Accismus

October 1, 2008

Don’t Give Up On Your Dreams

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.

Posted in Humor | 3 Comments »

Tags: dinosaurs, dreams, flying, goal-setting, God, inspiration, time travel

September 25, 2008

About How Many Words In This Post?

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.

Posted in Humor, Movies, New York City | 3 Comments »

Tags: Bottle Rocket, cool houses, estimations, math, numbers, odds and ends, personal space

September 23, 2008

The Most Accurate Diagnosis

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.

Posted in Health, Humor | 1 Comment »

Tags: diagnosis, living, problems, self-diagnosis, symptoms, the human condition

September 19, 2008

Argh! Cough Oh, Excuse Me

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!

Posted in Humor | Leave a Comment »

Tags: biscuits, cockatiels, pirates, Talk Like a Pirate Day, walking the plank

September 17, 2008

A Hump Day Haiku

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

Posted in Humor, Misanthropy, Rants, Work | Leave a Comment »

Tags: frustration, haikus, office supplies, staples

September 16, 2008

At Home With the Woolfs, Part One

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.

Posted in Books, Food, Humor | 4 Comments »

Tags: Bloomsbury, cheese sandwiches, frankfurters, literary lives, tea, Virginia and Leonard Woolf

September 15, 2008

Wading Ever So Slowly In

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.

Posted in Humor, People, Politics, Science | 1 Comment »

Tags: Church of England, Darwin, evolution, interviews, networking, Patty Judge, social behavior

September 9, 2008

I Accept

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??

Posted in Humor | Leave a Comment »

Tags: awards, impromptu remarks, speeches, success, triumph, winning

September 8, 2008

The Primaries That Ate My Sense of Humor

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!

Posted in Humor, Misanthropy, Politics, Rants, Writing | 6 Comments »

Tags: blogging, hypocrisy, hysteria, perspective, Politics, primaries, uninvolvement

August 19, 2008

Elizabeth Bennet’s Missed Connections

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

Posted in Books, Dating, Humor, New York City | 6 Comments »

Tags: catcallers, Dating, Elizabeth Bennet, Jane Austen, Missed Connections, proper comportment

August 18, 2008

Peculiar Behavior In and Around Parks

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.

Posted in Brooklyn, Humor, New York City | 1 Comment »

Tags: Bryant Park, excessive documentation, lawsuits, summer, swinging, tree branches

August 11, 2008

We Seldom Murder

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.

Posted in Humor, Misanthropy, New York City, People | 6 Comments »

Tags: human decency, impulse control, Leopold & Loeb, murder, public transit, random acts of violence, stabbings

August 5, 2008

All My Friends Are Turtles: The Unpublished Journals of April O’Neil

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.

Posted in Dating, Humor, Movies, Television | 4 Comments »

Tags: 80s cartoons, April O'Neil, intricacies of dating anthropomorphic creatures, racism, Splinter, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, TMNT

July 24, 2008

Flicks and Lit For Boys and Girls

Bitch Ph.D. explains The Bechdel Rule:

The rule is that movies should have 1) at least two women, 2) who talk to each other, 3) about something other than a man.

. . . Few movies pass the Bechdel test–most of the dialogue happens between men, or between men and one woman. Most movies who have extended conversations between women tend to be under the umbrella of “chick flicks,” or the newly-minted term, “RomComs.” But even those movies don’t pass the Bechdel test; not only are the conversations about men, the movies are driven by what men do or don’t do, what they want or don’t want, even when all the principal characters are women.

Movies, yes, and television, and this rule should also really be applied to plays. I mean, it is just incredible how few women are in anything, and how little they do when they’re there. What they mostly do is (a) be all about the men in the thing, and (b) be the one to blame for everything that goes wrong. Women are almost always the “out” for why there’s a problem – it’s the mom’s fault because she tries to smother everyone because she’s timid, controlling and Puritanical. Or, it’s the girlfriend’s fault because she tries to smother her boyfriend because she’s controlling, domineering, bitchy and usually whorish. Or whatever. When the question is, what’s wrong with this swell male protagonist’s life, the answer is almost always a hysterical, shrewish, controlling woman.

The amazing thing is, you can point this out to men who write or do comedy, and they’ll agree with you and talk about how they are very careful not to do that, and really enjoy writing strong, sympathetic female characters, and then you read their stuff…and the women are all hysterical, shrewish, controlling bitches (I’m sure that the writers of Everybody Loves Raymond fully believe that the characters of Deborah and Marie are sympathetic, whereas to me, that show is a perfect example, among many, of women being horrid, unreasonable, humorless nags for no reason).

Obviously, until women start writing everything, we’re going to be stuck playing unreasonable, stupid, evil bitches on the one hand, or boring, sweet, ever-affectionate straight-men on the other.

I’ve been watching DVDs of ‘It’s Always Sunny In Philadelphia’ lately (which is hilarious), and I just watched a special features short where the cast was talking about casting Kaitlin Olson as Sweet D, and what they mostly talk about is how these three guys had written this show, and all the one female character did in it was be like, ‘You guys!’ all the time. And they didn’t like that, and Olson wouldn’t take the part if it was like that. It took them awhile to convince her to take the job. On her final audition, she read a hilarious scene and decided to do it, because she had so much fun at that audition. Except, she found out at the bar later that the scene was actually between two of the male characters – they were all like, ‘oh, well, yeah, we didn’t have anything interesting written for Sweet D to audition you with, so we had you read a guy part. But you won’t be doing that in the actual show.’

Eventually, however, they did make an effort to write that part in a more comedic way – in large part, I’m sure, because it’s obvious Olson is not at all afraid to say what she thinks about things, and she seems to flat out refuse to be pushed into a boring, supporting role, which is awesome. She’s one of my heroes now.

Women are used to being interested in movies, books, plays and so forth that are by men, starring men and all about men. I love all kinds of culture that’s aimed at men and meant to appeal to them. All women can get into dude-flicks or dude-lit (oops, there’s no equivalent condescending term to use), and even patiently overlook the blatant misogyny it almost always contains. But just hint to a guy that he try watching, reading or enjoying anything at all that is written by, staring and/or primarily about women (whether it’s truly silly and superficial on its own merits, or merely automatically dismissed as silly just because it’s concerned with women), and he’ll immediately dismiss it on all levels and call you a fool for liking it yourself.

Because women are niche. Even though we constitute the majority of the population.

–

Oh, and while I’m on this subject Estelle Getty has died. Here’s Feministe on Golden Girls:

Where else have you seen a popular sitcom (or any show) that revolves around women who actually kind of look like average women, who aren’t young and fabulous and beautiful, who have interests other than finding male companionship, who put their female friendships first, and who have sex after menopause? More to the point, where can you find a TV show or movie that revolves around women like that, and those women aren’t the butt of the joke?

It’s certainly a rarity, and Golden Girls remains a bright spot in TV history. Estelle Getty was a class act.

Posted in Books, Feminism, Humor, Movies, Rants, Television, Theatre | 3 Comments »

Tags: chick flicks, chick lit, Estelle Getty, Everybody Loves Raymond, Golden Girls, It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia, Kaitlin Olson, misogyny, Movies, the Bechdel Rule

July 22, 2008

While I’m At Work, and You Are Home Alone This Summer

Never answer the door. No matter how many times somebody knocks, or what they say – I don’t care if they say they have a package, or ice cream, or a check for a million dollars – do NOT under any circumstances open the door. Even if they say they are me – don’t answer the door! I don’t care if they sound precisely like me, or if, when you look through the keyhole, they look exactly like me. Perhaps they took a voice-training class and learned to emulate my voice perfectly, and then took a photo of me and photoshopped it so that it looks like I’m standing on the front stoop, and then resized it so that it would fit over the lens of the peephole, so that when you look out, it looks like me really standing there, but really it’s a photo taped to the peephole with a voiceover master standing behind it who wants to do you harm, and you open the door and suddenly, bam! They’re in the house.

Oh, you think that’s too elaborate? You are so naïve, sweetie.

Now, let’s talk contingency plans. Say that somebody does, despite your wariness, breach the front door. If that’s the case, you use the rope we made to repel out the window, and as you’re repelling, you scream, ‘MY NAME IS BRIAN BENNET AND I AM NOT JOKING – A BAD PERSON HAS BROKEN INTO MY HOUSE AND I NEED HELP! THIS IS NOT A JOKE!’ and as you scream this over and over and over, you run across the back yard to the place where the fence is lowest, and let yourself tuck and drop – like we practiced, remember? – into Mrs. Anderson’s back yard. I have warned her that you might be coming. She’ll be waiting at the back door with the police on the phone, and her .22 loaded, unlocked and at the ready. Run to the left and behind her, she’ll shut the door and lock it, and the two of you will hunker down, far away from the windows and behind something bullet-proof, until the cops arrive. Got all that? Repeat it back to me.

I don’t care if you feel stupid. You won’t feel stupid when you’re still alive and every other kid in this subdivision has been butchered for kicks by the bad men.

Now, what if the bad people get to Mrs. Anderson and take her out first? If you get to her yard, and things seem eerily quiet, DON’T APPROACH THE DOOR. If this happens, and I really don’t think it will, but it never hurts to be prepared, run around to the side yard. Get out your cell phone – you have your cell phone, right? And you have 911 on speed dial? Okay, I want you to keep that cell phone in your hand at all times when you’re home alone. Never put it down – not to go to the bathroom, not to make a sandwich. You let your guard down for one second, and that’s what they’re waiting for.

Oh, you don’t think so? BAM! They will pounce. They are watching and waiting. These people are professionals – they know all your routines. You think that’s not true? You have no idea what desperation will drive people to. One day, you’ll learn. But not if I have anything to say about it.

Anyway, so you have your cell phone, and you’re in the side yard of Mrs. Anderson’s house, and you speed dial 911, and you say the spiel we practiced, just like we rehearsed it. Say it now! That’s right, name, location, problem, and then YOU KEEP THEM ON THE PHONE!

Keep them on the phone, and resume screaming ‘MY NAME IS BRIAN BENNET AND I AM NOT JOKING – A BAD PERSON HAS BROKEN INTO MY HOUSE AND I NEED HELP! THIS IS NOT A JOKE! THEY HAVE NOW KILLED MRS. ANDERSON AND I AM ON MY WAY TO MY PLAN C SAFEHOUSE, WHICH I WILL NOT REVEAL IN CASE THEY ARE LISTENING, BUT IF THERE IS ANY WAY YOU CAN AID ME ON MY WAY THERE, PLEASE HELP ME, THIS IS NOT A JOKE!’

And so screaming, you wind your way around four houses in the confusing, figure-eight pattern we practiced, until you get to Mr. and Mrs. Bringhampton’s house. You go to the garage door, and they should be waiting with their Berettas. They’ll let you in and release the pit bull, and all three of you will proceed to the bunker, where Mr. Bringhampton keeps his RPG-29 that is not technically legal, so don’t ever tell anyone he has it, but he’s a responsible, realistic citizen who realizes what we’re up against out here in Placid Pines, even if the government wants us to leave everything up to them.

Look, sweetheart, I don’t want to make you paranoid. I don’t think any of this is very likely to happen – for the most part, the world is a good place, and people are decent and kind. Everyone in Placid Pines is, at any rate. But we shouldn’t lie to ourselves – there are a lot of wicked, evil people out there who would love nothing better than to get their hands on my precious boy and harm him foully, and these people plan for years and are geniuses with massive amounts of resources and many evil and organized associates, and they will stop at nothing to infiltrate the elaborate webs of security I’ve gone to so much trouble to erect around you, and mess you up but good.

Or, too, you could just be knifed by some random crackhead when you go out to check the mail.

So, if you want to go over to Kevin’s house and I’m not here, don’t just walk over there. Call his mom and have her come pick you up, and use the safety word– NO, Brian, don’t say the safety word now! They could be listening!

Alright, now we’ll have to change it again. Here, I’m writing down a word – after you read and memorize it, I want to see you eat the evidence. Good boy.

Posted in Humor | 1 Comment »

Tags: Beretta, caution, constant vigilance, crime, danger, home alone, RPG-29s, safety, suburbs

July 15, 2008

Marcel Proust, Travel Writer

On Italy

I read a book about Rome once. I was a child of seven, and I was looking through my grandmother’s bookcase. Well do I remember the smell of Grandmother’s house: talcum powder and slightly moldering carpets. Grandmother had a vast collection of books about far-away and wonderful places. Rome attracted my attention because of its connotation in my mind with gladiators and emperors and columns, all strapping and assertive things. I remember the photos of the Trevi fountain, photos of busy sidewalk cafes, photos of ruins under a setting sun…

–

On America

When I read Alexis de Tocqueville, I imagine the America that de Tocqueville experienced. Wide, wonderful, its woods and its peoples exactly as de Tocqueville describes them. Perhaps one day, I too will travel there. I hope not.

–

On China

Ah, the Orient! There is a Chinaman lives down the street from me. Four years ago, I went for a walk around the block and caught a glimpse of him. I assume he lives there still. Paris is probably very different from China and indeed, everything that I have read on the subject confirms my opinions on the matter.

–

On The Arctic Circle

In my younger days, I traveled freely. All around the neighborhood and even somewhat into France – Illiers, Orleans. …I guess that’s about it. At any rate, winter (as remembered from back in the years when I used to go out in it) approximates, it seems to me, the far, icy Northern regions of the Arctic. Undoubtedly, the Arctic is colder still, but I think France in February is sufficiently bitter for my purposes; I can surmise the rest.

–

On Africa

Africa. The dark continent. Drums beating in the bushes, women beating cassava into flat pancakes for their suppers, the cruel sun beating down over the desert. The Brits beating everyone in sight. Africa! The cradle of civilization! All men trace themselves back to you, motherland – your blood beats through all our veins! If I think back, back into my ancestry, can I perhaps remember your vast savannas, your jungles, your lions roaming across the plains?

…Certainly not.

–

On A Cafe

In my younger, hedonistic days, there was a bar I went to twice. The barman was an older Parisian fellow, who served me well and with a certain degree of familiarity, despite the fact that he knew me not. Both times, I felt ill at ease, and did not finish my libation, but there was a sort of feeling I experienced immediately upon entering the bar of being somehow freed of all cares. This feeling dissipated as quickly as ever it had descended, and I returned to feeling generally ashamed, frightened and overwhelmed with my adventure. But if I meditate intensely on that first, fleeting sense of peace, I can rather imagine what it must be like to frequent taverns and restaurants and opera houses and other people’s salons… Yes.

I imagine it feels similar to the comfort I experience here at home in my bed, knowing that I need never leave it, and that I will not leave it.

Posted in Books, Humor, Travel | Leave a Comment »

Tags: adventure, Africa, agorophobia, cafes, China, Marcel Proust, Paris, shut-ins, the Arctic, travel writing

July 14, 2008

All Alone In Public Spaces

I am excited beyond belief to share with all of you, dear readers, a grand realization I had this past weekend. This was the sort of ‘aha!’ lightbulb moment after which the world is never the same again, but is a little wider, a little shinier, a little more bearable.

I realized that the best way not to be surrounded by obnoxious, loud people in public spaces in New York is to sit near a bunch of quiet people to begin with, rather than go sit off by yourself somewhere.

Here’s how I came to that realization: I bought a sandwich and went to consume it in a pretty, park-like area, and, as usual, went straight for a bench in the most deserted stretch of park. I was halfway through my sandwich when a couple of giggling teenagers came and sat right on top of me, despite the general emptiness of the area, and began to converse, in loud and squealing terms, about their burgeoning sex lives.

My entire life I have whined about how strangers seem to seek me out. I find the close proximity of other people repellent on a visceral level that most people do not feel for their fellow humans, which I realize is a personal shortcoming, but which I cannot help, because it is a kneejerk, gut-level reaction, cultivated in early childhood and continually reinforced by the fact that other people really do consistently suck out loud in every conceivable fashion. And yet, despite my extreme misanthropy, people gravitate towards me like metal filings. I need only install myself in a totally deserted area to make that area the most coveted spot in town. No matter where I am standing – even if it’s next to the only Port-a-Pot in a malarial swamp – five seconds after I have begun standing there, at least ten people will urgently need to stand right where I’m standing, usually with their dogs and babies and cameras and stereos and B.O. and inappropriately loud domestic fights and all.

I’d always assumed that this was a sort of karmic punishment for my disliking other humans’ close proximity so much – a sort of ‘who the hell do you think you are’ rebuke from the universe. Except that I don’t really believe in any sort of large-scale cosmic justice, so I kept looking for other reasons.

Anyway, back to this weekend, these teenagers were yapping on about their various forays into the wide world of sex, both homo- and hetero-style, and how they sometimes did so with hesitancy and sometimes with great enthusiasm, depending upon the other person involved, the amount of various intoxicants in their systems, and the suitability and romance of the atmosphere. And they were doing that thing where they were actually looking right at me and projecting in my direction while they ostensibly talked to each other. I provided an audience for them, which made the whole thing more interesting to them, I suppose. At some point, something so very ridiculous was lobbed so obviously in my direction that I audibly sighed, rolled my eyes, got up and packed up my sandwich and moved on.

I began looking for another deserted stretch of park, when suddenly, I had the inspiration to sit instead right smack between two older couples who were each murmuring quietly to each other while glaring at everyone passing by.

It was the best decision I ever made! I enjoyed my sandwich in peace and solitude, buffered on both sides by a cranky, old couple that didn’t want to look at me, or for me to overhear word one of their conversations. And it was at this point that I realized why people had always been coming to sit by me: they had been doing it on purpose precisely because I was quietly reading a book! They knew that they would be able to dominate the space, and that my presence would ensure against any louder people coming to sit next to them.

In New York, you never sit in an empty area, because no area is empty for very long. Rather, you pick the least offensive strangers, and then you scooch in right on top of them. That way, you have some control over your fate. I put this new theory into practice over the rest of the weekend, and I have to say, my quality of life has improved by leaps and bounds. I feel less angry, less hassled, happier and more well-inclined towards my fellow man. And I’m beginning to think that perhaps New York is somewhat livable after all, if you just learn how to work with it.

–

Speaking of despicable haters, I have really taken note of the passing of Jesse Helms. I think that the worst possible thing that you can do with your life is live it in such a way that, five seconds after you’re in the ground, people everywhere burst forth with celebrations of your death and denunciations of everything you were. Scores of private assholes are despised posthumously by everyone who knew them, but it seems like, if you are going to be an asshole, at least do yourself the courtesy of limiting your own exposure. Because to be a hated asshole on such a very grand scale as the late Senator Helms seems to me to be far, far worse than spending your entire life in your room doing nothing and seeing no one. I really hope that, whatever I do or don’t do in life, I don’t do such a grandly awful job of it as to be remembered as the world now remembers Jesse Helms.

Of course, if I can’t be confident of the purity of my heart saving me from such a fate, at least I can rely on my lethargy and ineffectiveness.

–

Related, what does make people so social? Mirror neurons:

Mirror neurons are the only brain cells we know of that seem specialized to code the actions of other people and also our own actions. They are obviously essential brain cells for social interactions. Without them, we would likely be blind to the actions, intentions and emotions of other people. The way mirror neurons likely let us understand others is by providing some kind of inner imitation of the actions of other people, which in turn leads us to “simulate” the intentions and emotions associated with those actions. When I see you smiling, my mirror neurons for smiling fire up, too, initiating a cascade of neural activity that evokes the feeling we typically associate with a smile. I don’t need to make any inference on what you are feeling, I experience immediately and effortlessly (in a milder form, of course) what you are experiencing.

(via 3QD)

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Here in America, even in our public parks, everybody thinks it’s their own, personal bench. Blame it on the Renaissance:

This focus on the individual, and its false equation with democracy, began back in the Renaissance. The Renaissance brought us wonderful innovations, such as perspective painting, scientific observation, and the printing press. But each of these innovations defined and celebrated individuality. Perspective painting celebrates the perspective of an individual on a scene. Scientific method showed how the real observations of an individual promote rational thought. The printing press gave individuals the opportunity to read, alone, and cogitate. Individuals formed perspectives, made observations, and formed opinions.

The individual we think of today was actually born in the Renaissance. The Vesuvian Man, Da Vinci’s great drawing of a man in a perfect square and circle-independent and self-sufficient. This is the Renaissance ideal.

It was the birth of this thinking, individuated person that led to the ethos underlying the Enlightenment. Once we understood ourselves as individuals, we understood ourselves as having rights. The Rights of Man. A right to property. The right to personal freedom.

(via 3QD)

–

Briefly:

Kids make their parents miserable.

Noooooooo!!!!! 99% of my diet is soy!!! It was the one thing that was never bad! That’s it, screw it, I’m going back to living on microwave burritos and beer.

This is good stuff to know.

Posted in Food, Humor, Misanthropy, New York City, People, Science | Leave a Comment »

Tags: democracy, hated haters, individuality, Jesse Helms, mirror neurons, New York life, parks, Renaissance, sandwiches, strategizing effective utilization of a public space, teenagers, tofu, where to sit

July 12, 2008

I’ve Been Watching: Say Anything, Ordinary People, Wet Hot American Summer and Indochine

Last Saturday night, my roommate and I (at our usual level of Saturday-night hedonism) decided to try out the ‘instant watch’ option I’d recently discovered on Netflix. At first, my roommate thought she could hook her laptop up to the television, but the cord turned out to be for her camera only. Then, we thought we could at least watch on her laptop (which is faster than mine). But she has a Mac, and this Netflix option is not available on Macs. Then, we finally decided to just use my laptop, propped up on a stack of old TimeOut New Yorks on the coffee table. After perusing the selection (which is hit-or-miss), we finally decided on Ordinary People. My roommate’s friend really loves this movie, and neither of us had ever seen it. So, we clicked on it!

. . . Only to be told we needed to download some software. Slowly. We went for cake. We came back. The software finally loaded, we shut down, we booted up, we installed, we shut down again, we booted up again…and we pressed play!

. . . And got a message that, due to our internet connection, the movie would take nearly two hours to load.

“You know,” I said at this point. “I’ve never seen Say Anything.”

“Really?” said my roommate. “I have Say Anything!”

“I know!”

So, now I can knock that one off the list.

My mother once said to me that she didn’t understand why all movies and books and plays had to be about terrible things happening to people. I replied that I couldn’t think of a way to tell a story about everything going swimmingly.

I stand corrected. Say Anything is a story about everything going swimmingly. Two hot, nice, well-liked young people meet, go nuts for each other, and everything goes well for them about it. Oh, sure, the girl has the momentary “I’m going to London, we should break up preemptively,” panic, but then she’s all, “Or, why don’t you come with me?!” And there’s the whole thing with the dad, but seriously, what movie watcher is really all that upset about a dad going to jail for white-collar crime when there is hot teen sex to be had? Nobody cares about John Mahoney’s hypocrisy when John Cusack is standing in the rain with a boombox over his head. Especially since the fall-out with dad has no hugely negative effects in the heroine’s life – sure, she’s disillusioned with him (although I must say here that the thin reasoning behind how he rationalized his crime is super belabored – you can practically hear the writers’ gears grinding as they try to find a way to inject some sort of plot-necessary conflict into this movie that won’t put even a slight shadow over all the good-feelingness), but he still loves her and is there ready to resume their relationship whenever she can reconcile herself to his shortcomings, and too – she has a full, merit-based scholarship! So, conveniently, she need not even sweat over whether or not to use Daddy’s ill-gotten gains to fund her already planned-for dreams. She’s her own woman now, with a bonus Cusack along for the ride.

Which is not to say that I didn’t like Say Anything. I did like it – how could you not like it, is my point?

At some point during our Say Anything viewing, Ordinary People finally downloaded, so we started to watch that on my laptop. Ordinary People . . . was very brown. Everything in it was brown, which is typical for movies made during the time period – it was a very brown country around 1980. There was a lot of snow. There was swimming, and a suicidal boy, and Robin Williams was a kind, but no-nonsense therapist, and everything was pretty much Sally Field’s fault, because she was such a cold, self-absorbed bitch for no real reason. And Christina Ricci’s boyfriend got electrocuted, and there was a giant robot bunny that issued proclamations having something to do with string theory, and everybody got new sneakers.

Or something like that. I don’t know. The main thing I know about Ordinary People is that it took us about seven hours to watch it, due to the Netflix “instant” watch feature being (a) a piece of crap and (b) about as “instant” as osso bucco (you like that one? I worked hard on it). Every fifteen minutes, the movie informed us that it would need to spend 30-45 minutes re-downloading itself, to avoid viewing difficulties (by which I can only assume it meant cause viewing difficulties). But we watched it all the way through anyway, because we are ladies who finish what we start. It was the most gruelling Saturday night I’ve had in months.

This past week, I went with some friends to the free showing of Wet Hot American Summer at the McCarren Park Pool. The Pool is a couple blocks from my apartment – it used to be an actual pool, but now it’s a drained pool that’s used for summer concerts and movies, at which times it gets terrifyingly packed with hipsters. This movie was the first one this summer, and I unintentionally went in costume. I had never seen the movie and didn’t know anything about it, but I have in my wardrobe two pairs of shorts: one is a knee-lenth pair of cutoffs, and the other is a pair of red cotton short-shorts with white trim, which I now know are the exact same pair that the gay guy in WHAS wears throughout the movie. It turns out coming in costume to these outdoor movies is encouraged, so I ended up displaying far more enthusiasm than I’m normally comfortable with, completely by accident.

At any rate, movies at McCarren Park Pool are really fun, especially if you get there early enough to put down a blanket and enforce a small zone of personal space around it (which we did). You’re not supposed to bring your own food and beer, but everybody does, so next time, I’m bringing a 40. The other thing I will do differently next time (other than not dress up like a character) is wait afterward until the crowd bottlenecking through the narrow entry gates has disbursed. The crowd inside is not too bothersome, what with the open sky and all, but the rush through the gates was terrifying, and required bodily contact with many strangers dressed for (and all asweat with) the hot summer night. It was a wet hot American stampede (you like that one? I worked hard on it).

At some point in the past week, I also watched Indochine. For the first 2/3 of this movie, all I had to say about it was: ‘a bunch of French people act like assholes in Vietnam. The especially good-looking French people show some small compunction about their bad behavior.’ But then (around the time the daughter shot the guy) the movie got much, much better, and by the end, I’d decided it was a great movie. This had something to do with the perspective of the movie broadening out from being entirely through the perspective of the French, and becoming more objectively about Vietnam itself and the colonization conflict overall.

But, boy, if I’d been the daughter, I’d have totally gone for the revolutionary, enlightened childhood sweetheart who’s all “you and I don’t matter – join the resistance” over the “I’m sort of useless and intermittently cruel and racist, plus I slept with your mother, but man, look at these eyes” French soldier.

On a sidenote, I always take note when theatre people are portrayed as the political underground in movies or plays. This happens a lot, because people who write and do theatre and films really want to write their ilk as hugely politically significant, and while I know that in some situations playwrights are quite influential and active (Prague Spring, early-19th c. Russia), I think that, especially during the red scare, playwrights got way too much credit for their influence on public opinion. Was anybody really ever inclined toward Communism just because Brecht’s plays were oh so thrillingly entertaining? Please. Charlie Chaplin, maybe. Brecht, no. And as for more active forms of subversion, theater people are the most feckless, inactive, self-absorbed people on Earth (I can say it – I kind of am one, albeit in a reluctant, half-assed sort of way). Performers might kick up a stink if they’re censored, but they’re highly unlikely to go around assassinating officials and circulating broadsheets. Because those activities require discretion, and the only thing that theater people want out of life is to be widely and constantly observed. “Underground” is the last place a performer wants to go.

Posted in Brooklyn, Humor, Movies, Theatre | Leave a Comment »

Tags: colonization, Commies, Indochine, McCarren Park Pool, Movies, Ordinary People, political subversion, red short-shorts, romance, Say Anything, Vietnam, Wet Hot American Summer

July 8, 2008

Things You Might Hear At Your Weight Watchers Meeting…

…now that Weight Watchers has launched its new “Diets Are Mean” campaign:

“Are you trying to be in movies? No? Then what do you want to be thin for?”

–

“I think you have a lovely, womanly figure!”

–

“Hell, how long’s it been since you last had sex? Give yourself a damn piece of cake!”

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“No one who’s had the day you’ve had could get by on 1500 calories.”

–

“It’s just harder for you to lose weight than other people – you have a different kind of body.”

–

“You went to the gym today – go ahead and have seconds!”

–

“Oh, so you ate the whole pint. At least you’re not a heroin addict.”

–

“If you’re being good and eating a boring salad for lunch, you should at least get to jazz it up with fried chicken strips and ranch dressing.”

–

“You know, you’re a good, kind person, and you’re intelligent. If you’re also fifty pounds overweight, well, that’s just more of you to love!”

–

“Skinny people look like anorexics with cancer.”

–

“If you just concentrate on making yourself happy, the weight will go away on its own.”

–

“Everything in moderation – even moderation!”

–

“Calories don’t count on your birthday/at Christmas/on your friend’s birthday/at a wedding/on vacation/when it’s this beautiful out/on the weekends/when you’re celebrating/on Flag Day/when they’re free/when someone surprises you with a treat!!!!”

Posted in Advertising, Food, Health, Humor | 1 Comment »

Tags: compulsive eating, diets, diets are mean, fat, thin, weight loss, Weight Watchers

July 6, 2008

I’ve Been Exploring: Providence and the New Haven Ikea

Last weekend, my improv team drove up to Providence, Rhode Island to perform in the annual improv festival there. Being New Yorkers, we’re all a bit rusty on driving, but, after briefly (and oh, so gently) tapping an elderly Polish pedestrian with our car (for some reason, the old man threw a little fit about this), we made it out of Brooklyn and into Queens.

We were in Queens for a long time. Queens is confusing, even with the GPS device that was our Lord and Master for the duration of the trip. I’ve never worked with a GPS device before. This one was pretty handy, but at the same time, confusing. And the smooth, female British voice that we selected could sound anywhere from condescending to downright exasperated depending on how often she was forced to repeat herself. This was her advice: ‘Turn right now. Turn right n— …Recalculating. Make a Uuuu-Turn. Make a Uuuu-Turn. …Recalculating. Turn left, then turn right. Turn left now. Left. Left now! (Sigh.) …Recalculating. Make a Uuuu-Turn.’

In this way, we eventually emerged from the Bronx and into Connecticut…to sit in a stop-and-start traffic jam all the way through New Haven. But we did make it to Providence in time for our show, and even our most tardy car-full of players burst into the greenroom fifteen minutes before curtain.

Providence is charming; it reminded me of a New England version of Charleston. Unfortunately, I have no photos, because I was too lazy to ever take my camera out of the trunk. We spent Saturday wandering up and down Thayer Street, the commercial district surrounding the Brown University campus in Providence’s East Side neighborhood. Thayer Street is lined with colorfully painted, old two-story houses made into cafes, antique shops, hippie-clothing stores catering to students and so forth. There were a lot of young people milling around, and everybody seemed to know each other. The main drag gave onto wide, tree-lined blocks of Victorian mansions with wrap-around porches. As is always the case when New Yorkers venture out of the city, my friends and I were delightfully amazed by the low prices and general friendliness we were met with all through the city.

Around 4:00 p.m., we piled back into the car, switched on the GPS device and headed back to New York. But on the way, we stopped at the Ikea in New Haven.

Now, since I do live in the world, I’d heard all about the Ikea thing – from back when Ikea was the most totally awesome thing ever to now, when mention of Ikea is generally accompanied by an apologetic eye-roll. But until last weekend, I had yet to actually go to one myself.

Here’s my interior monologue, which best describes how I experienced my very first Ikea visit:

–

“Wow, this place is huge! This stuff all looks pretty cool. Okay, I’m ready to eat now.

…Oh. We’re shopping. I guess we’re going to be shopping for awhile.

Oh, this place is really huge.

Oh, we’re really shopping.

Oh, I’m going to be here for a very long time.

…Damn it.

Well. These apartment set-ups all look really great. Maybe I should buy something. What would I buy? What would look good in my apartment? What does my apartment look like?

I can’t remember.

I just know it doesn’t look like these apartments. My apartment looks like shit.* How do you make something like my apartment look like these apartments look?

I’m not equal to this challenge.

The people who live in these apartments are probably really happy.

These apartments are cheap and cute, and probably what most people would consider good starter-apartment solutions until they get their careers going, and make enough money to have a real, nice house. Whereas for me, these Ikea apartments are like the long-term-goal apartments. If, by retirement, I am living in an Ikea apartment, I will have exceeded my own expectations.

I’m not at all where I should be at 27. I still sleep in a twin bed, have a shower curtain on my window, and nothing on my walls except for a hideous poster of Native Americans that I found in the trash! I should get a couch. And a career. And a car. And a dog. And friends. And a Relationship.

Or maybe just some meatballs. Yes, meatballs will improve matters. And then, we will leave.

Whoa, there’s another floor! A whole other floor! Oh, I want all matching dishes! I want all matching dishes to eat breakfast on in the sun in a pretty dress with the whole day ahead of me and appointments and a book to write them all down in that matches my handbag, and colorful cocktails after with good-looking people at a rooftop bar where all the drinks cost $14!!!! I want everything about my life to be entirely different, and I want it all to occur in a color-coordinated, cunningly planned setting!!!! I want to design every, single inch of my life, so it’s an appropriate backdrop for the huge, personal successes that will surely follow!!!!!

Or not.

Hell, I can at least buy some new sheets. This way, I don’t have to wash my old ones.”

–

And that is what I did – I got red and pink sheets, and I’m very happy with them. And I also got an ice-cube tray that makes ice cubes shaped like tiny liquor bottles. It’s not much, but it’s a start. And it all cost less than $20 which is the main reason Ikea is so very awesome. I might go again someday, if I ever feel I have things together enough to justify putting some effort into decorating my environment. But frankly, I’m still probably several years (and possibly several cities) away from that point.

And yes, I realize I had more to say about the Ikea than about Providence. What can I say? They’ve got a great business concept going.

__
*Roommates, if you read this, our apartment does not really look like shit. It only looks like shit when it’s standing next to a precious, little Ikea model, and those models only exist to make ordinary apartments feel bad about themselves anyway.

Posted in Advertising, Humor, Theatre, Travel | 3 Comments »

Tags: consumerism, design, environments, GPS devices, Ikea, improv, meatballs, New Haven, Providence, road trips

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I Accept

The Primaries That Ate My Sense of Humor

Elizabeth Bennet’s Missed Connections

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We Seldom Murder

All My Friends Are Turtles: The Unpublished Journals of April O’Neil

Flicks and Lit For Boys and Girls

While I’m At Work, and You Are Home Alone This Summer

Marcel Proust, Travel Writer

All Alone In Public Spaces

I’ve Been Watching: Say Anything, Ordinary People, Wet Hot American Summer and Indochine

Things You Might Hear At Your Weight Watchers Meeting…

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Happy Talk Like a Pirate Day, y’all!