The Sonny Effect

When I was eight years old, my father put The Godfather in the VHS player and said, “This will teach you about family values.”

I took this extremely literally. As the movie played, I could only assume that this was some kind of documentary in which each member of my family was represented.

Dad:


Mom:


My sister:


My dog:

Our dog at the time was actually named Luca, which made this a watertight theory in my mind.

My brother is 16 years older than me, and I’ve never lived in the same house as him, so Sonny was particularly fascinating to me. I wanted nothing more than to be Sonny’s little sister.

I loved everything about him…his suspenders, his poofy hair, the way he appeared to talk sideways out of his jaw, the way he yelled at people and broke their ribs.

It was charming. When he beat up his sister’s no-good husband, I was overjoyed. When he sped out of the house to kill him later, I felt tears in my young eyes. When he was shot unceremoniously at the toll booth, my world imploded.


I spent the next five hours of the movie feeling as though all the laws of the universe had been broken. Why did Sonny die, Dad? When I was just getting to know him! Why, Dad? WHYYYYYY?



Years passed in this way. My father eventually became an undertaker, and my Godfather theory evolved. Rather than an elaborate passion play representing our family, I realized that The Godfather was actually a coded message in which my father was trying to tell me that our family was in the Mafia, with his so-called “cremation business” working as an elaborate front.

Sitting alone in my room, listening to Sarah McLachlan, I realize that Sonny had never been my brother.


I will remember you...will you remember me...

Coldness descended upon my heart with icy wings.



Years passed in this way, until 2006, when sitting somewhere in a dorm room, I innocently began watching a stupid holiday movie. A stupid holiday movie called Elf.

And there was Sonny!


HE WAS ALIVE!! Yes--as Will Ferrell danced around the dining table in an elf hat, I burst into tears. The movie was just so beautiful! I felt such utter relief upon watching it! Family! I thought. Family is so important!

Tralfamadore. And Firewhiskey.

I am the Mayor of Slackertown when it comes to this blog. Mostly because I lack direction, such that I find myself thinking "should I blog about the hilarious number of times Harry gets tipsy in the course of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows? Or race in the Americas? or the superiority of Barry's Tea?"

But I have been inspired by Lau's blog which remains boldly topicless and full of wit n' grit...so I shall trek on. Here's some thoughts on my....artistic vision.

Mostly I have been thinking it would be a good idea to make a cut-out-paper animation of Slaughterhouse Five. In something like this style:

The most important thing I learned on Tralfamadore was that when a person dies he only appears to die. He is still very much alive in the past, so it is very silly for people to cry at his funeral. All moments, past, present and future, always have existed, always will exist. The Tralfamadorians can look at all the different moments just that way we can look at a stretch of the Rocky Mountains, for instance. They can see how permanent all the moments are, and they can look at any moment that interests them. It is just an illusion we have here on Earth that one moment follows another one, like beads on a string, and that once a moment is gone it is gone forever.
When a Tralfamadorian sees a corpse, all he thinks is that the dead person is in bad condition in the particular moment, but that the same person is just fine in plenty of other moments. Now, when I myself hear that somebody is dead, I simply shrug and say what the Tralfamadorians say about dead people, which is "So it goes."

I had a dream about the whole thing that was just superrrb.

In other news, I did not get into the Brown MFA. [Cue WOMP.] I am hoping that this failure will give me a certain ennui that will contribute to my writing, much like Harry Potter's parent's deaths allowed him to bellow "YOU KILLED MY PARENTS" at climactic moments and thus lend a real dramatic edge to his adventures.

Speaking of artists, here are some pictures of my mother's hippie commune. Apparently they put on these fantastic plays featuring costumes like:



My mother played Titania (she's far away, in the greenish dress):



and apparently also dressed like Rosie the Riveter:





One of my TFs introduced herself by first saying the name of her great-grandmother, grandmother and mother. I think for me too that would be one of the realest ways to talk about who I am.

Love love,
me

Eye ... On the Sky!

For my latest story I am researching STORM CHASING. Here is what I have learned:

- According to the most accurate web forums, true-blue storm chasers have some sort of problem with storm chasers known only as "yahoos." Yahoos are prone to a number of abrasive behaviors, including but not limited to core-punching, driving their SUVs onto flooded roads, and saying "yahoo!" at the most inappropriate of times.

- The most famous storm chaser of all time is WARREN FAIDLEY. How do I know this? Because the first line of his website declares that

"Warren Faidley is the original, full-time, extreme weather adventurer!"

No but really. He is.

- The best storms happen in March-May in the Great Plains, since everything is flat and view is spectacular.



- The storms people go after are called "supercells" -- groovy, right?


Today I officially completed my apps to Iowa, Hollins and U of M! I'm pretty happy with life right now. My fam is most excellent, the G-Girls are hilar, and my boyfriend is cute.



IS HE NOT??

Currently Reading:

"Them Old Cowboy Songs" by Annie Proulx (The tragedy, Annie! Friggin cheer up!!)