I think Grease is the perfect coming of age story. Hold your groans.
We all love to hate that movie, directly or not. We mock its horribly penned songs; its unbelievable plotline (anyone wanna go to Thunder Road?); its whiny and stereotypical teenage main characters. Everyone loves Grease because it sucks so much. That's why it's a classic (same thing for books; The Count of Monte Cristo is pretty much trash too).
And with its classic-ness comes with the feeling of safety, the feeling that it's appropriate for anyone of any age. Whole families will sit and watch Grease together, heck, it's available at the library. I first saw the movie when I was around 7.
At seven, the movie seems harmless. Sure, it raises a few questions that would make our parents squirm ("Mommy, what's his 25 cent insurance policy?"), but the bulk of the continuous sexual innuendos fly right by our virgin ears without our notice. It's not central to the movie at the tender age of seven.
So we continue to watch Grease as we grow up, each time understanding a bit more and our eyes widening a little further. Grease teaches us about the world, piece by piece, and only when we're ready. No sex ed in school? Hell, just pop in a video of greased lightning. Kids will learn all they need to know.
I came to this conclusion today after watching Grease a final time. I say final because it's not really neccesary for me to watch it anymore--I came to the crowning piece of information, and have learned all Grease can teach me. Whether that information belongs in this blog or not is up to decide, but I'll let you guess for the time being.
Sure, Grease is a coming of age story in itself, but it also tracks the viewer's coming of age with each view. I guess I'm all grown up.
Fresh squeezed by melly at 8:56 PM
Thursday, May 22, 2003
Mr. Paddington returned to me today from his three month vacation in my friend's basement.
Funny timing, too. When I walked into the school auditorium today I was greeted with "YOUR BODIES WILL LIE HERE" written in paint across the wall.
Good morning, bomb threat.
So I walked, numbly, fearfully, amongst the police officers to my classes just as I normally would have. Mr. Paddington offered all of the protection he could.
I got Mr. Paddington when I was ten, in the Chicago Crate and Barrel store. My mother was searching for new wineglasses. I was searching for something to relieve me of my boredom. I crash-landed into a wheelbarrow of teddy bears, and took one with me after the fall. I had never needed a teddy bear more than on that day.
He didn't recieve a name until two years later on a trip to London, whereupon I decided that all of my stuffed animals needed British sounding names. Hence Paddington--and two friends, Gulliver and Piccadilly--was named. They almost didn't let me take him through security because of his metal button eyes. From then on, Mr. Paddington has come everywhere with me. He's the only male with whom I shall currently share my bed with.
Mr. Paddington was forgotten and abandoned three months ago, however. I forgot him through all of my dizzy love and from the fear of watching Psycho. So there he sat in Alicia's basement, next to the karaoke machine. Mr. Paddington missed the whole episode of my falling in love and then back out again by two days, and for that perhaps I should be grateful. I wouldn't want him to become so moisture-soaked that he sprouts mold, you see.
Nothing happened, though. At school I mean. I'm still here in one piece, and my virgin ears heard no explosions.
And neither did Mr. Paddington's.
Fresh squeezed by melly at 3:48 PM
Wednesday, May 21, 2003
Well aren't I Miss Flowers and Sunshine with a Bubblegum Smile:
Top three referrals for the last week- "Pretty Pink Preppy Flipflops" , "How To Care For Baby Ducklings", and "Christina Aguelera".
Fresh squeezed by melly at 3:39 PM
Tuesday, May 20, 2003
On a completely different note from yesterday (we're switching octaves and using cliches all at the same time now--like a bad pop song, but better than the radio), I woke up this morning at four ay emm with the song "I'm cool as a cucumber I am Mister Cee." sung in a jazzy, attitudal way stuck in my head.
This is why there will be no alphabet singalong cassettes for my kids when they grow up. And certainly none being played in a minivan.
Fresh squeezed by melly at 5:56 AM
Monday, May 19, 2003
You all know about my disdain for the Pope in particular and Catholism in general.
You all know about my disdain for my Dutch grandparents in particular and Reformed Christianity in general.
So I'm debating whether I'm aethiest or not.
I've been raised to believe in God, in heaven and hell, in sin and forgiveness. I've participated in countless communion services, sing in the church choir; hell, I've even performed Profession of Faith, thereby making me a formal member of the Presbyterian Church. So basically, by now proclaiming that I might not believe in God, I'm condemning myself to hell.
Unless, of course, there isn't hell.
I've realized lately that the only time I remember to talk to God is when I am in need of something. I then feel guilty. I mean, is this what God is for? An endless gift-giver? I will pray to do well in a tournament; to make my father's job more secure; to love and be loved in return. I go to God more in vain hope than as a true believer.
I feel uncomfortable in church when everybody is readily proffessing their love and devotion to God, because I'm not sure I feel quite the same way. It's not that I feel that I've been gipped out of something in my life and I'm spiting the thought of a higher being, it's just that I really can't conceptualize it. I hate following a blind thought, I prefer to have everything laid out in front of me to see. And while I know that faith is about taking a blind leap, I'm not sure I'm ready for that.
I don't study the Bible enough to know what all this means. So if any of you have any advice, feel free to share it.
Fresh squeezed by melly at 4:38 PM