the thanksgiving experience: amtrak

On Wednesday morning, I took Amtrak back to my parents' as usual. My hectic one month contract theory class finally wrapped up, and I staggered onto the train completely sleep deprived to the point of not being able to nap on the train. So I did the next best thing: eavesdrop on the conversation in front of me while indulging in some emotionally draining short stories by Joyce Carol Oates.

The guy sitting in front of me was a total asshole. He was some 'bigshot' in the movie industry and completely full of it while misrepresenting himself as sensitive and nice. Of course, he was trying to impress the girl sitting next to him. A snippet of their conversation (the entire train could hear him):

"So, like, you know all the popular songs on the radio? That's all me. Yeah, like, I promote these new bands. You know how some people have like dirty laundry in their duffel? I have all these CDs in my bag that are the next hottest thing. They haven't even been released yet, but this band toured with Nickelback, and they're going to be like #1 next year."

I prefer 40 year old men who don't sound like 15 year olds. Maybe they think they get a free pass to be immature if they work in the entertainment industry. This guy spent four hours hitting on the woman next to him, buying her a beer, telling her that he was close to his mom, but not a momma's boy, or maybe he was a momma's boy, and his biggest problem was that he was too trusting of others and so emotionally vulnerable (I was trying not to laugh at this point). The girl seemed extremely sensible and refused to give him her phone number even after he gave her a CD that was going to be released next February.

In the middle of their conversation, this schmuck was in an area with no reception (frequently happens on Amtrak) and borrowed the girl's phone to call his office in order to strut his stuff. What followed was a long and particularly vile string of obscenities that made the ancient Roman Catholic priest sitting next to me wake up and look around dolefully. Maybe I am picky, but I prefer guys who don't try 200% at being cool, aren't stuck in their teenage years, not momma's boys, not oversensitive, and who don't party all night followed by beer and bagels for breakfast.

Near the end of my train ride, I did strike up a conversation with the Catholic priest sitting next to me. We talked quite a bit about psychology (of which I am completely ignorant), and I was surprised that he was so well read. He was surprised that I knew what the TVA was (we eventually branched out into the history of the US, of which I am slightly less ignorant). I generally get along well with older people. They're considerate and well-mannered, and don't have the need to prove themselves that many young people possess (myself included). So many people my age and a bit older are at a crossroads and not as self-confident as they would like to believe. To cover it up, so many of us walk around awkwardly with a brittle and slightly defensive air. I do believe in the saying 'fake it 'till you make it' to a certain extent, but sometimes I want to meet people my age who care about more than just their jobs and their coolness. Maybe I should stick to the old people. Or move to Europe.

the solace of bond

I was not able to resist seeing The Quantum of Solace on Friday, even while drowning in school (sort of like blogging at this moment). And yes, the reviews were spot on. The film itself was spotty in many places and not quite as introspective as its predecessor or its title might suggest. It held itself together much better than most action movies, although Bond movies generally fare quite well in that respect with the exception of Die Another Day and Never Say Never Again (who the hell casts Rowan Atkinson in a Bond movie?). The action scenes were plentiful and much too short. Contrary to popular belief, most Americans don't have ADD even if they are popping ritalin, and I resent movies that blithely assume otherwise. Even action flicks don't get a pass on that one. The plot was much less gripping in Casino Royale, the gadgets nonexistent except for a groovy touch screen that was less cool than CNN's on election night. Daniel Craig was excellent, perhaps even more so here than in Casino Royale. The rest of the characters were fine but nothing out of the ordinary. Once again, I seem to have shot myself in the foot with my high expectations.

Funnily enough, I don't actually remember Casino Royale except that it was good, the opening parcour scene was the highlight, and Mads Mikkelsen was the villain. Like Batman Begins, I don't think Casino Royale is terribly special. Granted, I love this new approach to James Bond (which hero/superhero hasn't gotten a makeover in the last ten years?) and the grittiness that's infused into every remake. Anyone who knows me knows that I love this Bond. Cold, efficient, acerbic, and rough beyond the edges. It's charming to see a softer Bond in Casino Royale brutally transform into a darker version of himself who's completely indifferent between killing and maiming his enemies. Both Bond films owe much of their credit to Daniel Craig, especially Quantum of Solace, which would have folded without him.

For the longest time, most of the population including myself couldn't figure out what 'Quantum of Solace' really meant. Of course, its literal translation is measure of comfort, but it's much more than that. It's the spark that is fundamental to any relationship, the bit of deep affection (different from love) that one person sustains for the other. And yes, people delight in extinguishing that quantum of solace in each other, not always consciously and sometimes without intention, but it happens nonetheless. Rip it away and the whole thing goes. The result is a deep sense of being broken beyond repair and feeling complete indifference and bleakness where hatred doesn't even exist anymore. Stepping back from my melodramatic soapbox, this movie is not remotely soulful and much less delicate than Casino Royale. However, I love the notion that Bond does regain his Quantum of Solace (I'm not sure that it would be possible in real life), and that idea alone makes up for many of the movie's other shortcomings.

I loved Olga Kurylenko's character Camille, although I couldn't exactly point to above average acting as the cause. Camille is just the right blend of toughness and vulnerability. She takes herself much more seriously than other Bond girls and tenaciously asserts her independence. And her hand to hand combat skills kick ass. I liked the idea of an emotional relationship between her and Bond rather than the requisite bed involved. The other 'Bond girl' (I shudder when I say that) was completely and utterly unnecessary, not to mention what must be the worst pick-up line ever...Moreover, I have to say that I wasn't a huge fan of M in this movie. She should be in the background because no scriptwriter in this era has ever written anything remotely decent for a female director in a spy organization (Pam Landy, Bourne, anyone?).

Quantum of Solace might have benefited from longer scenes. It was much too lean, even for an action movie. In that respect, Casino Royale was definitely better paced. However, there were a few scenes in Quantum that really stood out for me. The most vivid and absolutely stunning scene is where Bond and Camille walk through the desert. His dusty black suit and her black dress against the yellow-white background is stunning in a way that is both overwhelming and understated at the same time. There are only two colors (Thank God she's not a redhead), ochre and black, but the imagery is so paradoxical, rich and desolate at the same time. I would go back just to see that scene.

Goodness, I've realized that I've written a generally positive review about a movie that was only slightly better than average. What is the world coming to? Maybe I need to watch it again just to be clear.

heard today

Friend: We have so many things to do!
Friend: Like watching Bolt, and making dumplings.
Me: And read finance papers.
*pause*
Me: Sorry.
Friend: I almost threw up there.
Me: Yeah.
Friend: It's understandable.
Friend: Finance does that to people.
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Friend: I have a weird interview for some "Research Assistant to the Vice Chairman" position.
Friend: I wonder if that's the official title for "bitch". Seriously, it seems really sketchy.
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About Crusoe:
Friend: He has green eyes! But a faux tan. That's hard for me to deal with.
Me: Is that a deal-breaker?
Friend: I don't know. He's yummier than Craig.
Me: I thought green eyes = hot for you.
Friend: Dude, a face is more than the sum of its parts. Although green eyes are yummy.
Me: You are too funny today.
Friend: What?
Friend: I mean, I objectify men, but not usually that much.

solace in swimming

A friend recently pointed out to me that my blog is generally very predictable. To be extra special today, I'll combine two or more predictable topics.

First, I went swimming this morning...something that I've been looking forward to for two days. I haven't really been keeping up with my non-existent exercising regimen, so I was pretty happy when I jumped into the pool Tuesday morning. A few hours later, I received an email informing me that the pool was closed until further notice due to 'mechanical failure'. I was slightly disturbed and my brain went into hyperdrive...did they OD the place with chemicals? Did the filters stop working? Did I ingest something potentially deadly and the gym staff neglected to inform me to avoid widespread panic? Wednesday morning, it all became clear to me. Apparently the bulkhead broke (or something), and now the pool was standard 50M long course. Of course, this made me really excited and desperately wanting to try out the longer distance. The last time I swam in a LC pool was back in undergrad. The really awesome thing about swimming 50M rather than 25M is the feeling of covering more distance and for longer periods.

In all, it pretty nice just to have a change of pace once in awhile. I did about 2,300M total, a 500 warm-up, 300 swim, 100 pull, 100 kick. Then three 500s and a 300 cool-down. The emphasis was on my stroke and not my turns, which is pretty awesome. It also means that I can breathe better because I'm not turning every few seconds. I only attempted 50M backstroke, and it was a killer. Otherwise, I never felt like the other end was miles away. The only negative aspect was the the water temperature was about 10 degrees hotter than normal (maybe something else did malfunction), which makes cold-blooded creatures like me overheat and struggle to breathe (something that I do normally). Other than that, everything was just peachy. I'm still working on consistency, kicking, and futile attempts at butterfly. Apparently the kicking wasn't so good because I got out of the pool barely able to lift my arms over the head but walking just fine. It's so instinctive for me to bring my kick down to a minimum (5% capacity) over longer distances and power my way through with my arms. Maybe I'll increase the pace the last 100 or so, but the bulk of my work-out is upper-body.

After my sublime watery experience, I then went to King of Prussia for a suit. Apparently my body did some massive reconfiguration in the last three years (when I got my last suit), and I absolutely refuse to go to any more interviews in my fugly and ill-fitting pink-dotted black suit. Also, interviews matter a lot more to me now than back then. Times change. Circumstances change. People change. But back to my suit from the Limited. Is it possible for me to wear a size 8 jacket and size 2 skirt? Yes, but then I look completely unbalanced. I went up to a size 4 skirt in order not look like a complete upside down wedge. Side note: apparently bebe dresses fit me pretty well. Big boobs. Sizeable ass. Hopefully small everywhere else. I'll go to bebe again if I ever want to audition for Tramp-a-lot or Hoes in the Hood.

After wandering around looking at bags and trying on shoes (two areas which my brain is just not wired for), I gave up and went to indulge in Quantum of Solace with ugly sexy Daniel Craig. TBC.

almodovar tinged dreams

Most of my dreams are frustratingly normal, so imagine my surprise last night when I experienced loads of women running around on a bus, broken relationships, some useless man getting killed, and various scenarios repeating themselves. If I actually dreamed in color, I'm sure the Almodovar style garish pink-red blood would have played an integral role as well. When I woke up, I realized that my subconscious was telling me to watch Live Flesh (1997), where a bus features prominently in the first scene.

While solid, Live Flesh is not one of Almodovar's better movies. It is the only Almodovar movie to adapt the screenplay from a book, and it shows. From the first important scene (about ten minutes into the movie), I immediately knew what was going to follow in the next 85 minutes. Although it's possible that I've seen enough of his movies by now to predict the ending, I'm generally far from clairvoyant regarding movie endings. Obviously, this made this particular movie much less enjoyable. Something that Almodovar does well is plot twists and offbeat humor, both of which are diluted down in this movie. All of his movies carry familiar and small predictable components, but this was just ridiculous.

The major problem with Live Flesh is that the focus was on the men. Almodovar gets such amazing acting from his actresses. He coaxes so many emotions from women's faces, their bodies, and their dialogue. His women are nuanced, fiery, and absolutely beautiful characters. There's no such connection between the director and his actors. His men are generally cretins and two-dimensional: philanderers, drunks, and murderers alike. In Live Flesh, the men still satisfy all of the standard requirements but are thrust into center stage. The two female leads are atypical Almodovar women. They retain their emotional instability but also add passivity, weakness, and a penchant for failure into the mix.

Javier Bardem has been on my potential actor-to-watch list after Vicky Cristina Barcelona. He was good in this movie but not great. I have yet to see No Country for Old Men, which I'm absolutely dying to see. Penelope Cruz also has a short cameo in this movie, and she's definitely on my actress-to-watch list after VCB and Volver. The acting was fine and there was some humor in this movie, but it was less emotional and original than Almodovar's other works. Allowances must always be made for Almodovar movies, which often combine strange people, strange situations, and strange symbolism. The hero was mildly sympathetic and the heroine could as well have been a piece of cardboard, but I just can't fathom the progression of their non-relationship.

Live Flesh does exhibit some quirkiness, but the characters drag it down. Nonetheless, it possesses one of the loveliest love scenes ever. EVER. A few of the other relationshippy scenes are light and beautifully crafted, but the entire package falls short. I recommend Volver, which is everything that this movie is not. Pedro, please stick with empowering women among a backdrop of worthless men. Thank you very much.

appearance is everything

I was going to write something about the Philadelphia Orchestra or another Almodovar movie, but I've decided that worrying about my appearance should be my number one priority. I spend approximately thirty minutes on make-up, three to four days on shopping, and zero seconds prancing in front of my mirror each year. In fact, I sometimes take pride in wearing sweatpants and sneakers around this ultra-preppy Ivy League campus. But this is all wrong. Since I'll never again be as attractive as I am now, I should wear three inch heels, pluck my eyebrows daily, apply loads of powder and polish, and flirt scandalously with random men in bars so I can create some progeny before my eggs shrivel and my face looks like a wrinkled head of cabbage.

Seriously, I went to a small Halloween get-together a few days ago as a '70s disco girl. I paired a huge Afro with some Elvis sunglasses, a retro one-shouldered Express shirt, and some white jeans (the clothing was actually mine). People were suitably impressed. The good thing about looking like a bum all the time is that you really make a strong statement on the rare occasion when you look normal, or god-forbid, nice.

First, everyone loved the Afro. The only connection that I could find was that the wig was round and my face was round. For one evening, I looked completely different. I don't think I've ever styled my hair before and I've had almost the same haircut for more than ten years running. Hair and shoes are two things that I will probably never understand. I can do two hairstyles: ponytail and down. Go me. My hair is so flat and slippery straight that it will never curl. Period. And I refuse to get a perm and be left with some permanent kinky and coarse mess with the consistency of a rug. Then there's make-up and heels and a bag and an outfit and...ugh.

The old saying of "Don't judge a book by its cover" is theoretically correct, but lacking in several respects. It's highly unlikely that someone browsing in a bookstore is going to pick up a dull brown book over a snazzy blue leaflet with gold lettering. Of course, there are people who go to bookstores or Amazon with a specific title in mind, but considering the massive decline in reading each year, that population is sadly dwindling. I understand the motivation. We're all extremely visual. Substance is great, but it'll never be discovered if no one cares to take the first look. I'm not one of those women who oppose the idea of looking pretty on philopsophical terms, objectification and sexualization and blah blah, it's just that I've never really cared about my looks.

Now, a couple of us are planning to lose some weight, which is furthering my goal to look like an attractive young woman. Weight loss is something that I've never seriously contemplated, probably because I'm a huge foodie. The reason why I spend so little on clothing is because I prefer to eat out and eat out well. Also, since ice cream and chocolate are integral parts of my daily existence, dieting clearly isn't an option. On the exercise front, I'm somewhat in shape, although not what I would consider in good shape. I try to go to the gym every other day, but I probably need to go every day on this new plan. And I should run or do some land exercise...otherwise I'll suffer from osteoporosis.

On one hand, I do want to look pretty and cute (and I'm about to gag now). But... (there's always a but) I don't enjoy receiving attention. I prefer to be anonymous and relatively normal. No psychoanalyzing here, but there must be some reason that I panic and run when two nice guys, Mike and Bill, introduce themselves at a bar and hold out their hands for me to shake. I suspect (or know) that the reason why I'm so blase about my appearance is because this isn't something that I'm uberconfident in. In a few short months, I'll be out of my protective bubble and forced into the plasticky and shallow real world, so time to reinvent myself and find my style (I did not just say that).