The Paper Clip

I know Daniel has already reviewed it, but I feel the need to reveal my own feelings about the paperclip—feelings of profound love and everlasting devotion. I feel certain that whenever in my life I have seen on the floor its quick silver glint, I have bowed to pick it up. I love its refined coil shape; the way it gently hugs of a stack of paper; its willingness to be plied and contorted while it rides in my pocket; the cheerful clicking laughter of its delicate voice as it bounces on my desk. I consider the paperclip the meekest of all office supplies—the meekest, thus the noblest, for who but the quiet giving are the masters among us and the true keepers of order? None, I say.

So hail to you, most august paper clip: at my desk you are the most virtuous.

Two New Favrorite Movies: Tornado and Alien vs. Predator

My new favorite movie is TORNADO. It’s German, it’s three hours long (averaging one tornado per hour), it ends with a great slow-mo father-son goodbye scene, and there’s a moral to the story: nothing brings people together like tornadoes. The entire movie was in German with no subtitles; I don’t know German, but the story was so well told that it didn’t matter.

My second new favorite movie is Alien vs. Predator. The moral? Nothing brings humans and murderous aliens together like a common acid-blooded alien enemy (with a tiny head that shoots out of a giant head). And the best part is you don’t have to know what they’re saying to get the message: I watched it in German with Japanese subtitles. 

The moral of this review is if you are truly lonely, all movies are great. 

The Expression "Now You're on the Trolley"

In case you’re not on the trolley, this idiom can be exclaimed after someone else gets it. For example:

“Well, Jimmy, last week you were having trouble with long division. Did you study?”
“Yes.”
“What’s 120 divided by 6?”
“20.”
“Good job. How about 8534 divided by 7?”
“1219 point 142857 repeating.”
“Hey! Now you’re on the trolley!”
“You’re damn right I am.”
“Watch your mouth.”

See how fun and useful this turn of phrase is? It’s a wonder it fell out of fashion. Perhaps it’s because the term trolley is no longer prevalent in the modern American word stock. It might be that I like the ring of it precisely because the term is old-fashioned and brings to mind a romantic, bygone scene of some burgeoning, early-20th century burg. My special gal and I are headed to the dance, I hear hep new sounds jumpin’ and jivin’ from down the street, and then the jing-a-ling of a trolley coming our way. We both hop on, excited to be in love and on board such a marvelously modern mode of transport. We know what’s going on, and we’re going on with it—we’re on the trolley.

I also can’t think of a colorful phrase in use today meaning the same thing. "Now you get it" is really all we’ve got. I see a strong need for a friendly, upbeat, affirmative way to acknowledge and praise a peer for understanding something or for being headed in the right direction. In short, I think it’s high time we hop on the trolley and bring this expression back.

Humor

When alone for an evening, I love to get high, prepare an exotic meal, and dine while watching an art film. By layering my loves, I intensify the overall release of serotonin and dopamine, thus my pleasure. The effect is usually a sense of fullness and fulfillment, as if the energy of my aliveness is coursing through all the infrastructure of my self, lighting every room and thoroughfare. Last night, however, my sense of peace and wellness nearly collapsed soon after adding the third layer: the film. 

The evening began well. I ate a brownie—powerful but not overwhelming—then I prepared an Indian-themed meal: naan, a stew of vegetables in a coconut sauce, and an Amy’s Aloo Matar wrap, an approximation of a samosa. It was all delicious and highly rewarding. 

The discomfort occurred a few minutes into my viewing of Hiroshima, Mon Amour, a film that commences with actual footage of the aftereffects of the nuclear bomb attack on Hiroshima. As you can probably imagine, and as I have no desire to relay, the footage is patently gruesome and utterly inappropriate for mealtime or being high. However, somehow, when the terrifying scenes of biological disfigurement were beginning to ignite my deepest pathos, I was able to laugh. I laughed out loud to myself. I absorbed the shock with humor.

I soon turned off the film, but for a moment after I was transfixed by the images and their significance, as well as the replaying memories of my two trips to beautiful Hiroshima and the Peace Park and my one visit to the museum that preserves the memory of the horror. I was momentarily overwelmed by the brilliance of human destructiveness, by the fervency of our will to conquer, and by the paradox of our methods of survival—by our multilayered selfish nature. 

Selfishness is the willful paining of others. Selfishness is a plastic-wrapped microwavable pseudo-samosa. Selfishness is laughter when the grimness of reality threatens to darken our life. Last night, selfishness was watching the ingeniously hilarious fourth episode of the third season of Louie. Apparently: Being High on Pot Brownie + Eating Delicious Indian Food + Devastating Footage of Nuclear Carnage = Louis CK. 

What thoroughly strange creatures we are.

And thank you, Louis CK.

Orlando (the film)

Orlando is a 1992 film adaptation of Virginia Woolf's Orlando: A Biography. In his youth, Orlando is told never to grow old, so he never does. Many years later, he inexplicably becomes a woman. The film covers several centuries of Orlando's eventful life.

For the first half of the movie I was in love with it; Tilda Swinton is incredible as the mercurial title role, the rest of the cast maintained a fascinating androgyny, the costumes were beautiful, the camera work elegant. The script was strange and clever, and the plot moved with its own bizarre rhythms. I was entranced. 

Then Billy Zane showed up. 

Wow.

Billy Zane looks like he's spending all of his screen time working his ass off to maintain a sleazy half-smile. Each and every scene with him in it looks like it's taken from the cover of a paperback romance novel, right down to the leopard pelts and long locks of curly hair blowing in the wind. Tilda Swinton, who is otherwise excellent in the movie, seems to be barely containing her rage at having to share a scene with Billy Zane. He's clearly not giving her anything to work with, and she's supposed to be in love with the guy. No amount of acting on her part can convince the audience that this love is real. 

"No! Don't do it! Don't have sex with Billy Zane!" I shouted at the screen. My friends cringed and looked away whenever he spoke or showed his face. It was unbearable. 

When Billy Zane finally left, we breathed a collective sigh of relief. 

Then things got back to normal for about five minutes before an unexplained, horribly costumed angel sang a bad song and the movie was over. 

Final verdict: this movie goes so far off the rails that it's practically unrecognizable as the same film. Which is too bad, because I really liked it before Billy Zane showed up.

Working at the Bosch Tossimo Recall Hotline

*A guest post by Sara M.*

In the midst of a third-life crisis, I packed my car and moved myself from Washington, DC to Portland, OR. I knew that finding work would be tough, but I decided that it was a fair price to pay for a chance to make it in the land of easy living and flannel. So far, I’m scraping by on temp work. My latest temp assignment has me working at a call center from 5am to noon; I consider it my penance for being another transplant muddying up the job market here. However, as far as call centers go, it’s probably not the worst deal. We’re taking calls regarding a huge product recall on a single serving Bosch Tassimo coffee brewer. It seems that millions of these brewers have a defective piece that can cause scalding. Mostly though, it just causes dissatisfaction:

Me: Bosch Tossimo recall hotline, this is Sara, what can I do for you today?

An old man starts his list of grievances about this whole recall. I tell him I can help him, but the conversation goes like this:

Me: Sir, I can take care of this for you, please tell me your first name.

Caller: Dr. Bronner.

Me: What is your first name. I need your first name.

Caller: It’s Dr. Bronner.

Me: I’m sorry, sir, I thought I asked for your first name, not your profession.

Caller: Well, I’m a doctor.

Me: It doesn’t matter that you’re a doctor, sir, I’m going to treat you like everyone else. (That’s right, everyone gets the same crappy service on my line.)

Caller: Richard.

And sometimes calls get off topic. I’m supposed to stick to the script, but that doesn’t seem to limit what my customers bring to the call. Midway through a call from a saucy older woman in Las Vegas, a small pack of dogs started yapping excitedly. Then I heard her scream, “Cut it out! Are you on my antique table? Don’t make me get the strap!”

It’s a laugh a minute down at the call center.  

The wonderful thing about the Bosch Tassimo brewer is that it makes everyone feel like they’ve got a little bit of fancy right on their counter. It’s a pseudo-luxury good purchased by new money and no money alike. Much like premium cable packages, it’s enjoyed by everyone from businessmen in Vancouver, to housewives in New Jersey, to yokels in Saskatchewan. Now everyone can relish the modern luxury of mid-grade coffee, tea, espresso, or hot chocolate, one cup at a time, at the touch of a button. It’s so easy to use that just about everybody went out and bought one for their cranky old mother-in-law this Christmas. The machine takes the guess work out of gadgetry: it reads a barcode off of every plastic disc of coffee and spits out the appropriate amount of piping hot water. 

But perfection is an elusive ghoul; it seems this little gem of a machine has a dark side. Thus far, millions of poor, unsuspecting consumers have had piping hot water, grounds, and even tea leaves spewed at them. Only 137 have been hospitalized. Those seem like winning odds to me. 

It’s ok though, we have a solution! Take back the whole machine? Don’t be silly. We’re just going to send you a new piece that you, the consumer who purchased this machine specifically marketed to your technical ineptitude, can install yourself in less than 60 seconds.

Phase 2 of my stint at the recall hotline is helping people install the replacement part. The first two weeks of phase 2 were a dream. Due to a faulty web form, most Canadians were unable to register online to receive the part, so they called me and we chatted and they thought I was solving all of their problems. It was grand. However, things are getting dicey now that people are receiving their replacement parts:

Caller: I installed that plastic thing that you sent me and now my machine won’t turn on/spews even more water/is speaking in tongues.

Of course I have no choice but to feign surprise, as though this is the first time anyone has had trouble with this: “Oh, that’s strange, I’m sorry to hear that.”

The helplessness of the dissatisfied consumer produces varying reactions and it’s always fun to see how it will next manifest. Last week, one fellow in Quebec told me, “It looks like I am going to have to call my lawyer to get any of this resolved. This is bullshit. I know it’s not your fault, thanks for your help, you have a very lucky boyfriend.” Oh, thanks, pal. I'm pretty sure I was supposed to giggle girlishly, but we don’t work for tips at the call center.

FINAL ASSESSMENT:

40 Rings out of 50!

That’s right! This experience has given me some insight into the inner workings of modern consumer courting. If that’s not enough of a treat, I get to read all day. I’m getting paid to sit and read book upon book. It’s like being in college, but nobody is wearing those ghastly sweatpants that have things emblazoned on the ass. 

Food Soap

What’s with all the food in soap these days? I can understand walnut shell or coffee grounds to help “exfoliate,” but we've gone way beyond that. Last night I was looking around my friend’s bathroom and saw liquid soap with pomegranate, a bar of soap with watercress and chai tea, face wash with melon, body wash with goat's milk, and shampoo with fried chicken. Last week I saw a bar of soap with an entire piece of toast in it.

Sure, I'm opposed to putting harsh chemicals on or in my body, but avocado is not soap—it's food. Are we so obsessed with the idea of getting back to nature that we won't buy anything unless it has essence of extract of all-natural fruity froo-frooy goodness? At the rate we're going, soon we'll all be washing ourselves with smoothies. Come on.