TwoBusy

A fish tail and a hockey mask

It probably goes without saying, but I'll say it anyway: I have twin 3-year old girls, which means that I've seen The Little Mermaid more times than is probably healthy for an adult male. At least once a week - every week - as we make the evening drive from the girls' daycare center to TheHurricane's after-school program, one girl or another will suddenly chime out, "Daddy, can we see the Ariel movie when we get home? Do you know that movie? I loooooove that movie. Can we see it? Please? Pleeeeeeeease?"

At which point, I drive into a tree pray for the sweet release of death swear vengeance on all mermaids, whether in this life... or the next tell my sweet darlings, "Of course. Anything for you."

Then we get home, I spend a few minutes firing up my reason for living and loading up the DVD player, and finally the girls (and, on occasion, TheHurricane) are free to lose themselves in the underwater hell wonderworld beneath the seas that is the nightmare majesty of The Little Mermaid. Hooray. (At least, until dinner is ready/Mommy comes home. Then the screaming begins.)

The point of all this is that I've had FAR too much time to contemplate this film, and upon watching it for the 500th(?) time last week... something occurred to me. Something devious and brilliant that the Disney corporate overmind buried in the film as subtext — and that I was too stupid to pick up on until that moment.

The title character of The Little Mermaid is, like so many Disney protagonists, an impossibly pure young girl launched into a world of magic, romance and adventure. Despite the etymology of her name, Ariel is the picture of idyllic youth in mermaid form — beautiful, bright-eyed, given to mischief and mild rebellion but at heart as good and immaculate as any heart might be. And despite her little purple bikini top (apparently standard apparel among merwomen) and entreaties that "I'm 16 years old — I'm not a child any more!" (enough to send a shudder down the spine of any father) she is clearly intended to serve as a symbol of virginal innocence. Even her romance and eventual marriage to the prince of her dreams (the  soap opera-handsome Eric) is cloaked in virginal innocence... as far as we can see on-screen, the two of them never actually kiss until they are married and forever bound before the eyes of God, real & symbolic parents, talking crabs and various servants and underlings.

Now, all of this - in and of itself - is nothing remotely unusual for a Disney film. Their animated heroines tend to fall very neatly into the same archetype (think: Cinderella, Snow White, Beauty, whatshername from Aladdin, Wendy from Peter Pan, Pocahontas, etc.)... in short, stand-ins for the prepubescent girls who form such a powerhouse demographic core for these films. And really, thinking through the Disney canon, they're more or less emblematic of the animated Disney universe as a whole. Virginal heroines, brave-but-equally virginal heroes, kindly sidekicks and anthropomorphicized animals, candlesticks and magical whatevers... even the Disney villains, vile as they may be (and let me take a moment here to give a shout-out to Cruella DeVille, by far the greatest of all Disney villains in by far the greatest of all Disney films), are basically asexual. Not to belabor the obvious, but they're cartoons.

But. There is an exception. One villain who, for all intents and purposes, oozes sex. Ursula, the Sea Witch (read: bitch) and antithesis to the purity of the Disney/mermaid world. Granted, she's half-octopus, but her supple and rounded tentacles mirror her overall state of over-ripeness: she's big, she's bawdy, she's ballsy as hell, and she's constantly on the verge of falling out of the top of her... whatever the hell it is.

Don't get me wrong: I'm not saying that I've got the hots for Ursula. (As sad and desperate as my life might be right now... I'm not that desperate.) But there's no denying that Disney's animators built her as something saturated with sex. Her showcase song features her wiggling, undulating, shimmying and shaking her moneymaker for all she's worth — and making a dead clear recommendation to Ariel to use sex appeal ("body language") to land Prince Eric and make him hers once and for all. Factor in two blatantly phallic moray eels as evil henchmen... and you've got a pretty clear picture of what Ursula is meant to represent.

All of which makes the movie's big finale that much more disturbing. Not the fact that good wins, evil loses, and Ariel and Eric end up sailing into the sunset, headed off to their happily ever after. No, what I'm talking about is the end of the final fight between good and evil. At that point, Ariel and Eric have established their platonic love for one another, but Ursula has literally come between them — growing to skyscraper proportions as she takes control of the sea (she is a sea witch, after all) and tries to kill them both; Ariel dodging magic bullets at the bottom of the ocean while Eric is trapped on board a once-sunken ship, now brought to the surface by Ursula's magic.

Blah blah blah. The important thing here is this: while Ursula is distracted by her murderous rage, Eric takes control of the ship, and steers it toward Ursula. Who does not see the ship coming at her, until the very last minute. When its large, broken prow thrusts powerfully up into the air... and penetrates Ursula. And ultimately killing her.

Taking into account that The Little Mermaid was released in 1989, I think it's fair to say that the Disney overmind was not immune to the cultural mores of the time — nor how antiquated their virginal undersea universe might appear to their audience(s). So what did they do? How did they create a validation-via-subtext for the conception of this immaculate waterworld? Simple: they borrowed the central moral message of one of the era's other cinematic touchstones... and created a world wherein, much like at Camp Crystal Lake in the series of Friday the 13th movies, sex = death. Where virtue is rewarded with survival... and the wages of sin, of flesh and desire, is an early and violently-met grave.

Bravo, Disney. Bravo.

On a very special episode...

Actually, I'm lying. There's nothing remotely special about this. And yet... here we are.

(crickets)

So: as many of you kindly inquired... The interview! Forgive me if this is redundant (which it is to at least a few of you), but what happened is:

I had a phone interview with this company's HR Dept about 3 weeks ago, which went swimmingly and apparently sold me enough as a candidate to propel me forward to the face-to-face-with-important-people step of the process. Of course, the problem with meeting with important people is that they usually have much better things to do than meet with jackasses like me — hence, the 3-week window between the phone thing and the coming-in-to-the-office-in-a-suit thing.

Which is fine. I get it. So: I basically spent most of last week in something of a frenzy, working myself up into a fine frothy froth (which is the best kind) as I tried to prep myself on the company, their specialty area (because, you know, there are lots of ways to club seals — and to think otherwise would be to grossly oversimplify a really dynamic and diverse field), and how I might actually be a reasonable fit for their needs. By the time Friday morning rolled around, I was on the verge of a minor anxiety attack. Hooray! Nevertheless, I showered, shaved (I'm unemployed, remember -- so shaving is a big deal), suited and prepared myself for action.

The meeting was scheduled for 11:30am, which was a recent change — they'd e-mailed me the day before to reschedule from 10:30. Which, obviously, was not an issue: "No, I'm sorry... that would interfere with THE ABJECT NOTHINGNESS THAT IS MY WEEKDAY LIFE." But between my own nervousness, my anxiety, the long wait for this meeting and the recent time-change... I found myself checking my e-mail every five minutes. Just to twist myself into even tighter knots than I'd already twisted myself into.

So. 10am rolled around, and I was ready to get the show on the road. I started my car to let it warm up (it was probably 20 degrees, so pre-warming was a requirement) and told TheWife we'd be on our way soon.

(Oh, right: forgot to mention. TheWife had a Dr. appointment that morning, so we'd decided to drive into the city together -- her for work, me for my interview. Alright? Alright.)

I checked my suit: yes, the fly was zipped. I checked my resume/seal clubbing samples stuff: yes, it was packed and ready to go. I checked my hair in the mirror: yes, it was spectacular. I threw a couple of pieces of Ice Breakers Ice Cubes gum - now with xylitol! - in my mouth to ensure maximum minty freshness, and as TheWife got on her phone for a quick work call, I walked to the other side of the house to check my e-mail one last time.

It was 10:12am as I clicked on my mouse, and hit the friendly little "Get Mail" icon. The little wheel twirled and twirled, and suddenly a new message popped up.

SUBJECT: TODAY

MESSAGE: Hi, how are you?

I'm sorry to do this, but we are going to have to reschedule your meeting. It turns out that our (bigwig) is out, and he is the key person you need to meet with.

I hope you get this in time, as I can't find your phone number and only have your e-mail address. I'll be in touch to reschedule soon.

Best,
Nice HR Woman.

It was at this point that my head exploded. And I'll just take a second here to share how much TheWife - who was on the phone with her CTO at that particular moment - appreciated it when her conversation was overwhelmed by the sound of my voice booming from the far side of the house: "OH. MY. FUCKING. GOD."

And there you have it. A painfully long account of how nothing actually happened and I have nothing interesting to say. Thanks for stopping by!

(ducking away from rocks and garbage)

Broken

11 songs for when the world falls apart.

1. I Don't Have Anything — Vast
The perfect soundtrack for a life left buried in splintered glass and unfulfilled promise. Clinical depression as love song, if you will, and one that effortlessly calls to mind the epic, soaring helplessness of a world where you can only dream of a cure, a solution, a release that will "make the sky turn blue again." 

2. Cut It Away — Jackson Browne
Look beyond the cheesy 80s synths at the beginning of this track from Lawyers in Love and you'll discover perhaps the most raw and anguished song Jackson Browne ever recorded. And I say this as a huge fan of Late For The Sky and its suite of haunting music — but this is a different animal altogether. Here, Browne cuts away (heh, heh) the metaphoric beauty of his earlier triumphs and creates, in its stead, something far more naked and arresting: a brutally honest (to the point of self-evisceration) analysis of a dying relationship. Listen to the edge in his voice - particularly in the last 1:30 or so of the song - and try not to be moved.

3. Breaking Apart — Chris Isaak
I'll admit it: I've always been a sucker for Chris Isaak. And I've always been baffled by the fact that he never became massively successful. The spiritual and musical heir to Roy Orbison, Isaak married a gorgeous voice, terrific songwriting ability and consistently strong recordings with a wicked, sardonic sense of humor (does anyone else remember The Chris Isaak Show? Anyone?) in a package far too ideal to be fair. He should've been huge. So what happened? He hit it medium-big with "Wicked Game" - a great song, granted - and then followed it up with lots of other great music that never went much of anywhere. Including this song, which is ripe with heartbreak, judicious use of steel guitar, and at least two separate occasions when Isaak rises into a quivering falsetto that forces you to close your eyes and absorb. Gorgeous.

4. A Little Rain — Tom Waits
Tom Waits - at his most tender - aches like few others do. There are lines from this song that have stuck in my head for years - years - and if the section about the girl doesn't put a catch in your breath... I just don't know what to tell you.

5. Birthday Girl — Trembling Blue Stars
"I'm hearing words... sad and clear, from nowhere." Yeah, that sounds about right. This is from the album Broken By Whispers, which also sounds about right. (Fun fact: the band was named in honor of the singer's nickname for his girlfriend's eyes. Who then became his ex-girlfriend. Even though she was still in the band. And this song is about her.)

6. Blue and Wonder — Richard Buckner
"What's that word? I forget sometimes... it's the one that means the love has left your eyes." Oh, yeah — we're on a roll now. Good times.

7. Kathleen — American Music Club
I can't remember if I've used this song before. If yes... forgive me. You'll need to turn the volume up for it, because it's mixed really low. But it's worth it, because it may be the most broken song of all.

8. Dirge — The Verlaines
A song true to its title, but be patient — at about 1:20 in, it transforms from a bass-heavy dirge into something grand and tragic and all the lovelier for it. The strings kill me every time. "No point in treading water..." perhaps, although the strings offer a pretty good rationale for doing so on their own.

9. I Was Wrong — The Dambuilders
If you've been lulled into a stupor, this one'll shock you back into consciousness. Guaranteed. Plus, it's got the rockin-est use of violin since The Wonder Stuff hung up their wonder stuff. So what if it's a gut-wrenching apology that becomes all the more gut-wrenching for the knowledge of just how futile that apology is? C'mon... we're having fun here!

10.Every Female Werewolf Ever, Listed Alphabetically By Crime — Soul Whirling Somewhere
Honestly, you could pick just about anything ever recorded by Soul Whirling Somewhere for this happy little mix, but how could I pass up a song featuring what may be - no, let's be clear: that must be - the greatest song title of all time?

11. Casa Mia — Idaho
Then again, this may be the most broken song of all. It's hard to tell, sometimes.

This Week in Unemployment (pre-Thanksgiving edition)

1. Big interview on Friday. Wish me luck.

2. Finished raking my f#*&ing yard on Monday, right before this week's brutal cold spell kicked in hard. Stupid maple trees. Not that I didn't enjoy gathering, stuffing and hauling to the dump 40+ giant bags worth of leaves, branches and other forms of air pollution, but if I needed another form of motivation to ensure that I never have this much free time again... well, I found it.

3. TheWife: "Do you think TheHurricane looks like Dexter?"
TwoBusy: (baffled) "...uh..."
TheWife: "I haven't decided yet if this is a good thing or a bad thing."

4. We went out last weekend! To see a movie! In a theater! Like real people! Unfortunately, we chose to see the new James Bond debacle, Quantum of Solace, which sucked on a level few movies have achieved sucking at before. D'you remember how much of a revelation Casino Royale was? How great it was to have a Bond that was a real character (rather than a caricature), with action that felt like real action (rather than CGI) and a plot that had real emotional weight and resonance? Apparently they decided that all of that stuff was irrelevant, and instead decided to create a sequel with a completely incomprehensible plot, a complete lack of interesting dialogue or character development, and a complete overdose on jump-cut editing to the point that - during most fight scenes - I honestly couldn't tell who was doing what to who.

I'll put it this way: half an hour before the movie ended, I found myself sitting in the theater hoping it was almost over. If that's not the definition of abject failure for a Bond movie... I don't know what is.

5. Speaking of Thanksgiving, what are you guys doing for the holiday? We're hosting dinner for 15 adults and kids. As of now, I'm responsible for producing:

• One large, tender and perfectly bronzed birdzilla (22-24 lbs)
• Boatloads of stuffing
• Gallons of rich, delicious (and probably Madeira-enhanced) gravy
• Roasted winter vegetables (I'm thinking butternut squash, yams and turnips)
• Sinless garlic mashed potatoes (no butter/cream -- just loads of garlic & olive oil)
• TheWife will also be producing some kind of homemade cranberry thing (also booze-enhanced)

6. Back to movies. We've been on an extremely dispiriting NetFlix run lately, with disappointments including the new Indiana Jones (sucked), The Foot Fist Way (really sucked), The Incredible Hulk (sucked), 10,000 BC (possibly the worst film ever made), Baby Mama (painfully bad), and Harold & Kumar at Guantanamo Bay (which, like Quantum of Solace, reversed all the goodwill generated by its predecessor). On the plus side: Once, which was sweet and well-deserving of the Oscar for best song, and Death at a Funeral, which had me laughing so hard I was in tears at least twice.

Anyone have any half-decent suggestions for me? I'm looking to avoid things that fall into the "suck" category, if that wasn't clear.

7. Finally, just because I can, I'm leaving you with a strange and haunting video of a song that's been going through my head for more than a week now. Hopefully it'll lodge in your skull much the same way it did mine. (Thanks to the fantastic Woman in a Window for the recommendation)

When life gives you lemons...

... you'd best learn to bite down and suck hard, because your chances of ending up with lemonade are slim and none.

(This lesson in socioeconomics has been brought to you by the letter F and the number U, and was made possible by a grant from the Consortium for the Bitterly Laid Off. Tune in next week for another exciting episode. No twins were harmed in the creation of this photography.)

The Tiger: A Play in One Act

(Dinner at Castle TwoBusy. The Hurricane and Rabbit have already decamped to greener pastures, leaving behind debris-strewn plates and cups crusty with Nestlé Quik residue. TheWife sits quietly in her chair, swirling a half-full (or is it half-empty?) glass of New Zealand Pinot Noir, pondering the day that was. TwoBusy is hunched over his place setting, his arm wrapped protectively around the front of his bowl, looking very much like a prisoner wary of a shanking. Butterfly sits happily on her chair, head bobbing from side to side to the rhythm of some unheard song, shoveling the last of the night's share of  Hallowe'en Skittles into her mouth.)

Butterfly (as she finishes tasting the rainbow): "I'm done!"

(She hops off her chair, then immediately bends over to pick something up. Two seconds later, her head pops back up above table level. In her hands, she holds Hamilton the stuffed tiger. She is holding him upside-down — his black t-shirt hangs loosely over his face, his tail droops over his back, and his legs stick straight up in the air.)

Butterfly (looking down at Hamilton's exposed flank): "Yuck! A butt!"

TwoBusy (suddenly coming thisclose to shooting beef stew out of his nose, bursts into hysterical, choking bursts of laughter): "Oh. My. God."

TheWife (looking warily over the top of her wine glass): "That would be your daughter."

(curtain)

Orange and White

One more place. One more memory.

6. Southern Maine — 2000
We are gathered here together, in the growing cool of this evening, to witness something spectacular. To fill our lungs with the salt on the breeze, the faint sweetness of sugars growing heavy in the leaves, the garlands of bright and brilliant flowers fading into periphery as you come into focus and walk down the aisle. White dress. Orange-red hair. The grass, green and lush beneath your feet. The sky shifting into deeper and deeper shades of blue.  Your lips are pursed, as if you are trying to hold back a smile.

Your father holds your hand, looking proud and proper. I follow his gaze, and see your mother — she is radiant with joy, eyes wide and smile wider. And then I look one step beyond, and see him seeing you: a man witnessing his bride in full bridal splendor, and helpless to do anything other than break into a great grin of pure, dumb happiness.

I have known you for a long time, and from the beginning I have known how you longed for someone to share your life with. (I get that. I've always gotten that. Which may be a reason why we became friends so quickly, and remained friends for so long.) And as I look at him standing there - rented tux, hair tied back, one hand holding the other steady - I think: and there he is. You created an archetype, sent out to central casting... and here, today, more than a decade later, he has arrived.

When you come to the front of the aisle, he takes your hands. Holds them for a minute. Smiles at you, and you smile back at him. Then you turn together toward the Reverend, and wait for him to begin speaking. In one hand, you hold a bouquet. In the other, you hold his hand. Two best friends, helping each other get through this thing in once piece.

(I can't stop smiling as I watch, and as I look around me I see that most of your friends have the same expression on their faces: This is wonderful.)

The Reverend speaks for a minute or two, and then says something to the effect of, "And now, a reading." And TheWife looks at me and squeezes my hand, and I mutter "showtime" and stand up and walk to the front.

I've never enjoyed speaking in front of groups, but when you'd asked me to do a reading for your wedding... well, hell: of course. And when you asked me to help you find the right thing - the very right thing, just for your wedding - I took it as a task of honor. I spent dozens of hours reading, and researching, and working for an answer. In the end, I offered you four choices. No titles, no attributions: just four options.

You read them all together. And in the end, you said, "This one is perfect. This is what we want to hear."  And I hemmed and hawed and tried to talk you out of it, because I was suddenly terribly embarrassed, because the one you chose was the one I wrote but didn't tell you I wrote, and never should have even offered, but there it was and you chose it without ever knowing what it was. So...

So.

So I walk to the front, until I'm standing where the Reverend had been standing.  The two of you, the wedding party behind you, then the seated guests fanning out behind... all pointed like an arrow directly at me. Bullseye. I take a deep breath, then look at you both. You look happy, and nervous. I flash you a quick smile, and ask, "How ya doin'?" You both laugh, and say good. I nod my head, unfold the sheet of paper I've been holding in my hand, and then begin reading.

I may only have one lifetime to get this right
so forgive me
if I stumble a bit, or if the words don’t flow the way they should
but at times I find myself lost in thought
and adrift in wonder
at the very idea of
a day like this
for someone like me.

It is a small life. I didn’t ask for more.
But when I thought of love
I thought of something weightless and wondrous
and quick, like a taste of honeysuckle on wind —
once angular, then soft,
warm and crystalline
brittle and alive with the tensile strength to bend steel
melt stone
or crush coal to diamonds.
I had no idea

that somewhere in a city brushed with emerald and
thick with rain
there could be a finer answer.

One that said “love” is not enough
but that deep between the pines and beyond the islands
there might be words
big enough to capture this
life
this bold hope
this breathless rush of blood and adrenaline
and suddenly all I can think is

of the Mississippi, a few years back
when in what seemed like a heartbeat
the twisting miles of surging, swirling
brown and blue motion tore free of
the levees, the dams,
rose beyond the breakwaters and victory gardens
to embrace a new world of earth and wood,
and with an exuberance and fury most
eyes had never seen
brought seascape to land that had never known the sea.

I think: I know how that feels.

I have found a river of my own,
bounded only by gardens of sound and light,
and the promise of you.
There is nothing to hold me back.

Let’s begin.

Then it is over. My heart is pounding wildly in my chest. I fold the paper in half, and look up.

You are crying. Happy crying.

And I am so happy for you.

Maybe I'm almost there

Another place. Another memory.

5. Outside Dublin, Ireland — 1994
Dusk. Maybe a bit afterwards. I am walking alone on a road, listening to the city bus as it pulls away from my stop. Moving on. It brushes past me, and for a moment I am illuminated by the soft fluorescent glow of its interior, a figure bathed in passing light diffused through flickering rhomboid frames. Then it is gone, and the growing darkness of the evening gathers around me like a blanket. I may be lost, but I am unworried. It is a comforting, strange feeling.

It is Ireland. And while I don't know this slice of the island as I know others — the streets and pubs of another city still feel fresh and real in my mind, a mental map rich with peet smoke and warm memories — I cannot feel concerned. Somewhere ahead of me is a hotel. (I think.) Inside of which is a large, black suitcase, which I have spent the better part of a week filling with treasures. Small things. Stones and baubles, fine cut glass and thick, woolly sweaters. In my hand, safely wrapped in a plastic bag, is another: the softest, most elegant and beautiful scarf in the entire country. I know, because I have looked. It will look perfect wrapped loosely around your neck, framing your pale face.

I am alone, and I am in love.

I walk slowly on the road, my hands pushed deeply into the pockets of my coat. I didn't remember being this cold here, at this time of year. Funny, the details that slip away. I imagine my hand in yours, and smile when I think of how cold you'd be — your arms pulled fast against your body, your hands clutched in fists clutched in gloves, your grip so tight on mine. I smile when I think of you here. I have so much I want to show you.

I imagine you, back in Boston. Sleeping, when I think of it. Evening near Dublin = dead of night in New England. Time becomes slippery, when oceans separate your mind and body. I wish myself there, you here, us together.

I do not suspect the growing doubts in your mind. The worries, and anxieties. That all of this is a happiness you do not feel you deserve. I imagine you only dreaming of me, warmed by thick blankets and the promise of my return. It is a wonderful thought. I smile again, and as the darkness grows around me I pick up my pace a bit. I am alone, but I think I know where I am going. I follow the road where it leads.

(post title swiped from here.)

Giving Good Gourd

They say it's one of the things that can keep a marriage healthy. In any case, hope you and yours had an appropriately spooky and sugar-saturated one...