Blood Sisters: Ode to My New Friend the Rosebush

I made friends with a rosebush today. At first I was hesitant, warily eyeing her in the front yard, smoking a cigarette and squinting in the sun. I didn't really know where to begin. I'm not much of a gardener, but I just reached out, cracked off one brown leaf, and became instantly obsessed. Gloveless, I plunged into the brier and started pulling off her leaves and buds and branches, thorns be damned. I felt the pain register and even pulled a few out of my fingers and hands as I went along. It was hot out, and I was in the direct sun in my front yard, with afternoon traffic whizzing by and people no doubt staring at me, doggedly pruning this weak pink rosebush like a madwoman on the corner of 49th and Charlestown.

I say "her" because a rosebush just seems like a plant that is a woman. At the core, she's very intertwined and complex and stiff and stubborn, impossible to touch without getting hurt, nay, bleeding. But when properly cared for, one of the most beautiful, colorful, sweetest-smelling things you've ever been fortunate enough to be near on this godforsaken earth. An infuriating paradox.

Anyways, I was hurting and stinging and sweating and pulling off dead rose parts everywhere. Every time I'd step back thinking I was done, some section of brown would call to me and I'd plunge back in. I was bending down branches to get to others, extracting my hair and sweatshirt and arms from thorn pulls, and I wanted to be angry at her for being so hard to take care of and for leaving my hands and fingers in splintery red shambles. But there was this one small, lovely, "flower shop-worthy" hot pink rose on a perfect stem, sprouting right out of the center of the dead branches, and I suddenly felt a great affinity with this frustratingly beautiful plant. I adopted her as my charge and welcomed her into my utterly inexperienced care.

Every lady needs a good pruning, myself included. Even though it hurts to dig in there and you're specifically designed not to be messed with, it's healthier to cull the dry, dead leaves and branches and former blooms that are just dead weight and a drain on your life's energies. Sometimes parts of you stop growing and turn brown and brittle and need to fall off on their own, but sometimes you need a little help with the pulling. It's hard to find someone who's willing to embrace the pain along with the pretty, and a good strong wind is too rare to be of much hope.

I bet by next spring she and I will both bloom bigger.

Eleanor Rigby

It's funny how a casual conversation with my mother can burst me into tears, however inadvertently the comment is made. This time, the conversation isn't even about my life, but about my 40-something, never married aunt who is experiencing a health difficulty. I coo my sympathy like the mourning dove that lived in the ivy of my bedroom window one spring and ask about her, if she's heard anything. My mother questions the magnitude of her reaction and suggests that perhaps her youngest sister may be making a bigger deal of it than need be for the attention. "Well, it must be tough for her though, being alone like that," she goes on, "I'm sure it's kind of scary."

THUD. There goes my heart asplatter on the floor, like only my mother can manage to do. I unsuccessfully swallow the lump in my throat. "Yeahhhhh...it must be...wonder what that must be like?" I reply, unable to contain my bitter sarcasm as I follow up with my typical forced chuckle to sound more lighthearted about it than I am. The throat lump turns liquid and the tears crest my eyelids silently and I thank God I'm on the phone and not in front of her.

SPINSTER. I hate that word. It hangs in the air like a horrible curse, a cautionary tale, a fate worse than death. A life spent alone without romantic or domestic partnership. A single income. An unused womb, despite its fervent urge to be filled with children, knowing forever that you would have made a good mother. Going to the movies by yourself, collecting weird ceramic crap, making people watch your boring vacation slide shows, owning lots of cats. Hating Valentine's Day for the rest of your life. Shopping on QVC, tables for one, or worse, tables for 3 or 5 or 7 as your friends slowly couple off and make pitious attempts to still include you. Endless wedding showers and bachelorette parties and baby showers; you make your best attempt to be gracious and not constantly wonder what it is that she did to deserve it and not you. Family members whispering worriedly and unfounded rumors that you may be a lesbian or something, as if that would be a more satisfying explanation than "Simply no one that I want seems to want me back, and I don't know what I'm doing wrong."

Feeling like you're disappointing everyone, and wanting to stab people (especially guys) who tell you, "I don't know why no one's snatched you up; you're such a catch!" Choking to death on a piece of food because no one's there to give you the Heimlich, or cracking your skull open and bleeding out/slowly drowning in your own shower. Your death only discovered days later when the neighbors become concerned about the smell drifting out into the hallway. Fucking Eleanor Rigby. I know that shit's morbid, but these are honestly the thoughts and fears that shoot through my mind like the crappy laser effects in a sci-fi movie. I try to stop myself from worrying and thinking these things, try to tell myself Mr. Right is right around the corner, but I'm 28 and only moderately pretty, and it's all downhill from here.

My mother finally realizes who she's talking to and proceeds to backpedal: "Well, you have your buddies and stuff..." she offers lamely. I assume she's referring to my gay friends/roommates (who are essentially as married as the law will allow them to be). Translation: "Well, you're at least enough of a faghag to live with someone else." I assume this is supposed to suffice as consolation, but it only makes me cry harder. "Yeah, but it's not like I have anyone forever," my voice cracks. I have now blown my cover, and it is clear that my mother has made me cry. I hate this. "I know, honey, they're partnered and it's not the same thing, I know. And of course, that's what we want for you too."

This is not helping. "Well, your father's almost done eating his popcicle, so I'm gonna pass the phone to him. I always joke that him eating the popcicle in bed is like our foreplay, hahahaha!"

Okay, did my mother just make me cry, make me feel guilty for feeling sorry for myself, make me feel guilty for not finding someone and fulfilling their dreams for me, and then unnecessarily insinuate/fucked-upedly "brag" that she was about to have sex with my father in the space of a 3 minute conversation?!? Yep.

Please contact me if you'd like to donate to my therapy fund.

The Genius Waitress Part 2: Coffee Shop Sonnets

Weird when you realize that stuff strikes the same chord (pun deliciously intended) in you because it strikes the same chord in the collective unconscious in everyone. In thinking about my last post, and about contemporary odes to waitresses, I have loved very much a couple of songs over the years and it's never all come together until just now.

Here are the lyrics to "You", one of the most haunting songs off of Atmosphere's most recent album, When Life Gives You Lemons, You Paint That Shit Gold, (which is an incredible, soulful, intelligent mix of Twin Cities hip-hop beats and straight, honest poetry in the lyrics, I'll have you know).

"You love the people that love you
You hear the music they move to
You give your ode to the fall through
But you don't know you don't know you don't know you don't know

You love the people that love you
You hear the music they move to
You give your ode to the fall through
But you don't know you don't know you don't know you don't know you.

You just got off work, huh?
Another night feeling like the worst one
You didn't even count your tips yet,
But you can tell that it ain't no big step
I don't see why you so nice to customers
They're all fucks and lowlifes.
But don't fight, just keep the lip stiff
And get that money, it's the weekend shift.

But why they all gotta be freaks?
Wish they would just eat and leave
And keep they eyes to they selves, already insecure, don't need any help
And you can blame the pride that makes you hold your anger inside,
But deep down you wanna curse them all.
Fuck off asshole, jerkoff, dirtball.

You love the people that love you
You hear the music they move to
You give your ode to the fall through
But you don't know you don't know you don't know you don't know

You love the people that love you
You hear the music they move to
You give your ode to the fall through
But you don't know you don't know you don't know you don't know you

Now attitude check,
Still show up, you haven't quit yet,
And even when your meat gets sweet
They still treat you like a piece of meat. Huh.
Outrageous, each day this
clock tick-tock and you still a waitress

Trying to pay them student loans
And the lights and the phone and the food and the home,
And you ain't quite broke but you couldn't afford that place on your own.
Got a roommate, to split the rent with
Now you never feel independent.

And everything seems so hollow
‘Cause after work, where'd that smile go?
Better bring it back tomorrow.
Now, pick up the pace and you might make bar close.

Perfect, last call, then some.
Flirtin', sexual tension.
Surfin', through them men
‘Cause they all searching for that bent one
Or just one to bend, and “you look like you could be my friend
With a smile like that, I gotta flirt,
Girl, you just look like you got off work.”

You love the people that love you
You hear the music they move to
You give your ode to the fall through
But you don't know you don't know you don't know you don't know

You love the people that love you
You hear the music they move to
You give your ode to the fall through
But you don't know you don't know you don't know you don't know you."

And the other, an oldie but goodie, "Tom's Diner" by Suzanne Vega. You'd know it by the simple, haunting "doot do do do doot doo doo do" refrain if you heard it, believe me. We've done freestyle lyric riffs off it just for fun. But her lyrics are infinite, epic and so very simple. I just love coffee shop sonnets, I suppose:

I am sitting
In the morning
At the diner
On the corner

I am waiting
At the counter
For the man
To pour the coffee

And he fills it
Only halfway
And before
I even argue

He is looking
Out the window
At somebody
Coming in

"It is always
Nice to see you"
Says the man
Behind the counter

To the woman
Who has come in
She is shaking
Her umbrella

And I look
The other way
As they are kissing
Their hellos

I'm pretending
Not to see them
Instead
I pour the milk

I open
Up the paper
There's a story
Of an actor

Who had died
While he was drinking
It was no one
I had heard of

And I'm turning
To the horoscope
And looking
For the funnies

When I'm feeling
Someone watching me
And so
I raise my head

There's a woman
On the outside
Looking inside
Does she see me?

No she does not
Really see me
Cause she sees
Her own reflection

And I'm trying
Not to notice
That she's hitching
Up her skirt

And while she's
Straightening her stockings
Her hair
Has gotten wet

Oh, this rain
It will continue
Through the morning
As I'm listening

To the bells
Of the cathedral
I am thinking
Of your voice...

And of the midnight picnic
Once upon a time
Before the rain began...

I finish up my coffee
It's time to catch the train."

The Genius Waitress

Tom Robbins is without a doubt my favorite contemporary author. My dad gave me "Still Life with Woodpecker" for Christmas when I was about 18 or so, and since, I have read almost all of his novels, save one or two. Talk about goddess worship! This man understands and appreciates the strong, sexual, gypsy-like female protagonist like no other. I used to joke around that my parents raised me to be a "Tom Robbins female protagonist", encouraging my wacky, independent, quasi-evil gypsy magic side. Or maybe I was destined...

On a recent trip back to Chicago/home, my dad left me with "Wild Ducks Flying Backwards", a collection of his short writings we'd been talking about and he'd been meaning to lend me. It's travelogues and articles and short stories, and also tributes to stuff he thinks is laudable, more of his counter-cultural commentary side rather than spinning his own hippie-ass tales.

I believe in the power of coincidence. Books and words often come to me when I need them most. You could even say that words and language are the means by which I experience the divine. I'll pick up a book or glance at a newspaper or a random article and it perfectly encapsulates my situation or thought process. It completely illuminates the door behind which I feel stuck, and the words bring me the thoughts to open it. That, in some weird way, is God to me, if that's what we're calling it.

Anyways, this particular essay found me on my break at my job at the bakery and it was exactly what I needed:

"The Genius Waitress

Of the genius waitress, I now sing.

Of hidden knowledge, buried ambition, and secret sonnets scribbled on cocktail napkins; of aching arches, ranting cooks, condescending patrons, and eyes diverted from ancient Greece to ancient grease; of burns and pinches and savvy and spunk; of a uniquely American woman living a uniquely American compromise, I sing. I sing of the genius waitress.

Okay, okay, she's probably not really a genius. But she is well-educated. She has a degree in Sanskrit, ethnoastronomy, Icelandic musicology, or something equally valued in the contemporary marketplace. Even if she could find work in her chosen field, it wouldn't pay beans--so she slings them instead. (The genius waitress is not to be confused with the aspiring-actress waitress, so prevalent in Manhattan and Los Angeles and so different from her sister in temperament and I.Q.)

As a type, the genius waitress is sweet and sassy, funny and smart; young, underestimated, fatalistic, weary, cheery (not happy, cheerful: there's a difference and she understands it), a tad bohemian, often borderline alcoholic, frequently pretty (though her hair reeks of kitchen and bar); as independent as a cave bear (though ever hopeful of "true love") and, above all, genuine.

Covertly sentimental, she fusses over toddlers and old folks, yet only fear of unemployment prevents her from handing an obnoxious customer his testicles with his bill.

She doesn't mind a little good-natured flirting, and if you flirt with verve and wit, she may flirt back. Never, however, never try to impress her with your resume. Her tolerance for pretentious Yuppies ends with her shift, sometimes earlier. She reads men like a menu and always knows when she's being offered leftovers or an artificially inflated souffle.

Should you ever be lucky enough to be taken home by her to that studio apartment with the jerry-built bookshelves and Frida Kahlo posters, you will discover that whereas in the public dining room she is merely as proficient as she needs to be, in the private bedroom she is blue gourmet virtuoso. Five stars and counting! Afterward, you can discuss chaos theory or the triple aspects of the mother goddess in universal art forms--while you massage her swollen feet.

Eventually she leaves food service for graduate school or marriage, but unless she wins a grant or a fair divorce settlement, chances are she'll be back, a few years down the line, reciting the daily specials with her own special mixture of warmth and ennui.

Erudite emissary of eggs over easy, polymath purveyor of polenta and prawns, articulate angel of apple pie, the genius waitress is on duty right now in hundreds of U.S. restaurants, smile at the ready, sauce on the side. So brush up on your Schopenhauer, place your order--and tip, mister, tip. She deserves a break today.

Of her, I sing."
-Tom Robbins, Playboy, 1991

Thank. You. I officially have a relevant contemporary social archetype. The genius waitress is another contemporary example of the "sacred prostitute." The coffee girl, behind the espresso bar at the temple of energy and wit and warmth, ready to warmly smile and remind you that there is cheer and spunk left in this world. There are so many turns of phrase in this essay that chill my bones and cut to the core of my spirit, much like his novels have lit sparks inside my brain. And I LOVE that it was published in Playboy, the only magazine that openly worships women and publishes bold pieces like that. How incredibly validating it is, indeed.

It is sort of funny that I moved to Seattle, having no (conscious, adult) idea that he lives around here and writes about the area frequently. Rumor has it, he also shows up in "the city" periodically, and I have randomly hung out in La Conner, the Skagit Valley town he resides in. I have been to the same bars, have seen the same things and people. I feel like we're kindred spirits. In a non-Fatal Attraction/schizophrenic way, I wonder if I'll ever run into him in person. In the scheme of things, we're like, 1 degree of separation away. It's freaky, I feel like I'm gushing about my grad school professor or something. I'm not into older men, but I feel like if he wanted me to be his concubine/temporarily pampered muse-of-sorts, I would not say no. Just so we could hang out for awhile. The things that guy would do inside my particular head...

Ok, that's creepy, but seriously, Tom Robbins, what's up, and many many props to you. Call me.

Um, Like, Oh My Goddess!

I am really getting back into learning about goddess worship these days. I took a class or two in college and was really into the subject, incorporated some of it into my own personal philosophy, but haven't really done much about it recently. Until I found this awesome book and it seems to be exactly what I want to know about it all.

I'm not a militant feminist per se, and I think men are just super, thanks, but I've always been curious why fertility, femininity, and celebration of the life-giving capabilities of women is seemingly absent or scarce from any modern religious doctrine. I've always had a nagging sense that our "Judeo-Christian tradition based" society is really backwards when it comes to sexuality and its role in achieving spiritual enlightenment. We've all been made to fear our own sexuality, and in general punish or scorn the symbol of a "sexual" woman as temptress or whore. The "lusty" woman is a force of evil, and to be attracted to, or worse, participate in the sexual act with her is a source of intense collective male unconscious guilt. The old Eve eating the apple dilemma. And oh, that Mary Magdalene. Just sluts messin' shit up for everybody.

You know what? I think that blows. So I started investigating.

Turns out, before Christianity and the "Patriarchy" came around and f'ed stuff up (**did you know an estimated 6 to 9 million people, 85% of them women, were executed for "witchcraft" during the 15th-17th centuries? That's a friggin' holocaust, peeps!**), certain women had rights and were in fact allowed to be leaders, queens, run the goddess temples, etc. They were worshipped for their sacred sexuality, their beauty, and were considered the human embodiment of the goddess and symbols of love and fertility. They were known for their dance, their massage and healing touch, for giving advice and guidance. These women would dance at community celebrations for the harvest and blessing of the fertility of the land, their beauty and sensuality a symbol of the fruitfulness of the earth and its gifts to humanity. Check out this sexy re-enactment of the sacred prostitute's dance: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AcJIflaPEQk

Then she'd pick one lucky representative man of the village to participate in the "sexual act" with her as a symbolic ritual celebrating human love and creation, thus "re-activating" the ongoing creative cycle of the earth.

Academics and scholars of this stuff use the term for these women "the sacred prostitute" (not to be confused with the "profane prostitute", which also existed in ancient society--more on this later).

Here's some interesting movie clips from a documentary about the sacred prostitute. If you're at all familiar, tantra, the Kama Sutra, and all of these more commonly known sexual traditions play into the "sacred prostitute" mythology and practices. You've probably heard these women and the goddess they represent, too: Salome's "Dance of the Seven Veils" is based on the 'Welcoming Back' of Ishtar - Inanna- Isis. Also Known as Astarte, Ashtar, and Aphrodite among other names.

"Whether in public celebration or in the quiet privacy of her temple chamber, the sacred prostitute expressed her true feminine nature. Her beauty and sensuous body were not used in order to gain security, power, or possessions. She did not make love in order to obtain admiration or devotion from the man who came to her, for often she remained veiled and anonymous. She did not require a man to give her a sense of her own identity; rather she was rooted in her own womanliness. The laws of her feminine nature were harmonious with those of the goddess. Her raison d'etre was to worship the goddess in love-making, thereby bringing the goddess' love into the human sphere." -Nancy Qualls-Corbett, "The Sacred Prostitute: Eternal Aspect of the Feminine"

I like that. She doesn't want your money or your power or your soul or identity, she's got her own. She's just working to remind you that there is joy and beauty and fun and female moon goddess love out there. Turning the idea of "whore" upside down.

I am smitten with this subject. I kind of feel like it's my "great gig in the sky", my particular societal archetype. And once you google it, there's a whole crazy world out there about it!

I'll probably write more on this subject, but that's sort of an introduction to what I'm thinking about this whole thing.

There's so many crazy images to pick from, but here's a modern-day interpretation I like very much. I think it says something. What does this image evoke in you? I'm curious to hear what other people have to say on the subject, if anything?

My Own Private Serengeti

Boy, do I love videos about lions! And I am so jealous of this "Lion Whisperer" guy getting to roll around with lions like this. The fact that this guy can be "friends" with lions and style their manes and french kiss them is totally awesome, but at the same time, I'm sure at some point he'll end up getting mauled in a random lion/human misunderstanding. It only takes one, and you know who'll win in that fight. Good luck, buddy!

Here's another ridiculously heartwarming video about Christian the Lion and his human friends. Try to ignore the fact that Aerosmith's "Don't Wanna Miss A Thing" is the soundtrack, and tell me if your cold bastard heart doesn't melt just a little at this one.

The closest I've come to an actual lion is paying $25 at the MGM Grand in Vegas to have my picture taken petting a baby lion, a decision I still am glad my pal Camilla and I made. Even though it was a little exploitative for the lion and I felt kinda sleazy and touristy, it was still awesome. And we took a good photo, I think. Other than my visible bra strap, which I wish I could Photoshop out.

I don't know what it is about me and lions, but they've always been prominent in my life. My school mascot was the Lisle Lion; even my summer park district swim team mascot was the sea lion. I've heard more cheers and chants using lion euphemisms than probably 97% of humanity.

Zodiacally, I'm a Leo (yup, the Lion), and those who know me know that I take my astrology pretty arbitrarily seriously. I'm really big on birthdays, and checking my horoscope constantly, and coming up with weak-ass, questionable theories as to why people are behaving the way they are based on the position of constellations on the day of their birth. When I started buying lighters with my astrological symbol on them, I realized that no one could "accidentally" steal my Leo lighter and get away with it, except for maybe other Leos, whom I can easily hunt down and kill. So I pretty much always have one on hand.

My lion-persona fever was definitely cemented when I got my lion face/sun tattoo on my left shoulder. People always dig that tattoo, and it makes me happy all the time when I see it. I feel like I really started getting into this "power animal" thing and just went with it. I started thinking to myself, "What would I do if I were a female lion in a pride on the Serengeti in a comparable situation?" It's really a very effective strategy, sort of like "WWJD?" but a lot more hippie/pagan/fun. It also helps me to remember that I am an animal first and foremost and to keep my survival instincts (and my proverbial "claws") sharp, just in case.

There are a variety of ways in which I feel that I am lion-esque:

1. I am inherently feline, prone to meowing, purring, kneading the flesh of others with my paws, biting, licking, hissing, scratching, nuzzling things with my head and face, grooming myself and others with my own saliva, and generally wanting to be petted and adored, all the while asserting my right to be emotionally independent and incurably self-centered.

2. My hair is a very prominent physical characteristic. I'd say it dominates my "look" (and often other peoples faces in photos). People notice my crazy hair all the time, and I'm pretty sure if someone were trying to describe me to someone else, it'd start with, "You know her, she's got like, big, reddish, curly hair..."

I am quite ritualistic and perhaps even superstitious about my "mane" and its powers. It's my secret weapon. I'll wear it down completely for maximum effect, or put it up out of my face or in a hat when I need to conceal it. I started growing my hair after my last major breakup, and I simultaneously figured out how to make it super-curly without looking stupid. The longer I grow it, the better I feel about it. I have perfected my "hair routine" and have it on a schedule which dominates my beauty regimen and my workout schedule. It's quite ridiculous, but everyone's vain about something, I suppose.

3. I can be incredibly lazy and above all seek comfort, pleasure, food, sun, and group harmony.
I adore a luxurious nap in the heat of the afternoon, a good old-fashioned mating session, and a big ass zebra steak for dinner with my posse.

4. I can also have rare moments of pure, unadulterated bloodlust in which I roar loudly to terrify and then go straight for the jugular without realizing my own strength. I don't fight often, but when I do, I will admit, I fight mean. I usually turn back into a sweet little kitten after that and apologize, though.

5. Female lions are the ones who hunt, track, and kill prey for the rest of the pride. I am definitely makin' sure that my community is getting fed, and I generally feel I was put on this earth to "take care" of people and make sure the whole group's needs are provided for.

6. I definitely notice and adhere to dominance hierarchies and role distribution within social groups. There are alphas and betas, hunters, breeders, bullies, caregivers, scouts, etc., and shit gets f'ed up when individuals don't know their appropriate place. I am a loyal, social animal who thinks the rules are (mostly) there to protect us, and I am happiest when operating as part of a cohesive team.

7. Lions are called the "King of the Jungle". Which is funny because I don't think they typically live in jungles. But they certainly are frequently symbolically likened to royalty/leadership/"all-knowing" figures in literature, mythology and Disney movies. I often like to be at least partially in charge and I sometimes get bossy. I was always one of the official or unofficial team leaders on school projects and school teams and clubs, and am most comfortable when co-leading groups with another leader who balances me out. I am often sought for my trivial knowledge, opinions, and psychological counsel (or offer them without being asked). And I certainly consider myself the Queen of my own Personal Universe, which is a lot like a jungle but a bit less sweaty.

8. Lions are total badasses, and can kill pretty much anything they can catch, but they don't really try to abuse their power, other than to get shit done according to nature's will and get enough to get by just like everybody else. They're intimidating and powerful, but also respectable, noble creatures. Me too, at least I strive to be.

I'm Ok, You're Ok, the Caterpillar's Ok.

Check out this awesome story I read on National Geographic about self-medicating caterpillars!

"Some caterpillars munch on drug-laced leaves to rid themselves of crippling parasites, a new study finds."

This story makes me feel a little better about myself for self-medicating. Maybe I am just smoking and drinking in order to make myself unsavory to predators or to help rid my body of crippling parasitic stuff that's trying to live in me. It's nice to think that it's a perfectly natural biological phenomenon for some organisms to get fucked up, but within reason. Purge out all of the stress and no fun that eats away at our insides. Perhaps I am just like the woolly-bear caterpillar; I now just need to metamorphose into a moderately poisonous butterfly.

What my Goodwill VHS Tape Purchases say about me as a person...

So I was wandering around the Goodwill in Shoreline shortly before it closed last night, and I rediscovered one of my favorite hobbies: buying kickass old VHS tapes for a buck or less and owning them forever.

To be honest, I hate DVDs and CDs in general for their scratchability factor...I'd much prefer cassette tapes and VHS forever, as you can pretty much dropkick that technology and it still works. In general, I feel it's best to listen to music, watch movies, etc. on the format for which it was originally created. Classic rock albums just sound better on vinyl even if they're scratchy, and old 80's and 90's movies just look better on VHS with the tracking all bouncy and the sound all muddled. New DVD menus for old movies kind of bother me; they just feel so retroactive. Plus, VHS tapes have the unique time capsule element of showing awesome previews from around the same time the "feature presentation" came out, so you can be reacquainted with the whole "zeitgeist" and cultural context of the film. Even better than previews--special features like a music video after the movie, or, my personal favorite, public service messages like Magic Johnson and Arsenio Hall's "Time Out: HIV, AIDS, and You" promo on my copy of Wayne's World. It just brings me back and I get a huge kick out of it.

Needless to say, most of my old favorites are findable, as well as obscure stuff I didn't ever think I'd see again. It's always a nice adventure through movieland, and a challenge to decide what's repeatedly watchable and worth the space on my video shelf.

This particular night, I was like a drunken sailor in the video section, and within about 5 minutes of browsing, I had a stack of like 9 tapes under my arm. I did a little bit of editing and decided I probably didn't need the old 80's cartoon "Frosty the Snowman" TV Special or "How The Grinch Stole Christmas." But I did need:

1. A Charlie Brown Christmas (Classic. Totally embedded into my childhood memories in ways I probably don't even understand.)



2. The original claymation Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer (Long live the Island of Misfit Toys! I've always had a soft spot for societal rejects, even make-believe clay ones.)




3. Fried Green Tomatoes (I get PMS, okay?!)
4. The Birdcage (Faghag, fruitfly, say what you will, I love drag
queens.)

5. Happy Gilmore (One of the most quotable movies ever; I adore early Adam Sandler! Thanks also to one of my ex-boyfriends for stealing my original copy of this at some point, thus forcing me to replace it with this new one.)
6. Disney's Fantasia (I wanna hate Disney, but I also wanna get baked and watch Fantasia...it's a dilemma I'm willing to struggle with. I also rationalized this because I figure the money for this VHS tape is already in Disney's pocket at this point and my money is going towards Goodwill training someone to use a cash register.)
7. The Tao of Steve.

This one I had totally forgotten about. It's a sweet little sleeper movie from the late 90's about love and dating and philosophy and wasting your potential and finding your faith in stuff. It's funny when movies come back to you at exactly the right time, when suddenly you realize you are old enough to be the target audience and can understand and identify with characters in totally different ways than you did last time you watched it. That's what happened this time I watched it.

It's well-written, pretty low budget, and cast with no one you've ever heard of before or since. My dad loved it, as I recall. I drank an entire pot of coffee, painted my nails, and enjoyed the hell outta that one. Maybe it's a cheesy chick flick, but I don't think so. A dude wrote it, but a chick directed it. Either way, it was a great way to spend a Sunday morning and 99 cents. Highly recommended!