January 2009 Archives
I was feeling a bit paranoid and gloomy for macro and micro reasons, and also for reasons that weren't reasons at all, really—it's winter in these parts, for one thing, and one's mood can turn Norwegian in a hurry. Today I noticed that some parsley in the refrigerator was feeling similarly sorry for itself. About four days ago I had bought a bunch, used some, and then put the rest of it in a small glass of water in the fridge. That water evaporated, and today the parsley was wilted and droopy.
I gave it more water and put it in a sunny window, and now, not long before midnight, portions of it are looking like new. And this is a plant that was cut off from its roots, OK? It's doomed. But it's demonstrating resilience all the same, doing the best it can. I have to say it—I admire that parsley.
When I was a kid, I read a story about a Roman soldier named Horatius who defended a bridge across the Tiber against invading Etruscans. Very heroic, Horatius was, and I admired his bravery. (Legend says he survived and was rewarded with as much land as he could plow around in a day.) I really hadn't thought much about Horatius since I was seven or so. But I didn't need his example today, did I? I face challenges, the way anyone does, but if I can muster as much strength of character as that bunch of parsley is demonstrating, I guess I'll be OK.
I gave it more water and put it in a sunny window, and now, not long before midnight, portions of it are looking like new. And this is a plant that was cut off from its roots, OK? It's doomed. But it's demonstrating resilience all the same, doing the best it can. I have to say it—I admire that parsley.
When I was a kid, I read a story about a Roman soldier named Horatius who defended a bridge across the Tiber against invading Etruscans. Very heroic, Horatius was, and I admired his bravery. (Legend says he survived and was rewarded with as much land as he could plow around in a day.) I really hadn't thought much about Horatius since I was seven or so. But I didn't need his example today, did I? I face challenges, the way anyone does, but if I can muster as much strength of character as that bunch of parsley is demonstrating, I guess I'll be OK.
Just read a pretty good article in The New York Times that sums up what role self-publishing can play these days. Basically, if there's a demand for your book that doesn't quite get a traditional publishing house revved up, then self-publishing is a way to go. And it's a way to get noticed if your book has hitherto unnoticed merit and can do something if it's out there.
That said, it's still necessary to ask yourself who besides you and your mom will want to take a second look at that book. You either articulate who the book will appeal to and why, or you're like MIniver Cheevy—born too late, railing that things aren't the way they should be. Personally I would love it if reading books were the only way people could entertain themselves with stories, because it would be a hell of a lot easier to get books published, but it hasn't been that way since Marconi.
Sigh.
But if you want me to grind a bit of peppery optimism on your sorrow salad, I'll add that the article pointed to a National Endowment of the Arts study that said overall literary reading is going up, after a long decline. So in conclusion, let's sum up by saying —uh—whatever!
A few years ago I finished a 50,000-word book as part of the National Novel Writing Month, which is just what it sounds like. This outfit Lulu offered to print it up for free if you got to the finish line, and in due course I got a cheesy-looking pamphlet with the story printed in agate type, which is 5 and a half points, the tiny size used for legal notices and sports statistics. Which I suppose means that self-gratification can, in certain situations, actually end up being bad for your eyesight, like they used to say.
That said, it's still necessary to ask yourself who besides you and your mom will want to take a second look at that book. You either articulate who the book will appeal to and why, or you're like MIniver Cheevy—born too late, railing that things aren't the way they should be. Personally I would love it if reading books were the only way people could entertain themselves with stories, because it would be a hell of a lot easier to get books published, but it hasn't been that way since Marconi.
Sigh.
But if you want me to grind a bit of peppery optimism on your sorrow salad, I'll add that the article pointed to a National Endowment of the Arts study that said overall literary reading is going up, after a long decline. So in conclusion, let's sum up by saying —uh—whatever!
A few years ago I finished a 50,000-word book as part of the National Novel Writing Month, which is just what it sounds like. This outfit Lulu offered to print it up for free if you got to the finish line, and in due course I got a cheesy-looking pamphlet with the story printed in agate type, which is 5 and a half points, the tiny size used for legal notices and sports statistics. Which I suppose means that self-gratification can, in certain situations, actually end up being bad for your eyesight, like they used to say.
I try not to comment on the passing media show, but I have some thoughts on the 18-month string of arsons in the little Pennsylvania town of Coatesville that have drawn national media attention. I grew up 10 or 12 miles from Coatesville, and my first newspaper job was on a little daily there. I say I grew up within a few miles, but it was also a world away. My home was a leafy county seat, but Coatesville was a dying mill town. Lukens Steel is still there, by another name and with far fewer employees, if it's even still operating. But as long ago as the 1980s most of the jobs the mills once offered had dried up.
Some mill towns reinvent themselves—they become destinations, full of shops and restaurants and coffee bars—but Coatesville never managed the trick. A big part of the problem was the people there. Often, in dying mill towns, just about everyone with something to offer the world—intelligence, ambition, drive, that sort of thing—just about everyone like that leaves. That was especially true in Coatesville. I've never been to a place where the choking stench of defeat was so strong. The city's voters compounded the problem a few years ago by electing a slate of city council members who took advantage of smoldering anger over past council missteps by loudly billing themselves as reformers. But they were lamentably lacking in any background that would help them govern; they had nothing to offer but their blind resentment. They've flailed about ever since. Now they've declared a state of emergency. But frankly, I don't see what can be done.
I'm not a criminal psychologist, but it seems clear to me that setting a fire is a way of telling yourself that you exist, that you can do things. It's a stupid, destructive, murderous way to assert your existence, but people will go just that far and farther rather than feel utterly defeated and hopeless. Just now I remembered a conversation I had with a young woman who worked in the office of that newspaper. The subject of televisions or tape decks or some such came up, and she told me that someone in her neighborhood was selling them for $5 or $10 or so. "Well, sure," I said, "but they're obviously stolen." She shrugged. "You'd buy stolen stuff?" I asked. She shrugged again. "You wouldn't feel bad about that?" She wondered why she should. "Well, how would you feel if someone stole your own TV?" She said she'd feel bad. I kept at it, gently trying to get her to understand that stealing was wrong. I swear she wasn't having a bit of fun with me or anything. I think she had simply never been trained to imagine how other people might feel about things in general, and in particular how they would feel if you did something bad to them.
I think imagination is the basis of empathy, and empathy the basis of morality: You imagine how other people feel about things, and guide your own actions accordingly. It's a bad thing when an entire community loses its capacity to imagine. It makes the whole community a little bit sociopathic. They just don't care. Look, we all know who's setting the fires—punk kids. And they're giggling about it. If their own homes burned, they'd be upset. But it's not their homes, so they don't care. And it's exciting—you proclaim your existence in flames three stories high, for all the world to see. You become a celebrity, and you have a sense of agency. You made something happen.
The newspapers and traditional media simply can't acknowledge this truth, though. They'd be deluged with angry letters about what an insult it is to the many good people in the town. And there are, indeed, many good people there. There are good people everywhere. But in some places,like Somalia, the pathology runs too deep. The newspapers are prim about this—they'll call Coatesville "gritty," now and then—but they won't acknowledge the hopelessness. Well, not hopelessness—if you gave it the right leadership, the town could certainly flourish again. But right now the community is in a hole and doesn't know how to get out.
I wonder about saying this publicly myself, even on an obscure little blog. How can I malign an entire town, and say the real problem there is the attitude of quite a few of its residents? I wonder myself, but all I can say is that when I read people's reactions, it's interesting: They rage against the people doing the burning, and they speculate about what the cause is—a gang initiation, or drugs, are the two current theories. Nobody says "anomie"—it's not a very common term in Coatesville or anywhere else. But it's enough to explain the situation. And I haven't heard anyone there say that he or she was surprised about the situation, or ask why anyone would burn down buildings in their own town over and over again. They may not know much about sociological theory, but if they aren't surprised at the situation, maybe it's because in some way they have a pretty good idea of what they're dealing with.
Some mill towns reinvent themselves—they become destinations, full of shops and restaurants and coffee bars—but Coatesville never managed the trick. A big part of the problem was the people there. Often, in dying mill towns, just about everyone with something to offer the world—intelligence, ambition, drive, that sort of thing—just about everyone like that leaves. That was especially true in Coatesville. I've never been to a place where the choking stench of defeat was so strong. The city's voters compounded the problem a few years ago by electing a slate of city council members who took advantage of smoldering anger over past council missteps by loudly billing themselves as reformers. But they were lamentably lacking in any background that would help them govern; they had nothing to offer but their blind resentment. They've flailed about ever since. Now they've declared a state of emergency. But frankly, I don't see what can be done.
I'm not a criminal psychologist, but it seems clear to me that setting a fire is a way of telling yourself that you exist, that you can do things. It's a stupid, destructive, murderous way to assert your existence, but people will go just that far and farther rather than feel utterly defeated and hopeless. Just now I remembered a conversation I had with a young woman who worked in the office of that newspaper. The subject of televisions or tape decks or some such came up, and she told me that someone in her neighborhood was selling them for $5 or $10 or so. "Well, sure," I said, "but they're obviously stolen." She shrugged. "You'd buy stolen stuff?" I asked. She shrugged again. "You wouldn't feel bad about that?" She wondered why she should. "Well, how would you feel if someone stole your own TV?" She said she'd feel bad. I kept at it, gently trying to get her to understand that stealing was wrong. I swear she wasn't having a bit of fun with me or anything. I think she had simply never been trained to imagine how other people might feel about things in general, and in particular how they would feel if you did something bad to them.
I think imagination is the basis of empathy, and empathy the basis of morality: You imagine how other people feel about things, and guide your own actions accordingly. It's a bad thing when an entire community loses its capacity to imagine. It makes the whole community a little bit sociopathic. They just don't care. Look, we all know who's setting the fires—punk kids. And they're giggling about it. If their own homes burned, they'd be upset. But it's not their homes, so they don't care. And it's exciting—you proclaim your existence in flames three stories high, for all the world to see. You become a celebrity, and you have a sense of agency. You made something happen.
The newspapers and traditional media simply can't acknowledge this truth, though. They'd be deluged with angry letters about what an insult it is to the many good people in the town. And there are, indeed, many good people there. There are good people everywhere. But in some places,like Somalia, the pathology runs too deep. The newspapers are prim about this—they'll call Coatesville "gritty," now and then—but they won't acknowledge the hopelessness. Well, not hopelessness—if you gave it the right leadership, the town could certainly flourish again. But right now the community is in a hole and doesn't know how to get out.
I wonder about saying this publicly myself, even on an obscure little blog. How can I malign an entire town, and say the real problem there is the attitude of quite a few of its residents? I wonder myself, but all I can say is that when I read people's reactions, it's interesting: They rage against the people doing the burning, and they speculate about what the cause is—a gang initiation, or drugs, are the two current theories. Nobody says "anomie"—it's not a very common term in Coatesville or anywhere else. But it's enough to explain the situation. And I haven't heard anyone there say that he or she was surprised about the situation, or ask why anyone would burn down buildings in their own town over and over again. They may not know much about sociological theory, but if they aren't surprised at the situation, maybe it's because in some way they have a pretty good idea of what they're dealing with.
In case you missed it, the invaluable David Pogue has now told us, in real-life contextual terms, just what the deal is with Twitter. Hope it helps!
My God! Six days since I posted last. I've just been busy is all. But just to get one on the boards, so to speak, to use a baseball term, I'm winding up the day with a study reported on by the BBC about who eats frogs. Seems the United States is something like second! Booyah! We're number—uh—two! We're number two! The BBC story is a little vague on who's number one but it seems it's France, which surprises nobody. But us? Two? I've accounted for a few frogs myself, several times in frogs-legs form and once in a pretty delicious soup at a French restaurant, but the idea that so many other people were doing it too is a mild surprise. And yet, when I think about it, I've been in hardware stores and good-'ol-boy sporting goods stores where I saw frog gigs, these trident-looking things with barbs that you put on the end of a broomstick. You lurk around ponds at night, and thunk! A bit more protein in your diet. (A .22 will get the job done too.) Yo, Cletus! Hey there, Clem! Been chowin' on some frog lately, like a Frenchman? A frog leg in garlic and butter is actually pretty good stuff, although I suspect C. and C. were frying theirs. The meat is mild in flavor, delicate in texture.
A photo caption in the BBC story said, "Frogs are liquidised to make a 'health drink' in parts of South America." I suppose the people who drink the drink believe it significantly boosts your virility or longevity or both. I'm going to wait until the study is published and I can get more information before I make up my own mind, and certainly before I drink any "liquidised" frogs. That seems a little drastic to me, frankly.
A photo caption in the BBC story said, "Frogs are liquidised to make a 'health drink' in parts of South America." I suppose the people who drink the drink believe it significantly boosts your virility or longevity or both. I'm going to wait until the study is published and I can get more information before I make up my own mind, and certainly before I drink any "liquidised" frogs. That seems a little drastic to me, frankly.
A couple of thoughts on the jet-in-Hudson deal: Miracles actually occur on a fairly regular basis, if you don't require them to be supernatural.
Also I knew for a fact that this would happen: I'm listening to the BBC this morning, and the news reader (Dan Damon?) mentions that they got an e-mail complaining about their inaccurately reporting there was no loss of life because the incident did, in fact, result in the loss of life for the geese involved.
The BBC let it go at that. But I'd like to comment, if only for myself, to that complainant. You are, of course, correct. I can think of no occasions in which a goose was sucked into a jet engine and got better afterward. In all likelihood, the geese involved, if that's what happened, have by now gone to whatever reward awaits geese in the hereafter. They are, in a word, dead, and you are absolutely correct when you say so. And since death is strongly associated with the loss of life, we arrive again at what is beginning to seem like an inescapable conclusion: Some geese lost their lives, so there was loss of life in the incident.
But Matt, I hear this person saying, you've missed my point entirely. The point is that we're callously disregarding the loss of goose life when we say no life was lost. The BBC and other news organizations should have reported that no human life was lost, although several geese may have perished, which is to be regretted.
Well, as much as I abhor argument, I think there's a balance to strike here. If I run over your dog while backing out of your driveway and then tell you to be glad because I wasn't hurt in the incident myself, I might fairly be accused of callous disregard for animal life. But when a goddamn jet aircraft can't maintain altitude and ditches in the goddamn Hudson River and one hundred and fifty-five people go home to their families, I think you're talking about a situation in which we can find more good than bad. If it's any consolation, BBC Complainer Person, I don't think a goose suffers long after being sucked into a jet engine. And although there may be some mourning among the goose population of the borough of Queens, since geese mate for life and all, it's also a fact that they are free to remarry, as it were, and often do. They're sort of like the Ukulele Lady that way.
Also I knew for a fact that this would happen: I'm listening to the BBC this morning, and the news reader (Dan Damon?) mentions that they got an e-mail complaining about their inaccurately reporting there was no loss of life because the incident did, in fact, result in the loss of life for the geese involved.
The BBC let it go at that. But I'd like to comment, if only for myself, to that complainant. You are, of course, correct. I can think of no occasions in which a goose was sucked into a jet engine and got better afterward. In all likelihood, the geese involved, if that's what happened, have by now gone to whatever reward awaits geese in the hereafter. They are, in a word, dead, and you are absolutely correct when you say so. And since death is strongly associated with the loss of life, we arrive again at what is beginning to seem like an inescapable conclusion: Some geese lost their lives, so there was loss of life in the incident.
But Matt, I hear this person saying, you've missed my point entirely. The point is that we're callously disregarding the loss of goose life when we say no life was lost. The BBC and other news organizations should have reported that no human life was lost, although several geese may have perished, which is to be regretted.
Well, as much as I abhor argument, I think there's a balance to strike here. If I run over your dog while backing out of your driveway and then tell you to be glad because I wasn't hurt in the incident myself, I might fairly be accused of callous disregard for animal life. But when a goddamn jet aircraft can't maintain altitude and ditches in the goddamn Hudson River and one hundred and fifty-five people go home to their families, I think you're talking about a situation in which we can find more good than bad. If it's any consolation, BBC Complainer Person, I don't think a goose suffers long after being sucked into a jet engine. And although there may be some mourning among the goose population of the borough of Queens, since geese mate for life and all, it's also a fact that they are free to remarry, as it were, and often do. They're sort of like the Ukulele Lady that way.
So this is like the most charming art-history story ever. It seems the painter Gilbert Stuart—do I really need to link to the Wikipedia entry? He's the guy who did the portrait of George Washington, and if you need a link to find out who George Washington is then I just give up—anyway, he was a struggling artist before he painted this. The subject, a William Grant, showed up at his studio to have a portrait done one winter's day in 1782 or thereabouts. Grant remarked that it was a day better suited for skating than sitting for a portrait. And evidently they were both fairly free spirits, because that's what they did—they went skating. A portrait like this had never had action in it before, and for once it didn't create a big shocked scandal because this was the 18th century and people were pretty cool in the 18th century. The portrait made Stuart's reputation and assured his future, although he was kind of lax about money and got into debt a lot anyway.
Now, I'm not recommending that we all be free spirits and go skating when we ought to be working. Stuart actually was working while he was skating, when you think about it. At any rate, I love the painting and the story behind it too.
Afterthought update: You know, I looked this over and asked myself why I called the pre-"Skater" Stuart a "struggling artist," like that's a kind of species of person. Wasn't he more an artist who was struggling (to make a living, of course)? And then I decided not. A struggling artist often has characteristic traits—a perverse satisfaction in his or her financial embarrassment comes to mind—that a struggling regional sales manager, say, usually doesn't. If Stuart were really worried about money, he wouldn't have paid much attention to the skating idea. "Yeah, yeah, whatever," he'd have said. "Now siddown over there and let's do this thing—I got bills to pay, buddy." But he didn't. Bless his whimsical heart, he went skating.
I was over at a friend's house and he lit a fire with wood that he felt was sub-par because it was old and dense. "I know how it feels," I said.
I had to repel a boarder again today. It was the typical thing, I got back from running errands and saw a guy coming up onto my porch.
bam bam bam bam bam bam bam bam bam
He jumped a little when I opened the door. "You surprised me," he said, presumably because he was used to hammering for hours. His knock had that certain implacable sound, like he'd gotten lessons from the East German secret police or something.
Turns out he's from the Big Cable Company. They were doing "system checks" in the neighborhood and he saw I wasn't signed up. Just have to be different, that's me! So of course it was imcumbent on me to explain myself. I didn't want to get into the whole thing about not wanting TV that I told the Verizon people about the other day. I just said I was with Verizon, and let him assume I got all my TV needs from them, which is true in a way.
He asked if I was totally satisfied with them, and I nodded. I was trying to seem gloomy and unenthusiastic about his presence and about everything in life.
He narrowed his eyes in a comic-opera parody of craftiness. "How much you paying them?" he said, "because..."
But then he slowed to a halt. I was waving my hand in a sort of gloomy bye-bye way. And that's what I said, as he was talking: "Bye." And then once more, "Bye," as he watched my hand, which was still waving. He turned and walked off my porch.
It felt a little brutal, but I enjoyed it. And really, if the entire army of people I'm currently not buying stuff from is going to march up my steps and hammer on my door, I'm going to have to deal briskly with them, life being short and all.
bam bam bam bam bam bam bam bam bam
He jumped a little when I opened the door. "You surprised me," he said, presumably because he was used to hammering for hours. His knock had that certain implacable sound, like he'd gotten lessons from the East German secret police or something.
Turns out he's from the Big Cable Company. They were doing "system checks" in the neighborhood and he saw I wasn't signed up. Just have to be different, that's me! So of course it was imcumbent on me to explain myself. I didn't want to get into the whole thing about not wanting TV that I told the Verizon people about the other day. I just said I was with Verizon, and let him assume I got all my TV needs from them, which is true in a way.
He asked if I was totally satisfied with them, and I nodded. I was trying to seem gloomy and unenthusiastic about his presence and about everything in life.
He narrowed his eyes in a comic-opera parody of craftiness. "How much you paying them?" he said, "because..."
But then he slowed to a halt. I was waving my hand in a sort of gloomy bye-bye way. And that's what I said, as he was talking: "Bye." And then once more, "Bye," as he watched my hand, which was still waving. He turned and walked off my porch.
It felt a little brutal, but I enjoyed it. And really, if the entire army of people I'm currently not buying stuff from is going to march up my steps and hammer on my door, I'm going to have to deal briskly with them, life being short and all.
Recession-schmecession, it's always worth while to save a buck and have better food than usual while you're doing it, right? So here's a tip: Take a container of ramen, and slice a half a carrot into the water before you turn it on. (Slice them diagonally for attractive ovals.) Slice up a garlic clove into it too, while you're at it. Some slivers of onion would work, as would a shallot if you wanted to get fancy. Tofu? Sure, why not? Some leftover meat, if you want. A small hunk of broccoli. Sprinkle some cayenne in while it's cooking. (Go easy, it's potent stuff.) Maybe even—I'm going to try this in about a minute—grate in a dash of ginger. Catching on yet? Use your imagination. The bag of ramen costs somewhere from a quarter on down. The other stuff is in your pantry or refrigerator, or should be. If you're eating only processed, packaged food, for God's sake stop! Stop this minute!
Last step: Eat the soup. It's cheap, delicious, and you've put your own stamp on it. It's not nutritious? Well, first of all compared to what? A meatball hoagie? And second of all, you could go on a kind of grail quest for food that's cheap, tasty, and good for you, but you'd descend into madness and get hungry too. I'd love to have food that was cheap, tasty, and good for you, but usually you can have two of those three. Believe me, I've worked on this.
Now I've made myself hungry. Bye!
Last step: Eat the soup. It's cheap, delicious, and you've put your own stamp on it. It's not nutritious? Well, first of all compared to what? A meatball hoagie? And second of all, you could go on a kind of grail quest for food that's cheap, tasty, and good for you, but you'd descend into madness and get hungry too. I'd love to have food that was cheap, tasty, and good for you, but usually you can have two of those three. Believe me, I've worked on this.
Now I've made myself hungry. Bye!
Sorry for not blogging! it's not like nothing is happening. I had an anniversary this week—a year ago, my buddy Panther the cat got sick and went through a couple of months of off-and-on hospitalization. Neither of us enjoyed it much, as you can imagine. But he got better, thanks to some amazing veterinary work and his own inner toughness.
When I talked to people about it at the time and since, the majority of them expressed amazement at how much I spent to keep that cat alive. I''m a little amazed myself. But somehow this anniversary put it in a nutshell for me. I've had an extra year with a little creature I love for a lot of reasons. If you've ever loved any living creature on this earth, maybe you can understand how the money just doesn't matter. They were careful to warn me, every time, before they went ahead. And I would gulp, knowing how much work it would take to pay off that debt. But the question of whether it was worth it never came up.
Every time I stand in a line at the supermarket, I see publications crammed with stories about miserable, needy millionaires. I've known a few myself. People resort to all sorts of means to assuage the solitude of the human condition. I remember one day when I came to the hospital to visit Panther. He was sitting in his cage, facing the wall, gathered into himself, so frightened it wrung my heart. But he cheered up, as I petted him and talked to him, and soon he was purring, rubbing his head against my hands, as happy as he usually is at home. He's a happy cat, most of the time. The vet student who met me downstairs and took me to the ward stood next to us, with a look of mild awe on his face. "Boy," he said, "he really likes you."
"It's mutual," I said. I like the little guy. I like him a lot. And it's not just the liking that goes both ways. The world can be scary sometimes, but it helps a lot when a little creature like this cat—he's curled next to me right now—trusts you and thinks you're OK. I hasten to assure you that I have humans that I care about in my life. But I've also got this cat. I've had him for a year that I might not have. It was worth the money. I can make more money. (I think.) But you can't buy what the little creature gives me. It's really as simple as that.
When I talked to people about it at the time and since, the majority of them expressed amazement at how much I spent to keep that cat alive. I''m a little amazed myself. But somehow this anniversary put it in a nutshell for me. I've had an extra year with a little creature I love for a lot of reasons. If you've ever loved any living creature on this earth, maybe you can understand how the money just doesn't matter. They were careful to warn me, every time, before they went ahead. And I would gulp, knowing how much work it would take to pay off that debt. But the question of whether it was worth it never came up.
Every time I stand in a line at the supermarket, I see publications crammed with stories about miserable, needy millionaires. I've known a few myself. People resort to all sorts of means to assuage the solitude of the human condition. I remember one day when I came to the hospital to visit Panther. He was sitting in his cage, facing the wall, gathered into himself, so frightened it wrung my heart. But he cheered up, as I petted him and talked to him, and soon he was purring, rubbing his head against my hands, as happy as he usually is at home. He's a happy cat, most of the time. The vet student who met me downstairs and took me to the ward stood next to us, with a look of mild awe on his face. "Boy," he said, "he really likes you."
"It's mutual," I said. I like the little guy. I like him a lot. And it's not just the liking that goes both ways. The world can be scary sometimes, but it helps a lot when a little creature like this cat—he's curled next to me right now—trusts you and thinks you're OK. I hasten to assure you that I have humans that I care about in my life. But I've also got this cat. I've had him for a year that I might not have. It was worth the money. I can make more money. (I think.) But you can't buy what the little creature gives me. It's really as simple as that.
A BBC article on the MacWorld conference misspelled Apple's senior vice president of Worldwide Product Marketing Philip W. Schiller as Phil "Shiller," which is kind of funny for a marketing person.
I just found out this morning that novelist and short-story writer Flannery O'Connor first came to the world's attention at age six, when she was featured in a newsreel for having taught a chicken to walk backward. If that doesn't impress you it's possible you don't have much experience in teaching chickens to do things. Or trying to teach them things, I should probably say.
You can hardly be thought of as looking for trouble, sitting in your living room early on a Saturday evening, but I saw a light come bobbing on my porch and I braced myself. Knock knock knock! I paused the film I was watching and got up. A woman and a man were at the door, full of bonhomie despite the chilly air—and chilly reception—and the fact that they were working on Saturday night. Was I Mister Boyardee? (It was something that sounded like that.) No, I was pleased to report, I was not. The woman was momentarily fazed. I was able to assure here that Mr. Boyardee and I had no history whatsoever and that I could not furnish her with further information on Mr. Boyardee.
Was I, perchance, Mr. Freeman?
Damn it, I was. No use denying it.
Well, they were from Verizon (my ISP) just checking up on things, because Verizon doesn't give a tinker's damn if it's Saturday night. I get my phone and Internet from Verizon, n'est-ce pas? Indeed I do. But not my TV. And why might that be, she was curious to know?
Because I don't get TV from anyone. I dread telling people about this,
"You don't have anything?"
"No," I said. "I don't have any tubes bringing TV into my house." The woman's smile didn't fade, but she clearly was flummoxed. I decided to clarify the situation.
"I'm a social freak," I said.
She allowed as how TV had a lot of crap on it, which I thought was generous of her, since she was selling TV. And she and her helper evidenced a willingness to get off my porch once they realized it was a no-sale situation. I really don't ask more than that.
And then I went back in and unpaused the movie. It happened to be The General, a silent film from 1926 by Buster Keaton. I'd rented it from the library the day before. It's considered one of the best films ever made, but I really didn't care about that. I personally consider it one of the most enjoyable films ever made. Parts of it make me laugh out loud. Ordinarily I'd have to pay two bucks for it, but sometimes, at the library, they forget to charge me. I can't imagine Verizon would do that. Or make The General available, either. But at least they took "No" for an answer. When I'm just chillin' at home and strangers knock on my door, the willingness to take "No" for an answer is something I value highly.
Was I, perchance, Mr. Freeman?
Damn it, I was. No use denying it.
Well, they were from Verizon (my ISP) just checking up on things, because Verizon doesn't give a tinker's damn if it's Saturday night. I get my phone and Internet from Verizon, n'est-ce pas? Indeed I do. But not my TV. And why might that be, she was curious to know?
Because I don't get TV from anyone. I dread telling people about this,
"You don't have anything?"
"No," I said. "I don't have any tubes bringing TV into my house." The woman's smile didn't fade, but she clearly was flummoxed. I decided to clarify the situation.
"I'm a social freak," I said.
She allowed as how TV had a lot of crap on it, which I thought was generous of her, since she was selling TV. And she and her helper evidenced a willingness to get off my porch once they realized it was a no-sale situation. I really don't ask more than that.
And then I went back in and unpaused the movie. It happened to be The General, a silent film from 1926 by Buster Keaton. I'd rented it from the library the day before. It's considered one of the best films ever made, but I really didn't care about that. I personally consider it one of the most enjoyable films ever made. Parts of it make me laugh out loud. Ordinarily I'd have to pay two bucks for it, but sometimes, at the library, they forget to charge me. I can't imagine Verizon would do that. Or make The General available, either. But at least they took "No" for an answer. When I'm just chillin' at home and strangers knock on my door, the willingness to take "No" for an answer is something I value highly.
You know that middle-aged teacher you had in high school who desperately wanted to be thought of as cool? And failed miserably, it goes without saying? That's how I see my local public radio station, WHYY. For years I've been listening to a show out of New York called Selected Shorts. Great show with a simple concept: actors reading short stories. It ranges from meh to marvelous, a quality it shares with life in general, and as with life, I didn't want to miss it. Years ago they had it on Sunday afternoons, which was perfect. You could putter and listen, and if you got caught up in the story you could just sit on the couch and let it wash through you.
Then WHYY forced it into a ghetto: Thursdays at 10 p.m., whence I followed it. But tonight I see it's gone, unceremoniously shooed away, and the show WireTap has replaced it. I can't tell you why it's called WireTap, or why they failed to use the much apter name "This Canadian Life." They say "each show is guaranteed to keep you entranced," which I think would violate the truth in advertising laws here in the States. I listened for a couple of minutes, and then, unentranced, I went and found to my great pleasure that Selected Shorts now has podcasts of its shows.
I don't quite know what to say about WireTap and its ilk. A number of adjectives come to mind: postmodern, aleatory, unmediated, improvisatory, and boring. I like the idea of such things, no doubt, but like Communism, this may be the kind of thing that works better in theory than in practice. WHYY wants to broadcast them because they're desperate to get younger people listening before all the current listeners die off. I can understand that. But in the process, 'HYY is making itself less and less necessary to me, without much changing its demographic mix, I suspect. It's like a significant other who's drifting away, getting less significant every day. It was nice, WHYY. We had some good times. Remember when you used to broadcast stuff that was carefully crafted, you know, by writers? That's what I'll remember. Hey, and take care, OK?
Then WHYY forced it into a ghetto: Thursdays at 10 p.m., whence I followed it. But tonight I see it's gone, unceremoniously shooed away, and the show WireTap has replaced it. I can't tell you why it's called WireTap, or why they failed to use the much apter name "This Canadian Life." They say "each show is guaranteed to keep you entranced," which I think would violate the truth in advertising laws here in the States. I listened for a couple of minutes, and then, unentranced, I went and found to my great pleasure that Selected Shorts now has podcasts of its shows.
I don't quite know what to say about WireTap and its ilk. A number of adjectives come to mind: postmodern, aleatory, unmediated, improvisatory, and boring. I like the idea of such things, no doubt, but like Communism, this may be the kind of thing that works better in theory than in practice. WHYY wants to broadcast them because they're desperate to get younger people listening before all the current listeners die off. I can understand that. But in the process, 'HYY is making itself less and less necessary to me, without much changing its demographic mix, I suspect. It's like a significant other who's drifting away, getting less significant every day. It was nice, WHYY. We had some good times. Remember when you used to broadcast stuff that was carefully crafted, you know, by writers? That's what I'll remember. Hey, and take care, OK?
Sometimes you're brought up short by some little thing that lets you see what a pretty pass you've come to. Waking up in the drunk tank would be such an experience, I suppose. (I suppose that, OK?) But it was brought home to me today that I really have gotten out of the habit of entertaining at home. The Great Cleanup continues apace, and having dug my living room furniture out from under a decomposing mass of printed matter, I've been working on the dining room table. This morning I picked up an L.L. Bean catalog, a holiday shopping one, as it happened. "Guide to Christmas Gifts," it said on the top left, and then there was a line, a "rule," as graphic designers say, and then a number, which was 2007. Sigh! But after all, better late than never, right?
Hey, Happy New Year! I just started reading Malcolm Lowry's Under the Volcano, as distinguished from anyone else's Under the Volcano, and right at the beginning two characters toast each other and it seemed as good a toast as any. "Salud y pesetas," the one days. "Y tiempo para gustarlas," says the other. Health and money, and the time to enjoy them, is what I'm pretty sure that means.
As good a toast as any, certainly, but I think the Hebrew one, L'chaim, is the first among equals in blending acceptance, optimism, comprehensiveness, and concision. So that's what I'll raise a glass to (it's just past midnight here in good old Kennett Square, Pennsylvania, USA), and I hope you'll clink with me wherever you are. To life, gang. I hope yours is filled with health, money, the time to enjoy them, and whatever else your heart desires.
As good a toast as any, certainly, but I think the Hebrew one, L'chaim, is the first among equals in blending acceptance, optimism, comprehensiveness, and concision. So that's what I'll raise a glass to (it's just past midnight here in good old Kennett Square, Pennsylvania, USA), and I hope you'll clink with me wherever you are. To life, gang. I hope yours is filled with health, money, the time to enjoy them, and whatever else your heart desires.
