Why Art Matters: The Virgin Suicides

Portraits of Boyhood Obsession

I've been obsessed with The Virgin Suicides, the book and the movie, since it was added to Netflix. Bothered by the mystery of "why," I was compelled to buy the book, consuming it in a matter of days.

The movie made Lux the primary focus of the story, the youngest sister as the catalyst for the story beginning, and Lux's behavior the vehicle to push it along. The book, however, gives you a lot more back story on members of the whole family, making all the sisters protagonists in their destiny.

Having lived in Michigan in the 70s, albeit in single digits, I distinctly remember the desperation of the times. I remember diseased trees as well as beef and milk poisoned with DDT. Polluted rivers and lakes. The author captured all of that, and make it part of the story more so than the film.

For the movie, director Sophia Coppola, like Quentin Tarantino, has a distinct ear for enhancing her projects using soundtrack selections. Her music put me firmly in my cousin's bedroom reading her back issues of Hit Parader and Creem. While the book provided a playlist during a critical moment in the book, it was only one passage. Sophia layered her movie with musical moments. "Strange Magic" by ELO not only captures the magic of the story, but Michigan in the 70s as well.

Coppola always played with mystery. The fact you only get a taste as to what the girls were like lent them a mystery that only can be achieved by being an unattainable teenaged girl.

Kirsten Dunst was perfectly cast as Lux.

But what is the overall appeal of The Virgin Suicides?

The youthful mystique of the Lisbon girls. If I may borrow from The Who, "I hope I die before I get old." The girls, by existing in the past, have become beautifully tragic, almost mythical creatures, worshiped memories. By staying in the past, their myth stays intact; had they lived and grown up, the myth would cease to be. In scenes with the boys on their dates to homecoming, there was every indication sisters Bonnie and Mary would have grown to be as dull as their parents.

By having to story told by the unnamed teenaged neighbors, you become one of them, calling them to play music, taking them to the dance, slipping through the sliding glass doors.

The story refuses to answer the question why the girls killed themselves or explain the complexities of mental illness. That the whole family is mentally ill is obvious; the best possible answer is you cannot explain the unexplainable, only speculate.

It is a tight, wonderfully crafted story. Not a single word is wasted.

July Playlist: Running Rock

Do ya see me?! Brian Diemer in June.

Running playlists are a big deal to runners. There are articles out there about picking the right tempo for certain parts of your race, getting quite scientific about how many beat per minute you need to get over that suicide hill.

I just pick the stuff that gets me from point A to point B.

I'm now up to 24 different mixes, but have been listening to the same one that I created for the River Bank run the beginning of May. It's an electic mix of old and new that I don't want to listen to too much and ruin before my big race in October.

Motown Philly, Boyz II Men - There's a lot of old school that reminds me of well, school. This was a jam back in college. *sigh* even the use of "jam" dates me.

Girls in Their Summer Clothes, Bruce Springsteen - Just a lovely song that has been on numerous playlists in the past, but I never thought it would be good for running until the Diemer, when I was able to celebrate how incredibly joyful and light the track is.

Hands in the Air, Flo Rida - Oh hot damn! This is my jam!

Push It, Garbage - Remarkable how positively aggressive this song is in the home stretch.

Jump Around, House of Pain - light hearted energy.

Dance Apocalyptic, Janelle Monae - a newer song on the list, just to prove I can keep up with the kids. Janelle is proud to be "not of this planet" (her words), and this jumps.

Talk Dirty, Jason Derulo - again, what are you kids listening to? Filthy sax, as it should be.

Pretend We're Dead, L7 - Riot grrl rock.

You Got Me Floatin', PM Dawn - Jimi Hendrix remake that is beyond cool, buried on a compilation disc.

California Love, Tupac Shakur - back to '93 and while I was heavy in my grunge period, I was not blind to the grooves at the clubs.

Rump Shaker, Wreckx n Effect - ditto.

Summertime Girls, Y&T - I almost see this track as part two a companion to Bruce's song above. Just light as air fun.

Matchbox, The Beatles - after the season I had last year, there will always be a Ringo led track on my playlists.

What's Right in the World? Let it Go

*sigh* It works for the theme of this post.

I recently made the decision to walk away from an organization I have been a part of for the better part of 16 years. It pained me to do it, and I didn't make the decision lightly.

My reasons for walking away were somewhat practical, but more personal. Feelings were hurt and I suspect recent snubs were deliberate rather than mere oversights.

What is interesting is when I was asked, point-blank, if I was going to continue, I said no, then vocalized my displeasure. It was great comfort to me that the people I was talking to allowed me to say my piece and they listened to me, validating my feelings. They also didn't blame me at all for moving on, as they agreed the organization was "no longer the friendly place it used to be."

I wasn't sure what to expect after that, as I spent the weekend at an event for the organization. Was there going to be tears, anger, accusations, hostility, sadness, etc?

What resulted was... nothing. Perhaps whispered resigned acceptance that I was moving on and nothing more could be said. Perhaps they were happy to be rid of me as well.

But when I was packing up my things, getting ready to go while an event was still going on, I felt, for perhaps the first time in a long time, the freedom to leave without being the last person in the arena helping wrap things up. I can look back at the last 16 years as I put my time in, hoping I made a difference, and I had nothing more to prove.

Why Art Matters: My Big Fat American Gypsy Wedding

Y'all are crazy.

One of the bonuses of Netflix is the opportunity to binge on your favorite shows. I watched three seasons of The United States of Tara nonstop over the course of two weeks. Orange is the New Black? Two more weeks, then watched it again with Dave when he decided to start watching it.

Well, I'm on my second viewing of My Big Fat American Gypsy Wedding (MBFAGW). What the hell is the appeal?! I'm planning on doing a little typing out loud to figure this out for myself.

Dresses: the crazy, blingtastic creations by dress designer Sondra Chelli are a girly-girl figure skater's dream come true. Crystals and feathers and beautiful fabrics and princess heels and crowns and doo dads and whatnots. The reveals allow you to gasp right along with the girls as the impossible fantasy gowns become reality.

Time warp: it's modern day, but the cultural norms for family dynamics is something straight out of the 50s. The men leave school early to work in the family business, marry and start families with their teenage brides. Most of the women are happy with this arrangement, filling their days with chores and children. On one hand, it seems like a blissfully simple existence full of love for family. But on the other hand, it's a horribly chauvinistic existence that it seems a few of the women, like Melly, bristle against.

Celebration: being Polish, I love a good wedding. And outside of the occasional birthday party, baby shower or baptism, that's what this show is all about. Dramas over dresses, dance halls, tuxedos, bachelor parties, and more just make me laugh. I especially enjoyed the Maryland couple, who had eloped 14 years ago, renewing their vows. She was adorable, he was sweet, and they were a couple clearly in love that had mutual respect for each other, something that was missing from the young couples exhibiting their swagger at the tender ages of 17.

Reoccuring characters: the first season of MBFAGW featured many members of the same family, and you scrambled to keep them straight. No problem, this show offered a spin-off, Gypsy Sisters, featuring the quartet above. Yes, I have a favorite, Kayla, far right, who while second in command to Nettie, seems to be in a happy relationship and is the most level-headed. Melly is a hot mess, but with reason.

Culture: it would be easy to dismiss the clan as white trash, but that would be unfair. I'm aware of the stereotypes that get flung around, I'm Polish and had to endure "dumb polack" jokes as a kid. The gypsies were a marginalized culture abused by the British who brought them to America as slaves. They have kept with them family pride, poetry, music and dance.

Rubberneckin': they are a wild, strange bunch that contradict themselves in all sorts of ways and it's fascinating to watch the powder kegs ignite.

Typing Out Loud: Burning the Candle at Both Ends

I had a few more wicks than that in May.

My friend Mo, running herself ragged at Adult Nationals in 2005, quipped "I'll sleep when I'm dead."

I just learned a valuable lesson in "too much all at once" where perhaps a dirt nap would have been preferable to the schedule I kept.

First, there was the non-stop action of competing three events at Adult Nationals. For a competitor, that many adrenaline rushes over the course of 4 days was a bit much. And my only off day, where was I? At the rink for 12 hours, volunteering as an ice sweeper.

Back home from ANs, a glance at my calendar revealed judging commitments, an ice dancing competition, work, household obligations, and the River Bank Run. Instead of the usual downtime to putz on the ice and rest on my laurels, I was running through the three dances I was planning to compete.

I threw something else into the mix, when Festival organizers dangled an invitation to submit work for the regional arts exhibition.

So what happened? I simply had too many candles burning, and I made a series of mistakes.

I competed the dances, earning three medals. But instead of enjoying it, I was relieved for it to be over, one more thing checked off the to-do list.

For the River Bank Run, anxious that I didn't properly train for it, I overdid the training the two weeks prior to the event. Instead of listening to my body and trusting what I had been doing all along, I feverishly pumped away on the elliptical with vigor, ignoring pains here and there in the vain hope that the cliches were true that this was "fear leaving the body." Instead of being up and eager for the race, my legs were heavy, as if made of lead. The first two miles were awesome, as I posted 11 minute miles. By time I left the zoo, my brain went into negative overdrive and I had a mental fight on my hands for 3.5 miles to the finish line. As a result, I averaged over 14 minute miles, every footfall felt like defeat.

Knowing I would be hurting and pressed for time the day of the race, I nonetheless agreed to judge a "quick" test session as well as skate in an exhibition at another rink. My brain said no, but my mouth said "sure!" As with any skating competition and test session, it ran late and I was disappointed to be a no-show for a skating event for the first time in my life.

And the exhibition for Festival? Even though I thought to myself, "no, you don't have time to pull something together," I slap-dashed a piece into a frame and ran it over to the event organizers, who sent me the "sorry, not selected" email at probably the lowest ebb of the weekend.

I could throw shade at the "snobby" jurors for not selecting my work, but that would be unfair. I hesitated before going downtown, knowing that while the work was great, the presentation was not my best, and at that moment, I argued my art deserved better matting and framing than what I submitted. I didn't allow myself the time to present my best face.

I love showing off my knack for time management, but I need to learn the value of no. Had I acknowledged I was stretched a bit too thin the last couple of weeks, I wouldn't have turned in a weak project, nor would I have dealt with the anxiety of preparing an exhibition program and racing across town to do it. I could have also given myself breathing room by limiting my availability for the test session.

What I did in the aftermath of my marathon weeks was a forced vacation from training. No skating. No running. Wrote a bunch of blogs. Only thing I did at the Y was a little stretching in the hot tub and some foam rolling. Bought a new swimsuit. Cleaned my skate bag. Shopped for new running shoes. Cleaned a neglected house. And slowed down a bit.

June Playlist: I Made You a Mix Tape

My first "mix tape" using a CD burner.

iTunes has brought play lists a long way since then.

Two of my favorite books center around the art of the mix tape. The first is "Love is a Mix Tape," by Rolling Stone columnist Rob Sheffield, chronicling the love story between him and his first wife, and the aftermath of her untimely death. Music brought them together, was communication between them, and helped heal him after her passing.

The other, "I Made You a Mix Tape," is a compilation of stories how sharing music cemented friendships, first loves, or captured that one special moment in time.

A product of the 80s, my early mixes were done the old-fashioned way, with a tape recorder and a microphone next to the speaker, and hoping to God no one walked in and ruined your audio by talking. I was especially diligent during the end of year countdowns, my pre-teen sister forever captured over the strains of 38 Special.

I can attempt to conjure up some old mixes, I think I have some of my college radio shows still on tape, any maybe even some of the older mixes if I didn't tape over them. But for now, here's the compilation I made in 1998 to share with girlfriends, Lipstick on the Mike, my first attempt using a CD burner. Like the old days, you crammed as much music as you could into one piece of audio:

1. Melissa Etheridge, Bring Me Some Water
2. Heart, Dog and Butterfly
3. Bangles, Going Down to Liverpool
4. Blondie, Dreaming
5. Stevie Nicks, If Anyone Falls
6. Tori Amos, China
7. Belly, Thief
8. The Fugees, Killing Me Softly
9. Bananarama, He Was Really Saying Something
10. Bjork, Big Time Sensuality
11. Siouxie and the Banshees, Peekaboo!
12. Joan Jett, Do Ya Wanna Touch?
13. Hole, Violet
14. Concrete Blonde, Ghost of a Texas Ladies Man
15. PJ Harvey, Down By the River
16. Garbage, Special
17. Liz Phair, Supernova
18. Madonna, Beautiful Stranger
19. Eurythmics, I Need a Man
20. No Doubt, New

Stuff

No, I guess I don't need one more navy blue dress...

The family and I enjoyed a Saturday afternoon searching for treasures by driving the countryside in search of barn, yard, and garage sales. What gave me pause was the woman at the last house.

She was a large, lovely lady who was eager for conversation as she boxed up her wares for the day. Guilty at stopping without really finding anything, I nonetheless picked up a bathing suit for Will. She shared with me she used to own a small children's clothing boutique, and waving a hand over the vast amount of belongings covering her front lawn, she said "I'm from Uganda, where I grew up with one dress. This is overwhelming. I don't need this stuff. My sons didn't need this stuff."

Hm.

I did my seasonal closet purge a few weeks ago, eliminating those things that were soiled, ill fitting, tired or just not worn. I then went about setting up some arbitrary rules: "no more than 31 tops on hangers," the same rule for t-shirts. Then set a limit to 20 dresses. 20!

The horrible reality is I had a difficult time paring my wardrobe down to these set numbers, and even then, after going through registration for the River Bank Run, ended up with three more shirts. What was interesting is the sense of freedom that resulted in this purge, I knew everything that was left in the closet were things I definitely liked and looked good in.

But still! I'm looking at a vast trousseau that includes over 60 tops and 20 dresses. These numbers do not include the bottoms or sweaters folded neatly, or the purses and bags and totes and belts and scarves.

I'm not willing to pare it down to one dress of course, but what is the magic number to the essential wardrobe? As I'm packing for vacation, I'm curious to see what will be the bare minimum I would need to get by and still feel like a million bucks.

The first thing I plan on doing is skipping a few rounds of thrift shopping the next few months. Let's see if I can get through the summer with what I have. And see what I can part with at the end that I didn't need.

I love stuff, I love new stuff. But when met with the invitation to a fancy dinner/fund raiser, I immediately decided to start shopping for a new dress. Then I remembered the 20 I already had a home. I need to to take a break from acquiring to enjoy what I have.