Running Through My CD Collection: Day 15

So everyone is probably back to some kind of exercise routine, because...January! I commandeered the workout wagon again in September, when I realized the adventure race I had run three years previously would decimate me now, prompting me to recruit "a guy" to show up on my doorstep twice a week to whip me back into shape. The guy has a name (it's Chris), but my co-workers think it's funny when I have to leave right on time on Wednesdays and Fridays because my "guy" is coming. There are lots of potential guy-themed jokes to be had, and we've had them all.

But if you're starting a workout regimen anew for 2017, here are five no-fail tips that I actually can't offer a guarantee on, but yeah, they're pretty good:

1. Always exercise on Mondays.

2. Treat every day like a new day and a chance to start fresh (even on Tuesday if you didn't follow Rule No. 1 and exercise on Monday).

3. Drink lots of water. Not drinking water can make you tired. Science!

4. Listen to excellent music.

5. Invite "a guy" to come to your house twice a week.

I haven't consistently kept up with the CD/exercise experiment I started a year and a half ago, because I'm lazy and there's work and kids and trying to write other stuff and other stuff in general, but I'm not psyched about what I see looking outward lately, so I'm retreating back to temporary inwardness to hold me over till...whenever.

Now that that's out of the way:

Today's album: Pandora mix, because I cleaned up a lot of crap for holiday guests and can't figure out where I put my CD case, which is enormous, so WTF.

Length: 1 hour

Activity: 45 minutes treadmill, 5 minutes power exercising, 10 minutes stretching

What listening to this album made me think of: I cranked up the "Frankie Goes to Hollywood" channel on Pandora, which gave me enough synthesized fodder to get through the worst of it. It made me think about a bunch of things, because there were a bunch of songs:

• 18-minute remix version of "Relax" by Frankie Goes to Hollywood: 
All I could think about was a) when is this remix ending, because even though I like this song I want a different song now, and b) how I was mortified when I found out, at around the age of 14, what "when you want to come" meant.

• "Hold Me Now" by the Thompson Twins: 
This really is a beautiful, if clichéd, song, but I laugh whenever I hear it because my first boyfriend and first real heartbreaker once wrote me an amorous letter and included this at the end: "You say I'm a dreamer, we're two of a kind. Both of us searching for some perfect world we know we'll never find." 

Maybe it was the subterfuge of my Cyrano removing the song-break slashes and swapping in commas and periods, and yeah, it did sound incredibly familiar to me when I first took it all in, and sure, there probably should've been some sort of red flag (I didn't recall any conversation when I had broached his dreamer status). But I was so infatuated that my brain short-circuited and I thought it was the most romantic thing anyone in the history of Planet Earth had ever written to anyone else, a glowy delusion I absorbed into my DNA and that probably kept the relationship going far longer than it was meant to go. It was only a few months after we had broken up and I was seeking closure through old letters when I came across this, suddenly pinpointed the origin, and thought, "Figures."

• "Always Something There to Remind Me" by Naked Eyes:
 This song evoked no emotion.

• "Suicide Blonde" by INXS: 
This is my least favorite INXS song, yet my most favorite INXS song to work out to.

• "Hungry Like the Wolf" by Duran Duran: 
Friends from junior high.

• "Just Like Heaven" by The Cure: 
I've always hated The Cure, a loathing exacerbated by the fact that a girl who lured a college boyfriend from me was a Cure devotee. Hate (even though I don't really hate her/him anymore, just the feeling it dredges up) = running impetus.

• "True Faith" by New Order:
This song led me back to thinking outwardly, which I DO NOT WANT TO DO RIGHT NOW, but luckily it was the last song of the workout.

Review: I liked all of the songs except the Cure song, but I made it work for me because that's how I roll.

How I felt after: Annoyed when my parents showed up at the 40-minute mark and my dad started taking pictures of me on the treadmill. Good otherwise, though still fighting the asthma that has returned over the past couple of months to torture me.

Random fact I learned about these artists/albums: I didn't know "Relax" was banned by the BBC, though not surprising. Nice!

Why I'm doing this: See Day 1. 

Tweets and treats at @jenngidman.

Movies Movies Movies Movies ... and Moar Movies!

What Ralph Fiennes was like for pretty much all of A Bigger Splash, and what I'm not ashamed to say the day-to-day can feel like.

And so what was once called by a medical professional, to the delight of my closest friends, my "general malaise" has bogged me down and boggled me for 30-plus years, at varying intensity levels, exacerbated and/or salved at different points by the situational, hormonal, and medicinal. 

For the past few years—traced back to just before the Hurricane Sandy maelstrom of late 2012; spurred by the nefarious relentlessness of shaky finances, career insecurity, and marital discord; and culminating in Election 2016—I've especially felt that unmistakable steel-toed concrete boot pressing down on my chest and asphyxiating me whilst a steel vise crushes my brain, makes deals with my sanity, and turns my sometimes brown–sometimes titian tresses a steely gray. All of this steeling/stealing *should* make me feel practically bionic! Instead, it often just renders me incredibly tired, unmotivated, and unable to get out of bed except out of sheer necessity. Not all of the time, and sometimes, thankfully, not for long stretches, but enough that it's irritating.

What helps me most of all during the downturns (and keeps my upswings very much upswingy) are the sweet hugs of my children, a limited regimen of somewhat unhealthy but mostly legal vices, and a more liberal dose of healthier escapism—namely, lots of reading, music, and movies. Lately I've added photography into the mix. It's hard for me to concentrate on words during the spirals, and so the other three have become my recent go-to.

Anyway, as Oscars season approaches, here's my brain dump on the movies part, to be regularly updated. I also have a new Pixies album to obsessively listen to and analyze, and I've been plowing through the entire Arrested Development franchise, so there may be somewhat of a gap between viewings.

A Bigger Splash

This was a Christmas night treat, a movie I'd never even heard of starring Tilda Swinton and my boyfriend Ralph Fiennes and a delightfully sullen Dakota Johnson and a very hot Belgian actor who excels at cunnilingus for the purposes of this film (and perhaps even beyond that, I'm assuming). Ralph exhibited a controlled amount of his typical steely (callback!) staring, a goodly portion of manic joie de vivre, and his usual jealous obsessiveness. He'd better win something for this masterful emotional amalgam.

Tilda did her best David Bowie here, though it was a little weird (maybe genius?) that her character suffered from a vocal malady and didn't speak for most of the movie. Spoiler alert: The first half was deliciously uncomfortable and fantastically unpredictable, the second half was meh. There's also an amazing al fresco dining scene that will make you want to rob a bank so you can rot full time on Pantelleria.

Tweets and treats at @jenngidman.

The Tempestuous

Four years since the storm came

Marked by "a," "n," and "y"

A sudden squall, an upending,

Then abruptly: Goodbye.

 

Tweets and treats at @jenngidman.

A Very Important Pre-Debate Message From Jenn Gidman

There won't be a single person who will disagree with what I've got to say here.

OK, I've lied already. Of course there will be people who will disagree with what I've got to say. But you're here, aren't you? See how easy it was for me to make a confident, declarative statement that exploited the curiosity gap, manipulating you into clicking through to this opinion piece? Now you're one step closer to falling exactly where I want you, which is listening to even more of my confident, declarative statements and, hopefully, being swayed to my side in the topic of my choosing.

Welcome to the insidious world of politics, and also of lying, which is that chosen topic. I've been watching with interest the back-and-forth on social media between Donald Trump supporters and those who intend to vote for Hillary Clinton. (For the sake of this argument I'm leaving out third-party fans, because I believe that ship has sailed.*) And while the liberal set has failed miserably at coming up with catchy nicknames for Trump ("walking circus peanut" and "Cheeto Jesus" are amusing, but they don't exactly roll off the tongue), cons have done a better job at coming up with shorter, pithier pejoratives. My favorites being "Hitlery," "ILLary" (as an homage to her supposed coughing fits, raging brain tumors, and recent bout with pneumonia), and the ever-popular "HilLIARy." 

It's that last one that most catches my attention every time it floats down my feed, because for everyone planning on voting for Trump who's hyperfocused on the Democratic nominee and her distortions meticulously curated by Fox News, Breitbart, and the like, there's something I'd like to tell you, sotto voce: Your guy is also a liar. In fact, an even bigger, "unprecedented" liar—a pathological one who tells whoppers pretty much every time he opens his mouth, about big things, small things, and things that no one would ever have dreamed up if they hadn't actually happened.

He's a liar who lies so much and so often that an entire cottage industry has sprung up dedicated to compiling the lies he tells weekly, and even daily. One who has earned so many "four-Pinocchio" ratings from the Washington Post that it keeps a running list; he doesn't fare much better on PolitiFact against Clinton. One who averaged about one fabrication every three minutes and 15 seconds over a recent five-hour span, per Politico's stopwatch.

He's a liar who can't help telling untruths to the point that there's a cheat sheet for moderator Lester Holt on the lies that Trump specifically is likely to rattle off during tonight's debate. (To be fair, the Post also alerts viewers to the eyebrow-raisers that Hillary is likely to bring up during the debate, though her list, by comparison, is filled with more exaggerations, overstatements, and head-shaking technicalities than outright "fables" as expected from Trump.)

 
He's a liar who will likely tell those whoppers and more during tonight's debate—and he's been adamant he doesn't want the candidates to be fact-checked during the debate, while the Clinton campaign is all for it. Tomorrow's extensive recaps will lay out how much of what he said was probably complete garbage (though maybe he'll surprise us—he's nothing if not full of surprises!), but that doesn't help when people are watching the debates and absorbing every word he says, and then refusing to read (or believe) the following day's mitigation. He's a liar who said stuff during the debate, live in front of close to 100 million people, about being "smart" for not paying his taxes, and then that same night denied he'd ever said that**.

I'd be inclined to believe the assertion that so many in denial have claimed: that the liberal media is responsible for this subterfuge smear against The Donald. But we've got conservative-leaning newspapers that haven't broken from their GOP presidential endorsements for decades (in some cases, in more than a century) suddenly announcing either third-party endorsements or a thumbs-up for Hillary Clinton; high-ranking Republican leaders and pundits defecting from both Trump in particular and the GOP in general; and even George HW, part of the beloved Bush dynasty, saying he'll not only not vote for Trump, but will vote for a DEMOCRAT—and not only just any Democrat, but the Democrat who's married to the person who beat him out for the presidency. Meanwhile, his wife, Barbara, offers her own incredulous reaction to anyone voting for Trump, especially women.

Guys, something's up. It should, at the very least, give everyone thinking about voting for him some pause without leaning in hard on the liberal-conspiracy trope. It's probably true that not all of these people are fleeing from Trump strictly because of his inability to tell the truth, but it's also probably true it plays a large part. I've heard it said by many that they're voting for Trump because they crave radical change and want to shake up the establishment—and so, therefore, many of these disgruntled GOPers, it's often said, are defecting because they're part of this establishment, resent the brazen interloper who's swooped in to destroy their party, and are now harvesting their sour grapes. In some cases, that may be true; but it's also pretty reasonable to assume, based on "reasons," that they're fleeing from Trump not because he's simply anti-establishment, but because he's also clearly a Lyin' Lunatic.

I guess one could label me a liberal "extremist" (a name that's been hurled at my extremely boring self this election season), but that just shows one doesn't know me very well. I do tend to lean liberal on many issues, but I've pulled the lever for Democratic, Republican (including one Bush), and third-party presidential candidates since I reached voting age.

I've also rarely commented on political matters on social media and went into this election with relative ambivalence toward both of these candidates: I knew very little about Trump's past, and I rather enjoyed watching him on The Apprentice. I'm also more Bernie than Hillary, as I've had my own various issues over the years with her, most notably concerning her reactions toward women who've accused her husband of sexual assault.

But as part of my 9-to-5 this election year, I've had the opportunity to take in an awful lot of information from all sides, and I think I've become pretty skilled at separating the wheat from the conspiracy-theory chaff—and it's unmistakably led me to the same conclusion. I still have reservations about Hillary Clinton (many of my original ones, as well some new ones), but they pale in comparison to what I've learned, read, and witnessed with my own eyes about Donald Trump.

One could respond to my thesis with a whataboutism list of bullet points for every lie Hillary Clinton has ever told, and it won't matter, because my point isn't that Hillary Clinton doesn't lie—I'm sure she does, has, and likely will again, as I believe most politicians do to varying degrees (except for perhaps Jimmy Carter, and I bet even HE had to have told a white fib once in awhile). But everything she's said to have lied about—some true, some maybe true, some already proven to be not so much true—can’t compare with Trump's laundry list. If we're comparing lying apples to apples, and if truth-telling is a large part of what you're basing your vote on (i.e., we're not even getting into policy, general temperament, and overall saneness and humanity), Hillary's basket may have some mighty big apples in there, but Trump's basket is overflowing, and they're all rotten to the core.

Editor's Note A: Has any of this manifesto persuaded you? Will the debate tonight sway anyone? Doubtful on both counts. I fall in the camp mentioned in this Salon article that believes most people's minds are likely already made up for November, and that once beliefs are firmly entrenched in people's minds, even wrong ones, it's extremely difficult to dislodge them. But then again, a recent Reuters/Ipsos poll showed that half of likely voters are going to use the debates as a gauge to help them make their final call. That's where my hope lies—and not in the way that Donald Trump does. (See what I just did there?) 

Editor's Note B: If you skipped right to the end of this to check out my conclusion because tl;dr, just watch this John Oliver clip about the false equivalency of their foundation scandals, you monster.

* In regards to the much-ballyhooed protest vote, which, as previously stated, I usually have no qualms against casting: a) Gary Johnson or another savior candidate isn't happening, people; b) there's no candidate I like well enough to cast my lot behind, even if it were happening; and c) there's nothing morally, ethically, or pragmatically wrong with instead picking a somewhat flawed candidate (as they all are, if you review your American Civ 101 notes) over one who will likely reach for the nuclear football as soon as someone insults him on Twitter—and then, as we pull ourselves out of the ashes, say, in his best Shaggy voice: "Wasn't me."

**Updated Oct. 2, 2016.

Tweets and treats at @jenngidman.

An Ode to 12

12.

That's how old my child is today, shown here in this photo hanging out in his man cave. Except Jackson isn't quite a man, and he's no longer a child. To me, he's a force of nature, a descriptor I adopted during his first few years, both During- and Post-Womb:

When he dictated what I consumed during pregnancy (OK, that was the gestational diabetes, but still).

When he rammed his tiny, torturous foot into my rib cage for two straight weeks in utero as he sought more comfortable accommodations.

When we shared a tumultuous birthing session. We survived; my coccyx did not.

When he demanded everyone and anyone grab his pudgy, Trumpian hands and constantly walk him around the house (the kid was walking by himself by 9 months).

When I pleaded with him as a toddler—after he was too big for me to lug around in the Baby Bjorn—to zone out in front of Yo Gabba Gabba or Baby Einstein for just 15 minutes so I could get something (anything) done.

When I'd place him in the timeout chair for some preschooler transgression, only to witness him immediately get up out of the chair, look me squarely in the eye, and calmly walk away.

Fast-forward a decade:

When I have to lie down after every disagreement with him because my head is spinning. As soon as I hear "So what you're saying is...," I know there's a lengthy filibuster coming as he seeks out every loophole and hole in my sieve of logic.

When he's up at midnight shooting basketballs into his plastic mini-hoop.

When he's incapable of having a conversation without pacing up and down the length of the room until I have to tell him to please sit down because I'm feeling seasick.

When he informs me he received an in-school suspension because he rebelled against the lunch aide sexism running rampant in the middle school cafeteria (!).

They say you can tell a child's personality right from the start, and while I'm still not sure who "they" is, I now officially believe them.

But even when I'm at my wit's end, I tell myself (sometimes over and over again within the span of a few seconds): "My life is full of Jackson."

And that includes being full of all of the above, as well as full of his insane wit and intelligence; a smile that still lights me up every time I see it; a huge heart that's led him to donate hundreds of dollars of his own money to school charity events and stick up for kids at school he thinks are being unfairly treated; a thoughtful and inquisitive mind that's always analyzing the problems he sees in the world; the envious ability to strike up conversations and friendships with complete strangers; and a confidence, perseverance, and belief in himself that will take him far, among plenty of other qualities that make me proud every day. He's given me so much to laugh and marvel at over the past 12 years—I can't wait to see what the years ahead hold. If I can just get him to make his own breakfast one of these days, we'll be set.

I count just six more summers after this one before he heads off to college. I want to put a spike strip in front of this hot rod that's speeding toward adolescence and young adulthood, but Jackson would simply get out of the car and walk barefoot over the spikes. Instead, I offer lots of hugs and hope the friction of my embrace will slow him down just a little, for my own selfish reasons, before I let him go cruisin' off for good.

Tweets and treats at @jenngidman.

Heart of Shartness

 
To My Intended:

I'm Marlow, with a high-ABV IPA, a laptop, and a front-row seat on a Verizon FiOS riverboat up this RNC Congo. 

You're Marlow, witnessing my journey into the heart of Ohio's Inner Station. 

Together, our Marlow tag-team can peer through the jumbled jungle to document this stream-of-consciousness moment when we turned the final corner in Cleveland, barreling full steam ahead toward our Kurtz.


Talking heads, megaphone-enhanced background barking, unintelligible chants with eerie, stomach-turning emotional clarity.

"Osama, Obama, and yo mama," delivered with evangelical drama, feigning liberal-induced trauma.

Make America One (Piece of Shit) Again.   

I don't know if I can take the CNN Lizard Lady for hours on end. She reminds me of Faye Grant in 1983's V on NBC. Which is weird, because V was based on Sinclair Lewis' It Can't Happen Here, which, per Wikipedia, "describes the rise of Berzelius 'Buzz' Windrip, a populist United States senator who is elected to the presidency after promising drastic economic and social reforms while promoting a return to patriotism and traditional values and" OMG WHAT IS HAPPENING!!!

Maybe we should make everyone watch V again. And then its early-80s counterpart The Day After. Because that's what might happen next. Osama, Obama, yo mama, drama, trauma, Hiroshama... 

I wonder if Trump will screw up the theme of "Law and Order" and wax nostalgic about Jerry Orbach. No one puts Donald in a corner.

(I'm not funny. This shouldn't be funny. It isn't funny. Nothing's working. Stay with me.)

There are larger, rounder, more hateful cornfed versions of me in the crowd, gawking glassy-eyed at the speakers onstage. Also, a guy who looks like Bob Barker. Spays and neuters for all!

Pretty sure Marsha Blackburn is wasted. 

Fallin, felon, yellin', Magellan, stumbling upon the wrong America...

Is this like the little man in the refrigerator who turns the light off when you shut the door?

Mis. Ter. Bean. For you, Reince—enough is enough (is enough):

Ha ha, that guy dressed like Lincoln, tho:

Gawker spiked Peter Thiel's mochaccinos.

"I feel like the anchovy on Ivanka's Caesar salad. I feel like the rice pudding in Donald's gray matter. Man, I feel like..." (FF to 0:47)

Tom Barrack Obama. It's getting late.

Avocados, anchovies, what "a" food is next... 

Lyin' Ivanka. 

New campaign song: "Strong Man," set to the tune of Bowie's "Starman."

Trump, Dump, Rump, Hump, Mumps, EVERYONE'S GOING TO DIE NO ONE GOT THE MMR VAX BECAUSE DONALD SAID IT'S DUMB Dump Hump Rump Trump.

Camacho Camacho Camacho Camacho Camacho Camacho
CamachoCamachoCamachoCamachoCamachoCamacho
Camacho
Camacho
Camacho
Camacho
Camacho
MACHO 
Camacho
Camacho
Camacho
Camacho
Camacho
Camacho...       

The horror. The horror. 

Tweets and treats at @jenngidman.