Karmic Wisdom

Today, I had a driveway moments–a driveway moment is when you’re listening to NPR and you end up hanging out in the driveway because you can’t get out of the car until the current story’s over.

I was listening to this: http://www.npr.org/2012/05/17/152922457/an-afghan-shoots-a-marine-dies-mistrust-grows

It’s about the number of our service-people who have been murdered by our Afghan friends–their Afghan police and military forces–this year.

Part of the reason I was struck is because it occurred to me that we just don’t know how to do this yet.

I mean, we’ve been at war for millions of years. Millions of years.

Yet we do not know how to cope with or conduct war. We do not know how to re-integrate our soldiers into society successfully. We do not know how to stem the tide of spousal abuse and suicide that follows their returns home. We do not know how to tell them to violate one of the commandments in one situation, but to follow the others at seemingly arbitrary times. We are only starting to understand what even happens with head injuries, even though we’ve been hitting each other over the head for millions of years.

We said for years that women couldn’t be in combat because our male soldiers would find it too difficult to not do everything–including jeopardizing missions–to protect them. But the reality is that our women find the most danger from their comrades–they are raped at an amazing rate, by the very men whom we think will sacrifice to protect them from the enemy.

Many years ago, I wrote a poem from Lady Macbeth’s point of view. I was interested in why we blame for her Macbeth’s actions, when he contemplates murder before he ever writes to her about the prophecy. Undergraduates around the world write about how Lady Macbeth pushes him to commit horrible crimes–crimes against his king, his kin, his guest.

I have never seen an essay arguing that perhaps war — perhaps his joy in ripping men from nave to neck — had anything to do with the psychopath he becomes.

The only half-way comforting thought in my ruminations today (half-way because it’s not actually a cheering thought) was that there are several things we don’t know how to do yet.

We don’t know how to love, successfully, do we? How to love without jealousy. How to trust. How to practice monogamy when we’re not built for it.

We’ve had even more practice with love than with war, and yet we fail. A lot.

Other things we don’t know–how to parent, how to educate, how to balance religion with not being a bigot . . .

Lady Macbeth:  Where is She Now?

I’m always met with questions.
Did I really fall?
What was in that letter?
Aside from being none of your business,
It doesn’t really matter.
I’m always already judged—
“She wears the pants in that family.”
Well, it would have been more comfortable,
But around here it’s more accurate to note
Who was wearing the skirts.
It is Scotland, after all.

I am likened to those hags.
I change in your titles
From a dearest partner
To instrument of darkness.
You’re always painting me
Black or white.
And here I am—red all over.

I get in trouble for my images,
Because I say milk and gall and dash.
It’s beside the point,
But you try having your nipples
Cracked and chapped
By some colicky brat
And you try not to think of it.
In any case, I didn’t do it.
I merely said, hypothetically,
That I would.

Is that really worse than what he did?
Unseaming people from navel to chops.
Please—war is no excuse
When all the world is war.
Don’t be so naïve.
Is it because I’m a woman
That you’re offended?
Well, there’s an implicit war there, too.
And don’t think my body
Hasn’t played the battlefield.

I didn’t always talk this way.
But the hero
Kept coming home
And wanting to retell his exploits
To relive his victories
In our sacred marital bed.
It got so he couldn’t get excited
Any other way.
And so I steeled myself for him
Trained myself to taunt

     To take it

     To cry out

     As he cut me

     “Deeper!”

Why do you think
I’m so unphased by

      Blood

     Knives

     Poison

     Horsemeat?

So when I asked those that
Tend on mortal thoughts
To tend on mine
It was no big deal.
I’ve been plundered before.

Hereafter, when you ponder me
Remember
Hell is murky
And so is vision
With or without that candle.

On my way to class

to teach people how to write

with style

to unlearn bad habits

where I try to make everything

a story

& then I see the blood

smudged all over one hand

from where I’ve unconsciously

picked at my thumb

I didn’t feel anything

but I can’t teach

visibly bloody

so I lick the wound like an animal

test to see if it wells again

walk into class

knowing

the blood under my fingernail

will darken all morning.

Jenny Lawson, the author of Let’s Pretend This Never Happened, is a saint.

Okay, not really. I mean, not literally. Mostly because she’s not Catholic and not dead and doesn’t have the required number of confirmed miracles (again, because she’s not dead).

But if someone had to be my intercessor with the almighty, I would want it to be her.

I can imagine her argument in my favor now.

Him: There’s no way she’s getting in here. She’s violated too many of my rules.

Jenny: Like what?

Him: Well, she had a child out of wedlock.

Jenny: Technically, so did you, unless the Bible is leaving out a whole wedding scene. And sure, Alexander may not be a zombie whose worshippers commit cannibalism, but he did give her a kiss on the forehead the other night — unprompted! — for making meatloaf. He’s a teenage boy–they’re not supposed to be nice to their mothers! And did I mention that he builds his own instruments? I mean, have you seen his all-metal viola? She can’t be all that bad.

Why am I so convinced that this is how the discussion would go? Well, I’ve been reading Lawson’s work for a while now, so I’m used to her having conversations like this actual one with her husband when she bought a taxidermied baby alligator:

Victor: “Didn’t you once tell me that more than one dead animal in the house borders on serial-killer territory?

“‘Yes, but this one is wearing a hat,’ I explained drily. He couldn’t argue with that kind of logic. No one could.”

My friend Vanessa first introduced me to Ms. Lawson’s blog (www.thebloggess.com) via an entry in which Lawson gets back at her husband for forbidding her to buy more towels. It’s a wonderful lesson: http://thebloggess.com/2011/06/and-thats-why-you-should-learn-to-pick-your-battles/

I became a fan of Beyonce  the chicken and Jenny Lawson all at once. Don’t understand that sentence? Go back and read the blog I linked to!

How awesome is Lawson? Well, have you ever gotten Wil Wheaton to take a picture of himself collating paper to send to people who send you stupid requests? Have you, when trying and failing to get Nathan Fillion’s attention, ever had Simon Pegg comfort you with a twit pic of himself holding string? I bet not. But Lawson has:

Lawson’s blog is wonderful. Her book is similarly amazing. I usually don’t laugh out loud when I read, but I laughed. Out. Loud. Several times.

How could I not when she recounts a discussion with her OBGYN about how she would tear and need to be stitched up? Lawson asked if the scar could be in the shape of a lightening-bolt (a la Harry Potter) so that “whenever I have menstrual cramps I could just pretend that Voldemort was close.”

Even though I just finished the book, I already want to read it again. It has been a source of joy, of recognition (she’s not the only one to attend Armadillo rodeos), and a reward for getting my grading quota done each day. It is also “intellectually challenging and chronologically surreal. Like if Memento was a book. About dead dogs and vaginas and puppets made of squirrel corpses.”

She gave me that quote to use in my review. It’s in the book, so I didn’t even have to bother her to get it.

I’m telling you–the woman is a fucking saint.

There are two main teaching buildings at UCD. The bathrooms in both are abysmal. Out of toilet paper on Monday at noon? Of course!
However, one stall makes up for it. In fact, the other day, when I discovered the stall was taken, I considered waiting for it even though all the other ones were open.
What makes it so special?
The Doctor Who graffiti.

It occurs to me that if anyone noticed I was taking pictures in the bathroom stall, they probably thought I was crazy. I’m not crazy (for doing that).

That’s right–Boston!

I’ve been living in this country for well over three decades now, but I’d never been to Boston before this month, when I went for the PCA/ACA convention (I’ll be there again in January for MLA).

I’ve always enjoyed PCA/ACA, and this year promised to wonderful as well because my friend Melissa was going with me and we’d be meeting up with our grad school buddy, Maura.

George frigging Takei was the keynote speaker for the conference this year, but I didn’t get to see him. As big a trekkie as I am (hell, as big a Takei fan as I am), it hurt to miss it.

However, I had to stay behind in Davis an extra couple of days because the fabulous Sherman Alexie was here. Alexie’s book, The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian, is our campus book project this year. As a member of the selection committee and planning committee and as an Alexie groupie (that’s really the only word for it), I couldn’t leave.

So, okay, I didn’t get to see Takei speak, but I got to moderate a panel on the Mondavi stage with Alexie, to go to a gala dinner in his honor, to see his big talk at Mondavi, to have him speak to the writing students (mostly mine) in a private q&a, to be the momentary object of his flirty nature, to get his autograph, and to wipe a little dried shaving cream off his face before one of the events. I doubt that I would have been able to get my spit/DNA on George Takei.

The trip to Boston was long, but Melissa and I made the most of our time there. We went on an awesome Trolley tour and learned a lot about revolutionary history–including the correct version of some mythical events.

We went into Faneuil Hall, an old meeting house/assembly room. My favorite picture is this one–surely the painter was not actually a fan of General Washington. 

We got to have some amazing fish chowder at the Union Oyster House, which is the oldest continuously functioning restaurant in all of the United States. When we asked the very friendly oyster-shuckers for a picture, they brought out a giant lobster.

We also got to take a walk around Harvard. The buildings were beautiful, but this is what I took pictures of. Lobster is a big thing in Boston, but I still find it hilarious that it’s not a taco truck that pulls up for the Harvard students–they’re getting lobster! 

Finally, we had a great dinner at Jacob Wirth, an ancient German restaurant with a great beer selection and wonderful sausages (if not wonderful German potato salad).

We also saw the bar front that served as the establishing shot for Cheers. 

The conference itself went well. I missed Melissa’s panel to play with Alexie, but I got to see Maura’s panel on Clue. My own panel was on Whedon (I was discussing the Reavers in Serenity/Firefly), so naturally the audience showed up. The two other panelists on my panel did not arrive, however.

For a moment, I was nervous, but then I decided to stand right in front of the audience and to take the room. Luckily, the audience was interested in my ideas, and we had a good conversation. (And Maura even noticed that I was wearing a quasi Zoe costume to deliver the paper.)

A few regrets. Didn’t got to a Doctor Who thing that I should have. Got cornered by a furry who fixed my ignorance (I thought it was only a sex thing) but who didn’t understand that I wasn’t in the mood for a two hour lecture on the subject. Didn’t book the hotel early enough to get the conference rate for the last night.

But that’s okay–I’ll know what to do in January!

That’s right. It’s my anniversary with The Simpsons!

25 years ago today, The Simpsons premiered on The Tracey Ullman Show with a little short called “Goodnight, Simpsons.” (See it here: http://www.milkandcookies.com/link/61247/detail/)

I was immediately taken with the family, mostly because Maggie’s reaction to the “Rockabye, Baby” song is the same as mine–the lyrics are f**ked up!

Fox also gets to claim this week as its Silver Anniversary, which it’s doing with a tribute to its first 25 years this upcoming Sunday. My students may not remember a world without Fox, but I do. Remember having to get up to change the channel? Remember when programming for children was a couple of shows on PBS and a few hours on Saturday mornings? Remember when tv actually went off at a certain time of night? Remember tv before reality tv (which COPS to some degree initiated when it first aired in ’89)? Remember when every sitcom had a laugh track–even animated ones like The Flintstones?

On this day in 1987, no one knew that tv would change the way it has or that The Simpsons would be what it has become. I certainly didn’t know that I would be where I am now, teaching a class on The Simpsons, writing this in an office decorated with memorabilia from visiting the studio, having a Simpsons book with my name on it, passing out cards that declare I’m a Simpsonologist . . .

Aside from family members (whom I don’t get to choose), my relationship with The Simpsons is the longest of my life. It’s also certainly one of the most rewarding.

The Simpsons has seen me through puberty, every boyfriend and break-up, four degrees, fourteen years as a college teacher, the birthing and raising of a child who is now a college adult.

I knew The Simpsons before I knew how to drive, how to kiss, how to pick a wine, how to escape the South, how to be a professional geek, how to accept that I was not the ugly duckling I thought I was, how to stand up in front of other people without getting stage fright, how to reign in my temper. Before I knew my best friends (and my best-best soulmate, Denise), before I knew Atwood’s work, before I knew my high school poetry was really bad, before I discovered the strength I now know I have to get through the bad stuff.

With them, I finally saw a character on television that I really related to–a girl who sometimes comes across as too nerdy, too self-righteous. A bookworm and an activist. A young woman trapped between her own aspirations and the more humble future the circumstances of her birth seem to dictate. A girl who doesn’t fit in, sometimes not even in her own family. An imperfect girl in an imperfect family in an imperfect world.

Thank you, The Simpsons, for 25 amazing years.

I mean, sure, I’d been to WonderCon before. Regular readers will remember that it was at WonderCon that I got a picture taken with Adam Baldwin and ended up in a commercial for Kick Ass.

But this year was different–this year I was invited, invited to give two presentations at the Comics Arts Conference running concurrently at the festival. This was thus the year that I dubbed myself the geek queen and ended up interviewed for two publications: http://www.comicsbulletin.com/main/interviews/karma-waltonen-geek-queens-tale & http://blogs.ocweekly.com/heardmentality/2012/03/wondercon_pick_the_simpsons_in.php

This was the year I dressed up.

What exactly happened at my three full days of geek joy? Well, I packed up the boy, made a couple of powerpoints, brought my zuul costume, and let my geek mojo out. The highlights:

Alexander getting mistaken for my lover (which was not a highlight for him, but was damn funny).

Hanging with Aussies not associated with the conference at the bar. Note how I’m the only one supposed to be in costume, but how Steve, a reporter, still manages to pull one off on the fly:Alexander closing down the bar with the Aussies & I.

Hanging out with our friend Lonnie Millsap (http://www.lonniemillsap.com/) & having him introduce us to some of his comic friends.

Seeing the other costumes:

Meeting so many of the Bongo Comics (Simpsons & Futurama) people: Terry Delegeane, Max Davison, Art, Jason Ho, Bill Morrison, Carol Lay, and Scott Shaw. Having a nice long conversation with Scott about comics–one that we plan to continue. Finding out how many relatives of Terry’s have gone to UCD.

Walking up to Terry on the day I was dressed up and complaining that no one knew who I was.

Terry: I know who you are.

Me: No–not who I am. No one is supposed to know who I am. My costume.

Terry: Well, I don’t know what your costume is supposed to be, but I know who you are.

Running into some ghostbusters:

Following a former Simpsons background artist back to his unmarked van because he wanted to give me his card. He threw in a Homer drawing to make it worth my while, but I did tell Alexander that under normal circumstances, one should never be lured to a van to see someone’s etchings.

Seeing a preview of Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Slayer and trying to convince the boy that the film would work better with period music.

Ordering in a Papa Johns pizza and watching The Simpsons on the last night.

Finding the flirtiest, sexiest bartender ever & getting him to bring in a very large cucumber just to make me my favorite drink (one that no bartender in Davis even knows, btw).

Having a guy at the bar buy me my favorite drink, although I wasn’t sure at first what was happening–I’m not usually as attractive as I seem to be at WonderCon.

Meeting another hardcore and apparently psychic Futurama fan.

Giving two presentations that went relatively well, if I do say so myself.

Meeting Anthony Del Col, the awesome co-creator of the Kill Shakespeare series. Having him say it was cool to meet me & actually meaning it:

The least cool thing about WonderCon? I didn’t take enough pictures.

I usually manage to juggle the various commitments in my life rather well. Last night, however, while trying to fall asleep, I made the mistake of confronting my schedule for the next week five weeks. Three conferences, the end of one quarter, the start of another, a special lecture for the book project, hosting an amazing author, bunches of writing, bunches of grading, and all the rest of life. I’m fearing that something’s going to give–sanity, sleep, something . . .

And that’s why I haven’t had the time to write everything I want to here. I want to write all about my adventures at AWP and about being the nerd queen.

There isn’t really time to do it all justice, but I want to give it a few minutes.

Margaret Atwood was the keynote speaker at AWP this year. I got VIP seating due to my Atwood history and ties.

Atwood is my hero and I wish I could just transcribe the whole talk for you. The highlights: she mentioned the Atwood Society (of which I’m the former President). She was warm and funny. She made one of the best observations about the state of some young writers today: “If you want to be a writer, but you don’t want to read, then you don’t actually want to be a writer. You want people to come sit near you while you tell your sob story.”

Denise and I were able to go see Tiffany, Ben, and the new baby (Jack) while I was in Chicago as well. Now, I’m not really a baby person. I loved my own baby, of course, but I can resist the charms of others most of the time. Jack is different. I had an annunciation dream at the moment he was born. He’s also a particularly adorable and good-natured darling. Thus, I held him for so many hours that my pecks hurt when I got home. Denise kept having to demand him from me. I would post pictures, but a) I haven’t transferred them from the camera and b) I somehow look awful in every shot. Denise looks awesome, though, so I’ll eventually get around to sharing the pics of her holding him.

Finally, I’ll be heading to WonderCon this week. I’ll be giving a talk on The Simpsons on Friday and a talk on Buffy comics on Sunday. My consequent nerd/geek queen status has been verified and immortalized here: http://www.comicsbulletin.com/main/interviews/karma-waltonen-geek-queens-tale

Remember to catch up with me at my column at matchflick.com. I’m also on Twitter now (@KarmaWaltonen).

Also, be sure to check out The Simpsons tonight–Homer’s going to say my first name (and call me names, too!).

This morning, I heard it again–the new talking point about mandating birth control coverage. A caller to NPR said that mandating birth control coverage for religious institutions that take federal funds was akin to forcing a kosher deli to sell pork.

In logic, that’s what we call a faulty analogy.

There’s no perfect analogy for this situation that I could think of. However, a less imperfect one would go like this:
I work at a kosher deli, but am not kosher. My boss has to give me a break because of the hours I put in. My kosher boss knows that I will totally chow down on some ham. My chowing down on ham won’t de-kosher his business, but he doesn’t like it, so he decides that I don’t get my break. Or maybe he decides that I don’t get my paycheck–he doesn’t want any of his money going toward eating that unclean animal.

He doesn’t get to do that, right?

Especially if he took federal money.

My birth control is covered through work. I work for UC Davis, meaning I work for the State of California, which means that there are some people in this state who are funding my birth control right now. They don’t get to not pay taxes because they don’t think I should have access. Students don’t get to not pay tuition because they object to my birth control. Even if the student is a Christian Scientist and believes that all medication is forbidden, I still get to have my asthma meds and the student and the state still help me to pay for it. Why? Because religious freedom doesn’t just mean you get to worship in your own way; it means you can’t foist your religion on me. This isn’t a theocracy.

And I don’t buy for a second that my pay (in either money or insurance form) violates your worship. Pray for me; pray against me; whatever. But unless I’m forcing you to take birth control against your will, I’m not making you do anything against your conscience by my working a job and getting the benefits I’m entitled to by law.

To think through the fallacy, we need only think about really allowing people’s religious beliefs to dictate how they treat their employees.

Believe, as the Bible says, that women should be segregated at their time of the month? Does that mean that allowing me to come to work and paying me for that work at my time violates you?

Believe that women must be fully covered? Does that mean UCD has to change my dress code for you if you’re a member of my state and thus contribute to my salary?

This all reminds me of all those movements some years ago when pharmacists refused to fill prescriptions for medications if they objected on moral grounds. Many states said that was fine. No matter what insurance a woman had, no matter what medical needs, no matter what was legal, no matter what a doctor was recommending.

Let’s go back to the restaurant analogy, because it does work here. Say I don’t eat pork, but I work at a restaurant that serves it. If you order pork, either I bring it to you or I get fired, don’t I? I don’t get to call you names or explain that my religion prevents me from doing my job.

The Bible doesn’t say that I shalt not bring others pork, only that I shouldn’t eat it. But what it says isn’t even germane to the argument, because this isn’t a theocracy.

Even though I think people who want it to be shouldn’t breed, I don’t get to force my beliefs on you–you can keep having babies. Don’t try to force your stuff on me–allow me not to if that’s my choice. (Besides, if you really disagree with what I’m saying, you don’t want me raising a whole mess of kids, do you?)