Explanation: America irritates me, not the other way around. I mean, as far as I know.

So, as I recently twittered, I’d like to believe that the overwhelming majority of people who have the time/take the time to post comments on a Yahoo! news story are part of a functionally retarded minority. I say this because – seriously. Who are you talking to? Most people won’t read it (unless they accidentally push page down at the tail end of the actual article and thereby end up in the middle of these horrible text bricks, many of which are in all caps and use clever combinations of letters and numbers to say the ‘n’ word). I’m just a little worried about your motivation. It sort of bespeaks the personality type that would sit on his own porch, talking to the wind for hours on end. Because the point is how little his breath matters? Long term vision suggests that, on your deathbed, you’ll want that breath back.

Anyway, so apparently a man attempting to blow up a Northwest flight is proof that Obama is a know-nothing, impostor of a dark-skinned man who would dare remain on vacation in the wake of such a national non-tragedy. I respond to this in the same way I responded to the hyperbolic lambasting of Bush. (If you want to comment on how horrible Bush was, please don’t.) Every situation is not an opportunity to prove how self-deprecating Americans are. To me, it feels like the constant slandering does effectively diminish some of the privilege it takes to be afforded the right to constantly slander ourselves and our government. Particularly when it seems, you can’t make anyone happy for more than a fraction of a second. I don’t follow what this president is doing. But I have to believe it wouldn’t matter. “Bush was a beast.” It stands to reason that there’d be a period of time in which the new guy would have to work on fixing the mess into which he landed. But apparently, no. We can immediately see that he’s just a different kind of beast. And, ostensibly, so are the rest of our citizens, none of whom could ever do better, ever.

And since Americans don’t take a break from cutting off our noses to spite our faces, I don’t see why ugliness would’ve taken a Christmas break. And it didn’t. Enjoy. And then go blame it on the current president.  Oh and since this one’s caramel-colored, you can use that in your tirade. Go nuts.

Let us try to put the ugliness of disappointment behind us (I’m looking at you, Terminator Salvation) and find solace and meaning and purpose and divinity and overwhelming inspiration in the following. Because, seriously, Terminator Salvation? What were you DOING? I expected so much more from Christian Bale – didn’t he have like script approval or something? I mean you can’t necessarily take something that never really made sense before and suddenly have it make MORE sense but…GAH. REALLY?! And you can’t just blame it entirely on time travel because we’ve all agreed to set aside all of the ridiculously cyclical and therefore pointless factors – it’s not our first time at the rodeo, ok. But…REALLY?!? “His heart just can’t take it.” REALLY?! Really. Really?

*brush it off* Tis the season. So on to things that make me happy. Unlike Terminator Salvation.

Okay, so I’m sure you remember that time we talked about journals. (That would be a link to that time because, who are we kidding, you don’t remember.) The Cavallini & Co. have secured their place in the pantheon of journaling.

So, I have the top two and am in need of the third one – although I will ne’er buy the black one. I’m sorry. But from that first day in the bookstore who dare not be named – I just wanted to live inside of it. It’s biblical. Le delight. Still, there were a few things I could NOT get over and also of which I could not seem to find a picture. Until…tonight.

OH. The majestic…choking on my own delight…merciful…  *crosses self* It’s like starlight and the sound of water and baby scent and James Horner and snuggling and smoked meat all wrapped up in one magnificent piece of magnificence. I’m trying not to pass out right now. This. Is. And JJ Abrams talk at TED completely describes my reverence: what could I create that is worthy of you. Indeed! I will force myself to carry on.

Is anyone else smelling those delicious pink and purple lollipops from amusement parks? Must be the Robitussin on my night table. But, yeah, those definitely make the list.

And, getting back to journaling, I have always wanted a huge, ancient looking tome that I could drop down onto the table and from which a thunderous sound and rolls of dust and beautiousness would escape. This book – the one to follow – is the right size but is too nondescript.

Indubitably. Another precious treasure that I would – undoubtedly – never or at least at long last write in. (Lovely sentence, wasn’t she.) I just wouldn’t want to ruin it with something, some prose or thought unworthy of her majesty. (Did you know Jermaine’s kid is named Jermajesty? That’s the real crime.)

Also, I’m somewhat feverish right now so that should probably explain my thought process or lack thereof.

And finally. The outfit that felt like I’d gotten punched in the chest by that muscular bulldog from the cartoons.

The Foxtrot. Le die. 2nd wedding ceremony, inDEED.

I’m listening to a lot of scores right now – meaning I’m writing. They never lose their beauty, but the playlist – after three years of musing on the same list – does need to be refreshed. (That was an exaggeration.)  So I went to my tried and true composers: Hans Zimmer and Thomas Newman.

Note: I cannot for the life of me get TM’s “Home Movies” composition from Corrina, Corrina. And it’s making my homicidal.

Anyway. So, everyone knows that my obsession began with James Horner. (Everyone knows that.) When I was little, I used to watch The Land Before Time ceaselessly and couldn’t understand why that movie made me feel so strongly, unlike other kid movies. As I got a little older, scores from things like Legends of the Fall and Braveheart had the same effect. It just caught my heart in a vice grip. Finally, sometime before high school, I looked at the backs of these movies and found the commonality. (And then hounded my band director for four years until he finally ordered a James Horner piece, which I played until I passed out – which. was inevitable. 1st chair woodwind. James Horner. Right.)

So, tonight, as I was thinking of how strange it is that I don’t really listen to JHorner while I write, I decided to look some up.

They are the trio of geniuses, no one disputes this. (No one disputes this.) But this is kind of how it breaks down – and I wouldn’t even say this if I didn’t know that you all are committed and convicted admirers, as am I.

Hans Zimmer is lovely. And is also the Samuel L. Jackson of film scoring (a phrase which I hate and which, in my opinion, has this trifling connotation as though these pieces are just ditties of the pop culture machine, because ppl are idiots and don’t realize that the same thing that made ballet great is what makes films great — yeah, how do we recognize the genius of Tchaikovsky and not…right). ANYWAY. So HZ is Samuel L. And that’s cool. Sorta. He’ll score anything, which results in fun movements in unlikely films and then a smattering of unexpected beauty in films that don’t deserve it.

Thomas Newman is more discriminating, I think. I typically find him where the tone of the writing matches the deceptive simplicity of his work. Nothing could replace him in any of his films. (They are his films. He makes them.)

James Horner. I’ve restarted this sentence like seven times. How do you say. When only epic and equally heartbreaking will do. James Horner. It is also why I can’t write to his work. It takes over me, I can barely hold my neck straight. Some people call them chills, but it’s just a cooling sensation that starts somewhere in my chest, grows through my arms and up the back of my neck (this happens with the music of all three) and then with JH, it continues up through the surface of my skin. Le sigh. I can’t really explain it more clearly than that.

Last time I was in Disneyland – and probably because I was on my way out of the country – I was looking around, suddenly hit by how this place, the feeling is such a part of what defines the privilege of being American. I was watching a group of tourists (one of a zillion) and thinking, we expect this – we’re taught to.  The attention to detail, the way the confetti is perfectly prepared little Mickey Mouse outlines. The fireworks show that is a nightly, perfectly choreographed and synchronized extravaganza. (By the way, if you feel the need to leave a comment about how you hate Disneyland, a. you’re obnoxious and b. you missed the point.)

There are millions of people – myself included – who you will never be able to convince that Disneyland is primarily about making money. There are easier ways than paying attention to every nook and cranny, to having unbreakable ambiance, to literally having figured out how to make someone in a crowd of people feel “love”.  People don’t come from China and Russia and Western Europe and Africa for nothing. They want that experience. Even other western countries, I’ve sadly confirmed, don’t know a thing about customer service, let alone celebrating their customer! But while you’re there, no matter where you’re from, you get to sense what American kids are raised on – you’re special. There’s nothing you can’t do. You’re unique.

So, while I could get caught up in the irritation of what year it was before it happened (2009 is just a little embarrassing for “firsts”) or the cynicism of the “enlightened” American young adult culture in which we downplay or deny or destroy the way we used to be loving, lovable people – I’m going to be honest. There is nothing but right about finally dressing up as yourself. Was it “hard”, necessarily, to dress up like a princess whose skin color didn’t match? Nope. Will it be a completion of Disney’s “we love you” brand when you realize you look just right? Yep. Will it be all the more post-racializing (don’t even say anything about that word or concept) to see other American girls dressed up as this new princess? Yep. Will I still dress up like Mulan? …..Yep.

…I love you, Disneyland. I have to confess that when I heard there’d ever been a concept of a Disneyland in Montreal, my first reaction was of support. And then as an act of contrition, I looked at the unsavory pictures from the lackluster EuroDisney and remembered. It must be done at home so that nothing is sacrificed. Everyone must understand this. For you, I will gladly visit California to return to the source.

There may be a proper open letter to come, as I can’t seem to stop watching you tonight – Youtube be praised for not cutting me and other expats out of the culture bin like Hulu did! A few entries back, I was talking about soul mates. You continue to amaze me. Please stop aging, for the good of America.

Not only because you physically resemble my father (in my opinion) and not only because my father is something of a wonderful clown, you were like a stranger-grandpa. And the first artist who showed me as a too-observant (and out-spoken) child, “Oh. We do have a choice.” Thank you for The Cosby Show and for not apologizing when you told Black parents to raise their kids. Also, again – please stop aging and I will, too.

As you know, I am living outside of the United States. I’m…upstairs, in Montreal. And I’m pretty sure that if I had a car, it’d take me about an hour to get “home”. As in to the US. But I don’t have a car, people. And the closest Chipotle isn’t in Plattsburgh. It’s two hours past that in Saratoga Springs, NY. And so it was in my dream. When me, Ana and AuntieMom arrived at the Chipotle – I guess after they came to visit and we rented a car in Montreal – I was horribly excited. Well, so excited, I guess that I got some water and then got on the phone for a minute.

With Paul Rudd. I can’t remember how the conversation started but it basically devolved into me telling him how I used to love him in Clueless when I was a kid and how even though I loved Role Models, I thought it was kinda sad that that was who he really is. (Dear Paul Rudd, I have never met you. I apologize for our dream argument. I’m sure you’re …. no, I kinda think you probably are like that.)

Anyway, once Paul ended the conversation with “this is why I hate the telephone”, I went up to the counter to order. Suddenly, I realize it’s pretty close to closing. Actually, the girl behind the counter points to the clock and says it’s one minute past closing. To which I answer – I’ve been inside the restaurant for some time and all the food is still out and the doors aren’t locked AND feed me. So she asks the guy standing next to her, he nods. (She starts making something from a burrito bowl container that is premade with rice and beans in it – and it’s not the plain white rice. Whatever. I just want some dang Chipotle.) So anyway, halfway through finishing my order, the guy comes back, hands me a stack of napkins and an empty container and says he’s done for the day, too bad. At this point, my eyes flash and little mushroom clouds take the place of my pupils. There’s a gaggle of people who appeared and have been served in the time it took them to jerk me around. I demand to see the manager. So, this chic comes out and I tell her the whole runaround story about “yes, we will – no, we won’t” and she listens sympathetically. Then, as though quite proud of herself and what she’s about to do, she comes around the counter, reaches past me and grabs what turn out to be promotional coupons. She crosses out the percentage discount and increases it by some measure and smiles at me like she’s King Freakin’ Solomon. O_O Um. How does that help me with getting Chipotle in my stomach? She tells me, come back tomorrow and enjoy! I yell at her that I don’t live anywhere near here and I drove for hours to get here. She’s still smugly satisfied with herself and eventually, we leave and get Carl’s Jr. Which makes me barf.

Then in the parking lot, we’re climbing into a hatchback something or other – Yeah, you wanna field that one, Ana? – and I’m trying to get situated with my long legs in the absence of space when she sees this professor in the parking lot and asks him to take a look at her calculator. She pulls out a baby thermometer (at least that’s what it looked like) and he said he’d get it back to her, asap. Meanwhile, I’m trying to figure out if I should call Paul Rudd back or wait for him to cool down.

O_O

So. That was one of my dreams.

Ambrosia – I’m just trying to figure out why this is ever done. Ever. So many horrible childhood memories. How you decided to put jello, coconut, mini marshmallows and other MINUTIA – just whatever you can find really – into a big tupperware bowl to frighten me every time I open the refrigerator is BEYOND ME, MOTHER!

So, for the second part of the school day, Ezzie had a sub, I guess. Madame Jean. Aside from asking who I was after I came bounding happily up to her and a gaggle of children – one of whom was yelling, “Mommy! Mommy!” and jumping up and down and then hugging my legs….right – she also did not seem the least bit hesitant about asking what ethnicity Ezra was. Her words: “I thought he must be a different ethnicity because his hair is fuzzy” (whilst picking at his cut curls). Me, totally impressed with her lack of shame: “Well, he’s American. So. Lots of stuff.” Now I’m sure I coulda just called her on what she said between the lines. You know, how she had the admirable moxie to ask a Black woman what the devil is wrong with the should-be-white little boy. And she, with a straight, pleasant face, continued, “I knew he must be a different ethnicity.” Meaning…from her. Because, his class has like 18 kids in it and only one boy and one girl are white Canadian. So. Why did his not being white (enough – in the hair department) stand out to you again?! I almost high-fived her when I left though. (Is this one of those situations where I’m gonna be blamed for being too preoccupied with racism/race as are apparently all Black Americans, despite what the other party is trying to say and having the audacity/right to say to me?!)

Anything else? *shuffles papers* Meeting adjourned.

HEIN?! No. I can’t. I won’t.

Which led me to the wonderful site Tackyweddings. She’ll see your “grandma passed out at my reception” and raise you a “Lavish Irish Traveler Wedding Between Cousins“.

Whoops.

Yup. That looks about right.

And I just want you to know – that Hello Kitty makes wedding gowns now. Does each and every one have a hello kitty head somewhere on the front? Yup.

And then: how come I never get to go to this America?! Where are you hiding, elusive shamelessly illiterate and trashy hillbilly land?! And I don’t mean where can I find one of you. I mean, where is this magical land where the droves are hiding!

And in case you’re wondering, no. None of this takes the place of the pictures for which I was originally searching. Lord Jesus, how do I even begin… imagine…a skinny and visibly retarded product of inbreeding. And I do mean that literally, not in a funny way. He was clearly lacking the wisdom of a three year old. And by his side? A 600 pound sloptastic bride who was clearly gettin’ while the gettin’ was GOOD. She took him home and deSTROYed him. Promise. Man. I leaked from every possible orifice. Crying alone took years off of my life. Man, I can hardly get my breath just thinking about it. Jesu. FRABjous day. WHEW.

Man.

Just...cleansing the palate...

Okay, but I never noticed how I’ve got my bouquet in a serious chokehold. Dang.

…that seemed as good a place as any to start. Particularly because I come with nothing in particular to say. Seriously, there’s a million things to talk about but I really don’t wanna deal with it – surprise! I know, it’s completely outside of my nature. Sometimes it’s simply because if you don’t get it, I don’t see how you’re gonna get it just because I clarify (placing Carrie Prejean or anyone other than Christ at the helm of Christianity and thinking you’ve finally found your “proof” – tip: God’s gonna ask about you, not her), (Precious: why I could watch it and just think of it as a movie and how we should know better than to assume 99% of Americans can do the same and therefore how about a little decorum and accountability…and then, le sigh, that’s a lovely tightrope: not perpetuating the minority-ness of having to watch what you say because people will hold 12% of the population to it but at the same time being culturally responsible and perhaps making it a touch less probable that so depraved of an account isn’t just presented as “proof”), …. Lord, there’s too much. And that’s why it’s just better – at least for a moment – to join Tracey Jordan in song. “Boys becoming men, men becoming wolves!”

Let’s see. I’m not speaking French any better as far as I can tell. Which is entirely my fault, but feel free not to mention. My son on the other hand is having hilarious outtakes in which he must repeatedly be corrected when saying things like John Deere.

Ezra: Jean Deere.

Daddy: John Deere.

Ezra: Jeeaann Deere. (Confident that he’s repeating Daddy exactly.)

Daddy: *laughing* John.

Ezra: *upset* Jean!

Daddy: *laughing*

Ezra: Jean Deere. (Crosses his arms. It’s settled. He’s saying it right. Daddy’s just being mean.)

I also really enjoy when he says thing like, “That’s not how you say it in this world!” His eyes are comically wide with concern. Did I mention that I (and his father, as mentioned above) end up laughing at him a lot. With him. Laughing with him. This world, yo? Really? Hilarity. I simply cannot wait to hear him speaking French fluently. I will be bowled over with amusement. Hopefully, I won’t be so lame as I currently am.

This week: Happy birthday to my broseph, Andy!!!! And – one the same day – happy birthday to my dovey, Sasha!!

Later this month: Happy birthday to my godmama – auntiemom – auntizzle!!

In celebration of these  and other special days (like it being Thursday), please feel free to send me a box of these:

Do not judge.

No, I haven’t seen Good Hair and I probably never will, out of sheer disinterest. Despite Nia Long being in it and being absolutely gorgeous (is it just me or did I just notice she’s beyond beautiful? Never wanted to look like someone else until I saw a picture of her and a recent picture of Kerry Washington. Dang. …Sorry. Back to the topic at hand.) I have heard primarily critical reviews/half-formed remarks from Black female viewers who seem to feel that it gives white girls the confirmation that we want to look like them and are envious and only feel pretty when we achieve that. A few paraphrases: “If something’s acceptable, you wouldn’t feel the need to alter it.” and “I can’t wait until Black women learn to value themselves.”

Um.

Having to make a statement about my self-worth with my hair?! Seriously? Everybody already realizes how much fake hair and processing goes into white girls’ hair (if they deign to even try), so why so defensive? You do you. If you stop reducing your appearance down to a statement, perhaps you’ll stop feeling minoritized? *shrug* All I know is I don’t have to prove to you that I love me, ya heard? *fingers tresses*

Love the Noisettes cover of "When You Were Young"

Love.

Saw her in a GAP ad, I think. Love her style.

*GASP*

Equality: The right to versatility.

Moving on to Things That Seem Not To Make Sense That Actually Do: I despise community predicated by color or “culture” (if you must). I don’t know that I’d ever join a group with Blackness as its unifying descriptor. And yet, if you look at my list of people with whom I’d want to be in a club, they have something in common. They’re intellectuals. Oh and they’re Black. Toni Morrison (should I have put her name somewhere in the middle to save face?), Henry Louis Gates Jr, Percival Everett…when I list the writers who have overwhelmingly overtaken my bookcase Wright and Baldwin and … okay I won’t write her name again. FINE. They not only hold a place, they hold a place that could not be held by someone without their experience, their wisdom, that could not come by way of having been born into cultural luxury (wherein you can be whatever you choose and remain independent knowing that nothing you say or do will be held against anyone else and vice versa, that you will not have to explain why you are not by nature someone else). So they had to be Black. But being Black was not enough. This seems simple and complicated at once. Their thoughts and work resonate with me not because I’m Black, but because of the other similarities that are experientially unique to having them and being Black. Blackness on its own tells me nothing, promises no solidarity or commonality – which the defiantly ignorant will misunderstand because it takes actual respect and consideration to acknowledge that finding out my “race” tells you nothing else about me. But if you share the same cultural heritage/experience AND a love of books and sociology and the same discerning for racial quagmires? Then I’m pretty sure we’re soul mates.