She's not mentioned in the article, but my mom (who still teaches in the system) says the new principal is the one who pulled the paper. In a perhaps-unrelated story, a month after school started, the entire math department apparently threatened to resign over something she'd done. The entire department. Shortly after, the English department did the same.
Couple days after this went down, the Sentinel published pictures of the student editor and staff holding up the "banned" pages. One of them was wearing a t-shirt that read "Censorship got me pregnant".
Tom Bailey's quote is a real screamer: "We have a responsibility to the public to do the right thing...We've got 14-year-olds that read the newspaper." The Surgeon General, among others, has reported that teaching preaching abstinence to teens doesn't keep them from having sex, but from having safe sex. Why do the OR administrators want to subject our little brothers, sisters, and friends to inferior educational practices? Ask them.
And the worse part is that it's happening here, in our supposed bastion of, if not liberalism, moderation and rational thought. More PhDs per square mile than any other city on earth, and now we're no better than the rest of our howl-at-the-moon swamp-dwelling moonshine-swilling cousin-fucking* red state.
[edit, 11:52 PM: Thanks, Linda.]
Huh. Not as funny written down (and sobering up), is it?
Everything what happened tonight gets told sans words when it's light outside. In the meantime, I told you I wasn't making this up. Although it turns out I did accidentally exaggerate one fact - it's bronze; not gold. (Cause that'd be overkill.)
I can't believe how close I came to staying in.
So Lunchy McBoxerton, Esq., has discovered Season 4. Reading about his "heedless euphoria" (awesome) made me wish I could see the season premiere again for the first time. I mean the first hour's so MEH, but the second? There are very few moments, even on this show, that still give me chills years after, no matter how many repeated viewings I allow myself. Conventional wisdom holds that Seasons 1 & 2 are the Genius Seasons, 3 & 4 a little less so (though even in their shade-less-than-transcendency they effortlessly surpass all subsequent seasons and anything else on TV, ever), and while that's mostly true, I will stack the two minutes of '20 Hours in America (Part II)' that are backed by "I Don't Like Mondays" against anything in the first four seasons not named 'Two Cathedrals' or 'In the Shadow of Two Gunmen'. ANYTHING.
Sadly, after that, it falls off for a bit, but the dials turn back up to Inimitable for 'Debate Camp' through 'Process Stories' (except for the Stupid Subplot of Stupid Christian Slater). That's the good news. The bad news is that the episode right after that is 'Swiss Diplomacy' ("The One Sorkin Didn't Write"), which is the low point of the first four years, bar none. Don't let that stop you, however...you have to slog through a lot of meh-ness (though again, half-assed teevee from Sorkin & Schlamme is still better than anything else on teevee) to get to 'Evidence of Things Not Seen', the last killer ep before S & S decided to go out in a blaze of contrivance and Republicans, but it's worth the wait. (I do have to confess that the white title cards still give the shivers.)
'Box, I wish I could immerse myself in the experience you're having. Not that they don't get better with repeat viewing, but there's a special tang (The Drink Of Astronauts!) that comes with the surprise of beholding genius in every frame for the first time that I don't get to savor anymore. I haven't watched the show in over two years. I hear tell it finally got good again, and I did see one episode in Season 5 with Glenn Close that would seem to support that argument, but...it's Just Not The Same, and I don't feel like pretending otherwise. I wish I still cared about the show's continuing run, but why bother? With the arrival of Season 4 on DVD and the advent of Studio 7, these few years that saw us denied our Brain Candy will soon be nothing but an unpleasant memory.
Enjoy the hell out of those 25 hours, Jesse. Roll in them. Marinate in them. Genius is tasty.
...Guys?
This isn't a review. I don't imagine I'll write one. I know the ending, and most of the questions I'm mulling about the adaptation require short, declarative answers. If you want a review, there's a pretty amazing one here, of all places. It starts out like this: "RENT is the kind of thing you're supposed to write before you die, even if you don't know you're dying". Don't read it if you've never seen the show. [Sidebar: Did y'all know La Boheme was first performed in 1896? Spookay!] And I'm sorry, in advance, about the tagline at the end. It could not be helped. Cloying? Sure. So's the music. (If it makes you feel any better, though, the alternate title was "Jesus Everloving Christ, It's Just a Fucking Musical".)
So the movie's out tomorrow, and everyone I know who's not climbing the walls in delirium doesn't seem to quite know what to think yet. I'm with them.
And in my own defense, it's not because it's a show that first hit all of us at a very...malleable time in our lives (though it did) and seeing it all "commercialized", seeing it in the hands and through the lens of Chris God Damned Columbus is gonna be weird (though it is) and hearing random be-Ugg-booted shrieker-monkeys wailing its melodies on the streets for the next six months will be trying to our "jaded" innards (though it will).
I heard the music for the first time right after the show hit, and right before it hit big, when a lucky cohort scored orchestra seats while vacationing and came home besotted and bearing the soundtrack, chord book, and glossies. And we who were raised on Cats and Camelot sprawled in his bedroom on a warm evening in suburbia, listening in silence to songs unlike any we'd heard before.
Thing is, back then it was New, Different, Something Else, and so much of it was so far out of our reach of understanding. Ten years ago, to the best of my knowledge I'd never met an infected person. My brushes with drugs, alcohol, love, sex, and suicide were still ahead of me, though I didn't know it. But there was something, Something about that music that sang to everyone in the room, and with no hesitation I could tell you who was there and what they were wearing, ten years later with no hesitation.
And the groundswell begat the hype begat the fatigue. The last time a friend was taken aback at my exasperation when he came home squealing and freewheeling about how it was Just The Most Amazing Show Ever Oh My God You Just Don't Understand It's All So Spiritual, I put it to him like this: "It's like running up to a movie geek friend of yours, all breathless and sweaty, and saying, 'I just saw the most incredible film! It changed my LIFE! Maybe you've heard of it - it's called Pulp Fiction.'" That's irksome enough, but everyone I know's also got at least one late-to-the-party pal who came out of one of the matinees of the latest tour convinced, CONVINCED, that they or their bedmate (or, in one riotously funny instance, both) had the AIDS. (That last one actually happened to me, and it wasn't so much hilarious because ha-ha-LOL-AIDS-is-funny, but because it was 2003-or-4 and these kids were too stupid to get tested until they saw a fucking musical about how they could die if they didn't.)
And then came the trailers, almost before anyone knew there was a film afoot. And I was among the early vicious detractors of Columbus...until I found out Spike Lee was originally slated. I'm honestly not sure which prospect horrifies me more. In an ideal world, who would you have in charge of something that spoke to you so stridently in such a tumultuous year? Luhrman has the stage-ism, but not the realism. Cuaron, the opposite. Rob Marshall is the obvious and fantasyland choice, but he was on geisha duty. I mean, come on. They waited ten years for the timing and the funds and six-of-eight of the original cast, and...this guy? It's not that I think he'll have the cast up doing the Culkin Face Slap-'n'-Scream ™ when things take a turn for the tragic, or that AIDS will be cut entirely from the plot and we'll have eight triple threats tracigally stricken with scarlet fever like some oversexed Velveteen-Rabbit-with-fishnets roadshow, but...worst case scenario's not that far off.
So who knows what will happen? Ten years later, while the music's not as close to me, the issues are far more relevant. Ten years later, I have to use both hands to count the infected friends, though mercifully one will still suffice to number the dead. Ten years later, will a cast in their thirties, however immortally they inhabit their roles, bring the same youth, immediacy, and desperate energy they brought to the stage? Will their transcendent talent be a match for the formidable opponent of ham-lensed Columbus and Adam Pascal's caterwauling consonants? Will I even be queued up with the rest of the faithful tomorrow night?
Bet your ass I will. Because it's ten years later, and there's still no day but today.
Good Night, and Good Luck rocks harder than Sky Captain.
I'm prepping for a debate on abortion, and this morning I Googled mifepristone (used to go by RU-486 - the "abortion pill"), for no other reason than being unsure of the pronunciation. And I clicked on the definition link, but my eyes wandered to the lone "sponsored link" at the top of the page - a site called OptionLine.org, promising "Accurate Information 24/7 on All Abortion Procedures".
Something tells me they're lying.
No references to organized religion on the site itself. From the About Us page: "Option Line is a call center located in Columbus, Ohio, formed as a joint venture between Care Net and Heartbeat International." More Googling reveals both of these to be evangelical anti-choice "ministries", and Care Net's website takes the further appalling step of plastering a slogan that contains the words "empowering women" at the top of its front page. The About Us page also references the site's "Commitment to Care", and following THAT link leads to the following statement: "We do not offer, recommend or refer for abortions or abortifacients, but we are committed to offering accurate information about abortion procedures and risks."
The "Pregnant?" link, disgustingly, leads to a free pregnancy test offer, three brief, generic paragraphs about how to find out for sure...and then this sentence: " The following definitions and fetal development photos will help you understand more about your pregnancy." None of these pictures, thankfully, are of the horrorshow variety that so frequently get posted around campus (we get ten-by-ten shots of botched abortions on the sides of panel trucks several times a year, no joke), but look for yourself, and see if you don't think the effect is pretty...insidious.
That's when I found the lie. The link reading "Considering Abortion?" leads to a page detailing various procedures. First on the list?
The morning after pill.
Also known as "Emergency Contraception," this procedure consists of a pregnancy test and two doses of pills. The woman first must take a pregnancy test and receive a negative test result before taking the pills. If a negative test result occurs from the pregnancy test, then the woman is instructed to take the first dose of the Morning After Pill. Note: a negative result indicates that the woman is probably not pregnant from intercourse during her previous monthly cycle, but it will not show whether or not she just became pregnant (from intercourse the "night before"). She is instructed to take this first dose as soon as possible, but not more than 72 hours after intercourse. The woman takes a second dose 12 hours after the first dose. If conception already occurred within the 72 hour time frame (that is the "night before"), the life is expelled. This is an early abortion.Now, my understanding of emergency contraception is that it's, well, contraception. That it keeps the fertilized egg from being implanted, thus PREVENTING pregnancy, and that it won't affect a pregnancy already in progress. The website's requirement of a negative test would seem to support this idea, and here's a recent Salon article that says the same thing.
So my questions, at last, are these:
I quit my day job, two weeks ago yesterday. I didn't strip, though I did wear Sexxxy Stockings on the last day in honest anticipation of going out with a bang (as it were). Stopping me was the unexpected presence of The Cowboy, who is Wretched Boss's Boss and who hired me in the first place, and whom I admire very much. I took him aside and told him I was leaving, that I loved the place but would no longer work for Wretched Boss. Even learning that Wretched Boss was being ordered to "take the next couple days off", that he might stop "treating his staff like cats that peed in his shoes" (which is not to say that that recourse was not discussed, mirthfully and at great length) when he came back did not appease me.
The plot thickened when the manager of Swanky-Restaurant-In-Hotel walked by, overheard one of Wretched Boss's more ill-advised tirades, informed us that we Deserved Better, was in turn informed of my plans to gyrate less-than-half-clothed out of the building...and offered jobs to me and NewBFFAllison on the spot. She immediately called Owner Of Swanky Restaurant, explained the situation, got the green light to hire us, and we turned in our resignation letters within the hour. Two days later, to Utter Dismay and Powerless Verbal Flailings on the part of Wretched (Ex-)Boss, we strolled in, looking Cute As Buttons in our Sassy Blacks, and took up residence behind the bar, twenty feet from his office. The best revenge is not Living Well, but Getting Famous. And Working Less Hours for More Money and Not Wearing A Suit isn't a bad way to start. (I won't even start in on the joys of extolling the superiorities of our new job, new boss, and General Fabulousness well within earshot of W(E-)B, nor how pretty my PowerBook looks perched on the black granite bar, or how much I appreciate free broadband on a slow night like tonight.)
Which begs the question: Why am I working in a hotel or restaurant At All? Angels-and-ministers-of-grace-preserve-us, I have A College Degree! I'll let y'all in on the juicy details over break (and if you haven't heard by now, Shame On You, Really), but the short version goes something like this: Almost a year ago, O put me in touch with some movie-making cohorts of his in Hawaii, and we Done Gone Into Bid'ness together over the summer. It's been a hi-larious parade of misadventures so far (computers containing footage of first feature film stolen, backup drives containing footage of first feature film stolen, Hurricane Katrina running off with pretty much everything else a MONTH after The Guy With All Our Stuff relocates to N'Awlins), but in the meantime word's gotten around, I've picked up some editing work of my own, and I've started to make some Really Ridiculous Money.
Money I have no intention of touching. It's all in savings; I haven't seen a cent. If I take the Sacramento job, I'm going to need all of it. If I go to grad school instead, be it in LA, Austin, or New Haven, I'll need even more. Also, while Making Movies is lucrative and fulfilling, my end of the job is a solitary one. In August I moved into this beautiful blue house in the Fort I've loved for years, built in 1910, now owned by a married lawyering couple. They live in the left side of the house with their adorable daughters (five months and two years); I share the right side with a grad student named Zach. (Tragically, not the Zach who carried me around the pool at graduation singing "Master of the House", but this one's a kayaking hippie, so he's all right.) And while I get plenty of company living with five people, four cats, a dog, and the mice in the attic, my job entails an awful lot of Sitting In A Locked Room Peering At A Computer Screen, so I figured I could use a part-time gig, to get me out of the house as much as keep me in Cornflakes and Gin (and Movie Tickets.) As you might imagine, this plan is unfolding much smoothlier now that I'd actually rather go to work than set myself on fire.
And whatever else happens, I'm paying my own way to Austin. Or Sacramento. Or, horror of horrors, Hell-Lay. With money I got from Making Movies. I can't stop calling it that. When anyone asks me what I'm doing, that's what I say, with a shiny grin and no further elaboration. There's a childlike glee in the turn of phrase I don't want to separate myself from. Making Movies. I'm 23 and getting paid to do what I want to do for the rest of my life. Beat that with a stick.
I just happen to be blessed with a double helix of evil glamour.
...Actually, that wraps it up nicely.
Alternate title: The One Where I Habitually Go To Bed With Wet Hair In An Unheated Apartment Where It's So Cold I Can See My Breath And Even If It Weren't So Chilly I Leave The Windows Open All Day And Then Wonder Why I Get Sick All The Time