However, I am also a stickler for continuity. I’m an editor, for crying out loud. I can show you in several reference books why a comma goes (or doesn’t go) where it is or how to properly credit a source. When a character in season two of a tv show says their sister’s name is Laura, and then in season eight, their sister turns up, if her name isn’t Laura, I’m going to have a conniption. Consistency is how you reward your fans.

So, I’m having a serious conflict. This has been brought on by watching a certain BBC television show called “Dr. Who.”

The BBC had previously charmed me with the lovely and amusing “Top Gear,” wherein I fell madly in love with three smart guys who act like idiots while driving cars — sometimes very nice, expensive cars and sometimes cars they buy off the internet for $1,000. Then, “Sherlock,” and since I’m a freakish Sherlock Holmes nerd (really, ask me anything*), I was taken right in. I had also recently rewatched (what I believe to be the canonical episodes of) “The X Files” on Netflix instant, and the gods in the machines decided to recommend me “Dr. Who.”

I am also a fan of David Tennant’s face. So why not?

The thing is, I’m guessing, when you keep a show on the air for a million years (nearly 50, plus spinoffs — “K-9″ (about a robot dog), “Torchwood,” “The Sarah Jane Adventures,” “K-9 and Company” (robot dog again)), through multiple variations of actors and developments of special effects and filming technology and all that, there’s a point where you sort of have to throw some semblances of continuity out the proverbial window. There comes a point where you just have to say, oh, this is like this just because IT IS and I DON’T HAVE TIME RIGHT NOW TO EXPLAIN and just CAN YOU DEAL WITH IT PLEASE. And typically, you can, because the story is good and the character is good. And I guess that’s sort of what those English people are known for, just, moving on when things are complicated or unusual (or like their whole country gets bombed or whatever, just, moving on).

The special effects are often laughable, and I get the vibe sometimes that probably the show is for children, but that’s OK, because it’s still a lot of fun. It’s entertaining. And at the end of the day, sometimes, I don’t really want to call into question my deep emotional meaning relative re: Earth and existence. I just want something I can sort of look at and get distracted by.

As much as I sort of want it to be throwaway entertainment, it’s endearing in a way I can’t really enumerate. So what if sometimes there are strange continuity problems? So what if that’s not entirely how particle physics works? So what if they just decide sometimes, hey, forget logic, this is “Dr. Who” and we can do whatever we want? Underneath, it’s just this story of a lonely dude who wants to distract himself from being 900 years old and pretty much homeless (apparently his planet exploded, I think, I’m not really sure, I get distracted by the shiny robots sometimes).

And that’s the whole universal story — trying to find where you fit, whether just in your own existence or in the infinite possibilities provided by being a time-traveling alien. So I guess that’s how it’s OK. If the story is good enough, I’m willing to overlook nearly anything.

*Fact: I read all the Sherlock Holmes novels and short stories as a kid, and I sort of thought they were kid’s books, and that when people grew up, and became adults, everybody was as clever as Holmes, and just so you know, it’s been quite a disappointment that assumption isn’t entirely true.

And what happened to these boys? I remember in the 90-00s you couldn’t go to see a band or a record store or a diner and not see at least five or so achingly tall, skim-milk skinny, basement-apartment pale, 30-year-old boys. And all I could think was how I couldn’t wait until I was older and then I could have one of them as my boyfriend.

So where did they go, and why can’t I find any of them now?

Fluid dynamics describe relationships among velocity, density, temperature, pressure, energy, etc. in space and time. Bernoulli’s principle is the basic support for flight. (Wing shapes, lift and drag are all functions in aerodynamics; the flow of air around a wing (faster above than below, creating a pressure difference) is what keeps it aloft.)

Fundamentally, these laws state that sums of potential and kinetic energy (as well as other things) are constant in a system. (Example: A plane goes fast, then achieves lift.) (Related: Newton’s second law: force = mass x acceleration, aka flying = plane x fast.) If something changes, other things change relative to that change in the system. If something in the system goes up, something else comes down. Not quite as poetic as chaos theory with its butterflies, but very mathematically sound and supremely logical.

While I believe these things are true in science, and in all the things of life which can be proven empirically, I do not believe they are true in reality. Reality is governed by more depressing maxims like “If something can go wrong, it will,” and “When it rains, it pours.”

So, dear Mr. Daniel Bernoulli of 18th-century Switzerland, I would appreciate your attention to the concern of my recent workload, and some consideration into certain unequal pressure without respective changes in density, energy or speed. When could I expect these things? July? December? Or, should I ignore your postulating and just accept they won’t, and my system has become non-Bernoullian, and move on with figuring my own laws to govern its specific mechanics?

Also, a little study could be done with my personal lifting and dragging, too, I suppose.

*I don’t come from a math family. All actual math persons please excuse my haphazard and ugly explanations of your careful and beautiful concepts.

People pay exorbitant amounts of money to go stand around and watch this happen.

Today, at my grandparents’ house, this was on television. And at their house, it was technically on an array of televisions, in every room, rivaling an actual sports bar. And apparently, it’s the only thing you aren’t allowed to be smart-assed about.

All of my families are brilliant smart-asses. There is nothing sacred. I’ve been mocked for not having a job (though I have three), having brown hair, having gray hair, wearing pants, wearing a dress, wearing glasses, not wearing glasses … like I said, nothing is sacred.

So, imagine my shock at the table today, when I got the blankest of stares for mocking golf. GOLF ON TELEVISION.

Me: So, it’s expensive, to go?
Cousin: Yes, but it’s so amazing. The grounds are just beautiful. Every blade of grass, every flower, is perfect.
Me: I can see that. From here. On the TV.
Cousin: You don’t get it. You don’t play golf. I bet you hate going to baseball games too.
Me: No, I love going to baseball games. You get to sit down and there’s big pretzels and if you sit in the right part of the ballpark they bring the beers to you.
Cousin: Just, trust me. It’s a lot more fun to play than to watch.
Me: It better be.

My dad has zero sense of humor about it as well. He texted me last week to tell me he was going and I should watch for him on TV. I texted him today to tell him I didn’t see him, but I saw a couple hundred other middle-aged fat guys.

The only thing more boring, I think, than golf on television is tennis on television. Seriously. Nearly 75 years of technological breakthroughs in broadcast television and the best thing they can put on is a bunch of dudes in white on some nice grass smacking balls with things.

Actually, apparently, some other people could have gotten there first (Andrew Irvine and George Mallory), but they disappeared.

About 4,000 people have tried to follow them, but only about 660 have made it. On the way, 219 people have died. Roughly, only one in six people make it to the top, and one in four people die. It’s difficult to retrieve bodies, so corpses stay where they are, up on the mountain. People also leave their garbage. (Mostly, empty oxygen bottles.) There’s apparently even a controversy amongst serious climbers and alpinists about using bottled oxygen at all, but the truth is, above about 26,000 feet, humans get very fragile, and conditions get very terrible. More oxygen = better decision-making = less dying. Less oxygen = bad decision-making = lots of dying.

So, it’s pretty dangerous.

It’s also very expensive — about $65,000 to train, get there, hire guides and people to help you.

It’s pretty safe to say I’m never going to do it. Aside from all the things I don’t like about it (it’s outside, you have to camp and wear ridiculous clothing, it’s cold, there’s snow and to get there is a really long flight), I probably also won’t do it because there’s a very very real chance I’d die.

Another thing I don’t do because it involves things I don’t like and possible death: large outdoor music festivals. Since 2002, ten people have died at Bonnaroo. Now, I’d love to go to Bonnaroo. I love music and I love a lot of the bands they get for the Bonnaroo lineups every year, but have you been to Tennessee in the summer? It’s roughly 150 degrees all day every day. (For comparison, in 24 years only one person has died at Glastonbury, the big English music festival, and only one person has died at Coachella in the 13 years it’s been around. I don’t know what it is about Bonnaroo, but it’s dangerous.) About 70-80,000 people go to Bonnaroo every year, so the mathematical chances of dying are slim, but I don’t trust myself. I don’t trust my self-preservation skills on water-drinking and sunblock-applying and all those things. I’d die and then my corpse would bake.

I’m incredibly pale, out of shape, prone to dehydration and fainting, plus in my lifetime, I’ve already been to (and worked at) my share of oppressively hot outdoor music festivals. I’ve finished with that.

Anyway, lots of people go to these things, and love them. But if it’s so dangerous, why aren’t more people just climbing Everest instead? Danger, physical exertion, scarcity of water/food/survival amenities, it just costs way more and Radiohead isn’t going to be there.

But what’s the difference? How do people choose their preferences? What determines whether someone goes go Coachella or goes to Tibet? If I had to pick one, at gunpoint for example, I’d probably pick Everest, just because I hate crowds, and there’d be a good statistical chance I’d die and then never really have to do either one.

I won’t rehash that essay here more, but I have something to add to it. If I’d not been who I was then, then I couldn’t have enjoyed “Kid A” later, in 2003, when I really needed it. In 2000 I was a junior in college at a big state school, in the journalism college (in that split-second moment where people were starting to think the internet was going to do wonderful/dangerous things to journalism but didn’t quite know exactly what/how). I was too far along to quit, but I didn’t know at all what I could do. I didn’t at all know what I wanted, because I had absolutely no idea what I was good at. I hadn’t tried anything except high school and then journalism, and journalism is just telling people what happened. It isn’t expression or interpretation or explanation, it’s just narrative and the material is dictated. You just copy it down.

In 2003 I was at art college, and was taking three elective classes in studio art in three different programs—graphic design, bookbinding and painting—I’d never attempted before. I had zero experience in studio art. I was working as the news editor of the college newspaper, and DJing and as promotions director for the college radio station. I lived in a beautiful garden apartment in a Victorian house in Savannah. And I was happy.

Just that I would even attempt the coursework, and the hours of effort and practice to get good enough at doing it just to accomplish the work for the classes, plus the extracurricular stuff, plus I probably had a better social life then than almost any other time of my life. I was constantly amazed at myself. I didn’t give up. I worked my ass off. I got straight As. (I did lose part of a finger though in a tragic utility-knife accident, but no big deal.)

I’d never thought I could do art; I never thought I could hone a craft-skill to a good-enough level and then simultaneously have something good enough to express with it. That I could try it, and that I could try it in such a wholehearted way, was an incredible chance to take, and I did. I chose to do the hardest things.

And when I’d come home, tired and sweaty and hunched over, I’d lie on the beautiful wood floor of my apartment and put “Kid A” on and just zone out. In “In Limbo,” Thom Yorke sings “You’re living in a fantasy world.” I was.

So, now, “Kid A” has this nostalgic*** quality for me. I’m nostalgic for a time in my life where I thought for just a short time that I had something to say, and that it was worth saying. And when I listen to it, sometimes I cry a little for that feeling because I miss it so much and I may never have it again.

*I think everybody/anybody who begins anything with “in my thesis” should be punched in the face. Especially in something as self-indulgent as a blog post. Do I contradict myself? Very well then I contradict myself. I am large. I contain multitudes**

**I didn’t write that. Walt Whitman did, and he’s a much better writer than I am.

***You probably know this, but the Greek root words for the word “nostalgia” mean “homecoming” and “ache.” Whoever picked that out was a genius.

Anyway, while I was there, at about 7:30 a.m. on a weekday, another Porsche owner was dropping off his fancy, newish 911. He was a snappily dressed, mid-40s guy with an English accent, and was pacing around waiting to check his car in after mine. I was answering really sexy questions like “And what’s the RPM when it changes into third gear?” and “Does it squeak always, or just from a cold start?” and “Do you really need a back window wiper?”

“Hey, is that yours?” Mr. Snappy asked me.

“Yes.” I didn’t want to get into the entire family history. I hadn’t had coffee yet.

“Nice.”

“Thank you.”

“Did you buy that new?”

I am thirty years old. Three-zero. In fact, when I was dropping this off, I was still only 29. It’s a 1989 Porsche. I was born in December of 1981. So, this guy was basically asking me if I had $80,000 as an 8-year-old and decided a ridiculous 4-seater Porsche was a smart investment. Actually, if I’d had $80,000 as an 8-year-old, I probably would have bought a swimming pool full of gummy bears.

I tell you this story to tell you this other story. Last Friday, I was getting coffee and a muffin on my way to work at a coffee place. After I’d ordered, the lady ringing me up took a deep breath.

“You can’t get offended,” she said. “But how old are you?”

“Thirty.”

“You have a LOT of gray hair!”

I really didn’t know what to say, so I just waited patiently for my muffin and then went to work.

So, in conclusion, I am 10,000 years old.

Alas, today, cleaned out.

My bank called me about twenty minutes after I called them, to tell me there was fraudulent activity on my account, after I had already told them there was fraudulent activity on my account. I still have to call their claims department after all the charges are processed and finalized before I can even start the process to get my money back. And they cancelled my debit card, which doesn’t matter much, because there’s no money in my bank account to be debited out anyway. I’ll get a new one in the mail in 5-7 days, but probably won’t have money again until later than that.

So, the appropriate reaction here is to 1) take a credit card then, 2) go to the liquor store and 3) buy everything and then 4) drink it. But here’s the thing: my favorite local booze emporium* gives a cash discount. Seriously. Anything you buy in cash or with a debit card costs $1-2 less than if you buy it on a credit card. Getting drunk as a reaction to my debit card being stolen/bank account being emptied is now MORE EXPENSIVE because I must use a credit card.

Life is unfair, yo.

*I’m talking about the jumbo liquormart in the parking lot of a local supermarket, which is famous because in 2002, a passerby noticed the smell of rotting flesh and called police, and then police found a dead body in a car in the parking lot. So it’s called Murder Kroger. It even has its own Facebook page: http://www.facebook.com/MurdrKroger.

JESSICA, 30, enters and sits. BARTENDER approaches.

BARTENDER:
Hi. Can I get you a drink?

JESSICA:
Yes, please, Skyy and tonic.

BARTENDER:
I’m sorry, we don’t serve alcohol until after 12:30.

JESSICA looks at her watch.

INSERT CLOSE UP, WATCH READING 12:20.

JESSICA nearly cries.

JESSICA:
Sweet tea, please.

BARTENDER:
We only have unsweet, but I can bring you some sugar.

JESSICA:
(stunned silence)

BARTENDER:
Will you be eating at the bar?

JESSICA:
No, I’m waiting for my parents.

BARTENDER steps away, comes back with tea and a globe of sweetening packets, none of which will properly dissolve in iced tea.

BARTENDER:
Also, we don’t stock Skyy anymore.

JESSICA looks at her watch again.

]]> http://jessicaclary.com/blog/?feed=rss2&p=2230 0 http://jessicaclary.com/blog/?p=2228 http://jessicaclary.com/blog/?p=2228#comments Sun, 19 Feb 2012 18:18:13 +0000 jessica http://jessicaclary.com/blog/?p=2228 Continue reading →]]> So, last night at the circus (yes, I went to the circus, and yes as will become clear, I went last year too). This is the Universoul Circus, a multi-cultural circus with performers from all over the world, a hip-hop soundtrack and a positive family message. Cirque-du-Soleil-ish Asian girls hanging from the ceiling, contortionists, elephants, tigers, ponies, a little person ringmaster, funnel cake, nachos and other circus accoutrements.

There were a few acts from last year that weren’t in the show last night that I missed (the guys who ride motorcycles in a spherical cage), but a lot of new acts (ponies!).

There is, however, something that confused me last year that again, confused me this year.

There’s an acrobatic act called Russian Swing, performed by the Zhukau Acrobatics troupe. I did some research, and discovered these guys are from Belarus, a landlocked former member of the Soviet Union tucked between Russia, Poland, Latvia, Lithuania and Ukraine. Their act involves two platform swings which face each other. A big hulky guy gets on the back of each and swings it, while a little guy gets on the front and jumps from one to the other, while they’re swinging, really fast, and sometimes they do flips and stuff, and sometimes two go at once, crossing each other.

I’d like to note here that it’s terrifying, and I can’t really watch it. I spend most of the act looking at the floor and listening to people gasp. I’m too worried there’ll be an accident and I get worried so I can’t look. (A few years ago I went to Cirque du Soleil’s KA in Las Vegas at the MGM Grand and spent the first half in panic mode, looking around thinking of all the terrible accidents that could happen and all the different ways I could see someone break his or her neck, and so my complaining sparked my mother to purchase me a 64-ounce alcoholic slush beverage during the intermission, and then I drank 3/4ths of it and fell asleep, I’m guessing from the combination of exhaustion and grain alcohol.)

So, here’s the confusing part. They wear sort of Bono-esque black patent leathery outfits with sort of tied-on mis-matched plaid wrap skirts. Their tops are sleeveless, but underneath they wear those flesh-colored long-sleeved shirts with fake tribal-tattoos on the arms (not really Celtic, but more like a George Clooney in “From Dusk Till Dawn” sort of look). In between terrifying acrobatic bits, they sort of dance and jump and twirl and yell, and the whole thing is set to sort of Riverdance music.

To drive from Edinburgh (the capital of Scotland) to Minsk (the capital of Belarus), it’s 1,751 miles. You go through France, Belgium, the Netherlands, Germany and Poland. If you were to fly a straight line, you’d cross Denmark, Poland, Lithuania and that little separated bit of Russia between Lithuania and Poland.

What I’m trying to do here (besides show off my ability to read a map) is show you the cause of my massive confusion. Why are these guys, billed with an Eastern-Bloc-y name and coming from an ex-Eastern-Bloc-y country, doing this pretend Celtic thing as part of their Russian Swing act? And why is it so weirdly non-authentically Celtic? What’s with the tattoo shirts and the patent leather? What’s with the Riverdance music?

So, in the middle of my circus experience, twice last year and also last night, I’m having this mental breakdown, while staring at the floor of the big top circus tent because I’m terrified I’ll see some Belarusian guy accidentally break in half, because I took basic European history in college and have a giant mental conflict over what does Belarus have to do with Scotland, and why is this connection being made and why aren’t other people yelling out in the crowd “What in the hell is going on? Don’t you know you can just be Belarusian? It’s all exotic and wild to us because we’re in a tent in a parking lot in Atlanta, Georgia.”

I realize I’m trying to apply logic here to something that is obviously, and incredibly, resistant to logic. But nobody else seems to be as unsettled by this as I am, so I feel obligated to say something.

So, officially, for the record, there it is. I have some concerns (well, one concern really), but now I’ve documented them and can move on, I guess, because everybody else seems to have done so.