Pretty standard Thursday morning

NRP sleeps on the job

Ninja Rocket Potter (NRP) sleeping on my old desk.  If I could have done this all day, I might have stayed in that goddam miserable job.  Screw being a highly-paid travel writer — sleeping on a desk is my new dream job for sure.

What does it really mean to Occupy Wall Street? According to Webster’s first definition, occupying requires force. So what does it mean when #OWS claims to be a peaceful occupation? Is that even possible? Surely the instigators of the protest knew what it meant to call themselves “occupiers.” They must have intended to summon images of armies residing in foreign lands, with no end in sight. Do they themselves feel like an army? 

(I'm quitting Bank of America next week)

Yet definitions #2, #3, #4, and #5 paint a different picture. The occupiers chose empty spaces and used their free time to live there. They need to act, to keep busy, to feel that they are exercising their rights, demanding attention from the powers that be. In their collective strength, they have gotten as close as most of them possibly can to holding office.

At Occupy Wall Street, they have no power supplies to run a microphone and amp, so they make do with what they have: people. They use a “human microphone,” defined by the Urban Dictionary as:

A tactic protesters can use to circumvent police bans on electronic amplification of speech. One person starts to speak to a large crowd. After a short sentence, everyone within hearing distance repeats whatever was said at the top of their lungs, allowing people outside of hearing distance to hear the speech.

The Human Microphone on Wall Street announced this speech:

“Mic Check.”
“MIC CHECK!!”
“The human microphone is slow and cumbersome”
“THE HUMAN MICROPHONE IS SLOW AND CUMBERSOME!!”
“but it really makes you think through”
“BUT IT REALLY MAKES YOU THINK THROUGH”
“what it is you want”
“WHAT IT IS YOU WANT!!”
“to say.”
“TO SAY!!”

I hope #OWS settles on something collective to say. My two favorite potential demands are (1) forgiveness of all loans held by any banks that got bailed out and (2) serious campaign finance reform, including the overturning of the Citizens United ruling. Short of making demands, I believe the great hope of the Occupy movement lies in individual action by people whose eyes are opened by #OWS’s grand gesture. I, for one, am leaving Bank of America this week.

What will happen next? “Occupy” comes from the Old French “capere,” meaning to take or seize. Its closest modern English relative is “capable.” My ninth-grade English teacher would imbue that with all kinds of meaning. It makes me wish we lived in a society where being capable wasn’t predicated on being willing to simply take what you want.

Be careful out there, cops and occupiers.

Monika Lind is a baller

I should buy my boyfriend Scrabble Cheesez-Its more often…

Corrections and retractions 11/8/11 11:07PM: IT’S SPELLED CHEEZ-ITS, NOT CHEESE-ITS, YOU FOOL.

When I lived in Italy for a summer, I learned many things.  Once, in conversation with my angelic host mother, I was trying to explain that I was born via caesarian section because I was coming out butt first.  I had nearly exhausted my vocabulary struggling to express “breech birth” when she finally had her “Aha!” moment.

“Di culetto!”

I looked at her incredulously.  ”Di culetto? Come culo?”  As in butt?

“Si, come piccolo culo.”  Yes, like little butt.  God bless the Italians, if you’re coming out breech, the doctor calls it “of the little butt.”  Or buttlet, if you will.

So “di culetto” is how I first wished to greet the world.  And when I feel that way now in my adult life, invariably I end up here, posting on my grown-up blog.

I’m back, y’all.

Di culetto,
MonnyBon

Do not come here and expect to thrive if you don’t immediately understand that the air is electric, the land haunted by pre-human phantoms, that the occult and the pentecostal are indigenous species.

By a writer who commands the hearts of all readers.

I laughed my ass of at her comment, because YES DEAR GOD, it does feel like your face is being eaten.  Or rather: like your partner is attempting to empty your skull by scooping out its contents with his tongue.  Gross, right?  Let’s take a look at the most famous kiss of all time to illustrate our point. 

OH HELL YES,

AM I RIGHT?! LIKE, NICE WORK SAILOR!

Good hand placement, excellent dip, gotta love the spontaneity.  And the uniform… oh my.

On closer inspection, however, our naval friend is running the risk of inflicting some serious kissing claustrophobia and excessive compression on this nice lady with the hot legs.

The real x-factor here is what his tongue is doing in there.  And how long he holds that pose.  An initial forceful impact is fine, as is full-body contact head to toe.  It’s when the face-sucking is prolonged with no variation that we get into trouble.  For the love of God, use your whole mouth!  Nibble on her bottom lip!  Kiss her with your lips not just your tongue!  Man, I’m getting nervous for that nurse.  If this goes on for too long, she is going to feel like… how to put this…

In our next installment of “NomNomNomNomNom,” we will discuss the “slobbery dog kiss” and the “washing machine.”  If you want to get ahead of the rest of the class, go see “The Room” (http://www.theroommovie.com/) and study the technique there.

And this was not a one-way road!  Homeboys flirted back.  They teased, they touched, they paid special attention to me.  One of these dudes reached out and tucked a piece of my hair behind my ear, brushing my cheek as he told me how “sweet” I was.  Another played the most egregious game of footsie with me in the history of the world… during an exam!  Months into our burgeoning flirtation, however, I would find out that my crush had a girlfriend.  Something he had conveniently forgotten to mention.  I never quite knew how to cope with that news.

Last year, I found out there’s something worse than having a crush on a Guy with a Girlfriend: actually being the Girlfriend.  Now I’m not one to rush into the boyfriend-girlfriend label.  I recently heard an unmarried dude refer to his girlfriend as his “better half,” and I almost threw up.  We are young, there’s no need to get carried away.

But!  For the love of God, if you have a girlfriend, just fucking own it.  Don’t act like you somehow got tricked into it.  Don’t act like getting laid regularly is SUCH A STRUGGLE… God, I mean, being in a relationship is SO HARD, right?!  Ugh, spare me the drama, guys.  If you feel like your girl is cramping your style, then you should be single.  Wavering is the worst.  As we learned in “It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia,” Season 1, Episode 2 (“Charlie Wants An Abortion”), it’s the one who straddles the fence who gets drilled with the most projectiles.

What if Jesus was aborted?

Given my track record over the last five years, I harbor pretty fierce animosity towards Guys with Girlfriends.  Seriously guys, STOP BEING SUCH ASSHOLES.  Okay.  Phew.  Deep breaths, Lind.  Aaaaaand I’m back.

You know what brings me back most reliably?  Hanging out with the dudes I went to college with.  The beautiful thing about those guys is that they are either single, or they are Boyfriends.  None of this Guys with (secret, unappreciated) Girlfriends bullshit.  The Boyfriends know having a girlfriend is fun, not a chore, and it comes across in their behavior.  The single guys flirt shamelessly and yet somehow… respectfully.  What’s more, single or Boyfriend, they always know how to make me laugh.

You guys are the best – thanks for that.

We tiptoed in as the last trailer ended and took our seats in the second row.  The lights dimmed all the way down as the Arclight logo lit up the screen.  I leaned forward excitedly as the long swoop down over the Disney castle began, accompanied by the familiar melody (“When You Wish Upon A Star” from Pinocchio).  Then, as the words “Walt Disney” looped in cursive across the bottom of the screen, this fantastic thing happened: the audience erupted.  Not just applauding – whooping and shouting and whistling!

I got chills, and not for the first time that night.  When I first arrived at the theater before the movie, the parking lot was predictably full.  My first date with my ex-boyfriend started with a shared flask of bourbon on top of that parking structure, and I really did not want to park up there last night.  But I didn’t have a choice.  As I prowled the rows looking for a spot, a particularly epic song blasted from my radio: “Kings and Queens” by 30 Seconds to Mars.  That song is shameless.  I mean, it literally starts with a falcon’s cry.  And it is wildly popular.  I pulled into a parking spot just as the chorus of voices blasted the final refrain.

Now all of you know that the top floor of a parking garage has a special power over me, so when you add to that the residual grief of remembering my first date with my ex-boyfriend, then add the most epic song on the radio right now…  Again, with the chills.

It’s tricky, though.  It used to be that when a work of art gave me chills, I felt connected to the artist.  The artist’s effort proved to me that someone else out there was striving and seeking the way that I was.  That changed when I got my heart broken by a guy whose art I loved so much that I thought I could love him forever.  Turns out that the artist doesn’t always live up to the art.  A wall went up between me and the movies and music I love.  I didn’t know how to trust them like I used to.

I’ve felt set adrift by my newfound mistrust of artists, but I think my Friday night at the Arclight has given me something new to hang onto.  When a Top 40 radio station blasts an epic, earnest song, or a Disney 2D animated movie plays to a packed house, I find reassurance in the size of the audience.  Audiences show up in droves for fearless, shameless, unapologetic work.  I love what that says about people.  That gives me hope.

If you’re like me, Wednesday is a big TV night for you, what with So You Think You Can Dance announcing results and the Glee kids singing their well-rounded asses off.  (Also: Modern Family!  I gotta set my DVR to record that “Incident.”)  So I was sitting on the couch last night, and my Brilliant Darling Roommate (BDR) was sitting at her desk, and we were watching SYTYCD.  The Seroquel XR commercial came on, and I reached for the remote to fast-forward through the ads to yet another shining moment with SYTYCD host Cat Deeley.

My BDR called out, “Whoa whoa whoa, pause for a second!”  I paused the TV on this frame:

She laughed and suggested that I take a look at my own posture.  “We’re watching a depression commercial about blending into the background, and you’re sitting on the couch wrapped in a plaid blanket.”  My BDR was right – my head was lolling just so, a plaid blanket wrapped completely around me, merging me with the couch.

“Now if only I had a 6-year-old boy on the floor next to me coloring!” I joked.  My BDR turned from her Photoshop work to look at me.  “Are you serious?”  I noticed her tracing paper and drawing pad.  She had her stencil in hand and fabric swatches arrayed on her desk.  Turns out she has actually gotten really good at coloring her sketches in Photoshop.  The coincidence was complete!  I had admitted a few days before that I was fighting depression, so this was a perfectly timed illustration.

What is there to say about depression?  I have no formal training in psychiatry (aside from Psych 101, which was my only 8AM class in college – you can guess how much I retained), so I think it’s best to stick to my personal experience…

Depression sucks.

I can’t enjoy any of the things I usually love, getting out of bed every morning exhausts me all over again, and delicious food tastes like sawdust in my mouth.  My mind attacks me, I am a terrible friend to myself.

Depression commercials, on the other hand, are awesome.  As silly as they may seem to folks who have never suffered from depression, they usually get it right.  As does Anne Lamott, writer of Bird by Bird, when she says:

“To be engrossed by something outside ourselves is a powerful antidote for the rational mind, the mind that so frequently has its head up its own ass – seeing things in such a narrow and darkly narcissistic way that it presents a colo-rectal theology, offering hope to no one.”

There is always hope.  (In the juice aisle.)