Over at the League

I have a post up over at the Women's League of Ale Drinkers today on Daniel Pink's A Whole New Mind: Why Right-Brainers Will Rule the Future. It's a fascinating book on why people who can synthesize information across borders of various kinds, find the narrative hooks and figure out what people really want and need in their lives will thrive in the new information-saturation world.

I woke up this morning dreaming I was walking in Lady Gaga's shoes. As if! You will recall how badly I inured myself on perfectly flat shoes and a very small hill; imagine me actually trying to clomp around in these. Even Gaga took a spill in the middle of Heathrow.

Grading this morning; revising this afternoon. I got my contract for Craft Critique Culture at U Iowa. Now I have to decide some things about next summer: what do you reckon? Iceland or New Zealand? Iceland could be combined with England (the Great Writing conference will be in London this year), but I've never been to New Zealand. Of course it's a lot more money too, unless I can get someone else to foot the bill (when's that grant deadline?). Hmmm.

UPDATE: Part 7 of La Ronde over at Eric Beetner's blog.

Poking Around

The photo doesn't show it well enough, but there's the result of yesterday's attempt to do a very common thing: give a blood sample. It's been a normal part of life since I was a teenager. Phlebotomists vary greatly, but I've never had one as bad as this. Altogether, four needles of various sizes poked into my arm (the fourth by a different person over at Quest Labs, fortunately). The third one was the worst. She wasn't quite willing to give up immediately and poked around trying to find a vein.

I have big veins, very easy to see and feel. Yet she missed it. Three times. It's the poking around that gave me the swelling and the extra bruising. I had the heating pad on it yesterday, but maybe I'll put a cool pack on it to bring down the swelling.

The best phlebotomist I ever had was in Los Angeles. I can't remember his name because in my head he was always "Hatchet Man." He was nigh on painless every time, straight to the vein and done. But he had this horrific scar and dent in his forehead that looked like someone had buried a hatchet in his head. I was always too timid to ask about it, but it fascinated me. Maybe I should have asked, but it seemed rude. Whatever it was must have been terrible. Probably better I didn't ask.

UPDATE: less swelling, more bruising (fascinating, eh?)

Bootless (but Corseted)

I was all pleased to be without the boot any longer, despite the swelling today (pushed things too much yesterday, I guess -- missing the whirlpool at physical therapy, sigh). But my trip to the orthopedist this morning resulted in another appliance, an ASO, which naturally I have already dubbed "the ankle corset" (nice lacing). Despite their claim that it "will fit in any type of shoe," it could not fit in the slip-on Sketchers, so I had to go home and get the Chuck Taylors.


Here's what it looks like all wrapped and ready to roll (minus the Chucks).

Review: Burn After Reading

Okay, so it's been nearly a week since I saw the film -- guess it's about time to write a review. Short version: very funny, laughed a lot. It's a bit slighter than the best Coen Bros. films, but a hoot absolutely. It lacks the charm of The Hudsucker Proxy, the heart of Raising Arizona or O, Brother, Where Art Thou?, but the stellar cast is perfect, absolutely perfect. I'm not a Brad Pitt fan, but he's unflinchingly idiotic here and it's brilliant. I guess Twelve Monkeys wasn't just a fluke. Why does Clooney do anything but comedy? He's so funny. Kudos to Frances McDormand for showing herself in the most unflattering lights with her usual complete immersion. Tilda Swinton, always wonderful, is here, too -- of course. For someone who can ooze sensuality, it's hilarious to see her be so cold (I'm resisting giving away some funny lines, I should add). Everybody, Malkovich included, just perfect.

The film is a precise snapshot of Americans at present: paranoid, self-involved, completely unrealistic from having seen and believed too many movies and "reality" shows, and destructively short-sighted. That's the one thing to carp about. As hilarious as the ride is, there's really no one to whom you can attach much feeling. This isn't usually the case in their films: you care about H.I. and Ed, you like Norville Barnes and Amy Archer, you even care about Barton Fink (although you like Charlie better). They're all deeply flawed, but you root for them anyway. I suppose McDormand's Linda Lizke is meant to be our lens into the story, but she's so painfully shallow it hurts to dive into her world. You feel a tug of the heart for Richard Jenkins' Ted, but - well, you have to see the film.

Despite all this quibbling, I laughed really hard. I don't understand the reviewers who called it "Byzantine" -- apparently having to follow more than one plot line is confusing for some folks. The whole production is superb; there's even a great song over the end credits. Carter Burwell's soundtrack shows that No Country for Old Men has had a lasting effect; it was as notable for its silences as for its sound. So, go, laugh -- have fun. Hours later you can feel depressed about how accurate its depiction of our country and its sorry state at present is. Then you'll laugh about it again.

I had my first physical therapy session this morning -- mostly hydrotherapy (deluxe whirlpool!) and some exercises to practice at home to try to restore mobility. The therapist also pointed out the effects of previous injuries, such as the bruises up the side of my leg which apparently have to do with damage to the tendons and ligaments before. Guess I should have had more physical therapy back then. I did get a good chuckle because there was a foam wedge in the examining room -- a similar object is good for some laughs in Burn After Reading. Tee hee.

What it Is (Now)

More colorful now -- not as swollen, at least in the morning. The picture doesn't really do justice to the purples and blues, but I think you can get a sense of the omnipresent brownish hue of the whole foot up to the calf. The ankle tends to be more painful in the morning but more swollen in the afternoon; natural enough, I suppose after all that hopping around. I tried to be good yesterday, keeping it elevated as much as I could. Fortunately I had the Punk Rock Jukebox to entertain me while I was immobile. That's really the worst part -- being stuck in one place. I miss my morning walk, sauntering down to campus, or just crossing the room because I need something. Sigh.

I realize I've fallen behind on reviews, too. The second most irritating thing is how much time the injury has taken up. Two things to be sure to mention: Lynda Barry's What it Is. I know I've talked about it before, but I should specify that this is the book to kick start your creativity. If you've read Barry's One Hundred Demons or her decades-worth of comics, you'll know just how magical her work is, but her latest is a how-to volume that weaves a good bit of autobiography into the lessons. Barry starts with recalling the freedom we all have as children, where we draw, sing and write without fear. From her own experiences, she retraces how that fear sets in (am I doing this right? is this really any good?) and how to break ourselves of those habits. If you've always wished you could be creative, this book will help you rediscover that you ARE. Warning! People who read this book and do the exercises tend to become excited and joyful.

I was absolutely bowled over by Aline Kominsky Crumb's Need More Love. Long in the shadow of her more famous husband, Kominsky Crumb explodes across the pages of this gorgeous book in reprints of her autobiographical comics, narrative snippets, letters from friends, photos of herself (showing how beautiful she is) and her gorgeous medieval home in France. Like Barry, Kominsky Crumb's work has often been labeled "ugly" and dismissed as inept, but it's amazingly effective and brilliantly conveys the changing emotional states of her often dramatic life. As crazy as the events are, you often get the feeling that she plays down the drama somewhat -- although the sequence of her throwing herself at poor George Harrison at the height of Beatlemania has been caught on tape. Her story is both completely singular and yet woven into the American 60s and 70s counter-culture, from Greenwich Village to San Francisco. She's always frank about her feelings, mistakes and choices. Unconventional and neurotic, Kominsky Crumb has nonetheless carved out a life that allows her to create her art (I *love* her doll sculptures!), keep amazingly fit and maintain the relationships she needs to be happy. To get a taste of her unique voice, check out this interview at Phawker.

Given the Boot

Yes, I have been booted now, which is a definite improvement over the crutches and Ace bandage. I taught today -- up and down to the third floor a couple of times -- so my foot was quite swollen by the time I got to the orthopedist. Crutches are painful! It was easier to limp up the stairs. But he looked at the x-rays and said very bad sprain, torn ligaments (insert Marge Simpson noise, which is what the doctor did as he pointed at all my bruises), calcium deposits from previous injuries to the ankle and, yes, it's true! A heel spur and plantar fasciitis, but only coincidentally.

So, I have the boot for walking around, I'm back to elevating and icing (or will be in a minute or so), and will be starting physical therapy to begin the healing process so I won't be lame for ever. It's a relief to know what is wrong instead of guessing, but it's still painful (and inconvenient). On the plus side, my students and colleagues were very helpful to me today and I have already Sanrio-fied the boot (well, duh!), Hello Kitty on the left and Badtz-Maru on the right.

The Latest

Oooh, lookit the purty colors! Yes, the continuing saga of my ankle -- how very dull. Well, according to the receptionist in the doctor's office, I have a heel spur.

Huh?

Well, yes, that makes sense and certainly explains the extensive bruising (not) as well as the persistent swelling (no, my leg is really not that fat normally). In any case, I have to call at exactly 8am tomorrow to get an appointment with the orthopedic doc. With luck I'll get in tomorrow -- if, that is, I can also get a copy of the x-rays to bring with me. The imaging place, however, says they cannot provide copies sooner than 24 hours after a request (made at about 4.30 this afternoon when my doctor finally called). It will be interesting to see what happens (by "interesting" of course, I mean painful, tedious and vexing).

Adding to the irritation, I found out that my essay on Gilliam's Tideland has been bounced from the anthology it was accepted for last year. So it goes.

Fabrications

I've decided the true story of my injury is very dull. I need suggestions of tales I might tell others, including my students whom I will be seeing tomorrow.

Any ideas?

The bruising is getting more colorful, as it tends to do. Will have to get another picture soon. Still no word on the x-rays, sigh.

Adding insult to injury: my essay on Tideland just got booted from the anthology it was supposed to appear in. Waah.

X-Rays, Crutches and Painkillers

Taking bets now before the x-rays come back: is it only a sprain? torn ligaments? or an actual break? Judge the evidence for yourself, including early Sunday:



and today, bruising now visible as the swelling fades, those along the side of the joint made the doctor tsk at me (he's already written a prescription for a cast just in case):



Time to put my feet up...

A Moment's Inattention

I received a powerful lesson in mindfulness today. As I was out on my daily walk -- my thoughts a thousand miles away -- I twisted my ankle as I walked down the hill coming out of the forest by Buckingham Lake and fell down hard. The scrapes and bruises on my knees and on the heels of my hands were nothing next to the sprain. I could feel it tearing as I was falling and saying, "Ow, ow, ow!" Oddly enough, although it was a time that might legitimately have called for saltier language, I really did just say "ow" repeatedly.

An elderly gentleman, one of the regulars, helped me get up and dust off. He offered to walk with me or whatever I needed, but I told him I would be okay and was going to go sit down. But as I limped along the path, I figured out that it was going to stiffen up quickly if I sat, so I just walked home. Nothing like pain to focus the mind. Every step was vivid. Yeah, it was pretty swollen by the time I got home. Iced it after a shower, but looking on line I find that you're not supposed to ice for more than 20 minutes at a time, so I guess I'll put the ice away and get out the Ace.

Well, I had planned to blog today on the toys: Ianto's new Gelaskin with lovely Ralph Steadman art, "Vintage Dr Gonzo" and the new phone that now features George Spiggot saying "Julie Andrews!" I had planned a lot of things for today that will have to be adjusted now. You'd think, given my natural inclination toward laziness, that this would provide a good excuse to do nothing, but my perverse nature rebels at anything I'm forced to do; so, forced to be immobile, I get antsy. There's no pleasing some people. I'll be quite bereft without my daily walk -- no rabbits, herons, ducks, kingfishers, turtles, and dogs. There's also the whole pain thing...