Hateful Things

Another list, à la Sei Shonagon's Pillow Book.

Hateful People

• The co-worker who usurps my project and pretends it was hers all along.
• People who lie to deliberately hurt others.
• People who are condescending to those of lesser age, status, or title.
• People who are conniving.
• People who take out their anger on others.
• The insecure "man" who ameliorates his own shortcomings by "proving" how inadequate his soon-to-be-ex- date is.
• People who hold double standards.

Palate vs. Palette vs. Pallet

More spelling confusion that drives me nuts. I can't count how many times I've seen people refer to food that pleases the "palette." I doubt they're talking about painting with chocolate and spaghetti sauce, so here's a quick rundown on these confusing homophones and how to remember which is which.

• The palate is the roof of your mouth, or your sense of taste. So mint tea might be pleasing to your palate, but if it's too hot it might burn your palate.
• A palette refers to the range of color a painter uses as well as the actual board that holds the paint. Van Gogh held a palette of paint and painted the sky in a palette of blues and purples.
• A pallet is a flat wood or plastic platform used at warehouses to hold items for moving and storage. Today I put 27 boxes on a pallet and shrinkwrapped it.

Now, how do you keep these straight?

• Your pal ate chocolate and his palate was pleased.
• Monet held a palette and painted a brunette with a rosette.
• If you take a mallet to that pallet, your wallet will pay.

Got it? Good. I'm going to load up a pallet of palettes now, which certainly won't please my palate.

Paul Chatem, Artist Extraordinaire

A few months ago I saw a show of Paul Chatem's art and I can't get it out of my head. He does a lot of kinetic pieces, gears that rotate with the observer's hand, so it's participatory as well. But I would love his work even without the moving parts. The scenes Chatem paints look like they could have been found in rusty metal boxes dug up out of mud—and I mean that in the most positive way. They're dark and droopy, in dusty browns, reds, ochres, and blues... Dystopian vintage industrial worlds with bodacious bombshells and cigar-puffing bankers... Rubber-limbed people with four eyes, lizard tongues, bird beaks and twiggy fingers. Pure awesomeness—and another thing to save my money for.

Watch the video below and check out his website, http://www.paulchatem.com/.

Barack Obama, Nobel Laureate

Like most (I think?) people, I think it's very odd that the Nobel committee chose Barack Obama as this year's recipient of the Nobel Peace Prize. At the time of the February 1 nomination deadline, Obama had only been in office 12 days; and at the time of the award, just nine months. The Nobel Peace Prize website states, "According to Nobel's will, the Peace Prize is to go to whoever 'shall have done the most or the best work for fraternity between nations, for the abolition or reduction of standing armies and for the holding and promotion of peace congresses.'" So do they really think Obama has done the most or the best?

Obviously, the committee is using this year's award to make a statement. They're telling Obama he's on the right track. They're telling America that we did the right thing by electing a head of state who cares about the rest of the world. And most importantly, they're snubbing Bush and his eight years of cowboy politics. But is this what Alfred Nobel would have wanted? Does this kind of choice satisfy his intentions?

I think not. By choosing to make a statement rather than choosing someone who earned the prize, the committee has made itself a nonobjective political participant. They have tarnished their reputation and made themselves and the award a joke. They have snubbed the people who have worked toward peace for many years and actually deserve recognition; and I would venture to say that they even snubbed Nobel himself.

Wedding

Friday Fiction, courtesy of The One-Minute Writer: Write a brief bit of fiction, with a wedding as the setting.

Ella had tired of always being the bridesmaid, but never the bride. Always pumping up her friends, telling them how beautiful they were, how lucky they were and what a great day it was, despite the tacky dress she was inevitably sentenced to.

Fuck that shit. Ella was just as deserving, and now it was her turn. Her favorite cake, chocolate with raspberry filling and buttercream frosting, was topped with miniature sugar doves and sitting on her grandmother's silver cake pedestal. In the back yard, the pathway to the big rock by the koi pond was strewn with lilacs and lined with candles. Ravi Shankar's sitar strummed in the background. She wore a giant calla lilly in her hair, and the mahogany satin strappy chemise that complemented her sun-kissed limbs.

Ella walked the stone path and knelt on the silk pillow on the big rock. The sun was just setting and cast its rosy glow over Ella, the orange-spotted koi, and her two white cats who sat in perfect attendance on either side. She read a poem by Rumi and a sonnet by Shakespeare, and then her vows.

"I, Ella, do hereby take myself, to be my greatest love and ally–to comfort, honor and keep, in sickness and in health, for richer, for poorer, for better, for worse, in sadness and in joy, to cherish and continually bestow upon myself my heart’s deepest devotion, as long as I shall live."

First Dance

I've been listening to a lot of "old" music lately—that is, music from my youth, which would be the 1970s and '80s. Some of it is stuff I never would have considered purchasing because I wasn't a big fan of the band—Boston, for example, the Eagles, Queen... or because I considered it more my parents' music than mine—like Cat Stevens, Jethro Tull, Simon and Garfunkel. But now that I'm quite a bit older I'm enjoying these strolls down memory lane. "Running With the Devil" by Van Halen always reminds me of hanging out in the auditorium during lunch in junior high, when we were allowed free reign of the record player. "Cat Scratch Fever" and "In the Air Tonight" (Ted Nugent and Phil Collins) remind me of my sister playing them over and over and over again (on cassette tapes!) on our driving trip up to Victoria, B.C.

And then there are the songs that remind me of school dances. Foreigner's "Waiting for a Girl Like You," REO Speedwagon's "Keep on Loving You" and Journey's "Open Arms." Ahh, the sappiness, the hormones, the innocence...

I remember my mom dropping my best friend and me off in front of the gym. I wore wide-legged cords with a skinny metallic belt and a shirt that didn't reveal my scrawny arms, and I carried a big denim clutch. This being most seventh-graders' first school dance, most of us stood around the perimeter, eager and scared. I certainly didn't have the guts to ask a guy to dance, but would a guy ask me? And if he did, what should I do? Our P.E. teachers had prepped us with some social dancing lessons, but I didn't see waltzing or square dancing as a realistic or "cool" move.

I don't remember what song played for my first dance, but I do remember the boy. Well, sort of—it was either Doug or Jason, who were cute, popular twins in my class. I couldn't believe D/J asked me to dance. I think I even said "no" at first (dumbass) because I was so nervous. But my friends encouraged me, and I did. I followed suit of the other kids on the dance floor and put my left hand on his right shoulder and my right hand on his left shoulder. His hands were on my hips. We swayed side to side, bodies arm's length apart. I don't remember having any conversation during the dance, and probably was even too nervous to make eye contact. It was the first time any boy had touched me like that (as opposed to punching, for example) and I didn't know how to handle it at all.

Do schools even have dances any more? If they do, I imagine the age of innocence has already passed. How sad.

An Evening With Margaret Atwood

Tonight I saw Margaret Atwood read and sing (yes, sing!) from her new book, The Year of the Flood. She was great—very smart and well-spoken, of course, but also very funny. She's not the greatest singer, but I loved that she got up there and did it.

The story follows three characters in the near future, after a plague has wiped out most other humans. By this time, religion has become nature-centered, with hymns about moles and holidays in honor of nutritionists. Genetic experiments have resulted in new life forms, such as the Mo'hair sheep with human hair, to be used for hair transplants (the only downside, Atwood quipped, was that the wet Mo'hair smells like mutton). Government is more corrupt than ever, owning everything with giant corporations.

The story sounds intriguing and I'm sure I'm going to love this book; and will enjoy hearing Atwood's voice as I read, hymns included.

My Favorite Poem

This is my favorite poem. Someday I'm going to get it tattooed on my back.

A waterbird
Seems as the water's top
Seen from afar
I, too, drift along
On my way through the world.

水鳥を
水の上とや
よそに見む
我もうきたる
世を過しつ

Murasaki Shikibu 紫 式部

Freedom From Religion

So many conflicts among Americans these days come down to religion. It's fine when a concept is universally accepted—for example, we pretty much all agree that murder is wrong and should be against the law. However, there are many issues left up to voters that aren't so black and white—capital punishment, abortion and gay marriage, to name a few.

Unfortunately, most people are not philosophical thinkers, so in many instances, which side of an issue a person takes comes down to his or her religious beliefs—beliefs that they think everyone should share. I find this disturbing, especially in a country that was founded by people who called for separation of church and state and freedom from religious persecution. And it's ironic that the religious right is largely Republican, a group that complains that there's already too much governmental interference and power.

I am a big fan of the Freedom From Religion Foundation, a freethought organization that "works to educate the public on matters relating to nontheism, and to promote the constitutional principle of separation between church and state." I wish everyone would really think about these concepts before selfishly casting votes that hurt others.

Fire and Ice

Friday Fiction, courtesy of The One-Minute Writer: Write a brief bit of fiction involving fire and/or ice.

Vikki was totally pumped. It was her two-year anniversary with Rocco, and to celebrate, he got a pair of tickets—third row seats—to her favorite singer, Pat Benatar!! Of course, for such a special night, Vikki was primped to impress. She made a black spandex bodysuit with a red criss-crossed lace-up back and front, just like her idol wore. With it, she was wearing her favorite pair of red spike-heel ankle boots—the ones with the fringe on the back—and a matching cropped red jacket with a line of fringe cutting across her back. And now, she applied the finishing touches: black liquid eyeliner, top and bottom, cobalt shadow, fuschia blush, ruby lipstick, and a well-distributed layer of Aqua Net that would surely hold her teased and spiked hair in place the whole night.

Vikki and Rocco were the hottest couple at the concert, and Vikki could tell that all the other girls were jealous; who wouldn't be? Rocco was hot—and Vikki had a hard time keeping her hands off his red leather pants—the same ones Mike Reno from Loverboy wore on their latest album cover. Plus, he was the singer in a rock band and with his good looks and rare talent, they were on the verge of being famous—even more famous than Loverboy!

Pat sang all of Vikki's favorite songs—"Heartbreaker," "Hell Is for Children," "Hit Me With Your Best Shot." With each song, the frantic excitement between Vikki and Rocco built 'til they thought they'd explode like Vesuvius and Krakatoa. Sweat dripped from Rocco's forehead as he thrust his fist in the air. Vikki was on the verge of crying and belted out the lyrics with equal lust. They were riding the crest of supreme ecstasy—or so they thought—until Pat played Vikki and Rocco's song, "Fire and Ice."

Vikki couldn't take it anymore. She jumped on Rocco, legs wrapped around his waist, his hands holding her up by her derriere. Lips locked and tongues intertwined, they gyrated to the lyrics, "You're givin' me the fever tonight," "Fire and ice, you come on like a flame," "Movin' in for the kill tonight," until suddenly, Rocco turned into a giant ice cube and Vikki burst into flames. The crowd around them was so into the show that they thought it was all part of the act, and sadly, did not do anything to try to save the doomed couple. Within two minutes, all that was left was a big puddle and a few pieces of red leather fringe.

Lose vs. Loose

Spelling rant! This drives me nuts—I see loose being used so often in place of lose, it seems like no one knows lose anymore. So here's how you can differentiate between the two and remember when to use which.

Lose is a verb. It rhymes with ooze and shoes. The past tense is lost. Would you ever spell lost as loost? No (because then that would rhyme with roost). Just switch the "e" for a "t" and you're set; no need to mess with the "o"s.

Loose is an adjective that rhymes with moose and goose. Would you ever spell them as mose or gose? Nope. But you can change loose to become looser and loosest.

If you need a visual, imagine you've got a pair of size 20 jeans that fit perfectly. You are the letter "o". If you lose weight so you are the size of one "o," two of you—two "o"s—will be able to fit in the jeans because they are loose. Get it? Lose weight and the jeans will be loose. I lost weight, so the jeans are loose.

Now I am going to go lose myself in a good book about a loose moose.