Saturday, January 30, 2010
A wonderful essay and some vitriol. Don't worry the copy machine will still be there even at a walk
This link is a long one, but it's the definitive piece on having squirrels in your house, and well worth the eight pages it got in The New Yorker.
Random venom infused aside.
S: Sometimes I run at work.
M: You what?
S: I run to get there faster.
Can you guess what I hate? People who run at work. Do you know why? Because people who run at work, or hell even walk really quickly, barring emergency of course, are communicating something to the rest of the office. That message: I'm so busy that I can't even walk from one task to another. My job is so much more important than yours that I have to hurry from thing to thing. You know what? You're not headed out to Air Force One, you need to go make some copies or have a meeting with some other people who probably run from office to office about whether we're going to have vending machines on our campus. You're not that busy!
I don't know anyone at my current job who hustles at work. Again, you're not the ninth man off the bench on a college basketball team, you don't get coaches attention by sprinting across the office to file a folder. However, I used to work with a lady at Univ. Of Michigan who was always doing a jog/fast walk thing around the office. You had to peer around corners to make sure she wasn't going to run you down like a freight train. And you know what? it was clear that she thought she was busier/more important than the rest of us. And she always wore full suits to work. I can see her right now just speeding around corners with a "really important" meeting to go to.
Guess what? She got promoted to a different office. Why? Because somebody probably saw her running into a meeting and thought, that lady has some real giddyup or some crap like that. If they'd taken the time to interview all of her colleagues they'd have said, "good riddance" that lady is obnoxious, running around the office like she's got somewhere to be. You can take her!
Vitriol dispensed.
It's cute because kitties don't talk. And just look at this kittie's hair. What will they think of next?
Friday, January 29, 2010
ChChChChChip and Dale
That's a cute picture isn't it? I think all sane males of a certain age had a crush on that blond girl mouse. You know what's not cute? Having all those happy and smiling faces chewing away at the insulation in your attic. I had been giving the little munchkins that dot every square inch of our backyard the benefit of the doubt:
S: Why is that squirrel climbing up on our roof?
M: Maybe he kicked a ball up there or something.
Apparently they were not just munching the six million acorns that fell from that wonderful tree that is on city property in our back yard. Yet another reason to hate the giant Ent that shades the back of our house like an annoying chaperone when you are just trying to have a nice date with this girl you met in Quest. Gail, I hope you are doing well.
In short, I hate that damn tree, and it knows it. Sometimes I stand in the guest bedroom and look out the window at the tree, and it stares back at me. It usually wins the staring contest, but I'm guessing it won't be haughty next winter when I'm burning it up in my newly installed fireplace.
S: Are you staring at the tree again?
M: Maybe.
But enough about tree. (Yeah, that's a grade A joke right there).
What I really hate is the damn squirrels in my attic. I'm guessing they are squirrels. Really, it's just the pitter patter of little feet. Perhaps S had a child without telling me and has locked it up in the basement. She looks guilty, just sleeping next to me, angrily. Anyhow, I originally discovered that we might have squirrels when I was staying home alone and doing some writing a couple of weekends ago when I thought someone was climbing around on our roof. After about an hour of hiding under the bed I determined that we probably weren't being robbed from above, and that little rodents were probably scrabbling around on the roof/in our attic. Hell, maybe it's a possum. I'm hoping that it's a goose that lays golden eggs, but we'll just have to wait and see.
So, I went upstairs with a sack of nickels and a bad attitude. However, as it turns out, attics are scary. And little scrabbling feet are even scarier. Ergo; the challenge went unmet.
S: I'm listening to them. (Scrabbling of little feet).
M: Do you want me to turn the fan and make them go away?
S: You realize that turning on the fan doesn't actually make them disappear?
M: (Turns on fan)...I think they're gone. (That's science folks).
The fact of the matter is, we're going to have to hire someone to climb up in our attic and poison the squirrels. Unless you are an animal rights type of person, in which case we're going to humanely remove the squirrels from our attic and release them into the ocean, where they can swim to their ancestral home. Or introduce them to a pillow case full of door knobs. I say that with love. I mean, we're paying all of the rent and they are pretty much doing nothing but scaring the hell out of me when I'm home alone. Don't you go taking their side in this. Just picture their little flippered feet kicking away as they make their way towards the setting sun. They have flippers right?
Exterminator: Have you tried hitten em with a sack of nickels?
M: What kind of a crude barbarian do you take me for? Avast you scurvy lad.
Exterminator: Are you talking like a pirate?
M: I don't pay you to ask questions. I pay you to climb around in my attic and kill the tiny little squirrels that I'm so damn scared of.
Exterminator: Do you want me to use live traps or poison?
M: Do you think squirrels go to squirrel heaven? with lots of acorns and free attic space? Are they monogamous in heaven or do you think they just bust a...
Exterminator: Live traps then?
M: Oh no. I definitely think all squirrels go to haven. Let's help them along the way.
If anyone would like to save us some money I'll pay you twenty bucks to crawl around in our small attic and whack at squirrels with a rolled up newspaper.
M: Do you think when I'm scrabbling around in the morning getting ready for work that the squirrels get all quiet, and put their little heads to the floor, and ask, "Do we have a damn human living in the floor below us?"
S: I'll call the exterminator.
M: I never really liked the Rescue Rangers anyway.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Politics are silly
Sage words from a friend of mine in the library. The other day I appended a short story to my blog. Naturally, I assume that the few people who take the trouble to read the blog (take the trouble? I probably meant go to the trouble) probably read things that I post in the text. However, I had a conversation with S that went thusly.
M: I listened to that story I posted on my blog the other day. It made me cry.
S: What story?
M: (And yes, I'm going to avoid the obvious fact that a short story made me cry. I'm also not going to mention that I was actually at work processing loans while listening to this short story, and thus crying in my cube). Good times.
M: The one I put on my blog.
S: Her? (Not really).
Point being, when you can't count on your spouse to read something, you probably can't count on anyone else. So, here is my new proposal, use this link
and then click on reading. A small box will appear on your screen, or a a download. Click open. Now skip ahead to about the thirty minute and thirty second mark. If you've got extra time, listen to the rest. But for now. Just listen to the last story.
The point of this little endeavor is to (hopefully) illustrate the way in which we are all connected. We may not all believe in the same styles of government, but I think we are united here in being human, in being able to sympathize and empathize. When I made S listen to this story she asked, "Is it going to ruin my dinner?"
"No," I answered her.
At the conclusion she turned down the proffered salad and proclaimed it the worst short story she'd ever heard. She was crying. It made me feel connected to her. You don't have to cry for me to feel connected with you, but it doesn't hurt.
Just listen. Feel. It is a good thing that we can do this together. It is good to feel. Hell, it's good to feel sad every now and again.
M: I listened to that story I posted on my blog the other day. It made me cry.
S: What story?
M: (And yes, I'm going to avoid the obvious fact that a short story made me cry. I'm also not going to mention that I was actually at work processing loans while listening to this short story, and thus crying in my cube). Good times.
M: The one I put on my blog.
S: Her? (Not really).
Point being, when you can't count on your spouse to read something, you probably can't count on anyone else. So, here is my new proposal, use this link
and then click on reading. A small box will appear on your screen, or a a download. Click open. Now skip ahead to about the thirty minute and thirty second mark. If you've got extra time, listen to the rest. But for now. Just listen to the last story.
The point of this little endeavor is to (hopefully) illustrate the way in which we are all connected. We may not all believe in the same styles of government, but I think we are united here in being human, in being able to sympathize and empathize. When I made S listen to this story she asked, "Is it going to ruin my dinner?"
"No," I answered her.
At the conclusion she turned down the proffered salad and proclaimed it the worst short story she'd ever heard. She was crying. It made me feel connected to her. You don't have to cry for me to feel connected with you, but it doesn't hurt.
Just listen. Feel. It is a good thing that we can do this together. It is good to feel. Hell, it's good to feel sad every now and again.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Live blogging the SOTU
If you've ever had a night where you wound up drinking a bit too much? I haven't. But imagine if you had. Now imagine waking up the next morning next to some girl/guy/aquatic creature/your cell phone. The latter is probably the most relevant for this situation. And you kind of roll out of that patch of annoying sunlight, you feel how heavy and dry your tongue is in your mouth. And then you look down at your cell phone. You sent 34 text messages the night before. Oh crap!
I'm pretty sure I'll have similar feeling after live-blogging the SOTU tonight. Growing up, my mother guarded her political views very closely. We were free to make up our own minds. Like I said maybe two blogs ago, religion and politics are great things to debate if you want to change no one's mind. However, at some point you get kind of tired of listening to all the damn noise in our country that is just that, noise. It doesn't bring us any closer to meaningful change. I understand that it's very posh to put that term in quotes or claim that we need a change back to the last regime again. Guess what? The last eight years sucked. We tortured people. We started a needless war. We lost a ton of political capital throughout the world. And, to top it off, our economy still went in the shitter. This bothers me. I'd like to try something different for a while now. I'd like to see what other options we have. We can actually agree to disagree about things like fiscal spending or social issues. But we can't agree to disagree about everything. Some things need to be changed. Enough of the seriousness already.
We have a radically stratified and oligarchic country.This is a problem. Climate change is a reality. War hawking is a great way to lead ourselves into our own destruction.
These things I believe.
The rest we can agree to disagree on.
Live blogging the SOTU.
M: What the heck does he mean America wasn't always destined to succeed. Just look at us now. When Columbus sailed over on the ocean blue and found this entirely unpopulated country a great country was born. And Columbus was its king. Since good old King C we've been pretty much on our way up and up. I just wish the President didn't hate America so much.
M: I wonder how soon Biden is going to get tired of nodding. My nodding time starts at about twenty minutes. Will he go into my church sermon listening mode, where I put my head in my hands as though I'm thinking deeply, but I'm actually trying to sleep?
M: If only I could get some more speculation about tie color. We can turn this into the Oscars!
Obama: I read those letters every night. (Speaking of the unemployed). The hardest to read are the children's letters.
M as President: Because they are terrible spellers. These kids don't know anything. Imagine trying to finish your day as President and some kid hasn't bothered to look up social responsibility in his dictionary before posting a letter. It really irks me.
(With tenderness) I've missed hearing about Main St. and Wall St.
Obama: They are tired of the pettiness.
M: I love pettiness. Speak for yourself sir.
I really can't get enough of George talking about ties.
How under dressed is the Supreme Court? Everyone else is wearing a tie and they show up on sleeping gowns? Embarrassing.
I loved the part where that one person started clapping when he said economy. Awkward. Somewhere, that person's children just disowned them.
Obama: Speaking of Rep. and Dem unified.
Biden: Laughing in the background.
I love a good root canal.
Obama: I will not always do what is popular.
M: Screw it! Elect me! I'll always do what's popular. Necessity is overrated.
M: Can we bail out the banks a second time. Rich people love giving money to poor people as has been proved by history. We're all pretty much in the same income tax bracket. I'm sure the people of Haiti et al are feeling all that cash trickle down. Don't tax me on my seven million dollars. I need that to feed my kids!
M as Pres: We're going to get that money back from the banks the old-fashioned way. We're going to break some knee caps.
Irony duly noted of Obama saying he won't always do what's popular followed by a brief tongue lashing of Wall St. which goes over incredibly well.
M: This is hurting my stocks.
Obama: I did not spend a single cent of that money
M: Think how great a weekend we could have had in Vegas with all that stimulus money!
M Forget jobs. The true engine of job creation is sending them all to China. It's cheaper there. Besides, we're all one big happy family right?
M: I love Allentown Pennsylvania. Where the hell is Allentown?
M: Did he just say 30 billion? Why don't we just buy a bunch of crack. It's cheaper when bought in bulk and sell it back to people at a mark up. We'll all be rich!
More money spent: Democrats Stand
Less Spending: Republicans Stand.
Obama: We need to work on infrastructure.
M: I hope he says more helicopter pads will be built.
Wait, he just said jobs and Republicans didn't stand. Do they hate jobs?
Obama: I want a jobs bill on my desk tomorrow morning at 6 A.M.
Obama: China, India, Japan, Germany. They are not playing for second.
M as President: They are playing for third. We must look out for the Russians. Red Dawn!!!
Obama: I won't accept second place for America.
M: I'm shooting for fifth.
Good old clean coal. What is this newfound substance coal that you speak of? Does it burn easily?
Overwhelming scientific evidence. Nuff said.
That lady in yellow is a beam of sunshine.
Obama: We need to export more.
M: I can only assume that he means ramping up our production of Real Housewives of Atlanta spin offs. That shi- kills in Japan.
Obama: The best anti-poverty measure is education.
M: I think its gold.
Get your hands off my Medicare. Nuff said.
She gets embarrassed. It happens.
Obama: And I will not walk away from those people in need.
M: I will run away. Quickly, and I'll find a nice tree to hide behind and perhaps pelt them with acorns.
Heidi: Why is our government entirely comprised of rich old white men?
M: It's what Jefferson would have wanted.
Obama: We will not run for the hills.
M: But what if they're alive with the sound of music?
J: All the more reason to run from them.
Enough about curbing hate crimes. What are we doing to curb love crimes. Hugby game this Saturday at 8 A.M. sharp. It's a mixture of rugby and hugging. You'll love it.
Enough of this foreign policy B.S. Obama just build the wall. I want to keep them out! I'm not sure who them is, but they don't belong here. Build a giant wall.
I must be getting old. The SOTU actually makes sense.
Great moments with facebook:
S: She should not look so good right after having a baby.
M: Who?
S: Jenny's friend.
M: Who?
S: I'm not really sure.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Ernie
Q: So what do write about on a day when no one really says anything interesting, or at the very least, if they do, you don't remember the specifics?
M: I think those days are sometimes the easiest to write about because I can just type whatever I want. Maybe write something artsy, (insert scene of someone walking in the snow, be sure to use the phrase bare tree limbs. Try bare limbs of trees to see if it sounds better. Include a part about people being lonely. try to show how lonely they are by talking a lot about the reflection of sky in puddles. People will understand that what you really meant to write was. He was lonely).
Q: Okay, but really, nothing? Like maybe you won a bet at work today on who was going to make it into the Bachelor's top six.
M: I'm an artist. I don't watch television shows. I stay up late at night and think about Proust. I use terms like signifier and signified.
M: Gia is my favorite. She's so pretty.
Q: What was that?
M: Nothing.
Q: Are you artsy enough to create a series of faux questions, which are actually just one part of your conscious mind interrogating the other?
M: I don't enjoy flim-flammery.
M: When you type this up later please don't include the part where I said flim-flammery. Say hijinks. Be sure to include the word literary before hijinks as well, so that the context is appropriate.
Q: Did you have to look up the word hijinks to even know that its usage would be questionable without including the word literary?
M: She seemed the most natural, which is obviously sort of an odd quality to value on a show that is based around being irreal.
Q: Irreal huh? Not sure that's a word.
M: Use the word liminality at some point as well.
Q: Spell check is really having a field day.
The above exercise is further proof that I need something to keep this blog going. Nobody seemed to excited about my idea to read 100 books in a year's time.
Q: You should probably insert something here about how people don't enjoy reading as much anymore. Use the word neophytes when describing them.
M: I'm not doing that tonight.
M: I'm now using the word tyro. I think people have heard me say neophyte enough times.
Q: So what you're saying is that in the event that nothing interesting happens you just talk to yourself?
M: Basically. Don't we all though. I mean, (and I realize I'm traipsing through familiar ground once again)
Q: Why with the parenthesis all the time?
I'm not actually inside anyone else's mind, but I assume that we all have these highly self-conscious monologues that run almost non-stop throughout the day. It's why I'm a fan of interspersing Eastern monastic traditions of meditation into traditional logic based Western spirituality.
Q: So you're basically just replicating that conversation right here? It's making a presumption that other people will find your inner monologue interesting.
M: I guess so. My real inner monologue is actually just a cartoon that I play over over and over in my head. It's the grandpa from the old Keebler Elves commercials, and he keeps asking Smurfette if she wants a delicious fudge cookie.
Q: You're just saying that to elicit a response in your (very small) reading audience that will satisfy you. I don't believe you've thought about the Keebler Elf guy for years and years. Though smurfette, you've probably recalled more recently, for obvious reasons.
I went to a reading tonight and washed myself with words.
Q: I've never understood poetry. You can't actually wash yourself with words. And what would it mean to do so anyway? I mean, I can tell you a thousand things, but if I don't show it to you physically, it means nothing right? Like if I tell you I love you, but then I shoot you in the gut, you might have some pretty serious questions about whether I really meant it when I said I loved you. I suppose its the sort of question you might ask someone who says, "God is love."
The punch line is (Don't think of Noah here, think of all the people who are drowning to death, the babies clinging to the breast of their mother's, the seaweed that connects their ever whitening bones) "He has an odd way of showing it."
M: Did anybody say anything interesting today or not?
Q: I don't remember. The day just kind of passed me by. How many more do I get?
M: I don't know.
Monday, January 25, 2010
New Post
Conversations:
On Hands being cold:
M: (Screams like a girl/someone being robbed).
S: What?
M: Get your damn hands off me.
S: But you're so warm.
M: Do you see me putting my hands on someone else's stomach when they're cold?
S: That would probably make the first five minutes of work a little awkward.
Overheard in the gym.
Guy: She's pretty smart too.
Guy 2: Yeah, I know. She's one of the smartest people in our class.
M: (Shaking my head derisively and wondering if this is the sort of sissy men that colleges are churning out these days.
Later conversation overheard:
Other Guy: She's just not my type.
Other Other guy: Really? She's hot.
Other guy: No. She's too skinny for me. Have you seen her legs?
Other Other guy: She's still pretty hot.
M: (Shaking my head in approval. All is right with the world).
Overheard in the locker room:
Five year old boy sings: America, America....America.
Dad: You really like singing lately. (Clearly meant to defray any annoyance I might have been feeling).
FYOBS: God made the whole world.
Dad: That's a matter of opinion.
FYOBnow talking: Yeah, a lot of people don't know that God made the world.
Dad: Not everybody believes that God made the world.
FYOB: Yeah, but I know that God made the world.
Dad: I'm glad for you.
M: (Echoing head nod).
Brother: I keep up with your blog.
M: Nice
Brother: Except the real long artsy ones. Those I kind of just skim.
Later
S: Did a little part of you die inside?
We're trying to decide what color to paint our dining room. Right now I'm leaning towards our original idea of gold because gold is worth even more money now, and it would probably be wise to paint our whole dining room gold. Then, we could knock out all the pieces and sell them to make heaps of money. Then, with that money we could build a golden yacht and sail off into the sunset. Does gold sink?
S is starting to leans toward brown because it's a safe color. But sometimes you've got to take risks. And sure I would never sky dive, go on a roller coaster, drive over eighty give miles an hour in a car, not think I'm going to die every time a plane takes off, tear off a hang nail that might hurt a bit, jump off a high rock into water, jump off the high dive, drive a race car, climb on a roof, climb a tree, but deep down, I'm a man who likes to take risks. So I say, no dammmit. We will not paint our walls some brown color to play it safe. We'll paint our walls gold! And if that doesn't work, we can actually just paint them again. So, really we're not taking much of a risk.
I'd like to think of myself as a modern day Vasco de Gama, braving the forests of Home Depot to compare different color swatches to try and determine which one will keep the room bright while making the window sills "pop." My advice, use this word frequently when referring to items you've painted. Use this slogan, Popping, it's not just for East Coast collars anymore.
Oh, I'm also trying to think of some crazy idea for the next year. I'm considering challenging myself to read the 100 best novels ever (as determined by Time or Newsweek or the Guardian) in a single year, while maintaining positive relations with the outside world. I've also considered cooking every recipe from Juila Childs cook book, but it's already been taken. And, I hate cooking. And kitchens. And hot things. And people. If you have any crazy ideas please send them my way, so that I can politely acknowledge them, pretend like I'm considering them, and then go on and do whatever the hell I want anyway. Note: This is what most of life is like. Have you ever had a friend ask for love advice? You know what people do when you give them advice? The punch line that seems obvious is the opposite, but it's not true. They just keep doing whatever they were going to do in the first place. You know what they say all's fair in hookers and hand grenades. At least, that's what my family always said. Kidding mom.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Here is something to think about
Here it is
We've had a couple of conversations about this very same thing in our friend circles with the consensus being something like: I do not think that this earthquake was God's plan. I also find the use of words like capricious to be loaded and probably not useful for a good discussion. The effectively non-existent argument could hold some water, except that for a good solid believer the real promise isn't in this world but in the afterlife. Thus, prayer of Jabez aside, you're really not guaranteed anything, materially speaking, in the course of your life beyond some serenity/rest in God during hard times. Which is no promise that hard things won't immediately follow. That said. Nobody ever completely agrees on politics or religion.
Here is a story that is related in some ways
We've had a couple of conversations about this very same thing in our friend circles with the consensus being something like: I do not think that this earthquake was God's plan. I also find the use of words like capricious to be loaded and probably not useful for a good discussion. The effectively non-existent argument could hold some water, except that for a good solid believer the real promise isn't in this world but in the afterlife. Thus, prayer of Jabez aside, you're really not guaranteed anything, materially speaking, in the course of your life beyond some serenity/rest in God during hard times. Which is no promise that hard things won't immediately follow. That said. Nobody ever completely agrees on politics or religion.
Here is a story that is related in some ways
Saturday, January 23, 2010
A Day at Home
Like most Saturdays, I began the day by claiming that I didn't want to do anything. I realize that I probably shouldn't use the word claim because it implies that though I said that I didn't want to do anything, I in fact did. I did not. Needless to say we wound up doing a few projects and making yet another trip to Home Depot.
Interpolation:
On finding some mice droppings on our floor.
S: Every time we have mice they dupe me. I think to myself, oh those are just some pieces of rice on the floor or some coffee grinds. It's always mouse poop.
M: Well, at least it's one more thing for us to obsess about.
S: I don't want one more thing.
S: I have some traps we can set.
M: I have some traps as well, but they are mostly intellectual ones where I try and get the mouse to voice an unpopular opinion and then ritually shame him into leaving.
S: I'm not sure those are going to be as helpful.
On the plus side, we were finally able to put up our head board. A head board that has to this point been the bane of our existence. I can honestly say, (not honestly) that putting up that head board has really changed our lives. I'm glad that we spent so many hours worrying about how to properly mount the thing. We stood back from the project and realized that our room was finally complete. Or not.
On Politics and Religion:
M:Let's go see a movie.
S: We've seen like a million lately.
M: We've seen three in the last month.
S: Almost a million.
M: I'm just trying to find the cultural conversations that I can have with people since no one reads books anymore.
S: Why don't you talk about politics?
M; Talking about politics is like talking about religion, nobody changes their mind and everybody leaves upset.
I enjoy things that are beautiful. I also enjoy things that make me feel sad. Sad probably isn't the right word. Oh well, inability of language to express things perfectly and such.
And yes, our utility sink did get clogged up and we had a fifth visit from the plumbers within the last month.
M: I guess we might as well get you guys a room here!
Plumber: I'm trying to do my job.
M: I guess we should just up and buy one of those fancy snake cleaner outers ourselves?
Plumber: These are only to be handled by professionals.
M: I like faucets.
Plumber: I think we're done here.
Interpolation:
On finding some mice droppings on our floor.
S: Every time we have mice they dupe me. I think to myself, oh those are just some pieces of rice on the floor or some coffee grinds. It's always mouse poop.
M: Well, at least it's one more thing for us to obsess about.
S: I don't want one more thing.
S: I have some traps we can set.
M: I have some traps as well, but they are mostly intellectual ones where I try and get the mouse to voice an unpopular opinion and then ritually shame him into leaving.
S: I'm not sure those are going to be as helpful.
On the plus side, we were finally able to put up our head board. A head board that has to this point been the bane of our existence. I can honestly say, (not honestly) that putting up that head board has really changed our lives. I'm glad that we spent so many hours worrying about how to properly mount the thing. We stood back from the project and realized that our room was finally complete. Or not.
On Politics and Religion:
M:Let's go see a movie.
S: We've seen like a million lately.
M: We've seen three in the last month.
S: Almost a million.
M: I'm just trying to find the cultural conversations that I can have with people since no one reads books anymore.
S: Why don't you talk about politics?
M; Talking about politics is like talking about religion, nobody changes their mind and everybody leaves upset.
I enjoy things that are beautiful. I also enjoy things that make me feel sad. Sad probably isn't the right word. Oh well, inability of language to express things perfectly and such.
And yes, our utility sink did get clogged up and we had a fifth visit from the plumbers within the last month.
M: I guess we might as well get you guys a room here!
Plumber: I'm trying to do my job.
M: I guess we should just up and buy one of those fancy snake cleaner outers ourselves?
Plumber: These are only to be handled by professionals.
M: I like faucets.
Plumber: I think we're done here.
....In this way, he was not unique.
In reality, he believed that every single person on the face of the earth (and perhaps those living on other planets, though he wasn't really sure about the other planets bit. He understood that it was scientifically probable, but it sort of took away from the idea of man as a special creation of some Divine power. Didn't it? That was why, in the end, he spent very little time considering the possibility of life on other planets) deserved to be heard. Every single one of them had the right to their own life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness. (He acknowledged that the term happiness was fraught ((Not his exact word)) with all sorts of implications that philosopher's had been spending generations trying to sort out. Recently scientists had determined that happiness had to do with the ratio of smiles and laughs that a person indulged in during the course of the day). He knew a couple of mildly depressed people who laughed easily. This small bit of data unnerved him.
But when the shi- hit the fan. (Not that it ever literally hit the fan. I mean, where did that saying come from. Did someone toss shi- into fan and conclude that it would present a problem? One had to wonder about....)
He didn't really believe that. Or didn't want to believe it. Really, when he was sitting down maybe reading a nice book he kind of just wished, (as he was turning the page. The page was fluttering because of a thirteen mile an hour wind that was blowing out of the northwest. The page was of the extra thin variety generally reserved for Bibles. The wind was cold) that everyone would shut the hel up. That people would stop talking about the best way to fix the government or solve the climate problem. Wouldn't that silence be grand? If everyone would just shut the f up for a minute or two and listen? (He has an image her of Horton Hears a Who for obvious reasons). To him. To his own glorious opinion. The world was comprised of people who showed themselves to be consistently stupid, impatient, deadly, and just plain beneath the high standard that he set for himself. (He is holding a glass of lemonade in his right hand. It is sweating incredibly from the heat.) ((It's hard to imagine warmth like that in the dead of winter. Perhaps those who live in CA cannot appreciate what it feels like to have the sun coming through a large window at a low angle, the play of it across the furniture. How obsessed you can become with something you've taken for granted)).
In short, he wished everyone would cease all their bullshi- and just think exactly like him, so that the worlds problems could be fixed.
In this way, he was not unique.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
A traveling guide to Brightwood abridged
When you are traveling to Brighwood be sure to tell people that you are going to Tacoma Park. When you say,"Oh, it's near Takoma Park," peoples eyes light up because people in general have heard good things about Takoma Park. They say things like, "I've heard good things about Takoma Park." And yes, you might be lying by a mile or so but people enjoy being lied to. Especially when it helps them form a more positive opinion towards your place of residence.
When your neighbor puts up a green front porch light and leaves it no for weeks mention how it is so neat that they are getting in the Halloween spirit. Mention that you saw them dressing up their kids on that October night and it brought a tear to your eye, and perhaps that's why they haven't taken the light down. Secretly make plans to shoot the light with a bb gun. Don't for fear of shooting your eye out.
When somebody says something like, "You've got a great house," make sure to respond modestly with something like, "Well, it pays the bills." When they look at you confused, ask them to give you the GDB of Turkmenistan. Accuse them of making you feel awkward with their ignorance. Invite them over again for stuffed mushrooms. Stuff the mushrooms with bits of arcana from an encyclopedia. Insist that your new diet makes you great at regurgitating information.
When somebody breaks into your unlocked car, assume that it was the first time that someone walked by your car and checked the door handle. Otherwise, you might start having crazy thoughts like, "I wonder what would have happened if I'd ever left my front door unlocked? These sorts of thoughts are unproductive and its best just to dismiss them out of hand. I have a similar policy for any complaints/requests that S has for me.
S: Will you take out the trash?
M: File it in the complaint box.
S: I'm not putting it in the stupid box.
M: Then I guess it won't get done.
Whenever people are walking by your house point out the green space that is next door. "Oh yeah, it's nice to have a bit of green space right out our front door." Don't be afraid to be modest. Point out the community garden to them. Mention the horrible content of DC soil. Remember, modesty helps.
Flag down the local crazy woman who walks down your back alley. Ask her if she'll keep an eye on the squirrels for you. It's good to make the best of these things. Give her a cigarette. Leave her alone. Sleep for days. Regret every bad thing you've ever done. Wallow in self-pity. Regret every bad thing you haven't done. Wallow in self-doubt. Wake up in the morning and stand in the sun. It is warm on your face.
"In the end," she said, "it was the best thing for both of us."
Her friend nodded dutifully as friends often do. The story sounded familiar. But the coffee was warm, and it looked like hell outside anyway, grey and cold. "You're so right," she said, wrapping her fingers around the white saucer.
Assume this went with the previous post....Post is the company that makes Raisin Bran.
When your neighbor puts up a green front porch light and leaves it no for weeks mention how it is so neat that they are getting in the Halloween spirit. Mention that you saw them dressing up their kids on that October night and it brought a tear to your eye, and perhaps that's why they haven't taken the light down. Secretly make plans to shoot the light with a bb gun. Don't for fear of shooting your eye out.
When somebody says something like, "You've got a great house," make sure to respond modestly with something like, "Well, it pays the bills." When they look at you confused, ask them to give you the GDB of Turkmenistan. Accuse them of making you feel awkward with their ignorance. Invite them over again for stuffed mushrooms. Stuff the mushrooms with bits of arcana from an encyclopedia. Insist that your new diet makes you great at regurgitating information.
When somebody breaks into your unlocked car, assume that it was the first time that someone walked by your car and checked the door handle. Otherwise, you might start having crazy thoughts like, "I wonder what would have happened if I'd ever left my front door unlocked? These sorts of thoughts are unproductive and its best just to dismiss them out of hand. I have a similar policy for any complaints/requests that S has for me.
S: Will you take out the trash?
M: File it in the complaint box.
S: I'm not putting it in the stupid box.
M: Then I guess it won't get done.
Whenever people are walking by your house point out the green space that is next door. "Oh yeah, it's nice to have a bit of green space right out our front door." Don't be afraid to be modest. Point out the community garden to them. Mention the horrible content of DC soil. Remember, modesty helps.
Flag down the local crazy woman who walks down your back alley. Ask her if she'll keep an eye on the squirrels for you. It's good to make the best of these things. Give her a cigarette. Leave her alone. Sleep for days. Regret every bad thing you've ever done. Wallow in self-pity. Regret every bad thing you haven't done. Wallow in self-doubt. Wake up in the morning and stand in the sun. It is warm on your face.
"In the end," she said, "it was the best thing for both of us."
Her friend nodded dutifully as friends often do. The story sounded familiar. But the coffee was warm, and it looked like hell outside anyway, grey and cold. "You're so right," she said, wrapping her fingers around the white saucer.
Assume this went with the previous post....Post is the company that makes Raisin Bran.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Referendum to the sun...you suck my life still isn't perfect
Everything is a referendum. Some days I wake up and I'm just not feeling it. On those days what I'm actually doing is delivering a referendum to the sun. I'm pretty much, by rolling over and taking a thirty second break before I get out of bed, telling the sun that I'm not fond of its overlord polices of always delivering sun and warmth to the planet. You know what? Maybe some days I'd just like to keep the planet a bit cold, see what an ice age might do. And yes, I appreciate all the suns efforts at keeping us alive, but every once in a while the sun needs to step down from the sky and talk to us folks on earth. I'm tired of being marginalized and not listened to.
I can hear what you're saying. Why don't you take this up with the sun directly? I'm not going to do that though. I prefer to deliver my referendums from afar. I prefer for them to be a bit obscure but for people to extrapolate a great deal from them. I prefer to stay in bed some days so that my wife will come in and say, "Oh crap. He's delivering a referendum on the activities of the sun." Because that's the sort of thing we say to each other in the morning.
Sometimes the sun doesn't even ask me how best to go about delivering the sorts of things like light and heat that make our life possible. Sometimes, I feel like the sun is smarter and more capable than I am. Well I say, screw the sun! I'm the one should be calling the shots here! And then I go out in my back yard and root around in the grass and try and find a long stick that I can use to poke out the sun. And then my neighbor walks by and sees me rooting around amongst the sticks and realizes that I'm delivering a hell of a referendum to the sun. And he leaves and tells other people. And maybe even starts raising awareness about how I'm delivering referendums to the sun and that a wave of change is headed back our way. We're going to turn the planet back into ice. We're going to stop the tyranny of four seasons. We want one dammit! But at least we'll get to choose! Isn't that our right? To choose exactly what we want without the damn sun in our face all the time!
As far as I know that's how referendums work. You sort of need to build up a following and then just deliver your referendum. Then the sun will start panicking and start giving up on its plans to warm the earth, and maybe you'll come up with a compromise. But maybe you compromise a little bit. Perhaps the sun decides that it's going to continue to warm the earth, but it's not touching the poles. And you're just happy that you're finally being listened to that you don't even worry about the quality and the content of what you're saying. Your just a voice speaking to other voices who sound exactly the same. And one day, as you're curling up beneath your yurt, in the dead of winter in Antarctica, you realize that it might have been wise to wait things out a little bit, give them time to develop, read widely, think even more broadly, examine other galaxies to see how they've worked things out. Try to look past the edge of your nose so that when you sit down to deliver a referendum, it will be well thought out. But you can't. You kind of f-ed it up. And now you're freezing to death in the middle of winter and the closest thing you have to human contact is a sled dog you call Lassie, who may or may not be dead.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Walls
I like the green walls. Yes, I said it. I actually like the way that our walls look. And I don't think it makes me any less of a man to admit it. Okay, maybe a little. The thing is, I hate couches. Couches ubiquitously kind of suck. Except for the old grandma style couches that I like, but that the rest of the world has deemed old and grandma-like. Ergo; our modern looking couches kind of suck because they are couches. However, they look good with our green walls. The walls have somehow managed to redeem the couches. It's no wonder people painted every square inch of a room during the Renaissance, it was probably to cover up for all those crappy flea infested couches.
I'm embarking on a plan to paint everything in the world to brighten it up a bit. I'm planning on painting the walls of my cubical a friendly yellow, so that I enjoy the mornings more. I'm going to get a really tall step ladder and paint the night sky blue and all the stars pink. I'm going to.....
The green walls also go nicely with our little colorful rug. I'm not certain yet if they compliment the chest. However, the mere fact that I'm worrying about whether the walls in my living room match the mahogany of our storage chest is an indication (yet again) that something has gone horribly wrong in my life.
I'm also having this debate in my head about whether it is better to have a day off on a Monday or a Friday. Here is something else to think about
I spent all day thinking that it was Monday. And Monday's are pretty much regarded by those of us who work as the worst day of the week. But I said to myself, do you know what? maybe this is going to be the best Monday ever. Maybe all you need to turn a day around is a different kind of attitude. But then the day started, and it kind of sucked, and you forget about all the things you've promised yourself about today, and you just try and make it back to your door knob. And you can picture yourself turning the key, flipping on a light, and sitting down on the couch. You're not even certain that you enjoy the quiet, the sitting down, you just know that it seems familiar. And that no one is telling you to sit on the pale white couch with your socks up on the coffee table watching mindless television. It is so freeing to die the way you want.
YET ANOTHER INSTANCE OF THE POROUSNESS OF CERTAIN BORDERS (XXI)
by David Foster Wallace
AS IN THOSE OTHER DREAMS, I'm with somebody I know but don't know how I know them, and this person suddenly points out to me that I'm blind. Or else it's in the presence of this person that I suddenly realize I'm blind.
What happens when I realize this is I get sad. It makes me incredibly sad that I'm blind. The person somehow knows how sad I am and warns me that crying will hurt my eyes somehow and make them even worse, but I can't help it--I sit down and start crying really hard.
I wake up crying, and crying so hard in bed that I can't really see anything or make anything out or anything. This makes me cry even harder. My girlfriend is concerned and wakes up and asks what's the matter and it's a minute or more before I can even get it together enough to realize that I'm awake and not blind and that I'm crying for no reason and to tell my girlfriend about the dream and get her input on it.
All day at work then I'm super conscious of my eyesight and my eyes and how good it is to be able to see colors and people's faces and know just where I am, and of how fragile it all is, the human eye mechanism and the ability to see, how easily it could be lost, how I'm always seeing blind people with their canes and weird-looking faces and always thinking of them as just interesting to spend a couple of seconds looking at and never thinking they had anything to do with me or my eyes, and how it's really just an incredibly lucky coincidence that I can see instead of being one of those blind people I see on the subway.
And all day whenever this stuff strikes me I start tearing up again, getting ready to start crying, and only keeping myself from crying because of the cubicles' low partitions and how everybody can see me and would be concerned, and the whole day after the dream is like this, and it's tiring as hell, my girlfriend would say emotionally draining, and I sign out early and go home and I'm so sleepy I can barely keep my eyes open, and when I get home I go right in and crawl into bed at like 4:00 in the afternoon and more or less pass out.
I'm embarking on a plan to paint everything in the world to brighten it up a bit. I'm planning on painting the walls of my cubical a friendly yellow, so that I enjoy the mornings more. I'm going to get a really tall step ladder and paint the night sky blue and all the stars pink. I'm going to.....
The green walls also go nicely with our little colorful rug. I'm not certain yet if they compliment the chest. However, the mere fact that I'm worrying about whether the walls in my living room match the mahogany of our storage chest is an indication (yet again) that something has gone horribly wrong in my life.
I'm also having this debate in my head about whether it is better to have a day off on a Monday or a Friday. Here is something else to think about
I spent all day thinking that it was Monday. And Monday's are pretty much regarded by those of us who work as the worst day of the week. But I said to myself, do you know what? maybe this is going to be the best Monday ever. Maybe all you need to turn a day around is a different kind of attitude. But then the day started, and it kind of sucked, and you forget about all the things you've promised yourself about today, and you just try and make it back to your door knob. And you can picture yourself turning the key, flipping on a light, and sitting down on the couch. You're not even certain that you enjoy the quiet, the sitting down, you just know that it seems familiar. And that no one is telling you to sit on the pale white couch with your socks up on the coffee table watching mindless television. It is so freeing to die the way you want.
YET ANOTHER INSTANCE OF THE POROUSNESS OF CERTAIN BORDERS (XXI)
by David Foster Wallace
AS IN THOSE OTHER DREAMS, I'm with somebody I know but don't know how I know them, and this person suddenly points out to me that I'm blind. Or else it's in the presence of this person that I suddenly realize I'm blind.
What happens when I realize this is I get sad. It makes me incredibly sad that I'm blind. The person somehow knows how sad I am and warns me that crying will hurt my eyes somehow and make them even worse, but I can't help it--I sit down and start crying really hard.
I wake up crying, and crying so hard in bed that I can't really see anything or make anything out or anything. This makes me cry even harder. My girlfriend is concerned and wakes up and asks what's the matter and it's a minute or more before I can even get it together enough to realize that I'm awake and not blind and that I'm crying for no reason and to tell my girlfriend about the dream and get her input on it.
All day at work then I'm super conscious of my eyesight and my eyes and how good it is to be able to see colors and people's faces and know just where I am, and of how fragile it all is, the human eye mechanism and the ability to see, how easily it could be lost, how I'm always seeing blind people with their canes and weird-looking faces and always thinking of them as just interesting to spend a couple of seconds looking at and never thinking they had anything to do with me or my eyes, and how it's really just an incredibly lucky coincidence that I can see instead of being one of those blind people I see on the subway.
And all day whenever this stuff strikes me I start tearing up again, getting ready to start crying, and only keeping myself from crying because of the cubicles' low partitions and how everybody can see me and would be concerned, and the whole day after the dream is like this, and it's tiring as hell, my girlfriend would say emotionally draining, and I sign out early and go home and I'm so sleepy I can barely keep my eyes open, and when I get home I go right in and crawl into bed at like 4:00 in the afternoon and more or less pass out.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Green, green
"We die only once but for such a very long time."
M: (After painting for five hours or so). You know, this wasn't so bad. Granted we've been doing this all day, but it's nice to be close to finished. I guess I could have spent the day writing or something, but honestly, I'm not even really an artist.
S: Oh honey. You're an artist. You're just a failed one.
Yes, after eight long hours of painting our living room is now green. And if you're wondering what type of green it is, it's...I don't know. Winter mint green, or mother earth green, or mother of pearl green, or light green or something. It's pretty incredible. If you came over to our house tomorrow or maybe even the next day, you'd probably look at the walls and just black out from how green it was.
I'm not worried about our green walls though because I've seen green walls on several televisions shows lately. If you're really interested in seeing the walls in our house, watch the show Modern Family on ABC 9 P.M. on Wednesdays. Anyhow, the gay couple on that show has the interior of their house painted a very similar green. I'd post pictures, but I think that someone else's house from a television show would really do it more justice.
Originally, I wanted to do an accent wall and put up some bold painting to match it, but S decided that we should probably just have all four walls as accent walls, which turns out to just be painting the whole room. I'm really excited that my life has taken off of late, and I'm becoming expert at "cutting in" (apparently it's not just for weddings...a little part of me just died inside with that joke) and "touching up."
But tomorrow I'm going to be able to go downstairs and sit in my fine green living room. Then I'll bore people with stories of how it accents the little arches and nooks in our house. And I'll use that word nook. Just you watch me! Then I'll spend an hour talking about various paint brands and suggest that Low VOC just had to be enough for us. (And I'll capitalize the Low part, so we're real clear on how good of a person I am).
Movies:
We've been to see a few movies lately, and I feel obligated to mention a brief review of them. I have something longer to write about Avatar, but everyone in the known world has already seen it anyway, and probably made their own determination on its quality.
An Education- 7 out of 10This movie has a great title because the education is twofold. Life in the classroom and the classroom of life. The classroom of life is the sort of thing that I've always wanted to say. I'm sort of in love with Carrie Mulligan from this movie because she looks like Amelie, and I love Amelie. And it's just easier to transfer my love that way. Spoiler-the guy who she spends most of the movie with is about four years older than he should be, even with the whole Humbert kind of plot playing out. But at the beginning of the movie when people are exchanging dry witticisms I conclude once again that I was born on the wrong side of the pond.
Up in the Air-8.5 out of 10-I can't recommend this movie highly enough. George Clooney is in this movie, and as we all know, George Clooney is attractive. I suppose the tight script and somewhat of a surprise ending are also nice, but I'd really just see it for George. Who if you just call him by his first name sounds a bit ridiculous. George is the name of a stately white-haired seventy two year old man. I love people named George as a rule.
Summer Hours-8 out of 10. This is a pretty good french movie that you can watch on Netflix watch now. It's pretty much a movie about how people die and the fact that you have to divide up their things. And it's also a movie about how things, places etc. can have different meanings and values to different people. It's a fairly subtle (occasionally slow) movie with absolute gems tucked away inside seemingly simple conversations. The people in the movie just seem real. S would probably say they just seem real sad, but I really loved the subtlety of this movie. I thought it was quite good. And I'm not ashamed to say I cried twice while watching it. (Well, I'm a little ashamed to say that. I think their was a strong wind blowing in from our air vent, which probably just messed up my contacts and caused my eyes to water or something. And the second time I think I must have sneezed with my eyes open, which causes them to almost pop out of your head and definitely makes them water).
Up in the Air-
Conversations between things
M: (Floss breaks in my mouth for the millionth time, lodging itself between my teeth. Note: Do not ever buy cheap floss.)
M: I hate this shit!
S: Why?
M: It always breaks off between my teeth and the shit gets lodged there, thereby causing the very problem its supposed to be alleviating.
S: Yeah, well, you've got to consider that your real problem might be that shit keeps getting lodged between your teeth.
M and S: (Laughter ensues).
M: (Driving in the car to somewhere after being asked to do several chores) You aren't actually looking for a husband. What you're looking for is some sort of automaton who will do your bidding, a giant tool that you can manipulate.
S: No. If I wanted to marry a giant tool I would have just married myself.
M and S: (Laughter ensues).
Tracy,
Have you ever been sitting in a movie theater and been able to overhear what other people are saying? And you're not so much bothered by the fact that they are talking because you've talked, though obviously more quietly, during a movie or two in your own day. At least I have. But no. What really bothered me? And this just happened today, which is why I'm telling you this. I realize that it's more typical for girls to tell stories than boys. But sometimes I think we all enjoy stories. Hopefully, you do!
And what really bothered me was how incredibly dull these people's comments were. Like, when the stupid lady would say something stupid, the woman would lean over and practically yell to her husband or boyfriend, they were older, so I'm going to go with husband, "she's not very smart," as though he might not have picked up on the subtle nuance of the movie. Or when the parents acted as though they didn't trust the guy who didn't deserve to be trusted she said, "They don't trust him."
And I'm wondering if perhaps the guy with her is blind or really dumb or something. But I really didn't think that obviously. What I really thought was how stupid this woman was, and how her husband was probably even more annoyed than I was, and possibly looking for a plank to stick in his eye or something.
Do you ever judge people like this? Like people you don't even know? Like you've cornered the market on being smart or in the know? Well, I have. Pretty often. And periodically during the movie I heard the man mumbling something back. And he wasn't telling her to shut up or anything, at least as far as I could tell. So by the end of the movie I had to consider that maybe he enjoyed being told things like, "He's a bit sleazy" when the character stole from an old woman. Maybe he just liked the sound of her voice or something.
It's hard sometimes to be alive in the world without losing faith in it. I think I might have meant to say impossible. The other day I was watching this movie and Katherine Hepburn said, "The time to make up your mind about people is never!" It wasn't really Katherine Hepburn who said it because she was playing some other woman, and I didn't even really see that in a movie, I read it in a book. And now already I'm lying to you. But maybe you'll like it, like that man in the movie theater who liked hearing his wife tell him that the sky was generally a blue color. I don't really know. I guess what I'm saying is that I'm kind of marooned here on this island of the self, and I was wondering if you ever feel that way too?
M: I hate this shit!
S: Why?
M: It always breaks off between my teeth and the shit gets lodged there, thereby causing the very problem its supposed to be alleviating.
S: Yeah, well, you've got to consider that your real problem might be that shit keeps getting lodged between your teeth.
M and S: (Laughter ensues).
M: (Driving in the car to somewhere after being asked to do several chores) You aren't actually looking for a husband. What you're looking for is some sort of automaton who will do your bidding, a giant tool that you can manipulate.
S: No. If I wanted to marry a giant tool I would have just married myself.
M and S: (Laughter ensues).
Tracy,
Have you ever been sitting in a movie theater and been able to overhear what other people are saying? And you're not so much bothered by the fact that they are talking because you've talked, though obviously more quietly, during a movie or two in your own day. At least I have. But no. What really bothered me? And this just happened today, which is why I'm telling you this. I realize that it's more typical for girls to tell stories than boys. But sometimes I think we all enjoy stories. Hopefully, you do!
And what really bothered me was how incredibly dull these people's comments were. Like, when the stupid lady would say something stupid, the woman would lean over and practically yell to her husband or boyfriend, they were older, so I'm going to go with husband, "she's not very smart," as though he might not have picked up on the subtle nuance of the movie. Or when the parents acted as though they didn't trust the guy who didn't deserve to be trusted she said, "They don't trust him."
And I'm wondering if perhaps the guy with her is blind or really dumb or something. But I really didn't think that obviously. What I really thought was how stupid this woman was, and how her husband was probably even more annoyed than I was, and possibly looking for a plank to stick in his eye or something.
Do you ever judge people like this? Like people you don't even know? Like you've cornered the market on being smart or in the know? Well, I have. Pretty often. And periodically during the movie I heard the man mumbling something back. And he wasn't telling her to shut up or anything, at least as far as I could tell. So by the end of the movie I had to consider that maybe he enjoyed being told things like, "He's a bit sleazy" when the character stole from an old woman. Maybe he just liked the sound of her voice or something.
It's hard sometimes to be alive in the world without losing faith in it. I think I might have meant to say impossible. The other day I was watching this movie and Katherine Hepburn said, "The time to make up your mind about people is never!" It wasn't really Katherine Hepburn who said it because she was playing some other woman, and I didn't even really see that in a movie, I read it in a book. And now already I'm lying to you. But maybe you'll like it, like that man in the movie theater who liked hearing his wife tell him that the sky was generally a blue color. I don't really know. I guess what I'm saying is that I'm kind of marooned here on this island of the self, and I was wondering if you ever feel that way too?
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Messages to someone you don't know
The messages had started a few weeks ago. The first one began thusly,
Dear Tracy,
I know that we’ve never met. Oh God! Who starts a letter that way? You’re not religious are you? Because if so, I want you to change the above part to read, Oh gosh! Because that will probably help things go more smoothly.
I’ve noticed that you work in the men’s section of the JC Penny’s store at the mall. And you shouldn’t be too creeped out that I know your name because it’s right there on your name tag, and you helped me find a pair of jeans. The jeans fit moderately well, and I sort of wish you hadn’t been so disinterested in the buying process. It’s probably hard for you to be so pretty though. Like, what do you do with all that beauty? when beauty is ephemeral? I scored pretty highly on the verbal section of the PSAT, which may or may not impress you.
Tracy,
I went to the zoo yesterday and watched the panda bears for an hour. Maybe you thin think that’s strange, but did you know that they are sending one of them back? Who cares right? He’s just a stupid panda bear? Well, I don’t really know much about the intellect of pandas, but I thought it couldn’t hurt to say goodbye to him. I remember his birth as some seminal moment in my early childhood, long before I knew words like seminal. I jest sometimes. You’ll either grow to love or hate that about me, and that will probably determine the course of our (excised). I mean, if I write friendship, I’m sort of consigning myself to that role, and if I write, relationship, then I’m twice as weird as you already think.
She had started thinking about it while she was at the zoo. She just kind of letting her mind probe around the edges of the thing, like a blind person trying to make his way to the bathroom. It probably had something to do with reading that story about the tiger who jumped over the moat and mauled people. She held her hand against the iron railing, red with rust. It was cold, and flakes of rust fell from her hands like blood red snow.
Tracy stopped. The sun was near its zenith, and her friends were both wearing hats. She had a sinus headache. It was like a storage space that someone had rented and was now filling up with all the crap they had collected over the years. It hurt like hell.
Tracy,
I have a strange fear of the night sky. I know it’s kind of typical for a guy to step outside and gaze up, and just kind of sigh. And say, hey, that sky is so big my problems are real small in comparison. At least that’s what I’ve read in books. But you know what? When I step outside, it scares me shitless. I look at how far away the stars are, and I start to try and imagine how many light years there are between us, how much empty space. Then I think my way back to good old insignificant earth. And I wonder what the hell we’re doing here….Me neither. I was just testing to see how morbid you were.
Tracy,
I am the loneliest on Tuesdays. Does that make any sense? Do you have any particular day on which you feel the most alone? Also, have you ever been to Rome? I've never been anywhere, but exactly the place I'm from, which seems sad, but no sadder than anything else in this goddamn crazy world. I think the reason that Rome intrigues me, if you'll listen for a moment, is the juxtaposition of the living and the dead. From my understanding of the place, which is mainly through a television show I watched once on the History Channel, you can't dig down two feet without running into some large forum or column that belonged to some ancient Roman, and eventually you wind up with a lot of red tape and no one gets to build anything, but that's not the point. The point, Tracy, is that living in Rome means giving up that disconnect we like to keep between the living and the dead. In Rome, the dead are not on the outskirts of town, or tucked away behind some iron fence on grassy hills. In Rome, they live right below you, working ever so slowly at the business of decay. At night, if you listen closely enough, I think you can hear them brushing the floors of their old houses or putting one stone on top of another to build yet another damn tower.
In short, I miss you. Is it possible to miss someone you've never met? I suppose I miss the idea of you. Doesn't everyone miss the idea of someone they've never met? I hope so. The nights are getting long here, and it makes me feel less alone, like perhaps I still have time to do some things before I kick it. Not like discover America kind of things, but maybe something small and sacred.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Some days aren't yours at all
It's a bit later than I'd hoped, and as I'm taking public transit to work tomorrow, I don't really have the gusto to write a decent blog entry. The best I can come up with today is relaying a conversation I had with a co-worker about fulfillment as it relates to a job, and what fulfillment really means. We also touched on the generational gap in terms of fulfillment and a bit about the changing expectations for women in the job world. Which is to say, I don't really have the energy to do more than relay to you that I had a conversation. I can't even provide the specifics. You're all pretty damn bright people, so let your minds go crazy. Fill in the blank space on the page with your own version of this conversation. Post it in the comments section.
The light falling through the thick glass window was weak. She began to shut down her computer, close the various tabs that comprised her day. The trees were winter naked. On an average day she kept switching between five different tabs. The exact color of the light outside was orange. It was repetitive. The exact color of the light was something akin to orange. She poured the dregs of her coffee into the trash can and slipped off her shoes. Surely, she thought, as she ran thin fingers across her forehead, this cannot be it.
The Falls by George Saunders.
Morse found it nerve-racking to cross the St. Jude grounds just as the school was being dismissed, because he felt that if he smiled at the uniformed Catholic children they might think he was a wacko or pervert and if he didn't smile they might think he was an old grouch made bitter by the world, which surely, he felt, by certain yardsticks, he was. Sometimes he wasn't entirely sure that he wasn't even a wacko of sorts, although certainly he wasn't a pervert. Of that he was certain. Or relatively certain. Being overly certain, he was relatively sure, was what eventually made one a wacko. So humility was the thing, he thought, arranging his face into what he thought would pass for the expression of a man thinking fondly of his own youth, a face devoid of wackiness or perversion, humility was the thing.
The school sat among maples on a hillside that sloped down to the wide Taganac River, which narrowed and picked up speed and crashed over Bryce Falls a mile downstream near Morse's small rental house, his embarrassingly small rental house, actually, which nevertheless was the best he could do and for which he knew he should be grateful although at times he wasn't a bit grateful and wondered where he'd gone wrong, although at other times he was quite pleased with the crooked little blue shack covered with peeling lead paint and felt great pity for the poor stiffs renting hazardous shitholes even smaller than his hazardous shithole, which was how he felt now as he came down into the bright sunlight and continued his pleasant walk home along the green river lined with expensive mansions whose owners he deeply resented.
Morse was tall and thin and as gray and sepulchral as a church about to be condemned. His pants were too short, and his face periodically broke into a tense, involuntary grin that quickly receded, as if he had just suffered a sharp pain. At work he was known to punctuate his conversations with brief wild laughs and gusts of inchoate enthusiasm and subsequent embarrassment, expressed by a sudden plunging of his hands into his pockets, after which he would yank his hands out of his pockets, too ashamed of his own shame to stand there merely grimacing for even an instant longer.
From behind him on the path came a series of arrhythmic whacking steps. He glanced back to find Aldo Cummings, an odd duck, who though nearly forty, still lived with his mother. Cummings didn't work and had his bangs cut straight across and wore gym shorts even in the dead of winter. Morse hoped Cummings wouldn't collar him. When Cummings didn't collar him, and in fact passed by without even returning his nervous, self-effacing grin, Morse felt guilty for having suspected Cummings of wanting to collar him, then miffed that Cummings, who collared even the city-hall cleaning staff, hadn't tried to collar him. Had he done something to offend Cummings? It worried him that Cummings might not like him, and it worried him that he was worried about whether a nut like Cummings liked him. Was he some kind of worry-wart? It worried him. Why should he be worried when all he was doing was going home to enjoy his beautiful children without a care in the world, although on the other hand there was Robert's piano recital, which was sure to be a disaster, since Robert never practiced and they had no piano and weren't even sure where of when the recital was and Annie, God bless her, had eaten the cardboard keyboard he'd made for Robert to practice on. When he got home he would make Robert a new cardboard keyboard and beg him to practice. He might even order him to practice. He might even order him to make his own cardboard keyboard, then practice, although this was unlikely, because when he became forceful with Robert, Robert blubbered, and Morse loved Robert so much he couldn't stand to see him blubbering, although if he didn't become forceful with Robert, Robert tended to lie on his bed with his baseball glove over his face.
Good God, but life could be less than easy, not that he was unaware that it could certainly be a lot worse, but to go about in such a state, pulse high, face red, worried sick that someone would notice how nervous one was, was certainly less than ideal, and he felt sure that his body was secreting all kinds of harmful chemicals and that the more he worried about the harmful chemicals the faster they were pouring out of wherever it was they came from.
When he got home, he would sit on the steps and enjoy a few minutes of centered breathing while reciting his mantra, which was "calm down calm down," before the kids came running out and grabbed his legs and sometimes even bit him quite hard in their excitement and Ruth came out to remind him in an angry tone that he wasn't the only one who'd worked all day, and as he walked he gazed out at the beautiful Taganac in an effort to absorb something of her serenity but instead found himself obsessing about the faulty hatch on the gate, which theoretically could allow Annie to toddle out of the yard and into the river, and he pictured himself weeping on the shore, and to eradicate this thought started manically whistling "The Stars and Stripes Forever," while slapping his hands against his sides.
Cummings bobbed past the restored gristmill, pleased at having so decisively snubbed Morse, a smug member of the power ‚lite in the conspiratorial Village, one of the league of oppressive oppressors who wouldn't know the lot of the struggling artist if the lot of the struggling artist came up with great and beleaguered dignity and bit him on the polyester ass. Over the Pen Street bridge was a fat cloud. To an interviewer in his head, Cummings said he felt the possible rain made the fine bright day even finer and brighter because of the possibility of its loss. The possibility of its ephemeral loss. The ephemeral loss of the day to the fleeting passages of time. Preening time. Preening nascent time, the blackguard. Time made wastrels of us all, did it not, with its gaunt cheeks and its tombly reverberations and its admonishing glances with bony fingers. Bony fingers pointed as if in admonishment, as if to say, "I admonish you to recall your own eventual nascent death, which being on its way is forthcoming. Forthcoming, mortal coil, and don't think its ghastly pall won't settle on your furrowed brow, pronto, once I select your fated number from my very dusty book with the selfsame bony finger with which I'm pointing at you now, you vanity of vanities, you luster, you shirker of duties as you shuffle after your worldly pleasured centers."
That was some good stuff, if only he could remember it through the rest of his stroll and the coming storm, to scrawl in a passionate hand in his yellow pad. He thought with longing ardor of his blank yellow pad, he thought. He thought with longing ardor of his blank yellow pad on which, this selfsame day, his fame would be wrought, no, on which, this selfsame day, the first meager scrawlings which would presage his nascent burgeoning fame would be wrought, or rather writ, and someday someone would dig up his yellow pad and virtually cry eureka when they realized what a teeming fragment of minutiae, and yet crucial minutiae, had been found, and wouldn't all kinds of literary women in short black jackets want to meet him then!
In the future he must always remember to bring his pad everywhere.
The town had spent a mint on the riverfront, and now the burbling, smashing Taganac ran past a nail salon in a restored gristmill and a caf‚ in a former coal tower and a quaint public square where some high-school boys with odd haircuts were trying to kick a soccer ball into the partly open window of a parked Colt with a joy so belligerent and obnoxious that it seemed they believed themselves the first boys ever to walk the face of the earth, while Morse found worrisome. What if Annie grew up and brought one of these freaks home? Not one of these exact freaks, of course, since they were approximately fifteen years her senior, although it was possible that at twenty she could bring home on of these exact freaks, who would then be approximately thirty-five, albeit over Morse's dead body, although in his heart he knew he wouldn't make a stink about it even if she did bring home one the freaky snots who had just succeeded in kicking the ball into the Colt and were now jumping around joyfully bumping their bare chests together while grunting like walruses, and in fact he knew perfectly well that, rather than expel the thirty-five-year-old freak from his home, he would likely offer him coffee or a soft drink in an attempt to dissuade him from corrupting Annie, who for God's sake was just a baby, because Morse knew very well the kind of man he was at heart, timid of conflict, conciliatory to a fault, pathetically gullible, and with a pang he remember Len Beck, who senior year had tricked him into painting his ass blue. If there had actually been a secret Blue-Asser's Club, if the ass-painting had in fact been required for membership, it would have been bad enough, but to find out on the eve of one's prom that one had painted one's ass blue simply for the amusement of a clique of unfeeling swimmers who subsequently supplied certain photographs to one's prom date, that was too much, and he had been glad, quite glad actually at least at first, when Beck, drunk, had tried and failed to swim to Foley's Snag and been swept over the Falls in the dark of night, the great tragedy of their senior year, a tragedy that had mercifully eclipsed Morse's blue ass in the class's collective memory.
Two red-headed girls sailed by in a green canoe, drifting with the current. They yelled something to him, and he waved. Had they yelled something insulting? Certainly it was possible. Certainly today's children had no respect for authority, although one had to admit there was always Ben Akbar, their neighbor, a little Pakistani genius who sometimes made Morse look askance at Robert. Ben was an all-state cellist, on the wrestling team, who was unfailingly sweet to smaller kids and tole-painted and could do a one-handed pushup. Ah, Ben Shmen, Morse thought, ten Bens weren't worth a single Robert, although he couldn't think of one area in which Robert was superior or even equal to Ben, the little smarty-pants, although certainly he had nothing against Ben being a mere boy but if Ben thought for a minute that his being more accomplished and friendly and talented than Robert somehow entitled him to lord it over Robert, Ben had another think coming, not that Ben had ever actually lorded it over Robert. On the contrary, Robert often lorded it over Ben, or tried to although he always failed, because Ben was too sharp to be taken in by a little con man like Robert, and Morse's face reddened at the realization that he had just characterized his own son as a con man.
Boy, oh boy, could life be a torture. Could life ever force a fellow into a strange, dark place from which he found himself doing graceless, unforgivable things like casting aspersions on his beloved firstborn. If only he could escape BlasCorp and do something significant, such as discovering a critical vaccine. But it was too late, and he had never been good at biology and in fact had flunked it twice. But some kind of moment in the sun would certainly not be unwelcome. If only he could be a tortured prisoner of war who not only refused to talk but led the other prisoners in rousing hymns at great personal risk. If only he could witness an actual miracle or save the President from an assassin or win the Lotto and give it all to charity. If only he could be part of some great historical event like the codgers he saw on PBS who had been slugged in the Haymarket Riot or known Medgar Evers or lost beautific mothers on the Titanic. His childhood dreams had been so bright, he had hoped for so much, it couldn't be true that he was a nobody, although, on the other hand, what kind of somebody spends the best years of his life swearing at a photocopier? Not that he was complaining. Not that he was unaware he had plenty to be thankful for. He loved his children He loved the way Ruth looked in bed by candlelight when he had wedged the laundry basket against the door that wouldn't shut because the house was settling alarmingly, loved the face she made when he entered her, love the way she made light of the blue-ass story, although he didn't particularly love that she sometimes trotted it out when they were fighting-for example, on the dreadful night when the piano had been repossessed-or the way she blamed his passivity for their poverty within earshot of the kids or the fact that at the height of her infatuation with Robert's karate instructor, Master Li, she had been dragging Robert to class as often as six times a week, the poor little exhausted guy, but the point was, in spite of certain difficulties he truly loved Ruth. So what if their bodies were failing and fattening and they undressed in the dark and Robert admired strapping athletes on television while looking askance at Morse's rounded, pimpled back? It didn't matter, because someday, when Robert had a rounded, pimpled back of his own, he would appreciate his father, who had subjugated his petty personal desires for the good of his family, although, God willing, Robert world have a decent career by then and could afford to join a gym and see a dermatologist.
And Morse stopped in his tracks, wondering what in the world two little girls were doing alone in a canoe speeding toward the Falls, apparently oarless.
Cummings walked along, gazing into a mythic dusky arboreal Wood that put him in mind of the archetypal vision he had numbered 114 in his "Book of Archetypal Visions," on which Mom that nitwit had recently spilled grape pop. Vision 114 concerned standing on the edge of an ancient dense Wood at twilight, with the safe harbor of one's abode behind and the deep Wild ahead, replete with dark fearsome bears looming from albeit dingy covens. What would that twitching nervous wage slave Morse think if he were to dip his dim brow into the heady brew that was the "Archetypal Visions"? Morse ha, Cummings thought, I'm glad I'm not Morse, a dullard in corporate pants trudging home to his threadbare brats in the gathering loam, born, like the rest of his ilk with their feet of clay thrust down the maw of conventionality, content to cheerfully work lemminglike in moribund cubicles while comparing their stocks and bonds between bouts of tedious lawn mowing, then chortling while holding their suckling brats to the Nintendo beast. That was a powerful image, Cummings thought, one that he might develop some brooding night into a Herculean prome that some Hollywood smoothie would eat like a hotcake, so he could buy Mom a Lexus and go with someone leggy and blousy to Paris after taking some time to build up his body with arm curls so as to captivate her physically as well as mentally, and in Paris the leggy girl, in perhaps tight leather pants, would sit on an old-time bed with a beautiful shawl or blanket around her shoulders and gaze at him with doe eyes as he stood on the balcony brooding about the Parisian rain and so forth, and wouldn't Morse and his ilk stew in considerable juice when he sent home a postcard just to be nice!
And wouldn't the Village fall before him on repentant knees when T-shirts imprinted with his hard-won visage, his heraldic leonine visage, one might say were available to all at the five-and-dime and he held court on the porch in a white Whitmanesque suit while Mom hovered behind him getting everything wrong about his work and profering inane snacks to his manifold admirers, and wouldn't revenge be sent when such former football players as Ned Wentz began begging him for lessons in the sonnet? And all that was required for these things to come to pass was some paper and pens and a quixotic blathering talent the likes of which would not be seen again soon, the critics would write, all of which he had in spades, and he rounded the last bend before the Falls, euphoric with his own possibilities, and saw a canoe the color of summer leaves ram the steep upstream wall of the Snag. The girls inside were thrown forward and shrieked with open mouths over frothing waves that would not let them be heard as the boat split open along some kind of seam and began taking on water in doomful fast quantities. Cummings stood stunned, his body electrified, hairs standing up on the back of his craning neck, thinking, I must do something, their faces are bloody, but what, such fast cold water, still I must do something, and he stumbled over the berm uncertainly, looking for help but finding only a farm field of tall dry corn.
Morse began to run. In all probability this was silly. In all probability the girls were safe onshore, or, if not, help was already on its way, although certainly it was possible that the girls were not safe onshore and help was not on its way, and in fact it was even possible that the help that was on its way was him, which was worrisome, because he had never been good under pressure and in a crisis often stood mentally debating possible options with his mouth hanging open. Come to think of it, it was possible, even probable, that the boat had already gone over the Falls or hit the Snag. He remembered the crew of the barge Fat Chance, rescued via rope bridge in the early Carter years. He hoped several sweaty, decisive men were already on the scene and that one of them would send him off to make a phone call, although what if on the way he forgot the phone number and had to go back and ask the sweaty decisive man to repeat it? And what if this failure got back to Ruth and she was filled with shame and divorced him and forbade him to see the kids, who didn't want to see him anyway because he was such a panicky screwup? This was certainly not positive thinking. This was certainly an example of predestining failure via negativity. Because, who could tell, maybe he would stand in line assisting the decisive men and incur a nasty rope burn and go home a hero wearing a bandage, which might cause Ruth to regard him in a more favorable sexual light, and they would stay up all night celebrating his new manhood and exchanging sweet words between bouts of energetic lovemaking, although what kind of thing was that to be thinking at a time like this, with children's lives at stake? He was bad, that was for sure. There wasn't an earnest bone in his body. Other people were simpler and looked at the world with clearer eyes, but he was self-absorbed and insincere and mucked everything up, and he hoped this wasn't one more thing he was destined to muck up, because mucking up a rescue was altogether different from forgetting to mail out the invitations to your son's birthday party, which he had recently done, although certainly they had spent a small fortune rectifying the situation, stopping just short of putting an actual pony on Visa, but the point was, this was serious and he had to bear down. And throwing his thin legs out ahead of him, awkwardly bent at the waist, shirttails trailing behind and bum knee hurting, he remonstrated with himself to put aside all self-doubt and negativity and prepare to assist the decisive men in whatever way he could once he had rounded the bend and assessed the situation.
But when he rounded the bend and assessed the situation, he found no rope bridge or decisive men, only a canoe coming apart at the base of the Snag and two small girls in matching sweaters trying to bail with a bait bucket. What to do? This was a shocker. Go for help? Sprint to the Outlet Mall and call 911 from Knife World? There was no time. The canoe was sinking before his eyes. The girls would be drowned before he reached Route 8. Could one swim to the Snag? Certainly one could not. No one ever had. Was he a good swimmer? He was mediocre at best. Therefore he would have to run for help. But running was futile. Because there was no time. He had just decided that. And swimming was out of the question. Therefore the girls would die. They were basically dead. Although that couldn't be. That was too sad. What would become of the mother who this morning had dressed them in matching sweaters? How would she cope? Soon her girls would be nude and bruised and dead on a table. It was unthinkable. He thought of Robert nude and bruised and dead on a table. What to do? He fiercely wished himself elsewhere. The girls saw him now and with their hands appeared to be trying to explain that they would be dead soon. My God did they think he was blind? Did they think he was stupid? Was he their father? Did they think he was Christ? They were dead. They were frantic, calling out to him, but they were dead, as dead as the ancient dead and he was alive, he was needed at home, it was a no-brainer, no one could possible blame him for his one, and making a low sound of despair in his throat he kicked off his loafers and threw his long ugly body out across the water.
The light falling through the thick glass window was weak. She began to shut down her computer, close the various tabs that comprised her day. The trees were winter naked. On an average day she kept switching between five different tabs. The exact color of the light outside was orange. It was repetitive. The exact color of the light was something akin to orange. She poured the dregs of her coffee into the trash can and slipped off her shoes. Surely, she thought, as she ran thin fingers across her forehead, this cannot be it.
The Falls by George Saunders.
Morse found it nerve-racking to cross the St. Jude grounds just as the school was being dismissed, because he felt that if he smiled at the uniformed Catholic children they might think he was a wacko or pervert and if he didn't smile they might think he was an old grouch made bitter by the world, which surely, he felt, by certain yardsticks, he was. Sometimes he wasn't entirely sure that he wasn't even a wacko of sorts, although certainly he wasn't a pervert. Of that he was certain. Or relatively certain. Being overly certain, he was relatively sure, was what eventually made one a wacko. So humility was the thing, he thought, arranging his face into what he thought would pass for the expression of a man thinking fondly of his own youth, a face devoid of wackiness or perversion, humility was the thing.
The school sat among maples on a hillside that sloped down to the wide Taganac River, which narrowed and picked up speed and crashed over Bryce Falls a mile downstream near Morse's small rental house, his embarrassingly small rental house, actually, which nevertheless was the best he could do and for which he knew he should be grateful although at times he wasn't a bit grateful and wondered where he'd gone wrong, although at other times he was quite pleased with the crooked little blue shack covered with peeling lead paint and felt great pity for the poor stiffs renting hazardous shitholes even smaller than his hazardous shithole, which was how he felt now as he came down into the bright sunlight and continued his pleasant walk home along the green river lined with expensive mansions whose owners he deeply resented.
Morse was tall and thin and as gray and sepulchral as a church about to be condemned. His pants were too short, and his face periodically broke into a tense, involuntary grin that quickly receded, as if he had just suffered a sharp pain. At work he was known to punctuate his conversations with brief wild laughs and gusts of inchoate enthusiasm and subsequent embarrassment, expressed by a sudden plunging of his hands into his pockets, after which he would yank his hands out of his pockets, too ashamed of his own shame to stand there merely grimacing for even an instant longer.
From behind him on the path came a series of arrhythmic whacking steps. He glanced back to find Aldo Cummings, an odd duck, who though nearly forty, still lived with his mother. Cummings didn't work and had his bangs cut straight across and wore gym shorts even in the dead of winter. Morse hoped Cummings wouldn't collar him. When Cummings didn't collar him, and in fact passed by without even returning his nervous, self-effacing grin, Morse felt guilty for having suspected Cummings of wanting to collar him, then miffed that Cummings, who collared even the city-hall cleaning staff, hadn't tried to collar him. Had he done something to offend Cummings? It worried him that Cummings might not like him, and it worried him that he was worried about whether a nut like Cummings liked him. Was he some kind of worry-wart? It worried him. Why should he be worried when all he was doing was going home to enjoy his beautiful children without a care in the world, although on the other hand there was Robert's piano recital, which was sure to be a disaster, since Robert never practiced and they had no piano and weren't even sure where of when the recital was and Annie, God bless her, had eaten the cardboard keyboard he'd made for Robert to practice on. When he got home he would make Robert a new cardboard keyboard and beg him to practice. He might even order him to practice. He might even order him to make his own cardboard keyboard, then practice, although this was unlikely, because when he became forceful with Robert, Robert blubbered, and Morse loved Robert so much he couldn't stand to see him blubbering, although if he didn't become forceful with Robert, Robert tended to lie on his bed with his baseball glove over his face.
Good God, but life could be less than easy, not that he was unaware that it could certainly be a lot worse, but to go about in such a state, pulse high, face red, worried sick that someone would notice how nervous one was, was certainly less than ideal, and he felt sure that his body was secreting all kinds of harmful chemicals and that the more he worried about the harmful chemicals the faster they were pouring out of wherever it was they came from.
When he got home, he would sit on the steps and enjoy a few minutes of centered breathing while reciting his mantra, which was "calm down calm down," before the kids came running out and grabbed his legs and sometimes even bit him quite hard in their excitement and Ruth came out to remind him in an angry tone that he wasn't the only one who'd worked all day, and as he walked he gazed out at the beautiful Taganac in an effort to absorb something of her serenity but instead found himself obsessing about the faulty hatch on the gate, which theoretically could allow Annie to toddle out of the yard and into the river, and he pictured himself weeping on the shore, and to eradicate this thought started manically whistling "The Stars and Stripes Forever," while slapping his hands against his sides.
Cummings bobbed past the restored gristmill, pleased at having so decisively snubbed Morse, a smug member of the power ‚lite in the conspiratorial Village, one of the league of oppressive oppressors who wouldn't know the lot of the struggling artist if the lot of the struggling artist came up with great and beleaguered dignity and bit him on the polyester ass. Over the Pen Street bridge was a fat cloud. To an interviewer in his head, Cummings said he felt the possible rain made the fine bright day even finer and brighter because of the possibility of its loss. The possibility of its ephemeral loss. The ephemeral loss of the day to the fleeting passages of time. Preening time. Preening nascent time, the blackguard. Time made wastrels of us all, did it not, with its gaunt cheeks and its tombly reverberations and its admonishing glances with bony fingers. Bony fingers pointed as if in admonishment, as if to say, "I admonish you to recall your own eventual nascent death, which being on its way is forthcoming. Forthcoming, mortal coil, and don't think its ghastly pall won't settle on your furrowed brow, pronto, once I select your fated number from my very dusty book with the selfsame bony finger with which I'm pointing at you now, you vanity of vanities, you luster, you shirker of duties as you shuffle after your worldly pleasured centers."
That was some good stuff, if only he could remember it through the rest of his stroll and the coming storm, to scrawl in a passionate hand in his yellow pad. He thought with longing ardor of his blank yellow pad, he thought. He thought with longing ardor of his blank yellow pad on which, this selfsame day, his fame would be wrought, no, on which, this selfsame day, the first meager scrawlings which would presage his nascent burgeoning fame would be wrought, or rather writ, and someday someone would dig up his yellow pad and virtually cry eureka when they realized what a teeming fragment of minutiae, and yet crucial minutiae, had been found, and wouldn't all kinds of literary women in short black jackets want to meet him then!
In the future he must always remember to bring his pad everywhere.
The town had spent a mint on the riverfront, and now the burbling, smashing Taganac ran past a nail salon in a restored gristmill and a caf‚ in a former coal tower and a quaint public square where some high-school boys with odd haircuts were trying to kick a soccer ball into the partly open window of a parked Colt with a joy so belligerent and obnoxious that it seemed they believed themselves the first boys ever to walk the face of the earth, while Morse found worrisome. What if Annie grew up and brought one of these freaks home? Not one of these exact freaks, of course, since they were approximately fifteen years her senior, although it was possible that at twenty she could bring home on of these exact freaks, who would then be approximately thirty-five, albeit over Morse's dead body, although in his heart he knew he wouldn't make a stink about it even if she did bring home one the freaky snots who had just succeeded in kicking the ball into the Colt and were now jumping around joyfully bumping their bare chests together while grunting like walruses, and in fact he knew perfectly well that, rather than expel the thirty-five-year-old freak from his home, he would likely offer him coffee or a soft drink in an attempt to dissuade him from corrupting Annie, who for God's sake was just a baby, because Morse knew very well the kind of man he was at heart, timid of conflict, conciliatory to a fault, pathetically gullible, and with a pang he remember Len Beck, who senior year had tricked him into painting his ass blue. If there had actually been a secret Blue-Asser's Club, if the ass-painting had in fact been required for membership, it would have been bad enough, but to find out on the eve of one's prom that one had painted one's ass blue simply for the amusement of a clique of unfeeling swimmers who subsequently supplied certain photographs to one's prom date, that was too much, and he had been glad, quite glad actually at least at first, when Beck, drunk, had tried and failed to swim to Foley's Snag and been swept over the Falls in the dark of night, the great tragedy of their senior year, a tragedy that had mercifully eclipsed Morse's blue ass in the class's collective memory.
Two red-headed girls sailed by in a green canoe, drifting with the current. They yelled something to him, and he waved. Had they yelled something insulting? Certainly it was possible. Certainly today's children had no respect for authority, although one had to admit there was always Ben Akbar, their neighbor, a little Pakistani genius who sometimes made Morse look askance at Robert. Ben was an all-state cellist, on the wrestling team, who was unfailingly sweet to smaller kids and tole-painted and could do a one-handed pushup. Ah, Ben Shmen, Morse thought, ten Bens weren't worth a single Robert, although he couldn't think of one area in which Robert was superior or even equal to Ben, the little smarty-pants, although certainly he had nothing against Ben being a mere boy but if Ben thought for a minute that his being more accomplished and friendly and talented than Robert somehow entitled him to lord it over Robert, Ben had another think coming, not that Ben had ever actually lorded it over Robert. On the contrary, Robert often lorded it over Ben, or tried to although he always failed, because Ben was too sharp to be taken in by a little con man like Robert, and Morse's face reddened at the realization that he had just characterized his own son as a con man.
Boy, oh boy, could life be a torture. Could life ever force a fellow into a strange, dark place from which he found himself doing graceless, unforgivable things like casting aspersions on his beloved firstborn. If only he could escape BlasCorp and do something significant, such as discovering a critical vaccine. But it was too late, and he had never been good at biology and in fact had flunked it twice. But some kind of moment in the sun would certainly not be unwelcome. If only he could be a tortured prisoner of war who not only refused to talk but led the other prisoners in rousing hymns at great personal risk. If only he could witness an actual miracle or save the President from an assassin or win the Lotto and give it all to charity. If only he could be part of some great historical event like the codgers he saw on PBS who had been slugged in the Haymarket Riot or known Medgar Evers or lost beautific mothers on the Titanic. His childhood dreams had been so bright, he had hoped for so much, it couldn't be true that he was a nobody, although, on the other hand, what kind of somebody spends the best years of his life swearing at a photocopier? Not that he was complaining. Not that he was unaware he had plenty to be thankful for. He loved his children He loved the way Ruth looked in bed by candlelight when he had wedged the laundry basket against the door that wouldn't shut because the house was settling alarmingly, loved the face she made when he entered her, love the way she made light of the blue-ass story, although he didn't particularly love that she sometimes trotted it out when they were fighting-for example, on the dreadful night when the piano had been repossessed-or the way she blamed his passivity for their poverty within earshot of the kids or the fact that at the height of her infatuation with Robert's karate instructor, Master Li, she had been dragging Robert to class as often as six times a week, the poor little exhausted guy, but the point was, in spite of certain difficulties he truly loved Ruth. So what if their bodies were failing and fattening and they undressed in the dark and Robert admired strapping athletes on television while looking askance at Morse's rounded, pimpled back? It didn't matter, because someday, when Robert had a rounded, pimpled back of his own, he would appreciate his father, who had subjugated his petty personal desires for the good of his family, although, God willing, Robert world have a decent career by then and could afford to join a gym and see a dermatologist.
And Morse stopped in his tracks, wondering what in the world two little girls were doing alone in a canoe speeding toward the Falls, apparently oarless.
Cummings walked along, gazing into a mythic dusky arboreal Wood that put him in mind of the archetypal vision he had numbered 114 in his "Book of Archetypal Visions," on which Mom that nitwit had recently spilled grape pop. Vision 114 concerned standing on the edge of an ancient dense Wood at twilight, with the safe harbor of one's abode behind and the deep Wild ahead, replete with dark fearsome bears looming from albeit dingy covens. What would that twitching nervous wage slave Morse think if he were to dip his dim brow into the heady brew that was the "Archetypal Visions"? Morse ha, Cummings thought, I'm glad I'm not Morse, a dullard in corporate pants trudging home to his threadbare brats in the gathering loam, born, like the rest of his ilk with their feet of clay thrust down the maw of conventionality, content to cheerfully work lemminglike in moribund cubicles while comparing their stocks and bonds between bouts of tedious lawn mowing, then chortling while holding their suckling brats to the Nintendo beast. That was a powerful image, Cummings thought, one that he might develop some brooding night into a Herculean prome that some Hollywood smoothie would eat like a hotcake, so he could buy Mom a Lexus and go with someone leggy and blousy to Paris after taking some time to build up his body with arm curls so as to captivate her physically as well as mentally, and in Paris the leggy girl, in perhaps tight leather pants, would sit on an old-time bed with a beautiful shawl or blanket around her shoulders and gaze at him with doe eyes as he stood on the balcony brooding about the Parisian rain and so forth, and wouldn't Morse and his ilk stew in considerable juice when he sent home a postcard just to be nice!
And wouldn't the Village fall before him on repentant knees when T-shirts imprinted with his hard-won visage, his heraldic leonine visage, one might say were available to all at the five-and-dime and he held court on the porch in a white Whitmanesque suit while Mom hovered behind him getting everything wrong about his work and profering inane snacks to his manifold admirers, and wouldn't revenge be sent when such former football players as Ned Wentz began begging him for lessons in the sonnet? And all that was required for these things to come to pass was some paper and pens and a quixotic blathering talent the likes of which would not be seen again soon, the critics would write, all of which he had in spades, and he rounded the last bend before the Falls, euphoric with his own possibilities, and saw a canoe the color of summer leaves ram the steep upstream wall of the Snag. The girls inside were thrown forward and shrieked with open mouths over frothing waves that would not let them be heard as the boat split open along some kind of seam and began taking on water in doomful fast quantities. Cummings stood stunned, his body electrified, hairs standing up on the back of his craning neck, thinking, I must do something, their faces are bloody, but what, such fast cold water, still I must do something, and he stumbled over the berm uncertainly, looking for help but finding only a farm field of tall dry corn.
Morse began to run. In all probability this was silly. In all probability the girls were safe onshore, or, if not, help was already on its way, although certainly it was possible that the girls were not safe onshore and help was not on its way, and in fact it was even possible that the help that was on its way was him, which was worrisome, because he had never been good under pressure and in a crisis often stood mentally debating possible options with his mouth hanging open. Come to think of it, it was possible, even probable, that the boat had already gone over the Falls or hit the Snag. He remembered the crew of the barge Fat Chance, rescued via rope bridge in the early Carter years. He hoped several sweaty, decisive men were already on the scene and that one of them would send him off to make a phone call, although what if on the way he forgot the phone number and had to go back and ask the sweaty decisive man to repeat it? And what if this failure got back to Ruth and she was filled with shame and divorced him and forbade him to see the kids, who didn't want to see him anyway because he was such a panicky screwup? This was certainly not positive thinking. This was certainly an example of predestining failure via negativity. Because, who could tell, maybe he would stand in line assisting the decisive men and incur a nasty rope burn and go home a hero wearing a bandage, which might cause Ruth to regard him in a more favorable sexual light, and they would stay up all night celebrating his new manhood and exchanging sweet words between bouts of energetic lovemaking, although what kind of thing was that to be thinking at a time like this, with children's lives at stake? He was bad, that was for sure. There wasn't an earnest bone in his body. Other people were simpler and looked at the world with clearer eyes, but he was self-absorbed and insincere and mucked everything up, and he hoped this wasn't one more thing he was destined to muck up, because mucking up a rescue was altogether different from forgetting to mail out the invitations to your son's birthday party, which he had recently done, although certainly they had spent a small fortune rectifying the situation, stopping just short of putting an actual pony on Visa, but the point was, this was serious and he had to bear down. And throwing his thin legs out ahead of him, awkwardly bent at the waist, shirttails trailing behind and bum knee hurting, he remonstrated with himself to put aside all self-doubt and negativity and prepare to assist the decisive men in whatever way he could once he had rounded the bend and assessed the situation.
But when he rounded the bend and assessed the situation, he found no rope bridge or decisive men, only a canoe coming apart at the base of the Snag and two small girls in matching sweaters trying to bail with a bait bucket. What to do? This was a shocker. Go for help? Sprint to the Outlet Mall and call 911 from Knife World? There was no time. The canoe was sinking before his eyes. The girls would be drowned before he reached Route 8. Could one swim to the Snag? Certainly one could not. No one ever had. Was he a good swimmer? He was mediocre at best. Therefore he would have to run for help. But running was futile. Because there was no time. He had just decided that. And swimming was out of the question. Therefore the girls would die. They were basically dead. Although that couldn't be. That was too sad. What would become of the mother who this morning had dressed them in matching sweaters? How would she cope? Soon her girls would be nude and bruised and dead on a table. It was unthinkable. He thought of Robert nude and bruised and dead on a table. What to do? He fiercely wished himself elsewhere. The girls saw him now and with their hands appeared to be trying to explain that they would be dead soon. My God did they think he was blind? Did they think he was stupid? Was he their father? Did they think he was Christ? They were dead. They were frantic, calling out to him, but they were dead, as dead as the ancient dead and he was alive, he was needed at home, it was a no-brainer, no one could possible blame him for his one, and making a low sound of despair in his throat he kicked off his loafers and threw his long ugly body out across the water.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
On Pottery Barn and heating and a business model
I arrived home before S this evening and decided to go through our mail. I don't usually go through our mail because has an elaborate system for where each item goes. The system is the sort of thing that would given Kafka a good laugh. Whereby we pay for something online, then print out a receipt that says paid. Then we request a paper bill, just in case, and presumably write paid on that as well. Then, you. Okay, a simpler way to put it lies below. It's about as complex as this mating dance.
Sitting at our nice table, in the warmth of our fifty degree house I discovered several credit card offers. As a rule I go ahead and accept every credit card offer that I get in the mail.
30,000 free sky miles and no strings attached. A 6.8percent APR. I don't even know what APR means, I'll take it.
Then I got to the bottom of the pile and discovered a book from Pottery Barn welcoming us to the neighborhood. In short, it said, "Welcome to the neighborhood, we'd like to further you along in the bankruptcy process by interesting you in some stuff that you probably don't need, but that other people your age will come over and notice and ask, "is that Pottery Barn?"" And you can say yes!" Or something.
M: Pottery barn is like porn for your house.
M: Semiotics (Specifically Literary theory) is full of interesting ideas. The problem is that what follows the idea is roughly three hundred pages of masturbation by the proponent of said idea.
S: I don't really think that it's fair to compare Pottery Barn to The Enquirer. It is certainly offers more than just idle gossip. Then again, I'm probably just showing my bias.
M: Yup. Now toss me a throw and a decorative pillow.
We've recently discovered that our lovely little home will pretty much get as cold as we set the thermostat if left to its own devices. I believe it may have been insulated with ice. Can you insulate with ice?
This has caused much distress in our family.
M: This is distressing me.
S: This is distressing me as well.
See. Fortunately the heater downstairs functions nominally well. However, the builders designed it in such a way, that it seems to be primarily blowing hot air at the closed door of our basement. Which, if it was open, would be the working part of your basement. Washer and dryer et al. Why is it designed to direct heat towards the least likely room for someone to inhabit?
On the bright side we've decided to unplug our fridge and just leave the food on the counter. We know it will stay cold enough. Plus, we'll manage to save on heating costs and electricity. Genius. I'm also hoping to start using the basement as a meat locker, preferably stocking up on some tuna safe dolphin meat for the long winter ahead. A lot of folks will tell you that dolphins are friendly and should be valued more highly than tuna. However, most of those people are sailors who probably have syphilis and scurvy.
We've been told we can have an energy audit or spray insulation in the walls. I'm thinking our real best bet is just to have the house flown directly to CA. How much could it cost to have a house flown across the country. Twenty? Thirty thousand? Then we drop this sucker down right in the Montecito area. Suddenly our crappy and cold home, becomes a million dollar property. I don't know why people haven't thought of this before. Maybe I'll just start a house dropping business. Does anyone know how to fly a helicopter? Is anyone not afraid of heights?
Okay, that pretty much settles it for me. I'm going to have this house moved to CA via the air. If any of you see me in the next few weeks be sure to offer some words of encouragement to me so that I actually follow through. I have a tendency to think big and act small.
M at 7: I'm going to make it to the NBA.
M at 16: I'm quitting the team.
M at 5: I'm going to be a Major League Baseball Player.
M: at 13: Baseball is hard. I quit.
M at 4: I'm a marine biologist.
M at 5: Wait, I'm not a girl.
M at any age: I'm going to do x.
M at any older age: X is hard. How bout I just keep doing y?
M at 21: I'm going to change the world.
M at 25: I with the world would change for me. Wouldn't that just be easier for both of us?
M at 26: I'm going to write a novel.
M at 29: How short can something be and still be considered a novel? Does this sentence on a napkin count?
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Happy Birthday kitty!
It's that season again. The season when lots of people in our families have birthdays. Birthdays are interesting because they have a declining importance for a number of years and then they start to become significant again. Everyone is excited when you're five and when you're fifty. Nobody really gives a rat's ass when you turn thirty four. Except your parents, who might call you up and say, "I can't believe you're that old." And they say it with pride in their voice. No harm intended. But you're not stupid. You can read the writing on the wall. You're old.
Sage: Life isn't all about work. (Pauses) Sometimes it's about fixing heating vents.
S had a wonderful person come out to fix our heating vent today. He took one look at the vent and said, "I can't fix it." I'm assuming that he actually moonlights as our plumber on weekends. I don't really understand why we have so many service men who are so disinterested in doing a good job. (Insert long diatribe about the erosion of values like hard work and dependability). I am actually often surprised when people don't seem interested in doing a good job. I may or may not have loved every job I've had, but I suffer under the assumption that if you're getting paid to do something you should probably try and do it well. So no, maybe I wasn't the greatest stripper for that week in Vegas. And maybe some people asked for refunds and why that skinny guy was on stage. But you know what? I tried. And failed.
Birthdays in and of themselves (I'm going to turn thirty years old in March. Thirty. What have I done with my life? What are you supposed to do with your life?) aren't really that bad. You know what sucks? birthday cards. Birthday cards are pretty much the ultimate in pressure. In my opinion it's not the cards themselves, I'm pretty sure we're not expected to be perfect when calling upon someone else's cleverness.
I hate that you have to boil down all of the sentiment, or lack of sentiment that you have for someone in an area the size of a large dry erase marker. Or, alternatively, you can write a really long and heartfelt card. But that has its pressures to. I'm not all that great at sincerity. So perhaps this is just a personal failing. I consider a well-timed joke to be just as good as saying, "I love you or you make me feel good about being me." I don't actually think that's true. I think those other things are more important but they are hard to say in a birthday card.
Ex:
Co-worker who you know only vaguely and who you are pretty sure isn't aware what your name is.
M: (Should this be funny? Should it just be casual? Will they even recognize my name? Should I just sign my name? Is that a cop out? Oh, it looks like x has just signed her name. But what if she's copping out? What's funny? Wait, if I start writing this and it isn't funny, I'm screwed. Why don't they give you a pencil or an etch a sketch when you are writing in a card? Etch-a-sketch cards for all. Am I taking up too much room?)
Happy Birthday,
I hope you have a great day,
Andrew...the guy who works in....shit, shit. This isn't even important. It's your day. Forget I even mentioned who I am.
For a loved one.
M: (Well, the card kind of already expresses the sentiment. Ergo; do I just kind of capitalize off what the card has already said, or should I pull back a little, try and make them laugh? What if I just start writing sentences but nothing good comes out?).
Happy Birthday,
Great card huh. Pretty much took the words right out of my mouth and vomited them on the page. But seriously, you know that I love you right? So why buy a lousy card that says it for me. Remember that time that you dressed me up as a pirate for Halloween and I cried and cried because the ink ran in my eyes? Me neither. You never forget the good days. I guess this card was supposed to be about your birthday, but I figure you already know that it was your birthday. So I guess I'm just writing this to remind you that I love you and that I always will barring some catastrophe or if you upset me in some way. Unconditional love is easy, who wants it? I give the conditional stuff.
Happy Birthday,
x
And now we've got facebook walls to constantly remind us that everyone in the world is having a birthday. I've given up on writing on the walls anyhow because people have way too many birthdays. Our friend who spent time in Korea said that at the New Year everyone celebrated their birthday. It's like a national day of birthdays. And as much as The Office showed that having all the birthdays on one day sucks, it actually sounded pretty great. Why is it that we could never make a communal birthday fly in our country? We seem to believe that we are uniquely special. Despite all the evidence the world keeps piling at our doorstep to the contrary.
Any Facebook wall post from me on your birthday.
M: Congratulations on aging. You did a great job at it this year!
Our friends came over later in the evening and fixed the heating duct without charing us sixty bucks or claiming that the problem might "never be fixed." He just fixed it. Novel idea.
In the end you kind of just think of Gustave Flaubert's quote and realize how empty the whole idea of writing something meaningful or funny or anything in a card was in the first place,
"Human language is like a cracked kettle on which we beat tunes for bears to dance to when all the time we are longing to move the stars to pity."
— Gustav Flaubert
I suppose it is about the attempt to bridge that gap. Happy Birthday to all and to all a good night,
Andrew and Gustav (The dead guy who wrote Madame Bovary and the guy who is always wearing that grey sweatshirt. Maybe you've heard of us? No. Oh well. Just look at that kitten on the outside of the card. Cute right?)
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