Posts filed under ‘Love’

My First Kiss

Downtown Dallas in the background with the Tri...

Image via Wikipedia

You knew I had to get around to this tale sooner or later. Later is better than never. We were living in Nowhereville when I had my first kiss. However, my first kiss was not in Nowhereville. It would have been impossible for me to find a boy who was willing to kiss me.

I was cute enough, but I was something like a cross between an outcast and a pariah. Maybe that’s redundant. If you ever want to experience my early adolescence, rent Welcome to the Dollhouse from Netflix. That’s as close as you’re going to get to experiencing my junior high years. Thank God – now! Or knock on wood or something.

The summer between 7th and 8th grades my dad went job hunting in Texas. My parents always wanted to live in Texas. My mom wanted to attend the nursing school at Texas Women’s University in Denton, and they always liked Texas for some inexplicable reason. For the record, I always voted for Southern California, but no one cared what I wanted. Now I live in Texas, and my parents still live in Oklahoma. We don’t even have family there. Go figure.

So, we were driving all over hell. Who knew that Texas was so big? We literally drove all over hell, because it was the middle of the summer, and the car had no air conditioning. We spent time in Dallas and time in Houston, and it was hot as hell in either place. I honestly do not remember whether it was in Dallas or in Houston. What I do remember is that it happened in the motel swimming pool of a La Quinta Inn.

Why do I remember that it was a La Quinta? Well, for one thing, there was a Denny’s next door where we ate breakfast the next morning. And for a second thing, my father did not believe in (and we couldn’t afford) indulging in luxury when it came to accommodations. If we stayed somewhere other than a Motel 6 or a Super 8, then you can bet that I remembered it.

This may have been because on this trip I remember we stayed at a Motel 6 where there were hookers in the hallway, and our toy poodle barking was the only thing that stopped God knows what from breaking into our room in the middle of the night from a connecting door. It’s just possible that might have been the cause of our unexpected upgrade…to LaQuinta.

After driving around all day long in a hot car and then sitting in a hot car while my dad had his job interviews, my brother and I were in a rush to get to the swimming pool. I may never have changed clothes in such a hurry in my entire life. I put on my one-piece black and gold ruffled swimsuit that my best friend’s mother had made me. [I did have one friend. I admit it.] My best friend was the high school football coach’s daughter, and black and gold were the Nowhereville school colors. Also, I can explain the ruffles. It was the ‘80s. It’s not my fault.

We ran to the pool. I quickly befriended this young Latina girl. She was really spectacularly pretty, maybe a year or two older. I never knew a stranger.  She invited us in on this game of keep away. It was a pretty spirited game, and even though I’m not generally a competitive person, keep away is one of those things like Scrabble, trivia games, and card games that I am very driven to win. I’m kind of a bitch about it, actually. I’ve had several people comment on my mean game of Spades, for instance. I’m serious! I will hurt you. A paper cut…or something.

Towards the end of the first game some boy came in and started playing on the opposite team. When it came time to pick sides for a second game the new boy became a team captain. He picked me for his team. I was his first pick. I was actually a little resentful about this, ‘cause I was probably smarting over having been beaten the game before. I asked him why he picked me, and he said, “’Cause you’re cute.”

Okay. I didn’t expect that. From about the time I turned 12 until I was 14 this guy may have been the only boy I knew who didn’t treat me like a leper.

Now this is what I remember about my Prince Charming. Since this happened in 1984, and I never knew his last name I think it’s safe to call him by his actual given name. His name was Randy. He was 14. He played football back home. He was from Oregon. And he had blond hair and green eyes and was really spectacularly handsome. Like he would have been just as handsome as the most popular boy in Nowhereville. The most popular boy in Nowhereville looked at least 3 years older than all his peers, and this guy was built like that.

We played keep away for awhile until Randy’s father came down to fetch him. I remember he had to be called more than once. And when he was about to get out of the pool he called me to him. He said, “C’mere.”

And I said, “Why should I?”

Charming, huh? This might be an example of the “intimidating” that men seemed to constantly use to describe me.

He said, “Because.”

So, I went. I’m actually easy like that. I just like to test men. Do you want me? Do you really want me? I’m like the Verizon phone commercial of romance.

He kissed me on the cheek. And I thought that would be it. And then I looked him in the eye, and he swooped in for the kiss. Just a peck. No tongue. Then he got out of the pool and walked off.

My new Latina friend said, “Wow! You work fast.”

I didn’t know if my brother witnessed it or not. I wasn’t about to ask him.

My brother and I had to leave soon afterward. Our mother called us. Something about dinner or something. You know those really freaky movies where they distort the cameras or sound to illustrate for people that the characters are dizzy or deaf or high or part of an alternative universe? Things like that? Jacob’s Ladder or What Dreams May Come or Requiem for a Dream. I was walking around in a Picasso painting.

I just could not believe it. A boy had kissed me. A cute boy. I stared at the ceiling for half the night with my fingers on my lips.

That is a happy memory. I think I just got misty eyed.

June 17, 2011 at 12:55 am 1 comment

John Hughes: Some Kind of Genius

Cover of "Some Kind of Wonderful (Special...

Cover via Amazon

This weekend I spent a lot of time reading, but on Sunday I rode the bus downtown and got off on Congress Avenue to take in a double feature at The Paramount where the Summer Movie Series is happening. I caught Sabrina the first weekend, and I’ve bought a package of discount tickets, so I’ll be going back frequently. I hadn’t been to the movies at The Paramount in a long time, so I forgot that it’s more fun to watch from the balcony. This time I remembered, and I watched from the balcony.

What’s fun about a double feature is that people you don’t know will talk with you in between the movies. The guy who picks out the movies introduces them and gives you a bit of trivia. Pretty cool. You can get that at Austin Film Society screenings and at the Alamo Drafthouse. It makes going to the movies feel like a more collective, social experience.

The double feature was two John Hughes comedies. I should say that I love John Hughes. He’s the single biggest cultural influence of my adolescence. And what’s not to love? His comedies are sweet, although seeing them now I recognize how often I see things in them that I wouldn’t want to show a child. The day two years ago when John Hughes died was a sad one, and I think I remember it and the day that Jim Henson died the way that a baby boomer might remember the assassination of Jack and Bobby Kennedy or Martin Luther King and Malcolm X.

The first movie was Sixteen Candles. I remember liking it a lot when I was a kid. It’s dated and doesn’t age very well. It’s entirely wish-fulfillment fantasy (like all romantic comedies – let’s face it), with not a hint of realism thrown in for good measure. The freshman geek with a face full of metal bags the Prom Queen? The Prom King drops the girlfriend that he can “violate in ten different ways” for a sweet, sophomore redhead who’s admitted that she has a crush on him. The redhead’s dad gives her a thumbs up as she ditches her sister’s wedding reception to run off with some strange boy. Ye-ah. That’s gonna happen.

Jake Ryan is the guy who doesn’t exist in American high schools. I’m not saying that the nice guy doesn’t exist. There are lots of them. I’m just saying that he doesn’t look like he belongs on the cover of Tiger Beat, drive a glossy red sports car, live in a suburban mansion, play football and date the head cheerleader. Later, this guy might become a decent guy, but it’ll be sometime in college before it takes hold. It was true then, and it’s true now.

So, Sixteen Candles was every teenager’s dream come true. But did you know that if Hughes had had his way that Molly Ringwald would have ended up with Anthony Michael Hall? I read on the internet that he wanted the Ringwald character in Pretty in Pink to end up with Duckie. The studios intervened in each case. However, they didn’t win in the end with Some Kind of Wonderful. This was like Hughes’ middle finger to the system. He thought, “I’ll show you. The geeks will fall in love, and I will make you like it.” And sure enough, he does.

Some Kind of Wonderful is another Hughes film with a song title. It’s one of his lesser known films. I’ve seen it before, but the first time I saw it was on television some time in the 1990s. Hughes wrote it and was highly involved in the filming, but someone else directed. Howard Deutch was given the script as a peace offering after he made Pretty in Pink with the alternative ending that audiences preferred, where Molly Ringwald gets her Blaine.

I’m a little surprised they didn’t film a third version where she ends up with James Spader, the Iago of John Hughes villains. Seriously, everything’s better with James Spader in it. I would put him in my morning coffee if I could.

If the internet is a reliable source of information (in other words, be somewhat skeptical), when Some Kind of Wonderful was filming, the leads Eric Stoltz and Lea Thompson were dating in real life. A scene where Eric Stoltz and Mary Stuart Masterson are practicing kissing and then blush so charmingly? It’s said to be real since Thompson was on set. After filming wrapped, Howard Deutch married Lea Thompson. Eric Stoltz went on to make Mask, and Mary Stuart Masterson went on to the Chick Flick Hall of Fame in Bed of Roses, Benny & Joon and Fried Green Tomatoes.

Some Kind of Wonderful is a better movie than Sixteen Candles. Lea Thompson plays Amanda Jones, the popular girl from the wrong side of the tracks who landed the wealthy and popular boyfriend, Hardy, (Craig Sheffer) who just so happens to be the world’s biggest douchebag. Chynna Phillips has a small part as Mia, Hardy’s mistress, if you will. Stoltz plays Keith, the sensitive artist who moonlights as a car mechanic. Masterson plays Watts, his tomboy best friend from the third grade, a tomboy who wears boxer shorts and t-shirts as lingerie and plays the drums. She and Keith are inseparable. He pines for Amanda Jones, and she doesn’t seem to realize she’s got a thing for Keith until Amanda is actually within his grasp.

When Amanda catches Hardy whispering sweet nothings with Mia one time too many, she dumps him very publicly, and Keith quickly steps up to the plate. She accepts his offer to go on a date in order to solidify her decision to dump Hardy. She doesn’t really want to go out with Keith. She just wants to hurt Hardy. Hardy is too much of a narcissist to be “hurt,” but he decides that Keith must be punished for having the audacity to “steal” a girl out from under him, even though Keith is so obviously socially inferior.

It’s pretty basic, predictable fun from there. I won’t spoil it for you, but Watts steals the show. The ending is plausible and sweet. In the end everybody gets what they deserve, including Amanda Jones. The best lines in the movie come at the end.

Keith: Why didn’t you tell me [you were in love with me]?

Watts: You didn’t ask.

And

Keith (to Watts): My future looks good on you.

June 10, 2011 at 1:43 am Leave a comment

EPI: We Can Lick It

Animal Rescue

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Princess Celestia has a dog named Vito that she adopted from the animal shelter. He’s a large dog, probably a shepherd, maybe even purebred. When she took him home it didn’t take long for him to start losing weight at an alarming rate. He was also constantly having little “accidents.” He ate ravenously but suffered from chronic diarrhea, and, worse yet, seemed to be starving to death.

Many of you may read this and assume the dog is diabetic (as would be my first guess) or that the dog has pancreatic cancer. Both are good guesses. But you would be wrong. Vito’s problem is caused by the failure of his pancreas to produce necessary enzymes to digest food efficiently. His disease is serious and life threatening, but it is easily treatable.

Princess Celestia had to pay for many rounds of expensive testing for Vito before he was finally diagnosed. However, once Vito was properly diagnosed she had already found an internet forum for owners of dogs with EPI. EPI is Vito’s disease, and it is an acronym for Exocrine Pancreatic Insufficiency.

The people on the EPI forum were able to put Princess Celestia in touch with other dog owners in the same situation, and they were able to help her with recommendations on medicine and enzymes and how to properly deliver enzymes to Vito. So, working in cooperation with her veterinarian and her friends on the EPI Forum, Princess Celestia was able to get poor Vito back into fighting shape.

EPI is a disease that is often fatally misdiagnosed or looked over. The people on the EPI forum are working to spread the word about EPI so no more dogs are put down or made to needlessly waste away. They are trying to raise awareness among veterinarians and to raise money towards research to combat the disease.

And now I’ve done my part by calling your attention to this website. If you’re an animal lover, then you should go check it out. You never know. You might save the life of a dog or cat one day…simply by knowing the symptoms of a rare but fatal disease.

http://www.epi4dogs.com/

June 5, 2011 at 5:15 pm Leave a comment

The Work Widow

Eleanor Roosevelt Frank Sinatra 1947

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I’m sure you’ve heard the old adage don’t shit where you eat. I learned this the hard way. And by that I don’t mean that I came down with hepatitis after eating a muffaletta on the toilet. I mean that it took me three mildly embarrassing incidents, as well as observing the heartache and sometimes even the firing of multiple friends, to learn that dating coworkers is just not a very wise idea. Some people pull it off seamlessly, and some of the women I worked with when I lived in Dallas had very happy courtships and subsequent marriages. But that is not how things worked out for me.

I’ve told the story of the WORST DATE EVER, and I’ve also relayed the anecdote of Vern. Here comes Strike Three. I’m a slow learner, but I do learn. Strike Three happened when I was working for the trailer company in Dallas. I did retirement plan administration in the human resources department of the trailer company’s corporate headquarters. This is how I met Damian Carson. No, that’s not his real name. And no, he doesn’t bear the mark of the devil. But I like that alias. It’s pretty close.

Damian was the personnel coordinator at a plant in Buda. Buda is a kind of suburb of Austin, but bear in mind that I was living and working in Dallas at this time. Damian had some kind of business at the corporate headquarters, and he and one or two of the other personnel coordinators were there for some kind of meeting. It wasn’t related to me, but we were usually curious when personnel coordinators came to town because we spoke with them on the phone constantly, and because they were located all over America, we rarely got to see them in person.

I was buddy buddy with all the women I worked with in the office. We hung out together outside of work and genuinely liked each other. There were even a couple bachelorette weekend getaways when two of the women got married. I was the only single woman in our little department. The rest of them all had husbands or significant others or boyfriends. I hung out with my friends and dated occasionally. So, when we had a cute, single guy in the office, naturally, the buzz reached me.

“Hey! C’mere.”

“What?”

“You heard that [the personnel coordinators] are in the office, right?”

“Yeah. So?”

“So, Damian Carson is pretty cute. And he’s single.”

Now, secretly…okay, not secretly, because Amanda faithfully reads this blog. Dammit! Okay. Not secretly or privately, I was kinda excited about this news. Damian and I got along on the phone okay, but we didn’t have any kind of special rapport until just a few minutes later. I will give myself credit for not skipping across the office like some boy crazy sycophant. I sat at my desk, and I made him come to me.

It was apparent that he thought I was attractive. I mean, you know, I knew he wouldn’t kick me out of bed for eating crackers. And in no time we’re both grinning like loons. It’s amazing how looks will change your opinion of someone because before that moment I’m pretty sure he thought I was the 401(k) Nazi, and I just thought of him as that idiot I was always sending the forms back to because there was some i that wasn’t dotted or t that wasn’t crossed.

How to describe Damian Carson back then? Well, he was just a little younger but probably a whole lot more worldly than I was. He was sort of baby faced with very thick dark hair and a slim build. He was just a tad long waisted and short legged, with broad shoulders. He had a Tom Cruise smile. I wouldn’t have kicked him out of bed for eating crackers, either.

He travelled back to Austin. I stayed in Dallas, and we flirted like mad by office telephone until the next time there was some personnel coordinator’s meeting…yes, on the company dime. I remember very few conversations we had outside the office. Also, his 401(k) forms got flawless overnight. When Damian knew he was flying to Dallas for this seminar thing, he immediately asked me out. I immediately said yes. There was no coaxing necessary that I remember. It was a two-day thing, and they flew him and all the other personnel coordinators out and paid for one night at a hotel.

It was my city, and Damian didn’t have a rental car, which meant I had to pick him up at the hotel lobby, in front of all the other personnel coordinators and some of the people who worked in my office. It also meant I got to pick where we went since he didn’t know my city. And I really was never much of a party animal kind of girl, so I’m almost amazed that we managed to have a good time. But we had a hell of a time. At one moment he carried me across Lovers Lane on his back. Cheese factor very high. I got a little tipsy, but not so bad that I couldn’t drive later. We went to a jazz club, and I sang along with Frank Sinatra’s rendition of, “I’ve Got a Crush on You,” and then promptly started making out with my date in public.

I would say that we were sitting in a dark corner booth, and we were. However, I should still be ashamed of myself because I remember that when Damian scooted out to use the men’s room some guy told him that he got a hard on from watching us. This was really the only bad part of the evening, waiting for Damian to get back from the restroom with Creepy Hard On Guy still standing there. I’m such a hussy.

We left pretty soon after that, and it was late, but I don’t think it would have been after midnight since we both still had to work the next day. We must have spent at least 45 minutes necking in my car in the hotel parking lot. The windows literally got a little steamy. He was a really amazing kisser.

The conversation in the car went like this.

Damian: Why don’t you come up?

Gooseberry Bush: Um, I don’t think that would be a very good idea.

Damian: All I want to do is just kiss you in that big king sized bed.

Gooseberry Bush: We have to work tomorrow.

Damian: You know you want to.

Gooseberry Bush: I don’t think all you want to do is kiss me.

Damian: I promise.

Gooseberry Bush: What if someone sees?

Damian: We’ll sneak you out.

Gooseberry Bush: I don’t think it’s a good idea.

By then I think the buzz was killed, and I wasn’t born yesterday. So, I went home and he went up to his room…alone.

That weekend he called right after he got home. We talked about maybe seeing each other again. I said I’d think about it. It wasn’t that I didn’t like him. It wasn’t that I didn’t have a great time. It was two things. One was the distance. I knew that it was going to be impossible for us to have any kind of serious relationship with that much mileage between us.

The other reason was that there was just something too, well, slick about him. He was a little too perfect, too good looking, too charming. And I guess you could sum this up to the fact that Damian Carson struck me as a player. I thought he’d probably see me and some other girl or girls in Austin, too. And I wasn’t sure just how long he’d be interested in me if he ever actually got into my pants.

We didn’t have much in common. He would never have understood me, and worse yet, he would have wondered what I meant by “understood.” You see how we haven’t even gone on a second date yet, and we’ve already broken up…tragically? I actually am pretty good at reading people, but that kind of thinking is a little messed up.

By the time I called him from work the next week he made up my mind for me. The hold music for his plant was all Rat Pack all the time kind of stuff.  He placed me on  hold. The song was Bobby Darrin’s “Mack the Knife.” When Damian came back on the line I complimented him on the hold music, and he said, “Yeah, I love Sinatra.” And I decided right then and there that there would be no second date. It was like an episode of fucking Seinfeld.

All this doesn’t sound very traumatic, and even the end isn’t very traumatic. I did go out with him and the Austin personnel coordinator the next year to play pool. It wasn’t a date. We went as friends. But I did make sure to wear my shortest shorts. I’m such a hussy.

And a little after that outing, word spread through our little department. Damian Carson was no longer employed by our little trailer company. Damian Carson’s roommate got caught selling pot out of the trunk of Damian’s car…in the parking lot of the Buda plant of our little trailer company. And Damian Carson did not show up for a required drug test by the next day.

All over the next week I was barraged with phone calls of condolence from all over the nation from personnel coordinators who knew that Damian and I were “close.” I’m surprised that they didn’t send flowers. I can only imagine how this would have gone down if I had actually gotten caught sneaking out of his hotel room at some ungodly hour of the morning. As it was, I became Damian Carson’s work widow. It was embarrassing then, and I used to bitch about it. But now…I just think it’s funny. Here’s to Damian Carson…wherever you are.

May 25, 2011 at 12:29 am Leave a comment

Love Should Be Multiplied, Not Divided

Sister wives

Image by Elizabeth Haslam via Flickr

The recent popularity of HBO’s series about polygamists in the Fundamentalist Mormon Church has spawned a TLC reality show. Again, Wal-Mart has corrupted me into buying immoral DVDs with a ridiculous price of $13 for the entire first season of Sister Wives. Why, why, why do I feel compelled to watch such trash? Well, it seemed like a kind of interesting sociological experiment for $13 and also seemed like a series that might be full of fodder for a feminist dissection.

The problem is that these people are so wholesome and loving and sane that it’s just impossible to have a bitch fest on them. I can’t do it. The lifestyle isn’t for me. I see the appeal, and not just from a reproductive standpoint. Obviously, a man with more than one wife can produce more children than, say, the opposite scenario. But the appealing thing is having more than just two adults to share household duties and obligations with. Hillary said it takes a village, and these people are their own village.

In the beginning we meet Kody Brown and his three wives, Meri, Janelle, and Christine. We meet their thirteen children. We get to see old pictures and hear the courtship stories of all three women. This isn’t some compound where boys are abused and girls are married off to old men at the age of 12. All three wives were adults who made the decision to enter a plural marriage.

The first wife, Meri, knew that she would not be the only wife when she married Kody. In fact, she seems to be the jolly matchmaker. Janelle jokes that Meri is in mergers and acquisitions, and no one gets to Kody without first bonding with Meri.

Janelle works outside the home, and Meri works and attends college. All three women say that they just want to raise healthy and happy, productive members of society. If the children choose not to engage in polygamy or to leave the faith of their upbringing, that will be okay as long as they are making their own choices. Above all, they want their children to have the freedom to choose for themselves. Janelle even lectures her girls that they will be finishing college before they get married.

I’d like to denounce these people for their “perverted” lifestyle, but it’s just not the case. Everyone’s needs are being met. Sure, the women experience some jealousy, especially when Kody brings on a fourth wife, Robin. But all four of these wives have a loving and considerate husband. A lot of other women would give up 100% of their one shitty husband to trade for 25% of a good one. And I realize that it’s a reality series. How ideal their domestic bliss seems probably has more to do with the editors than it has to do with “reality.” But these women seem significantly happier than Kate Gosselin, even after she dumped Jon.

Like I said, it’s not for me. I wouldn’t endorse the lifestyle or the religion. However, this is America. As long as the adults involved are consenting and no one is being abused or coerced, the children are well provided for, and the welfare system isn’t being abused…then what business is it of ours?

May 12, 2011 at 11:26 pm 3 comments

What Is Marie Osmond Thinking?

Marie Osmond holding a custom made LSR/Steinbe...

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Yesterday legitimate news sources confirmed what had been rumored in supermarket tabloids for months. Marie Osmond remarried her first husband nearly 30 years after their first marriage. She wore her first wedding dress, which is supposed to make us go, “Awww,” but which I just find thoroughly creepy. Is there anything about this story that doesn’t scream, “Marie, please take your meds!”

Marie’s first husband is Stephen Craig, a former semi-pro basketball player. They married in 1982. They separated and reconciled twice. Then they divorced in 1985, with her claiming “mental cruelty” and amidst rumors of infidelity on his part. Apparently, he was disciplined by the Mormon Church for his behavior during the marriage.

After that unhappy union, Marie remarried not even a year later, to music producer Brian Blosil, or, as he is otherwise known, Mr. Marie Osmond. He adopted Stephen’s son, Stephen Craig, Jr., and together he and Marie had two biological children and adopted five more. They also separated and reconciled after Marie’s very public battle with post-partum depression.

In 2007 they jointly announced their intention to divorce. He’s apparently such a winner that one of their sons refused to retain his last name, and he didn’t attend that son’s funeral after he killed himself. Reportedly, the other children didn’t wish for him to attend, either. He sounds like a really swell catch.

Remember how Mr. Blosil adopted Stephen Craig, Jr.? Well, apparently, Stephen Craig, Jr. has been in contact with his biological father, and, following her divorce from Blosil, so has Marie. Stephen Craig is now a motivational speaker, and he’s been courting Marie and family at her home in Las Vegas where she now performs in a musical revue with her brother Donny.

I love Marie Osmond. I used to watch The Donny & Marie Show when I was a kid. I had a Marie Osmond Barbie doll. My brother and I had a really lame storybook about Jimmy and a robot. I bought one of her books and read it (not the one about the depression), and I watched her on Dancing with the Stars. I watched the talk show she had a few years back with Donny. I defy you not to like her. And for 51 years old, she’s smoking hot. She’s always been a very attractive woman, but ever since she lost that weight on Nutri-System or whatever, I would think she’d have the silverfox Mormon men crawling out of the woodwork for a chance at that.

Why does she feel the need to jump into the magical time machine that is her wedding dress and relive a grave and obvious error in judgment? I also love how she’s reconstructed her history. Like the redeemed villain of a soap opera, this cheater has swooped in to save Marie from a life of depression and loneliness. Everything will be strawberries and whipped cream this time around!

Remember again how Brian Blosil adopted Stephen Craig, Jr.? You should. This is the third time I’ve mentioned it. Here’s her official quote on Stephen now:

“I am so happy and look forward to sharing my life with Stephen, who is an amazing man as well as a great father to my children.”

If he’s really such a great man, then why did you divorce him the first time around? And if he was really such a great man, then why did you say he was guilty of “mental cruelty”? That doesn’t sound like he’s such a great man. If he’s really such a great man, then why did the church sanction him based on his behavior during your marriage? Was it just a case of the LDS Church being afraid to bite the hand that feeds it? Or was he legitimately immoral, unethical, and cruel? And finally, if he’s such a great father, then why did his biological son have to be legally adopted by the kind of father who wouldn’t attend his own son’s funeral?

Of course, it’s Marie’s privilege to not answer these questions for us. In fact, it would be inappropriate for her to do so. Some things should remain private. But I hope she’s asked them of herself. The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints believes that a temple marriage seals spouses together for all eternity in a celestial marriage that not even death can tear asunder. I hope that she’s not yoked herself to a cheater.

I wish you well, Marie. And I sincerely wish that I am dead wrong. People can change, and you married young the first time around. Maybe you’ve both matured. Congratulations!

May 5, 2011 at 11:42 pm 6 comments

Dear David Eagleman

Neuroscientist David Eagleman

Image via Wikipedia

Dear David Eagleman,

I was 3 minutes late to work this morning because I was busy reading the profile on you and your brain research in The New Yorker. Fascinating stuff. I needed to think about something to write on my blog today, and it was between you and the documentary Inside Job, so I thought I’d lighten up and write about you because our economy is serious stuff. Nothing funny about it. Also, I want to finish the director’s commentary before I write about Inside Job.

I have decided, after reading about half of the article in The New Yorker, that you will receive the honor of being my new “celebrity” crush. I think you are awesome. Studying the brain’s perception of time! And before that you studied literature and tried your hand at stand up comedy and screenwriting! James Franco is so jealous.

*SIGH* What is up with that Chippendale dancer pose with the tight t-shirt and jeans in front of the whiteboard? Where’s your smoking jacket, pipe, and cravat? What kind of an academic are you? Not a very dignified one. I like it.

Dude, I checked out your picture on the Baylor College of Medicine website, too. You got it going on with that smoldering profile against the amber background. Was that photo taken at Geek Glamour Shots? You look like you have a very sexy intellectual secret that you will not be sharing. Seriously, it’s a great photo. I don’t even care if the author of The New Yorker profile said you walk like Pinocchio. Can I be your Jiminy Cricket?

Now, before you answer that question, think about the distinguished company that you will be joining. My past celebrity crushes for the last 3 years or so have been smokin’ hot, and at least one of them is smart. (I limit my celebrity crushes to the last 3 years’ worth because we really don’t have the time to get into the full history, and I used to be in love with both John Denver and Kermit the Frog simultaneously. I don’t want you to think that my tastes haven’t evolved into more sophisticated selections lately.) I have excellent taste in celebrity crushes, really I do.

Take Robbie Williams, for instance. Hot and talented. I really don’t know if he’s smart or not. I’ve never met him or seen him interviewed on The Charlie Rose Show. But, you know, he could be. And he’s an international superstar, so presumably, even though he’s never really caught on in America, he must have something going for him.

More recently, there’s been The Soup Peddler. He’s a local entrepreneur. He is cute, and he writes this funny blog. Really smart. See? If you replaced him in my affections, then this would really give you some bragging rights. I mean, The Soup Peddler is a dream. Nice Jewish boy. He cooks delicious soup. He delivers it on his bicycle. Well, not anymore. But you get the picture. Grassroots business success story: what’s not to love?

Don’t answer yet. I know that you will want to know what’s involved in agreeing to be my new celebrity crush. Well, technically, I don’t have to ask your permission. I’m just being polite. What do you have to do? Precisely nothing.

That’s right. Nothing. Just continue to breathe. It would be nice if every once in a while you might drop a crumb for me like another interview in a magazine or on a website or The Charlie Rose Show or what’s the PBS talk show with Evan Smith — that one, but that’s not required. I will keep scouring the internet for new information daily until my infatuation wears out. If you have any videos on TED, I’ll watch those, too.

I will also read at least one of your books after I purchase it on half.com. I’ll be honest. I’m unlikely to read an academic textbook about neuroscience. I’m pretty fickle. I give this thing about six months. And the great thing is that at the end of that six months, if you are ever the subject of a Trivial Pursuit question or a category on Jeopardy I can guarantee you that I will kick some useless information ass!!

I know that this crush might cause you to be fearful for your life or think about the need to hire bodyguards, but I assure you that even though Houston is less than 3 hours away on Highway 290, I will not be stalking you. I just like the idea of you, and if I met you I am sure that in some way the idea of your perfection would burst like a bubble, and it would kind of ruin the fun for me. Like, I bet in real life that you fart or scratch yourself or something like that. I just really don’t want to be confronted with that, so like I said, you are completely safe. And if you don’t believe me you can just ask The Soup Peddler and Robbie Williams and the Austin Police Department and the FBI. Really. Completely safe.

In the meantime, while you contemplate my heartfelt proposal, I will leave you with this: our song. Think about it. And then don’t call me. Really. I mean it. Don’t call me. You’ll ruin the magic.

Sincerely,

Gooseberry Bush

http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2011/04/25/110425fa_fact_bilger?currentPage=5

http://neuro.neusc.bcm.tmc.edu/?sct=gfaculty&prf=38

April 27, 2011 at 11:39 pm 3 comments

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