Bull fighting… Machismo, or just girly man onsies?

I have recently had the pleasure (I use the term lightly) to attend a real, fairly hardcore bullfight. After surviving nearly 3 hours of devastation, bovine murder, and sequins, I have some serious questions regarding machismo culture and the very essence of masculinity!

Lets start by looking at the term bullfight. You break it down and you have two words: bull and fight. It doesn’t get more macho than that does it? A bull is a large horned beast, and fighting is the ultimate way of releasing too much testosterone. In concept the matador, the person fighting the bull, is a sex symbol. He is the fighter, tamer, and slayer of the beast. The matador expounds in his elegant dominance over the beast… Ok… what really I saw was a small skinny man in brightly colored sequined spandex with a sword strut around and kill a severely wounded boy cow.

Ok, you want to talk about ridiculous... let's examine the "star" of the show. The word matador comes from the Spanish word matar to kill, or when referring to an individual a killer. Now when I think of “killers” I think of black clothing and maybe a facemask. Really, nothing that would make them stand out in a crowd or gain unwanted attention. The matador, however, is the complete opposite of this. He wears a skin tight, colorful sequined onesie, with a funny little jacket, Mickey Mouse hat, bright pink tights, and loafers with a puffball on top. Really this “killer” attracts too much attention to himself. Also this killer really just puts the bull out of its misery. I mean the bull is subjected to quite a bit of torture before it ever deals with the matador. First it’s stabbed by an armored man on an armored horse, then a serious of other men run at it and inject barbed spears into it’s back. This, of course, causes the bull to lose quite a bit of blood. Between the blood loss and the running around in circles the bull is practically spend by the time the matador kills it. Killing something that's already dying... or using complex teamwork to kill something really isn't that macho.

And what about the object of the killing spree? He's just a big hunk of beef. Who ever heard of a town full of villagers needing protection from a raging bovine? You just let a mad cow run around for awhile, and eventually it goes back to chewing it's cud. Trust me human flesh has never been found in the four stomachs of a cow. A real man would fight a real monster, right? It be one thing if it was a Minotaur or something with at least a little bit of credibility. Leave the boy cows alone already!

Finally, the whole spectacle reminded me of a high school basket ball game. "the band only plays when the matador is doing well" I heard the man in front of me explain to a tourist group. I waited to see what kind of jam the band would pull out to keep a good fighter pumped, and what did I get? No "We Will Rock You", not even a note of the "Chariots of fire" theme... no it was...mariachi music... something you would hear on loony toons. So when these fancy little men with their silly swords and pink socks, fight well, they are rewarded with bouncy, little tunes.

In conclusion, I'm going to say that while bull fighting is overly gory and bloody, it is surprisingly wimpy. Hey, maybe it's because I come from a culture where manly men bump chests, never cry on the outside, and enjoy knocking each other down for sport, but I'm not gonna be impressed guy a little skinny dude in a spandex jumpsuit, pom pom shoes, and a Mickey Mouse hat unless he's fighting a dragon with his bare hands!

And now, an illustrated guide to manly matadors:

Hey Bull, you got blood all over my fancy pants, so I'm gonna kill you! ... after you pay the dry cleaning.

You come to me now bull, I am ready for you...

Excuse me bull, before I plunge this sword into your heart, would your mind telling me if these spandex pants make my butt look big?

Now, watch me brood I am a sexy brooder, look at my brooding stance... isn't it exquisite!

I'm gonna pick me a winner... and... and...and... oh shoot, it was just a sequin.

Ah yes, I am the winner, so now I will have these nice, muscly men carry me around on their shoulders... how manly we all are, yes... man...ly...mmmm.

A poem for a puppy

Ginger

A poem in memoriam of a special puppy

I wanted to find a way to remember and celebrate our dog Ginger

She was a constant figure in our lives for over 16 years, and we all really really miss her.

Ginger, I miss you, you big yellow fuzz ball,

Here’s the list of all the things about you that I miss most of all:

I miss you dragging me down the alley on walks,

I miss you’re sympathetic look during our heartfelt talks,

I miss your crusty, cruddy, disgusting volleyball,

I miss how you’d lick us to death if we happened to fall,

I miss how silly you were if you happened to get inside,

I miss how your game of fetch was more like a game of collide,

I miss how you needed comfort whenever there was a big storm,

I miss how you’re hugs were so instantly warm,

I miss when you’d roll over and try to get me to pet your belly,

I miss how sometimes after a really intense rain you were oh so smelly,

I miss you running along the fence trying to catch a car,

I miss how you liked to get free, but you never ran far,

I miss you sneakily trying to steal our food,

I miss trying to brush you, while you tried to elude,

I miss trying to run you down in the dark,

But what I miss most of all is the constant sound of your bark.

Gingy, it’s never fair when you have to say adieu.

It’s just not going to be the same without you.

And if you’re up there with Grandma Jean looking down from above

I hope you realize how much you were loved.

the kinderman chronicals: part deux.

The grating sound of Danni’s voice hit Liz like a shock wave, propelling her backwards in time… far, far back to that fateful night twenty years ago…. The night Hans Kinderman died. Liz suddenly felt a wave of emotion knock her upside the head. Before she had time to react, a single, silver tear slipped quietly out from under her cumbersome, black leather eye patch¹ and slid slowly down her dirt stained cheek. She quickly regained composure, but her scowl intensified as she looked into the mug placed before her. She had spent tormented decades forgetting the pain she felt that night, but in just minutes this pipsqueak of a café owner brought it all rushing back. This was going to be harder than she’d planned… but Captain Lizzle had never backed down from a fight, and she certainly wasn’t going to do so now… not when she was so close to the sweet taste of vengeance. The saying is that revenge is a dish best served cold; well in this case it was absolutely frigid.

“Tea?” Liz hissed through her teeth, as she pushed the steaming mug of Moroccan mint towards the senile shop owner. “I didn’t come all this way, on this very day, to this very café for fricking tea, Danni!” A light flickered behind her heavily lined eye, “… if you are going to offer me something to drink… offer me something worth drinking,” the flicker turned into a flame, “offer me the kinder drink”.

Danni Frowned, “I do not make that drink anymore”.

“Oh no?” Liz planted her claw-like hands on the counter and leaned in menacingly. “Decided the drink was a little dangerous, did cha!?!”

Danni immediately grasped the severity of Liz’s comment, “I…I just haven’t been able to keep any Kinder in the shop since that day” she stammered, shrinking from the crazy gaze in Liz’s eye. She knew that there was no way of avoiding the argument; it was nothing more or less than the continuation of a very long, very bloody battle between the two of them… a battle that would end only in death.

“It really is a shame Danni,” Liz replied. She was like an Icelandic volcano ready to erupt and wreck havoc on the western European airways. “A shame that you ever made that drink as a way to seduce and steal my soul mate, and essentially ruin my life”.

“You’re going there, Liz? Really? Do you always have to go there? It has been more than twenty five years…” Danni began.

“Twenty five years of nothing but… suffering … torture…PAIN…” Liz reached into one of the large pockets of her cloak, and began emptying its contents onto the counter. Unsatisfied, she moved on to another pocket and then another. Danni jumped as Liz haphazardly flung a large tabby cat in her direction. Finally, from the very depths of the cloak Liz produced a small black box. She pulled a rusted key from a chain around her neck and slowly opened the box.

Liz reached into the box, “make the drink” she mumbled through gritted teeth. “I want the drink!”

Danni shuddered. On the palm of Liz’s hand were two individually wrapped pieces of Kinder chocolate. “There’s no way… how long has that been in there? That can’t be thirty year old chocolate?” she gagged. Liz had a crazy look in her eyes. “Seriously Liz… you want me to make hot chocolate out of something that has been rotting in your pocket for thirty years!?!”

“Chocolate never goes bad Danni,” Liz gingerly peeled off the faded white and orange paper and aluminum with her dirt encrusted fingernails, and shoved the dry crumbly discolored mess into Danni’s hand.

Danni shrugged her shoulders and tossed the Kinder into two of her finest mugs. Death by stale chocolate wouldn’t be the worst way to go… considering the circumstances².

It only took Danni a couple of minutes to brew the dangerously chocolaty concoction, but those couple of minutes were the longest minutes of Danni’s life. Liz remained silent, thoughtfully stroking the tail of a very shaggy, very old cat that had been hiding under her hood. She was sizing Danni up… which didn’t take long considering the extremely petite stature of the vendeuse. Liz was trying to remember what Danni was like before her betrayal. She had once been one of Liz’s dearest friends… they had traveled the world together, and both had taken part in the slaying of the Jabberwocky ³. But that was a very long time ago. Now all of the pleasant Danni memories were plagued by treachery.

Danni slid a steaming mug over to Liz, western bar style. Despite the fact that the semi dissolved chunks of kinder were practically petrified- causing the hot chocolate to take on a sickly grey color and bubble like witches brew- the comforting smell of Kinder filled the room. Liz couldn’t help taking a deep breath before taking a long drink from her mug. As soon as the chocolate touched her lips everything came rushing back… the good, the bad, and the chocolate.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It is a little known fact that the dreaded pirate Liz graduated college with a degree in French and a Minnesota state teaching license. She had actually meet Kinderman while teaching abroad in the south of France. There was an intimate connection and chemistry between them from the very beginning. One day after a frustrating trip to the grocery store (Because she was saving up to buy her first ship and launch her pirating career Liz was living off of a diet of chocolate bars, tap water siphoned from a neighboring apartment, and whatever she could mooch off of friends and relatives) Liz happened to look up in time to see a piece of scaffolding hurdling in her direction. She quickly leapt out of the way causing a chain reaction preordained by the gods of love.

Liz’s blind leap caused her to trip over the curb of the sidewalk and into the busy street. Sh

e was sideswiped by a speeding taxi, which spun her quickly across the road and out of the way of traffic… frogger style. Liz attempted to step onto the opposite sidewalk, but a gust of w

ind swept the sports page of a local newspaper into her face, temporarily blinding her. As she struggled to free herself from the newspaper Liz tripped over a homeless man’s dog. She then fell forward into the fancy door of a small café, which suddenly opened sending her toppling ba

ckwards into the arms of a rather startled Hans Kinderman.

Lookin

g into his gorgeous, toned pectorals Liz knew she was smitten. It was only after he had bought her dinner (at the café with the fancy door), and escorted her back to her apartment, that she looked into grocery bag to find a young Kinderman staring back up at her. Hans Kinderman was indeed the grown (and handsomely matured) Kinder boy from the box of Kinder chocolate.

Kinderman had been a fairly successful child model. At the age of 6 he was accidentally discovered while on a semi annual big market trip. The Kinderman’s were from a very small remote village in secluded German mountains. The only ways to access the village were, a treacherous 5 day hike through the mountains, army helicopter, or traditional pirate ship. Every year the Kinderman family would make the 5 day trek to the next town to sell their goods at the market and to stock up on essentials (and goodies) that they were unable to produce themselves. To transport everything through the mountains and back they traveled with a herd of sherpa-trained Siberian mountain goats, and an old donkey named pickle. Once they had set up at the market the young Hans would sing and dance as a way to draw people to his family booth. Needless to say before he was discovered Hans knew very little of the larger outside world. Once he got a little taste of that world he was hooked. Though he tried, he was never again happy in his small, secluded town.

The year Liz and Kinderman met was the same year Kinderman scored his first big modeling campaign (even bigger than the Kinder campaign). The next year, with his help, Liz was finally able to purchase her own authentic pirate ship. Together they ruled the 7.5⁴ seas for nearly 13 years. They were 13 years of piratey bliss. Due to their exploits and adventures Captain Liz and her first mate Kinderman were two of the richest people in the world, and without a doubt the most famous-est pirates ever!

One chilly September morning, out of the blue, Kinderman realized that he no longer loved the deep folding waves of the open ocean. He had lost the urge to feel the salty sea breeze rustle through his long untamed locks. Perhaps most unsettling of all, for the first time in 13 years he found the even sway of the ship more nauseating than soothing.

Kinderman was like an untamable gazelle when he made up his mind about something, nothing could sway him. He decided that he needed to make port and take a break from piracy. Liz, blinded by love and the desire to make her other half happy, let him go. It was a decision she regretted for the rest of her life. Within two months Danni had seduced and stolen Kinderman.

By the time Liz realized what had gone down, Kinderman was gone for good. Her life began a dangerous spiral into insanity. Without Kinderman she left piracy and turned to rap music and drugs, eventually losing her mind completely and becoming a crazy cat lady.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Liz quickly drained her mug and turned to Danni, “It’s time for you to close shop for the night”.

To be continued …

¹ Liz wears an eye patch over her left eye, despite the fact that the eye is completely functional. It is a fashion piece most likely picked up during her pirate years. The fact that she continues the sport the useless accessory only expands upon the fact that in her latter years Liz is completely loopy.

² Not only was Liz known for being a fearsome pirate, but also a well connected gangsta rapper, and rifleman. (see post “what are you going to do with your life”).

³Arguably one of Liz’s most successful conquests, the Jabberwocky was a nonsensical literary creature from the demented mind of L. Carroll.

⁴ Due to the effects of global warming and the melting of the polar ice caps, the state of Utah was completely ingulfed by the Great Salt Lake- making Utah more of a sea than a state.

Tale of Hans Kinderman: Part 1

It is 5:07 on a Wednesday at the Café de la Révolution. Two customers chat on a couch, sipping their Sartres. Another leafs through the Oxford History of the French Revolution. Danni is behind the counter, cleaning off the espresso machine while humming the Marseillaise. All of the sudden the front door opens. A melancholic figure wearing a large cloak enters and approaches the counter. Danni wipes her hands on her apron and turns around to greet the customer. The mysterious guest pulls off her hood and reveals her face. Danni is immediately stunned in horror. A haunting silence fills the café.

Guest: So you recognize me.

Danni: (Looks intently at the guest’s face.) Of course I recognize you.

Guest: You know why I’m here then.

Danni: (Glances at the calendar hanging on the wall. Closes her eyes for a moment and focuses her attention back to her guest.) Yes.

Guest: I hoped that you had not forgotten.

Danni: No. That would be impossible.

Guest: It would have been terrible if you had forgotten.

Danni: As I said, I did not forget.

Guest: Good. That would have broken my heart. And you’ve already done that. I can’t bear the thought of going through that pain all over again.

Danni: I’m sorry.

Guest: I didn’t come here for an apology.

Danni: Alright. What can I get you then?

Guest: I didn’t come here for coffee either.

Guest: I came here for revenge.

Danni remains silent. Closing her eyes, she imagines letting out a scream. How dare she come in here and say something like that? Especially today, the vicennial of Hans Kinderman's death. Danni opens her eyes and looks at the woman standing in front of her. She studies the ragged eyepatch the wrinkles protruding all across her face. She had never before seen such profound yet fatigued lines. She never would have imagined that this same old and miserable woman was once that young and lively Liz she knew so many years ago.

Serves her right, that bitch.

After a pause, Danni decides to ignore Liz’s threat. Searching for a teapot, she urges her guest to sit down. Despite her irritation, the prude does without much resistance. Danni follows with the teapot in hand, hoping a cup of hot tea would calm her old acquaintance. While pouring the hot water, Danni feels Liz’s glower and ire. Sitting back in her chair, Danni looks again at the old woman, trying to rekindle the image she once held of her.

Danni: (While sipping her tea) So, Liz, how are the cats?

To be continued.

summer fashion.

It is the first day of summer. While to many this means longer days, barbecues, ice cream trucks, and lounging in the sun, Tyra sees summer as a critical time to revamp her style. As America's Top Model Extraordinaire, there is no way she can be seen donning a look from last season. So we decided to help her.

Braiding her long tresses, we first gave her a Caribbean-inspired look that would make her ready to hit the beach and join up with the Rastafarians.

This coiffure also made her resemble a certain malevolent creature in ancient mythology. Especially when hung upside down. She was a great asset to a prank on fellow pod mates.

Unfortunately, Tyra did not prefer to be hanging from the doorframe. So we decided that she was not cut out for such an exotic look. Knowing that "retro" is in, we thought that an 80s big hairdo could be attractive.

Total dreckitude.

So we quickly pulled it back and added some cats to give it more of a 1700s Marie-Antoinette feel.

Exquisite, a complete work of art. But the cats became restless and scurried away, leaving Tyra in a bigger mess than she started off with. So we were left with only one more option. The chopping block.

With extremely limited experience as a cosmetologist, I audaciously took charge of the hair reduction process. Tyra held her breath in anticipation for her next hairy disaster.

Liz held Tyra's hand while I snipped and razed her long polyester locks.

Yet there was no need for fear. Dozens of minutes later, I set down the scissors and turned Tyra around. With a short layered bob, and a piece of flair, our friend can now be proud of her hair.

Now what will she desire when fall comes rolling around?

another poem...

A good teacher is like Napoleon

Liz Whitt

When asked to find a metaphor to describe my teaching philosophie,

Of course a long list of important French figures came to mind, but who… oh just who would the best one be?

I could have chosen, Guallume le conquérant, Charlemagne, Jeanne d’arc, Clovis, Louis XIV, or Vercingétorix

But you see I had a major issue with the fact that nothing rhymes with quatorze… or Vercingétorix.

A little more pondering finally brought me to a pretty satisfying conclusion

I’ve decided that a good teacher should be a little something like l’empereur Napoléon!

I can tell you’re all thinking, Liz you’re insane, Napoléon was a frickin’ dictateur!

And while that may be true,

I must reassure you,

That he was not nearly as bad as M. Hitler.

I need to talk to you about my teaching philosophy, so I’ll try not to get the readings too blurred,

Just to warn you things could get a little existential, just stop me before I reach the absurd.

I firmly believe that the very first week a teacher must usurp control.

When the students are wild,

And quite easily riled

The teacher must have la parole!

Once the teacher becomes the emperor or empress

Self elected…

Hey, even somewhat respected…

He/she will be able to cultivate and mold young minds with the possibility of success.

In our classrooms we plan to teach what we know, be it l’histoire, la musique, les maths, ou le français

But we must also teach students to discover who they are, and that in fact who they are is ok.

Often joining the “real world” feels like invading the frozen tundra of la Russie

No matter what they intend,

It’s a big fat dead end

It’s going to suck to a certain degree.

We must teach through example how to pick ourselves up when we fall

If our students resign themselves to Elba we’ve taught them nothing at all!

Finally, it needs to be said:

I believe it is true

We all face Waterloo

The question is what will you do

Who will you develop into?

Which values do you wish to embed?

So am I traditional, modern, postmodern, contemporary, analytic, other… or none

I could make myself sick

Just trying to pick

I should probably take the best parts from each one.

this just in...

A recent, fictions study shows that bigger booties are better for dancing... especially to Beyoncé songs.

Liz Whitt, an accomplished "Single Lady" recently came to the conclusion that percentage of junk in the trunk is directly proportional to quality of Beyoncé- esque dance moves. "I always knew that there was something about me that made me a much better dancer than all of my friends," Whitt claims, "it just took me a while to connect my mad skills to my outrageous badonkadonk!" Earlier this year Whitt tested her theory

on her college cross country team... a group of girls with notoriously small bums. With a lot of coaching and practice the girls were able to shake it at a moderate level, but it was only the girls worthy of adding the title of maximus to their gluteus that were able to truly shake it as one would a polaroid picture. Whitt's research shows that there is something about the interaction between the protrusion of booty and the natural effects of gravity. So what does this mean for all of the members of the ghetto booty club? "I suppose it means they should consider dancing to Beyoncé more often, I know I will!"

sweet dreams, or a dinosaur nightmare.

“To be, or not to be: that is the question:
 whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
 the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
 or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
 and by opposing end them? To die, to sleep, no more. And by a sleep to say we end 
the heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks 
that flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
 devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep,
 to sleep, perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub…” Hamlet

Wikipedia would have you believe that dreams are a series of thoughts, emotions, ideas, feelings, and or events that occur involuntarily in the mind during certain stages of sleep. But if you are disciple of this blog you are too smart to believe that dreams are that simple. If dreams are simply ideas how can one wake up from a dream physically exhausted!?! Why are the sights, sounds, and smells, and manly pectorals so vivid!?! Why are the plot lines and concepts far more imaginative and witty than anything we are able to devise with our waking minds!?! Ah! dreams have to originate from a deep magical source far too complicated for the average human mind to grasp.

Since it is impossible to understand the origin of dreams, it may also be impossible to explain the meaning of dreams. I’m not really too worried about this… because I don’t know if I really want to understand my dreams… they’ve been pretty messed up…

I’m not one to have the same thought twice, but I am plagued by two reoccurring dream sequences. Below I have an illustrated description of those reoccurring and life shaping dreams I have had…

***********Caution entering the mind of Liz*************

The dinosaur dreams….

Ok, so in an exploration of my dream conscience, the dinosaur dreams are the main event. For some reason, dreams about these monster lizards have plagued me on and off for many years. Traditionally the only dinosaur I had

to deal with was the Tyrannosaurus-rex. Now I know enough about this “tyrant lizard” to know that his eyesight is not phenomenal… plus he has a huge head, little wimpy arms, and cannot run in serpentine fashion. I was never too worried when he appeared in my dreams. I always used my ninja skills and small stature to elude the giant! However…. Lately a diff

erent scaly daemon has been haunting my dreams. The T-rex was suddenly and alarmingly replaced by the velociraptor… and just so you know…the velociraptor is WAY scarier than the t-rex!!!!

All of these reoccurring dreams about dinos got me kind of worried, so I did what any sane person would do… I googled what it meant to dream about dinosaurs:

Dinosaur 
To see a dinosaur in your dream, symbolizes an outdated attitude. You may need to discard your old ways of thinking and habits. To dream that you are being chased by a dinosaur, indicates your fears of no longer being needed or useful. Alternatively, being chased by a dinosaur, may reflect old issues that are still coming back to haunt you.

Ok, I get it! Dinosaurs = old (what a revelation… not). Lets apply this knowledge to one of my more memorable dinosaur dreams:

It all started on the track (hmmmm, maybe this is the “problem”). I was running the “10 K”, lap, after lap, after lap… It had to be more than a 10K. Each time I ran past the starting line I was greeted by the cheers of my teammates, the encouraging comments of my friends, and the “constructive critism” of mama D (my coach) “hmmmm, this could also be the problem”. On perhaps the 50^th lap I passed the starting line expecting the cheers and cries and was meet with nothing but silence… everyone was gone! Of course I had to run another lap before I figured out what was going on. On the 51^st lap (or so) I realized that everyone had fled from a pack of raptors… that’s right the stadium was full of horrifying raptors, and everyone had fled (my coach included) in helicopters, leaving me running on the track in raptor infested grounds. I ran to an old abandoned shed for cover (very Jurassic park, I know). As I waited for everyone to realize they left me behind (I should mention how angry I was). I defended my building, actually killing one of the raptors with a led pipe. During my epic combat, I was unfortunately injured and the blood from my wound only attracted more raptors. Luckily, I woke up to the sound of helicopters coming to get me!

Hmmm, so how would I interpret this dream? I need to stop running track I guess? (I still don’t understand the part about the raptors…).

The bear dreams…

If I’m not tormented by nasty reptiles in my dreams, it’s the fuzzy cuddly… terrifying… bear… actually it’s always 3 bears, and it’s always grizzly bears (grizzlies are terrifying… unlike black bears which are actually just big dogs… or small badgers). At first the bear dreams weren’t especially dangerous. I just needed to get through an obstacle course of grizzly bears to get to a safe spot. Then the dreams got a little more complicated. Once in a dream my speech partner was dismembered and eaten by a grizzly bear, and numerous times I’ve barely (ha… ha… ha…) made it to the cabin only to realize that there is no way my family members and/or friends are not going to make it.

I spend a fairly good amount of time in grizzly infested areas, so these dreams kind of worry me… again I looked to google for answers:

To see a bear in your dream, symbolizes independence, the cycle of life, death and renewal. It may signal of period of introspection and thinking. The dream may also be a pun on "bare". Perhaps you need to bare your soul and let everything out into the open. To dream that you are being pursued or attacked by a bear, denotes aggression, overwhelming obstacles and competition. You may find yourself in a threatening situation…

Hmmm… how vague can they be?

Because they hibernate, bears can symbolize cycles; birth death awakening motif; power or overpowering (the big as bear); your own cyclic activity or abilities. Is it time for your to awaken into activity, or to hibernate and renew your energy? Mythologically, bears represent mothering , the archetype of the Great Bear. In Greek mythology the bear is associated with Artemis(Roman, Diana,) goddess of the moon and woods(fertility and the unconscious), and was associated with the Virgin Mary in medieval writings. Bearskins have protective and magical power, hence the fearless Nordic warriors.

Ok, so because I dream about bears: I may need to take longer naps, beware of death, I could be a goddess… or a mother?, maybe I’m facing aggression or overwhelming obstacles? Hmmm… clear as mud. I suppose I’ll keep dreaming about monsters, perhaps the next step is dinosaurs vs bears… I’ll keep you posted.

... sweet dreams...

lucky strike.

Last month, toy company Mattel announced its plans to sell Mad Men Barbie dolls. As an avid fan of the TV show about life, love, and advertising in the 1960s - and an avid fan of Barbie - I was excited.    

Initially, these dolls are classy. Putting them in context, you can distinguish by dress and hairstyle which character each doll represents. And even though Joan's figure is obviously too small and Don's face is extremely feminine-looking, I can forgive Mattel for wishing to construct these characters following Barbie's ostensible standards of anatomy. However, there is something missing...there is no alcohol or tobacco in sight.


In an article featured in the NY times on March 9, Stuart Elliott writes, "But for the sake of the Barbie image, her immersion in the 'Mad Men' era will go only so far: The dolls come with period accessories like hats, overcoats, pearls and padded undergarments, but no cigarettes, ashtrays, martini glasses or cocktail shakers." In an era where society is extremely sensitive to the vulnerability of children, it makes sense that Mattel would decide to leave out items associated with "grown-up" behaviors like drinking and smoking. Yet, these behaviors - and others, including lying, cheating, and adultery - are important elements to the show. These characters manifest them so gracefully and tactfully that they seem glamorous; this presentation of vice and debauchery gives off a certain beauty that cannot be attained in real life.


So in response to Mattel's inability to capture the entire essence of Mad Men, I sketched a series of pastels of different characters smoking.* Overlooking its usual stigma, I've attempted to illustrate the seductive aspect of the habit. And it gave me an excuse not to work on homework. 

Joan Holloway 

Don Draper

Betty Draper

And even though I don't have the money, I'm still considering spending the $74.95 for a doll. 

*More sketches may soon be added. 

where you lead, i will follow.

Inspired by Liz's previous post, I thought I would do my own top ten list. Instead of shining stars of hollywood, I am going to bring you shining stars of French history. (Yes, roll your eyes, I don't care.) Yet among all the writers, artists, and thinkers, it is difficult to choose from such a wide array of talent and magnificence. Therefore I present to you, dear reader, the top ten hottest leaders in French history.

10. Clovis I


In the fifth century C.E., Clove was the first king of France (Gaul), uniting the all the Frankish clans under one rule. He was a Catholic convert and held his coronation in the sacred cathedral of Notre-Dame de Reims, setting the tradition for all the other kings that followed. He is a true go-getter and he even looks good without a shirt on.  

9. Vercingetorix


Before Clovis united the Franks under a monarchial rule, Trixie united the Franks in revolt against the evil Roman Empire in the 50s B.C.E. With his golden locks and his long flowing beard, he was a courageous and determined leader. Although he fell victim to the Roman menace and was brutally executed by Caesar, he has since been seen as a great hero of France, and a hero of mine.

8. Maximilien Robespierre


Max has charm and brains, which makes him worthy of my list. Yes, he may have been the demagogue of the dreadful Reign of Terror during the French Revolution, but he had his reasons. He truly believed in a new and better France to the point where he even gave his head for it. That is true dedication...and he has a nice smile.

7. Charlemagne


Charlie is possibly the greatest ruler in all of French history, overseeing and expanding the vast Frankish Empire in the late 8th century. He was bold, strong, militant, and highly valued education. Having started the first public schools and translated important books into the vernacular, French school children have both glorified and cursed his name throughout the centuries. But as we know, I would fall into the former category.

6. Cardinal Mazarin


Although Italian in origin, Mazi was the chief minister of France in the mid-17th century. With the toddler king Louis XIV and his mother, Anne of Austria, Mazi steered the reins of the French monarchy until his death in 1661. He was sharp and attractive; and with that mustache, not even Anne could resist him. There are rumors that the two were lovers and from what I've seen on French television, he was very good in bed...

5. Louis XIV

Taking after his mentor above, Lou #14 was a captivating fellow. He had a refined taste for culture, taking up ballet, theatre, equestrianship, as well as building the exquisite palace of Versailles. So dashing with his auburn curly locks and his long chiseled legs, he just lights me up...no wonder he is called the "Sun King."

4. Jean Moulin


Perhaps the most handsome of all the men featured on this list, Jean is also the most audacious. A recognized leader of the French Resistance during World War II, Jean Moulin fought and gave his life to free his beloved country from the hands of a despotic regime. Calm, cool, and collected, he demonstrates a sort of bravery that makes my heart melt.

3. Napoléon I


I couldn't have a top ten French leaders list without Poléon here. He is the epitome of what a French leader must possess...brawns, talent, smarts, patriotism, and a hefty ego. Within the chaos of the French Revolution, he was clever enough to gather the wits and loyalty of the French people to follow his lead. And to top it off, he was even able gain enough fervor to crown himself emperor. He is truly one who cannot be beat...and I can forgive him for Waterloo.    

2. Gérard Depardieu


Okay, Gérry here is not officially a leader in the political sense, but come on...he has probably more fame and more stamina than most French leaders have ever had. He is known - and liked - all over the world and has appeared in literally hundreds of films over the course of his lifetime. He truly has a nose for leadership. And let's face it, he is hot.

1. Charles de Gaulle


France wouldn't be what it is today if it weren't for CDG...the man of the twentieth century. Having  known from the very beginning that France was getting itself into trouble once defeated in World War II, he rallied up the Free French who ultimately overcame the Vichy government and the Nazi occupiers. Once granting France's freedom, he was the chief organizer in rehabilitating the French government, eventually serving as the first president of the Fifth Republic. Tall, strong, and tough, CDG does not take bullshit from anyone while invigorating the minds and hearts of the French people with magnificent speeches: "Car la France n’est pas seule! Elle n’est pas seule! Elle n’est pas seule!"