Tagged: life

Anna vs. Emma, A Joint Review of Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy and Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert

Nothing motivates me to write better more than sentences like these.

“As if tears were the necessary lubricant without which the machine of mutual communication could not work successfully, the two sisters, after these tears, started talking, not about what preoccupied them, but about unrelated things, and yet they understood each other (Tolstoy 125).”

“It showed him the eternal error people make in imagining that happiness is the realization of desires (Tolstoy 465).”

“In order to undertake anything in family life, it is necessary that there be either complete discord between the spouses or loving harmony. But when the relations between spouses are uncertain and there is neither the one nor the other, nothing can be undertaken. Many families stay for years in the same old places, hateful to both spouses, only because there is neither full discord nor harmony (Tolstoy 739).”

“As it was almost empty she bent back to drink, her head thrown back, her lips pouting, her neck on the strain. She laughed at getting none of it, while with the tip of her tongue passing between her small teeth she licked drop by drop the bottom of the glass (Flaubert 24).”

“And he at once took down from the shelf Emma’s boots, all coated with mud, the mud of the rendezvous, that crumbled into powder beneath his fingers, and that he watched as it gently rose in a ray of sunlight (Flaubert 174).”

“Emma was like all his mistresses; and the charm of novelty, gradually falling away like a garment, laid bare the eternal monotony of passion, that has always the same forms and the same language (Flaubert 177).”

“We don’t speak on the first floor as on the fourth; and the wealthy woman seems to have, about her, to guard her virtue, all her bank-notes, like a cuirass, in the lining of her corset (Flaubert 215).”

“They knew one another too well for any of those surprises of possession that increase its joys a hundred-fold. She was as sick of him as he was weary of her. Emma found again in adultery all the platitudes of marriage (Flaubert 268).”

So here’s the scoop. Anna and Emma commit adultery. And when they discover this act didn’t end their unhappiness, they kill themselves. These novels are often classified under “realism”, which seeks to be just what you’d expect–realistic. (This, of course, comes in response to the unrealistic stories which rued the day up until writers like Tolstoy and Flaubert (can’t not mention Twain) couldn’t stomach any more of it.) And right up until the ending, I can’t find novels which more accurately describe the human scene. But the suicides struck me as unrealistic. Was I being too literal?

Maybe the suicide is a metaphor? Maybe women who commit adultery long to commit suicide, but lack the courage to do it? Is that what these guys were arguing?

Or are the stories warnings to women? Are they a kind of “cheat on me and you’ll probably want to kill yourself” thing? They are written by men after all.

Or maybe there is something more going on?

Always returning to Tolstoy’s wisdom, I’ve decided that these books’ adultery-leads-to-suicide motif is a warning to everyone. Tolstoy, especially, tips his hand in the quote about about happiness not being the realization of desires. That these books sit on so many shelves across the planet proves we recognize the truth they contain, whether we can verbalize it or not.

If Tolstoy and Flaubert were alive today they might have chosen to write about men ignoring their family in favor of email, or mothers working while strangers raise their children so that they can live in a house that would make the Jones’s proud. Or maybe they’d write about women who wear make-up and men who have hair plugs. But then, I wouldn’t believe men and women would kill themselves after finding their cosmetic choices didn’t bring them happiness. But a spouse watching his or her selfish action destroy a family? Yep, I could see how that might make someone want out of this life. And since it is Tolstoy’s Anna who chooses her lover even when her husband is ready to reunite with her, Anna Karenina wins the better lesson presentation battle. The lesson being happiness is. No fill in the blank, no requisite. Happiness just is.

****

Flaubert, Gustave, Chris Kraus, and Eleanor Marx Aveling. Madame Bovary. New York: Barnes & Noble Classics, 2005. Print.

Tolstoy, Leo. Anna Karenina. Toronto: Penguin, 2000. Print.

Schoen

The German word’s English meaning can be “nice one”, “beautiful”, “lovely”, even the simple, yet elegant, “good”. “Fish-hooker”, however, is nowhere on the Google Translate list of twenty-two words/concepts. Then again, he doesn’t go by Schoen these days. It’s too difficult to pronounce, he says.

I still prefer Schoen (pronounced “Shane”) though. You see, for me, Schoen was a senior in the fraternity that I was certain I’d never join. And Schoen ended up being my tag-team wrestling partner against a heavyweight Brent and lightweight Climer. Of course, while freshmen might be bold enough to challenge seniors, no senior would ever risk losing to a freshman, so despite the unpredictable nature of tag-team wrestling, I wrestled Climer and Schoen took on Brent. The match-up was more even than expected, Climer’s gangliness undoing much of my strength, and Brent’s weight putting to test much of Schoen’s.

The rectangular room had newer carpet, not plush, but fuller than the thin stuff commonly found in high traffic areas. Blue folding chairs lined the walls. The lighting was excellent. Anytime a wrestler’s energy or motivation began to fade his partner would tag in. Consequently, the other partner tagged in. My confidence in Schoen never faltered. One can imagine my surprise, then, as Brent managed (likely a surprise to himself) to maneuver Schoen into a nasty headlock. Wriggling like a python’s prey at first, Schoen quickly realized the futility of purposeless movement. Instead, he opted for a move that is illegal in every version of sanctioned combat across the globe: the fish hook.

For the ladies, the fish-hook is a tactic where one combatant curves his index finger into the shape of a “fish-hook” and places it into his enemies mouth. Obviously, this act alone would cause no advantage. What does cause an advantage is when this finger pulls against the cheek of the enemy. So picture the scene with me. Brent was standing a full head higher than Schoen, holding him in a head lock. They were spinning in circles. They were spinning in circles because Schoen, on his knees, was reaching up with one free hand and fish-hooking Brent’s right cheek. Eventually (moments like these do not last) I heard I tear. I guessed that Schoen had torn Brent’s cheek. Raising my guess to the level of certainty, Brent immediately tapped out, and as Schoen removed his finger, ran to the restroom.

Thick. The anticipation was thick. Breathing heavy, but relieved to be out of the headlock, Schoen lowered his chin towards his chest while he raised his eyebrows and stared at me. It was a knowing nod, a victor’s nod.

The restroom door handle’s jiggle announced Brent’s reappearance.

“Dude, I just vomited,” said Brent.

Apparently, Schoen’s finger had touched a nerve, so to speak. I know I was hooked.

Wide Effing Open

Lance wore sunglasses inside. That was the first thing I noticed about him. Second, he had the ability to achieve perfect clarity in directions. He destroyed meetings. Management guru Peter Drucker would’ve been proud. Who hasn’t been in meetings whose end is marked by the sound of shuffling fabric accompanied by whispers containing sentiments like, “So, what are we doing now?” Lance was a meeting destroyer. It really was something to behold.

He was also a man who loved to laugh. I’m talking about joy here people! When the man wasn’t modeling the art of focusing a group of men on a singular action, behind those sunglasses Lance was just itching to break out in laughter. He embodied these qualities in a way that was generally reserved for the most likable characters in great novels.

Now, history is full of men who have tried to categorize men like Lance, their point being to take away or re-allocate the credit. Their efforts proceed to pigeonhole men like Lance into being nothing more than the result of their circumstances, but I refuse to believe it. There was only one source, one natural spring from whence flowed the strength and skill, the judgement and wisdom that Lance displayed day-in and day-out. That source, of course, was Lance. The casual observer had no claim on Lance. Lance was the one who had to wake up every morning. He was the one who sat for a moment on the edge of a bed and stared out at the same equal-parts-bleak-and-bright world as he pulled his pants on one leg at a time. He was the one who reached for his boots as he decided what kind of man he wanted to be; what kind of father, what kind of leader. He was the one who everyone looked to for direction during the meeting before work began, and rather than buckling under the pressure or taking the road more traveled, which is paved with pride and foolhardiness, he was the one who on cue said, “Guys, today we’re going to run waa’d effin’ op’n.” He was the one whose example ensured the work got done. He was Lance.

4 Reasons To Avoid Using Eye-Catching Headlines

1. First, nobody likes people who try too hard. And a good eye-catching headline, such as, “Did Michael Jackson Secretly Confess to Janet That He Was Guilty?” or my favorite one from LinkedIn of late, “10 Reasons You Should Quit Your Job in 2014”, these types of headlines that really beg the reader to point-and-click reek of strong cologne before a big date. Rather than trying too hard, it’s better if you try just the right amount.

2. Second, your reputation is worth more than the ad revenue generated by clicks. And readers often feel let down when they discover (again) that Michael Jackson didn’t confess anything to Janet, and that there is not one good reason, let alone ten, to quit working in 2014. After time, people will question your integrity and motivations.

3. Third, and finally, the most enticing headlines are always one mistake away from pissing readers off.

I Cried At Work Yesterday

Dear H-,

I’ve been wanting to write to you directly for some time now, and finally an event at work caused me to put pen to paper. I don’t know how old you’ll be when you read this, but hopefully you’ll be old enough to understand it. If you don’t understand it, ask me or another adult about it.

The reason I decided to write to you today is that I wanted to tell you that I cried at work yesterday.

Now, I know you’ve seen me cry once, but you probably don’t remember it. And I’m sure you don’t remember why. I never saw my dad cry, but I have to believe that he did–at least once. Sometimes I think it would’ve been nice to have seen it with my own eyes as a boy. So in case you never see me cry again, I’m telling you now that I cry.

I cried yesterday because I found out that a guy who works for the same company as me was killed on the job, by the job. And in a separate incident, another guy was really badly injured and might die as well. As the group of us walked out of the noisily air conditioned trailer where we were handed this news and into the hot sun in order to get back to the dangerous work, I could only think of you. I could only think of how you look when you look at me, which is to say look up at me. Your chin sticks out; your eyes are at attention; your hair falls freely off the back of your head. You’re such a good listener. Well, it’s time to listen up again. Sad things happen in life. Really sad things. One of the appropriate responses to these sad things, even for dads, is to cry. But just because sad things happen doesn’t mean you stop living life. Sad things are a part of life–just like happy things and boring things. You have to move forward, move past them. Even though I was sad, I went back to work.

Okay. I think that’s it. I don’t have any big finale. I love you.

Pete

PS – I do have one more thing. You’re a beautiful girl H-, never doubt that.

I’ve Been Reading Madame Bovary

The main room of the house that was built in 1950 was atypically adorned for the year 2014 in a comforting way.  One sofa, a piano, two lamps, one antique globe, four chairs, a kitchen table, and four onyx pedestals–the mineral, not the gem–displaying the Russian Baron Peter Klodt von Jurgensburg’s “The Horse Tamer” miniatures made up the room’s vertical trimmings.  Hanging on the bland tan plaster walls were three framed images.  One was a black and white movie poster capturing the famous coffee scene in Heat, another was a black and white poster of 1990s Metallica, and the third was a commissioned word-art photo–also black and white–of a TH-1H Huey bordered by friends’ well-wishing farewell comments and signatures, which received attention each time the owner was heady with wine.  And there was a white board.

As usual, George, who was sporting a clean shaven chin, was standing, Pete, wearing just-before-itchy length stubble, sitting.  They had just returned from viewing TC’s most recent film at the local theater.

“So, Mr. I-Like-Blondes, what’d you think of her?” Pete asked, looking up from his laptop while it woke up.

“Pretty hot,” George said.

“As you know, I’m not into blondes, but there was one scene which made me long for a woman again,” Pete said.

Smiling bigger than after bowling a strike, George said, “Oh yeah.  The one where she’s doing that iso-pushup.”

“The one from the preview?  Na, that’s not what I’m talking about,” Pete interrupted, derailing his friend’s excitement in favor of his own.

“What are you talking about then?”

“I’m talking about when she’s focusing on memorizing the plan that will allow her and TC to stay alive long enough to win.  When they were in the bunker room…..planning area…..with the holographic thing,” he said, trying to jar George’s memory.

“Oh.  I remember.”

“It just reminded me that it has been a long time since I have seen a woman really try hard.  As in apply effort.  Real effort.  Care about doing it right.  It was hot,” Pete said.  He paused for only a moment, but it was long enough for him to sift through a decade’s worth of memories.  Beginning again, he said, “I can remember memorizing the helicopter operational limits while on my commercial flights to my next training base.  There were like 220 numbers that had no pattern.  That kind of effort.  Or I think I’ve told you about my first memory of Greeny.  From back in college?  It was an intramural flag football game and he was on the ground, laid out, fully extended with the football in one hand–all to gain a few extra inches.  I don’t think the game even counted for anything.  But I remember having the specific thought, ‘I want to be his friend.'”

“Yeah.  Women just don’t do that.  Or at least the ones we ever come across don’t,” George said, staring through the wall, past the front yard, across the dimly lit street, and into the unending night.

“Doesn’t matter where the effort is being applied, I would chase after a woman like that,” Pete concluded.  Rejoining, he attempted old white man voice and quoted another sci-fi favorite of his day, “Hope.  It is the quintessential human delusion, simultaneously the source of your greatest strength, and your greatest weakness.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” George said.  “See ya tomorrow man.”

Life In The Oil Fields Is No Movie

Well, that’s not entirely true.  One movie came to mind on about day four as I was beginning to realize that a lot of family, not to mention my one friend, would want to know what exactly it was like to work on a rig.  Maybe even you are curious to know.  Here’s my best effort to convey understanding and feeling of the job, and why it appeals to me.

It’s a lot like Lord of the Rings.  Like the quest to destroy the Precious, in which all participants agree that there is no value in attempting any action that does not assist in accomplishing that invaluable end, the oil fields have one goal.  One.  Every single activity supports that goal.  In other words, the concept ‘efficiency’ has yet to be developed as there is no need to distinguish efficient action from inefficient action.

Also like LOTR, meals are on the go.  And every once in a while a Legolas shows up with a food whose calorie content is such that “one small bite will fill the stomach of a grown man.”  Naturally, the food is consumed with little regard for this fact.  And in similar fashion to Samwise’s indefatigably loving disposition towards food, all conclude that it tastes great.

Moreover, there is a comedic relief at every turn, and something about the nature of being part of such a singular mission attracts people with fully-developed personalities. Put simply, characters abound.

Lastly, just as no one but Frodo can carry the ring to Mount Doom, in the oil fields there is no one else coming to do the work.  If something heavy must be lifted, if something stuck must be unstuck, if something dirty must be cleaned, if someone clean must get dirty, that’s what must happen.  Nothing stops the mission.  Not the clock, not the weather, not the calendar.  Not past performance, not best intentions, not relationships, not feelings.  Nothing.

The ring must be destroyed.

It’s glorious.

They Earn More Than You And They Don’t Even Know What LinkedIn Is

The restaurant doors might as well have been ripped off the hinges if they were pulled open at all.  The culprits were four men who had just finished a long day of hard work.  They were hungry and ready to sit down.  One of them, the newbie, knew he was under the microscope.  The other three would be watching his every move.  They would be silently analyzing his table manners, how he addressed the server, what meal he chose, and most importantly what beverage.  Beyond the age of caring about such things, our man was just looking to make people laugh.  The workday was over; everyone still had all their fingers and toes.  He couldn’t help but want to promote a light mood.

Asking the server to keep the chips and salsa coming, he sarcastically inquired of the men, “So, hey.  On your LinkedIn profiles, do you put your position or just ‘roughneck’?”

The driller, one might say leader of the bunch, had the most steely, unflinching eye-contact one could imagine, and after letting it linger long enough to determine the question was not rhetorical, he asked, “What?”

“You know.  On your LinkedIn profile.  Do you put ‘driller’ or the more generic ‘roughneck’?” the newbie pressed, unwilling to lose the staring contest.

“Linked-what?”

“No way.  What about you two?  It’s not surprising that this neanderthal doesn’t keep his LinkedIn profile updated, but surely you two do,” he continued, purposefully.

“Pete, what are you saying?  Linked…in?”

“Oh my god,” Pete said, unable to not connect the dots.  With an unabashed enthusiasm, he continued, “On top of you guys doing the most impressive work I’ve ever seen, you’re now going to tell me that you don’t even know what LinkedIn is?”  He almost let the “L” word slip out, but the men’s unrelenting eye contact allowed his rational side to win that battle quickly.  “And that’s why I like you guys so much.  You don’t even know what LinkedIn is.  You’re so pure and good.  LinkedIn is like facebook for people with office jobs.  It’s ridiculous.  And you just helped prove my theory.  I only use it to publish my blog posts in the hopes of getting someone to read what I write.  But I’d rather have never heard of it–like you guys.  Nice work.”

“You done?  The server’s waiting on you to order.”

“Oh.  Apologies.  I’ll do the chimichanga.”

“And to drink?”

“Do you have root beer?”

Will I Ever Become a Man?

He taught me so much, and I don’t even know his name.  All I remember is that it was a sunny, hot afternoon at Heritage Square.  H- and I had been pounding the pavement and riding the rides all morning.  It was time for a break.  We headed to the grill area.

There happened to be a vintage motorcycle show on the same grounds as the theme park that day.  As expected, there were plenty of leather vests, bandannas, and unkempt beards.  Wearing a black leather vest over a black t-shirt and sporting a very unkempt beard, my average sized soon-to-be mentor was even missing a tooth.  I can still see the gap now.  Yellow, yellow, yellow, black, yellow, yellow, yellow.  I also remember that the remaining teeth on his mandible were strikingly tall and thin for some reason.

But what really made him stand out was the rather long sentence that was typed in white font on his black shirt.  As usual, I noticed “fuck” before any of the other words.  I became simultaneously terrified and curious.  What kind of randomly long t-shirt slogan contained the eff bomb?  His vest, which cut off the first and last letters of each of the three rows, did not make the task any easier.  Attempting not to stare, after several volleys, I finally made out:  “Off is the general direction in which I wish you would fuck.”

“So, H-, what would you like for lunch?  They have grilled cheese.  Do you want grilled cheese?” I queried, the shrinking line forcing the discussion.

“I don’t want a grilled cheese.  I want a hot dog.”

“We’re having hot dogs tonight, so it’s gotta be a grilled cheese.  Well, I guess there is also chicken fingers, or a corn dog.”

“Corn dog?”

“Yeah, it’s a hot dog wrapped in corn bread.  Is that what you want?” I asked, devastated that she found a loophole to my no-hot-dog reasoning.

“I think I want a corn dog.  No, I want a grilled cheese.”

“Good.”

Only one more customer to go, I noticed that they had some beer bottles on display, in addition to the typical beverages I’d come to expect.  Not just beer, they also had three flavors of delicious Mike’s Hard Lemonade.  Debating for longer than I’d like to admit, I decided to stick with soda.  I really wanted a Mike’s, and figured just one wouldn’t be weird or inappropriate on a nice afternoon of riding roller coasters with my daughter, but I couldn’t do it.  I genuinely feared what the biker behind me was going to think of me for buying a Mike’s.  Not knowing anything more than any of us about the guy, I was afraid because I knew that if I was him, I would loose a smart-ass comment on the strange man in front of me whose t-shirt didn’t have the eff-bomb on it and then bought a Mike’s.  So I stuck with the combo meal that came with a soft drink.

Even knowing that there was only one line was not enough to prevent me from nearly breaking my neck as I turned to confirm what my ears reported next.

“Will that be all?” I heard the cashier say, as I saw her hand the biker a Mike’s Hard Lemonade.

Review of Grudge Match

I will cry when Sylvester Stallone and Robert De Niro die.  In the past I have thought about celebrity deaths that will be difficult to stomach, but only after watching Grudge Match am I sure that those two will cause a genuine sense of loss.

The movie is easy.  The story is straightforward.  And as a bonus, a black man and an old man use their societal advantages to provide the audience with guilty laughs.

The movie is almost good enough to be called “good” even if the viewer hasn’t seen Raging Bull or any films in the Rocky Saga–almost.  Then again, no movie would be comprehensible if all context could be removed.

It’s humorous the way each fighter is equally the underdog.  We have underdog versus underdog.  Luckily, the respective underdog attributes are acted well-enough to birth some curiosity.  By the time we find ourselves calling the filmmakers names for not having the courage to use Rocky’s theme song one last time to accompany the mandatory training montage, we do wonder how the fight will end.  And we nurse a hope that it will end the way we want it to, whichever way that is.  Surprisingly, the film’s writers and director are more on point than we ever could’ve imagined.

In the final round of the fight we arrive at two specific moments that explicitly reveal the film’s theme, and whether these moments are taken together or individually, that theme proves to be well worth the, at times perfunctory, 90 minute commute.

In short, if you remain undecided about watching it, watch it.