You know what the problem is with the oblivious protagonist? There are so many things that could happen if you think no one is paying attention to how you're living your life.
Like...take Aragorn, for example. He grew up knowing who he was, and what he was supposed to be. So he toed the line--stayed out of trouble, for the most part. I mean, yeah, he fell for the hot elf princess who was a bit out of his league, but he managed to be noble and long suffering about it, and if he ever brought her back home late from a date, well, Elrond never mentioned it.
But imagine he didn't know. He could've done anything with his life. I mean, embarrassing stuff. He could've been a stripper in Bree or something. And then what would Gondor do? They'd still need a king, but would they really want someone who'd been dancing around a pole for a bunch of drunk dudes?
Or Luke Skywalker. Luke's the perfect example of crisis averted. Yeah, before the Empire he was a whiny little bitch, but at least he was a whiny bitch out on Tatooine where no one cared. And before he went and did anything heroic in public, Obiwan and Yoda whipped him into shape. And Yoda straight up said, "Look, kid, your dad's really embarrassing us, so until you take care of him, you can't be a Jedi, okay?"
Personally, if I was supposed to be something high profile and important, I'd want to know about it ahead of time. The last thing I'd want would be to have some all-powerful being show up to guide me to my destiny while I was busy singing "Like A Prayer" in the shower or playing World of Warcraft in my underwear.
Then again, if my all-powerful being needed someone who was honestly noble and long-suffering at all times, regardless of audience, they'd probably be barking up the wrong tree if they came after me anyway.
I'm probably safe.
Monday, March 5, 2012
Sunday, January 22, 2012
My Dad, the Prankster
My dad is an interesting guy.
He's one of those people who knows just about everything. I called him the other day to ask when American fighter pilots might have been stationed in Britain during WWII (don't ask), and he was able to give me a brief outline of the RAF, a history of the American air force, the types of planes they would have flown, how many men to a plane, what their duties were, and what year they'd be flying (as well as where their targets would be).
He's always been that kind of dad--the predecessor to Wikipedia and Google for those of us too lazy to go look it up in an actual book.
But with great power comes great responsibility. I'd like to say my dad only used his powers for good. But I can't.
Mom wasn't entirely blameless, either--nor was she entirely guilty. Sometimes she was in on his pranks. Sometimes she was as much a victim as my brother and I.
The earliest example of such Tomfoolery occurred prior to my birth, when my mom and my dad were dating. He had her convinced (or at least, doubtful enough to worry) about laws against PDA: Public Displays of Affection. Convinced to the point that she was worried about holding his hand, or kissing him, when they were in public.
And why should she doubt her boyfriend? He was a law student, wasn't he? The laws were archaic, he'd assure her; hardly anyone ever enforced them anymore. But technically...someone could. But sure, if she wanted to hold hands, that was fine with him. He would take the risk if she would.
That's perhaps how my Dad became so powerful. There was always a grain of truth in what he said, or at least a modicum of plausibility. Enough that even when all of your common sense told you what he said couldn't be true...a part of you wondered. And he could stick to a gag longer than anyone I've ever known.
The earliest prank I remember was a result of a child's literal brain and our frequent family road trips. Once, on one of the seemingly interminable trips across Oklahoma (or possibly Kansas or Texas--they blended together to my six-year-old eyes), I noticed something that was actually rather perceptive for a child my age.
"Dad," I said, "You know how we drive for hours and only go a little ways on the map?"
I was referring to the old Rand McNally Atlas my parents lugged on every vacation, vainly hoping to spark my interest in cartography by calling me thrilling things like "co-navigator" as they pointed at the jumble of indecipherable lines and numbers that were supposed to be roads.
"Sure," he replied.
"So lines on the map are really a lot bigger than they look?"
"That's right."
"Then what," I said, drawing myself up for the big conclusion, "about state lines? They're bigger too, right?"
"Sure are," Dad confirmed, without missing a beat. "About a mile wide, I'd say."
"Who owns them, then? Which state?"
"Neither," Dad replied. "The government does. State Lines are a federal zone."
"Wow," I breathed, awed, looking out over the endless stretch of nothing with new respect.
If Mom put up any kind of token protest to this flagrant nonsense-mongering, I don't remember it. What I do know is I went through a significant portion of my childhood proudly telling anyone who would listen about the Federal Zone.
The deception didn't end there. There was no Tooth Fairy at our house; our quarters came from the Tooth Frog. On a trip to Chicago, my brother proudly informed my Mom that the bronze statue of the decorated general on the horse was "Bill Chicago," the founder of the city. I'm embarrassed to say how long it took me to realize why my dad took such delight in telling my cat Huckleberry, "You're an oaf, Huck!"--and why he laughed so hard when my brother or I repeated it. And by sixteen, perhaps I should've known better than to puff up with pride when, upon returning home from my first job at Papa Murphy's Pizza, my dad said, "Hey, it's the working girl!"
But that's the thing with my dad. He seems trustworthy. He knows things--lots of them--and 98% of the time, his answers are genuine, and accurate.
But there was always that 2%--the bit that taught me that even the nicest, smartest guys in the world sometimes have ulterior motives.
Maybe that's why it took me so long to start dating.
Anyway, Dad, here's to you. Meet me in the Federal Zone later, and we can grab a drink.
All my love,
Laura
He's one of those people who knows just about everything. I called him the other day to ask when American fighter pilots might have been stationed in Britain during WWII (don't ask), and he was able to give me a brief outline of the RAF, a history of the American air force, the types of planes they would have flown, how many men to a plane, what their duties were, and what year they'd be flying (as well as where their targets would be).
He's always been that kind of dad--the predecessor to Wikipedia and Google for those of us too lazy to go look it up in an actual book.
But with great power comes great responsibility. I'd like to say my dad only used his powers for good. But I can't.
Mom wasn't entirely blameless, either--nor was she entirely guilty. Sometimes she was in on his pranks. Sometimes she was as much a victim as my brother and I.
The earliest example of such Tomfoolery occurred prior to my birth, when my mom and my dad were dating. He had her convinced (or at least, doubtful enough to worry) about laws against PDA: Public Displays of Affection. Convinced to the point that she was worried about holding his hand, or kissing him, when they were in public.
And why should she doubt her boyfriend? He was a law student, wasn't he? The laws were archaic, he'd assure her; hardly anyone ever enforced them anymore. But technically...someone could. But sure, if she wanted to hold hands, that was fine with him. He would take the risk if she would.
That's perhaps how my Dad became so powerful. There was always a grain of truth in what he said, or at least a modicum of plausibility. Enough that even when all of your common sense told you what he said couldn't be true...a part of you wondered. And he could stick to a gag longer than anyone I've ever known.
The earliest prank I remember was a result of a child's literal brain and our frequent family road trips. Once, on one of the seemingly interminable trips across Oklahoma (or possibly Kansas or Texas--they blended together to my six-year-old eyes), I noticed something that was actually rather perceptive for a child my age.
"Dad," I said, "You know how we drive for hours and only go a little ways on the map?"
I was referring to the old Rand McNally Atlas my parents lugged on every vacation, vainly hoping to spark my interest in cartography by calling me thrilling things like "co-navigator" as they pointed at the jumble of indecipherable lines and numbers that were supposed to be roads.
"Sure," he replied.
"So lines on the map are really a lot bigger than they look?"
"That's right."
"Then what," I said, drawing myself up for the big conclusion, "about state lines? They're bigger too, right?"
"Sure are," Dad confirmed, without missing a beat. "About a mile wide, I'd say."
"Who owns them, then? Which state?"
"Neither," Dad replied. "The government does. State Lines are a federal zone."
"Wow," I breathed, awed, looking out over the endless stretch of nothing with new respect.
If Mom put up any kind of token protest to this flagrant nonsense-mongering, I don't remember it. What I do know is I went through a significant portion of my childhood proudly telling anyone who would listen about the Federal Zone.
The deception didn't end there. There was no Tooth Fairy at our house; our quarters came from the Tooth Frog. On a trip to Chicago, my brother proudly informed my Mom that the bronze statue of the decorated general on the horse was "Bill Chicago," the founder of the city. I'm embarrassed to say how long it took me to realize why my dad took such delight in telling my cat Huckleberry, "You're an oaf, Huck!"--and why he laughed so hard when my brother or I repeated it. And by sixteen, perhaps I should've known better than to puff up with pride when, upon returning home from my first job at Papa Murphy's Pizza, my dad said, "Hey, it's the working girl!"
But that's the thing with my dad. He seems trustworthy. He knows things--lots of them--and 98% of the time, his answers are genuine, and accurate.
But there was always that 2%--the bit that taught me that even the nicest, smartest guys in the world sometimes have ulterior motives.
Maybe that's why it took me so long to start dating.
Anyway, Dad, here's to you. Meet me in the Federal Zone later, and we can grab a drink.
All my love,
Laura
Saturday, January 21, 2012
Wanted: Dream Interpreter
Since I was a kid, I have had several recurring dreams. When I was younger they were the expected ones: trying to run from boogeymen and finding myself unable to move, or showing up in school sans acceptable social garments.
Now that I'm a ripe old 27, my dreams have taken on more adult fears. I dream I'm standing at the alter (or worse, at my own wedding reception), in the process of getting married to (or having just married) someone I either don't know or don't like very much. I wouldn't need my degree in psychology to diagnose the intimacy and commitment issues there. And even though I've been out of school for almost five years now, I still have that dream where it's mid-terms or finals, and I remember suddenly that I'd signed up for a class I'd completely forgotten to attend all semester.
I expect those types of dreams. Even the occasional tornado dream isn't too unusual, given where I live.
What I cannot figure out is why at 27, my brain insists on giving me dreams about being chased by a T-rex.
Every. Damn. Night.
Perhaps Jurassic Park scarred me for life. I loved that movie (and can, in fact, recite it verbatim), and I'll even admit to taking a gleeful, fiendish sort of delight in the sequels. C'mon--dinosaurs!
But apparently my brain doesn't think watching is enough. Oh no--my brain, being the ultimate diva, has decided we need to be cast in the fourth movie: Dinosaurs at Grandma's House. Mind you, that's just one possible title. We're also considering Dinosaurs at the Airport, Dinosaurs at Work, and the less-popular Dinosaurs in an Ambiguous and Indeterminate Location which May or May Not Resemble Any Known Reality.
What's more alarming is how seriously I take these dreams. In Dinosaurs at the Random River, I found myself hiding from one of the hulking monsters beneath the edge of the riverbank, thinking to myself, "His visual acuity is based on movement, so I might be all right if I stay still. Of course, he has the largest olfactory cavity per his brain size of any creature save the turkey vulture! Can he smell me? Did I shower yesterday?!"
When your subconscious brain begins trying to determine the relative odor-eliminating properties of fictional riverbank clay, it's clearly not been given enough to occupy its time.
I will say one thing. Whatever time my brain has devoted into making these dreams realistic and terrifying during the chase, it needs to make sure to wake me up, or pop another re-run into the dream reel, because it clearly has no idea what to do when the T-rex actually catches me. Sometimes it tries to eat me, sure. But sometimes it simply stands there looking at me askance. On one memorable occasion, it took me back to a relatively nice home in New England, and I was left with the impression that I'd been hired to perform either a secretarial or janitorial function of some sort.
What I'm saying is, enough is enough. Let's either get eaten, or think of something else to chase us around. A smaller, harmless breed of dinosaur, perhaps. Or maybe Robert Downey Jr.
Now that I'm a ripe old 27, my dreams have taken on more adult fears. I dream I'm standing at the alter (or worse, at my own wedding reception), in the process of getting married to (or having just married) someone I either don't know or don't like very much. I wouldn't need my degree in psychology to diagnose the intimacy and commitment issues there. And even though I've been out of school for almost five years now, I still have that dream where it's mid-terms or finals, and I remember suddenly that I'd signed up for a class I'd completely forgotten to attend all semester.
I expect those types of dreams. Even the occasional tornado dream isn't too unusual, given where I live.
What I cannot figure out is why at 27, my brain insists on giving me dreams about being chased by a T-rex.
Every. Damn. Night.
Perhaps Jurassic Park scarred me for life. I loved that movie (and can, in fact, recite it verbatim), and I'll even admit to taking a gleeful, fiendish sort of delight in the sequels. C'mon--dinosaurs!
But apparently my brain doesn't think watching is enough. Oh no--my brain, being the ultimate diva, has decided we need to be cast in the fourth movie: Dinosaurs at Grandma's House. Mind you, that's just one possible title. We're also considering Dinosaurs at the Airport, Dinosaurs at Work, and the less-popular Dinosaurs in an Ambiguous and Indeterminate Location which May or May Not Resemble Any Known Reality.
What's more alarming is how seriously I take these dreams. In Dinosaurs at the Random River, I found myself hiding from one of the hulking monsters beneath the edge of the riverbank, thinking to myself, "His visual acuity is based on movement, so I might be all right if I stay still. Of course, he has the largest olfactory cavity per his brain size of any creature save the turkey vulture! Can he smell me? Did I shower yesterday?!"
When your subconscious brain begins trying to determine the relative odor-eliminating properties of fictional riverbank clay, it's clearly not been given enough to occupy its time.
I will say one thing. Whatever time my brain has devoted into making these dreams realistic and terrifying during the chase, it needs to make sure to wake me up, or pop another re-run into the dream reel, because it clearly has no idea what to do when the T-rex actually catches me. Sometimes it tries to eat me, sure. But sometimes it simply stands there looking at me askance. On one memorable occasion, it took me back to a relatively nice home in New England, and I was left with the impression that I'd been hired to perform either a secretarial or janitorial function of some sort.
What I'm saying is, enough is enough. Let's either get eaten, or think of something else to chase us around. A smaller, harmless breed of dinosaur, perhaps. Or maybe Robert Downey Jr.
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