Escaping the Trunk

On June 14, a bystander shot this video of a Seattle police officer punching a 17-year-old girl in the face during an altercation with her 19-year-old cousin.

My pal David Forbes tweeted this bit of news to me this afternoon, and I’ve been trying to wrap my head around both the video and the responses to the video ever since. The response is overwhelmingly in support of the officer. Here are a few choice snippets:
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I got hacked this weekend.

My pal René Walling let me know about it in an email Sunday morning, and I immediately phoned up my host to ask for help. I’m hosted through Superb, a company recommended to me by the late, great Emru Townsend (through whom I met René). When Emru made this recommendation, I had no concept of the scope of his illness, or how very dearly it would cost him and his family. If I had known, I wouldn’t have nagged him for web help. But on Sunday, I was grateful that I had.

The site was hacked by a person claiming to represent the “Lebanese Cyb3r Army.” (During the examination of my corrupted files, I hesitantly asked my tech support serviceman, “Is it covered in L337 speak?”) The graphic taking the place of my site made reference to the FlotillaFAIL. Ironically, I had met a very sweet Lebanese couple Friday night after seeing Splice. They offered me a lychee cookie, and then we talked about our favourite desserts. They recommended some local Middle Eastern restaurants. “Go to Jerusalem,” the husband told me. “The restaurant! Not the city.”

“No, not the city,” I said. “The city would be too stressful.”

I said this casually, but perhaps I shouldn’t have. The truth is that people navigate the streets of Jerusalem daily. They work and dance and pray and have families there. At some point, the reality of war must fade, like the high-pitched ringing of tinnitis, into something shrill and persistent but easily forgotten during moments of pleasure. At least, that’s what the recollections of my friends Kung Fu Jew and Miriam Libicki would have me believe.

KFJ has been to Jerusalem. Multiple times. He’s volunteered there, studied there, dated Israeli girls there. The first time he returned, he said, offhandedly, “You know they’re bulldozing homes in Gaza.”

“Empty homes?” I asked.

“Sometimes.”

He later went on to say this:

What Israelis and conservative American Jews don’t seem to care is that a surfeit of dignity for prolonged periods of time foments extremism and increases hatred. If Israel was looking for a policy that would enable it to be rid of Gaza, then it chose the stupidest one possible.

It’s safe to say that I’m with KFJ on this one. I hate what happened aboard that ship. I advocate a withdrawal from Gaza. I advocate peace and dignity for the people who live there. I think Israel’s government should listen to its young people in the diaspora, who are steadily refusing to “check their liberalism at the door” when it comes to Israeli politics. I think KFJ is right when he says that the conflict is not between nations, but between innocent people and purveyors of violence.

I don’t know why I was hacked and I still don’t. But if it forces me to express myself on this very thorny subject, so be it.

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I saw Splice last night, and I’m glad I did. It’s not as shattering as District 9 (last summer’s surprise SF hit), but it is genuinely horrific without being visually explicit. It makes a lot of reference to the Frankenstein story, but it’s actually positioned somewhere on the Ira Levin/David Cronenberg side of the horror continuum. The most terrifying things happen offscreen, and but the violence you do see is both quick and intimate, and the creature effects are juicy. Despite some glossed-over science, it’s still a lot smarter than most of the dreck that bobs up in theatres and, as Peter remarked when we left the show, “At least it portrayed scientists as capable of meaningful relationships.”

The trailer would have you believe that Splice is a straight-up monster movie, an updated Universal feature from the days of Karloff and Chaney. It’s not. It’s one of those rare movies that centres on an intelligent but deeply troubled woman, and the consequences her obsession and lack of moral compass. We see stories like this all the time involving men, so it’s nice to see this one told about a woman. Women form the core of the story; in a reversal of traditional horror film conventions, the men are just there to get fucked and splattered when the plot calls for it. That doesn’t mean that the women do everything right all the time and the men don’t (far from it), but truly multi-dimensional characters have flaws and make mistakes. Main characters don’t have to be heroes. They just have to hold your attention.

In short, go see it, even if you’ve been waffling. You’ll be pleasantly surprised. I was.

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It starts Friday night with Cory Doctorow in the basement of the Merril Collection of Science Fiction, Speculation and Fantasy. (I’ve linked to his signature in the Collection’s circa-1983 guestbook. While I was busy being born, Cory was already hacking — yes, hacking — the way clear for himself.) Cory is the emeritus member of my workshop, and he gave me my first national publication. The second time we met, he reached out and ruffled my hair. Seeing him always feels like seeing my older and cooler cousin, the one who blows into town during the holidays to say hi to the family and give you a hug before continuing his orbit through places that are bound to be both brighter and darker than home.

Speaking of which, my Friday night ended with this:

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Thank you, Jerry, for sharing this with me.

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From Food

This week, my father-in-law phoned me just to ask if our air conditioning unit was installed, yet. When I told him it wasn’t, he sounded a little panicked. Today, Karl asked me the same question. We’ve received heat warnings for the past few days, and I’ve heard reports of elderly people having trouble breathing and so on. Thankfully that hasn’t been a problem, here: my husband and I managed to wrestle in our A/C unit a couple of days ago, and both we and the cat are glad of it. But there’s no A/C in the kitchen, and that means salad. I dressed this one with olive oil, lime juice, salt and pepper. When you have a whole avocado in among the spinach, you don’t need much else. Well, aside from a chipotle tenderloin sandwich with guacamole on top.

My affection for avocados should never be underestimated. If I could plant one tree and be guaranteed that it would grow no matter what, I’d plant an avocado. I would be very fat, but my hair and skin and nails would gleam.

I also like mango:

From Food

That’s a bowl of sweet and sour pork with mango (mostly mango) over the brown rice I showed you earlier. The sauce is very simple: gochujang, raw apple cider vinegar, and honey. The proportions change each time I make it, so I won’t even bother trying to share the proper measurements. You’ll have to decide if you want something more spicy, acidic, or sweet, and blend accordingly. It’s a good idea to taste the gochujang on the tip of your finger or the edge of a spoon, first, so that you know how hot it is and what you’re working with. When I tried it, I was impressed with the mellow sweetness backing up the spice. Your mileage may vary.

I also made green tea concentrate. I have no photos of that, yet, since I’ve been so busy drinking it and dreaming up sake cocktails involving it that the glass is always empty before I think to bring out the camera. The 1 : 1 concentrate + water mix is the closest I’ve come to approximating Oi Ocha, my favourite drink from Japan. Japan has one of the widest selections of beverages on the planet, but once I made my way through some ume soda and canned whiskey, I found that the drinks I liked best there were the cold, unsweetened varieties of my favourites from home: coffee and green tea. I returned with a seemingly unquenchable thirst for these things. But now I can make the tea at home, and not buy those absurdly expensive bottles of the imported stuff. (The coffee is still a problem; some shops know what you mean when you say iced coffee, but others give you a sort of brownish liquid that tastes like thin birch syrup.)

Anyway, the point of all this is that I am in fact eating vegetables and drinking moderately healthy liquids in all this heat. You’d think this would result in pounds lost, but no. Just the other day, the woman who runs my favourite coffee shop asked if I was pregnant. She always asks this, every time I come in. “No, it’s just fat,” I say, pointing at my middle.

Those avocados. They’re lethal. And delicious.

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The most terrifying fact about the universe is not that it is hostile but that it is indifferent; but if we can come to terms with this indifference and accept the challenges of life within the boundaries of death — however mutable man may be able to make them — our existence as a species can have genuine meaning and fulfillment. However vast the darkness, we must supply our own light.

I ganked this from Tavi Gevinson, who I just adore. She featured it because, well, she has fantastic taste. It’s sort of her job. More like a calling, actually. I honestly can’t wait for the moment Tavi takes control of the world, because it will be a far fairer and more beautiful place.

Kubrick said this in an interview with Eric Nordern for the September 1968 issue of Playboy, probably in promotion (or explanation) of 2001. Apparently, Playboy used to have great interviews, along with their great fiction. The moment my mother told me that all my favourite writers were once published in Playboy is etched permanently in my brain, such that when my freshman roommate received a subscription as a joke, I made her save the magazine so I could go through it.

“These women all look the same,” I remember saying.

“Are you done, yet?” she asked, looking pointedly away.

“The fiction submission guidelines aren’t listed anywhere!”

“I can’t believe ____ sent that to me. He said he would, but I didn’t believe him.”

“He likes you. Jamming a Playboy in your mailbox is like sticking gum in your hair. Welcome to the twenty-first century.”

…Or something to that effect. (Pro-tip: Unless your target is kinky, don’t try communicating your affection with an issue of Playboy. And even if she is kinky, an issue of Playboy won’t do it. Do some damn shopping, first, and try to get something that doesn’t have fold-open samples of AXE.)

I make fun of the magazine, but I should also mention that Hugh Hefner is one of the most polite Tweeters I’ve ever read. For a guy who almost never changes out of his silk dressing gown, fills his home with models, and basically enjoys the kind of life we all wish we had, his tweets are surprisingly sweet and normal. He talks about his favourite classic films, watches Jon Stewart, and sends out birthday wishes to Playmates old and new. He sticks by his employees, both current and former, and is a perfectionist when it comes to both layouts and punctuation. (Seriously, I defy you to find a misplaced apostrophe on his feed. This man had a stroke years ago, but he still disciplines his thumbs to text correctly. Think of that the next time you type “imma” for “I will.”)

In my dream world, Tavi and Hef actually meet, and afterward she designs the centrefolds each month and meets the models and asks them how their day is going and is in general the complete opposite of Terry Richardson. I know that this will never happen (I suspect it might even be illegal), but, well, consider Kubrick’s words. It’s our own responsibility to make beautiful things happen, no matter how unlikely they are.

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A lot of people have probably seen this already, but this is for Mom: Peter’s recount of his arrest, this time in audio format. In it, he describes “the summer I’ll never take for granted,” and what it’s like to survive a panic attack in prison.

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Warning: the following contains spoilers for the endings of Cowboy Bebop, Fullmetal Alchemist, Neon Genesis: Evangelion, Avatar: The Last Airbender, Battlestar Galactica, LOST, Supernatural (current) and The Prisoner.

I’ve noticed an alarming trend in television finales, lately: God.

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I watch a lot of tutorials online. I find they really calm me down before I try to sleep. I had a feeling that this one would be an instant favourite the moment it appeared in the related content navbar, but wow. David Lynch teaching me how to cook? I’m so there.

This is only the first part of the tutorial. The second part is here. Apparently, Lynch released them as part of a promotional campaign for Inland Empire. What I really enjoy about the twenty-minute tutorial in total is that it not only teaches you how to make quinoa, but Lynch tells a story while he’s waiting for it to plump up. He tells it just like you imagine he would, only better, and the whole scene reminds me a little bit of David Carradine preparing a sandwich at the end of Kill Bill, only real and therefore scarier.

Also, I find it completely adorable that Lynch compensates for his cigarette smoking with whole foods. Whatever he’s doing, it works — he’s probably around 63 in this clip, but you’d never know.

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