Nerve Journal

It's been a while since I've written about the jaw. Last week was not pretty, so I decided to try and not acknowledge it as much as possible. The numbness came back with a vengeance and I also managed to bite a significant portion out of a feeling part of my lower lip in the vicinity of the numbness, so all week the mouth was alternately between prickly cold numbness and pain of that irritating variety that announces itself whenever you do, um, anything. It was a challenge. This week is better.

I had my last followup with my oral surgeon and the dental clinic. I feel likey they've given me some encouraging words, patted me on the back, and have washed their hands of me. I might feel pretty angry about that - or pretty powerless - but I'm convinced that I'm healing. They've been pretty useless anyway. You know what the test for a healing alveolar nerve is? The oral surgeon pokes at your face with one of those teeth scraping things until you have sensation (aka: pain) and then he says, triumphantly, "You see, there's sensation there! It IS healing!" Uh-huh. Every time I go the clinic they try to give me a mug. I've already got one, but they keep offering them to me. I wonder: is this a bribe of some sort? If so, it's a damn cheap one.

Here's a wonderific poem for your Monday night. I dedicate it to a certain seductive corgi who lives in Manitou Springs. To know her is to love her.

Dog World
by Amy Gerstler

It's hard to be human.
Doomed to tumble
into troubled sleep
every morning near dawn;
when slumber finally engulfs you
it's like being pushed down a well.
After a long fall you hit
lead-colored water, thrash around,
churning up much, and nearly drown
in doubts about your sanity,
bank account, and having
kissed someone you shouldn't
on a lunch break you weren't
supposed to take, anyway.
Face it. You've always
been more comfortable
in the company
of fun-loving Welsh corgis,
brainy German sherpherds,
contemplative basenjis,
or solemn Neapolitan mastiffs,
whose ageless wrinkled faces,
labyrinths of noble folds,
resemble ancient Sumerian kings'
fabled ultrasoggy genitalia.
Welcome to a land where urine
is sacrament; where knowledge
equivalent to that contained
in man's vast, dusty libraries
can be gleaned immediately,
through your nose. Rabbits
about in this other world
you've woken up into, popping
out of the underbrush
like bubbles from champagne.
No more fretting about
your hairline. You have beautiful
mahogany markings now
and a spotted belly,
the same as your litter sister,
who (unlike the aloof women
in that cowboy bar last night)
will be happy to have quick,
energetic sex with you,
whenever you wish. Crisp, wiry hair
covers your form. Your tail
is long and strong. This kingdom
of wet paws, of romps through miles
of bluebells and red alder,
of dizzying sunlight and powdery
snowdrifts to roll in, is animated by
the irresistible glint
of a pheasant's cold golden eye,
the pleasure of tearing
anything to bits with your teeth,
of scaring raccoons away from
a half-eaten hamburger and french fries;
or of falling instantly, peacefully
asleep in a hayloft, your mouth full
of crunchy, succulent twigs.

I woke up yesterday morning with regret on my mind. I know that I'm a person who pretends to live without regrets, and for the most part, I really do. But I think we're all guilty of waking up with something nagging at us once in a while. For me, I woke up thinking, "Wasn't I supposed to be done with my Ph.D. this year?" Garf. This has been complicated by the fact that I'm pretty much down to one undergraduate student loan, but it's the BIG one and between all the deferments and payment plans I've employed over the years to put off the reality of the beast, I'm finally stuck with making the BIG payments on it. I keep telling myself that the total debt I acquired from college was less than one year's worth of tuition and expenses to attend it, but there have been years since I graduated in which my yearly income was less than that figure. And then I kick myself because, yes, I had a wonderful liberal arts school experience, but am I actually doing ANYTHING with my degree that justifies the money I spent on it? And then I remember: the reason I went to that college was that it would help me get to the university where I could work on the Ph.D. that I was supposed to get before I turned thirty. Yes - you see where this is going. Existential crisis from hell. Anyway, mercifully, Ray shook me out of it by asking, simply: Do you really think you'd have been happy being stuck at Berkeley, slaving for the university MAN all these years? And the answer, really, is no. But it was nice to be on a career path. I'm still working on that one. I'll keep you posted if I find one. In the meantime, I'll comfort myself whenever this particular crisis raises its ugly head by remembering how much life I've lived - really lived - since I fled graduate school. It's been quite an adventure. Not terribly lucrative, though, which means I'll curse my college every time they write or call to ask me for money. Perhaps I'll feel more generous when I finally get my own student experience paid for.

In other news, I feel that I must relate that I've experienced a new high (or low, depending on your point of view) in diner food. Last night, we made a trek to The Breakfast King, the mightiest of diners in Denver for some post dive-bar comfort, and I was about to order my usual $1.95 extra crispy hash browns (nobody does carbohydrates quite like The Breakfast King) and I noticed that they were advertising a new Sampler Plate, full of everything fried you can possibly imagine. I was feeling adventurous. I was feeling up to fulfilling my fried food quota for the next year or so. So I ordered up a sampler. I managed to eat about a third of the thing, but what a diner sampler it was. Here's the breakdown. Mozzarella cheese sticks: typical. Fried mushrooms: took a complete pass on those to avoid hurling. Sweet potato french fries: pretty yummy. Beer battered onion rings: darn good. Teriyaki green beans: unexpected and not bad. But here's the kicker - MACARONI AND CHEESE WEDGES. That's right. What an ingenious way to deal with cold mac and cheese leftovers! Make 'em into triangles, bread 'em, and throw 'em into the fryer. Were they good? Eh, I just don't know. It was fried macaroni and cheese, for crying out loud! Available 24 hours a day. Only at The King, baby. I leave you to ponder the implications for western civilization.

Things that have made me happy this week. In no particular order.

loretta lynn. werewolves. a letter from a new york friend. seeing people who love each other back together. the red-headed guy who puts up with me. writing. pop-up blockers. volunteers. good clip art. clouds. belt buckles from alabama and the friends who bring them to colorado just for me. good bank tellers. a clean toaster. a pug named petula. space camp. payday. caffeine-free pepsi. breathe-right nasal strips. good water pressure. cheese puffs. hand sanitizer. sleep and good dreams. my electronic dart board. people who treat their children well. ding dong design. eggplant parmesan. dominoes. cool nights. bobby pins. people who return voicemails. readymade. dogs named rosco. the return of roller derby. zombie romantic comedies. rancid. the public library. looking forward to seeing friends over the weekend. good poetry. school lunches from ray. my down comforter. tostadas. email. ibuprofen. the derby. creative non-fiction. alien finger puppets. dry land. clean dishes. sunflowers. new grip tape. baby ponchos. ray inspiration. sneaking out for baked potatoes. my blog. thrift stores. twangy shit. cheese. typing fast. chip and kim. sunny decks. time off. helping out. encouraging other people with numb faces. being loved.

Hello, it's Monday.

Ray and I indulged in a horror double-feature at the movies on Sunday. Here's how it played out.

Exorcist: The Beginning
Okay, I know what you're thinking: what on earth would posses us (ha! I crack myself up) to see this crappy film? The power of Christ must have compelled us, because the film sure didn't. I have a pretty high tolerance for crappy horror, because I love the genre, but this was dreadful. And boring. And kind of hilarious, by the end. The film sets itself up to be a dark, cerebral tale of Father Merrin's first encounter with evil in Africa, but by the end descends into a CG-nightmare parody of the first Exorcist film. By the time Father Merrin squares off with a possessed doctor at the end of the film and she taunts him by inviting him to "shove his meaty cock up her juicy ass," I could feel the entire audience throw their hands up in the air as if to collectively ask, ARE YOU KIDDING? Anyway, schlockmeister Renny Harlin manages to accomplish nothing with the film, and doesn't even make it bad enough to compel me to recommend that you go see it just to see how bad it is. On top of that, the film trots out a whole storyline involving Nazis to make a point about "evil" that reduces a real historical tragedy on such a monumental scale to the level of cliche. It was ick, all the way through.

Open Water
A stark contrast to Exorcrap, Open Water is cheaply made, stomach turning and terrifying. I've rarely seen a film this economical and yet so effective. The opening is slightly bizarre - the digital video, amateurish acting, and flash of gratuitous nudity make it seem more like porn than a horror film, but once the film establishes itself, it's gut-eating stuff. I'll spare you any plot summary, and I can't talk about the ending, because to do so would give spoilers, but I'm fascinated by the body of criticism that's already building up about the film. Many good critics, ones that I respect and generally like, have shredded this film. And I'll give credit to their criticisms. Yup, the film relies on a big gimmick: real sharks. Part of the terror of watching the film is knowing that the actors are bobbing around in open water with actual sharks swimming around. But the shark footage is used sparingly, and very well. We catch glimpses above water, brief underwater shots, and hallucinatory confusions between waves and fins. Terrifying. On top of that, a few critics have hailed the film as an exercise in sadism, and have accused the filmmakers of punishing the audience for identifying with the characters in peril. And I have to admit, there's some credence to those arguments (about 50 minutes into the film, Ray and I both had the feeling that we just wanted to be on our couch at home instead of subjecting ourselves to the trauma on the screen), but I believe the film cuts it awfully close to the line and manages not to cross it. The most terrifying aspect of the film lies not in the sharks at all - it lies in the question that inevitably crosses the mind of each audience member: what would I do? How would it feel to know I might be doomed, and have a long time to think about it? So, yeah, I did feel kind of empty and drained after the film, but I was also relieved to be on dry land, and happy to have survived it. I don't think I'll see it again, but it really is quite a well-made film. I'm still thinking a lot about it. Let me know what you think.

I was glad to see a shark movie. I love shark movies. I also love zombie movies, and I was excited to see a preview for Shaun of the Dead. I have been really pleased with the zombie movie revolution taking place in film these days, because I think the genre is the best place to ask questions about our confusing modern world. But that's another blog altogether.

A few other weekend musings of note:

I met someone at a party this weekend who attended high school with me. We talked about mutual acquaintances for a while and then she made a very keen observation. "It seemed like we were all a lot taller in high school," she said. And I think she's right.

I watched some of the Olympic coverage and I am really, really sick of gymnastics. Isn't four or five nights enough? Aren't there close to 30 events in the Olympics? Why are we obsessed with tumbling? And why do we give so much airtime to a sport that encourages girls not to grow up? Ugh - if I hear about another "old" twentysomething female gymnast, I'm going to throw up in solidarity. Seriously! What's with the bad bangs, prolonged pre-pubescence and groping coaches??

I also heard the rudest sports commentary during the diving competition. There's some vicious harpy woman who does the commentary and she should be flogged. I kid you not. After one diver made a splash in the finals, she actually said, "They're going to have to refill the pool after THAT dive." And then, right after another diver missed a dive: "That dive was DEFICIENT." And THEN the scary poolside cam (the one that resembles the psycho-killer cam in horror movies because it just follows the athletes around, silently stalking them) followed a diver who placed fourth back to the warm up room and filmed her crying, and falling on the ground - and didn't stop filming until she noticed that she was being filmed! C'mon, NBC, have you no shame? I thought things would get better without John Tesh, but I guess not.

I've ranted enough for one night.

I was back at high school again. Everything was familiarly warm and sticky. Here's a poem for back to school time:

from Three Mirror Stages

Every Pore and Follicle
by Rachel Hadas

Teenagers stare at themselves so long and hard,
scan their faces and bodies
with such extended, scrupulous attention
that they seem to be listening
even more than looking for some message
which if they are patient,
if they work hard enough at this self-study,
will finally arrive.
Every pore and follicle
of her pubescent body Humbert touched,
tasted, adored, imagined
even if he couldn't physically reach it.
But it would be truer
to the facts of adolescence
to acknowledge this:
the person who devoured Lolita
was the hungriest eyes
was none other than Lolita.
Decades past adolescence,
we finally realize there is no need to check
the mirroring regard that meets our gaze.
De-dissolved, the self stands up at last,
careless of scrutiny,
clothed in blurs and blemishes and lines
to an ambiguous greeting,
a slowly dawning welcome.

This morning I had to take everything out of my closet so the landlord could snake the drain of our bathtub. This raises questions for me about the relative state of our plumbing (this is the second time in a year we’ve had this done) and the relative rate of exfoliation and hair loss that Ray and I experience. But this is beside the point. The point is that I realized this morning that I have an overwhelming amount of work clothing. Business clothes. Suits. Not just one nice interview suit, but a slew of suits. And multiple pairs of black pants. Black pants for every occasion, black pants to match jackets, black pants to wear with boots, black cropped pants for summer. The fact that “cropped pants” is even in my vocabulary is a sign of my undoing. I am swimming in a sea of thrift store purchased name brands, all designed to make me look appropriate for various levels of corporate and education culture. Somehow over the years, I have become a slave to business casual.

At the age of fourteen, I threw every color I owned, moved my dresser to my parent’s study, and wore only black and white clothing that I stored in a microwave box. Now I have a shoe hanger – and too many pairs to hang. At the age of 16, I swore I would never stop wearing my nose ring. Now I wear it “recreationally.” Due to my thrift addiction, I now know what size I wear in nearly every brand. What the hell happened to me?

When I was 12 years old, my brother made me swear that if I ever saw him with a sweater around his neck, I was to immediately shoot him in the head. This was back when he was listening to MDC, skateboarding, and cutting off the collars of all of his t-shirts. Guess what? He’s a BASKETBALL COACH now. He wears polo shirts and belts all the time. That guy who looks like Ray Romano? That’s my brother. He golfs with other coaches. I’m quite sure that he’s advanced to sweater-tying by now.

Okay, so here’s my promise. I might wear business casual for work, but I will never BE business casual. Uh-uh. Never ever. And you read it here.

I played the best game of Cricket of my life tonight (darts, not the other kind of cricket) and drank too much Jameson while doing that, so now I can't sleep. What's a girl to do? Watch late-night Olympic coverage and blog, I guess.

Nerve Journal

I haven't written about my jaw in several days, because it's actually been much better and I've been afraid to write that. I think it's really healing now. The numb area seems to have shrunk in size a bit and there's a lot more feeling, which is occasionally unfortunate. My teeth seem particularly sensitive, but I'll take that side effect if it spells good news for the nerve. In addition, I am learning just how intimately this thing has been connected to my overall state-of-mind and emotional health. On Thursday night, we were driving home and some jackass backed out of an alleyway entirely too fast without checking to see if anyone was on the road. There wasn't time to honk the horn or yell or do anything besides hit the brakes, swerve and hope for the best. We narrowly avoided having the front end of the car totaled. It sucked. It was one of those too close moments in the car in which you realize that driving is entirely too dangerous to do EVER AGAIN. Anyway, the adrenaline hit my system as I tried to avoid hitting said jackass, and as soon as we stopped and had a moment to catch our breath, my jaw felt like someone was running high voltage electrical current through it. I had not had pain or discomfort all day, but the stress of that moment triggered a reaction in the nerve that was punishing. I spent all night trying to calm the damn thing down and relax my face and jaw muscles. When I reflected on that moment, I realized that nothing makes my jaw go haywire faster than stress, or distress, or emotional craziness. Therefore, I am striving for as much equilibrium as possible until this thing is finally over.

Scene From My Neighborhood at 1:44 am

A car just double-parked in the wrong direction in front of our apartment building, and the driver and passenger rolled down the window, cranked up the music and then exited the vehicle to dance in the street together.

Tammy's DVD Screening Room

Saw Starsky and Hutch last night. It was kind of funny, but only for about 45 minutes. Then it got kind of long and annoying. Sure, it's funny to see Ben Stiller and Owen Wilson together again, and they are darn affectionately cute together as a crime-fighting duo. And, sure, Huggy Bear is kind of funny. But Vince Vaughn and Juliette Lewis are not funny in this film, and the screenplay really isn't either, and when it comes right down to it, I felt like I would rather be watching The Royal Tenenbaums the whole time instead, which is a hilarious but thoughtful and brilliant film that also features Ben Stiller and Owen Wilson. Then again, I would usually rather be watching The Royal Tenenbaums. Maybe I should get a t-shirt or a bumper sticker that says that?

My favorite bumper sticker of all time:
In case of rapture, can I have your car?

Second favorite bumper sticker of all time:
Fat people are harder to kidnap.

My car currently sports no bumper stickers, I should add.

Final Random Thought of the Night

Has anyone been to the movies lately and seen the preview for the new Jimmy Fallon/Queen Latifah buddy picture, Taxi? Yeah, the one that features Fallon as a cop who loses his drivers license and has to have Queen Latifah, a taxi driver, drive him around chasing bank robbers who happen to supermodels. That one. Has it occurred to anyone else that this preview is so bad, and the film just looks like such preposterous crap, that it really feels like one of those fake Saturday Night Live commercials? Do you think that Jimmy Fallon realizes that he's fallen into one of his own show's sketches?

Thanks for sharing my insomnia.

Tammy’s DVD Screening Room

The Magdalene Sisters
Harrowing and delightful – an odd combination. A study in how religious fervor and sexual hysteria criminalize women. The film is about the Magdalene Asylums, Catholic institutions in Ireland where “fallen” women were sent, i.e., women who had children out of wedlock, had been raped or assaulted, or were other otherwise too flirtatious or “tempting” to men. Uh-huh. Sure, doesn’t this sound reasonable? Anyway, the plot follows three girls – each based on an actual survivor’s tale – and their experiences living and working at the Magdalene laundries, chronicling the exploitation and abuse they suffered at the hands of nuns who believed that absolute service to God (and the almighty clothesline) would lead to salvation. Perhaps inevitably, the film becomes a series of escape attempts and a story about how the girls help each other, but luckily never veers too far into pandering girl-power territory. Predictably, all of the nuns are dragon ladies, but the girls themselves are incredibly nuanced and humanized. The acting is stunning, especially from Nora-Jane Noone as Bernadette (an orphan whose only crime was being too pretty that she might tempt the local boys, despite the fact that she was a virgin) and Eileen Walsh as Crispina. Okay, sure, some elements of this film might be highly derivative of the girls-in-prison genre (especially the splash of lesbian sadism from the nuns) but overall, it’s really quite gripping. It gets to you. Especially when you learn that 30,000 girls and women were sent to Magdalene Asylums, and that the last one was closed in 1996. 1996 – I WAS IN COLLEGE. And there were girls slaving away in repressive Catholic laundry prisons. It’s mind-boggling.

Shattered Glass
The story of how 24-year old smarmy charmer Stephen Glass duped The New Republic into publishing total fiction. A pretty decent little film, with a strong cast. Ratchets up the tension just enough to make you wonder, “How long can he keep this up?” Hayden Christensen reprises his cry-for-me-I’m-about-to-go-to-the-dark-side weenie Anakin Skywalker role here, but for me the real performance of the film belongs to Peter Sarsgaard as Chuck Lane, the editor who subsumes an entire magazine’s ego to do the right thing. Hank Azaria is also really good, as is Steve Zahn. Steve Zahn is always really good, though. He’s stolen every scene he’s ever been in. I freakin’ love Steve Zahn. Anyway. The film is a little heavy-handed at the end, but very enjoyable along the way.

The House of Sand and Fog
Okay. Here’s the deal: the DVD stopped playing about 45 minutes into the film, and I was kind of relieved. Not because the film was awful, but just because I was glad that I didn’t have to finish watching it. I just didn’t have the stomach for it. I just didn’t want to the follow the film’s logic to the end and the inevitably dark catastrophe that would befall all of its well-meaningful but tragic characters. I just didn’t want to see the two incredibly talented leads, Ben Kingsley and Jennifer Connelly, do what they were inevitably going to do. I just didn’t want to see the native vs. immigrant theme played out. And I just didn’t want to see the drama of people stuck in unfortunately unjust and untenable positions. I just didn’t want to. So I’m glad that I didn’t.

A Poem for Bloggers...

Autobiographia Literaria
-Frank O'Hara

When I was a child
I played by myself in a
corner of the schoolyard
all alone.

I hated dolls and I
hated games, animals were
not friendly and birds
flew away.

If anyone was looking
for me I hid behind a
tree and cried out "I am
an orphan."

And here I am, the
center of all beauty!
Writing these poems!
Imagine!

Nerve Journal

Today a new sensation: sharp, periodic shooting pains in my lip. Exciting.

Yesterday in the grocery store, a checker had a Star Trek communicator badge on his apron. He was wearing no other visible accessories, not even a "Hello, I'm..." nametag. He was a pleasant, but quiet fellow. The communicator badge prompted several questions. Did he buy it himself or was it given to him as a gift? Does he belong to a "Starship?" Which Trek show does he favor? Naturally, I was too embarrassed to ask any of those questions, for fear that others would recognize that I recognized the communicator badge. It does seem that I've gone back in the closet about Star Trek to the general population.

Yesterday, I also witnessed a dog zooming down a plastic children's slide at the park. Several times. He loved it. The dog was a beautiful grey weimaraner who got visibly excited when he neared the playground equipment. The owner let him off-leash and the dog prompted hustled up the stairs, stood at the top of the slide, waited for a nod from his human companion, and then slid down the plastic. He exploded off the end in a chaos of long doggy limbs. Gravity-defying sled dog.

Addendum to my nerve journal:
Tonight I realized that I've become incredibly self-conscious about my smile. Even when the smiles come naturally, I feel them, like one would feel a self-conscious stretch or a rehearsed gesture. I feel the nerve reacting to the smile muscles expanding. Every smile feels huge, broad - I wonder if they look as fake as they feel? Even when I'm at my happiest, smiling is a conscious activity for me now. It's so strange to do something natural and feel so unnatural.

Nerve Journal

No new exciting developments in the land of the inferior alveolar nerve today. It’s been forty days since my oral surgery, but who’s counting?

Nerve Journal

Today, there is more numbness in the lip. The nerve is very prickly, so much so that it makes my mouth involuntarily pull to the left in a frown. Lopsided jack-o-lantern grin. It's an effort to smile, but it makes me feel good to do so. My chin itches occasionally and scratching excites the nerves under the skin. I woke up discouraged about my jaw, but I feel okay about it now. I'm excited to cook a spicy dinner of Indian food, and activate other senses.

An Offer Received in this Morning's Mail:
(On misreading an ad for a set of CDs entitled Beethoven's Complete Symphonies.)
- Amy Gerstler

The Musical Heritage Society
invites you to accept
Beethoven's Complete Sympathies.
A full $80.00 value, yours for $49.95.
The brooding composer
of "Ode to Joy" now delighting
audiences in paradise nightly
knows your sorrows. Just look
at his furrowed brow, his thin
lipped grimace. Your sweaty
2 am writhings have touched
his great teutonic heart. Peering
invisibly over your shoulder
he reads those poems you scribble
on memo pads at the office,
containing lines like o lethal blossom,
I am your marionette forever,
and a compassionate smile trembles
at the corners of his formerly stern
mouth. (He'd be thrilled to set
your poems to music.) This immortal
master, gathered to the bosom
of his ancestors over a century ago,
has not forgotten those left behind
to endure gridlock and mind-ache,
wearily crosshatching the earth's surface
with our miseries, or belching complaints
into grimy skies, further besmirching
the firmament. But just how relevant
is Beethoven these days, you may ask.
Wouldn't the sympathies of a modern
composer provide a more up-to-date
form of solace? Well, process this info-byte
21st century skeptic. A single lock
of Beethoven's hair fetched over $7,000
last week at auction. The hairs were then
divided into lots of two or three and resold
at astronomical prices. That's how significant
he remains today. Beethoven the great-hearted,
who used to sign his letters ever thine,
the unhappiest of men, wants you
to know how deeply sorry he is
that you're having such a rough time.
Prone to illness, self-criticism
and squandered affections -
Ludwig (he'd like you to call him that,
if you'd do him the honor),
son of a drunk and a depressive,
was beaten, cheated, and eventually
went stone deaf. He too had to content
himself with clutching his beloved's
toothmarked yellow pencils
(as the tortured scrawls in his notebooks
show) to sketch out symphonies, concerti,
chamber music, etcetera-works
that still brim, as does your disconsolate
soul, with unquenched fire and brilliance.
Give Beethoven a chance to show
how much he cares. Easy financing
available. And remember:
a century in heaven has not calmed
the maestro's celebrated temper, so act now.
For god's sake don't make him wait.

Ray and I journeyed to the local megaplex last weekend to escape the heat and took in a couple of big budget blockbusters. Here's the verdict:

The Village
45 action- and drama-free minutes into this film, the verdict was pretty clear: total crap. How does M. Night Shyamalan continue to get money for these movies? Granted, The Sixth Sense was a refreshing, thoughtful piece of filmmaking, but he should have been spanked for making Unbreakable (more appropriately titled Unwatchable) and for the end of Signs (which featured Iggy Pop in footie pajamas as the alien in Mel Gibson's living room!) I guess I should have known better. Anyway, The Village is a good half-hour Twilight Zone episode that has been unfortunately stretched over two ponderous hours, chock full of good actors who seem completely bewildered by the fact that they've ended up in the film. Adrien Brody seems particularly lost here - I imagine him thinking throughout the film, "I went from The Pianist to being the village idiot???"
We were giggling not fifteen minutes into this film, which is full of nifty monikers like Those We Don't Speak Of (a truly pointless name, considering that the village is obsessed with talking about them) and The Old Shed We are Not to Use. By the time the last of the BIG TWISTS in this film were revealed, we were less than interested in the actual plot and more interested in the plot holes, which were a-plenty.
Two reasons to see this film, if you're so inclined: Joaquin Phoenix, who manages to say nothing or not much at all and can hold a scene together with his intensity; and Brendan Gleeson, a truly fine character actor, who brings more depth to the short scene at the beginning of the film in which he weeps over his dead son than the rest of the film has to offer. That these two actors can wrestle anything meaningful from this film is a testimony to their talent.
Bottom line: I think Shyamalan is talented, but his scale is dreadfully large and boring.

The Manchurian Candidate
Not so bad. It makes me excited to see the original again. Jonathan Demme has updated the Communist plot into a geopolitical-corporate conspiracy, which really isn't so paranoid when you think about the big business, oil-company bootlicker we have in office right now. Anyway, the most lamentable thing to say about this version of The Manchurian Candidate is that it just doesn't stick, it just doesn't haunt you like this kind of vision of America should. Slick directing, great score, excellent acting all-around (Denzel Washington manages to sweat on cue - this guy is amazing) and it just doesn't add up to more than "pretty good." It may be that Demme is working with the heavy hand that created Philadelphia, trotting out THE MORAL in such a fashion that you don't have to work. Compared to The Village, however, this film is a masterpiece.

Nerve Journal

Today, my teeth are really tight. As tight as they have been since the first week after the surgery. Not so much action happening with the nerves, although a peculiar sensation has turned up in the past 24 hours: when I take a drink of cold liquid and it touches the inside of my lip, a particular nerve responds that makes me feel as if said cold liquid is running down my chin. Nice.

I've settled on a supplement diet of the following: B-12 (methylcobalamin - the "superior" form of B-12, as I've learned), Magnesium Citrate, Omega-3 (gelcap variety - I just can't make myself drink fish oil), and standard multivitamin. Soon I fear I will need one of those plastic pill dispensers with "M, T, W, R, F" printed on it that you can find in pharmacies and dollar stores.