Poetry by Dythandra

Your Fall from Grace

You're staying for the summer,
My favorite cousin
Part of the parentals' plan
To "restore" me.

You seemed... more complex, before.

Now there's the hour of painting, filing, curling
Each morning, with pit stops throughout the day.

While we used to bond,
Now there's uncomfortable silence.

You meet the boy who runs the outdoor camps.
Seems his assistant backed out--he's desperate for help.
You talk about him to your friends back home
You don't know about my silent extension.

I also hear your laughs
At the expense of your "pathetic little wannabe vampire" cousin.

I don't complain when you propose to leave
All comforts of home shed for a month
While you help 10 year olds paddle a kayak.

Too bad you're careless.
Should've hidden that myspace password more
When you typed it five times a day.
Should've looked over to my window
When you got friendly down on the porch
With Mr. Wilderness.

Does he know about the boy back home?

My mother looks at me sadly.
Her hopes dashed, and fearing my summer
Somehow ruined.

I smile bravely, and retreat to my room.
It's a gradual process, this destruction.

I find I enjoy being electronic you:

You're rude to your friends when you comment
Your blog details new friends and their chemicals
You ask your boy back home for more space
And Paris-like, you post the nightvision shots
Of your cozy times on the veranda.

Of course, the phone calls from worried or angry friends
Find only voicemail--
No phones or computers allowed
In Camp Wannagebizzee

It's a good month;
You return suntanned and smiling.
I hope camp boy has the internet
You're going to have lots of free time
When you get home.

too hot

It was 90 at 8 tonight--bleah. We had left the house closed up while we were all out most of the day, so it was probably 100 inside.

Plus I was cruising around town in a little tin bucket w/out air while mine was in for maintenance.

There--whining done.

Item for consideration--while in Qualicum, we noticed a hospice there named "Valhalla". Anyone else think that's in questionable taste?

Had lunch w/ Alix today. I feel sorry for anyone who works in a restaurant kitchen in the summer (which she does). Tonight we were at my in-laws and rather than cook we decided to go to KFC where, unfortunately for the employees, there's no air conditioning. It must've been hellish in the kitchen, because it was disgustingly hot out by the counter, and they couldn't manage to keep up with the orders--a bunch of people got cranky and took refunds and left.

Up the Fraser Canyon--maybe two hours inland from Vancouver, it was 42 today--a bit over 107.

I recall as a kid we went on holidays through that area in a car without air conditioning, and camped in a tent. I don't think we could manage that with my family without killing each other.

I know that folks down south are mocking our wimpiness now. Wait for global warming, my friends. You'll want real estate up here, I bet.

Poetry by Dythandra

My Summer Vacation

The parentals insist, each year
Upon a family bonding time.
Camping was a disaster--Fire, lanterns,
Pointed marshmellow sticks...
And my imagination.

Though I did enjoy the bats
Who joined me each night to play.

Something different this year--a surprise
They promise. I despise surprises
Unless they're of my design.

I fear their bland conformity,
And brace myself for Yellowstone.
But the plane takes us to San Jose--
The Bay Area.
I almost smile--San Francisco has its perks.

But then the hammer falls,
A rental car, and down the coast we go.
Anaheim our destination.

But not before we stop the SUV and add
My Aunt and her annoyingly tanned
California kids.

Poor Aunty Jan--all alone, with those two
How does she ever manage
On the court ordered half mil a year
Her financier ex must pay.

Her spawn are first smug and superior
I have no precancerous coloring,
So they feel me unworthy of their company.

This suits me, until the son--my cousin, Daniel
(I remember him from the Dan and Danny incarnations)
Decides to find me exotic, or perhaps dangerous.
And his tiresome pursuit begins.

All manner of discouragement fails to dissuade
Even my intimation that his sister is more to my...
Well, suffice to say, it just increased his ardor.

At the mecca of the rodent's empire,
I relent enough to sample the rides
The Tower of Terror holds few for me
And the roller coaster is tame,
Though my Aunt loses her filet mignon.

I give my suitor a hint of encouragement.
"We'll ride the Small World together"
His eyes light up. He runs away with me
As I shake away his attempt to hold my hand.

We see an opportunity--it's early, and we manage
To get a boat to ourself.

Inside, I know exactly what to do
(I reconnoitered the day before)
At the right moment, we climb out
And sneak behind some horrible stereotypes
Of Africa's children.

I pull out the handcuffs I managed to sneak in
And his eyes light up.

Later, the park security is eventually told
About the young man behind the animatronic
Natives.

Seemed no one heard him for hours
Over that shrill song.
I whistle it all the way back
To San Francisco.

My parents agree that next year
The two of them are taking a cruise.

July 5--

On this date, 15 years ago, I was contemplating my last day of singleness.

On the whole, it's been an amazing and very quick 15 years. I am very lucky. If only my wife had known what she was getting herself into...

Off we go to celebrate for a couple days and take in a play along the way. Back in a few days, folks. Hope you're all enjoying the summer.

(Oh, and Ella IS still alive--we chatted yesterday (actually Monday--since it's after midnight now) and I was reassured as to her continued existence.)

Oh, and we had a 3.7 earthquake here today--but I was driving at the time and so heard about it from my family when I got home. The joys of living on a fault line...

I kind of like this one

What horrible Edward Gorey Death will you die?

You will sink in a mire. You like to think you're normal, but deep down you really just want to strip off your clothes and roll around in chicken fat.
Take this quiz!

The ADD Movie Usher Reviews

Mr and Mrs. Smith

Yeah this movie's believable. Just like all the James Bond movies and every other one that would have you believe that expert shooters can magically miss people who happen to be main characters in the show. Kind of like the fact they don't notice that each other are assassins even though they're trained to notice all these tiny details.

Or like how every fat guy gets the hot girl in movies like Hitch or all those sitcoms with the Jim Belushi-type guy who has the hot wife.

Still, at least Brad and Angelina are both more a match like that. But her lips--yeah right they're not enhanced. I mean, you can practically see the little air valve thing to pump them up between shots.

And Vince Vaughn? So did Brad Pitt take him aside during the breaks and say "Hey, go date my ex-wife would ya?" or what? Weird. Kind of like how all the people in the concession date all the other people in the concession. But somehow the ushers, well, we're good enough for the janitors but somehow those concession snots are all "We're bondable--we can handle cash".

And what's with their uniforms--I mean, they get those really nice black vests and we have those stupid green blazers, and we have to do ALL the garbage at the end of the night... oh yeah.

So, uhm, 3 out of 5 for Mr. and Mrs. Smith. I wonder if anyone asked her what she did with Billy Bob's blood vial after they broke up? Probably some evil mojo goin' on there...

The Cynical Career Counsellor Explains Your Future in

Lawn Maintenance

Oh, hi kid--look, I know I promised to pay you on Saturday but I forgot the alimony had gone up after the court... oh--you're not here about the lawn? Ahh--well, I guess since you already kind of do the whole lawn thing, it makes sense. Let me see...

You'll quickly realize that your future in this business depends on first distinguishing yourself from the generic gardening and yard maintenance guys--you will be all about lawns, and nothing else. You'll get a truck with one of those ramp things, and a set of good mowers and you're on your way. You'll need a cell phone to run your business--the voicemail will have a recording that makes it clear you only do lawns so you don't have to bother mocking the idiot who still asks if you prune trees.

One problem with your job will be the lack of sick days. You may think since you're self-employed you can just take a day or two off whenever you want, but once you have that schedule in place, the folks in the rich neighborhoods won't care if your mother died or your mower shot a piece of glass into your leg; if the lawn starts looking a little shabby, they'll call the next guy in the phone book, and you can't afford that.

There won't be a big profit margin in the cutting--too much competition like there is in all unskilled, cheap-startup businesses. You need an edge, so you'll buy one of those spray-on grass planting systems, and add the top of the line aerator and a heavy-duty power rake. Of course, with more gear, you'll need a trailer and a bigger truck, but if you're credit rating's okay you may be able to manage that.

Even with the new gear, you still won't feel secure nor will the profits soar. You scrape together the fee to attend a convention in Kentucky run by a sod sales company, and there you get the advice that will take you to the next level: snob appeal.

The good clients are the ones in the privileged neighborhoods where elegant homes are surrounded by beautifully-manicured lawns spread across five-acre lots. The logo on your truck--a cartoon of a hayseed hillbilly chewing on a piece of grass in a straw hat while he pushes a lawn mower towards a pile of dog crap--just doesn't appeal to this clientele. You lose the logo, change your business name from "Terry the Turf Man" to "St. Alban's Green Maintenance", and you're on your way to becoming a regular fixture in neighborhoods where your leaf blower is outlawed due to noise regulations.

It goes well, and within a few months you're confident enough about the future to buy another truck and hire someone cheap--probably an illegal or a high school kid. You dream of a time when you can have a fleet of trucks and you won't actually have to cut the lawns yourself.

Sadly, the good times won't pan out. One night you'll get behind schedule--maybe a flat tire or a problem with a mower--and you'll cruise up to the bank manager's house later than usual. Normally, there's no one home, but since it's late, he's home from work and you spot him lounging beside his pool, a drink in one hand, while the other twists the hair of an attractive young woman you recognize as the one who staffs the bank's commercial transaction wicket.

You'll be running the weedeater around the edges of their rose garden when his wife's mercedes pulls up. The screaming match that follows is unpleasant, and you hear enough while loading your gear onto the truck to realize the wife hadn't been expected home for two more days. When you notice the bank manager push his wife into some lawn furniture, you take a few steps in their direction, unsure of what to do--normally the rich ones have an understanding with you; they pretend you don't exist, and you go along with being less than human to ensure good tips at Christmas.

The bank manager gives you a cold look, and you stop short. You really have no idea what you would do anyway, and he makes a show of helping his wife up, but she shakes off his hand and storms into the house. He looks toward you again, and you just go to your truck and drive away.

Three days later, you are shocked to see your chief competitor, "Lord Montague's Lawn Care", parked in front of the bank manager's home. You saunter over to ask him what he's doing there--the grass doesn't grow that fast--and he explains he was called in to do a small turf-replacement job. "Four rolls", he explains. "Nothing big. He had to dig up a pool drain or something and he needed a patch."

You are troubled. Four rolls--each roll is eight feet long and a foot wide. Plenty to cover the evidence of a crime. You decide to stop by the house on the way home, and have a look at the patch yourself. The layout of the turf rolls will either fuel or calm your suspicions about the possible disposal of a body.

It's really just your paranoia, fostered by the detective novels you read on breaks in your truck, that drives you to stand over the newly-laid turf by the wealthy banker's pool and contemplate whether he murdered his wife. Maybe if you had a partner--some daily human contact--you'd have realized you were overreacting.

Happily, though, the banker's wife will be alive, sitting by the pool, drinking to forget the pain of hearing her lawyer explain the the pre-nup will stand up in court. She'll have her handgun out, thinking how she'll frighten her husband with it when he gets home. When she spots you lurking by the new turf, it will only be dumb luck that makes her shot at what she fears is an assassin sent by her husband prove fatal.

The bank manager will send a lovely floral arrangement to your funeral.

Hello, Dalai

Sorry.

Interesting joking competition as I shared the booth after school with two students--one explained he was named after the Dalai Lama, and had met him when he was quite young in India. The other countered with "well, the Dalai Lama kissed me when I was four".

I somehow felt sooo not one of the buddhist cool kids...

The Cynical Career Counsellor Explains Your Future as a

Political Commentator

Interesting choice, kid. Most parents teach their kids that polite topics of discussion don't include religion, sex or politics--of course, the ones who miss that little lesson might eventually make a living violating those taboos.

How you approach this depends on whether you want to be considered right wing or left wing. What's that? Neutral? Oh, that's funny, kid. Nobody wants to hear what a middle of the road rational thinker has to say, so get ready to pick an ideology and go with it.

If you choose left wing you'll go somewhere ivy league, if you can afford it, or some place like Berkeley, which still has a pretty good pinko pedigree. You'll study all the folks so hated by the right--from Marx to Chomsky and everyone in between. You'll also work on the college paper, and enjoy that warm cozy left-wing incubator--never again will your audience be as supportive of your viewpoints on everything from abortion to gay marriage.

If you choose the right wing option, you'll go somewhere less "intellectual" like Bob Jones University. You'll go to classes on foreign policy where the professor's pronounciation of "Eye-talian" and insistence on using the prefix "Red" whenever referring to China makes it clear you're in the heart of Fox News country. You'll join the NRA, get a bumper sticker that has some slogan superimposed over the stars and stripes, and another that has a target superimposed over Michael Moore's face. You'll even buy a confederate flag tie to impress the the Anne Coulter wannabes at the occasional cotillion you're invited to attend.

I figure you for a lefty, though--you don't seem like the pork rind type.

After college you'll turn an internship at some left wing publication like Mother Jones into a low-paying minion job, and hope to climb the ladder to something better. Problem is, you have gone too far left, and you eventually wise up and slip back towards the mainstream a little. You settle for writing op-ed pieces for some mid-sized city's daily rag, and you're always on the side of the liberal angels when it comes to everything from fighting greenhouse gases to eliminating aid to Israel.

Sometimes even you will have a hard time swallowing the swill you have to dish out--you dutifully trumpet the ACLU line on a talk show discussing the case of a fired bank employee who refused to speak the names of the days of the week due to his devotion to atheism--seems invoking "Woden's day" or "Thors' day" counts as prayer in your circles.

You become a frequent guest on shows that pit the left against the right--again, the middle won't be invited--and one Fox News regular will dub you the "Most hated liberal" in America--Michael Moore may be retired by then and any of the remaining Kennedys in public life by that time will be too busy in court-mandated alcohol treatment to challenge you for the title.

You will bask in the glory of your ideological purity. You will be akin to a rockstar in blue state college campuses. There will be only one problem--you aren't getting the same kind of cash flow your right-wing counterparts pull in. They mock you once the TV lights go off at the shows where you battle them, reminding you constantly that the well-connected conservatives whose bilge they sell make sure they're well rewarded for doing so.

You've always refused to sell out, but after some delicate discussions with an agent, you agree to be the spokesperson for the "Universal Encyclopedia of Mankind". It's an ambitious project to put a socially-relevant, politically-correct electronic reference tool in the hands of liberal families everywhere. It's the brainchild of a philanthropic billionaire who you've seen at various left wing fundraising events. He is thrilled you agree to be his spokesperson, and soon your face is on television, print ads and web sites promoting this educational tool.

You'll be shopping for a new Lexus when your cell phone informs you of the disaster. Your benefactor has been very quiet about his brother, and with different last names, few knew that the politically-correct billionaire is step-sibling of the leader of the United Aryan Reich. It will turn out that all the profits from the successful encyclopedia project were being secretly funnelled to train white supremacists in the use of the same weapons it was providing them.

No one will openly explain why you are shunned, but they will make you a pariah nonetheless. When you are told you are no longer grand marshall for the Kwanzaa parade, you'll drink yourself into a state worthy of a Massachussetts senator, and the resulting drunk driving incident will relegate your career to a footnote in the encyclopedia you so effectively shilled.

Hey kid--that finger ain't the peace sign, you know...

Wednesday's thoughts...

Weather is still amazing... It was 35 (95 fahrenheit) in Kamloops yesterday--for those who don't know, this part of Canada, once you move inland beyond the coast mountains, gets quite hot in the summer. Lots of rattlesnakes and such in some parts...

Our little neighborhood felt a bit less safe yesterday--fight at the high school down the street and it ended up in the skatepark nearby where one of the kids knifed the other and police and ambulance was needed.

Tomorrow we meet with the director of the video that they want to shoot a week Sunday--I still don't have the permission from the district, though. I hope it will work out.

Today was weird. Lots of people, myself included, have been under stress, feeling out of sorts, kind of cranky lately. A sense of proportion is helpful--visiting with a niece who spent almost 4 months in much less prosperous circumstances in India helps remind you of that.

I have hella video editing to do. Hear that, Rach? HELLA!
(One day I'll explain the list of forbidden words and phrases...)

and for my friends of the rainbow persuasion...

...there are posters up encouraging people to be supportive and wear rainbow colours to school tomorrow. On that topic, I just heard something interesting from Murdoch. One local school--not ours or hers--has a policy that if you want to go to the prom with someone of the same gender, you have to bring a note from a parent saying you're gay.

I imagine an exchange that goes something like this:

"Here's the note dear. Now you can ask Suzie to the dance."

"But Mom, I told you I'm bi!"

"Now you listen to me, missy! I'm NOT going to be down at the florists at the last minute because you don't know if you need a corsage or a boutinier. You pick a team and you stay with it, understand me?"

Hmm--well, maybe that wouldn't be the parent's main concern...

Still, strange policy, don't you think?

Oh, and the doctor checked some things and is of the opinion my dizziness is sinus related, and so I've got something that will hopefully help that and maybe deal with the possibility that my hearing hasn't been as good the last couple of months--at least according to some things a couple of people have said to me.

Tomorrow my favorite relative arrives in town to stay for a week--much of it with us. I see some walks to starbucks (leave your corporate-bashing and let me have this) ahead...

The Cynical Career Counsellor Explains Your Future as a

Quantity Surveyor

You again? I told you to get out of here yester... Oh, Dr. Addison--no, I didn't know that Jeremy was... Yes, how lucky for him to have the principal for an uncle. Yes, I did kick him out of my office yesterday, sir. It's just that, well, I don't take kindly to practical jokes, after that gynec... What practical joke? Well, Jeremy made up a career and... Yes, he did. "Quantity Surveyor". I realize boys will be boys, but--it is? I'm sorry. Yes, I realize your family is from Britain. Ahh, well of course. Sure--just have him sit down a minute while I do a quick google search.

Hmm? No, of course you don't have to stay--Jeremy and I will do just fine.

He's gone? Okay kid--you didn't need to bring the office into this. Hmm--this looks pretty straightforward to me... Weird, I thought I'd heard of them all by now.

Okay, here goes:

You'll go to school in England somewhere--honestly, I don't know where, though--probably somewhere you can stay with relatives and eat all the boiled meat you can handle. You'll need... yeah, there it is--you'll need a bachelor of science degree specializing in quantity surveying. So you'll probably learn about, uhm, quantities, and er, how to survey them. It's kind of like you're the guy who watches over the construction jobs and figures out how much everything should cost and keeps track of the budget and stuff.

Once you finish your training, with the good grades you'll probably get, you'll have a number of major british firms competing for your services. You'll go to work for one which does big projects--everything from airports to shopping malls--and your attention to detail will make you invaluable.

You rise as do the fortunes of the firm, and one day they announce they've been awarded a contract by the americans to build a military training facility as part of reward for the brits' continued support in the war on terror. You are chosen to go to the U.S. to supervise it--having lived in the country before and all.

You do your normal conscientious job and are surprised when the subcontractor in charge of wiring the living quarters shows up and awkwardly tries to give you a briefcase full of money. You send him packing and refuse the bribe. Shortly after you discover he has overcharged for the conduit he installed by close to half a million dollars. You report him to the authorities, and he barely escapes prison by fleeing the country. Meanwhile, the word gets out that you are the main reason the typical defence contract gravy train won't be happening on this project.

A group of teamsters trap your car in the parking lot with their semitrucks one evening, and it's close to midnight when you find the one who can move the last truck--with no one else around to witness it they push you around a bit and threaten your life if you don't "go back where you came from" immediately.

Of course, you're still a self-righteous prig, er, uhm--I mean, your integrity makes you report the incident, but the company you work for warns you they can't protect you from all the enemies you're making. You turn once more to your uncle, the now retired Dr. Addison, who has some political contacts, and tell him your story. He is worried and promises to make some calls. Unfortunately, by this time your phone has been tapped and they know you've told him everything, so sadly, he has an unexpected encounter with some "burglars" who kill him slowly and painfully, so as to determine who else he may have told.

You flee back to England, and from there you are assigned to another military contract--you are to oversee the building of a new base in a "friendly" arab emirate. Unfortunately, the bulk of the work is being done by one of the sheikdom's most connected companies--the board of directors has several members of the country's royal family on it--and your attention to detail reveals that they're padding the expenses to finance suicide bombers worldwide.

Again, you blow the whistle, and barely make the flight out before your face is plastered throughout the country attached to some fabricated story of you attacking and killing one of your maids. You fly to a small carribean island which you are sure won't extradite you to face this bogus charge, and start your own small construction firm.

You are worried the first few months that your many enemies might find you, but over time you relax, and your company is a success; you build luxury homes for the executives of the huge tax-shelter banking interests on the island. Eventually you even marry and have a family.

Then, one day, while you are entertaining a small group of banking types at a barbecue at your home, you tell the story of your adventures in the Gulf. Unknown to you, one of your guests is quite connected to the financiers of international terrorism, and he reports your story to his masters.

Because your family knows the story, they won't be allowed to live, but their suffering will be less if you tell your captors everything quickly before they kill you and your kin.

See what happens if you insist on sharing your petty problems? People get hurt. Keep your complaints to yourself and your loved ones may live longer.

Have a nice day.

Congratulations

...to Murdoch on The Laramie Project. I was at the opening last night and was very impressed. She did a great job as did the entire ensemble. It's also very cool to go see a show in an auditorium that goes back generations. I did a practicum at that school in the '80s and their tradition at that point was to put a picture of the grad class on one page of the yearbook and one of the grad class from 100 years previous on the opposite page.

It's the only school around here that has not only their WWII and WWI alumni who died listed on plaques, but also those who lost their lives in the Boer War.

Anyways, Murdoch--Well done!

Poetry by Dythandra

the measure of me

It's that time again...
Standardized tests.

I know why they want to "meet" with me
I am a curiosity--they've seen my scores
All 90-something percentile
Classic "underachiever".

"Are you bored?"
Not when I picture you after school,
Seeing what I did to your car

"Are you taking something that...
Uhm, interferes with your abilities?"
I just twitch a bit, and then shake my head.

"Are there problems... at home?"
I shiver and look up
Like a wounded kitten.
"No," I stammer, unconvincingly

I toy with them--I could just as easily
Score within the norms.
But why pretend to fit?

Gifted programs, remedial classes,
Even home schooling--that was a short lived
Experiment in mutual torture

Then there was parochial school
The poor priest, so surprised,
I could see the fear when he realized
His holy water didn't hurt me.

Now I'm back, and yet another well meaning authority figure
Shakes his head and wonders what makes me tick.

A phone call; he steps out
The file is open--how can I resist:

"...exhibits sociopathic tendencies...
...potential arsonist...very dark...moody..."
And then a list, of all the stress leave
Attributed to moi.

He comes back--doesn't want me to leave,
but really, what can he do?
Better than he have lain awake worried
About what I may do next.

"Lovely flowers in your hair" he remarks,
Offering his hand--so formal as he stands.
"What are they?"

"Oh those?" I smile--he thinks me normal for a moment.

"I got them from my garden. They're... columbine."

I can't let my file get boring, after all.

Some thoughts at midnight

Well, almost midnight. As of now (although he's been asleep for a while now) my son is officially doing the "30 hour famine". He went out and canvassed the neighborhood for sponsorships after hitting up the relatives as well. I think it's a good thing, and it's going to be tougher on him than it would on the rest of the family, since he's at that "always hungry" stage of almost teenagerhood.

Question: Did the "day without immigrants" protest make an impact on any of the cities/towns where those of you south of the border live? (uhm, yeah, south of the U.S.-Canada border, I mean)

Were the turkeys being processed in H-burg? I know Chicago had a protest. How about Atlanta, Jen? Or Pennsylvania, Jenny G.? Probably not much happened up in Ella's neck of the woods, or in B.G.'s college town, I imagine.

This is disturbing and depressing

About a year ago I posted about the idea that there are probably blogs out there whose writers have died. Now I find something really kind of disturbing out there--

http://yourdeathspace.blogspot.com/

This blog links to the myspace sites of people who've died. I looked at a few, and it seems way sadder and more poignant than just reading the news stories of the deaths.

Sorry--maybe I'm just feeling a little morbid today. I will check if my friend who knows my password still remembers it though, to post or delete this blog if it becomes necessary.

The ADD Movie Usher Reviews

Memoirs of a Geisha

So this movie was kind of... weird. I mean, I'm all for chick flicks--just ask my boyfriend--but there's some things that don't make sense here. First of all, how does this Japanese girl end up with blue eyes? Huh? And how come they're all speaking "japanese" but at times near the beginning it's actually japanese, but then it's english, and then when the americans come after the war they all just speak the same english which used to be japanese with exactly the same fluency and accents?

I mean, it's like King Kong where you see this giant critter and the chick is up in his nest place and yet... No monkey poop. I mean, I've seen the cages at the zoo, and well, I just don't get it. For that matter, that monkey didn't even eat anything hardly... Oh yeah--right. The geisha.

So she ends up being put up for a bidding war for her "virtue" or whatever the hell it was called--kind of like in that movie that Brooke Shields was in--Pretty Baby, I think it was. Yeah, they put her on a big plate and she was what, 12, and her mom let her do that movie and all and then there was Blue Lagoon and what kind of parent lets their kid... oh right.

So this geisha chick is pursued by this guy who's all scarred because he's a "war hero". Right. I mean, I didn't exactly ace history, but I remember the stuff about the rape of Nanking and how the Japanese behaved in Manchuria, where this scarred guy saved his buddy. Fact is, both of them are war criminals, and the chick was what, 15 or 16 when all these middle aged--hell, the doctor who bought her had to be 60--are bidding for her virginity.

I rate this movie... double ewww.

Poetry By Dythandra

A Road Trip

I see the ad online--Switchblade Symphony,
In concert, but too far away for a day trip.
I do have friends, messages fly
Our plans are made.

The parentals, choosing unwisely,
Pick this time to make their stand.
Seems the school's been calling about me
Yet again.

I don't argue, so much as glare.
Still, they are insistent,
And needing cash more than permission
I am marched into "counselling".

I recognize the counsellor,
She's tried to break through before
I am resistant, but she holds my travel plans
Unwittingly, within her power.

I see her family photos, smiling--so... traditional,
Not that her... orientation matters;
I see such tastes as fluid and evolving
And so it begins.

"I'm ugly--no one wants me," I complain.

No dear, you're really very lovely,
Under all that white makeup...

And so our exchanges go--
I've already scripted my part,
And the mini-recorder is easy to hide.

I spend a day editing;
The results are better than I had hoped.

I call her direct line--she sounds so... ill-prepared
I just play the recording of her words
If their sentiment were real
I might even blush.

She tells my parents what they need to hear,
And my trip is justly my reward.
Unfortunately one of my compatriots,
Is not a worthy travel companion.

You've never really tasted blood, have you?
Your own doesn't count.

I could lie, but why rise to her bait?
"Poser" is such a cruel word.

Our discount hotel is not so careful
About locking up their kitchen knives at night
A large one finds its way up to our room.

She wakes to find me sitting, crosslegged
Beside her on the bed,
Fingering the blade, humming.

"I just dreamed your blood tasted... salty"

She's gone by breakfast time.
Luckily for her,
'Twas only her ticket that was scalped.

A class act

It's been less than two weeks since I emailed Carrie Fleming, a former student, after finding her email address online. I asked if she were in town sometime if she'd come visit my acting class. Today she did.

It's strange to think she was 15 when she was in my class and also the first musical I ever directed--that was 16 years ago. Now she's got a long and interesting list of performance credits in film, t.v. and commercials. It was fun to listen to some of the stories of things that she's experienced and learned.

Recently she was featured in the "Masters of Horror" cable series starring in an episode directed by Dario Argento. "Suspiria" is probably this italian director's best known movie. She also told us about recently being sent a script by a director I won't reveal here, but I guarantee you know the name.

Afterwards, it was nice to catch up over a drink and I think we'll have her back again before long, perhaps to do some audition practice with some of the group. Here's a pic of Carrie with Ashley and Rachel (who were most impressed by the fact she was in an episode of L-word, I suspect):














It was a cool afternoon, all round.

The Cynical Career Counsellor Explains Your Future in

Daycare

Daycare, huh? Let me guess--babysitting is the only job you've ever done? Really? Okay then, it will probably go something like this:

You'll go to college for four years to get your degree in Eary Childhood Education--even though you might not want to teach preschool, you'll need the qualification anyway. It won't really be that demanding--it's one of the few university degrees where finger painting isn't just a metaphor, but actually on your transcript.

Once you graduate you'll go to work for some licensed daycare facility. The only difference between licensed and unlicensed is that yours gets inspected once a year and you actually have to pay taxes on your income.

Your dating life will suck. As the junior person, you get the early 6 a.m. start that nobody else wants, which means you don't have many late nights, and when you do go out and meet guys, they're turned off by your job. Face it, guys in their early 20s don't want to think about kids and they assume since kids are your chosen career you're just itching to start a big family. Plus, when some jock tells you how he broke his ankle hang-gliding, he doesn't want to hear the patronizing first person plural comfort ("we got a boo-boo on our ankie") that you offer instinctively.

You barely eke out a living, and it irks you that a kindergarten teacher with similar years of college training earns twice what you do and has full benefits. Fortunately, your employer likes you and offers you the chance to buy into the day care, so as part owner you can begin to improve your financial picture. Unfortunately, you aren't aware that your afternoon relief, her son, has an inappropriate interest in some of the young clients of the daycare and when the lawsuit and criminal investigations happen, you escape charges, but your personal share of the liability cost, as one of the owners, forces you into bankruptcy.

You try to rebuild your career, but your references--you worked the last four years for a daycare that is infamous due to the publicity around the scandal, and you have a bankruptcy that makes people wary as well--simply make it impossible for you to be hired by any daycare in the area. Finally, you turn to one of those job placement services for the truly desperate, and they place you as an au pair with a wealthy family in another city.

Unlike most other live-in nannies, you are not looking for a way past immigration restrictions, but you suffer the indignity of a pathetic wage just the same. You realize how your employers view you when they keep forgetting and slipping into spanish to give you instructions. The wife insists you do all manner of menial labor that means you have little or no free time for yourself, and when she's not around to nag you about dusting, the husband is creeping you out with his inappropriate advances.

Eventually he goes one step beyond what even your virtually nonexistent self-esteem will tolerate and you quit. You go to the same lawyer that handled the class action suit against your former daycare, but before you get to trial, you are shown a video of the rich couple's maid explaining tearfully how she caught you stealing from them and you threatened to kill her if she exposed you. You remember that she had been a successful actress in her home country before the revolution and it comes in handy when she sobs her suspicions that you have a serious drug problem.

Your lawyer advises you to take the offered settlement and forget about court. It isn't what you deserve, but it's enough for you to make a down payment on a big old house in a bad neighborhood, where you open a group home for foster kids. A steady stream of deeply troubled kids move through the home, and you soon have spent a fortune on padlocks and smoke detect0rs.

One of these troubled teens will be responsible for your untimely death--either the abuse victim whose anger at authority finally gets out of control, or pyromaniac who found where you hide the matches. Either way, your next of kin will hear the words "beyond recognition" uttered at your inquest.

Hey--might be a good idea to make sure your dental records are up to date.