i will survive...

or not. Because sooner or later, the "big one" is going to hit the city of San Francisco--and I mean THE CITY, not the rural area adjacent to the tiny, laid back college town of Santa Cruz more than an hour's drive away. Because it will be on the San Andreas fault, the boundary between the Pacific and the North American tectonic plates. It is around the Pacific plate that the "Ring of Fire" exists, a variety of subduction zones where we see a lot of little activity going on....Indonesia, Alaska, earthquakes and volcanic activity, etc. Having just celebrated the 100th Anniversary of the Great Quake of 1906 (the officially sanctioned name being the Great FIRE, to bolster an advertising concept of rebirth as if a Phoenix from the flames), we are not only reminded of the incredible devastation that even a moderately large earthquake can cause, but the fact that along the San Andreas, there is a cycle of about 80 years between moderate to major quakes...and so we are already 20 years late. As those hyper-stylish guys at the USGS like to say, "It is not a matter of if, but when..." Now, I've been in three or four moderate quakes (4-6), and a couple of dozen smallish ones (3-4). I have always had the same reaction, which I think most earthquake area residents experience...within the first second you ask yourself, "Is this the big one??" You have a major fear response...my adrenalin rushes, for a fraction of a second I am frozen by fear, and after which I rush to the nearest door frame or sturdy table and face away from glass. After that, everything is a blur as my body tries to calm itself down. (The reactions are conditioned, from years of earthquake drills in classrooms that had one entire wall that was a floor-to-ceiling window.) When it is over, there are several residual effects: sonic seas of car alarms going off in different keys and at different tempos, panicked screaming and crying, a gentle swaying of the ground back and forth, as if you are standing on a slab of cement set on rolling pins (mainly after southern california quakes), or, suddenly, another earthquake. But since my last big quake, I am living a whole new life. I have no prior experience with earthquakes as a Mommy and a homeowner...First and foremost, where will I be in relation to my kids? How long will it take me to get to them? Then what about the house? How long before the boys hear from their father? As reality continues to set in, the risk of aftershocks continues...how much emergency water do we have? Where is the gas valve? How much food and cash do we have on hand? Do we have anything to secure over the windows where glass is broken out? How will we defend against looters? Is it going to be freezing cold at night without electricity? Is it going to be unbearably hot? How many days will we be without power? Water? Gas? Oh no...how much gas do I have in the car? This will surely send local prices into the $7 range, if fuel is available at all...How do we know if the house is stable? We don't have earthquake insurance, and if we did, the best policies start with a $10K deductible...i wonder if the roads are in tact..should we go clean out the Safeway now? We are probably already too late...we have what we have. Oh shit! What if it was, or was accompanied by, an offshore earthquake?! Could there be an impending tsunami? How far inland will it reach? What has happened to all of my friends who live in the Marina District, or on the San Andreas itself, which essentially ran under the neighborhood in which I grew up. What if some psycho terrorists decide this is a good time to strike, while we are in a crisis...What if I don't have to worry about these things when the shaking ends...........

if i were quentin tarantino

For starters, I would never give myself more than four lines. For a man whose acting is like a dried out piece of cheddar, I still come away from my first Pulp Fiction experience awed by the directing and writing genius of this first major Tarantino hit. While the dialogue struck me as a Cohen Brothers film that wishes it were cool, scenes like Butch’s sit down with Marcello, likewise show the incomparable captivation a director can evince by the intentional use of poor cinemagraphic composition and extremely long static shots of little visual substance. This trademark technique forces the focus on the intensity of the dialogue, delivered by characters he seems to know more thoroughly than they know themselves. In retrospect, I appreciate the palpability of this blood-fest, and attribute its success to his setting of bloody, ugly and unseemly situations in bright, warm and friendly surroundings, such as the hold up in the diner or the overdose in Mia’s open, sterile living room (not to mention the fun of bizarre characters in differently but equally bizarre settings, like the infamous dinner “not-a-date” between Mia and Vincent). While most directors seek to make a filmic statement through these dichotomies, Tarantino almost seems to be having fun with the characters and their believably unbelievable lives, both extremely appealing to the dark and anti-social side in all of us. A Quentin Tarantino kiss-up would not be complete without the mention of his almost Fellini-like placement of events in seemingly random order. From Butch and Vincent, among others, we learn a quick lesson to pay CLOSE attention to the essence of the characters, that we may eventually determine where a character’s transitioning personality (or death) fits into the sequence of events. The technique is so cleanly utilized that if it were not intended as an homage, it could still be viewed that way. My only dig in this area, lose the titles—it feels like Blade Runner’s concession to add voice-over for a completely non-cognitive audience. This is a film I could see over and over again, if only to wish I was Uma Thurman sans overdose, but also to relish the successes and failures of the rich and evil. If I were Quentin Tarantino, I would rest on my laurels with a big kahuna burger and a Sprite, secure in the knowledge that I would be known as an enduring auteur and unforgettable legend in the world of cult film.

mother's little helper

While cleaning the kitchen the other day, I was mentally lamenting the fate of the 1950s housewife: no opportunity to pursue her own potential, beholden to an expectation of perfection, denied any vestige of personal expression, and desperately numbed to the banality of her life by the effects of valium and cigarettes. A few years ago a friend passed me a photocopy that had been going around--excerpts from a high school textbook on Homemaking. Among the degrading and misogenystic instructions were; 1) Be certain to have the house in order when your husband returns home from his long work day. Tidy up the children so they can greet him cheerfully at the door. 2) Take some time before your husband is due to make yourself attractive for him--change out of your house dress and fix your hair and lipstick for him. 3) Be sure to have his paper and slippers (cigarettes and/or pipe) ready in his den. He may require a light shoulder rub, or your sympathetic ear to relieve the stress of the day. This was success in the life of the post-WWII era wife and mother. Ewwwww... I considered how many brilliant, creative, diplomatic and ingenious women lived and died supressing their own value and denying their own needs. Then, between puttng away clean dishes, microwaving Kid Cuisine, picking up kid clothes, fighting the war against the summer ants and scheduling karate, swimming, acting and horseback riding, I realized that nothing (for me, at least), has changed. I am far more amenable to an hour of cooking and dishes (with not even the accidental thank you) if I smoke a little pot...to numb myself to the brainless chore. Increasing womens' "choices" hasn't changed the fabric of society...I am either denegrated for wanting my own challenges to conquer, like going back to school or working, or I am mocked for being a stay-at-home mom. There are still those who think that women who stay home to care for their children do so for lack of any other abilities, education or potential. Women who choose to work, often because they have spent their pre-parenting lives building a careeer, are still reviled for abandoning their responsibility as a mommy. You can't win for losing. All this choice is no choice at all. As with every year, an independent actuary firm calculated the value of services provided by the stay-at-home wife and mother as she would be compensated on the open market. For 2005, I earned $134, 121. I am still waiting for my check. And no matter how many dishes I do or underwear I fold, there is always more mindless labor in need of my attention. Not the best use of my bachelor of arts in Film...but then again, what would be? The dreams of accepting my screenwriting Oscar died the night I watched the Academy Awards on the TV screen over lane 14 at the bowing alley where my Insurance Bowling League played. And yet, I would take insurance adjusting over whinning for cookies any day. At least there are a few men who leave their jobs today to dedicate themselves to their children and families, and although they constitute a small percentage of the stay-at-home population, still those of us who put the family first can begin to be disrespected equally regardless of gender. So who's fate am i lamenting, really? Anyone who finds joy in having figured out how to beat the elementary school pick-up line...for lack of other challenges to conquer. I'd better go, I have a sink full of dishes...