Monthly Archives: July 2010

July 7. Day 78. Remember the Gulf.

You are probably screaming at the monitor right now: We have the largest environmental disaster on our hand which has had and will continue to have significant impact on people’s lives and livelihood for generations to come. And what did you do? You bought t-shirts from Threadless?! Yes ma’am and sir, yes we did.

Wordless. Remember the pelicans.

On July 7, 2010, it is official:

“Tests show tar balls washed up on the Texas coast are from the spill, meaning every U.S. Gulf state — Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama, Florida and now Texas — has been soiled by the spill [sic].”

Timeline: Gulf of Mexico oil spill [sic]

Remember the Gulf. Remember what is still going on even when the 6 o’clock news has stopped talking about it, or when the newspaper at your breakfast table no longer included the story on the first 10 pages, or when your Twitter stream no longer included any keywords related to the Gulf disaster.

No, I don’t know how remembering the fact that it is still happening and will continue going on, the fact that life will never get back to “The way it used to be” for the Gulf region, and the fact that there are more than 27,000 abandoned oil and gas wells in the Gulf, right now, is going to make any difference. I don’t know. I do know, deep down in my heart, that it will be an act of betrayal if we forget right now.

Amount of oil found on shore. Click picture to see Interactive Map on NY Times

Happy Birthday, Frida Kahlo, one heck of a woman

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How do you know you have arrived? How about if google celebrates your birthday with a special google logo in honor of your birthday?

If you can look past the unibrow and the mustache, Frida Kahlo was one heck of an attractive woman exactly because she exudes confidence and willful neglect for rules of all sorts. She swore all the time, hosted wild parties, sang loudly and told dirty jokes at those parties. By all accounts, she was vibrant, magnetic, despite the pains she lived with, not some metaphysical angst that artists are often plagued with (though I suspect that she experienced that too), but real, physical pains.

She was in a catastrophic bus accident and the damages she suffered included, the worst part, an iron handrail piercing her abdomen, breaking her spinal column in three places and then exiting through her pelvis.

Thus started her tumultuous and fascinating life as an artist who became one of the most prolific painters of her lifetime.

It is ironic that she seemed to be one of the most liberated people, one of the very few who were truly free, when all her life she was plagued with physical pain and suffering.

Guess which one is the young Frida Kahlo?

Her own words on why and how she painted are especially resonating as she is remembered today. On her 103rd birthday.

I paint self-portraits because I am so often alone, because I am the person I know best.

I paint my own reality. The only thing I know is that I paint because I need to, and I paint whatever passes through my head without any other consideration.

And in all honesty, the following is my favorite. God, you’ve got to love this woman!

They are so damn “intellectual” and rotten that I can’t stand them anymore… I [would] rather sit on the floor in the market of Toluca and sell tortillas, than have anything to do with those “artistic” bitches of Paris.

— on the European surrealists and specifically Andre Breton in a letter to Nickolas Muray (1939)

My Love Affair

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On July 4th, at around 5 pm, I loaded the boys into the car, against all best judgement, headed towards the community park where half the town had been and the rest of the town was heading towards. We were determined to be there for the long haul. The final prize? The July 4th fireworks.

And it was definitely worth the wait.

Waiting. We are in for the long haul

If you know me, you know I am not blindly in love with this country. Oh hell no. Glenn Beck and Sarah Palin come with the US of A. ’nuff said. But on some days, at the risk of being pegged as a traitor to my Motherland (and this bittersweet part may be hard to understand unless you are an immigrant yourself), lampooned for wanting to be somebody I am not, i.e. “The American” (and this dilemma may be difficult to appreciate unless you are a foreigner struggling with watching yourself becoming American, sometimes against your own protest and possibly against your own best judgement), maligned for turning my back against my own people (a la Miss Saigon who harbors the dream of “Coming to America”), or ridiculed for having drunk the Kool-Aid and embraced the American Dream (and not the kind in which I become filthy rich but the kind in which I bellow out “We Are the World” like the baddest idealistic that I am), I love this country with all my heart.

This is something hard for me to admit and even harder to explain to folks back home. I am after all here in the US by myself. Admitting I am “Proud to be American” sometimes feels like a betrayal. I feel guilty. Embarrassed even. Am I becoming “uppity”, thinking I am better than they, whoever they are? On the other hand, I am prepared to slap a bitch if anybody attacks me thus since such criticism belies the assumption that being American is somehow better, more desirable, than being whatever. So you are the one with issues, not me. Take that, Booyah!

“American” is after all a social construct. Many current political, social and economical debates (and really, they all come down to who gets what) are even possible exactly because what and who is American is always up for definition and re-definition. And THAT, IMHO, is what makes this country different. Great. Lovable. Even though on some days you really do not want to have anything to do with it.

I love the IDEA of this country. I love the IDEAL of it that many so-called “real” Americans fortunately still believe in and insist on.

"Give me your huddled masses"

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.

"From her beacon-hand Glows world-wide welcome"

“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
‘ With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

"I lift my lamp beside the golden door"

The ideal is worth the wait.

p.s. I am also in love with my Blackberry with which these photos were taken, except the last one which came from my husband’s newer and better Blackberry. Bastard.

Happy Birthday, United States of America!

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What better way to celebrate Independence Day by watching this clip from Independence Day again?

WE WILL NOT GO QUITELY INTO THE NIGHT!
WE WILL NOT VANISH WITHOUT A FIGHT!

We are going to live on. We are going to survive.

Today, we celebrate our Independence Day!

What better way than to read The Declaration of Independence again? Really carefully this time.

What better way to celebrate July 4th by reading this again?

Or to imagine what Ben Franklin’s Facebook page would have been like?

Befriending a Founding Father

Or to participate in your hometown Fourth of July parade?

Becoming American

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The Monster Birthday Month Bash continues…

July 3rd.

Happy Birthday to Franz Kafka, Dave Barry, and one Thomas Cruise Mapother IV aka Tom Cruise.

Kafka is dead. Cruise will live forever.

Dave Barry used to be funny. Tom Cruise is still scary.

My oldest’s gymnastics practice is right by where the Hometown Fest carnival is taking place. Last night when I drove to the gym, I was able to drive past the police barricade with the obvious excuse of picking my child up and park right next to the carnival. As in, HERE is the parking spot. 30 steps later. Oh lookee here, we are at the carnival!

I am always appreciative of an awesome, once-in-a-lifetime parking spot, mindful of the hapless souls circling the residential area looking for a spot within a humane radius we encountered along the way. Naturally we went back to the carnival again tonight. We had to. You simply CANNOT waste a good parking spot like that. It’s bad karma.

The carnival on Friday night was a completely different beast than the one we saw on Thursday night. The one on Thursday night was docile, leisurely. Carefree. And sober. The carnival I went to last night was frantic, full of teenage angst, yet at the same time going through midlife crisis. Everyone older than 21 apparently had one drink or more.

Who says suburban life is all repression? We let our inner demons out once every year, under the watchful eyes of carnival workers.

FREE BIRD!

I am pretty sure whoever taught me about the historical significance of shouting FREE BIRD at a concert regretted it. This random act of kindness has created a monster who yells out FREE BIRD! whenever she has the guts and chance. Probably done inappropriately 50% of the time. But I LOVE bellowing out, FREE BIRD! because it makes me feel… I don’t know, intrinsically American. Like a secret handshake that someone was kind enough to show me. Perhaps I imagined this, but I swear that as soon as people heard me shouting FREE BIRD! — even at the most inopportune times — they no longer see me as foreign, despite the accent. I became, instead of standing out like a sore thumb, instantly one of the in-crowd. It’s like a code. I have cracked the code. One of them anyway.

It’s no wonder why I am fascinated by American pop culture and see it as a personal imperative to understand all pop culture references known to man. These are little bits of mosaic puzzles for becoming American.

The same can be said of

“We need more cowbell!”

“These pretzels are making me thirsty!”

“420”

These however are more esoteric pop culture references that need to be used and appreciated by specific audiences.

Every time I walk into a room, I integrate.

Every time I walk into a room, I represent.

At least that’s how I feel. On some days, it makes me feel empowered and shit. On the others, it just makes me feel like shit.

Last night at the carnival was one of the better days.

The July 4th carnival is where I get to see the real Americans.

Not the over-educated, pampered, (forced to be) politically correct, self-conscious people I have chosen and am able to surround myself with, including affording a house in a certain type of neighborhood. There is no need for me to prove my American-ness to these people. They should know better. They have all agreed to live with multiculturalism, no matter how begrudgingly. That’s part of the baggage of being the bourgeois. They have signed the contract.

The kind of real Americans I imagined I would have met if I ever drove down Route 66.

Naturally, when I make such a statement, I am seeing the “natives” as exotic creatures from the perspective of a tourist.

At the Hometown Fest, I felt schizophrenic: on one hand, more than ever, being outside of my usual comfort zone (home, work, home, work), I sensed that my foreignness was on display. After all, it is Hometown Fest, not Tourist Town. Insiders only.

On the other hand, as I chugged down my third beer, sweet-talked the carnival guy into giving the kids a bigger prize (yes, I used “the wink”), watched the kids having an all-out battle with inflatable hammers and inflatable baseball bats against a football player who looked like a stereotypical football player whose girlfriend affectionately called the “meat head”, joked with the said girlfriend who looked like a stereotypical (former) cheerleader and Queen Bee, chitchatted with random bystanders, and in general, hung out, I felt “vindicated”. Strangely at home. I have hit the motherload: the real Americans, the ones who did not have to be nice or be politically correct or be tolerant and shit, thought I was just one of the regular Joes. I have managed to sneak past through the door and now I am looking from the inside out. I am one of the townies.

On second thought, maybe not completely 100% townie. Not yet. At least, not until I attend one of these…

Reporting, live (kind of), from the Hometown Fest

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July 2nd.

The party goes on…

Happy Birthday to Lindsay Lohan and Larry David. They should hang out together more.

Happy birthday to Hermann Hesse. To this day I am sometimes still Emil Sinclair looking/waiting for my (inner) Max Demian. Thanks a lot, man.

The following is my entry for this year’s Pulitzer Prize. As Bob “Elvis” West says, Thank you. Thank you very much.

Announcing: Birthday Month Extravaganza!

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I never ever got to celebrate my birthday in style. In fact, I have the urge to dig a hole and bury my head in it when my birthday is approaching, not because I dread getting one year older but that I worry about being disappointed.

I am disappointed every year. That is why I am all nonchalant about the whole birthday thing.

I turned 40 last July. Yup. Missed the opportunity to make a big to-do out of mah birthday. But this year? This year is going to be different. This year I have a blog. And it is my blog, I’ll have an extravaganza if I want to.

So are you ready, Loren Sorenson? You and I are going to party every day in July. Every Single Fucking Day. Heehaw!

July 1st.

There is a lot to celebrate on July 1st.

Happy Birthday, Scary Mommy!

Happy Birthday, Estee Lauder, Sydney Pollack (RIP my good sir!), Dan Aykroyd, Liv Tyler, and one Pamela Anderson.

Happy happy day to my company and everybody who has paid their dues slaving away there!

Happy Some-Significant-Day to one of my favorite peoples in the world. Happy Canada Day!

(warning: I am not responsible if you cannot get the catchy tune out of your head)

What is an extravaganza if we do not start it off with a bang?! What better way to start off any celebration than a Hometown Fest Carnival**? Complete with an Elvis Impersonator named Bob Elvis West?

Every Fourth of July weekend, I am forced to admit that No, we do not live in Chicago. We live in the Midwest, y’all. We live in a down-to-earth Midwestern town where all the blonde people with cigarettes hanging out the corners of their mouths seem to congregate at the carnival.

July truly is my lucky month because tonight, all the carnival people were very nice to me. I’d like to think it’s because I said thank you and please.

I went on some of the not-so-scary rides with the boys, and boy, the scariest of them all was the rotating bears in the ride called Bear Affair. (I can’t even make this shit up!) Mr. Monk had a great time making the bear we were riding in rotate at the speed of light by maniacally turning the table in the center. I became so dizzy that I had to close my eyes, leaning against Mr. Bear’s steely hollow body. It felt like being drunk but I didn’t have a single drop of alcohol tonight. I was high without any assistance. Yes, I have the ability to self-medicate. That’s one of my Secret Super Powers, peeps.

I put my hands up when we were on one of the rides that does nothing but go around and around really fast, first clockwise, then counter-clockwise. I screamed like a MoFo. It felt good. It felt really good. Later when Mr. Monk asked to get on the same ride again, I did not protest too much. Half way through the ride, some of the children were yelling loudly at the carnival worker, “Music please!” since earlier the ride was quite popular exactly because it was blasting all the popular teenybopper songs that every other child seemed to be lip-syncing to. I joined in loudly, “Music please! We want some Justin Beaver!” The kids sitting in front of me turned around with astonished looks and immediately, smiles. Yeah, right at that moment, we connected: me and two 10-year-olds. As we sped past by the control booth, I yelled louder, “FREE BIRD!”, and for safe measure, gave him the Hang Loose hand sign.

I did that every time I flew by the control booth. I did that again as he let me out of the exit.

My kids did not seem to notice my high spirits and odd behaviors because they themselves were psyched by the carnival. They were not embarrassed by me which in itself was a blessing.

It was a cool and cloudless night. A perfect evening. And we got a perfect ending for it to boot: As we made our way back to the car, we noticed the canopy of stars.

“Look! That’s the Big Dipper!” My 12-year-old shouted. Sure ’nuff the seven stars were right above us, clear as day, in the formation of a, eh, big dipper. It is July after all when the night sky is dominated by the Big Dipper.

What we saw tonight, exactly like this

Is my birthday month awesome or what? Prepare to see unicorns, y’all!

** I’ve got pictures. This entire month is going to be picture-rich because I have decided to give myself a hobby… Damn it. Everybody needs a hobby and I am tired of writing down “reading, listening to music and going to the movies”. LAME-O! I will post the pictures tomorrow, which is today, which is supposed to be July 1st but of course it is taking a friggin’ long time to resize the pictures and upload them, and it is 3:30 am now on July 2nd but of course I need to officially start mah Birthday Month on July 1st… So you’ll just have to wait for tomorrow, no, today, and this post is supposed to be for yesterday…

The Absence of Alternatives

My therapy sessions…