and off we go!  They strap us in and start pulling.  Suddenly, there’s a big “THUNK,” and then the plane rolls back a few feet.  Minor whiplash. 

Captain: Hey, all.  This is your captain again.  So….more bad news.  It seems the tow has pulled off a piece of the plane, so we’re gonna have to de-board after all.    

I hear groans all around me, but I do not groan, because I prefer to fly in an airplane that has all of its pieces. 

We de-board and look out the window at our broken plane.  Turns out, the piece was the NOSE OF THE FREAKING AIRPLANE.  I’m not an aeronautical engineer, but it seems like a pretty important piece.  You know what?  If the bathroom sink handle piece was missing, I would not want to take off.  The Butterfly Effect.  Look it up (but don’t see the movie unless you’re drunk.  Then go nuts).   

They tried to find us a bus.  It didn’t work.  I guess they were all out of buses?  An American Airlines employee got on the loud speaker for an update.  “Well, it looks like we won’t be able to find you a bus after all.  We will start looking for hotel accommodations, but this is going to be a lot of work for us to find 158 hotel rooms tonight.”

Oh my God, I am SO SORRY!  I had no idea that picking up a phone and talking into it numerous times would be so painful!  Can I get you anything?  You know, I wasn’t even angry, or really that upset until that woman took some of her shitty day out on 158 people stranded in Grand Rapids through no fault of their own except for deciding to book the flight.  Sometimes my job sucks, too, lady.  I have to get back to it in nine hours.  I guess it’s good that I don’t have access to an intercom system.

I decided to rent a car.  I am not nearly the only person who decided this.  At first, I was told they could only help people with reservations.  They were all booked up.  I got out of line, called Avis, made a reservation, got back in line, and got a car.  The attendant was fairly displeased, but that may have had more to do with what a smug asshole I was being when I got back to him.  My fault. 

Once I got to the lot, my space had no car, and I flashed to Planes, Trains and Automobiles, but honestly, I think I’d be OK sharing a bed with John Candy.  I mean, not now, but in the 80s he looked so warm and snuggly and it was rainy and cold outside. 

Anyway, they found me another car, and I drove home, avoiding a God damned MASSACRE of deer on the highway.  Like, did the Red Bull force them into the road?!?  It was horrifying.  And I thought to myself, I am not that deer.  I will be home safe and sound with my hubby (who is probably just as warm as John Candy) in three hours.  In fact, if this is the worst airplane story I ever have, *insert inappropriate and way too soon joke about recent airplane tragedy here* I am so lucky.  I just spent 27 hours (HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA GEDDIT I MET JAMES FRANCO FINE THE MOVIE WAS 127 HOURS SHUT UP) with my sister and Momma in NYC having a great time.  This isn’t even a blip on my radar of bad things that happened to me.  When I really think about it, I don’t have any blips.  Now, bring it in, guys.  Just like I bet John Candy would have.