Accismus

A spokesman for the Diocese of Bath and Wells said: “There is no such thing as a real gnome so why should we have such unnatural creatures in churchyards?”

– Telegraph.co.uk, November 2008

When Pastor Scott had discovered the original gnome, he’d assumed it had been put there by a teenager and he threw it out without a second thought. But a few days later, Karen Allen knocked on the door of the rectory. Karen was the longest-serving and most active of the various church volunteers, and she kept close tabs on all things happening at Holy Ascension. In fact, Pastor Scott felt that Karen was generally more interested in the policies and procedures of Holy Ascension than he was, and in the concerns and troubles of its parishioners.

‘Pastor Scott,’ said Karen now. ‘Anna Trilby is all upset. That darling little garden gnome she put on her mother’s grave went missing last week. I suppose some kids took it, and I know that these things can’t be helped, but I thought I’d let you know, she’s upset. Apparently, it was her mother’s gnome, and now Anna wishes she’d just hung onto it.’

‘I threw it out,’ said Pastor Scott, surprised. ‘I thought kids put it there.’

‘Why would kids decorate Anna’s mother’s grave?’

‘I didn’t imagine Anna put a gnome there. I thought it was a joke.’

‘Oh, no, her mother loved that gnome. You threw it out? Has the trash gone?’

‘I’m sure it has.’

‘Oh, no. I suppose I’ll have to tell Anna. She’ll be so upset.’

‘Well, don’t make a point of telling her unless she brings it up again.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Well, tell her, if you feel you ought to, but frankly, I don’t see the point of it.’

‘I think she’ll want to know what happened to it.’

‘It was just a gnome.’

‘It was her mother’s.’

‘Well. Tell her I’m sorry for the misunderstanding.’

Two days later, a new gnome was on Mrs. Biddemore’s grave. This gnome had a little wheelbarrow full of plastic flowers. Pastor Scott stared at it resentfully. He didn’t know exactly why, but he didn’t like it. He felt it was flip. And also, it was tacky. All the other graves sat sedately, somberly, with their bunches of flowers in various stages of decay. There were no gnomes, no statuary of any kind. There weren’t even any plaster saints or angels. On little Tom Hansbury’s grave, there was a small stuffed lamb, moldy from dew and rain. It looked pretty bad, but of course, parents bereaved of small children had to be permitted to place toys on the graves. After an appropriate amount of time had passed, Pastor Scott would remove the lamb, just as he had removed so many plush and plastic toys and dolls over the years. The families never noticed, or if they did, they perhaps assumed the little tributes had disintegrated, filtering through the soil to mingle with the remains of their owners.

There was nothing tacky about these mementos. They were heartbreaking and touching. This plastic gnome, however, with its broad grin and its stupid garish plastic flowers made a mockery of that sad, moldering, pathetic little lamb. Pastor Scott wouldn’t stand for it. It was an affront to all serious people buried in his churchyard.

After service the following Sunday, as Anna Trilby paused to shake his hand in the doorway, Pastor Scott asked if he might have a word. Anna waited for the small congregation to exit, and then followed Pastor Scott into the rectory.

‘Have a seat, Anna,’ he began. ‘I noticed that you’ve found a replacement gnome for your mother’s grave.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Listen, I hope you don’t feel bad about throwing her gnome out. I was upset, I’ll admit, but I’ve gotten over it. It was an honest mistake, and I know you didn’t mean anything by it.’

‘Good, good,’ said Pastor Scott. ‘Anna. I know that decorating the graves of our loved ones is an important part of the grieving process, and I hate to interfere with your remembrance of your mother, but I can’t help but feel that…well, this new gnome. It’s not your mother’s gnome, is it?’

‘Well, no,’ said Anna. ‘I bought it at Mayo’s.’

‘Yes, you see.’

‘I’m sorry, Pastor. I don’t see your point. Is there a problem with the gnome being there?’

‘Well, Anna,’ said Pastor Scott. ‘I know your mother liked her gnome. But I’m sure that there were a great many things she enjoyed that even you would agree it would not be appropriate to festoon her grave with. For example, perhaps she liked cake, or flannel pajamas, or bridge. But you wouldn’t put any of those things on her grave, would you?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Anna. ‘I guess I…. Well, for one thing, a gnome is garden statuary. So it makes sense for it to be outdoors in a natural place. My mother loved to garden.’

‘Yes, but this isn’t even her gnome!’ said Pastor Scott. ‘She never met it – it’s a gnome from Mayo’s! And I’m sorry, Anna, I don’t mean to go on about this, but I just feel that gnomes are comical. And they are also fairytale creatures. They’re not real. An animal or an angel is one thing, but a gnome in a churchyard? I’m sorry, but I just don’t feel it’s appropriate.’

‘Well,’ said Anna. ‘I don’t know what to say! I’m sorry if you don’t personally care for gnomes, but it’s my mother and my gnome, and with all due respect, Pastor, I don’t see that it’s any business of yours.’

‘Well, it’s my churchyard, and I have to look out for the interests of all of its occupants, not your mother alone.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry, have there been complaints? Is my gnome disturbing the peace of my mother’s neighbors?’

‘Let’s not be disrespectful,’ said Pastor Scott. ‘This is exactly the kind of flippancy regarding the dead that I fear the presence of garden gnomes is likely to encourage.’

‘I can’t continue this conversation,’ said Anna, rising. ‘You’re making me very angry. I think you’ve overstepped your bounds.’

‘Anna, I’ll let you have some time to think over what I’ve said. I think that when you’ve calmed down and thought about it rationally, you’ll realize that—

–But Anna had slammed through the door.

Pastor Scott was sorry to have had a confrontation. He had meant to be more sensitive, but there simply was no precedent for dealing with such a situation. He thought it over at length, but determined that, awkward as it might be, he was in the right. The gnome had to go. If Anna did not remove it in three days, he would.

The next day, Karen Allen knocked on his door again. She came in and settled herself without waiting for permission.

‘Do you want to tell me what happened with Anna Trilby?’ she opened, as if he were a naughty child come home from school with a note.

‘I told her, quite rightly, that I didn’t feel that garden gnome was appropriate in the churchyard, and of course, she wasn’t happy. I’m sorry to have upset her, but I stand by my objection, and furthermore, I’ve decided to remove it in two more days if she doesn’t come to her senses, so you might want to talk to her, Karen. Perhaps you could say it more sensitively than I managed – make her see that it could be seen as disrespectful. I have the other parishioners to think of.’

‘Have any of them complained?’

‘Well, who would?’

‘Pastor Scott, is there anything the matter?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It just seems…well, I mean, this isn’t like you, to get so worked up over something so trivial. I can’t help but think you must be under some stress.’

‘I am not worked up, Karen. I am perfectly calm. I simply don’t think it’s appropriate for people coming to mourn their loved ones to be confronted with a grinning, silly, plastic hunk of whimsy. It’s ridiculous, and it’s sacrilegious, and I will not allow it.’

‘Well, really, Pastor. It’s just a gnome.’

‘Now it’s a gnome. Next week, it’ll be a pink plastic flamingo, then it will be a lawn jockey, then a pinball machine. A line must be drawn somewhere!’

‘Alright,’ said Karen. ‘I’ll talk to Anna.’

The next day, the gnome had friends. There was now a gnome on Biddy Morris’s grave, as well – a garish little fellow with a pipe and a kerchief – and a large plaster chipmunk eating a nut on Tobin Hart’s.

‘Karen,’ called Pastor Scott.

‘I know, I know,’ said Karen, near at hand. ‘I tried. I talked to Anna, I tried to explain your objections. But she seemed to think you were attacking her. And I guess she told Maeve and Becky, and they said they thought the gnome was cute and you didn’t speak for them, and they thought they’d cheer up their own loved ones’ graves as well.’

‘It’s mutiny,’ said Pastor Scott. ‘I can’t believe they would spite me this way. Karen, I’m not trying to be the heavy here. I feel it’s inappropriate! I have to see after the interests of the dead.’

‘Oh,’ said Karen. ‘Why don’t you just let it go? Be the bigger person.’

‘It’s not about me, Karen,’ said Pastor Scott, and he gathered up the gnomes and the foolish chipmunk and carried them into the rectory.

By the following Sunday, none of the ornaments’ owners had stopped by to discuss their absence. Pastor Scott assumed they’d realized they’d been behaving badly, and had decided to let the matter drop. He prepared his sermon as usual, and the congregation came in, settled itself, and all was as it had been on previous Sundays. Pastor Scott felt relaxed. There were no bad vibes in the air. He was certain that everyone had decided to be adults again.

At the usual point in the service, Pastor Scott invited the children to come forward for their special sermon. This Sunday, he’d decided to speak on faith.

‘How many of you believe God exists?’ he asked the children, and was pleased to see most of them raised their hands.

‘Whew!’ he said. ‘That’s a lot of you. How do you know He exists? Have you seen Him?’

There was a faint little chorus of no’s, and a couple of yes’s. The congregation tittered.

‘Well, then,’ said Pastor Scott. ‘How do we know God exists? Because Pastor Scott says so? Because your moms and dads say He does?’

‘We believe,’ said Katie Mullaley.

‘That’s exactly correct, Katie,’ said Pastor Scott. ‘We have faith. Faith is belief without proof. We have faith in things that we can’t see or hear or touch, but we know that they’re there. Like love, or happiness, or Santa Claus.’

‘There is no Santa Claus,’ said Mike Anders, obnoxiously.

‘Well,’ said Pastor Scott. ‘Some people say there is no God. We know they’re wrong, though, because we have faith that God exists. We have faith in God, just as we have faith in the love of our moms and dads, and just as we know that our moms and dads and grandmas and grandpas love us, even when they die, even though we can’t see or hear them anymore. We know they’re there, looking down on us. Are there any other things you can think of that you have faith in, that you know are there, even though you can’t prove it?’

‘Gnomes,’ said Amber Trilby.

Pastor Scott felt suddenly sick. He felt the eyes of the congregation upon him.

‘Well, Amber,’ said Pastor Scott. ‘Gnomes are a little different than God. You see, gnomes are like…well, they’re like the characters in a book or a movie. They aren’t real, but we like to pretend they are, because it’s fun.’

‘But God is a character in a book,’ said Mike Anders, who was getting too old to be coming down to children’s sermon.

‘That’s true, Mike,’ said Pastor Scott. ‘But the Bible is a true book. Like your history book. It’s about things and people that really happened.’

‘But if God is in a book, and gnomes are in a book, and we can’t see any of them, how do we know God is real, but gnomes aren’t?’ said Amber.

‘Well,’ said Pastor Scott. ‘Because many people feel God in their lives. And people don’t feel gnomes.’

‘I have fairies in my closet!’ said Stephanie Wiseman, and attempted to tell a long story involving a fairy. The congregation laughed.

‘Santa Claus isn’t real,’ interrupted Mike Anders. ‘But everybody says he is – him and his elves. Maybe God’s fake and gnomes are real. Or maybe God has gnomes like Santa has elves.’

‘Well, now we’re being silly,’ said Pastor Scott. ‘The point is, it’s good to have faith, but we must be selective about our beliefs. Thank you, and God bless you, children.’

The children returned to their pews, and Pastor Scott took a minute at the lectern to collect himself.

‘So,’ he said. ‘Faith. We all try to have faith, and sometimes it’s difficult. Faith in each other. Faith in the world. Faith in justice. Faith in God. Faith in ourselves. Faith in our ability to maintain our own faith.’ He was just riffing now. He felt suddenly subject to the judgment of the sea of faces before him.

‘Let’s all make an effort,’ he said. ‘To pass this faith on to our children. To teach them that God is real, that God works in all of our lives, and to show them that God is a true and glorious mystery…better than Santa Claus, better than unicorns, better than gnomes. Because through God lies everlasting life. And that’s no mere fairy story.’

Never before had Pastor Scott wished he could just run into the rectory after a sermon, and skip out on greeting the congregation at the door. He felt like an actor who’d just bombed onstage, but, like the actor would do, he bravely held his head up high and marched to the door, to shake hands as if all was well.

When Anna Trilby reached him, she merely said, ‘Thank you, Pastor.’

‘Anna,’ he replied. He thought perhaps she’d wait to speak to him, but was both relieved and unsettled when she headed for her car with Greg and Amber. Perhaps at last they’d reached the end of it.

On Monday, there were five gnomes in the churchyard. Two smoking gnomes, a gnome dancing a jig, a gnome with a bird on its shoulder, and the gnome with the insolent wink. On Tuesday, they were joined by a small plaster deer, and on Wednesday, a plastic snowman with blinking lights for buttons. Pastor Scott was hurt. He was being mocked, that was all – blatantly and cruelly mocked. This was no schoolyard! This was a church, and he was its leader. He was God’s chosen spokesman here. He had pledged himself to the welfare of this congregation, and they were throwing his fealty back in his face. Well, fine. If that’s the way they felt about it, let them put up all the gnomes they liked. If they wanted a tacky, irreverent, idolatrous churchyard, then that was their lookout.

Pastor Scott took to his bed for the remainder of the week. Meanwhile, the gnomes continued to multiply, bringing along playmates of every conceivable genus and specie, costumed any which way, engaging in all manner of activities and intermixing freely. With no regard for decorum or shame, they filled the churchyard, owning it utterly, blotting out the solemn graves and burying the dead.

Why do I stir my coffee counterclockwise? Is this more effective, or merely habit? Is it perhaps offensive + off-putting to others? Do not stir coffee counterclockwise, unless certain culture is tolerant of same.

–

Oh, how rapturously, tremendously, monumentally do I adore Gide! I want to wrap Gide around myself + go running through the streets! I want to wear Gide around as a hat! I want to lick every page of Gide, to absorb it through my pores, to drink it like water! I want to bathe myself in Gide. Which reminds me: bathe daily.

–

Was lying in bed telling H. how much I desired to possess her utterly. Not sure what she said in response, as I was busy contemplating how pretentious my use of word “utterly.” Do not use “utterly” in intimate confessions, as it sounds premeditated + insincere. At any rate, suppose H. did not feel same, as I am now writing this, rather than possessing her utterly. Wait, did she go home? …Shit.

–

Had baby.

–

Have discovered Kafka! Oh, bless! A thousand, shuddering, deep, rapturous cries of joy spring from my soul! How did I live + breathe + eat before I knew of this felicity? From now on, it’s all Kafka, all the time.

– 

Bathe every other day.

–

I do not feel X. with my son, as much as with H. Not at all X. with Philip. A little bit X. with our current congressional representative. X. with coworker Y. definitely, but only on Tuesdays. Not so much X. with anyone on the weekends…is this because of weekends, or because of X.?

–

It seems that a certain pore on my right cheek is slightly larger than those around it. Is this something that can be corrected without great trouble or expense? Look into it.

–

Today, created self, destroyed self, + created self again, as usual. Yesterday not so productive – did not create self so much as merely tinker with aspects of self. Philip walked in while tinkering with self. Embarrassed.

After reading the above, considered erasing. But then, reconsidered. I ought to be honest with myself, even (or especially?) in aspects of myself I would rather were not so. Don’t be embarrassed of revealing self in front of Philip, who, after all, loves me. And don’t be embarrassed of admitting (to self or [especially?] in print) own embarrassment about embarrassment, or, for that matter, of admitting embarrassment about embarrassment over own embarrassment.

Considered erasing above, as conclusion drawn seems to negate necessity of initial observation. Reconsidered. All is valid. Do not waste time on such circuitous contemplation in future.

–

Bathe, Susan. Bathe. Damn it, how hard is this to remember?!

Listen up, New Yorkers who live in high-rise apartment buildings: just because you cannot see into the windows of surrounding buildings does not mean that you are not lit up like Christmas to people across the way. If you do exercise videos in the buff toward the back of your apartment…oh, man, can I still see you. Without even trying. In fact, it’s very hard not to see you. And I’m sure other people can see you, too, and are probably not as polite about looking away as I am.

Seriously, last night, as I was looking at this woman (and trying to stop looking at her), a naked old man totally ran back and forth in the apartment under hers. I am not even joking, I swear. What is with these people? Being filthy rich and having an enormous apartment in Soho must make you want to turn on all the lights and pace nakedly back and forth before the windows. How can they not realize they’re visible? I’m never leaving any curtains open ever again.

My last year in Chicago, I lived in a fourth-floor studio with big windows facing out over a parking lot, which was ringed by distant apartment buildings. I couldn’t directly see any other people in their apartments, and so I breezily concluded that no one could see me, and lived for a year without curtains. I now wonder how many of my activities ended up photographed and posted on the internet.

I have become more conscious of curtains lately, as there is currently a giant gang of men working construction in my backyard, and continually bringing buckets of rubble up from under the house, right in front of my street-level windows. From what I can tell, the crew consists of a pair of Hispanic men, exactly the same height, one with facial hair and one without, who both wear hoodies and are involved in a continual fireman’s ladder of excavating rubble buckets from whatever is going on in the backyard, and one gangly, furious-looking Polish man who stands around smoking and glaring at the other two. Plus, my landlord, who shows up from time to time to conduct an endless lecture in deafening, emphatic Polish. I’m frankly at a loss to imagine what he could find to discuss at such length. I’ve never talked so much at a stretch in my life, and he ,shows up to orate at least twice a day. So, that’s the entire cast of characters as I’ve spotted them, but it sounds like there must be at least fifteen additional people working back there. I can’t tell for sure, because shortly after all this work began, the back door into our garden apartment (and our main source of natural light) was nailed shut from the outside and then covered over in thick black plastic, momentarily confusing me one morning into thinking I’d slept straight through the day. So whatever’s going on back there is a mystery to me.

Every time I enter or exit my apartment, the workers stop whatever they are doing (emerging with a bucket from just under my bedroom, or standing atop the enormous economy-size dumpster that’s been permanently installed in the street outside my window) and stare at me until I’ve passed. It’s really uncomfortable, and my initial impulse was to ignore them steadily, but that was uncomfortable as well, because I was forced to do so multiple times a day. And I felt like a bitch, since they are working on my apartment. So, at one point, as I passed one of the twins (the one with the facial hair), I said hello.

‘Heeeyyy, babyyy,’ he replied. Fine. Bitchface and steady refusal of eye contact it is, then.

Given this environment, I’m newly interested in the opacity of my curtains. When I lived in the back of the apartment, I had no curtains at all for the better part of a year. Then, summer came, and there were boys in the next yard. I bought a $.99 shower curtain, and then realized it was transparent, so I bought another one, and between the two of them, I felt fairly private. Then, I moved to the front of the apartment, with windows right on the busy sidewalk. I bought some nice curtains this time, and spent a good bit of time with a friend, taking turns with one of us standing on the sidewalk and the other positioning herself directly in front and behind my various lamps, dancing around and removing clothing, and I came away from these experiments fairly confident that my activities weren’t particularly observable from the street.

The other windows in the apartment, however, were not crash-tested. Until the back door was papered over, the guys in the back yard used to watch us as we made coffee in the mornings, as if we were some sort of mildly interesting zoo animals. I don’t miss the company, although I’m sorry for the loss of light. Additionally, there’s a little window in our shower that gives onto the backyard, but it’s frosted and marbled. Still, it’s a little disconcerting to bathe with several men carrying on a conversation just on the other side of the glass. And one of my roommates hung a scrim of washrags over the frosted glass, which immediately made me paranoid that perhaps the window was transparent after all, and I’d given everyone a show with that first morning’s shower.

During the day, I work in a cubicle with giant windows, and the immediate view is of the skyscraper opposite. It is close enough for me to see everyone across working, and even to tell if there is text or pictures on their computer screens. I sit with my back to the windows, though, and occasionally I forget that I don’t really have any privacy, especially after dark. I have yet to catch the eye of someone in the building opposite, but I’m conscious of them there behind me, and I’ll often wonder if I’m being watched and turn around to see.

This afternoon, for example, I realized I had a little boogie, and dealt with it in the usual way. But then, I wheeled around guiltily to see if anyone in the building opposite had witnessed this. And directly opposite was a man standing right up in the window, wearing a yarmulke and bowing repeatedly over his little book (the Torah? I don’t know from Judaism). To either side of him, his coworkers worked on, unawares. Now, that’s not particularly embarrassing, but…it’s private, yeah? Later, I turned around again, and he was plastered against the window, staring at me, or someone or something in my building. What do you do if you make eye contact with someone in an opposite building? Do you wave? Or does that puncture the polite fiction that, as we all go on about our private businesses in bright and framing windows, we are unseen?

Hi everyone!  If you are not on my email list, you may be unaware that on Monday, October 27 at 9:30p.m., I’m performing a brief, funny one-woman show at Manhattan Theatre Source!  Here are the details – if you’re in the NYC area, come check it out!!

Well, dear readers, it was bound to happen eventually: I actually went on a date last week. And you’ll be happy to hear that it was on every level an absolutely insane and embarrassing failure…not because you’re rooting for my continued loneliness (though you may be, I don’t know), but because it makes for a really entertaining story.

I met this fellow (let’s call him “Patrick”) while waiting for the G-train late one night. I was too tired to read anything and didn’t have my headphones with me. He made eye contact and I cut him dead with a glare, as is my habit. But he came over and started talking to me anyway, and well, he was really, really good-looking. So I gave him my card.

After the usual three-to-four day waiting period, Patrick called, and we agreed to meet up in the Village for dinner. He explained that he had to pick something up at 7:15p.m. around Washington Square Park?

I said that was fine, and then he said (and I thought this was really odd at the time), ‘Hey, wear pants, alright? Not, like, a skirt or anything.’

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Are we going bowling or something?’

‘Uh, did you want to?’ he asked. ‘I mean, I thought we’d just grab a bite and maybe-’

‘Oh, yeah,’ I said. ‘No, I just thought, because you said to wear pants that-’

‘That we were going bowling! That’s hilarious – do you always bowl when you wear pants?’ he laughed (a lot). ‘You’re so funny!’

‘Well,’ I said. ‘Why did you-’

‘So, I’ll see you then, then, in your bowling pants!’ he said, and rung off.

So, okay, whatever. People are strange.

Anyway, the big date night arrived, and I went down to the park (wearing my usual jeans), and soon Patrick arrived. He was still really good-looking. And he was carrying a small cage with a guinea pig in it.

‘Hi,’ he said.

‘Hi,’ I said. ‘What’s with the guinea pig?’

‘Well, this is what I had to pick up,’ he explained. ‘I did some work for this friend of mine, I, uh, I built this really piece of furniture for him, you know, and so then – get this – I get done, and he’s like, oh, I don’t have any money to pay you. But he just got this guinea pig? And I don’t know, I was just like, well, I’ll take the guinea pig. Because I’ve been wanting a pet, but I don’t have a lot of space. I’ll have to get a bigger cage for him, though. I sort of wonder…do you think they kill mice?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘He’s cute. What are you going to name him?’

‘I’m thinking Palin,’ he said.

‘Topical,’ I said. I then told Patrick about how I knew this guy in Tennessee who raised guinea pigs and had cage after cage of them in his garage, and took them to guinea pig shows and so forth. And that there’s a guinea pig transport system, where if you live in South Carolina and you buy a purebred guinea pig from Seattle, there are people signed up in every state that will drive the guinea pig along to you, like a sort of pony express for guinea pigs.

‘I don’t believe you,’ said Patrick.

‘It’s true,’ I said.

‘I think you’re making up stories, and honestly, if you are, you should just stop it, because I’m about just being real.’

This was sort of funny, because I really do make up stories sometimes when I’m talking to strangers I don’t think I’ll see again (say, at a party…although sometimes I do end up seeing them again, often, and then it’s awkward because the lie has to be kept up forever), but this was actually true – I do know a bit about guinea pigs. I sort of apologized and changed the subject, and then we went back and forth on where to eat, and Patrick suggested Red Bamboo, which is this vegetarian place that I’d been to before and was agreeable to. When we got there, we had some issues with the guinea pig at the door. The hostess wasn’t sure we could bring Palin in, since Palin is basically a rodent, but after Patrick promised to keep the cage discreetly under his chair with his jacket over it, she said it was probably fine.

‘So,’ I said, as we looked at the menus. ‘Are you a vegetarian?’

‘No,’ said Patrick. ‘But I tend to…what I do is, I’ll like pick a color? And then for a week, I have to only eat things that are that color. So, this week, I’m only eating black things. So, I’m thinking I’ll get this black bean ginger stir-fry, but I have to check and make sure it really looks mostly black.’

Now, a lot of you may be thinking, ‘Freak!’ But I actually have really weird eating habits myself (Clif bars, anyone?), so I’m sort of understanding about this type of compulsive behavior. And additionally, I had once flipped through this book at Barnes & Noble about challenging your brain every day a little bit to keep sharp and stave off Alzheimer’s, and it basically said that you had to always be looking for ways to break your routine in non-routine ways so your brain doesn’t just go into habitual autopilot, and one of the specific suggestions it gave for doing this was to make a new eating rule every week, like maybe just pick a certain color and only eat things that were that color for a week. So, I figured Patrick had read this book.

‘Did you get that idea from a book about keeping your brain entertained?’ I asked.

‘What?’

‘Um, eating all things of one color,’ I said. ‘Did you read to do that in a book about how to keep surprising your brain, so that-’

‘-It’s got nothing to do with my brain,’ said Patrick. ‘It’s about my body. I figure you should only ask your body to break down a certain kind of compound at one time, you know?’

This was a really bad sign, as I have no patience whatsoever when people start spouting this kind of bullshit, so I quickly changed the subject, and the conversation was more or less okay until the server came to take our order.

‘Is the black bean stir fry black?’ asked Patrick.

‘Well,’ she said. ‘It’s black beans, yes.’

‘But is it black-colored? Like, if I looked at the plate, does everything look black?’

‘Um,’ she said. ‘It’s in a black-bean glaze, but it’s all vegetables, but it’s…’

‘Is it mostly dark?’

‘I guess.’

He sighed heavily. ‘But is it- you know what, forget it, I’ll just get a double order of the black rice, and black beans, and a chocolate milkshake.’

Seriously.

So, fine, you know what? I got a gigantic dessert for my meal. Because I am always wanting to get dessert for dinner, but I always figure people will give me shit about it. But at this point, Patrick sure couldn’t say anything about it, so I got a slice of peanut butter tandy heaven cake with a scoop of mint chocolate chip ice cream.

‘That’s disgusting,’ said Patrick.

‘I’m only eating desserts this week,’ I replied, and stared him down.

At this point, I’ll admit, I was actually kind of thinking Patrick and I might be perfect for each other. I began to think it might be quite freeing to be with someone so much more eccentric than I am that I could just give total free reign to my own eccentricities. I imagined how being weird in a pair in public would be far more comfortable than being weird alone, and you know, actually, I could probably kick it up a notch and be even weirder if I had a partner who could act as a buffer. It might be really fun. And the conversation was going along just fine, the food came, all was well. And then…

We got to talking about our favorite authors, and I mentioned how upset I had been that David Foster Wallace just died.

‘Oh, me too!’ agreed Patrick.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘In fact, I have to say, I kind of cried when I read that-’

‘Me too!‘ screamed Patrick, and he burst into tears. I shit you not. Right there at the table, out of nowhere – and we’re talking giant, chest-heaving, gape-mouthed, wrenching sobs. I mean, he was screaming. Everybody in the entire restaurant went dead silent and turned and stared at us. I was mortified. I didn’t know what to do. It seemed like that moment went on and on for hours, for days. Patrick just bawled his head off – he didn’t even put his hands over his face, he just stared straight ahead with his mouth wide open and howled – and everybody stared at us, and I was so humiliated I wanted to drop through the floor…and then I started to laugh. I kept picturing the scene from the outside, as if it were in a story, the way it looks now as I’m blogging it, and it was just so damn hilarious that I went into a sort of hysterical, giggling anxiety fit and couldn’t stop. Patrick sobbed, and I brayed with laughter, and we sat there over our insane dinners with the guinea pig scrabbling around under Patrick’s chair, and I feared we’d be frozen there in that demented tableau for all eternity.

What eventually happened was the manger came over to ask if we were okay, and we both said that we were fine, and he suggested that we might be happier the hell out of his restaurant, so we paid (well, I paid – Patrick apparently had forgotten to go by an ATM), and got out of there as quickly as possible.

‘Do you want to come with me to shop for guinea pig stuff?’ asked Patrick, who had more or less gotten himself together, but had not apologized for his mad behavior.

‘I should probably head home,’ I said. ‘I have to be up early tomorrow.’

And then, even though I knew I should leave it alone, I just had to ask:  ‘Patrick,’ I said. ‘Why did you tell me to wear pants?’

‘What?’ he said.

‘On the phone, you said I should wear pants. Why?’

‘Look,’ he said, looking pissed off. ‘I move slowly, okay? I’m a slow-moving guy. And I’m honest about myself. And I don’t make any apologies. So, just, you know, I take my time! And I won’t apologize for that.’

I didn’t want to press him further. I went home, and I haven’t heard from him since, about which I’m extremely relieved.

I rarely take a chance on going out with a complete stranger, and sure enough, every time I actually throw caution to the wind, the guy invariably turns out to be a complete psychopath.  My intuition is either hopelessly broken or missing entirely, so perhaps I’m wise to be standoffish.

So, this is annoying:

Can you still make it from scratch in America? That’s the question that Adam Shepard asked himself in college. On graduation, he took a train to Charleston, South Carolina and started out with nothing but $25 and a backpack. A year later, he had a car, and apartment, and $2500 in the bank. How he did it — and what he learned along the way — is the story of his new book, Scratch Beginnings: Me, $25, and the Search for the American Dream.

See, the thing is, though, the book really ought to be called “Me; $25; a firm grasp of the English language; a good understanding of appropriate business and social etiquette; a clever brain and healthy and attractive white body [assuming the cover illustration is meant to depict the author]; the self-possession that comes of having been raised by a family that loved me, paid attention to me, and was able to provide for me; the social skills that come from having been brought up in a safe community where I enjoyed a stable support network of friends and family, and a safe and decent school with adequate funding; the freedom of being unaccompanied by any dependent children or ill or disabled relatives; the confidence that comes from knowing if my little low-stakes gambit here fails miserably I can just go back to my nice home; a college degree[!!!]; and the Search for the American Dream, which I have already extensively benefited from, and everybody who meets me immediately knows it, even if I am dressed in a potato sack and boasting proudly of how I have temporarily elected to live like the poor folk do in hopes of scoring a book deal.”

But then, that’s a lot to fit on a book jacket.

–

Also, apparently old people don’t particularly like being talked to like they’re babies, even when they’ve totally lost their minds:

“The main task for a person with Alzheimer’s is to maintain a sense of self or personhood,” Dr. Williams said. “If you know you’re losing your cognitive abilities and trying to maintain your personhood, and someone talks to you like a baby, it’s upsetting to you.”

(via Feministing)

I understand that.  I absolutely hate being talked to like I’m a baby. A lot of men like to talk to attractive young women like they’re babies – I seriously can’t count the number of times when some older man I barely know has explained to me (affectionately) that I am such a sweet, sensitive young person. What he clearly means is, ‘You’re pretty, but I know it’s inappropriate for me to be attracted to you, so I’m going to treat you like you’re my precious little daughter.’ Which, besides being presumptuous and offensive, is even more amazing in light of the fact that I am cranky, standoffish and self-absorbed, especially upon first acquaintance. That’s maybe a little hard on myself, but at any rate, I could not possibly be mistaken for a cuddly, approachable people-pleaser…except by men who are bound and determined to believe that all pretty women come prepackaged with Disney princess personalities.

At any rate, if actually becoming cranky old people won’t save us all from being cooed at and patted like we’re puppies, what the hell will? I hope I don’t get dementia, because I’ve already decided that if I make it to my 80s and don’t have anything more I really want to accomplish, I’m going to spend the rest of my days trying every possible kind of super hard-core drug. That will be my Earthly reward for a life full of self-denial and jogging, and I sure hope Alzheimer’s doesn’t rob me of the opportunity, or I’m gonna be pissed.

–

Two funny things:

First of all, I think this is my favorite liveblogging of a debate thus far…

…and Chuck Klosterman’s A Brief History of the Twenty-First Century is hilarious, if long (via Kottke).

I admit that I am biased in favor of my own opinions. I admit that I think the things that I think, and that I agree with people who also think the things that I think. I admit that I am biased in favor of that which I believe to be true and correct. In matters of morality, I admit that I have a moral code, and that I think it’s the correct one to hold. Because of this (my being biased in favor of my own morality), I tend to agree with people who I think are right and disagree with people who I think are incorrect. Many times, when someone is saying something that I think is fundamentally incorrect, I will disagree with them merely because I think they are wrong. I am less likely to agree with those I disagree with. When presented with an argument, I will view it through the bias of whether or not I believe it to be factually sound and accurate as to its assertions. If I don’t think it is a valid argument, I will disagree with it and dismiss it, allowing my bias against whatever I perceive as nonsense to come through.

Furthermore, I only respect those things which I believe to be respectable. While I attempt to tolerate all sorts of bullshit, I do not, nor do I think I ought to, respect any thought, belief and/or viewpoint whatsoever, merely because some person somewhere thinks, believes and/or holds it. Rather, I only respect that which I believe to be true, admirable and valid. Furthermore, while I attempt to tolerate all people and to respect their right to believe whatever nonsense they so choose, I do not respect all people any more than I respect said nonsense. I do respect some people who believe nonsense (despite their nonsensical beliefs), and I very likely respect some actual nonsense (although I have not yet come to see it as such, or I would have stopped respecting it), but I do not extend that respect to all such people just by virtue of their being people, or to all beliefs in general just by virtue of their being beliefs.

Finally, I judge. In fact, I tend to judge and evaluate everything that I see, hear or otherwise encounter. I no sooner see a thing than I have made any number of judgments about it, and have formulated all sorts of opinions. I can no more perceive without judging than I can eat without tasting or sleep without dreaming. I form opinions about people within mere seconds of meeting them. I form opinions about everything from chunks of prose to chunks of tuna. It’s a sickness. I can’t stop it. I have only to see something, and before I know what I’m about, I’ve given it a bit of thought.

I would say I’ll attempt to reform, but that would not be honest. Truthfully, I’ve already formed an opinion as to all of this that I’ve just written, and I’ve judged it to be correct, and now here I go again – respecting my own opinion and being biased in favor of it.

–
See also:  Twelve Virtues of Rationality (via Kottke).  A good thing to read before getting into a political discussion.

I am here to speak to you today about dreams. You are all young people, and young people ought to have dreams – big ones, bold ones. Big, bold, wild, wonderful, wacky dreams. I hope you have them. Thing about dreams is, a lot of people like to rain on other people’s dreams, and you’re going to meet a lot of these people when you head out into the world in pursuit of your dreams. People will tell you that your dreams are impossible, that they’re unrealistic, that they’re unreasonable, that they’re not responsible. They’ll tell you all sorts of negative things, and maybe that’s because they never really went after their own dreams.

Well, I’m here to tell you today: these people are wrong. Don’t listen to them. Don’t let them poison your ambitions. Keep shooting for your dreams, no matter how big, no matter how bold, no matter how impossible they seem, no matter how many setbacks you suffer.

I had a dream when I was a boy, and I am proud to tell you, it is the same dream I have today as I stand before you here. I never gave up on my dream. No matter the setbacks (and there have been nothing but setbacks), no matter the naysayers (and there have been nothing but naysayers). What was my dream? I dreamed of traveling back in time and seeing the dinosaurs.

As a very young boy, I knew in my heart that this was what I wanted to do, and that I never wanted to do anything else. Now, I’ll be honest – as I got older, and more experienced in the ways of the world, and more educated and wise, that dream seemed more and more difficult to realize. There were days I thought it couldn’t be done. I was tempted to give up. I was tempted to find a “realistic” job, one that “paid,” one that “existed.”

But that would have been the easy way out, and I’m proud to say, I didn’t take it. I stayed focused on my dream. I lived in my parents’ basement, and I tried, over and over and over again, with single-minded focus for over fifty years, to go back in time and see the dinosaurs. Never did I develop an interest in any other aspect of life.  Steadfastly, I adhered to my original goal. And when my parents eventually died, and I found myself broke and homeless with no job, no friends, no resources and very little skin pigmentation, I was tempted to take any sort of wage job in order to have the “security” of a low-rent apartment and some food every day. But that would have been the quitters’ way out.

Instead, I slept in ditches, under bridges, in homeless shelters – wherever. I ate garbage. I continued to work toward my dream. I asked strangers for spare change to fund my goal of going back in time to see the dinosaurs. And some of them gave it to me, which is a lesson to you – do what you love, and the money will come to you. But even on days when I got no money, I refused to give up. There’s more to life than money and physical comfort. What good is a full stomach if your soul is dead?

Ladies and gentlemen, I stand before you today, broke, ill, alone, and a complete and total failure at the age of 83. I can truly say that I am the most miserable of men. But it’s an honest misery, a noble misery – the misery of a dream long sought, not yet realized, but never given up on.

I’ll go on looking for dinosaurs until the day I die. Because I really, really want it, more than I want anything else in life. It’s my path, it’s my bliss, it’s my mission.

So when people tell you that your dreams are impossible, when they say man isn’t meant to travel back in time, don’t listen to them. You know, people used to say if God meant man to fly, he’d have given him wings. Now, I don’t know when they stopped saying that, because I refuse to learn or think about anything but dinosaurs, but I’m pretty sure somebody shut them up about it at some point. And if man can fly, what can’t he do?  Go after your dreams, kids, and never give up on them…even if they absolutely destroy your entire life.

To follow up on my Trader Joe’s story, apparently, there’s an instinctive element to how easily you deal with math:

There is intrinsic interest in what Angier reports: evidence that how good you are at subitization, the instinctive quantity-assessing ability you share with many animal species, is correlated with, and perhaps even determinative of, the extent to which you will readily develop abilities at linguistically formalized manipulation of mathematical concepts.

This makes sense to me – in addition (ha) to being very poor at doing even simple math in my head, I’m also entirely unable to come up with answers to questions like, ‘About how big is the room, like, how many feet?’ or ‘About how many inches thick is the manuscript?’ or ‘About how many people work at your office?’  I just have no freaking clue.  There is no corresponding visual in my head.  If you were to ask me about how many inches the laptop I’m currently typing on is, I would say that it’s squarish, and about the size of a phone book, but thinner than a phone book.

The Manhattan equivalent of a wardrobe to Narnia is being posted all over the blogs this week:  it turns out that 190 Bowery is not, after all, an abandoned building, but rather is a big, fat, jealousy-inducing single-family home.  Now, I think that no matter where you live, this apartment looks pretty cool, but to people living here, it’s absolute personal space porn.  And these people are certainly the last living people to ever have such quality of life in Manhattan.  Between the economy, my very un-earnings-focused life, and my general mental block when it comes to contemplating finances, I very much doubt that I will ever own any sort of home, much less the giant, empty expanse of space I crave.

(Maybe I could just go here.)

In addition to an intense longing for unpopulated spaces, NYC has also bred in me the intense desire to have the ability to kick a lot of ass.  So I’m glad to hear a 5-foot tall grandmother is currently training the Italian military in hand-to-hand combat.

I also love this:  The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People I Know.

And finally, for the Bottle Rocket fans out there (incidentally, a DVD of Bottle Rocket was another thing that the Alaskan boy bestowed upon me – I’m not saying he didn’t have good taste), here’s a transcription of Dignan’s entire 75-year plan (via Kottke).  Sadly, I have very similar lists, composed in all earnestness.

Welcome to self-diagnosis.com. Please utilize the following symptom checker to obtain your diagnosis:

1. Do you feel that you are more unhappy than most other people?

2. Do you feel you have less energy than most other people?

3. Do you feel you have less money and less going for you, and generally fewer reasons to get up in the morning than most other people?

4. Do you suffer from anxiety, even when you are not sure what is making you anxious?

5. Are you anxious and worried when meeting new people? Do you have trouble making eye contact? Do you worry about how other people view you? If you do not talk to a friend for some time, do you begin to think that they might be angry at you? Do you obsessively run over and over the things that you said the last time you saw them, and attempt to figure out how they might have taken something the wrong way?

6. Do you often think that friends and relatives are talking unfavorably about you when you are not there?

7. Does thinking this make you cry?

8. Does crying about this then make you resolve never to speak to those friends or relatives ever again, and to make all new friends and relatives, and be a much more successful, entertaining and attractive person?

9. When you think of the sort of new person you’ll be, do you picture a particular celebrity?

10. Do you feel lonely? Isolated? Alienated? Misunderstood? Maligned? Persecuted? Overlooked?

11. Do you often overeat?

12. Do you sweat copiously, and does this sweating often humiliate you in public and/or on dates?

13. Do you worry that you smell, or that parts of you smell, but you cannot smell it, but everybody else can smell it, but they’re too polite to tell you?

14. Are you preoccupied with sex?

15. Do you often lie awake all night longing for death?

16. Do you often lie awake all night trembling in fear of death?

17. Sometimes both in the same night?

18. Do you worry that you are afflicted with an undiagnosed, terminal medical condition? When you hear that an acquaintance has been diagnosed with a condition, do you begin to see symptoms of that condition in yourself?

19. Do you have difficultly losing weight? Do you feel that you gain weight more easily and lose it with more difficultly than everybody else? Are you gassier than other people seem to be?

20. Do you have a difficult time focusing on work, hobbies, or other people when they are talking to you? Do you often wish you were somewhere else doing something different? Do you have difficulty beginning and/or completing tasks? Do you often procrastinate? Do you have a hard time remembering names, faces, and/or things that other people have said to you? Do you have a tough time working up an interest in things not immediately concerning you?

21. Do you find that what you mostly do is eat, drink and watch television, and while theoretically, there are any number of things you’d rather be doing, in actual practice, it seems that all you really want to be doing at any given time is eating, drinking and watching television?

22. Do you think that, deep down, you’re really probably very smart, but tragically, because of various problems with society right now and/or the shortcomings of various people in your life and/or a near constant lack of funds, you might never realize your full potential?

23. Are you often completely overcome with rage over something that is actually pretty trivial? When this happens, do you swear and throw things and make a total ass of yourself?

24. Do you often wish that some secret government agency would come and whisk you off the couch, erase your identity, force you to get in really good shape, and then send you off on incredibly important secret missions with an attractive and tortured partner?

25. Do you think that possibly this has already happened in your past, but your memories have since been erased, and that’s why you feel so much more unhappy than those around you and have such a vague, inexplicable sense of loss and emptiness? Or that possibly, all this (or something similar) is really happening to you right now, but you don’t realize it, because you are just a brain floating in a vat hooked up to electrodes?

–

You answered Yes to all of the above.

Your diagnosis: You may be suffering from a common, yet poorly understood condition called ‘Living.’ This condition is incurable, and ultimately terminal. While there is no known cure for this horrible, painful and devastatingly widespread affliction, your doctor may be able to prescribe a number of medications that can help to relieve the more intolerable symptoms of Living. It may help to know that you are not alone – a full 100% of the world’s population suffers from Living (although less than half of that number are aware they have the disorder). Currently, there are many experts struggling to better understand the causes and effects of Living. Unfortunately, research in this area is woefully underfunded, but as more and more citizens become aware that they are themselves suffering from Living, more attention will surely be given to investigating this complex and mysterious condition.

Heyyy, matey. Well, as you can see the lads and I have been talking, and this is really just so awkward, but we all feel that it’s time you left us, and hopped on over that plank. I know, I know, it’s sooo awful, but I just can’t help but feel you’re fomenting a mutiny. Yeah. I know. Well, I feel just shitty about it, but you’re going to have to go. Do you know how to swim? Oh, you should learn! It’s so good for you – really tones your shoulders and biceps, and you know, it doesn’t hurt your joints at all. I used to try to swim every day, but when we’re on these long jaunts like this, I get so out of shape. Look at these love handles! I swear, I don’t know where they come from, since all I eat is some freaking old biscuits. Well, sure, maybe it’s the rum cocktails! Oh, I am a tragedy – I can’t recall when I last had a decent manicure. Look at these nails. I almost wish both hands were hooks, at this point.

Look at me! I am so totally ADD – we were right in the middle of throwing you overboard! Alright, off you go, hon. Yeah, you really have to. I know, I feel just tragic about it. At least you’ll get off this damned boat. I swear, I’m about to go stir crazy – not that I don’t love all y’all, but sometimes I just need my space, you know?! I know you all feel the same. I can’t wait till we sight some land. Or even another boat, at this point. Hell, I’d board anything, just for a change of scenery! What if we ran into one of those ocean liners, y’all? Wouldn’t that be magic! With, like, a running track and a pool, and we could get massages and maybe see some comedy! I once saw the most amazing musical revue on one of those boats. They have splendid performers; the one girl, she was fabulous – she sang ‘Memory,’ and I swear it was better than when I saw it on Broadw-

Oh, sorry. I forgot again! I am so bad! Okay, you’ve got to get on now. I promised the lads that we’d all have lunch just as soon as we finished chucking you off. I am famished. Of course, all we have are those ever-loving biscuits still. I would give my other eye for some nice salmon and a spinach salad. There’ll be so much fish where you’re going! I’m almost jealous. Alright, off you go. Come on. Come on, I will prod you with my sword. I will! Oh, God. You really just have to go. I just cannot do some big old confrontation today. I really can’t. My stress level lately has been just off the charts. We haven’t pillaged anything in weeks, and my booty is, like, totally dwindling. I almost don’t want to go ashore anywhere even if we do see somewhere to get off, because I am, like, one broke fool right now, seriously.

Okay, no more playing. My blood sugar is dropping. You have to scoot. HUH! There you go, sploosh! Bye-bye! (Wave, fellows.) Bye!

Okay, let’s eat, y’all. Hey, has anyone seen my stupid cockatiel today?

–
Happy Talk Like a Pirate Day, y’all!

Those who remove sta-
-ple removers from copy
rooms should be shot dead.

He was still there, snuffling around outside the door.

‘Virginia,’ he whined. ‘Virginyaaa.’

‘What, what, what?’ she said in a whispery staccato, pushing herself from the floor onto the couch. ‘What?’

‘Virginia! Virginyaa….’

‘What? Oh, what?’

She wondered if she had a different name, would he incant it thus? Would he go as wild for Wanda? Or Elizabeth? Or Vanessa?

‘I’ve a cheese sandwich all made. And some teeeeaaaa. Virginia.’

‘Go away from the door. Go down the hall.’

But she let him in. She slunk from the couch, unbolted the door, and he tipped in backwards – he’d been leaning against it.

‘Oh, oh, oh, oh, what?’ she asked him, pushing her face back into the couch’s upholstery. He hated it when she had fabric imprints across her cheeks.

‘I’ve brought tea. I’ve had Nancy fix tea, and I brought it up to you on a little cart. I thought…’ he looked at her upside down, over his poofy hairline, from his position on the floor.

‘You thought what? You look ridiculous.’

‘What? I can’t hear you. Take your face from the cushions.’

‘You thought what?  What?!’ she asked.

‘I thought we might,’ Leonard raised himself up and sniffed mightily. ‘Drink it. You see.’

‘Oh, damn,’ said Virginia. ‘And now we have to.’

‘Oh, good, oh, good,’ cried Leonard, leaping to his feet, and skipping in the air like a Disney Frenchman, he spun the tea tray in between them and busied himself with the cups.

‘You’ll love this,’ he cried, clapping his hands, and he handed her a saucer. ‘Will you eat the sandwich, or shall I? It’s cheese.’

‘Why is there only one?’

‘Well, because I didn’t really think you’d want one, you see,’ explained Leonard, through a mouthful of sandwich.

‘I want so many things,’ she sighed, and poured out the tea. Leonard held his cup with both hands.

‘Haven’t we any frankfurters?’ she asked, and Leonard shook his head no, his cheeks bulging from his face.

I wish that interviews were conducted like debates, and that at a certain point, a buzzer would go off and you would just have to stop talking immediately, right then, no matter what you were saying, you would just have to shut the hell up and put a period on it.

Sometimes I look at a person (for example, an interviewer) who’s found himself on the wrong side of my conversational onslaught, and as I run on, I pity them. I look at them, sitting there helplessly under the relentless stream of my monologue. Perhaps they’ll soon start bleeding from the ears.

They ought to seize control of the conversation, stand up and wrestle it away from me, take charge. They ought to scream, drop it! Drop the conversation immediately and back slowly away from it! I swear to God, miss, if you launch so much as one more syllable my way, I will leap across this desk and tear your throat out with my teeth!

–

Also, while I’m talking about interviews, polite social behavior, and first impressions in general, have you ever wondered what those overbearing people who, upon being introduced to a total stranger, (a) initiate far more physical contact than is appropriate or desired; and/or (b) launch into a long, self-promoting recitation of everything they’re up to lately as if the person they’ve just met could possibly give half a shit…have you ever wondered, I say, what those people are thinking? Apparently, they’re thinking that they are creating a fantastic impression:

Another common pattern we all go through is the handshake. Why not do it a little differently?  One of my favorites to do in a social setting (especially with someone you just met recently) is to go for the hug instead of the handshake. They will put out their hand. Just stare it for a second as if you are confused and then open you arms wide and say “I think I’d like a hug instead” with a big smile. People will crack up laughing and instantly you have a connection.

Worst. Advice. Ever.

–

As mainstream Christianity in the U.S. continues to be ever more triumphantly dominated by those who consider willful ignorance a blessed virtue, it’s nice to see that the Church of England has made a small concession to reality:

“The statement will read: Charles Darwin: 200 years from your birth, the Church of England owes you an apology for misunderstanding you and, by getting our first reaction wrong, encouraging others to misunderstand you still. We try to practise the old virtues of ‘faith seeking understanding’ and hope that makes some amends.”

–

Finally, you tell ‘em, Patty Judge.

I have my acceptance speech all prepared for whenever I win my big award. After the applause dies down and I have finished looking surprised and overwhelmed, and I’ve huffed a couple times into the microphone to make it seem like I wasn’t entirely expecting to win, and am not secretly thoroughly composed and ready to give my acceptance speech and haven’t, in fact, been thoroughly composed and ready to give it since I was thirteen, I will say:

‘Whew! I have to say, I have never been so not pissed off!’

Everyone will laugh at this – it’s an appropriate comment for me, because probably whatever I’m being given the award for will have something to do with comedy, and with comedy based around being generally pissed off at everything, since that’s what I do. It’s also true. I’ve given a lot of thought to what would make me, finally and totally, not at all pissed off with anyone or anything, and the only thing I can really think of (other than finding true love, which is far less likely) is at long last being properly acknowledged with a big, fat award on T.V. for everyone who’s ever known me to see.

After I’ve done my bit about not being pissed off, and the laughter dies down, I will then stop as if momentarily at a loss for words (which, of course, I won’t be), and, holding the award at a little distance and looking at it as if I can’t quite believe it’s in my hand (which, of course, I can), I will say:

‘Boy, I’ll tell you what, you can trust anybody with a microphone if you just give them a big old trophy first!’

This is good because (a) it’s funny, and (b) it makes me sound as if I had a lot of possibly devastating truths that I would use a public platform to speak to the Man, and so that I’m the sort of person people in power don’t trust with microphones…because I’m dangerous. Which I’m not. I don’t have anything dangerous to say – certainly not anything that people aren’t already saying into microphones all across the country. In fact, if somebody hadn’t already said something in some public forum or other, I would have no way of knowing about it. It’s not like I’ll be getting this award for doing any original reporting.

But nobody will think that about me, because they’ll probably all be thinking I’m smart and witty and have piercing social insight, as I’m sure that whatever I’m getting this award for is really very biting and insightful and satirical. And everyone will already be on my side, because they all enjoyed whatever thing I’ve done so very much. This is my night, after all. I’m the lady with the trophy.

So, that’s as far as I’ve gotten, but I imagine after those two bits and the holds for laughter after them, I’ll only have time to blurt out my paragraph of thank-yous to everyone (which of course I will, because I’m very grateful to all those who will have helped me to receive the award that is certainly coming to me – take note, you) before my time is over, and I shake the award in the air in teary gratitude and kiss my fingers gracefully, before proceeding offstage to thunderous applause and swelling music.

Oh, I’ll also be totally thin and probably looking at least five years younger than whatever age I am at the time. I can’t wait.  I wonder what sort of award it will be??

Crap, I forgot to post all week again.  I keep intending to go back to posting regularly, and I keep not doing it, and I haven’t been able to put my finger on why.  Blogging just has not been as much fun for me lately.  Then, I read this post, and I realized that it perfectly describes how I’ve been feeling.

If you get too invested in things, there’s a point where ‘everyone’s stupid and I think it’s hilarious’ starts to become ‘everyone’s stupid and it MAKES ME FUCKING INSANE!!!!’  And I think I passed that point some time ago.  I keep drafting amusing little rants only to have them turn into vitriolic endless rants, and at some point during their composition, I leave off typing and begin circling my desk, flapping my hands around and shrieking to myself.

I grew up in the South, where nice people consider public displays of enthusiasm unseemly.  It’s understood that one has one’s political opinions, but to get yourself worked up about it is to show a level of involvement with life outside your immediate sphere that reflects poorly on your ability to manage your own affairs.  Likewise, while it’s expected that everyone be religious (in a general way), those who feel sufficiently possessed with the spirit as to go around talking about God all the time and wearing Jesus accessories are at best tacky, and possibly a little touched.  Nobody wants to be without money, but to admit of difficulties concerning it is to drop down a class level – money should simply flow, unseen and unremarked upon, into one’s coffers, as gently and steadily as rain from heaven.

All of this is to say that my blatant interest in this year’s primaries is making it difficult for me to maintain a cool, ironic detachment.  What’s needed is some perspective:

The two parties are, at heart, not very different from each other.  Neither will totally save us, or utterly damn us.  My complete lack of active (or financial) involvement in anything even remotely concerning politics (or other people, or life outside my apartment) makes any pretense of actual concern about the world in general or this country in particular hypocritical beyond all belief.  My own personal life will be unlikely to change in any significant way as a result of anything short of an apocalyptic disaster, or a profound personal attitude adjustment (which are both equally unlikely).  People are stupid, especially me, and it is hilarious.  Ten people read this blog on a good day.  I have many friends who are actually out there working real, positive changes in the world, rather than just sitting around bitching all the time.  And sometimes, it’s a blessing when the internet goes out.

To sum up:  Oh, wait, I forgot – I don’t care again!

To the Foreign Gentleman
(in the newsstand who complimented my bustle this morning):

You and I are similarly of low fortune. While in rare circumstances, a certain charm and affection can make up for a deficiency in income (for a time), in our case, no such affinity exists, and we would surely be as miserable as ever two people could be. I dread the despair into which this missive will surely cast you, but I implore you: bend your thoughts to your daily task, to living virtuously, and to God’s grace, and in time I am certain that you will forget your disappointment, and find some measure of peace and happiness in a life well lived.

Gently,
Elizabeth Bennet

–

To the Dear Sirs In the Helmets
(at work upon the scaffolding near my residence):

For some months now, you have been engaged in making some renovations to an estate adjoining my own property, and so I have had occasion to pass by you several times daily. Thus frequently tossed together, we have developed a familiarity with each other that perhaps we would not have done, had circumstances not caused it to be so. I cannot say that I regret this turn of events, as your cheery greetings of a morning never fail to bring a smile to my face. However, of late, I have noticed that all of you, dear sirs, do seem to be somewhat competing for my affections. I would not trifle with honest working fellows, so let me be plain: I do so value the friendship of each of you that I could never forsake the dear, genial esteem of all for a closer intimacy with one. I hope that we can carry on as before, feeling for each other the true, deep love of brothers and sister.

Your Neighbor,
Elizabeth Bennet

–

To the Young Laborer Upon the 6 Train:

I did not mean to appear, all windswept and partially undressed, on the threshold of your subway train. It was the storm, you see. And rude it was indeed of you to heighten a lady’s shame by exposing her to ridicule and unseemly remarks, especially in front of a train car’s worth of strangers. I am no woman of easy virtue. I merely could not afford to secure myself a taxicab. Am I to be subject to such abuse merely because I have not wealth enough to hold myself remote from it? Does it make you high to bring me so low? Would you make sport of a richer woman in this way? Am I not, though poor and undefended, a woman, after all, with a woman’s heart, a woman’s shame? What have I done, sir, to deserve such ill-treatment at your hands? Is my offense merely to be of little fortune, alone and beautiful and subject to the whims of public transportation? I may not be wealthy of purse, but I am proud, sir – proud and honest. I pray that this letter may work some remorse in you, and teach you not to use another woman thusly. However, for myself, I merely hope that our paths never again cross.

Firmly,
Elizabeth Bennet

–

To the Fellow in the Tavern Friday Last,

Having had some little time to reflect upon our brief tête-à-tête and the unfortunate way in which we parted, I have decided at last that perhaps I was to some extent to blame. I will admit that I had gone into a bawdy place and imbibed too much wine. I was low of spirits and convinced to enter the tavern by a dear friend who, while possessing of a good heart, does not, I am sad to say, always conduct herself with the utmost prudence. I am in charge of my own affairs, however, and ought not to have behaved myself thusly. I had lately been disappointed in a marriage proposal, and perhaps I sought to cure my wounded vanity by attracting admiration from another. A dreadful, wanton way to behave, true, but if you but knew how I had been wounded!

However, it was still my hope, in any event, to attract the attentions of an upstanding and genteel young man of suitable birth and proper comportment. Little did I expect, even in such surroundings, to be so accosted by one who I now cannot but regard as a most debauched and sorry fellow. Furthermore, just because a lady consents to speak privately with a strange gentleman in an alleyway, it does not follow that she is likewise prepared to enter a taxicab with the gentleman and proceed unchapheroned to his private residence! If your black eye did not teach you the truth of this, allow this letter to remove any remaining doubt. And so, while it may indeed have been true, as you so unkindly and repeatedly asserted, that I was in some respect ‘begging for it’ . . . not from you, good sir! Never from you! I would bed an hundred hipsters before I ever stooped so low!

(I do sincerely apologize, however, for becoming ill upon your oxfords. That part of the business was indeed my own fault.)

Scathingly,
Elizabeth Bennet

–

To the Stockbroker Who Took Me to Dinner
(and bragged about his ventures all night, then stiffed the waiter):

I guess money can’t buy class, you dick.

Decidedly,
Elizabeth Bennet

Last week, I was having lunch in Bryant Park. For those of you who don’t live here, Bryant Park is the large park in the middle of the working week part of town, at the back of the research library. There are several terraces all around the perimeter of a large lawn, and these terraces have a lot of little green, metal tables and folding chairs, and during lunchtime (or just after work) during the week, every single inch of space is occupied with businesspeople eating street meat and soba and pizza slices and overpriced panini, and with tourists licking ice cream cones and pointing their cameras everywhere.

At any rate, I was sitting at a table I’d managed to grab, and I heard a giant, crashing sound. I looked up just in time to see a giant tree branch crashing down from above. A man, woman and young boy scattered as it broke across a garbage can. The boy immediately grabbed his shoulder and opened his mouth in shock, then closed it again. None of this was funny. But what happened next was hilarious.

Immediately, a park security guard came over with a walkie-talkie and three men in plain clothes. They rushed up, faces full of concern, and began to interview everyone at the scene. They examined the pieces of the branch, where they’d broken into bits and fallen to either side of the trashcan. They interviewed everyone at the scene, except for the boy, who was still holding his shoulder and silently opening and closing his mouth like a goldfish. I assume he was trying not to cry (he was about 13). A guy came along with a giant dolly to wheel away the wreckage. Many people who’d been witnesses came up to offer their testimony. The boy’s mother retold the tale over and over, with large, explanatory gestures, and she and the security guard spent much time determining at exactly what point the branch had collided with the trashcan, and scrutinizing the trashcan at the spot in question. A tourist with a digital camera was enlisted to take numerous photographs of the scene. Everybody got on cell phones, and began to explain what had happened to various people who hadn’t been there, but might need to know. Apparently, if a tree falls in Bryant Park, the situation will be handled.

Speaking of interesting things I’ve observed recently, on Saturday, I was walking around Prospect Park, and I found myself behind two women who were swinging a little girl between them. The little girl told one of the women that it was her turn now, and she took the place of the little girl, and leapt into the air, to feign being swinged.

‘Whooo!’ she said. ‘I almost got off the ground there.’

The next day, Sunday, I was walking in the Village, and I passed a little boy and a man, with another man between them, all holding hands. The man leapt into the air, as if being swung by the other man and the boy.

‘Whooo!’ he said. ‘I got a little height there.’

It was weird.

So, this weekend, a guy in Beijing stabbed a tourist to death, in public, in the middle of the day.

Also recently, a guy riding a Greyhound bus in Canada stabbed his seatmate to death, hacked his head off, and displayed it to the 37 other passengers who’d run screaming out of the bus.  Which…wow.  As if riding a Greyhound isn’t horror enough in itself.

And, while we’re talking murders, there’s a new book out on the 1924 Leopold & Loeb affair, which, if you’ll remember, involved two smart, young men carefully murdering a stranger for absolutely no reason:

Neither killer showed any remorse after being captured and indicted for murder. Kidnapping had been involved; they had sent a ransom note to their victim’s family. But money wasn’t their true motive. Perfection was. Leopold and Loeb dreamed of committing the perfect crime, and they found philosophical backing for their desire in Nietzsche’s notion of the Übermensch. Leopold wrote to Loeb: “A superman . . . is, on account of certain superior qualities inherent in him, exempted from the ordinary laws which govern men. He is not liable for anything he may do.”

You know, I ride the subway every day, and it is a constant source of wonder to me that very rarely does anybody shove anybody else out in front of an oncoming train.  Frankly, the rarity of this reaffirms my belief that, no matter what else you might be able to say for human beings, we’re at least far more likely to be passively harmless than actively malicious.  I have an overactive imagination, especially concerning possible physical pain and harm to my body, and as I wait for the train, I am forever anticipating a good firm shove in between my shoulder blades.  I imagine myself plummeting forward onto the tracks, surprised and remorseful, as the train barrels down upon me, and, like Anna Karenina, all my Earthly concerns are finally resolved.  I can imagine this vividly, with conviction, as if it had actually happened to me at some point in the past.  You might think, given these daily grim imaginings, that I would be forever looking back cagily over my shoulder, or hugging the wall far from the yawning chasm.  But I don’t.  And neither does anybody else.  We all teeter precariously near the brink of the train platform, peering impatiently into the black, yawning tunnel, and when the headlights of an oncoming train come charging up at us, preceded by a whoosh of stale air that blows our hair back on our heads, and followed quickly by a screaming, hurtling death machine shooting past not one foot from where we stand, we barely shift our weight ever so slightly back.   Nobody ever suspects the throngs of people pushing and jostling up against them on all sides.

Even if New Yorkers were not constantly possessed with a murderous rage towards anyone and everyone around them, and even if a good number of them weren’t stark mad and/or under the influence of everything under the sun, and even if the platforms weren’t dangerously overcrowded so that the slightest slip of a high-heeled power-walker could easily send everyone toppling over like dominoes…even if, in short, the Manhattan subway tunnels were filled with good-hearted, cheery, conscientious folk whistling happily on their way to work, following orderly and careful pedestrian traffic patterns, and granting each other a good margin of personal space to navigate in, it would still be a freaking miracle that everybody wasn’t forever being shoved in front of an oncoming train.  So, being that New Yorkers are indeed furious, crowded, impatient and insane, it is a ringing endorsement of the general non-murderousness of human beings that we all for the most part repeatedly survive our daily commute.

Of course, in addition to imagining someone might push me out in front of an oncoming train, I am also forever imagining that, in a moment of caprice, I might suddenly leap out in front of one on my own volition.  I’m pretty sure everybody thinks about this, just as whenever you are somewhere high, you fear you might decide to leap over whatever banister you’re peering down from.  Again, for the most part, we all resist such impulses, or rather, we manage not to ever forget to mind very carefully that we not accidentally leap to our deaths without giving the matter due consideration first.  If we do jump, we really mean it.

So, every day, I imagine being murdered, and I imagine murdering myself.  The third possibility, of course, is whether I might push somebody else in front of a train.  Lord knows, I’m not without cause.  However, oddly enough, I rarely vividly imagine pushing other people in front of a train.  When I was a kid, I used to have nightmares that I was driven by a sort of frenzied compulsion to murder dozens of strangers and bury them in our backyard.  At some point in the dream, one of my parents would discover this, and suddenly, my dreaming self would fully realize what sort of awful business I had been up to, and the full onslaught of this realization – of what a monstrous person I was, and of how much destruction I’d wrought, and of the guilt I would now have to bear – would come crashing down on me all at once, and my real-life self would wake up in a cold sweat, and it would be awhile before I could reassure myself I’d only dreamed it, and furthermore, that I wasn’t still guilty of any sort of latent murderous intent for even having merely dreamed it.

So, I used to worry a lot that I would at some point become a serial killer.  But that was when I was a kid.  As an adult, while I do constantly worry that others might suddenly be the death of me (whether by accident or intent), or that I might slip up and kill myself, I don’t have any real apprehension that I might suddenly start killing other people.  And I think I can count this as a personal virtue, because apparently, some people really do find themselves – suddenly, of an afternoon – hacking a stranger to death with a knife.  But this is a rare event, and if it makes you frightened about what might befall you out there amongst others, reassure yourself the way I do:  think about how seldom we nudge each other off train platforms (and this is certainly not because we like the people around us), despite how incredibly easy it would be to do so.

Okay, that’s it: I am not hanging out with the turtles this week. No matter how lonely I get. I need to spur myself to make some other friends, and yes, to meet some men. I am never going to meet anybody hanging out in the sewer all the time. I’m going to sit here, and I’m going to just be alone. I’m going to feel this loneliness and acknowledge it, and not run away from it. This is your life, April. Own up to it.

–

Alright, so I went over to the lair last night. I know I have to stop spending so much time over there. But the turtles are so much fun! We just mess around; it’s so easy to hang out with them. Last night, Michelangelo and Donatello both wanted the last piece of pizza, and they were really starting to fight about it, and then, like, this sai comes flying down in the middle of the last piece, and Raph’s just sitting there – it was really funny. And Splinter was all, ‘kids!’ I love those guys. But seriously. I was there until three in the morning, and I was wrecked today. It’s fine for them. They’re turtles; they never sleep. But my work’s starting to suffer – I’m not getting much reporting done anymore. And too, all these kidnappings are really getting in the way.

–

Went out with Irma after work today. We went to some bar, and a couple guys bought us a round, but then when we tried to talk to them, they kept making jokes about me. ‘So, you like being kidnapped, huh? You like the freaky stuff? You want to see my turtle?’ That kind of bullshit. These are the only kind of sick jerks I ever meet. When I meet anybody at all, that is. I guess that, as a high-profile news anchor in a major metropolis, people just find me unapproachable. It’s amazing to me that I can be known by everyone, and still so lonely.

–

Had disturbing dream. All four of them. And the rat. That’s it. I have to start hanging out with people.

–

Kidnapped again. Got a little nervous this time, waiting for the turtles. The Shredder going through his usual monologue. But, just as Beebop and Rocksteady started closing in ominously, they came in through the windows on their ropes. It’s embarrassing to admit, but no matter how many times it happens, I still get a thrill out of it. It’s so exciting, and at the same time, I feel so safe. Really, what girl doesn’t want to be rescued?

Now, if only some human man would rescue me from hanging out with turtles all the time.

–

Extremely uncomfortable in the lair tonight, and started to wonder – is this less about me being a woman, and more about them being turtles? Do I assume, just because I’m alone with four turtles in their prime that something will happen to me? Would I be this uncomfortable if I were alone in the sewers with, say, four male colleagues I’m slightly attracted to?

….Actually, probably.

–

Hung out with Irma and Vernon last night. We went bowling. I should just date Vernon. He’s arrogant and boring, but at least he’s a man. But it’s just…there’s no click, no spark. After a strike, I screamed, ‘Cowabunga!’ And they just stared at me. Was so depressed, I went over to the lair after. Only one up was Raph. We had a long talk about life and expectations, and how no matter how boxed into your own patterns you might feel, each new day is a chance to bust out of them. We talked until the sun came up. Raph is so insightful, and I really admire the way he transcends his own fate. It’s like…he’s decided to see the man-half of himself as a gift, rather than see the turtle-half as a curse. The more I get to know him, the more I respect him.

…Oh, April, what the hell are you thinking?

–

Sometimes I wonder about Splinter. He’s by himself way too much. And I think he drinks. And last night, I noticed some weird marks on his wrists, which he quickly pulled into his robe when he saw me looking. Tried to mention it to Leonardo, but he snapped at me that turtles respect each other’s privacy. And that of rats.

–

Seriously, though…what would it even be like? Not that I’m considering it, but with the shell and everything…is this even a possibility? Google really isn’t helping – I tried everything: turtle sex, sex with turtles, women having sex with turtles, sex with an anthropomorphic turtle, turtles + radioactive slime = genitals? I’ve learned some things, but none of them are particularly specific to my situation. God. I’m so annoyed I can’t just ask! You know? Because surely it’s occurred to them, that it might be something that could conceivably come up. Not that I think about it that much, but of course, I’m going to wonder. Who wouldn’t wonder? Which makes me think that it must not be possible, or surely one of them would have made a joke about it, you know, casually, to clue me in that if I was up for it… Everything’s always implied with them about the whole transformation, and the turtle thing. I don’t feel like it’s my place to ask probing questions about their situation at all, much less about something so private. I’m not that kind of reporter.

…Oh, I’m sure it’s not possible. Not that it matters.

…It’s not even possible, April! Stop thinking about it, freak!

–

Brought Irma over to the lair last night. I was nervous to introduce her to the turtles, but I wanted another woman’s opinion about the whole situation. Well, she had a blast! She freaking loved the turtles! She and the guys all played flip cup and got totally shitfaced. And she and Donatello totally hit it off! He took her number, and she’s all, ‘I really hope he calls! He’s so hot – totally ripped. How come you never introduced me before?’ On and on. Which made me feel like a total ass for being ashamed of my own friends and so worried to introduce them to other people, when clearly, I’m the one with a problem. I over-think things too much. Why can’t I just relax and let go?

At one point last night, Michelangelo said it was so great to have another woman around, one who wasn’t dressed like a giant banana. He was just teasing, and it wasn’t really mean…but it’s jokes like that that make me wonder: is that all I am to them?

–

Went over to the lair last night. Wore a dress, and got all kinds of teased about it. I could just be imagining it, but I felt like Raph looked…smug. I just felt like wearing something other than my jumpsuit for a change! It has nothing to do with the turtles. I don’t care what they think.

You know what, fuck them. They’re just a bunch of turtles.

–

Ok, so, I made out with Raph. It was…hot. But I realized…I mean, he’s a turtle. A turtle, you know? And also, even though he doesn’t seem that young, he is a teenager. And I’m a grown woman. With a job and an apartment, and I’m not getting any younger. It just wouldn’t work. And so I told him that our friendship means more to me than anything, and I’d rather do anything than hurt him, and I just thought we should be friends. He said he understood. But he wouldn’t look at me.

I feel awful.

–

Kidnapped again. Only Leonardo bothered to come save me. I like him least of all of them, too. He’s oh, so put-upon, total martyr. He seemed really annoyed with me the whole time we were running back to the lair, with me slung over his shoulder. I tried to make jokes, and he just rolled his eyes. When we got to the lair, everybody was just laying around. Irma was there with Donatello; they were messing around with some old broken radio. I felt ignored, and just generally awkward and uncomfortable, so I just went home.

–

Haven’t talked to the turtles in over a week. I miss them, but I’m not going to call. I want to know if they’d even miss me if I didn’t come around. Let them call for a change.

–

Ran into Splinter today when I was reporting on a burst water main. He was all, ‘hi, stranger, we’ve not seen you in many moons,’ like there was nothing weird. I straight up asked him if everybody was pissed at me, and said I didn’t think I deserved that. He was just like ‘teenagers will be teenagers.’

‘Well, I’m not a teenager,’ I said. ‘I’m an adult, and I’m too old for this bullshit.’

He just nodded sagely; I wanted to punch him. He looked healthier, though. I’m glad he was out getting some sun.

–

Kidnapped again. They didn’t come. After two days, The Shredder just let me go. “I guess you’re not the turtles’ greatest weakness anymore,” he said. Irma wasn’t at work today.

I guess there’s a window for these things, and then it closes, and that’s that.

Not making a choice is still a choice, April. That’s what you should take away from this.