Godzilla, 2014: an in-depth review

Snapshot 2014-10-10 11-47-52We borrowed the most recent Godzilla movie from a friend; the only way I could get through it was taking nonstop notes, which I edited into this lengthy review.  The DVD case presents Godzilla as “a Gareth Edwards film,” the first of many production mistakes.  Godzilla is a movie, not a film.  No one ever says, “I just saw the new Godzilla film—riveting.”  On to the review of this two hour train wreck of a movie—sorry, film.

The opening sequence is a montage of prehistoric animal prints, Bikini island maps, clips from other Godzillas, and stock footage of scientists and military brass.  It’s an homage to earlier Godzillas, and director Gareth Edwards should have ended the movie right there, while he still had some street cred.  Gojira, the actual Japanese name for the monster, was too hard for Americans to pronounce, they mangled it into Godzilla.  Studio Toho, maker of all the old Gojira! movies, put their name on this mess too; I’m curious whether the screenplay was rewritten for Japanese audiences (and whether it was written at all, or just computer generated via monster plot algorithm).

This movie is set in ten or twenty locations, starting with the Philippines.  A mining disaster unearths a pocket of radiation and sets off repeated small earthquakes.  Enter a Japanese scientist (Ken Watanabe, the only Japanese character who lives through the movie) and a plucky British scientist (Sally Hawkins), to investigate the abnormal seismic activity.  Really all they’re investigating is a giant blue screen; 95% of this movie, including this whole scene, is computer generated images.

Then it’s on to Janjira, Japan, where Mr. Brady (Bryan Cranston, best known as Hal of Breaking Bad) and his family are stressed out; there are unexplained tremors here too.  Mr. Brady, an engineer, gives the order to shut down the local nuclear power plant.  He somehow seals his wife (Juliet Binoche) inside the exploding reactor core; possibly the language barrier is to blame—although he’s chief engineer of a Japanese nuclear power plant, Mr. Brady doesn’t speak Japanese.  Cue the booming explosions, town evacuation, young son left motherless, et cetera.  Although Juliet Binoche had five minutes of screen time, the movie touts her name on its cover in a desperate grab at credibility.

Shamelessly playing up fears of Fukushima without offering any meaningful commentary on nuclear power, the action plows ahead fifteen years to modern day San Francisco (although the meltdown scene had seemed like the present—the first of many sloppy edits that left me needlessly confused).

The grownup kid is now a badass American soldier, played by a British actor, Aaron Taylor Johnson.  Lt. Brady has just returned home to his wife and son in San Francisco after blowing up some hostiles or other.  But poor Lt. Brady is summoned to Tokyo before he  gets to second base with his wife; his dad’s at it again.  Mr. Brady has been poking around “the Quarantine Zone” of Janjira and Brady Jr. must bail him out of jail.  The tense exchange between reunited father and son is like a soggy emotional meatloaf.  Also the actors look nothing alike, making their supposed relationship even harder to accept.  These kind of drawn out scenes made me miss the early Gojiras, where they didn’t waste time on crappy dialogue, it was just men in monster suits crashing through 1/20th scale Tokyo.

Back to the plot (which is taxing my ability to write concisely): the dad thinks whatever strange seismic activity happened fifteen years ago is happening again, so father and son return to their abandoned CGI city.  In their old house, mold and vegetation have destroyed everything except exactly what they’re looking for, floppy disks; these are preserved in mint condition right next to a rotted out computer.  They leave the house and immediately get arrested.  Lt. Brady is a military special forces guy but gets busted by the one patrol car that goes by all day (noticing any incongruities here?) as earthquakes rumble all around.

They’re taken to the old nuclear power plant, where they meet the Japanese and British scientists from the first scene, who offer paltry explanations of what the hell is going on.  Phrases like “electromagnetic pulse” and “backup generator” are tossed about, then it’s revealed that a giant monster is trapped at the power plant. Just when this scene got so boring my ears started to atrophy, the monster escaped (and I instantly rooted for him).  This new monster god looks like a robotic praying mantis. He’s of a prehistoric theme, with glowing red eyes and big goofy wings.  The plant explodes as he makes his exit, most of the Japanese extras are killed off, and father and son escape their blown-up holding cells.

Suddenly the US army arrives and choppers the Bradys off to a base, I guess (it’s left totally ambiguous).  Mr. Brady—mortally wounded in the previous melee—dies in the helicopter; his son, unfortunately, lives on.  A note on this actor: he has a total of three facial expressions—stoic, pissed off, and who let one (okay, “suspicious”).  In the next scene, forty-five minutes into the movie, the British scientist finally provides some kind of back story, explaining the discovery of the monster (which the military brass call “MUTO: Massive Unidentified Terrestrial Object”), then tactfully bows out of the movie.  Also, a Russian submarine is missing.  Don’t even ask me where this scene takes place–a naval ship? A base? It’s in a dark room with a bunch of low budget jarheads, that’s all I know.

Now the MUTO has flown to Oahu: but…why? The army tracks him there and finds the missing Russian sub in a Hawaiian jungle, hanging from a palm tree (which can easily support the weight of a submarine).  It’s revealed that Gojira is also on the move (and they do call him Gojira, once—he’s never actually referred to as Godzilla).  Gojira causes a tsunami as he makes land in Hawaii  to chase the MUTO, who’s busy destroying an elevated train.  Lt. Brady is riding this doomed train, trying to get to the airport and home to his family in San Francisco.  The MUTO tears the train in half but its sound system and lights keep working; as bodies careen out of the gutted train car, the loudspeaker says “Please stay clear of the closing doors.”  Plot holes you could pilot a Russian sub through.

Moving right along, we learn the MUTO is actually calling another MUTO, lost in the deserts of Nevada.  And so the CGI shifts to Las Vegas, where the second MUTO rises from a pile of nuclear waste and skips off to meet its mate.  Apparently the monsters have the ability to warp time; the male one gets from Hawaii to the mainland in five minutes.  The CGI work is the only reason to watch this movie.  Godzilla is dark and fierce, as are the robotic praying mantis monsters, and the dozens of explosions are convincing (in stark contrast to, say, the plot).

Back in the situation room, the military is devising an ingenious plan against the MUTOs: nuclear holocaust.  Blowhard army guy #1 offers this suggestion: “Kill them with the sheer force of the blast!” (and that’s one of the better lines).  This is the kind of movie where suspense only happens when computer animation silences the inane dialogue.  I could have written a better script with a crayon and a roll of toilet paper.

Next, the wise Japanese scientist warns everyone that Gojira is the answer, he’s here to help, but the army brass shuts him up quick (US-Sino commentary? Possibly).  They load a nuclear warhead on a train bound for San Francisco (the monsters are converging there; I’ll assume they want to see the statue of St. Francis), and, unbelievably, there’s still another hour to go in this chum bucket of a movie.  The military’s plan, if you can call it that, is to bomb San Francisco back to the stone age…frankly, I didn’t care if one character survived.

Then comes the requisite landmark destruction scene; a school bus is stranded on the Golden Gate bridge, right in the path of Gojira (who only wants to get underneath it and on to downtown San Francisco, but the dumb army guys keep shooting at him).  Lt. Brady’s son is on this bus, his frightened wife (Elizabeth Olson) is hiding in a BART station.  Instead of letting the kids run off the bus and bridge to safety, the military keeps them trapped directly in Gojira’s way.  Military incompetence is a possible theme in Godzilla, but the swiss cheese plot keeps this idea safely undeveloped. From here on out, the movie is mostly composed of people running around having spas attacks.

After a few more scenes that any respectable film editor would leave on the cutting room floor, it’s time for the smashtastic final showdown.  (Around here is where I finished my 22 oz. dark beer, making the last twenty minutes that much longer).  Close-up of an army guy’s eyeball juice as a ladies’ choir sings ooooooouuuuuuu.  Gojira fights the male monster and the army stupidly sets off the warhead, as MUTO #2, now pregnant, lays her eggs in Chinatown.  Extras stare at the wrong part of the sound stage with their mouths agape; I assume Gareth Edwards told them, “Imagine you’re looking at a giant praying mantis pooping out glowing red eggs”.  Oh yes, and Lt. Brady is the only man who can stop the bomb from detonating, obviously.

Gojira takes a beating from the two MUTOS as the live warhead is kicked out of San Francisco like a rotten potato (how I wish I had a rotten potato, to hurl at Godzilla’s storywriter).  Gojira defeats MUTO #1 with his powerfully bad radiation breath, then retreats into a cloud of smoke.  Lt. Brady torches the MUTO eggs; MUTO #2 sees this but cannot bite his head off, she must fight Gojira.  Again Gojira does what no human technology can, killing this monster too.  Lt. Brady can’t stop the bomb, so instead he jogs out into the San Francisco Bay where a boat is waiting to be highjacked; he carries the bomb out to sea with 002 seconds to go, then passes out as the the army airlifts him off, to the tender sound of ooooooouuuuuuuu.  The warhead explodes, destroying all life in the Pacific ocean but saving humanity, I guess.

Gojira, our radioactive saviour, lies collapsed by the triangle building in San Francisco.  Lt. Brady and his wife and son are reunited, to which I said, “That’s so not his kid.”  Gojira rises, gives a trademark roar, and returns to the sea.  As this movie ended, I felt a profound sense of loss; two hours and four minutes of my life were gone forever. I rate this movie half a star, for the tremendous CGI work that went into it and out of loyalty to Godzillas past.  What buried pile of radioactive waste will Hollywood dredge up next?

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happy equinox everyone

Fall greetings and good wishes to all.  I have a prose poem on page 20 of Typoetic’s second issue, hope you enjoy it. Look for my name under the magazine spread, it will take you right there.

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jobs and other details

Browsing the classifieds in a crappy free paper, looking for jobs: a way to kill your heart.  But, winter is coming and I have nothing lined up, so I killed my heart again this morning.  Unless I lie on my resume (as people do all the time), I don’t qualify for more than three jobs out of the hundred-odd listed, and they’re all in the minimum wage arena.  “Worst economy since the great depression” is the official word (“shit city” is what a homeless friend calls it).  My last massive round of hurling resumes at the void yielded one interview, for an after-school counselor (read: overworked babysitter) at a huge elementary school.  I was interviewed by a 22-year-old who didn’t look me in the eye once as he nervously asked three questions about conflict resolution.  Apparently I didn’t get the job (for which I am way overqualified), though this dude didn’t call or email me to let me know, just booted me out of his office without a handshake.  Did I mention he was wearing shorts and flip-flops?  Such a thankless experience, job hunting.  I’d do better with an actual bow and arrow; at least that might offer a return on my time.  This morning I wasted five minutes browsing the classifieds for jobs I cannot get, then decided to mash together this and that awful job to create even worse opportunities.  Here are the winners (I kept the ads’ jarring, erroneous capitalization):

Social User Specialist
Hospice Fry Cook
Macintosh Psychiatrist
Human Telesales Production Investigator (seasonal opportunity)
Crisis Bakery Assistant
Customer Service Docket Clerk B (that’s a really bad gig)
Graphic Mental Health Clinician (weekend and nights required)
Floor Cleaning Case Manager
Substance Abuse Laundry Technician (must sign a nondisclosure agreement)
Mail Order Crisis Clinician
Early Childhood Doghandler (physical requirements: crawling on all fours, roughhousing)
Corporate Religious Education Instructor (with possible promotion to “Bride of Satan”)

And that’s as far as I got before throwing the paper down in disgust.  If you’re wondering why I’ve been absent from this blog for the last few months, it’s because 1. I have limited internet access, must walk ten minutes to get to the wifi hotspot (well, tepidspot) and 2. some kind of identity change is going on.   Apart from my book’s birth in January , I’ve had no success in the writing world this year (and the book was written, accepted for publication, and edited in earlier years).  My other forthcoming book got mysteriously dropped, I’ve received one rejection letter after another, and even the bland world of contract writing kicked me out (though that’s more of a sign of the lousy economy).  So I put all my creative energy into art, and have been painting constantly.  I started an ABC book in February; 20 paintings are finished, and it seems like I might finish the other six this year—it’s the biggest art project I’ve ever taken on.   Raggedy shotgun ann got placed aside too, and that’s kind of sad because it’s been a steady presence in my life for a while.  When I don’t feel like a writer (and I don’t anymore), it’s hard to return to this blog.  But, winter in the northeast can be really long and boring; I expect to watch  bad movies and have  no choice but to draw and quarter them here.  Stay tuned.

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On loneliness

(I wrote this piece as a test article for a potential online advice columnist gig.  They didn’t want me, but I think it’s a decent article nonetheless; it’s got some dharma in it).

There is a secret to embracing loneliness, and it will take half of the sadness away, maybe more. We are taught as children that people come in pairs, and belong in pairs; but that’s only one view. Although relationships can be very good, being alone is an equally worthy way to live, and just as fulfilling.

Like all living creatures, we come out of the world alone; consciousness can only fit in one being at a time. And we leave one at a time; living alone shouldn’t have any stigma attached to it. If you find yourself feeling very lonely, either in a relationship or out of one, there are steps to take that will ease your loneliness and draw you back into the light.

The best way to change your opinion of and experience with loneliness is to reconnect with your body. When we get stuck in our heads, it’s easy to forget what feels good, and how to connect with simply being alive. A way to reconnect which people have been doing for thousands of years, is to sit quietly and focus your attention on your hands. Really allow the feeling to pulse through them, gently sending your awareness into your fingers and palms. Some people experience a light tingling in their hands when they do this. This practice, when refined, is remarkable; Buddhist monks use it to change the temperature in their hands, by ten degrees.

You can also place your awareness in your feet, and even in your organs, like your lungs and your heart. This practice decreases loneliness because it restores the sensation of simply being alive. Your aliveness is not dependent on another person, or on what you’re wearing, or what you do for a living—the same consciousness that rushes through the universe rushes through you.

The secret to embracing loneliness is shifting perspective. Instead of thinking “I’m alone again tonight,” say to yourself, “I have the whole night to myself, I’m free to do as I please. I think I’ll work on my novel/floral arrangement/giant robot.” Although your budget may be tight, there’s no end to cheap entertainment in our modern age. Or take the night off from the TV and sit quietly, just experiencing the sounds of the evening, the rhythm of your neighborhood. If you start to see your life as good, instead of limited, it opens up.  And if you’re in a relationship and feeling lonely, there are other steps to take.

First, have you always felt lonely in this relationship? Or did it just start up, kind of out of nowhere? If you’ve always felt lonely with your partner but kept going on in the hopes it would get better, or were afraid to leave and be alone, fear not; changing your perspective will help here too. Look beneath the loneliness; are you lonely because you’re not connecting with your partner, or because they (or you) are preoccupied with work or sickness or some other challenge? Stress, anxiety, anger, shame—all of these can lie not far beneath loneliness. If you can look at these, and observe them without judgement, you might feel a little less lonely; everybody on earth feels stress, anxiety, anger, and shame—if you can let these emotions rise up and wash over you, without getting sucked in, they lose their power. Psychological studies have shown that emotions are only very intense for about two minutes; if you don’t engage with them in that time, they’ll die down.

And if you realize you’re lonely because the bond between you and someone else is deteriorating, congratulations, you’ve identified a tricky spot; now, go to work on repairing it, through gentle communication and the gift of your full attention. Reconnecting with someone, be it a new lover or an old friend, is a way to offer of yourself, and this offering chases away loneliness.

If you can get past society’s talk that loneliness is the human condition (it isn’t), and investigate the feelings underneath it, you’re more than halfway through the struggle of being lonely.The rest is learning how to treat yourself well, and this doesn’t require vast sums of money.  If you find yourself lying awake, obsessing over your day and feeling, well, lonely, review what you did before you went to bed. Sitting up and staring at a computer screen, especially at night, makes it harder to wind down and fall asleep. Likewise with late night eating and drinking; if you can keep from eating for an hour before going to bed, your body won’t have to contend with new digestion, which is a pretty active process.

To fall asleep easier in a bed by yourself (or in a bed with someone else), stick to late evening activities that stimulate the slower waves in the brain—in other words, no electronic screens or loud noises (also, studies have shown that hanging around social media sites when you’re feeling lonely increases the isolation). Try reading a book or a magazine at night, or learn to knit; small, repetitive actions (like knitting or writing in a journal) calm the mind and body. Exercising, even ten minutes of walking twice a day, helps the body settle down at night and sleep better.

Another way to feel better in your body, and so connect to the sense of being alive and full of energy (instead of lonely and enervated) is to practice meditation.  The easiest way to meditate is to sit on a pillow or cushion on the floor, with your knees lower than your hips, in a quiet room.  If you’ve never meditated before, try five minutes of sitting with your eyes open and slightly downward, with a soft gaze four to six feet in front of you. Sit with your back straight but not too tight, and your hands placed gently on your thighs. If sitting on the floor is not possible for your body, a chair is fine, but don’t lean all the way back, keep some energy in your spine.

Meditation is a good time to examine loneliness—when it comes up, notice it then let it go. Many meditation techniques, including samatha vipasana (“peaceful abiding”), involve labeling your thoughts “thinking,” and then letting them leave your mind.  Breathe in and out, and place some awareness on your breath.  Gradually, if you find meditation is helping your physical and mental health (as countless studies and millions of people agree), you can sit for longer, or find a group of people to meditate with.

Another way to be okay with loneliness is to examine your relationship to food and alcohol. If eating dinner alone requires three martinis to be successful, then, surprise, you’re actually not alone, many other people are doing the exact same thing, you just don’t know them. Try making your dinner more of a ritual, rather than just a bowl of cereal in front of the TV. If you eat at the same time every night and put a little mindful effort into what you make, even if it’s just ramen noodles, dinner tastes better. Alcohol is a depressant; it amplifies what you’re feeling. If you’re lonely, a beer will pick you up for a few minutes, then drop you down harder.  Awareness of how you relate to food and alcohol is a way to respect your body.

Embracing loneliness is like walking a tightrope; you find your footing and walk for ten or twelve feet, then you look down and see it’s a long way to the earth, and it might be tempting to just fall off and return to hating loneliness. But it gets easier; keep walking.

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ABC book

is coming along, little each week.  I’ve been painting much more than writing lately, you can see this book project here.

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Fun with fungi

Just finished a postcard series on mushrooms. Hope you like them.

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M is for makara

I haven’t done much writing lately, but I’ve been painting a lot. A makara is a chimera that hails from ancient India.

image

It is part crocodile, part elephant, part fish, and represents strength.

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here is a review

of my book, memory holes.  Thank you, Eileen Tabios.

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stray notes on fairy tales

ridinghoodI’ve been reading through my Norton anthology of fairy tales this week, and have written a sloppy sort of essay, mostly just notes. Feel free to skim it, and be forewarned: I didn’t make it very cohesive, every paragraph goes its own way.

One of the critics wrote in an essay in the back of the book that there may be only six major stories from the Indo-European lineage, each with hundreds of variations. Animal transformation date to 300 AD in India (a Brahmin’s son is turned into a snake, the father burns the snakeskin to free his child), right up through Hans my Hedgehog.  The location determines the animal, naturally.  In Italy it’s a pig king, which centuries later inspired Miyazaki’s Porco Rosso.  Often the cursed men are turned into animals humans either despise or eat; this makes it especially hard for them to find a bride willing to love them for their true selves, as is required to lift their curse. And 300 AD is just the first case of the story being written down; the oral tradition of folk tales goes way, way farther back—it’s impossible to say how old the foundation myths are.

Generations are sometime pitted against each other in fairy tales. The queen mother hates her daughter-in-law and vies to be midwife in the girl’s labor, then switches the baby with a dead puppy. An old necromancer posing as a tailor discovers his young apprentice has been learning his secret trade, so he chases the youth through five or more animal transformations, then the wily apprentice outwits his cruel master. In both there is an element of jealousy—the older party covets either the youth’s beauty (and youth) or their superior skills. Jealous sisters and stepsisters are another strong thread; is this because women didn’t inherit much, and it was kind of every girl for herself? Often the youngest sister saves the whole family, or, at least the family honor, after her cruel older sisters have died or disgraced themselves; the youngest of three seems to have the strongest chi.

And fairy tales encompass sacred geometry. Three, seven, and twelve are the usual numbers in a family or clan (seven dwarves, twelve brides for twelve brothers, three brothers/sisters in dozens of stories). Three, the divine trinity which just superimposed itself over a triangle, a very old symbol of power (and in eastern cultures, three denotes heaven/man/earth); seven, a mercaba (one of the most potent symbols, it’s  present in Hebrew, Buddhist, Christian, Hindu, and Muslim art); twelve houses of the zodiac. Three sometimes lines up with past, present, and future. Seven years is the typical length that a lost protagonist wanders through the wilderness, after which the exile is over and they’re reunited with their family. This period corresponds to western law: after seven years, debts were annulled (until recently, when banks made them infinite), and criminal records were wiped clean. Besides the twelve months of the Gregorian calendar and twelve houses in the night sky, midnight is the witching hour—when you can’t trust what you see or hear.

Frequently when boys hook up with helpful animals in folk tales, the animals are fierce: bear, wolf, lion. When girls meet animals, which either help them or enchant them, the animals are small but powerful: snake, bird, frog (as in The Frog Prince, Biancabella, Cinderella). Both sexes are aided by horses, but in different capacities: boys ride horses into battle/exile/fortune-making, or turn themselves into horses in a wizard’s duel; girls ride horses to escape bad marriages (and here they’re usually the gift of a fairy godmother), and the horse offers useful information. Like the bird of truth, horses can speak when needed. If a girl meets a wolf, it usually goes badly; devour used to have a more sexual connotation—the earlier Italian versions of Little Red Riding Hood had a highway man for the villain, who raped the child. Both wild animals and outlaws populated the woods, so the two merged in some stories.

Dragons vary across cultures; in Asia, they’re more good than bad, often mountain or river guardians, and in Buddhist imagery they represent the inscrutable quality of the human spirit, that which can’t be pinned down. But in Europe, dragons got a bad rap (largely after the rise of Catholicism, which equates serpents with the devil), and they became virgin-eating demons that hid in caves. Another mythical creature that changed from east to west is the Garuda, which became the griffin in Europe. The Garuda is the lord of birds in both Hindu and Buddhist traditions. It’s a fantastic creature that hatched fully formed (after a 500 year incubation), never stops flying, and eats snakes (nagas), which represent deception, in this case. It has the head and wings of a bird, and the body of a man; some early Greek traveler whose name escapes me documented the Garudas flying around the Himalayas, and eventually this and other sightings inspired the griffin stories in Europe. And maybe there was such a creature once; there used to be aurochs, dodos, and who knows what else.  This is getting far afield, I’ll return to the psychological notes.

The worst mutilation of women in fairy tales is chopping off their hands, followed by blinding. Is this because without hands they can’t work? Or hold a child? They become objects instead of humans, on a constant pilgrimage. And blinding: now the world is more dangerous. In medieval times blindness was regarded as a character flaw, some egregious sin was committed somewhere and blindness was the punishment. In the Grimm brothers’ The Maiden Without Hands, the heroine grows new ones through religious devotion (after her father cuts hers off), though she keeps the silver hands her husband made her as proof she was once deformed; when her lost husband finds her and their child, he’s not convinced it’s them until their fairy protector produces her old mechanical hands. (And did this story in some way inspire Edward Scissorhands?) Biancabella, an Italian heroine whose name means “blonde beauty,” has her hands cut off and eyes blinded by jealous in-laws, and only the touch of her sister, a snake/fairy, restores her former beauty. This is especially interesting to me, because snakes in western stories often represent a phallus, so it’s like a masculine force (that was born at the same time as the ultra feminine Biancabella) is required to restore the balance.

Physical beauty was linked to royal blood, and if an ugly baby was born to a king and queen it threatened the stability of the realm. There was fear the queen was carrying someone else’s baby, and also that years of inbreeding had created a diseased child. In some stories, freakishly ugly crosses over into changelings, the child of fairies, planted in human families purely for entertainment. Outer deformity was a sign of an inner badness; this was the stance of the church for a long time, but ugly baby stories preceded this. Maybe a fear of peasant genes mixing with royalty? Marrying off an ugly royal child took either money or trickery; brides were presented with their hair covering their face, or inserted into the bed of a prettier sister who conveniently disappeared after the wedding. A frequent indicator of royal blood was a physical appraisal: a ring test or a shoe test. The Grimms’ All Fur and Cinderella are two examples. Princesses were expected to have the smallest bodies, tiny fingers and feet, and “lesser” caliber women disfigured themselves to try to meet this standard (shaving the heel to fit into Cinderella’s slipper, chopping off the toes, etc). For ring tests, the hands were defiled. [Side note: while many people consider Joseph and William Grimm's fairy tales to be the bloodiest in the European tradition, the brothers actually left out the scariest stories in the later editions of Kinder und Hausmarchen (Children and Household Fairy Stories). I've looked around for the earlier editions, but if you don't speak German, they're hard to find.]

That’s enough for one post, thanks for reading. Please add your thoughts, and let me know if you think this could turn into a more polished piece, or if I should leave it be.

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fascist home companion

Driving east on the interstate we blew a tire on a piece of metal sticking up from the bridge over the Mississippi River.  We turned off in the first town in Illinois, Molline.  After calling around to different places, and our roadside assistance number with Good Sam (not much help there), we decided to hobble over to the only tire place in town with our kind of tires; it was six o’clock on the Saturday night before Easter.  As soon as we got on the main pothole-ridden drag, a cop car pulled out and started following us.  Because we had a blown tire and were going slow, my husband put the hazards on.  Apparently this was the wrong thing to do, because we got pulled over when we turned left, blocks from the tire place.  “You didn’t signal, sir,” was what the first young officer said (even though my husband did, you just couldn’t tell because the hazards were on).

All told, four cops and one dog got out of two cars; they took our license and insurance, then made us get out of our RV and ransacked it.  They seized our measly gram of pot and two pipes, and in the process tore everything out of the cabinets and under the bed, including mechanical parts of the RV.  The K9 officer and dog were on our bed, reaching up to the cabinets and going through my lingerie.  They broke my glasses, which were in a medicine cabinet that they straight up dumped out. Threw our DVD player on the floor, dumped out a can of pencils and some coffee, etc. They even got down underneath the RV and poked around. Finally, with everything lying left where the cop threw it, we were “let off” with a warning.  Because of a traffic violation, our home was searched (without our consent: we voiced this), and when I asked if we could keep the marijuana, which we purased legally in Colorado, the officer in charge said, “You’re lucky it was me, if it was one of my buddies, you’d be arrested.”

Whether or not we were at fault for not signaling, did that offense warrant a home invasion? And taking of our property? They followed the cop script, asking all sorts of prying questions about our lives and where we were going while they manhandled our worldly possessions.  When I asked the one female officer if searching a vehicle after a traffic violation was common practice in Illinois, she said, “If we suspect something.”  Then she stopped talking to me.  One thing that really bothers me about cops: they act like they’re doing you a favor when they don’t arrest you, despite whatever else they are doing to you.  Our laws aren’t all just (no banker has gone to jail for the housing crisis they caused) and there’s little recourse when you’re pulled over on the side of a busy road, with families coming out of the Chinese buffet restaurant not twenty feet away, staring at you like you’re the worst people on earth.

I tried really hard not to internalize this situation, but it still made me very angry, and sad.  The United States is getting more fascist by the season, with constant public surveillance, data mining of our phone calls and emails, and a general erosion of civil rights.  My husband was much more positive—and calm—throughout our detainment (which lasted almost an hour, we barely made it to the tire place in time); he pointed out we could have spent the night (and following day, Easter) in jail, for having a gram of cannabis with us.  Absurd as this is, thousands of other people have.

After we got the tire changed (almost $200) and made it to the next town (the officers kept asking us where we were going to spend the night, like they were going to come after us again) we put our home back together—took half an hour—and slept poorly for a few hours in another parking lot.  Back on the road today, we’ve found Illinois’ highways every bit as inhospitable as their small towns.  Wherever they put their federal highway money, it wasn’t into torn-up Interstate 80 (which is partly a toll road).  Passing through a particularly bad stretch around Chicago, a billboard asked me “Feeling Illinoid?” Yes, I nodded, absolutely.

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