Wednesday, March 31, 2004
Hairassment
Last night I went for a much-needed haircut (I was beginning to have a whole Beatles meet Steve Urkel look there) and I ended up with a lot more awkwardness that you generally expect from any half-hour transaction. To begin with, there was the issue of awkward small talk with the stylist. Perhaps it makes me a bad person, but I don’t really believe that the ability to wield a pair of scissors entitles you to know all the intimate details of my life. My unwillingness to open up proved to be no problem, however, as the lady cutting my hair was more than able to fill the time with 1) stories of her various run-ins with the law, 2) her unusual views on race relations, and 3) the various unsatisfactory aspects of her ex-husband. I had to wonder how “hmmmm” and “yeah” sounded like “please, tell me more.”
The most awkward point, however, had to be the full-on scalp massage she gave me at the end of the haircut. Yes, it sounds dirty, and it made me feel dirty, although also awesome. She just commanded me to close my eyes and went at it. People were staring. Of course, I gave her a huge tip and I’d do it all again, but next time, it would be nice to at least be asked first...
Last night I went for a much-needed haircut (I was beginning to have a whole Beatles meet Steve Urkel look there) and I ended up with a lot more awkwardness that you generally expect from any half-hour transaction. To begin with, there was the issue of awkward small talk with the stylist. Perhaps it makes me a bad person, but I don’t really believe that the ability to wield a pair of scissors entitles you to know all the intimate details of my life. My unwillingness to open up proved to be no problem, however, as the lady cutting my hair was more than able to fill the time with 1) stories of her various run-ins with the law, 2) her unusual views on race relations, and 3) the various unsatisfactory aspects of her ex-husband. I had to wonder how “hmmmm” and “yeah” sounded like “please, tell me more.”
The most awkward point, however, had to be the full-on scalp massage she gave me at the end of the haircut. Yes, it sounds dirty, and it made me feel dirty, although also awesome. She just commanded me to close my eyes and went at it. People were staring. Of course, I gave her a huge tip and I’d do it all again, but next time, it would be nice to at least be asked first...
Tuesday, March 30, 2004
Look Out... Here Come My Deep Thoughts
I finally saw Capturing the Friedmans the other night, and I definitely have to recommend it, although perhaps not for your next family movie night or church social. It’s about this truly grotesque molestation case from the 80s (when molestation was as big of a craze as legwarmers and Dynasty), and it provides a really interesting exploration of the uncertainty of memory and the questionable mesh between legal and philosophical truth. It also incorporates a lot of truly compelling home video footage of the accused molesters’ family as it basically disintegrates under the weight of these allegations. Although it does point out a lot of weaknesses in the way the case was investigated, it definitely doesn’t shirk the unpleasant details about the Friedmans that make their convictions more credible. In fact, I think the feeling of ambiguity the film leaves you with is its strongest point. That, and the six new songs by B2K. They really know how to jam.
On a larger scale, however, the movie really made me think about the problems attendant to preventing and punishing child abuse. I do wonder if people can ever be “cured” of the inappropriate sexual impulses that cause them to prey on children. My understanding is that these desires can be controlled, but I feel certain our ability to determine which offenders are exercising control is imperfect at best, and there is very little room for error. At the same time, I think it is problematic to lock a person up indefinitely (as some states do with “civilly committed” sex offenders) based on impulses that they cannot, after all, control. Aren’t we then dealing with “thought crime?” Perhaps unsurprisingly, I have no answers.
The extras on the Friedman DVDs are also definitely worth checking out. There’s a whole background on the case, in addition to footage of those involved in the prosecution and defense responding to the movie at its premieres. I was especially heartened by the director’s very even-handed, respectful, and intelligent discourse with his audience and the figures in the film. It’s very thoughtfully put together, and it’s likely to be thought provoking as well.
I finally saw Capturing the Friedmans the other night, and I definitely have to recommend it, although perhaps not for your next family movie night or church social. It’s about this truly grotesque molestation case from the 80s (when molestation was as big of a craze as legwarmers and Dynasty), and it provides a really interesting exploration of the uncertainty of memory and the questionable mesh between legal and philosophical truth. It also incorporates a lot of truly compelling home video footage of the accused molesters’ family as it basically disintegrates under the weight of these allegations. Although it does point out a lot of weaknesses in the way the case was investigated, it definitely doesn’t shirk the unpleasant details about the Friedmans that make their convictions more credible. In fact, I think the feeling of ambiguity the film leaves you with is its strongest point. That, and the six new songs by B2K. They really know how to jam.
On a larger scale, however, the movie really made me think about the problems attendant to preventing and punishing child abuse. I do wonder if people can ever be “cured” of the inappropriate sexual impulses that cause them to prey on children. My understanding is that these desires can be controlled, but I feel certain our ability to determine which offenders are exercising control is imperfect at best, and there is very little room for error. At the same time, I think it is problematic to lock a person up indefinitely (as some states do with “civilly committed” sex offenders) based on impulses that they cannot, after all, control. Aren’t we then dealing with “thought crime?” Perhaps unsurprisingly, I have no answers.
The extras on the Friedman DVDs are also definitely worth checking out. There’s a whole background on the case, in addition to footage of those involved in the prosecution and defense responding to the movie at its premieres. I was especially heartened by the director’s very even-handed, respectful, and intelligent discourse with his audience and the figures in the film. It’s very thoughtfully put together, and it’s likely to be thought provoking as well.
Monday, March 29, 2004
Public Service Announcement
Think before you drink, kids. And then, more importantly, think while you’re drinking and as you are passing out on the floor of the women’s restroom. After that you can just dream, at least until the janitor prods you awake with a mop the next morning. It’s the circle of life, or something like that.
In case you haven’t guessed, I had some problems with alcohol this past weekend, or, actually, alcohol had some problems with me. I went to this house party with a bunch of friends from undergrad, where I apparently decided that I was impervious to the effects of Malibu and keg stands. Although I’m a little fuzzy on the details, I am told that I began telling everyone that I was an astronaut set to head to Mars in July with John Glenn and “that other guy.” I also vaguely recall telling people that they should “reach for their dreams.” (Apparently, when I drink I become a junior high guidance counselor.) But I definitely remember the next day, which was more than a smidge rocky. You know it’s bad when your whole day revolves around how much time is left until you can take another gelcap.
Think before you drink, kids. And then, more importantly, think while you’re drinking and as you are passing out on the floor of the women’s restroom. After that you can just dream, at least until the janitor prods you awake with a mop the next morning. It’s the circle of life, or something like that.
In case you haven’t guessed, I had some problems with alcohol this past weekend, or, actually, alcohol had some problems with me. I went to this house party with a bunch of friends from undergrad, where I apparently decided that I was impervious to the effects of Malibu and keg stands. Although I’m a little fuzzy on the details, I am told that I began telling everyone that I was an astronaut set to head to Mars in July with John Glenn and “that other guy.” I also vaguely recall telling people that they should “reach for their dreams.” (Apparently, when I drink I become a junior high guidance counselor.) But I definitely remember the next day, which was more than a smidge rocky. You know it’s bad when your whole day revolves around how much time is left until you can take another gelcap.
Friday, March 26, 2004
Confession
I swear I tried to resist it, but I must now admit that I am hooked on The Apprentice. First, it was Omarosa and her lunch-inducing concussion; then it was Troy’s meeting of the minds with the 10-year-old magician. And I find myself enjoying The Donald in spite of myself, for both his gently clueless megalomania (calling the hideous Trump Tower the “best building in the world” was a hoot) and his gravity-defying hairstyle. Plus, who didn’t adore the serious ‘stache on Trump’s casino manager last night? Ahhh, to return to the days of Magnum, PI...
I swear I tried to resist it, but I must now admit that I am hooked on The Apprentice. First, it was Omarosa and her lunch-inducing concussion; then it was Troy’s meeting of the minds with the 10-year-old magician. And I find myself enjoying The Donald in spite of myself, for both his gently clueless megalomania (calling the hideous Trump Tower the “best building in the world” was a hoot) and his gravity-defying hairstyle. Plus, who didn’t adore the serious ‘stache on Trump’s casino manager last night? Ahhh, to return to the days of Magnum, PI...
Thursday, March 25, 2004
Simple Minded
I am basically a very simple person, I think. Well, not in terms of psychology or sentence structure, obviously, but in terms of being very easily diverted by any flashing lights or shiny objects that happen to be in the area I am very, very simple. Seriously, I am amazed that I wasn’t one of those kids who fell down a well at the abandoned farm or got locked in a refrigerator playing in the dump. Or maybe I was; much of my childhood is a blur until about age three. But any potential brain damage I may have suffered is not the point. The point is that I have a childlike enjoyment of things.
For instance, today my amazon.com package arrived at work and you would have thought it was Ed MacMahon holding the big check. I was so pleased that my coworkers thought they might have to give me oxygen. I mean, granted, the previous highlight of my work day had been that no one had yet set me on fire, but two CDs and a big plastic mailing bubble should not send me into paroxysms of ecstacy. Although I do find that paroxysms provide an excellent workout.
Other things that bring this out in me? Bookstores, county fairs, Taco Bell. Other people’s pets. I suppose I’d better quit writing before I hit “long walks on the beach” and clearly fall in personals ad territory.
I am basically a very simple person, I think. Well, not in terms of psychology or sentence structure, obviously, but in terms of being very easily diverted by any flashing lights or shiny objects that happen to be in the area I am very, very simple. Seriously, I am amazed that I wasn’t one of those kids who fell down a well at the abandoned farm or got locked in a refrigerator playing in the dump. Or maybe I was; much of my childhood is a blur until about age three. But any potential brain damage I may have suffered is not the point. The point is that I have a childlike enjoyment of things.
For instance, today my amazon.com package arrived at work and you would have thought it was Ed MacMahon holding the big check. I was so pleased that my coworkers thought they might have to give me oxygen. I mean, granted, the previous highlight of my work day had been that no one had yet set me on fire, but two CDs and a big plastic mailing bubble should not send me into paroxysms of ecstacy. Although I do find that paroxysms provide an excellent workout.
Other things that bring this out in me? Bookstores, county fairs, Taco Bell. Other people’s pets. I suppose I’d better quit writing before I hit “long walks on the beach” and clearly fall in personals ad territory.
Wednesday, March 24, 2004
Perspective
So I almost died last night. Several times. First of all, let me recommend to you that if your gas furnace is not heating to your satisfaction, do not think for a second that you personally are able to fix it. I am lucky to have escaped with my eyebrows, of which I am actually rather fond. But I have learned an important lesson, and I will happily sleep fully clothed under seven layers of blankets until our silent and angry handyman can squeeze us into his bitter, non-English-speaking schedule. Secondly, people in this city, myself included, do not know how to drive at all. I wish to state, for the record, that a fervent desire to get to the Home Depot as quickly as possible does not serve as a defense to vehicular manslaughter. Not even if they’re having a sale on staple guns. Finally, and this is important, it is never ever funny to pretend that you are going to push someone in front of the el, even if you are having an animated discussion of people’s el-related paranoia. Because sometimes, and I know this happens to more people than just me, sometimes the subject of your prank becomes so alarmed by this madcap hilarity that he actually does trip and fall and nearly becomes a serious “service interruption.” And even though I’m fine with perishing gruesomely, I see no reason to inconvenience other people with it.
Today, on the other hand, has so far passed with no near fatalities. It’s good to have perspective on these things.
So I almost died last night. Several times. First of all, let me recommend to you that if your gas furnace is not heating to your satisfaction, do not think for a second that you personally are able to fix it. I am lucky to have escaped with my eyebrows, of which I am actually rather fond. But I have learned an important lesson, and I will happily sleep fully clothed under seven layers of blankets until our silent and angry handyman can squeeze us into his bitter, non-English-speaking schedule. Secondly, people in this city, myself included, do not know how to drive at all. I wish to state, for the record, that a fervent desire to get to the Home Depot as quickly as possible does not serve as a defense to vehicular manslaughter. Not even if they’re having a sale on staple guns. Finally, and this is important, it is never ever funny to pretend that you are going to push someone in front of the el, even if you are having an animated discussion of people’s el-related paranoia. Because sometimes, and I know this happens to more people than just me, sometimes the subject of your prank becomes so alarmed by this madcap hilarity that he actually does trip and fall and nearly becomes a serious “service interruption.” And even though I’m fine with perishing gruesomely, I see no reason to inconvenience other people with it.
Today, on the other hand, has so far passed with no near fatalities. It’s good to have perspective on these things.
Tuesday, March 23, 2004
It occurs to me that I’m probably going to hell. There are a number of reasons for this, none of which are probably as interesting as reasons for going to hell should be. To begin with, I have many horrible, horrible thoughts, for instance first thing in the morning when in my having-to-wake-up-induced rage I imagine many vivid ways of killing anyone who speaks cheerfully to me -- disembowelment with a toothbrush, abandonment to fire ants, asphyxiation in the toilet bowl and the like. I also tend to imagine punching people who jam themselves into elevators that are already full at the last minute before the door closes or use French phrases in everyday conversation, no matter what time of day it is. I mean, I’m not saying I’m in Gacy territory, but lawd, this boy ain’t right.
And then there’s the little matter of the lies. My philosophy is that lies aren’t wrong if they’re designed to protect another person’s feelings, and I interpret that very broadly. For instance, a lie to your parents about your criminal arrests and convictions isn’t wrong because it would hurt their feelings to know they raised a multiple murderer. A lie to your spouse about your whereabouts last night is not wrong because it would make her sad to know she’s married to a bigamist. In my case, I once told my parents that the reason I was out until 3 AM the night before the SATs was that I fell asleep in the hallway after school. This was believed. I also told people I was allergic to tomatoes for about eight years of my life because I didn’t like the taste and was sick of being asked to try them. Mission accomplished. The secret of effective lying is to actually believe your lies, although that does push you scarily close to being a character in a Tennessee Williams play. But this is not the point; the point is that I am evil and wrong and going to hell. I guess the good news is that I will probably have lots of company.
And then there’s the little matter of the lies. My philosophy is that lies aren’t wrong if they’re designed to protect another person’s feelings, and I interpret that very broadly. For instance, a lie to your parents about your criminal arrests and convictions isn’t wrong because it would hurt their feelings to know they raised a multiple murderer. A lie to your spouse about your whereabouts last night is not wrong because it would make her sad to know she’s married to a bigamist. In my case, I once told my parents that the reason I was out until 3 AM the night before the SATs was that I fell asleep in the hallway after school. This was believed. I also told people I was allergic to tomatoes for about eight years of my life because I didn’t like the taste and was sick of being asked to try them. Mission accomplished. The secret of effective lying is to actually believe your lies, although that does push you scarily close to being a character in a Tennessee Williams play. But this is not the point; the point is that I am evil and wrong and going to hell. I guess the good news is that I will probably have lots of company.
Monday, March 22, 2004
Bibliography
Here’s a little bit more about the first few of my book recommendations below:
The World According to Garp is a sprawling, Dickensian slice of contemporary life, written in the late 1970s but exploring themes of creativity, personal isolation, and sexual politics that feel just as relevant today. It’s a wildly funny and sometimes surreal book that at the same time manages to be deeply heartfelt; as with much of Irving’s writing, you’re sorry to leave the characters behind when your experience with the book has ended. Garp is just packed with memorable scenes, images, and dialogue, as well as a number of interesting stories within the story that showcase Irving’s versatility. It’s the finest book about writing ever written.
The Dissertation is a fantastically innovative novel in which the story of a fictional Latin American country (magical realist flourishes and all) is presented in the form of a graduate thesis and its elaborate accompanying footnotes. Besides providing Koster with the opportunity to lampoon arcane academic conventions, this device allows two scenes to unfold in perfect parallelism as, for instance, a brutal beating is described in the footnotes and an affair takes place in the main text. Beyond the masterful technique, however, Koster succeeds in inventing a narrator and an entire country so colorful and fully-imagined that one cannot help but wonder if they might in fact be real. A neglected (and now, I believe, sadly out of print) classic.
Here’s a little bit more about the first few of my book recommendations below:
The World According to Garp is a sprawling, Dickensian slice of contemporary life, written in the late 1970s but exploring themes of creativity, personal isolation, and sexual politics that feel just as relevant today. It’s a wildly funny and sometimes surreal book that at the same time manages to be deeply heartfelt; as with much of Irving’s writing, you’re sorry to leave the characters behind when your experience with the book has ended. Garp is just packed with memorable scenes, images, and dialogue, as well as a number of interesting stories within the story that showcase Irving’s versatility. It’s the finest book about writing ever written.
The Dissertation is a fantastically innovative novel in which the story of a fictional Latin American country (magical realist flourishes and all) is presented in the form of a graduate thesis and its elaborate accompanying footnotes. Besides providing Koster with the opportunity to lampoon arcane academic conventions, this device allows two scenes to unfold in perfect parallelism as, for instance, a brutal beating is described in the footnotes and an affair takes place in the main text. Beyond the masterful technique, however, Koster succeeds in inventing a narrator and an entire country so colorful and fully-imagined that one cannot help but wonder if they might in fact be real. A neglected (and now, I believe, sadly out of print) classic.
Lost Weekend
I have got to start using my powers for good instead of evil. Every weekend I swear I am going to do something productive and useful to society, for instance open a soup kitchen or write the Great American Novel (TM), but instead I end up sitting on my couch for thirty-six hours straight watching MTV’s Spring Break and drinking the Malibu someone left in our bar nine months ago. Yesterday I couldn’t even rouse myself from the Disney Channel Original Movie “Going to the Mat” (about a blind drummer who finds acceptance and self-respect through involvement in high school wrestling) to go to the Starbucks down the street for a few hours of scribbling in my notebooks and subtly stalking passersby. Curse that blasted magic box and its abundance of ironic-enjoyment programming!
To be fair, though, I did do a few other things this weekend. I saw Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, which was good. (In case you’re wondering, I never italicize on these entries because blogger’s italics are more sharply slanted than FOX News.) Same fun narrative tricks as the other Charlie Kaufmann flicks, but a little more emotionally resonant. And it’s always nice to watch Kate Winslet act without a big ole boat sinking beneath her. I also finished reading the new critical edition of The Picture of Dorian Gray, which increased my useless knowledge quotient exponentially. And I pre-wrote for a little play I’ve been thinking about, which almost never happens (I tend to go right into the abandoning works half-finished stage of things). So, okay, I’m not a completely useless human being. But the minute we finally get Tivo, I think it’s all over for me.
I have got to start using my powers for good instead of evil. Every weekend I swear I am going to do something productive and useful to society, for instance open a soup kitchen or write the Great American Novel (TM), but instead I end up sitting on my couch for thirty-six hours straight watching MTV’s Spring Break and drinking the Malibu someone left in our bar nine months ago. Yesterday I couldn’t even rouse myself from the Disney Channel Original Movie “Going to the Mat” (about a blind drummer who finds acceptance and self-respect through involvement in high school wrestling) to go to the Starbucks down the street for a few hours of scribbling in my notebooks and subtly stalking passersby. Curse that blasted magic box and its abundance of ironic-enjoyment programming!
To be fair, though, I did do a few other things this weekend. I saw Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, which was good. (In case you’re wondering, I never italicize on these entries because blogger’s italics are more sharply slanted than FOX News.) Same fun narrative tricks as the other Charlie Kaufmann flicks, but a little more emotionally resonant. And it’s always nice to watch Kate Winslet act without a big ole boat sinking beneath her. I also finished reading the new critical edition of The Picture of Dorian Gray, which increased my useless knowledge quotient exponentially. And I pre-wrote for a little play I’ve been thinking about, which almost never happens (I tend to go right into the abandoning works half-finished stage of things). So, okay, I’m not a completely useless human being. But the minute we finally get Tivo, I think it’s all over for me.
Friday, March 19, 2004
Things that are Fun
1. Going out to eat with my sister and having the waiter assume we are on a date, simply because we look about as similar as the siblings on Diff’rent Strokes.
2. Adding to my sister’s discomfort with the above situation by insisting on holding her hand, gazing deeply into her eyes, and dramatically cutting off the conversation whenever the waiter comes nearby.
3. Being smacked in a restaurant.
4. Throwing up in a restaurant. This actually happened to me my sophomore year of college, when I was on an actual date (read: not with my sister) at Cracker Barrel. Come to think of it, the fact that I was on a date at Cracker Barrel is enough fun in and of itself.
5. Duck Hunt, on the original Nintendo. You may have to blow on the cartridge for twenty minutes to get it to work, but it will change your life.
6. Telling people that things will “change their lives.” Because, of course, they’ve so horribly botched their lives to this point that they need whatever change Duck Hunt can bring them.
7. The Macarena. Especially now that all the hype has died down. People forgot for a minute there that it was supposed to be about the dancing.
8. Christ. Well, I don’t know if he was “fun” per se, but it can’t hurt to try to get in good with the guy. And he did turn water into wine, which could be handy at parties.
9. Writing fake letters to Ann Landers. Really dirty fake letters, signed “Desperate in Dallas.”
10. Sleeping. No matter how much life changes, unconsciousness will always be fun.
1. Going out to eat with my sister and having the waiter assume we are on a date, simply because we look about as similar as the siblings on Diff’rent Strokes.
2. Adding to my sister’s discomfort with the above situation by insisting on holding her hand, gazing deeply into her eyes, and dramatically cutting off the conversation whenever the waiter comes nearby.
3. Being smacked in a restaurant.
4. Throwing up in a restaurant. This actually happened to me my sophomore year of college, when I was on an actual date (read: not with my sister) at Cracker Barrel. Come to think of it, the fact that I was on a date at Cracker Barrel is enough fun in and of itself.
5. Duck Hunt, on the original Nintendo. You may have to blow on the cartridge for twenty minutes to get it to work, but it will change your life.
6. Telling people that things will “change their lives.” Because, of course, they’ve so horribly botched their lives to this point that they need whatever change Duck Hunt can bring them.
7. The Macarena. Especially now that all the hype has died down. People forgot for a minute there that it was supposed to be about the dancing.
8. Christ. Well, I don’t know if he was “fun” per se, but it can’t hurt to try to get in good with the guy. And he did turn water into wine, which could be handy at parties.
9. Writing fake letters to Ann Landers. Really dirty fake letters, signed “Desperate in Dallas.”
10. Sleeping. No matter how much life changes, unconsciousness will always be fun.
Thursday, March 18, 2004
Requiem
Another business that I loved has folded. This time it’s a really awesome record store, the kind with obscure imports and classical discs that you’re really glad to have available despite never actually buying them. I almost wept as I picked over the corpse of this fine establishment, trying to find a rare hidden gem underneath all the Willa Ford and 3LW in the $4.99 clearance bin. But since a cheap copy of Rico Suave’s greatest hits didn’t seem worth the shoving match with a thirteen-year-old girl, I walked away empty handed. Although, for the record, I think I could have taken the bitch in a fair fight.
But the larger point is, as always, that God hates me. This is the second record store I’ve lost this year, along with two dive bars, a burrito place, and a cute indie movie theater. Not to mention the fact that Dominick’s stopped carrying those Kraft Fresh Prep meals I like so much and could always pretend I made myself from scratch. And something horrible always comes in where these businesses were, like a manicure salon or a Starbucks or a Republican Party Headquarters. As it turns out, I am the kiss of death to all commerce.
I try not to let it bother me, though. Despite these losses, I’ve still got a lot to be grateful for, like Fruity Pebbles, Chipotle, and The OC on FOX. Now if I could just figure out how to hook my VCR up to the digital cable, I might be off the suicide watch once and for all...
Another business that I loved has folded. This time it’s a really awesome record store, the kind with obscure imports and classical discs that you’re really glad to have available despite never actually buying them. I almost wept as I picked over the corpse of this fine establishment, trying to find a rare hidden gem underneath all the Willa Ford and 3LW in the $4.99 clearance bin. But since a cheap copy of Rico Suave’s greatest hits didn’t seem worth the shoving match with a thirteen-year-old girl, I walked away empty handed. Although, for the record, I think I could have taken the bitch in a fair fight.
But the larger point is, as always, that God hates me. This is the second record store I’ve lost this year, along with two dive bars, a burrito place, and a cute indie movie theater. Not to mention the fact that Dominick’s stopped carrying those Kraft Fresh Prep meals I like so much and could always pretend I made myself from scratch. And something horrible always comes in where these businesses were, like a manicure salon or a Starbucks or a Republican Party Headquarters. As it turns out, I am the kiss of death to all commerce.
I try not to let it bother me, though. Despite these losses, I’ve still got a lot to be grateful for, like Fruity Pebbles, Chipotle, and The OC on FOX. Now if I could just figure out how to hook my VCR up to the digital cable, I might be off the suicide watch once and for all...
Wednesday, March 17, 2004
Big Ten
So I’ve decided that what this site is missing is a little bit of social engineering. That’s right, rather than simply obsessing over every inane detail of my life, I’m going to try to fix all of your lives by molding you in my glorious image. So from time to time I’ll be making recommendations about what you should be reading, watching, eating, thinking, dreaming, and so on. Later, there will be free lobotomies.
I’ll start with ten books I’ve known and loved. I promise to provide convincing sales pitches for each of these great works at a later date; for now, here’s a cold and impersonal list:
The World According to Garp by John Irving
The Dissertation by R.M. Koster
Ragtime by E.L. Doctorow
Steppenwolf by Hermann Hesse
Absalom, Absalom! by William Faulkner
The House of the Spirits by Isabelle Allende
The USA Trilogy by John Dos Passos
Franny & Zooey by J.D. Salinger
Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neale Hurston
The Plague by Albert Camus
So “check it out” at your local library today, Levar.
So I’ve decided that what this site is missing is a little bit of social engineering. That’s right, rather than simply obsessing over every inane detail of my life, I’m going to try to fix all of your lives by molding you in my glorious image. So from time to time I’ll be making recommendations about what you should be reading, watching, eating, thinking, dreaming, and so on. Later, there will be free lobotomies.
I’ll start with ten books I’ve known and loved. I promise to provide convincing sales pitches for each of these great works at a later date; for now, here’s a cold and impersonal list:
The World According to Garp by John Irving
The Dissertation by R.M. Koster
Ragtime by E.L. Doctorow
Steppenwolf by Hermann Hesse
Absalom, Absalom! by William Faulkner
The House of the Spirits by Isabelle Allende
The USA Trilogy by John Dos Passos
Franny & Zooey by J.D. Salinger
Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neale Hurston
The Plague by Albert Camus
So “check it out” at your local library today, Levar.
Does anyone else remember a grade school practice of pinching people for not wearing green on St. Patrick’s Day? I know it was all the rage in Quincy, and no, it wasn’t just people making up an excuse to abuse me. No excuses were needed. But I brought this up today and my coworker looked at me like I was nuts. Anyone?
Tuesday, March 16, 2004
Good Times!
So I got my pictures back from Road Trip 2000! (TM), and I have several observations. To begin with, having a camera makes everything seem like an interesting subject for a photo, doesn’t it? I mean, I’m not one of those people who takes hundreds of pictures of his cats, but I noted that among the shots on this roll I have no less than two photos of my friends walking into Mexican restaurants, one of which is Taco Bell. I also have captured several images of buildings the identities of which I will never recall, and a fine photo of my friend taking a photo – how high concept! I simply must be stopped.
Plus, someone must remind me next time that holding the camera out at arm’s length to take a picture has never, ever worked, unless you want your memories to be blurry and distended. My photo album looks like there was a hostile takeover by Edvard Munch. God love the Vivitar Big View.
Of course, for me getting pictures back is always something like opening a time capsule, since it takes me about six years to finish a roll of film, at which point even one-hour development seems for some reason painfully slow. So today I am celebrating not just Road Trip 2000! (TM) but also, apparently, Halloween. Oh well. I guess any occasion that allows me to dress up as Burt Reynolds without major societal disapproval is probably worth appreciating more than just once a year.
So I got my pictures back from Road Trip 2000! (TM), and I have several observations. To begin with, having a camera makes everything seem like an interesting subject for a photo, doesn’t it? I mean, I’m not one of those people who takes hundreds of pictures of his cats, but I noted that among the shots on this roll I have no less than two photos of my friends walking into Mexican restaurants, one of which is Taco Bell. I also have captured several images of buildings the identities of which I will never recall, and a fine photo of my friend taking a photo – how high concept! I simply must be stopped.
Plus, someone must remind me next time that holding the camera out at arm’s length to take a picture has never, ever worked, unless you want your memories to be blurry and distended. My photo album looks like there was a hostile takeover by Edvard Munch. God love the Vivitar Big View.
Of course, for me getting pictures back is always something like opening a time capsule, since it takes me about six years to finish a roll of film, at which point even one-hour development seems for some reason painfully slow. So today I am celebrating not just Road Trip 2000! (TM) but also, apparently, Halloween. Oh well. I guess any occasion that allows me to dress up as Burt Reynolds without major societal disapproval is probably worth appreciating more than just once a year.
Monday, March 15, 2004
Road Trip 2000!
So the New York trip was awesome. First of all, I love airport security. My friend got sexually molested by a portly mustachioed guard because her shoe beeped during a rigorous metal-detecting-wand inspection, and I got busted on a “having scissors in your bag” rap. The guard was putting on a plastic glove as I approached, which caused me to fear the worst and involuntarily clench several key orifices, but it turned out that sarcasm was to be my only punishment. Oh, and being asked if I so prized the green Crayola scissors I can only assume I left in this bookbag in third grade that I wished to mail them to myself rather than allow them to be confiscated. I did not.
Secondly, I must give a “shout out” to our magnificent specimen of a flight attendant, Amy, who transcended her many troll-like qualities (or it may have been ogre-like; I’m not as up on cave-dwelling mythological creatures as I’d like to be) to bring a vigor and enthusiasm to the safety instructions unparalleled in her field. She was gesticulating so fiercely I really thought she might strangle herself with the tiny demonstration seat belt. And did you ever notice the safety cards contain illustrations that make it look like they recommend that, in the event of a water landing, you 1) breast feed your baby one more time for the road, and 2) find true love with your flotation device? Maybe it’s just me. But regardless, every other flight attendant in the world is just a pale imitation of the One True Flight Attendant, Amy.
As for the actual content of the trip, I spent most of my time just hanging out with friends from undergrad and high school, eating, drinking, and making fun of people and/or things. I mean, I’ve been to New York enough times now that I didn’t really feel any strong need to visit the two-story Olive Garden in Times Square or stand outside the Today Show hoping for a furtive glimpse of Matt Lauer. My buddy did take me to a show that he worked on the set for, which was okay but featured somewhat more shouting than I care for, and we also saw Avenue Q, which was the single funniest thing I have ever seen, besides any given episode of Becker. We also had a celebrity sighting – Carol Burnett – which was somewhat disappointing because she was neither pulling her ears nor giving a Tarzan yell, even after I told her I was a child dying of Malaria and it was my last wish. The famous can be so selfish.
Anyway, there’s a lot more I could say, but I prefer just to be a tease at present. The Internet offers ample opportunities for instant gratification elsewhere.
So the New York trip was awesome. First of all, I love airport security. My friend got sexually molested by a portly mustachioed guard because her shoe beeped during a rigorous metal-detecting-wand inspection, and I got busted on a “having scissors in your bag” rap. The guard was putting on a plastic glove as I approached, which caused me to fear the worst and involuntarily clench several key orifices, but it turned out that sarcasm was to be my only punishment. Oh, and being asked if I so prized the green Crayola scissors I can only assume I left in this bookbag in third grade that I wished to mail them to myself rather than allow them to be confiscated. I did not.
Secondly, I must give a “shout out” to our magnificent specimen of a flight attendant, Amy, who transcended her many troll-like qualities (or it may have been ogre-like; I’m not as up on cave-dwelling mythological creatures as I’d like to be) to bring a vigor and enthusiasm to the safety instructions unparalleled in her field. She was gesticulating so fiercely I really thought she might strangle herself with the tiny demonstration seat belt. And did you ever notice the safety cards contain illustrations that make it look like they recommend that, in the event of a water landing, you 1) breast feed your baby one more time for the road, and 2) find true love with your flotation device? Maybe it’s just me. But regardless, every other flight attendant in the world is just a pale imitation of the One True Flight Attendant, Amy.
As for the actual content of the trip, I spent most of my time just hanging out with friends from undergrad and high school, eating, drinking, and making fun of people and/or things. I mean, I’ve been to New York enough times now that I didn’t really feel any strong need to visit the two-story Olive Garden in Times Square or stand outside the Today Show hoping for a furtive glimpse of Matt Lauer. My buddy did take me to a show that he worked on the set for, which was okay but featured somewhat more shouting than I care for, and we also saw Avenue Q, which was the single funniest thing I have ever seen, besides any given episode of Becker. We also had a celebrity sighting – Carol Burnett – which was somewhat disappointing because she was neither pulling her ears nor giving a Tarzan yell, even after I told her I was a child dying of Malaria and it was my last wish. The famous can be so selfish.
Anyway, there’s a lot more I could say, but I prefer just to be a tease at present. The Internet offers ample opportunities for instant gratification elsewhere.
Wednesday, March 10, 2004
Programming Announcement
The blog is going on a brief hiatus. No, we’re not “retooling;” I’m not going to add any plotlines about sexy crime fighting lesbians, and the role of “me” is unlikely to be recast with Sandy Duncan. I’m just heading to New York for a few days, and since Celine already snapped up Sir Elton to fill in for her, I may have to rest on my greatest hits while I’m gone.
This will be quite tragic for all of us, I understand. Nonetheless, I am looking forward to the change of location – different chemically imbalanced cab drivers, different botulism-inducing burrito places, different 4 AM car alarms. There’s something about simply pulling out of your daily routine that makes you feel freer, more alive, like when you used to write fake notes from your mom in junior high so you could skip gym class and go to Burger King. But even if I don’t get a Whopper this weekend (wink wink), at least I’ll be free of post-its, parentheticals, and proofreads, and that’s enough for me.
Be brave, little soldiers, and I’ll tell you all about it when I get back.
The blog is going on a brief hiatus. No, we’re not “retooling;” I’m not going to add any plotlines about sexy crime fighting lesbians, and the role of “me” is unlikely to be recast with Sandy Duncan. I’m just heading to New York for a few days, and since Celine already snapped up Sir Elton to fill in for her, I may have to rest on my greatest hits while I’m gone.
This will be quite tragic for all of us, I understand. Nonetheless, I am looking forward to the change of location – different chemically imbalanced cab drivers, different botulism-inducing burrito places, different 4 AM car alarms. There’s something about simply pulling out of your daily routine that makes you feel freer, more alive, like when you used to write fake notes from your mom in junior high so you could skip gym class and go to Burger King. But even if I don’t get a Whopper this weekend (wink wink), at least I’ll be free of post-its, parentheticals, and proofreads, and that’s enough for me.
Be brave, little soldiers, and I’ll tell you all about it when I get back.
Tuesday, March 09, 2004
Scoop Dreams
Many, many weird dreams have been populating my skull lately. Last night, for instance, I dreamt that I was being attacked by a scary-looking clown while I was for some reason trying to nap on the hood of a car parked near Navy Pier. Later, I dreamt that I was inexplicably cast in the Real World/Road Rules Challenge, and my failure to quickly eat hog intestines made me socially unpopular. I awoke exhausted, confused, and strangely hungry.
Of course, these absurd images do not even begin to approach my pantheon of bizarre and unnecessary dreams. I mean, I am a person who once dreamed that my grandma was roommates with Madonna. I’m not kidding. In my dream, they went to a craft fair at our church together (side note– the church was randomly upside down and covered in wicker) and I was convinced that Madonna was after my grandma’s money. She just kept sucking up so much. Although, to her credit, she did pick out some lovely throw pillows embroidered with kittens.
I’m not sure if I really believe that these dreams mean anything, although I’m glad I typically remember mine. I used to win raves for my interpretations of dreams, but that was mainly a matter of painfully distorting literary symbolism to tell people what they wanted to hear. I probably shouldn’t change that winning game, though, so I’ll just tell myself that the scary clown dream means I need to think more of myself and less of others, and head out to buy myself some ice cream.
Many, many weird dreams have been populating my skull lately. Last night, for instance, I dreamt that I was being attacked by a scary-looking clown while I was for some reason trying to nap on the hood of a car parked near Navy Pier. Later, I dreamt that I was inexplicably cast in the Real World/Road Rules Challenge, and my failure to quickly eat hog intestines made me socially unpopular. I awoke exhausted, confused, and strangely hungry.
Of course, these absurd images do not even begin to approach my pantheon of bizarre and unnecessary dreams. I mean, I am a person who once dreamed that my grandma was roommates with Madonna. I’m not kidding. In my dream, they went to a craft fair at our church together (side note– the church was randomly upside down and covered in wicker) and I was convinced that Madonna was after my grandma’s money. She just kept sucking up so much. Although, to her credit, she did pick out some lovely throw pillows embroidered with kittens.
I’m not sure if I really believe that these dreams mean anything, although I’m glad I typically remember mine. I used to win raves for my interpretations of dreams, but that was mainly a matter of painfully distorting literary symbolism to tell people what they wanted to hear. I probably shouldn’t change that winning game, though, so I’ll just tell myself that the scary clown dream means I need to think more of myself and less of others, and head out to buy myself some ice cream.
Monday, March 08, 2004
I’m trying to have a more positive attitude about life. For instance, this morning, when the brown line arrived ten minutes late fully jammed with assorted vagrants and sociopaths, I chose to view it as a delightful opportunity to become close with new people, and their various odors. Or last week, when I received a $75 parking ticket for a violation no one has ever heard of, and I simply considered myself fortunate to have such a fine occasion to explore judicial process. Because the Japanese word for “crisis” is the same as the word for “opportunity,” although we can’t rule out the possibility that they did that just to screw with us.
Friday, March 05, 2004
Memories...
It’s my one week anniversary with the blog! Now I realize that normally anniversaries are spent screwing and fighting, but I thought instead I’d recall a few of the treasured moments the blog and I have shared:
1. I upload my first entry. Like most first entries, it is poorly planned and over far too quickly.
2. The blog tells me it loves me for the first time. I hurl my mouse at the screen and spend the evening sobbing quietly in the corner.
3. Martha Stewart stops by the blog to show us how to make a lovely Martin Luther King, Jr. Day centerpiece out of macaroni shells and toothpaste.
4. I figure out how to put text in bold.
5. After reading the contents of my blog, the county mental health authority decides to place me under observation. Quaaludes and Xanax are freely forthcoming.
Of course, the blog and I try to treat every day like it’s our anniversary, so there’s a whole lot more love to come.
It’s my one week anniversary with the blog! Now I realize that normally anniversaries are spent screwing and fighting, but I thought instead I’d recall a few of the treasured moments the blog and I have shared:
1. I upload my first entry. Like most first entries, it is poorly planned and over far too quickly.
2. The blog tells me it loves me for the first time. I hurl my mouse at the screen and spend the evening sobbing quietly in the corner.
3. Martha Stewart stops by the blog to show us how to make a lovely Martin Luther King, Jr. Day centerpiece out of macaroni shells and toothpaste.
4. I figure out how to put text in bold.
5. After reading the contents of my blog, the county mental health authority decides to place me under observation. Quaaludes and Xanax are freely forthcoming.
Of course, the blog and I try to treat every day like it’s our anniversary, so there’s a whole lot more love to come.
Child's Play
I’m beginning to think I need to buy me one of them black market babies. Last night I babysat for one of my coworkers, and by the end of the night I probably would have agreed to impregnate the crazy woman who screams obscenities under my el stop, if she’d been willing. The thing is, kids are just flat-out nicer people and better conversationalists than 95% of adults. So the question is, what happens? And why don’t they sell children at Target? It would be much easier that way.
Of course, my parenting skills may still leave something to desire. Although I feelingly read from the Disney storybook (despite my feelings about corporate usurpation of our folk heritage), I was branded as “silly” and second-guessed at Sleeping Beauty’s every boring turn. I forgot the words to “Bah Bah Black Sheep” and enumerated the destinations of only two bags of wool, sending one “to the farmer who lives in the dell” and one, because it rhymed, to “the little girl who fell down the well.” And I could not withhold my observation that the Elmo video was a little weak on plot.
So I guess kids will have to wait until I can be a little less self-involved, which may well be never. But I suppose it’s better to not have them than to leave them in the car while daddy goes to sell his plasma for beer money.
I’m beginning to think I need to buy me one of them black market babies. Last night I babysat for one of my coworkers, and by the end of the night I probably would have agreed to impregnate the crazy woman who screams obscenities under my el stop, if she’d been willing. The thing is, kids are just flat-out nicer people and better conversationalists than 95% of adults. So the question is, what happens? And why don’t they sell children at Target? It would be much easier that way.
Of course, my parenting skills may still leave something to desire. Although I feelingly read from the Disney storybook (despite my feelings about corporate usurpation of our folk heritage), I was branded as “silly” and second-guessed at Sleeping Beauty’s every boring turn. I forgot the words to “Bah Bah Black Sheep” and enumerated the destinations of only two bags of wool, sending one “to the farmer who lives in the dell” and one, because it rhymed, to “the little girl who fell down the well.” And I could not withhold my observation that the Elmo video was a little weak on plot.
So I guess kids will have to wait until I can be a little less self-involved, which may well be never. But I suppose it’s better to not have them than to leave them in the car while daddy goes to sell his plasma for beer money.
Thursday, March 04, 2004
The Naked Truth
What is it with old men and nudity? In the locker room at my gym this morning I swear to god there was an old guy doing gentle stretches in the buff. But it doesn’t even stop there. I’ve seen the greatest generation perform all kinds of locker room tasks naked, from brushing dentures to discussing last night’s Judging Amy to leisurely perusing Reader’s Digest. My point is not that people should be ashamed of their bodies (although a little shame and a lot of waxing might help in this case), but that certain activities simply do not require nudity. Take your shower, grab your towel, and end it, fellas. There’s a whole world of pants out there for you to explore.
What is it with old men and nudity? In the locker room at my gym this morning I swear to god there was an old guy doing gentle stretches in the buff. But it doesn’t even stop there. I’ve seen the greatest generation perform all kinds of locker room tasks naked, from brushing dentures to discussing last night’s Judging Amy to leisurely perusing Reader’s Digest. My point is not that people should be ashamed of their bodies (although a little shame and a lot of waxing might help in this case), but that certain activities simply do not require nudity. Take your shower, grab your towel, and end it, fellas. There’s a whole world of pants out there for you to explore.
Wednesday, March 03, 2004
Lynch Mob
Last night I finally saw Mulholland Drive, and I am pleased to report that I am as dumb as the rest of America. Totally didn’t get it. Aside from the nudity, which came across quite clearly, thank you. But yeah, the only major theme I could pick out was that David Lynch clearly hates all of us. Which, if you think about, he’s not wrong for doing.
But today I turned to my trusty friend the Internet (you should check it out, it’s going to be big) and found lots of fun sites putting forth ridiculous interpretations of the film. Betty symbolizes capitalism! Billy Ray Cyrus is a stand-in for the Chinese government! The whole movie takes place in the homeless guy’s head! It’s like all those people in my high school English classes who thought King Lear reminded them of the Batman movies now have webpages. Of course, if they let me have one, they’ve set the bar pretty low.
Last night I finally saw Mulholland Drive, and I am pleased to report that I am as dumb as the rest of America. Totally didn’t get it. Aside from the nudity, which came across quite clearly, thank you. But yeah, the only major theme I could pick out was that David Lynch clearly hates all of us. Which, if you think about, he’s not wrong for doing.
But today I turned to my trusty friend the Internet (you should check it out, it’s going to be big) and found lots of fun sites putting forth ridiculous interpretations of the film. Betty symbolizes capitalism! Billy Ray Cyrus is a stand-in for the Chinese government! The whole movie takes place in the homeless guy’s head! It’s like all those people in my high school English classes who thought King Lear reminded them of the Batman movies now have webpages. Of course, if they let me have one, they’ve set the bar pretty low.
Tuesday, March 02, 2004
It turns out that the Home Depot is super fun in the late evening hours. They let you play with saws and they broadcast wonderfully terrible music like “I’m Walking on Sunshine” by Katrina and the Waves. Plus, mainly cute foreign people are shopping there at that hour as opposed to the general mass of angry yuppies. Oh, and I love to scan out my own purchases. Am I too easily delighted by things?
Monday, March 01, 2004
Something to Chew On
Lately, my lunch conversation with my co-workers has taken a very serious turn. Generally, we just do fun impressions of our supervisors, weigh in on the latest episode of The OC, and bask in the comic glow of my various witty remarks. But last week we had a searching discussion of poverty in America (okay, so most of my contributions came from my 10th grade civics class, but still), and today we set our sights on religion, organized and otherwise.
It all started with Mel Gibson. I mentioned that this past Sunday my priest made some anti-Passion remarks, saying that the violence in the movie was unnecessary because “Jesus didn’t want to scare us into loving him; he wanted to love us into loving him.” I added my own point, which was that the Jesus in the Bible wasn’t all about showing off his wounds. In fact, he got all snippy on Thomas when he needed to see them to believe. I may not have actually used the word “snippy.”
But we got into a very interesting conversation about the sources of our faiths. To me, although I go to church every weekend, I’m not entirely sure that that’s where my faith comes from, or even exactly what my faith is. I know that most so-called Christian products, be they 700 Club or Chicken Soup for the Christian Soul, don’t speak to my particular brand of religious conviction. And I’ve found more inspiration in secular novels, like Steppenwolf or The Plague, than I ever found in religion class. I guess I’m just frustrated by what I see as the simplicity of the faiths we see portrayed in the marketplace, because mine is so frustratingly and indefinably complex. Just like my crazy run-on sentences. Hooray for stream of consciousness!
Lately, my lunch conversation with my co-workers has taken a very serious turn. Generally, we just do fun impressions of our supervisors, weigh in on the latest episode of The OC, and bask in the comic glow of my various witty remarks. But last week we had a searching discussion of poverty in America (okay, so most of my contributions came from my 10th grade civics class, but still), and today we set our sights on religion, organized and otherwise.
It all started with Mel Gibson. I mentioned that this past Sunday my priest made some anti-Passion remarks, saying that the violence in the movie was unnecessary because “Jesus didn’t want to scare us into loving him; he wanted to love us into loving him.” I added my own point, which was that the Jesus in the Bible wasn’t all about showing off his wounds. In fact, he got all snippy on Thomas when he needed to see them to believe. I may not have actually used the word “snippy.”
But we got into a very interesting conversation about the sources of our faiths. To me, although I go to church every weekend, I’m not entirely sure that that’s where my faith comes from, or even exactly what my faith is. I know that most so-called Christian products, be they 700 Club or Chicken Soup for the Christian Soul, don’t speak to my particular brand of religious conviction. And I’ve found more inspiration in secular novels, like Steppenwolf or The Plague, than I ever found in religion class. I guess I’m just frustrated by what I see as the simplicity of the faiths we see portrayed in the marketplace, because mine is so frustratingly and indefinably complex. Just like my crazy run-on sentences. Hooray for stream of consciousness!
Top Dog
So Friday night I slept with two hot bitches. Specifically, my friend's golden retrievers, who I agreed to take care of this past weekend. As it turns out, I am amazing at dog sitting, adding to the list of talents I have that probably aren't actual talents, along with identifying celebrity voiceovers on commercials and guessing when people's relationships will end. Of course, I define dog sitting as a success if it doesn't end in death, catastrophic destruction of property, or chronic incontinence. Since I'm back into life with Depends, I declare myself an A-1 dogsitter.
Another hidden talent? Predicting the Oscars. I went 7 for 8 in the top categories, taking home a full $7 in our office Oscar pool, which I fervently promise not to spend all in one place. It didn't really take a genius to predict that Peter Jackson would spend a lot of time on stage, but I wish someone would have predicted him a shower and shave. Thank God the technology isn't there for Smell-O-Vision yet.
So Friday night I slept with two hot bitches. Specifically, my friend's golden retrievers, who I agreed to take care of this past weekend. As it turns out, I am amazing at dog sitting, adding to the list of talents I have that probably aren't actual talents, along with identifying celebrity voiceovers on commercials and guessing when people's relationships will end. Of course, I define dog sitting as a success if it doesn't end in death, catastrophic destruction of property, or chronic incontinence. Since I'm back into life with Depends, I declare myself an A-1 dogsitter.
Another hidden talent? Predicting the Oscars. I went 7 for 8 in the top categories, taking home a full $7 in our office Oscar pool, which I fervently promise not to spend all in one place. It didn't really take a genius to predict that Peter Jackson would spend a lot of time on stage, but I wish someone would have predicted him a shower and shave. Thank God the technology isn't there for Smell-O-Vision yet.
