My dinner with Dad.

Let's be honest.  This week hasn't exactly been the greatest, PR-wise, for dear old Pops.

He's said a few things in the media over the past several days that have caused those close to him, as well as ESPN commenters and pundits, to headdesk multiple times.  There is one thing I will say on the subject: First of all, Dad already got the riot act read to him by my mother (Her reaction was not unlike Nancy Kerrigan - "Why? WHY?!"), so he's not out of the red yet.  Secondly, It is a collision of factors.  Lack of attendance can be blamed on several causes, all of which are easily fixed.  So let's get butts back in the seats.  We all can be instrumental in this change.  That means the building management/treatment, the fans, the school.  All of it can help.  Let's do this.

Moving on.

There were a few fantastic things about this week that managed to slip their way under the radar due to some untimely comments by certain people in my family.  First off, it was Dad's 57th birthday on Wednesday, and I managed to give him a pretty good present - I got into the English graduate program of my choice.  I found out that morning and managed to get Dad on speakerphone as he drove into work.  His reaction nearly broke my Blackberry.

(In case you were wondering, yes, I will be attending UCONN.  This past year was a 'catch-up' year, in which I took triple the average course load in order to obtain the credits necessary to feel confident in a Masters program.  I am attending UCONN for the following reasons: It's close to home, it's a great university, and they have an English program that is not only challenging, it's a little bit more realistic for me than stretching for an out of state program that requires more experience than I have at the moment.  It's also where I did my undergraduate work, so I'm familiar with the campus.  Also, because of my non-degree study this year, I can matriculate the graduate credits into the Master's program. I could have my Masters as early as the spring of 2012 instead of 2013.)

This weekend marks the Eastern Regional, which just happens to take place in my father's hometown of Philadelphia.  Well, technically his hometown is Montella, and then after that it's Norristown, PA, but Norristown is a close suburb to Philly.  My mother, sister, brother-in-law, and Lovebug drove down yesterday morning so that our extended relatives could meet the baby.  I will be driving down with Dad and the team this afternoon, however I will not be staying for the Elite Eight game if we are blessed to make it past Sunday.  I will be driving home with my sister after the Sweet Sixteen, because I have a little thing called "two three-hour seminar classes" on Monday.  If I'm going to miss any classes, I will miss due to the Final Four (knock wood).  Priorities, people.

Because my mom and sister drove down already, last night would be just me and Dad for dinner.  Dad.  And I.  Alone.  For dinner.  Lord, help me.

This is what I want you all to think about whenever you hear my Dad spouting off at the press conferences next week.  Think about the insanity I endure, be thankful you don't have to live with it, and pray for me.

My father and I have completely separate palates.  He's a meat-pasta-potatoes guy with a profound hatred of garlic, whereas I just recently have transitioned to a mostly gluten and dairy-free diet due to allergies.  A dinner we could both enjoy without killing each other or setting the kitchen on fire would be a magnanimous feat.  Factor in the knowledge that Dad usually looks at my dinners like I'm about to enjoy a bowl of owl pellets, and I was worried he'd set me on fire.

I told Dad I'd be out of my yoga class at around 6, and he told me he'd be home around 8.  I usually take the 6 PM class but I knew Dad wanted to have dinner and 7:30 would have been pushing it.  Plus, I wanted to make a really nice dinner for us and I wanted that time.

After my practice I hopped on our elliptical machine in the basement for about twenty-five minutes, just to kill some time, and thought about what to make for Dad and I that we'd both like  The options were limited.  I came upstairs from the basement and stared into the abyss of our fridge.  Chicken.  Potatoes.  Soy cheese.  Asparagus.   God, help me.

I slowly started seasoning a piece of chicken with a rub that was laced with garlic.  I had no idea what Dad wanted on his chicken but I knew if I put garlic on it he'd go postal, so I left it uncooked.  I also stuck some asparagus in the oven.  By this time, it was around 7:30, and I was getting to the point of hunger where you start thinking about choking people for no reason.  Dad was nowhere in sight.  I dialed his number numerous times.

Finally, I hopped into the shower, came back down to the kitchen, and started cooking my own piece of chicken.  I also threw together a big salad for us to share with some spinach and red onion.  I topped my share of the greens with a strawberry balsamic, something I really like but I didn't think Dad would.  I didn't know if he wanted rice or a potato, and our loaf of ciabatta bread had been sitting out and had gotten stale to the point where you could easily beat up a burglar with it.

Around 8 PM, I was so hungry I considered spraying Pam into my mouth.  I cooked my piece of chicken, topping it with some roasted red peppers and a slice of soya cheddar.  I had just sat down to my dinner when Dad walked in.

"Hey! Did you make anything for me?"

"There's asparagus in the oven," I said quickly, housing some of it as I spoke.  He looked over at the stovetop.  "Is that the chicken?" he asked.

"Yes, I didn't know what you wanted me to do with it, so I didn't cook it.  Just throw it in the skillet."

"Okay.  Can you just put some oil and salt and pepper on it?"

I got up and did so.

"Can you put it on the skillet? Do we have any potatoes?"

"Yes, I'll put one in the oven for you." I opened the oven.  But wait! His asparagus! "Do you want some of this?" I asked, waving the pan in his face.  He shook his head.  Ah, well, more for me.  I dumped it onto my plate after poking the potato with a fork, washing it, and shoving it into the oven for about an hour.  Dad proceeded to take over the chicken cooking on the skillet so I could have a few more bites of my dinner.  He stared at the salad I had cobbled together.

"What kind of lettuce is this?"

I looked up.  Disbelieving.  "It's spinach."


"Oh.  Is it good?"

"I eat it all the time." Which is true.  I practically buy out the supermarket's supply of Olivia's Organics.

"What do you put on it?"

"...Dressing?"

"Oh.  Okay.  Do you want wine?"

Can I put a straw in the bottle?

I think by this point you can see what happened next.  I got slightly schnockered and proceeded to coach Dad through the preparation of his chicken and salad.  If you follow my Twitter (@alysamarsiella) you can see that all of the above events are true and did in fact happen.

I tease, but Dad actually did a great job.  He put some of his fra diavolo sauce on the chicken, as well as some hot pepper flakes and chili powder (I had a bite and I'm shocked I didn't immediately get an ulcer). He also had the brilliant idea of putting roasted chestnuts into his portion of the salad, along with some balsamic vinegar and olive oil.  It actually turned out to be an amazing dinner, despite some hiccups.  He was very proud of himself, and I think he should get a gold star and an extra ten minutes at nap time.

The potato looked done about 45 minutes into cooking, so I took it out of the oven and presented it to Dad.  He cut it open and looked as if he had been given a piece of raw fish.  "This isn't cooked! Put it back in the oven! It's raw!"  I did, but I may have shot him a look that would level several Vulcans.  It was a bit of a blessing in disguise, however...the potato, when cooked sliced open, had the consistency and flavor of a large French fry.  I may have found a new favorite way of cooking potatoes, and Dad loved it.

Aside from a slightly awkward moment at the beginning of the meal as Dad attempted to convince me to go on to PHd after I receive my Masters (one step at a time, Pops), we managed to get through the meal with laughter and good feelings.  And wine.  Obviously.

After dinner, Mom called, and I overheard Dad say to her "Dinner was great! I made some chicken and  a baked potato." To which I emphatically yelled "I PUT IT ON THE SKILLET."

Silence.  Then - "Yeah, Ally helped."

Glug glug.

We settled into the couch and watched the end of the UCONN game as well as the beginnings of the Duke and Butler games.  We finished off the night with wine, Ben and Jerry's (for him), chocolate-flavored tea and fruit(for me...gave up dessert for Lent because I'm a masochist, and trust me I was craving some chocolate), and several viewings of e*trade baby commercials I found through youtube that caused us to huddle around my laptop, howling with laughter.  Dad's favorite one is the 'Solitary' spot, where the baby is given a time-out for riding the family dog around like a horse.  Apparently it's 'frowned upon in this establishment'.

About halfway into the Butler game, Dad looked at me with concern.  "You're up late! Shouldn't you be in bed?" I looked at the clock.  10:30.  I'm usually upstairs and in bed around 9.  Which says a lot about my social life.  Although in my defense, I go upstairs around 9 and then just sit around watching reruns of Criminal Minds and The Late Late Show until midnight.  Wait, did I say that? I meant I study.  All night.

I nodded, and got up to give him a hug.  He gave me a kiss on the cheek, thanked me for dinner, and said the best birthday present he got this year was the call telling him I'd gotten into grad school.

And suddenly...a frantic night, a carafe of wine, a nearly-exploding potato, and a demanding/picky eater didn't seem so bad after all.

Happy birthday, Dad.

ally

PS.  I did get Dad a tangible present as well as the announcement of my continuing education.  I purchased him a jar of roasted chestnuts.  It seemed right.  I almost put a bow on it, but that would have been too on the nose.

PPS.  The quote of the night comes from Dad telling me about the young man who won the National Wrestling Championship, despite only having one leg.  "Ally.  He can do an 8 minute mile on crutches.  I can't even do an 8 minute mile on a bike."

Beware the Ides of March.

Quick thoughts on the Big East Tournament:

Man.  There's lousy refing and then there is lousy refing.  Every single game I've attended this year has been marred by atrocious calls.  But aside from that, I only have one complaint: The MVP of the tourney was Stefani Dolson.  Maya got the hardware.  But Stefani earned a place in the hearts and minds of every person, whether a spectator or journalist, who watched those three games.  She is going to be something special.  In fact, she already is.

Now, on to the task at hand.  It's MARCH.  Oh, March.

It's my favorite time of year.  It's the best time for anyone who's a fan of spring, but when you like basketball as much as I do, March is the golden age.  Thank God I look good in green.

I wish every month were as jampacked with awesome as March is.  However, if there is one thing to be sacrificed in the name of March, it's sleep.  The time of March Madness is always a little bit...well..mad in the Auriemma house.  Lots of traveling, hotels, raised blood pressures, and excuses to eat concessions soft pretzels for dinner.  

And Chinese food.  Lots and lots of Chinese food.  We've basically kept Manchester China running over the past several years.  It isn't March Madness until Dad's had his mushu pork at least three times in a single week.  My personal poison is General Tso's, but different strokes for different folks.

I have not done my bracket yet because to be quite honest, I don't know how to do it with the additions made in the men's tournament.  There are a bunch of new games to squeeze into the bracket and the absence of several quality teams from the field this year has many people rankled across the board, both on the layman level and on the professional level.  I thought Jay Bilas' head was going to explode when the bracket was announced.  Rage.  RAGE.

My general analysis is as follows for the men's bracket.

1. Thank God Villanova got in.  The bracket got a lot more handsome with their inclusion.  Joking aside, Dick Vitale was right: Look out for Villanova.  They always find a way to shock (although not in the best way last year, I nearly had a heart attack during the Franklin Pierce game last year).  When they're good, they are very, very good.  I can see them stunning a few teams on their way to Houston.

2.  UCONN as a 3 is justified after both the not-so-great two months they've had and the nothing short of miraculous run they had last week.  5 wins in 5 nights? Jeff Jacobs of the Hartford Courant was right when he tweeted a few nights into the tournament that Kemba Walker may have been locked in a hyperbaric chamber overnight in order to retain his energy levels.  What an incredible accomplishment.

3. The JIMMER.  I'm a sucker for baby-faced sharpshooters.  Jimmer Fredette's career is nothing short of extraordinary.  He has the range of JJ Redick and the muscularity of Tyler Hansborough.  My father and I were watching the BYU/Arizona game and Dad pointed out Jimmer's ability to square up as he elevated towards the basket.  I'm structuring my bracket to make it BYU's year to run the table.  If they don't, it will be a consequence of the suspension of Brandon Davies for 'relations' with his girlfriend.  Either that, or someone overdoses on tea and ruins everything for the Cougars.  Go Mormons!

As for the women's bracket, I was pretty positive that we would get Hartford as our 16 seed (although had Delaware won their conference, it would have been pretty interesting to see if they had landed in the Philly region).  I was thrilled, however, to see Depaul as our 3.  It would be a bit uncomfortable, sure, to play them in the final game before Indianapolis.  But what a great way to close out the season.  DePaul is no small pickings, might I add.  With their glut of seniors-some of them in their 5th year-they have a lot of experience and will prove heavy competition for any team that stands in their way.  The Big East is very well-represented, as it should be.  

How about Baylor and Texas A&M in the same bracket? In Dallas, no less? That will be a showdown for the ages.  Reminds me of when we got Rutgers as a 2 seed back in the '08 Greensboro Regional.  

There are a few glitches.  I'm incredibly surprised at the low seeding of Temple, and it's surprising Syracuse didn't get in since they defeated a few high-profile teams.  But you can't win every battle, and thank goodness for other tournaments like the NIT/WNIT.  Lots of games no matter how you slice it.  There are a lot of changes this year and we all must ride the wave.

Speaking of change...

There have been a lot of resignations and firings this week.  One of them struck me to the core.

There are certain people that you cannot imagine living your life without their influence.

Debbie Ryan is one of those people. 

Debbie announced her resignation as head coach at Virginia this week.  I was stunned, as was most of my family.  At first, I thought it was because of failing health (Coach Ryan, as most of you know, dealt with pancreatic cancer about a decade ago and is in remission), but that was quickly put to rest with her statement to the press about the nature of her decision: she didn't feel the program (or her coaching) lived up to her expectations, and she chose to walk away rather than keep at it.  I have a tremendous amount of respect for this decision.  Some people don't know when to walk away and the joy of your profession turns into repeated flogging of a dead horse.

While Ryan stated this is not a retirement from the game, it did cause me to think about what might happen if my father were to retire any time soon.  Not like that's happening.  He's got far too much on his plate to even consider it.  But it does give one pause.  It's not like he can coach until he's 97.  Although the visual is pretty hilarious if you think about it hard enough.  Instead of throwing clipboards, he throws a walker?

I cannot overstate the importance of Debbie Ryan to the game of basketball.  Her team came four points shy of ending our 1995 championship season two games early if you remember.  The players that have come out of her program are household names to women's basketball fans.  Dawn Staley is the only player from a losing team to ever be named MOP of a Final Four (1991, UVA lost to Tennessee in the championship game...after defeating us in the semifinal).  And of course, Tonya Cardoza came out of that program.  

The fact that she suggested my Dad when UCONN came calling for the head coaching job back in 1985 is important, obviously, but not the entire story.  Debbie Ryan part of the old guard which includes my father as well as Pat Summitt, Jim Foster, and Leon Barmore.  She will be sorely missed if this is the last season we see her on the sideline.  I hope that's not the case and that another school recognizes her talents and snaps her up.

If there is one thing I've learned over the past few years, but especially over this week, it is this:

Nothing is permanent.  

And that's a horrendous segue into what I implore of you now, but that's the way I'm swinging today and this needed to be commented on.

The catastrophe in Japan last week are an all too real reminder of the temporality of life.  These buildings we live in, the laptop I'm typing on, the very skins we inhabit - all, ultimately, have an ending date on them.  My heart breaks for the people affected by the Japan quake and tsunami, and I hope all of you can open your hearts and lend your support.

Please give as much as you can to the Red Cross effort to help those devastated by the Japan earthquake and tsunami.  Text 'JAPAN' to 90999 and donate $10 from your phone, or go to redcross.org and donate there.

Pray for Japan.  Pray for Libya.  Pray for all.

ally

PS: Happy birthday Gina!

The Adjustment Bureau. 3/4 stars.

Yesterday I got dolled up and went to the picture show!

Well, strike that.  I actually rolled into the movie theatre in Manchester, CT, still sweaty from my morning workout.  I also snuck an iced coffee into the theater.  Sorry, Rave Cinema.  I understand you need to make your coffee more expensive.  So you must understand my need to sneak in a venti decaf Americano in my purse.  Yes, I hid a giant iced coffee in my purse.

I went to see the aforementioned film, The Adjustment Bureau, not only because I have a thing for Matt Damon (which I do and have one even more so after seeing the film) but also in the hopes that it would be as thought provoking as Inception.  It was, but in a totally different way.

David Norris is a politician of the people.  He's got youth and good looks, he's running against a professed 'tool', he's all about the grassroots, a passionate community organizer, charisma out the yingyang.  Unfortunately, thanks to some party boy antics in his younger days, he loses his first major election. He accidentally runs into contemporary ballet dancer Elise (Emily Blunt) while prepping his concession speech.  They spark an instant connection.  He ends up seeing her again a few months later and she gives him her phone number, but after witnessing a strange event in his office he is visited by The Adjustment Bureau-whose job is to make sure your life goes according 'to the plan'.  The head of his team of Adjusters, played by John Slattery, warns him that if he doesn't stick to his set plan and forget about Elise, he have his memory wiped away, or 'reset'.  "Your family will think you've gone crazy.  You won't think anything at all."  But love finds a way, as it always does.

The rest of the movie propels forward the way you would think it does; David returns strong to politics, and Elise skyrockets in the dance world.  But all they can think about is each other.  The Bureau tries to keep them apart because they are on different 'life paths' but one Adjuster (Anthony Mackie) has a change of heart and attempts to help David after seeing his dogged determination to see Elise again.

This movie's romance is what makes it special.  From the moment they meet, you completely buy the romance between David and Elise and root for them to be together.  Their first meeting in a men's bathroom (a scene less convoluted than it sounds) ricochets with chemistry, and Matt Damon and Emily Blunt are totally credible as two strangers who meet and fall in love at first sight.  It's not a white-hot heat that generates between them, but more of a slow burn which grows as the film progresses.  Elise, as a passionate, eccentric and ballsy dancer, represents boundless freedom from the stagnant life David has recently found himself in, and David represents safety and comfort to Elise.  There's a moment where one member of the Bureau says "If he sees her dance, it's over." Contemporary dance is one of the ultimate forms of pure freedom of movement in the arts.  When David spies Elise practicing her solo, he can't help but be entranced.  Neither can we.

This is a great piece for Matt Damon, who is perennially underrated.  What's not to like about him? He won a screenplay Academy Award for a film he was also up for Best Actor in, and he's only gotten better since.  His appearance on Inside The Actor's Studio is one of my favorites, considering he said the best piece of advice he ever got about acting was from the Farrelly Brothers ("Suck less").  He's proven he can be in intellectual fare such as The Rainmaker, funny films like Stuck On You, Oscar bait like Invictus, and also high octane action thrillers.  This is Jason Bourne, after all.  Here, he plays a very good guy, perhaps a great guy, who's thrown into a situation he can't understand and can't follow.  It's not an 'aw shucks' role (David has a lot of strength and agency, despite the movie's attempts to tell us otherwise) and he will stop at nothing to get Elise back.  He's also able to display some humor...unlike Inception, David is completely aware of the insanity going on around him and he uses a 'WTF' face to great effect throughout the film.

As for Emily Blunt...I wish she were a bigger star than she is.  Although now that she's Mrs. John Krasinski her stock will go up, but hopefully people will go see this movie based on her acting abilities, which are very big.  The last time I saw her in a contemporary piece it was back when she was in The Devil Wears Prada, and she stole the movie right out from under Anne Hathaway's Blahniks.  In this film, she soars.  From her first entrance, you immediately know this chick is a dancer.  Natalie Portman gave a phenomenal performance in Black Swan but Emily Blunt's version of things is more realistic and with less paranoia or desire to be 'perfect' (and, honestly, much less lesbian sex and stabbing).  She had wonderful lines, great technique, and pure emotion.  One scene which nearly made me stand up and cheer was a moment where Elise, on the brink of a major decision, goes to her dance studio in warmup clothes.  The front desk asks why she's there.  She shrugs and says "I just needed to be on the floor." That feeling of finding peace in art is something any artist can relate to.

The members of the Bureau themselves are all good, but they aren't given a whole heck of a lot to do other than run around and look menacing in fedoras.   Sometimes John Slattery's role merely requires him to stand still, look at David and Elise together in the middle distance, and mumble "Son of a bitch" or "That bastard!" Which was hilarious, but it lacked character development.  The standout of the team is Anthony Mackie, whose performance as an Adjuster with a conscience is quiet, reserved, and well-calibrated.  The film also gets a big boost with the introduction of Terrence Stamp into the proceedings as the Bureau's most dangerous worker.  He doesn't look like it, but you quickly find out why his nickname is "The Hammer."

If I had any problems with the film it would be the ending, which lacks direction and feels very rushed.  It's as if the editors realized they only had ten minutes to wrap up the storyline so they introduced a deux ex machina to get the plot squared away.  It's an excuse for Matt Damon and Emily Blunt to run around New York City and throw open as many doors as he can.  This is where the special effects department really outdid themselves.  The Bureau travel through doorways and shortcuts (the secret to their success is hilarious but you kind of buy that as the movie goes along) and once David is taught the secrets, he utilizes them to full effect.

All in all, however, the romance is what sold me.  The question of defying your fate was an interesting one, and one I did ponder over on the drive home.

I must confess, though, that the entire movie, I may have been thinking about this.

Tiger, Tiger, Burning Bright, In The Forests Of The Night.

So.  Charlie Sheen.

I have been known to be quite a Twitter connoisseur.  If you follow me (@alysamarsiella), you can see I love to Tweet, and indeed, I had a bit of a freakout during this past weekend's Oscar telecast.  I'm calling it the "2011 Oscar Night Twitter Meltdown."  I believe I got a bit nuts and I do apologize (I believe one of my finer moments was frantically typing "F##K YOU RANDY NEWMAN" when his song beat the one from Tangled for Best Song).  But I'm pretty sure me freaking out over Robert Downey Jr. and Jude Law's undeniable bromantic chemistry is a hell of a lot more soberly satisfying than watching the meltdown of one of Hollywood's most promising stars.

I was first aware of Charlie Sheen in the Major League films, and I thought he was a goodlooking, charismatic, funny guy.  I had no idea his real name was Carlos Estevez, or that he was Gordon Bombay's younger brother.  (For the tragically unhip, Gordon Bombay -> Emilio Estevez).  Then I saw one of his earliest appearances as a young criminal who makes out with Jennifer Grey in Ferris Bueller's Day Off.  Even with circles under his eyes and a cracked out appearance, I thought he was still very goodlooking and had a good sense of comic timing.  One of my favorite lines from that movie ("You wear a lot of eye makeup.  My sister wears a lot of eye makeup.  People think she's a whore") comes from Mr. Sheen.

When the whole thing with Heidi Fleiss happened, I wasn't exactly paying attention.  I was at the impressionable age where I thought a hooker was something you threw to a fish.  Then he got married to Denise Richards and they seemed genuinely happy, and despite starring in one of the shittiest shows on television (apologies to everyone who likes Two and a Half Men.  All four of you.), he seemed as if he was getting his life together.  I wished him well and moved on.

And now look at him.

Aside from the fact that people have seemed to forgot he held a knife to his wife's throat, they are actively participating in one of Hollywood's greatest tragedies.

I think of Charlie Sheen as the Britney Spears of 2011, back when Britney was clubbing with Paris Hilton and shaving her head.  Everyone was throwing shade at Britney, laughing hysterically, and I thought to myself "This girl needs help or she is going to die."

Which is why I won't watch any interview Charlie Sheen does or follow him on his Twitter, despite his new record as the fastest person to ever get to 1,000,000 followers.  People are dying of laughter, reposting the things he says and hashtags (#tigerblood and #WINNING being main among them), and once again, I think to myself, "This person is going to die."  

Hollywood loves a comeback story, but I'm pretty sure this is not the comeback they had in mind for Charlie Sheen.  This is a comedown.  This is a full scale meltdown.  We are witnessing the implosion of a mind for public consumption, and the public is eating it like vultures after an ambush.

The difference between Britney Spears and Charlie Sheen is that Britney has a family that roped her in, got her straightened out, and rehabbed her career.  You would think President Bartlet would be doing something right about now, but the fact of the matter is, Charlie's 45 years old.  Britney was 26 when her meltdown happened, and young enough for her father to retain a conservatorship over her, making sure she would be protected and watched.

The number one problem I have with both cases is that children are involved.  Britney had an almost-newborn son and a 1 and a half year old son.  Charlie Sheen has twin boys who are barely under the age of two, and two girls with Denise Richards.  Jayden and Preston Federline seemed to have adjusted since Britney's meltdown.  But I walked into my family room the other day and watched on Extra! as Sheen's children were forcibly taken away from him.  And my heart broke.

Charlie doesn't require a conservator.  He requires a padded cell.

Instead of a family unit to surround himself with, what does he have? Two girlfriends he calls 'Goddesses'.  One of whom is a porn star.  I don't mind that she's a porn star so much as I mind that she's a working porn star.  And he spends the time he should be using getting his children back and his life in order doing what? Drinking chocolate milk, ranting on Twitter about how he goes down on five girls at once, exploiting his ex-wife, and systematically ruining his career, if he really had any to begin with.

Craig Ferguson, my favorite late-night talk show host-and indeed, one of my favorite people on planet Earth-has come out to say he will not make fun of Sheen anymore, comparing it to the 1800s British tradition of going to Bedlam Hospital and paying a nickel to look at the mentally ill through a peephole.  Craig Ferguson, as some of you may know, spent the majority of the 1980s as a drunk and junkie and has spent nearly the last 20 years clean and sober.  He talks about his struggles in his autobiography American On Purpose: The Confessions of an Unlikely Patriot and after reading his story I respect the hell out of him.  When Craig Ferguson, who had the balls to make fun of his boss David Letterman after his sex scandal, says you're too sad and mentally ill to make fun of anymore? Then you know you have a problem.  He also stopped making fun of Britney Spears after she shaved her head.  "She's 25 years old.  She's a baby," he admonished his audience.

Charlie Sheen isn't a baby, but he's sure as hell acting like one.  He's a 45 year old manchild who has had plenty of chances to grow up.  It's time we left him alone and let him do that.

Let's get our minds off of people who are seriously mentally ill and delusional and focus our efforts on other areas that truly need our attention.

In conclusion...where is Duckie when you need him? Come on, Jon Cryer.  Get on this and fix it.  Team Duckie.

Oh, and "tiger blood"? Sorry, Sheen.  Brian Fantana did it better with Sex Panther.  It's made from bits of real panther.  So you know it's good...

ally

PS. If you'd like to see when Craig Ferguson announced he wouldn't be making fun of Charlie Sheen go here. If you'd also like to see when he talked about Britney, go go here.

is it obvious, by the way, that I'm going through a humongous Craig Ferguson appreciation phase?

Info-Dump.

People want me to talk about things other than myself on the blog? Well, you got it in spades with this post.

I didn't want to talk about the crisis in Libya and Bahrain.  I wanted to keep my mind focused on happier things.  But the pictures I've seen and the stories I've heard must be told, and passed on.

I don't know about all of you, but I have spent the last three days glued to my computer, frantic with information and worry about the people of Libya and the fight for revolution over there.  I've been attempting to compile a list of links so that everyone can stay up to date.

This is an Up To Date link so that you all can catch up and also read the 'why where how's' of what is going on over there.  Just be careful when clicking to pictures, because what is seen can never be unseen.

I also found a huge list of links to interviews, news updates, and opinion pieces.  You can find that at  Pantsless Progressive.

This is genocide.  I can't stress that strongly enough.

Qadaffi is exacting a massacre that could become something we haven't seen since Pol Pot or the deaths in Rwanda.  Right now the US is silent because to intervene would not only be a horrible idea, it's also technically illegal.  Unless Libya or Bahrain asks for intervention, we can't give it to them.

In case you needed another reason to get angry, get involved, or just get going, I will show you a picture of a .52 caliber bullet.

This bullet, which as you can see spans the length of a human hand, is mostly used for construction and demolition.  It can tear the walls of buildings apart.

Currently, Qadaffi is using these bullets to shoot protestors.  It was an accident, but I have seen pictures of what these bullets do to people, and it will haunt me for the rest of my life.

This is not Egypt 2.0 and Mubarak is not nearly on the same level as Qadaffi.  Mubarak had the sense to leave when he knew he had to.  Qadaffi is hiding in Tripoli and ordering his soldiers to kill male protesters and rape the female ones.  The army has responded by defecting to the side of the revolutionaries.

Libya is a smaller country run by a much more dangerous man in Qadaffi and his son, "the principle", is growing more unhinged by the day.  The Sultans have ordered anyone who sees Qadaffi to shoot on sight.

And yet people over there fight.  They fight for change, they fight for justice, they fight for freedom.

Here, we only get pissed off if someone threatens to give us health care.  We're taking away PBS and spending it on NASCAR.  And in Libya, people are literally dying for the gifts we take for granted.

Don't waste a second.

Politics break.

Vive Libye.

ally

PS. If you want to show your support on Twitter or on another system where you can change your font color, change it to green, because red is the color of Qadaffi's Libya.

And because it's something I found unbelievably awesome, here: a man in Egypt ordered a pizza for the protestors in Wisconsin.

for anyone who has ever suffered.

"How much do you weigh?"

i've heard this so many times.  

why do people assume that I know?

One friend says I couldn't weigh more than 110.  Another, 105.

I live three lifetimes in those moments before I answer.

They don't know.  

They don't know how it feels to crouch and pull at the rolls of your flesh as you stare at the three numbers,

their pronouncement the end of my world in many ways,

the '2' at the beginning of my worth.

They don't know the green eyed monster.

pounding a treadmill, eyes down at a magazine, willing your strong italian legs to grow five inches.

They don't know the teachers telling you to lose weight for parts.

They don't know the side profile stare as the pants don't fit in the dressing room,

The size 16 pant with the 'V' still present in the zipper.  It ain't closing,

No matter how raw my hands get.

They don't know what it feels like to get really pissed off.

202.

They don't know the euphoria of watching that number drop.  Feeling strong.  Feeling great.

Feeling like everything is falling into place.

Hearing teachers say 'you could lose more in your hips.'

'You've come so far, you could go even further.'

They don't know what happens when the pendulum swings, hard, the opposite direction.

They don't know the feeling of the eyes, rolling back in the head, the sudden cold sweat.

Staring intensely at the calories on the back of a cereal box when my hair is falling out.

Counting my ribs in the mirror, while my skin turns grey.

Feeling power when my finger and thumb can close around my wrist.

Punching in the numbers of a tablespoon of ketchup.

The clothes getting bigger.  And bigger.  6, 4, 2.

Spitting food out in the toilet, watching Hershey Kisses swirl and flush down the drain.

Cutting out days with friends because it cut into my gym time.

Cutting out dates with boys because it wasn't in my meal plan.

They don't know what it feels like to feel unbearably alone.

136, 138, 132, 134, 133, 130.  Depending on the day, hour, minute.

They don't know what it feels like to want to get well.

They don't know what it feels like to want to get well, then get really, really sick.
130, 145, 133, 138, 143, 131.

To want to eat so badly but to not be able to.

To live on liquids for three months.

To only be able to eat carrots for two weeks and it turns your face orange.

Being confronted by people you love.

It isn't your brain that's the problem anymore.

To be scoped, examined, anesthetized, picked apart and probed, before you're old enough to rent a car.

To feel like you're rotting on the inside.

To feel like no one will ever love you in this state, despite of all you have to give.

They don't know what it feels like to start running.

To realize you can have peanut butter without feeling like a failure.

To give yourself to your work and fall head over heels in love with your literature dreams.

To take up yoga and realize it was the one thing you never knew you always needed.

To laugh again.

To dance again.

To not live in fear.

They don't know what it feels like to feel everything.

To love your legs, chest, belly, and lack of a behind.

To accept that there will be days that absolutely suck.

To throw out your scales.

To not be defined by Numbers.

Math sucks.

"How much do you weigh?"

I have no idea.  Thank God.

-

in honor of national eating disorder week.  if you've ever had a problem with disordered eating, "it's time to talk about it."

If you want me you can watch me on my videophone

So! There's an internet vlog that's been going around lately where you say a set of words that supposedly tells the viewer a lot about your regional accent/dialect.  I am a huge fan of dialects and linguistic/regional phrases, so I figured I'd do it, too.  Enjoy my awkwardness.  And my hot pink yoga headband.  And my dirty sweatshirt.  What? It's my day off.

[[note: I have been told I have a deep voice, and that I'm too loud.  I won't argue this, seeing as...it's true.]]

Also, I haven't done this in a while, but it's Recommendation Wednesday.  This week, I'll be doing "Books I'm Reading At The Moment."

First, books that I'm reading for school:
Macbeth by William Shakespeare (I've read it about 4 billion times and I've done the play once, but it's always nice to revisit it).  We're also reading criticisms of the play by Coleridge, and a few Victorian adaptations of it.
The Odyssey translated by William Lattimore.  I adore this story but I like The Iliad better (I'm a little in love with Hektor, breaker of horses aka my literary boyfriend)
The Culture of Classicism by Caroline Winterer.  A book that discusses the shift in studying Classics from Rome to Greece in the American 1800s-1900s (our country was founded on the Roman philosophies but then the POV shifted to a more Hellenistic viewpoint in the Victorian age).  Interesting, and we're reading it in counterpoint to Homer.

And now the books I'm reading for fun.
Furious Love: Elizabeth Taylor, Richard Burton, and the Marriage of the Century. by Nancy Schoenberger.
“Theirs was the first reality show, a marriage with an audience."
Insane, decadent, debauched, and at the same time quite simple and romantic telling of "Le Scandale" that shocked the world and brought Hollywood into the tabloid age. Brangelina is child's play compared to this tale of two married people who fell for each other on the set of a big budget movie.  Although unlike Brad and Angelina, Elizabeth and Richard did not even bother to hide their relationship. They flaunted it.  However, it was surprising to see in this book that "Liz and Dick" really did love each other, and the fact that Richard wrote to Elizabeth just before his death wondering if they should have another chance, and Elizabeth received that letter after he died...it's heartbreaking.  I'm about halfway through, and can't wait to read the rest.  It's juuuuicy.

American on Purpose: The Improbable Adventures of an Unlikely Patriot. by Craig Ferguson.
"Peter was the first person who told me that being funny was a gift and, when done well, was an art form...Up until this point, I had learned that being funny, particularly in school, was stupid and could get you physically injured.”
You might know Craig Ferguson as the irrepressibly hilarious host of the Late Late Show, or Mr. Wick on The Drew Carey Show.  You may not have heard of his past as a Scottish standup comedian whose signature character was named "Bing Hitler", nor of his exploits as a raging alcoholic in the 1980s who contemplated suicide several times before finally getting sober in 1992.  This book is funny, but it's not the riproaring riot that you might expect.  Instead, it's a beautifully composed examination of a life lived hard, and lived fast, and nearly over far too soon.  It is eloquent, amusing, and deeply moving.

Pistol: A Biography of Pete Maravich by Mark Kriegel
"Pistol Pete was, in fact, his father's vision, built to the old man's exacting specifications."
If you are a fan of basketball in general, you should know something about Pete Maravich.  44.2 points per game at LSU, in the era before a 3 point line.  First to score more than 3,000 points in a career, still the leading scorer in NCAA history.  He did it all in 3 seasons.  And then, he disappeared.  I watched videotapes of Pete when I was a kid and knew that if I wanted to play basketball, I should be playing like Pete.  I stood in my backyard and shot the ball for hours until I had a good strong right hand shot.  I dribbled for days, because not only was Pete a dynamite shooter he was a ballhandler on the level of the Globetrotters.  But at the end of the day, I was only mimicking.  I could never be as good as the Pistol.  And this book is excellent in depicting how a father, to regain the glory he had in his youth, basically isolates and trains his son to be an assassin.  And the basketball is his rifle.  A beautifully written, absorbing look at one of the great enigmas of the college game who died far, far too soon.


Unbearable Lightness: A Story of Loss and Gain. By Portia de Rossi (DeGeneres).
"I didn't decide to become anorexic. It snuck up on me disguised as a healthy diet, a professional attitude. Being as thin as possible was a way to make the job of being an actress easier . . ."
I actually bought this and finished it around the same day.  This book is for anybody who has ever thought they weren't good enough, smart enough, pretty enough, or thin enough.  I related to this book so much, and not just the bits about eating disorders.  When I was in college, I was pressured by my teachers to lose weight.  So the summer before my senior year, I lost close to 50 pounds, going from 202 to around 155.  I felt amazing.  I came back for school and met with one of my teachers, who told me she was so proud of my progress.  I glowed.  She then said cheerfully, looking at my midsection, "You could lose even more around your hips."  


That feeling of total and utter failure, of just a little bit more has haunted me ever since.  I am never satisfied with any accomplishments I've made with my health, my work, my family, my life, any of it.  And I can trace it back to that one sentence.  This book, gorgeously written by DeGeneres, really explains the mindset of anorexia and any umbrella eating disorder.  It's not really about the food. It's about the willpower, the loss of control, and the urge to completely control your environment.  Unlike so many stories of eating disorders, however, this one has a gloriously happy ending.   


Off to get in a home practice of yoga, then watching the UCONN/Syracuse game.  I wonder how many times the announcers are going to mention "The Game" during this matchup? And most importantly, I wonder how many crazy people will actually show up to watch??

Ally