District 9 movie marketing- will the political/ cultural allegories resonate?*

I have many (mostly) male friends, nerdboys of the highest order.  Like me, they collect action figures, watch Star Wars on a regular basis, debating the merits of the chapters, characters, arc and colors of the light-sabres and generally revel in the outright fantasy without guilt or embarrassment.

And rightly so.  They are some of the smartest, most successful people I interact with and I’m proud to stand in line with them for hours to get in to see Iron Man’s first showing.  However, they tend not to know too much about international politics, or at least don’t discuss it.

So when one of them, JET, came to me and insisted I watch a preview for District 9, I was struck by the plot and setting.  Aliens have landed, neither to hurt nor to help, they are refugees and are being kept away from humans in tin roofed shacks in a contained area in Johannesburg.  I didn’t need to wait to see the credits, hear the accents or even the remaining 90 seconds of the trailer to know that I was looking at Soweto.  It kind of hit me in the stomach- I wasn’t expecting this from what is clearly a sci-fi/ action film aimed at young men.  But the setting was striking.

It’s not a coincidence, the title refers to the District 6 township in Cape Town.  I wonder if the “9″ is a nod to the ward in New Orleans.  The director is South African and the set design, terminology and visuals are striking to anyone who has even set foot in South Africa- during or after apartheid.  The psychic sucker punch were nearly identical images broadcast from the  Soweto riots of a year ago, where frustrated, unemployed black South Africans, afraid for what little they’ve been able to gain in the 13 years since Apartheid ended, began attacking the refugees from Angola, Mozambique, Zimbabwe and Nigeria… anyone who might take their potential jobs, or recognition they’d so long been denied.

I’m still unsure as to why this unsettles me so much or surprises me.  Comic books and science fiction have always been social and cultural mirrors disguised in fantastic situations and characters, but mainstream studios making the connections more obvious (think Iron Man, Stark Industries and Afghanistan) is intriguing.

I suppose there are several questions which I will chew over before and after seeing this film (I’ve never been accused of under-analyzing anything, including action movies).  The question I am mainly interested in opening for discussion is this:  are the studio execs putting their money where their mouths are in making some aspect of more mainstream movies politically relevant, are they not thinking about it, or do they think their audience won’t notice, or worse, won’t care?

Click here to see trailer.

*or am I imagining all of this?

we now interrupt this vacation story for a brief prognosis

i’ll get back to the catalan, maurizio, barca, cs lewis, etc. tomorrow.  But based on what people who read my blog seem to be interested in, i thought i’d give the public what it wants by updating an alternative plot-line: the brain damage vs panic saga.

i went back to dr. cranium for the results of my EEG, MRI and baer tests last thursday.  but not before my coworker (brekkies, the brit) totally freaked me out and chastised me for not having someone accompany me to the results session.  he told me it was very serious stuff and that i should not be alone and was there not a single girlfriend or boyfriend that could go with me for support?  i’m like support for what?  we all know the tests will tell us nothing we don’t already know.  he berated me a bit further and reminded me that i’m not a fucking superhero.  i told him i appreciated his concern, but he was actually making me feel worse.  i mean, if i were going for biopsy results or something, maybe i’d ask someone to go, but not for routine tests.  i mean, shit, do you ask your friends to hold your hand for every pap smear result?

dr. cranium was way cooler this time- nice, funny, relaxed.  maybe he was just having a bad day last time.  he told me that everything looked pretty good.  my mri showed only two small lesion-esque things, but he didn’t think they were the issue.  the eeg and the baer were normal, but i’d only gotten the brief, initial tests and they only show damages 50% of the time.  he then offered options: i can let it go, or i can go for further tests. 

the “further tests” is being locked into a room for 24 hours with electrodes stuck to my head, constantly being monitored and occasionally provoked to have “an episode-” panic attack, vertigo, whathaveyou.  sleep deprivation, absence of my klonopin, that kind of stuff.  i can watch movies and have friends over, but preferably the kind that are likely to provoke me into freaking out or disrupting my sensory flow.  who wouldn’t want that?

he stressed that it’s my choice and is less scary than the explanatory literature makes it sound.  since my current meds help me function relatively well, it’s not necessary.  however, without further info, he can’t really answer “what ifs” because the answers could be endless and impossible to guess. 

i told him i thought it would be a good idea (as long as insurance approves) and that we should set it up for a saturday so as to keep workplace busybody-ism to a minimum.  he said he thought that was the best course, but didn’t want to pressure me.  as he says, the ideal number of medications in your body is zero, so might as well shoot for that.

before signing off on this course, we agreed i should read up on it and then make my appointment.  i also threw him a curve: what if i just have panic disorder, with a side order of spatial perception issues?  i mean, i don’t want to be a hypochondriac.  he said that the prognosis of panic was entirely plausible, but not hypochondria.  he’s met tons of those and i am definitely not in that class.  that was reassuring.  i don’t want to be that asshole. 

so, might as well knock down all the possibilities until we settle on the one that fits and then treat that.  makes sense, i think.  but i’m not sure.

any advice?

but that’s not even on the main periodic table

so, as i mentioned in my last post, i had an MRI this week.  it was, as you suspect, what the kids call “good times.”

i had to schedule it early because i need to keep people at work a little less up to date on my personal life.  leaving early and coming in late may not put me in career jeopardy, but it definitely needs to be a non-issue. 

i got up early, hung over (yeah, i know, but i needed that relief) and headed down to the office.  i walk in and it’s this big, airy, light, monochramtically neutral space with lots of bonzai trees and teddy bears.  the extra touches for comfort somehow make me a little more uneasy.  i walk up to reception and hand them my prescription.  the look of consternation on the nice lady’s confirmed my fears: this was not going to be easy.

i’m one of those assholes that always has a small tingle of impending minor disaster in the back of my brain.  i could be armed with three hundred in cash and six empty credit cards and yet i always feel that i’m going to be humiliated at the supermarket by not being able to pay.  when i am having an easy conversation with someone i’ve met several times, i say their name and am suddenly convinced that i said called them the wrong name.  despite the fact that my fears are almost never realized, they have not abated.

this time, however, i face the self-fulfilling prophecy: something’s wrong.  turns out my scrip is for a +/- contrast test and i didn’t mention that on the phone when i made the appointment.  i explained again as i did when i made the appointment that i can’t make out the doc’s handwriting and gave them what i could get out of it.  the problem is that the nurse is out today and there’s no one to inject me with the gadolinium (the wha?) for the contrast part.  i have to reschedule.

ugh.  i’m leaving for vacation on weds night (yay), but i’m in cleveland monday (boo), so that leaves little time to get this done this month.  we settle on tuesday, which means i won’t know results until i get back from the canaries.  not ideal.

then, captain radiologist comes to the rescue; he’ll do the injection.  huzzah!

i head downstairs, take everything off and put it in the locker and curl up on the inoffensive beige couch in my robe and settle in to read cosmo girl and listen to the soothing beach sounds emanating from the lighty seascapes on the wall.    after i sit there long enough to become thoroughly convinced that they’ve forgotten about me, they come get me, give me the surgical hair net, put me on the table, put on headphones (they have top 40 or lite FM for my listening pleasure) and put the cage over my head.  i think that’s really the worst part, the head cage.  i’m not claustrophobic, so the super enclosed tube and the inability to move don’t bother me, but the cage is for sure disconcerting.

the test went, well, the test went.  i didn’t have a reaction to the gadolinium injection (huge relief, the disclaimers sounded awful).  for those of you who were wondering, it’s a rare earth metal on that part of the periodic table that has to be shown off to the side like alaska or hawaii on a map of the US.  atomic weight of 157.24 and is solid at room temperature.  apparently, it binds to some damaged areas of the brain.  i looked it up.

then, i was off to work.  i had too much to do to accompany the kids to the 7-11 they’ve made into a quickie mart.  all the adults were at my boss’s son’s briss, save me.  i had a lot to do and i just couldn’t kick my rotten mood.  it was an exhausting day, physically and emotionally, but the worst was not being able to shake off the mood.  i have too much to do for that kind of self indulgence.

anyway, my doc gets the results monday afternoon.  i have more tests at his office on tuesday morning, so maybe i’ll find out then, or maybe i have to wait until i get back.  it’s not like it’s a big deal, really, because my doc gave me the heads up on the situation, which can be summed up in the words of the inimitable david brent: “i have bad news and irrelevant news….”

but i did get a blue squishie.  and it was delicious.  simpsons fan or no, i recommend you hop on down to the quickie mart and treat yourself.

uh, i’m not sure how to take that

i have had the grand distinction of being called “interesting” by both a neurologist and a psychiatrist. 

since both of these gentlemen are very learned, been practicing for decades, are unknown to each other and are essentially talking about my brain, i’m not so sure this is a good thing.

in addition to a dental cleaning and a dose of pain management, i had the pleasure of visiting a neurologist for the first time today.  being my second day of hat tricks of doctor’s visits this week, i was at least glad for the novelty. also novel was being scolded for two very contradictory behaviors at the same time by dr. cranium md, do. 

let me explain.  no, there is too much.  let me sum up.

as many of you know, i bumped into a midnight-blue ford econoline e-350 back in high school and the encounter caused a myriad of pesky bodily injuries as well some hiccups in my spatial and visual perception, bouts of vertigo, wee moments of panic and occasional lapses in memory.  as i mentioned in previous entries, i began addressing the soft tissue damage and spinal irregularities a few years ago, hoping various methods of pain management would actually help heal my wounds of nearly two decades.

so, i also go to see a shrink to manage the panic and meds that go with it.  he took the usual history and suggested we meet semi-regularly both to monitor my medications as well as figure out if my vertigo causes my panic or my panic causes my vertigo, or if they are mere happy coincidences.  during some of these talks, he declared me “very interesting” and not in a condescending tone- impressive for a freudian.  he’s also often mentioned that it’s insane that i’ve never been to see a neurologist considering the nasty bump my head received upon impact with the pavement all those years ago. 

so, when i was last in dr. koala’s office (he really, really looks like a koala bear, and his name sounds an awful lot like that as well- onomatopoeia!  in reality.  awesome, no?), i mentioned that i was finally seeing a neurologist this week.  he said “apropos of…..?” 

apropos of you telling me the craziest thing about me is not having seen one in the last eighteen years, maybe.

anyhoo, i go today to see the brain doctor and he simultaneously sternly told me that he didn’t understand why i was seeing him while reprimanding me for not seeing him or one of his colleagues for the last two decades.  he kept telling me it didn’t make sense.  i tried explaining i was fourteen when i was in the accident, that no one would tell me anything because i was a minor and that since my mom has died and i have no reference for that time period.  i was too busy in the two years following my accident taking care of my mom to go. 

since then, how would i know?  no one gave me the manual or sent me the memo on what to do.  what i knew about brain injuries is that they’re permanent and since i have pills to keep the panic at bay, the perceptory spasms are momentary and the memory lapses are minor, what’s he gonna do about it anyway?

after he calmed down and examined me, he suggested a battery of tests because, as he put it, every once in a while you find out that panic attacks are actually small seizures and since my uncle pat had petit mal epilepsy, we might want to run some basics as a matter of course. 

so, i have some more appointments.  as he put it, if we find something, we’ll deal with it, if we don’t, i just have permanent brain damage from a traumatic injury. 

i’m still figuring out which of these is the best case scenario.

footnote: this is not a pity-me entry, it’s being put into the stable of my signature “funny stories” that both friends and strangers alike so completely dread. 

the boss of me

i’m totally having one of those “dancing in the dark” moments.  you know, “i wanna change my clothes, my hair, my face…”

i’m not sure if bruce meant that expression of ennui to extend to your job, friends, family, name, home furnishings, country of residence… but i think he did.  and man, was he singing my tune.

you know that girl who has a great, fun job, an incredible apartment, many and good friends, is (relatively) financially solvent, blah, blah, blah and has no apparent reason to complain?  well here i am, and i’m doing it anyway.

i’m just exhausted.  i have to tell you (whoever you are, dear reader) that chronic pain really can put a damper on all the other stuff you’ve got going for you.  for years and years, i thought it was something i just had to live with and i was tough about it, and didn’t complain.  hell, my gimped out leg, banged up brain and creaky, crackly neck were not going to be the boss of me.  i laughed at their petty attempts to slow me down, to make me uncomfortable, to turn the world and my stomach upside down.  and i wasn’t going to take no pain killers or sleeping pills neither.  it just was.  me against them.  and i knew who was going to win that war.

 so then, a couple of years ago, i go to a new doctor and i hear this new whispering on the wind: you don’t have to hurt, you can be healed!  you can be saved!  you can be whole again!  it was like a tent revival with the elders speaking via the tongues of acupuncture needles, electronic stimulation and lidocaine injections (among other fun for the whole family).

there was this totally weird side effect: a begrudging hope.  i might wake up one day and not be hurting?  hell, that’s putting the cart before the horse.  i might be able to fall asleep one day, and not have the pain and tension keep me up and wake me up and wear me out the whole night through?  at first it seemed crazy talk.  but the more people i saw, the more my impending recovery was touted, the more i believed.

so, i go.  i get injected with syringes full of lidocaine in my neck, shoulder, hip, head and face twice a week.  about forty to fifty shots in all.  i get cracked and realigned and twisted and pushed and stretched at least once a week. i am coached to make my body relax to ease the pain in the name of rest and sleep for a couple hundred a month.  i spend seventy percent of my disposable income on copays, treatments not covered, prescriptions, you name it. 

 now comes the next weird side effect: defeat. 

 i’m not saying i don’t feel a bit better.  i do. a bit.  after treatment, usually the next day and maybe the day after that.  better, not good.  but the raised expectations have made the reality that much more demoralizing by comparison.

now, don’t get me wrong.  i know in the grand scheme of things, i’m floating on air.  nothing fatal, nothing debilitating, nothing acute.  it’s hard to articulate.  sometimes i think the worst part is that people are understanding, but they don’t understand.  get vertigo and have to will yourself not to wretch in glass building? i know.  trust me. pull a muscle?  that’s my daily condition.  tear a rotator cuff, arthritis stinging, strain a ligament?  i know.  i live it.  all the time. 

people don’t really want to hear it.  and you know what, guys, neither do i.  seriously.  i’d love not to talk about it, or think about it, or complain about it.  i feel like a heel right now.  a totally selfish, self-sorry jerk.

so what do i do now?  i keep trying.  i take the painkillers.  get the sleeping pills.  and if that doesn’t work, i think i might want to go back to my roots: telling the pain to fuck off and pretending it did.  it may not get better, but it will stop ruling my world. 

 just needed to get that off my chest.  thanks for listening.  i’ll go back to writing about inanity and pop culture and digital etiquette.

i promise.