Artists, Take Up Your Brushes, Your Pens, and Your Chickenwire (or Whatever You Use to Make Art)

I happened across Dana Gioia's commencement address to Stanford University's graduating class of 2007 courtesy of A1GirlRevolution. It's pretty stirring stuff if you are of a creative bent. And it should be pretty stirring stuff even if you aren't.

I've always been drawn to art (ha!). As a kid, I was all about the visual arts -- drawing, painting, photography, etc. The letters, well, they've always been there as well. But I was a pretty shy kid, and with visual arts, the rest of my class saw and complimented me on my wunderkind-ish abilities. With writing, I would have had to foist my scribblings upon them so that they could recognize my genius. And, well, I wasn't that bold. I am now, though (wink).

Where was I? Oh, right. When the opportunity arose in my ninth grade social studies class to write a research paper on a current event, I chose to write about Jesse Helms' zealotry in limiting the NEA's freedom to grant...well, grants. This was in the time of Robert Mapplethorpe and various other artists that Congress deemed too racy to subsidize. To be honest, I don't know that I'd fork over $500,000 for one of Mapplethorpe's photographs, but here's what my fourteen-year-old self and my thirty-one year-old self believe: his right to create it was incontrovertible, and it's up to the NEA, not Congress, to determine who should and shouldn't receive artistic grants.

And the reason I have this opinion? Because art was exciting, and controversial, and was making people think. At the time, there was a LOT of conversation about first amendment rights to express one's self through art. The debate took center stage on many a news broadcast, and many a news magazine.

And what do we debate today?

Whether or not Paris Hilton was treated fairly when she was tossed in the clink for violating the terms of her DUI probation. Britney Spears' parenting skills. Is Nicole Richie sporting a baby bump or does she have a distended belly since she's malnourished? Lindsay Lohan's substance abuse problems. Is Angelina Jolie a savior of disadvantaged children or does she have some kind of weird hording complex?

So, here's the thing. I don't think I was more engaged with the current events when I was fourteen. At my house, we received US News & World Report and US Weekly, and I read both of them cover to cover. What's weird, though, is that I know much, much more about celebrities now than I do about, say, the United Nations. But I'm reading the same amount of news, and I'm watching more of it courtesy of 24 hour news television. So what gives?

Clearly, celebrity news isn't a recent cultural phenomenon. The society pages were the precursors to the tabloids. The hoi polloi have often lived vicariously through the elite, so it's natural that we'd want all the bulletins about them. But celebrity journalism...well, it's supplanting actual news. It's not relegated to a column, or a page, or a section, or a publication. It's inextricably entwined with all news.

Dana Gioia's point is that artists could possibly generate enough of a buzz to make us stop the madness and talk about current events in a productive way. It's not like art is the answer to the world's ills, but if Guernica could still cause a bit of a scandal in 2003, well, wouldn't something from the 21st century generate some pretty interesting conversation?

Even if we don't use art to highlight tragic conflict and force the movers and shakers in world politics to have a chat about resolving them, we should still be more aware of art and literature. I'll leave you with this: Robert Frost was the US Poet Laureate from 1958-1959. Name one of the thirty-three poets who held the position after him. One. You can check your answers here.

Adam Sandler: Kreskin?

Didn't this happen to Carl Weathers' character in Happy Gilmore?

You Ripped Off That Post? Really?

Every once in awhile, a blogger furiously posts about one of his pieces being plagiarized. That sucks when it happens. Of course, no one loves my stuff enough to rip it off, so I'm just intuiting that it sucks. So, one of the blog collectives that I visit regularly highlighted the plight of someone to whom this had happened. Within her post about the blog pirate, she linked to her original piece so we could all know what it was that was so very valuable.

Eeargh. It was a self-hating thingamajig about the myriad things that stink about being a woman. The things that earn the writer's ire are as follows:

• Being stared at;
• Having to always look pretty/cute;
• Other women;
• High heels, pantyhose/stockings, bras, jeans, bikinis/bathing suits, nail polish, etc.

She concludes with a paragraph about the advantages to being a woman, which include such treasures as, "Getting our way by flashing a smile or showing some cleavage," and "growing a child inside our bodies."

All of it is just so...ugh. Really? This is progress? Do women today really honestly believe that it is a requirement to look pretty? And wear high heels? And what kind of women are you friends, with, anyway? And the advantages listed are more misogynistic than the disadvantages. I'm not sure that I want to get my way by flashing a smile.

The thing that bugs me is that there isn't even a hint of irony in this post, or a glimmer of understanding that the author has some control in these situations. It's not like you're going to be fined if you don't wear makeup. You don't have to hang out with women who are going to talk smack about you. And you really don't have to be weirded out by guys staring. My guess is that if you're flashing some cleavage to get what you want, then perhaps you're inviting a guy's unblinking gaze?

Actually, the thing that REALLY bugs me here is that someone else thought the post was so awesome that she slapped it on her MySpace page without giving credit to the original author. Does no one understand that we do not need to conform to societal expectations of women? I feel like there was a bunch of cybersister high-fiving going on, without anyone questioning the author's contribution to her own disadvantages.

It's moments like these when I feel like a harridan of Dorothy Zbornak proportions.

P.S.: I'm not linking to the post 'cause I'm not really wanting a debate on this. And I'm a coward.

Benedict XVI Must REALLY Not Like the Way Italians Drive

I just saw that the Vatican has issued the Ten Commandments for drivers. This is not the first time that Pope Benedict XVI (or his staff, as the case may be) has had a hand in issuing warnings about road rage. No surprise, really, considering many citizens of his adopted country choose to ride around on what Eddie Izzard called an "f***ing hairdryer."

Hubby will not like knowing that overtaking is a sin. He'll have racked up a score of sins to report the next time he finds himself in the old confessional. Heck, he'll have racked up a score of sins by the time he arrives home from his afternoon commute.

The Return of Opie and Anthony. Sigh.

No slight to Opie and Anthony, but I really dig Ron & Fez and was stoked that they were on the XM's Virus 24/7 during O & A's suspension. With O & A's return, Ron & Fez are relegated to three hours of live broadcast and three hours of replay per day. The remaining eighteen hours -- five live, and thirteen replay -- are all Opie and Anthony. I could listen to Ron & Fez debate top ten lists all day long, and in fact, I did during most of the last month. Maybe Ron & Fez could just get one more replay in there? Or do something like the Fastest Hour when they were on WJFK in DC? Please, XM? Please?

This Is All Wrong

I may not know many things... Wait. Actually, I do know many things. And one of them is that this song...

does not exist. It's from a fan's MySpace page. Can't be a dedicated fan if s/he doesn't know the song is called "Enjoy the Silence." Perhaps it's a clever way around piracy laws? Oh, except the other two songs on the fan's page are correctly titled. Do you feel the waves of anger that my fourteen-year-old self is sending across space and time to this poseur?

A Thirty-Something Milestone

Every week, I receive e-bulletins about my children which discuss milestones that each of them may be reaching (if they haven't already). There are all kinds of careful caveats to prevent ubër competitive parents from freaking out that Johnny isn't clapping yet or that Susie isn't participating in creative enough play, but it's been a pretty handy guide for me. More than once, I have wished that there was something like this for me and my thirty-something com padres. What to Expect: the Thirties. Or maybe, The Complete Idiot's Guide to Being in Your Thirties. I would totally buy that in a heartbeat.

This month's chapter -- 31 years, 11 months -- would go a little something like this:

You may start getting e-mails, phone calls, or other forms of correspondence from former high school and college friends and acquaintances. In some instances, they are looking for a Big Chill experience. In others, they are just starting to revisit what they've done with their twenties, and for many people, that means reconnecting with people who meant a great deal or shared intense experiences during that decade. In still others, they are revealing that they have been diagnosed with a serious health condition, and would love it if you could sponsor them in a fundraiser for research for a cure for that health condition.

Yep, I received one of the latter e-mails yesterday. I jumped into an Olympic-sized pool of empathy for the guy. He was always so much fun, very easygoing, and for him to have Multiple Sclerosis is just crazy. I'm glad he contacted me, even if it was via mass e-mail, and even if it was to ask me to pony up some sponsorship coin for a bike ride fundraiser. I'll be happy to do it. I just wish that I'd kept in enough touch to know this before he got to the stage where he was mass-emailing about it.

Perhaps These Directions Are for Aquaman?

For reasons too long and tedious to go into here, I needed to know the distance between two teeny towns in northern Maryland. So, I hied myself on over to Google Maps and entered my start and end points. Imagine my surprise when Google returned a map that showed the starting point in the United Kingdom. Whoops -- I forgot to specify Maryland. That'll learn me. Of course, I had to know how Google recommended getting across the Pond. When I spotted it, I laughed out loud. Scroll down to Step #29 to see the source of my giggles.

Swim? Really? Not fly, or sail? And the time estimate -- 29 days to cover 3,462 miles -- requires a swimmer to chug along at about 5 miles per hour. The fastest swim time on record is just a little faster than 5 miles per hour, but that was only in the 50 meter freestyle. A human couldn't possibly sustain that speed crossing the Atlantic, ipso facto, Aquaman is the only fella who could use these directions. So, Arthur Curry, should you want to know how to get from Abingdon, England, to Pylesville, Maryland, I've got the directions saved in my Favorites.

Bustin' Through Writer's Block

Any tips on how to punch through a sincere case of writer's block? I'm more stuffed up than my nephew after rolling around in some dog dander. And the blockage is on all fronts, baby. Chick-litty work-in-progress, blog, e-mail -- my keyboard might as well be a thirty-foot high Cold War masterwork of concrete and rebar. Can't get around it to do the work.

What's up with that? The WIP, well, that one's easy to explain. I'm at the tail end of it -- reworked the final scene and everything -- and all I really need to do is take an hour to read it, then hit the revision process. That's when I can take it like it's a wrinkled sheet and snap it flat to fold it up into a neat little package. Where to find that time to read and edit and rewrite and re-read and edit and rewrite, though? My goal is to have query letters out by my birthday. If I have a deadline, I can usually find inspiration to climb over or tunnel under my own personal Dark Tower of Fruitlessness. Usually.

E-mail's another story. With that one, I put a little too much pressure on myself to scribe something witty, or intellectual, or both. Usually both. Inevitably, I send something out that was written in a state of delirium with many, many errors. Not spelling errors, because I take advantage of spell check, as all writers using modern media should. My errors tend to be of the I-used-the-wrong-word or I-straight-up-forgot-to-include-a-preposition kind of errors. Just the type of goof that makes people smile and think, "Wow, she must have been really delirious when she wrote this." I hope. Oh, Lord, I hope people think that and don't think that I have some kind of learning disability that prevents me from noticing when I skip prepositions.

Writer's block on a blog, though...yikes. LtW is an online journal for me, 'kay? And when I find that I don't have anything to write about, well, I start to think that maybe I'm not engaged enough with the world around me. Shouldn't I be fired up about the news? Well, I am, but other people provide better analysis than I. So go read them, I think. Regardless, my niche is commentary on pop-culture for the under-forty set, but the stuff that's been going on there is pretty boring too. I know, I know, rehab and jail are pretty juicy topics. Yeah, for a Lifetime movie.

And the stuff that's going on for me personally, well...life is sweet. Not a lot of conflict happening at the homestead, and conflict is the root of comedy and drama, yes? I s'pose I could talk about how the Boy is an exhibitionist and streaks around the house after a bath, but that's about as far as the story goes.

Blah. I'll figure it out. We've got a few events this weekend that usually provide some fodder for Ye Olde Blog. A dance recital and Father's Day -- let's see what happens, shall we?

Religion Rule

Know what gets under my skin? If someone asks, "What religion are you?" and the askee responds, "Well, I was raised blah-de-blah."

This happens on the radio all the time. Don't get me wrong -- I fully acknowledge that it's tough to answer an obnoxious question with grace, so the askee is at a disadvantage. I mean, someone only asks this question so that they can get into the mindset, theoretically, of the askee. Well, I've got news for ya: there's not a lot of ipso facto in the world of Catholicism. Many a Catholic deviates from Church doctrine on the finer points of birth control, charity, attendance, etc. Some would call this buffet-style religion (you only put what you want on your plate and leave the rest), which it may very well be, but that's a whole 'nother blog post.

So, we've established that I'm annoyed by the question in the first place. Then, though, my annoyance is exponentially increased when the askee deflects the question by providing only the religious affiliation of his youth. Just say, "I don't really practice anything," or, "I'm not comfortable answering that," or "I'm agnostic," or "I'm an atheist." It's okay to be these things, so don't hide behind former religious affiliations. And if you converted, state your current religious affiliation. Why's that so hard?

I'm Not a Playa Hayta

But seriously, I'm totally disappointed that Britney Spears isn't rocking her short 'do. (I know, I'm about a month late to the table on this one. The office is a little busy.) When she shaved her head back in February, the world was agog, thinking that she'd hit the jaggedy rock bottom of substance abuse or emotional distress, or both. Me? I had much respect for the girl. I thought she was playing the role of a modern-day Lady Godiva: a pop tart laying herself bare, so to speak, so that the masses could gasp a collective gasp and realize how silly we all are.

Would have made and interesting social commentary, eh?

But Mizz Spears has not appeared in public with her nubbly head. Nope. She must own a habedashery these days, because you can't pass a magazine rack without peeping her kaleidoscope of hats, scarves, wigs, and most recently, hair extensions. My opinion and four bucks will buy you a Frappacino, but I'm totally disappointed that she's not rockin' the Mia-Farrow-circa-Rosemary's-Baby style. If she went that direction, the buzz cut would be perceived as a rebellious statement against image, against fashion, against tabloid newspapers. It would have been her opportunity to show that she controls who she is, and that she doesn't have to rely on all the fluff and candy floss of stylists, hair, makeup and the media to paint her a specific way.

Instead, she covers it up. And by doing so, she acknowledges that it was a big ol' "Oops." Not a deliberate choice, but a mistake. She's only twenty-five, though, so maybe that'll change in time.

Sweet Jeebus

A good argument for being Catholic, eh? To see the rest of the months, go here. I'm just thrilled that I know what I'm getting my mother-in-law for her birthday.

So THAT'S Where Bras Come From

I hit traffic driving into D.C. on Saturday night. Natch. The five-mile-an-hour slouch afforded me the opportunity to drink up the highway vista. The litter on 95 South was phenomenal: a bra, one of those push-up jobbies by the look of it, was dangling from a low-lying branch, slowly twisting in the summer breeze drifting by. Wow, did this stoke the fire of my imagination.

How did it get there? Did someone pack her suitcase really, really poorly and fling it on the back of a pick-up truck, and then the bra sprang free when the truck hit a pothole? Or did the owner toss it out of the truck in frustration? Or passion? Or both? Will it manage to hang onto that tree until a be-jumpsuited felon snatches it down? I mean, you see shoes and cups and cans and boxes on the side of the highway every day. But a bra? That was a first.

UPDATE: While Googling for an appropriate image for this post, I came across this site, dedicated to trees that bear apparel. Maybe that's what's happening on 95? Eh, probably not.

Sallie Mae Is Almost Off My Back

This weekend, Hubby and I will celebrate the 10th anniversary of having been graduated by Georgetown University (syntax is all for you, Matter-Eater Lad). Truth be told, we're not doing anything fantabulous to commemorate all the pomp and circumstance of our respective Bachelor's degrees. Just a brunch in the District with former classmates with whom we speak regularly, without the aid of university-sponsored alumni events. There will be nary a blue and gray balloon in sight.

Ultimately, I'm left wondering why I'm not taking this opportunity to pause and reflect on what's transpired in the past 10 years: marriage, children, death, debt, new jobs, lay-offs, taxes, education, bombs, houses, and discerning the best fix-it folks in town. I guess it's 'cause I'm not unique in going through these things. What am I going to say about them that hasn't been said? And who's got the time? I've got meatloaf to mix, a conversation to have with a friend who's stressing about some personal issues, and a couple of kids to shove in the tub before bed time. You would be AMAZED at how sweaty an almost-three-year-old gets when he's just kicking a ball around the house. The Boy may, in fact, have a glandular problem. Add having that checked out to the list of things to do in the next millenia.

But I don't feel like I'm living an unexamined life. Not at all. This blog probably helps. And having a spouse who helps me unpack emotional baggage is pretty handy too. Of course, it helps that I am a tower of good sense and emotional health. And ego.

Pfah. I guess I'm feeling like Debi from Grosse Pointe Blank:

"Everybody's coming back to take stock of their lives. You know what I say? Leave your livestock alone."

I Think I Know Why D.C. Ranked Poorly on GMAC's Driving Survey

This CNN article references a national survey of drivers that GMAC recently conducted, the results of which conclude that about 10% of American drivers would fail a written driving exam. Sounds about right. Out of all the states surveyed, our fair District tied with Maryland and New York as the 5th worst average score on the list (click here to see the full list). Annoyingly, Virginia tied with Alabama and Nevada for 15th best average score. I say "annoyingly" because I fear drivers from the Old Dominion State, especially if they are behind the wheel of a minivan. Through much personal growth, I have come to realize that this is a difference in driving style. And by "style," I mean that I come from a state that thinks it's cool not to know driving rules.

Anyway, since I have a long-running fued with Hubby about who has right-of-way at a four-way stop intersection, I was inspired to look up right-of-way rules. For those of you dying to know, in Maryland and Virginia, right of way goes to whomever gets to the intersection first. Usually. Virginia also offers up this confusing caveat, taken directly from their driver's manual:

"When two vehicles approach an intersection not controlled by traffic lights or signs, neither vehicle has the right-of-way. Generally, Virginia law states that when two or more vehicles approach an uncontrolled intersection from different directions at the same time, the driver on the LEFT must yield to the driver on the right."

So no driver has right-of-way, but the driver of the left must yield? Doesn't that mean that the driver to the right has a little thing called right-of-way?

Hmmm, I thought, wonder what DC's right-of-way rule is? Does it agree with Maryland, or Virginia, sandwiched as it is between them?

Intrigued?

Can you stand the suspense?

Yeah, I can't either. Know why? Because the DC Department of Motor Vehicles does not publish a handbook detailing all the rules of the road online. Go ahead. Go to DC.gov. I'll wait.

I'm sure you found the handy DC Driver's Examination Study Guide. It's a series of multiple-choice questions -- the answers are in the back -- which theoretically allows you to refresh your memory on test topics. I don't know if DC publishes a driver's manual at all, or if it simply declines to post one online. But don't most folks choose to get their goverment forms, booklets, and sundry other documents online these days? So I'd think if they had a manual, you'd be able to find it there. Which leads me to believe that maybe the don't actually have one.

That would explain the ranking, doncha think?

(Maryland still has no excuse, you goobers.)

Lemme Serve Ya Up Some Random

1) I had an overwhelming urge for carrot cake a couple of days ago, so I zipped over to the neighborhood bakery. There was something I hadn't noticed about the "Pick Up Your Order Here" sign...it was handwritten...on a needlepoint canvas. Just weird, you know? If you're not going to poke a few stitches into the canvas, why use the canvas? Why not just make a regular old sign?

2) Today was my sister's college graduation. There was a fella sitting in front of us who made me ache for my Grandpop. He wore suspenders and a plaid short sleeve shirt, which was GP's uniform. He also wore a belt, which made me think he was taking no chances with gravity.

3) I think as you get older, you start pluralizing and possessivizing stores and restaurants unnecessarily. It's Nordstrom, not Nordstrom's. It's Barnes & Noble, not Barnes & Noble's. Taco Bell, not Taco Bells.

4) There must be an opiate in baby shampoos and lotions. After bathing my little 'uns, I can't stop breathing in their heavenly scent. I actually used Huggies Shea Butter Baby Wash the other day. Know what? I loved it.

5) I'm thisclose to bribing my almost 3-year-old to use the potty. I'm serious. I'm talking cold hard cash. Or Wiggles paraphernalia. He tells us he's just "too busy" to try sitting on the potty. But he's not too busy to announce the need for a diaper change...

And Now Back to Our Regularly Scheduled Program*

Lordy day, has life been busy the past couple of weeks. Business travel, professional classes, family parties, baby showers, jury duty (my daycare provider's, not mine, which is almost worse). If I believed in astrology, I'd be looking to see if some obnoxious mythological entity (Pan?) was living in my house of whatever. Or in my actual house. It's possible, given what chez moi looks like right now.

Anyway, all of this is to say that I will resume more regular posting in the near future. Like maybe today. It all depends on whether or not a blog-worthy event surfaces in the maelstrom of my personal life.

[Editor's Note: Isn't that a little bit sad? That in the unfettered publishing medium of a blog I recognize that many of my day-to-day activities are so much dross? Don't go thinking that I'm exhibiting false humility here. A highlight? The Girl most assuredly does not like applesauce. You'd think we were feeding her chana masala or something given the vehemence with which she spat the appley goodness back at yours truly. See what I mean? I love my life, but snippets like that do not a Bloggie warrant.]

I'll check back in with ya soon. 'Til then, ponder this: a goodly number of web surfers wipe out on this page because they are looking for pictures of Jello 1-2-3. Who knew it was so popular?

*Every blog that I read eventually posts something along the lines of, "I know I haven't posted for awhile, but I promise I'll be back!" And those posts are usually six months old, with nothing following them. So, see ya in six months! Just kidding...

Three Appointments Down, Two to Go

Just got back from the dentist, and I look like a refugee from Moonraker. Why? Well, it's a little bit of a long story...

I'm having a crown replaced. I'm beginning to think that my teeth are made of shale. Honestly, you don't normally hear about 31-year-olds getting crowns, and it's even more rare to hear about 31-year-olds getting crowns replaced. This means that this stretch of my jaw is a two-time loser. Three-time loser if you count the intermediate temporary crown that went three rounds with an ill-advised caramel and lost. Riesen, confound your deliciousness!

Anyway, my dentist will install the permanent replacement during my next appointment. Why he couldn't just shove it in today, I don't know. The temporary crown that he used, however, is the inspiration for this post. When I got back to the office, I went to the ladies' room to check out my smile now that I'm not all gappy on one side. And what did I see winking back at me? Why, it was a tooth with a silver patina.

Now, I'm not vain. Okay, I'm not super vain. But I'm a little chuffed that I wasn't forewarned that this temporary would be so completely different from the rest of my teeth. All I can think is that this is how Bond henchman Jaws (see picture above) got his start. He had a crown replaced, and at the temporary stage, he gazed at his visage and thought, "You know, that silver tooth makes me look bad ASSSSSSS! I must get me a mouthful of these!" This is prior to the dawn of Grillz, where having a mouth of metal took a lot of dedication.

Oh well. Early June is just around the corner.

Starbucks Drive-Through Etiquette

There's a drive-through Starbucks at the first intersection on my commute from office to home. It beckons to me every day. The flesh is willing, and so is the spirit, so I have made a deal with myself: I will only take advantage of this convenience iff the light is red AND there are enough cars in the lane in front of me such that I am stopped right next to the Starbucks entrance. The traffic elements only align this way about once every two weeks, and Friday was just such a glorious day.

Happily, I whirled my steering wheel around, pulled up to the drive-through menu/receiver thingy, and placed my order. There was a line, so I waited for the car in front of me to move. And I waited. And I waited. Normally, it takes all of five minutes to complete the circuit and be on my way, but it was about ten minutes before the line moved, and there were still two cars in front of me. I figured that the credit card machine or some other technical glitch must be causing the hold-up. Annoying, but what can you do?

When I arrived at the window, I held up my exact change in an attempt to speed up the process. The cashier leaned out of the window to collect my cash and said, "Sorry about the wait. Someone ordered a pound of coffee and it takes awhile to grind."

What? Someone ordered a pound of coffee AND requested that it be ground at the DRIVE-THROUGH window? Dude, there are certain things that necessitate parking, actually extirpating yourself from your SUV, and walking into the store. An order that requires about 10 minutes to complete is one of these things. In the grand scheme of things, 10 minutes isn't exactly a lifetime. But it drives me a little bit nuts when my fellow Earthicans don't subscribe to the notion that we should do what we can to avoid inconveniencing others more than we need to.

I TOLD You: Nobody Puts Baby in a Corner

Check out this survey. Apparently, Star Wars tops men's most-watched movies list. Natch.

Whaddya think it is for women? Dirty Dancing. Of course it is. (Most) women love this movie. (Most) women want to marry this movie. (Most) women want to have ten thousand of its babies. Listen to a conversation among a gaggle of the fairer sex; they will quote from this movie like a bunch of conventioneers quoting Star Wars, Star Trek, and the Simpsons. Need some evidence? Well, these items are up for sale. Seriously, screen Dirty Dancing, and women will stop mid-sentence to stare slack-jawed at the screen.

My favorite moment of the film is the expression on Penny's face (in the background) when Baby's father whips a javelin of a needle out of his big black doctor's bag. Right. A woman who's just endured a botched abortion administered by "a guy with a folding table and a dirty knife" is frightened by the prospect of a shot? Class A acting.

Per the article, most of the rest of the movies exclusive to the men's list are pretty violent magnum opera (Alien, Godfather, Diehard, Terminator 2, Bladerunner, etc.). Interestingly, there are a few movies that popped up on both lists...these were Star Wars, The Terminator, Jaws, and the Lord of the Rings Trilogy. I'm guessing that this is a direct result of women not being able to coerce their boyfriends, husbands, neighbors, brothers, fathers, cousins, landscapers to turn the channel when the credits start rolling on these flicks.

But most of the movies that show up just on the women's list are just way too saccharine for my tastes. In addition to the saga of Johnny and Baby (née Frances), here's what the double-X chromosome collective thumbs-upped: The Sound of Music, It's a Wonderful Life, Pretty Woman, Grease, and (here's your wha-huh? moment) The Matrix.

The exclusively-favored-by-women movies all share a thread of emotional rescue. You can argue with me about The Matrix, but really, wasn't Trinity "rescued" from the grittiness of her renegade life by hooking up with the One?

Oof. Sorry, didn't mean to veer into a cultural studies essay. But...I've had the time of my life, and I owe it all to you. (My second favorite part of Dirty Dancing? When Johnny puts the needle on a 45 rpm piece of vinyl, and a very 1980's sounding duet blares from the speakers. If it were my movie, Dr. Who would bungee jump en scène and explain that Bill Medley and Jennifer Warnes time-warped into 1962 to record this song on some futuristic material that provided crystal clarity. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why Hollywood isn't knocking down my door for screenplays.)