Slate's article "Overrated" sent me back for what I think is the inspiration for many online articles: The Book of Lists, published in 1977 and edited by David Wallechinsky, Irving Wallace, Amy Wallace ("and their dog Wally" according to the National Lampoon). It's just a book of lists, each well researched and with a light tone that's minus the superior attitude that infects much current writing. Online, the structure of the list has become ubiquitous to the point where it seems there's no other. There's little overall context and none of the protracted thought an essay requires, but they're easy to produce and read and that's what the Information Superhighway is about: Info and speed.
But in 1977 it was an innovative way to structure information. The Book Of Lists was so full of details and ideas that I even read, numerous times, about subjects I didn't care about (sports). It was also a great way to learn about sex.*
I remember as a kid seeing the below list and thinking "Ugh. I hope I never have to read one of those for school." Of course now there are several on the list I look forward to eventually tackling, boredom be damned.
The 15 Most Boring Classics
Based on a 1950 survey of readers taken by the Columbia University Press bulletin, The Pleasures of Publishing.
1. Pilgrim's Progress by John Bunyan
2. Moby Dick by Herman Melville
3. Paradise Lost by John Milton
4. Faerie Queene by Edmund Spencer
5. Life of Samuel Johnson by James Boswell
6. Pamela by Samuel Richardson
7. Silas Mariner by George Eliot
8. Ivanhoe by Sir Walter Scott (sounds more like Dickens to me)**
9. Don Quixote by Miguel de Cervantes
10. Faust by Johan Wolfgang von Goethe
11. War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy
12. Remembrance of Things Past by Marcel Proust
13. Das Kapital by Karl Marx
14. Vanity Fair by William Makepeace Thackeray
15. The Mill on the Floss by George Eliot
Some thoughts: a number of these books were mention at Slate, either in the main article or the reader comments. Given the fact that this survey was conducted 61 years ago, my thesis that contemporary readers want entertainment and equate books with television or the internet doesn't really hold water. Another theory: maybe these books are really boring, or rather frustrate reader expectations to the point of diminishing returns. You have to be really interested in 19th century whaling practices to finish Moby Dick, for example.
Four of the books are translated works, which makes me wonder if the fault is the translator's rather than the author's. It seems like the standard for translations in the first half of last century was to make the work "literary" which often meant wordy and obtuse. The works by Cervantes, Proust and Tolstoy have since been published in new, lauded editions. I wonder if they would still make the list. Possibly, as they are all very long works.
Does anyone still read Eliot, Richardson, Thackeray or Scott? Even in school or university? Those are novels that have fallen completely out of fashion, possibly because the conventional wisdom is that they are dreadfully boring. There's been too much of interest in literature in the last 60 years for people to still be slogging through Ivanhoe.
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* Thank you David, Irving and Amy.
** You bastard!
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
Being Boring
This past Thursday, Slate.com posted "Overrated: Authors, critics, and editors on "great books" that aren't all that great." My initial reaction was "Oh Jesus. Again?" I have not been keeping track, but it seems like I have read countless "Classic Books That Suck" articles online. I know an article like this is perfect solution for the slow days of mid-August. Email some writers, ask them to send a paragraph about a classic they hate, copy, paste, post, voila! Something to fill time and space while what's left of the publishing industry is on vacation.
I could point out the duplicity of one media criticizing the supposed achievments of another, especially one which it desperately seeks to usurp, but most likely it's just a matter of websites earning money from page hits, so the more page hits they can generate with either "controversial" articles or by encouraging readers to submit their comments and bicker with each other, the better. The better for them, that is. Ultimately the whole exercise becomes dispiriting.
There was a time when it was exciting to find contrary opinions online, provided some reasons why, rather than just knee jerk antipathy, were included. Anyone who is well read can think of an author or a classic novel they dislike. For example: I can't stand Jane Austen's work. I've had numerous people explain why she's a "great writer" and while I can intellectually appreciate their arguments, I still find her voice smug and her characters annoying.
On a small scale, it can be cathartic to pronounce your individual taste when it contradicts conventional wisdom. But on a large scale, it seems less about individuals with unique opinions and more about "let's piss on literature!" "Everything they told you was good is garbage!" After reading the article and attendant comments, I decided to print it as a pdf in order to easily scan the material, perhaps including one or two of the more imbecilic remarks on Vox Plops. I was trying to avoid Slate.com's annoying format quirk that forces you to click on a "more comments" button after every 10 or so entries. In pdf form, however, I was facing 70 pages of people essentially saying "Okay, but you know what book I hate?" I re-read about 15 pages before deciding I had had enough. More than enough, to be accurate.
There were some bright spots and flashes of insight. My interest in Thomas Mann's The Magic Mountain has been renewed. One person pointed out that even though he doesn't know it, Holden Caulfield is grieving for his older brother and not just suffering from teenage ennui. Catcher In The Rye, along with Ulysses, seems to be a particular target; they're two novels that really piss people off, probably due to not only with their reputations, but how much their admirers love those books. They don't just inspire fans. They create obsessives. People who take the arts seriously define themselves by what they like and what they don't. People who hate Salinger or Joyce's novels (different from hating, say, Crime and Punishment) are reacting not only to the books' status in society, but in individual reader's lives.
Unless I'm projecting, hidden within the various criticisms is the complaint "I was not entertained by this novel. I expect to be entertained. I could have been spent the time doing something else, but instead I read this book which did not entertain me. Therefore, this book sucks." I'm not arguing that people shouldn't think of reading as pleasure or entertainment and I'm certainly not arguing that people should be bored by their leisure activities, which, once you're out of school, is most likely what reading is. But the idea that "not being entertained = boredom = bad" saddens me. I know I'm being reductive but I couldn't help but see most of the comments as customer complaints, the ire of consumers who didn't get what they want. I don't recall any work of literature making such a promise to the reader.
I could point out the duplicity of one media criticizing the supposed achievments of another, especially one which it desperately seeks to usurp, but most likely it's just a matter of websites earning money from page hits, so the more page hits they can generate with either "controversial" articles or by encouraging readers to submit their comments and bicker with each other, the better. The better for them, that is. Ultimately the whole exercise becomes dispiriting.
There was a time when it was exciting to find contrary opinions online, provided some reasons why, rather than just knee jerk antipathy, were included. Anyone who is well read can think of an author or a classic novel they dislike. For example: I can't stand Jane Austen's work. I've had numerous people explain why she's a "great writer" and while I can intellectually appreciate their arguments, I still find her voice smug and her characters annoying.
On a small scale, it can be cathartic to pronounce your individual taste when it contradicts conventional wisdom. But on a large scale, it seems less about individuals with unique opinions and more about "let's piss on literature!" "Everything they told you was good is garbage!" After reading the article and attendant comments, I decided to print it as a pdf in order to easily scan the material, perhaps including one or two of the more imbecilic remarks on Vox Plops. I was trying to avoid Slate.com's annoying format quirk that forces you to click on a "more comments" button after every 10 or so entries. In pdf form, however, I was facing 70 pages of people essentially saying "Okay, but you know what book I hate?" I re-read about 15 pages before deciding I had had enough. More than enough, to be accurate.
There were some bright spots and flashes of insight. My interest in Thomas Mann's The Magic Mountain has been renewed. One person pointed out that even though he doesn't know it, Holden Caulfield is grieving for his older brother and not just suffering from teenage ennui. Catcher In The Rye, along with Ulysses, seems to be a particular target; they're two novels that really piss people off, probably due to not only with their reputations, but how much their admirers love those books. They don't just inspire fans. They create obsessives. People who take the arts seriously define themselves by what they like and what they don't. People who hate Salinger or Joyce's novels (different from hating, say, Crime and Punishment) are reacting not only to the books' status in society, but in individual reader's lives.
Unless I'm projecting, hidden within the various criticisms is the complaint "I was not entertained by this novel. I expect to be entertained. I could have been spent the time doing something else, but instead I read this book which did not entertain me. Therefore, this book sucks." I'm not arguing that people shouldn't think of reading as pleasure or entertainment and I'm certainly not arguing that people should be bored by their leisure activities, which, once you're out of school, is most likely what reading is. But the idea that "not being entertained = boredom = bad" saddens me. I know I'm being reductive but I couldn't help but see most of the comments as customer complaints, the ire of consumers who didn't get what they want. I don't recall any work of literature making such a promise to the reader.
Monday, August 15, 2011
Not Only, But Also
In addition to posting sporadically upon this very blog, I also grace this site and this one with my wit and wisdom, provided I can either segment it in seven pieces or react to other's comments online.
For those too lazy to click, understand that I know where their sloth or entropy comes from:
7 Promises I've Yet to Follow Through On
By The King of Empty Promises
1. To burn the five episodes of the BBC's The Story of Ireland I download to dvd for my mother.
Promise made this past spring.
2. To burn the vhs of XTC videos lovingly collected by my friend Ben to a dvd for my friend Dave.
Promise made in January, 2011.
3. To loan my friend Bob the audiobook of David Cross' I Drink For A Reason that I had borrowed from the library.
Promise unfulfilled: I had to return the audiobook to the library.
4. To copy my dvd of Los Angeles Plays Itself for my friend Steve.
Promise made May 2011.
5. To burn some Betty Hutton movies to dvd for my friend Stacey.
Promise made November 1, 2010. Burned three movies to disc, have yet to give them to Stacey.
6. To loan my friend Kenny my copy of The Saragossa Manuscript.
Promise made in 2010, along with open-ended promise to get together for "movie night."
7. To post a list of 7 of 7Now! on a regular basis.
Promise made to my friend Karl in 2007. 2007? Good Lord!
For those too lazy to click, understand that I know where their sloth or entropy comes from:
7 Promises I've Yet to Follow Through On
By The King of Empty Promises
1. To burn the five episodes of the BBC's The Story of Ireland I download to dvd for my mother.
Promise made this past spring.
2. To burn the vhs of XTC videos lovingly collected by my friend Ben to a dvd for my friend Dave.
Promise made in January, 2011.
3. To loan my friend Bob the audiobook of David Cross' I Drink For A Reason that I had borrowed from the library.
Promise unfulfilled: I had to return the audiobook to the library.
4. To copy my dvd of Los Angeles Plays Itself for my friend Steve.
Promise made May 2011.
5. To burn some Betty Hutton movies to dvd for my friend Stacey.
Promise made November 1, 2010. Burned three movies to disc, have yet to give them to Stacey.
6. To loan my friend Kenny my copy of The Saragossa Manuscript.
Promise made in 2010, along with open-ended promise to get together for "movie night."
7. To post a list of 7 of 7Now! on a regular basis.
Promise made to my friend Karl in 2007. 2007? Good Lord!
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Wednesday, July 06, 2011
Monday, June 27, 2011
Friday, June 24, 2011
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Have You Tried Your Foot? I Understand It Is A Delicacy
The below is excerpted from a series of emails among my friends. Names deleted out of basic decency.
>>Might I point out my friend G. and her relationship with K....totally in his destructive grip.
>Hasn't he died yet!!!???
>>Yes, he did die. He fell down the stairs while he was visiting his family in Sweden. He might have been drinking ;)
>Ooooo... um, so I was totally kidding about him dying. I'm an ass!
>>Lol it's ok, it happened over a year ago. She moved to Sweden shortly after.
Things that make me laugh about the above exchange:
1) "Hasn't he died yet?" sounds exactly like the sort of contemptuous thing I would say about someone I strongly disliked. It's reassuring to see I'm not the only one who commits faux pas like this.
2) The cheeky "He might have been drinking" is both jaunty and cruel. To top it off, his death is reported with a winking smiley face emoticon.
3) The mortification upon reading the news comes through. The person who wrote it is a genuinely good person and I'm sure she blanched and crumbled a bit as she wrote those words.
4) The final line, while reassuring, reads like a non sequitur. Like Italian widows wearing black, one year is the expected period of time that should lapse before you start taking pleasure in another person's death or reporting it with smiley faces.
>>Might I point out my friend G. and her relationship with K....totally in his destructive grip.
>Hasn't he died yet!!!???
>>Yes, he did die. He fell down the stairs while he was visiting his family in Sweden. He might have been drinking ;)
>Ooooo... um, so I was totally kidding about him dying. I'm an ass!
>>Lol it's ok, it happened over a year ago. She moved to Sweden shortly after.
Things that make me laugh about the above exchange:
1) "Hasn't he died yet?" sounds exactly like the sort of contemptuous thing I would say about someone I strongly disliked. It's reassuring to see I'm not the only one who commits faux pas like this.
2) The cheeky "He might have been drinking" is both jaunty and cruel. To top it off, his death is reported with a winking smiley face emoticon.
3) The mortification upon reading the news comes through. The person who wrote it is a genuinely good person and I'm sure she blanched and crumbled a bit as she wrote those words.
4) The final line, while reassuring, reads like a non sequitur. Like Italian widows wearing black, one year is the expected period of time that should lapse before you start taking pleasure in another person's death or reporting it with smiley faces.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Forty Days of Lent: Day 40
So today was the first full day in New York after being in Hawaii. I slept late, transferred photos to the computer, cleaned the apartment. I went for a walk over the Williamsburg Bridge and into Manhattan but all I could focus on was the color of the city, the steel grey and dark blues, the drab look created when everything looks desaturated, the color muted and softened. I missed the bright blue sky, the aqua blue of the Pacific, and green. God I missed the color green.
I went to my favored haunts, looking for the comfort or routine inherent in a beloved restaurant bookstore or dive bar. Had one of the bartenders told me a personal bit of gossip about another one of the bartenders, not the sort of thing he would probably want people knowing, or had I simply misheard him?
I woke a little after 4:00, headed to the bathroom and saw something I can't quite explain: soft white light in a circular form, hazy and indistinct, was shining against the glass shower doors. It didn't look like the light was on the doors but was instead floating over the bathtub. I've gotten up in the wee small hours to use the bathroom but had never seen anything like this. I wasn't able to get back to sleep.
I went to my favored haunts, looking for the comfort or routine inherent in a beloved restaurant bookstore or dive bar. Had one of the bartenders told me a personal bit of gossip about another one of the bartenders, not the sort of thing he would probably want people knowing, or had I simply misheard him?
I woke a little after 4:00, headed to the bathroom and saw something I can't quite explain: soft white light in a circular form, hazy and indistinct, was shining against the glass shower doors. It didn't look like the light was on the doors but was instead floating over the bathtub. I've gotten up in the wee small hours to use the bathroom but had never seen anything like this. I wasn't able to get back to sleep.
Saturday, April 09, 2011
Forty Days of Lent: Day 32
Kauai, Hawaii
I'm at the airport waiting at the gate and while I strive to be charitable, I can't help but see the human race as an endless freak show. I see a girl with with a horrible dark scar across her face and instinctively look away. Upon sneaking a second glance I realize she just has her hair in her face. Perhaps I'm tired. I don't fly well.
I lose the bottle of water to airport security. I suspect the "no more than 3 ounces of a liquid may be taken on the plane" rule is more of a sop to airports and shops from which they get revenue. The first thing I see after getting through security is a store where you can re-buy anything taken away from you. In addition to replenishing my water, I buy what I think of as my "I hate to fly" kit, including ear plugs for the descent, hoping to God that maybe this time my eardrums will stay where they belong. Tylenol PM was recommended as a sleep aid by a coworker, but I can't find any.
"Can I help you?" the girl behind the counter asks.
No point in lying. "I need something to knock me out. I was looking for Tylenol PM, but you don't seem to have it."
"How about the Unisom Sleepgels? They're supposed to make you sleep."
They work, but only for a couple of hours and then I feel groggy and restless, which I wouldn't have thought possible.
But we land and are immediately focused on the logistics of getting the rental cars and deciding if we want to open a Costco membership and shop there even though it is about 45 minutes from where we will be staying. It's not until we stop at a beachside restaurant that I realize, as contentment overcomes me, that I am in Hawaii and it is beautiful and that there are chickens wandering around our table.
I've been reading Sarah Vowell's Unfamiliar Fishes, her history of how Hawaii became part of the United States. She focuses on the contrast between New England missionaries and while comparing creation myths writes:
Whereas a few days of lollygagging amidst the foliage is exactly what I want. That and a margarita or two.
I'm at the airport waiting at the gate and while I strive to be charitable, I can't help but see the human race as an endless freak show. I see a girl with with a horrible dark scar across her face and instinctively look away. Upon sneaking a second glance I realize she just has her hair in her face. Perhaps I'm tired. I don't fly well.
I lose the bottle of water to airport security. I suspect the "no more than 3 ounces of a liquid may be taken on the plane" rule is more of a sop to airports and shops from which they get revenue. The first thing I see after getting through security is a store where you can re-buy anything taken away from you. In addition to replenishing my water, I buy what I think of as my "I hate to fly" kit, including ear plugs for the descent, hoping to God that maybe this time my eardrums will stay where they belong. Tylenol PM was recommended as a sleep aid by a coworker, but I can't find any.
"Can I help you?" the girl behind the counter asks.
No point in lying. "I need something to knock me out. I was looking for Tylenol PM, but you don't seem to have it."
"How about the Unisom Sleepgels? They're supposed to make you sleep."
They work, but only for a couple of hours and then I feel groggy and restless, which I wouldn't have thought possible.
But we land and are immediately focused on the logistics of getting the rental cars and deciding if we want to open a Costco membership and shop there even though it is about 45 minutes from where we will be staying. It's not until we stop at a beachside restaurant that I realize, as contentment overcomes me, that I am in Hawaii and it is beautiful and that there are chickens wandering around our table.
I've been reading Sarah Vowell's Unfamiliar Fishes, her history of how Hawaii became part of the United States. She focuses on the contrast between New England missionaries and while comparing creation myths writes:
...the fruit of knowledge poisons [people] with fancy ideas and so they are cast out of a garden bearing a striking resemblance to the island of Kauai. (Though having been to the pleasantly sleepy Kauai, I can see how after a few days of lollygagging amidst the foliage, a woman would bite into just about anything to scare up something to read.)
Whereas a few days of lollygagging amidst the foliage is exactly what I want. That and a margarita or two.
Friday, April 08, 2011
Forty Days of Lent: Day 31
I had forgotten how much Americans (real Americans, not your New York smarty-pants types but real Americans) love sports. Even the women. I remembered this at the airport hotel bar where I overheard a number of people bonding over The Game. Apparently, real Americans have trouble figuring out how to use hotel elevators, too. There were a series of episodes of The Sopranos in which Tony's stasis between life and after-life was represented by showing him stuck in a hotel. I think I know how he felt.
I am heading to Kaua'i, Hawaii, which, if it is the after-life, it's obviously paradise. The trip sort of fell into my lap: my friend Suzie invited me unexpectedly, though I'm hoping from now on, habitually. The invite, however, came three days after I had bought my tickets to London, forcing me to reenact three times, once per boss, the rehearsed and humbled speech: "I have the opportunity to stay for free for a week in Hawaii. Unfortunately, it is just a mon after I return from London and Paris. I have the vacation time, but even I recognize this is pushing it..." Happily, they all agreed, one of them stopping me short after the word "Hawaii" by saying "Oh, you gotta go."
Packing my clothes takes next to no time, especially as "just bring shorts and tshirts. No long pants!" was emphasized. I spent much more time (much more) trying to figure out what books to bring and what music and movies to add to my iPad. Another question subjected to my inner deliberation was whether to take my bag with me to work and leave from there or return home before going to the airport. Each option had its advantages and while it seems like not that big a deal, I really put a lot of thought into each scenario before finally deciding to leave the luggage at home for the day.
It was a good thing I had. When got home, I could hear the irritating high pitched whistle: my alarm had been set off, but was not in full blast annoying alert the police mode. I could also hear that Allan, my downstairs neighbor, was playing NPR much louder than normal, in an attempt to drown out the whistle. My landlord had, once again, set off the alarm when he let the exterminator in the apartment. Had I gone straight to the airport after work, the alarm would have been whistling nonstop all week long. I hope it's not going off now.
I am heading to Kaua'i, Hawaii, which, if it is the after-life, it's obviously paradise. The trip sort of fell into my lap: my friend Suzie invited me unexpectedly, though I'm hoping from now on, habitually. The invite, however, came three days after I had bought my tickets to London, forcing me to reenact three times, once per boss, the rehearsed and humbled speech: "I have the opportunity to stay for free for a week in Hawaii. Unfortunately, it is just a mon after I return from London and Paris. I have the vacation time, but even I recognize this is pushing it..." Happily, they all agreed, one of them stopping me short after the word "Hawaii" by saying "Oh, you gotta go."
Packing my clothes takes next to no time, especially as "just bring shorts and tshirts. No long pants!" was emphasized. I spent much more time (much more) trying to figure out what books to bring and what music and movies to add to my iPad. Another question subjected to my inner deliberation was whether to take my bag with me to work and leave from there or return home before going to the airport. Each option had its advantages and while it seems like not that big a deal, I really put a lot of thought into each scenario before finally deciding to leave the luggage at home for the day.
It was a good thing I had. When got home, I could hear the irritating high pitched whistle: my alarm had been set off, but was not in full blast annoying alert the police mode. I could also hear that Allan, my downstairs neighbor, was playing NPR much louder than normal, in an attempt to drown out the whistle. My landlord had, once again, set off the alarm when he let the exterminator in the apartment. Had I gone straight to the airport after work, the alarm would have been whistling nonstop all week long. I hope it's not going off now.
Thursday, April 07, 2011
Forty Days of Lent: Day 30
Forward Into The Past
Those of you who read this blog (perhaps I should say "both of you") will have no doubt noticed that I've fallen behind, way behind, with this year's Lenten entries. I'm typing this while looking at a calm Pacific Ocean on my last day in Hawaii, but I can't offer this trip as an excuse:. I was slipping even before I began packing my bag. My tardiness isn't due to lack of ideas or things to write about, either. It's just that unlike previous years, I couldn't make writing habitual, the real reason for taking in this task every spring.
Some, or both, of you may have also noticed that postings suddenly appear dated a few days ago, even though you know you checked the blog* (thank you, by the way) on that day and there was nada. Well, one of the better features about Blogger is that you can alter the date and time of any entry, which offers interesting possibilities for making yourself seem more prescient than you really are or altering your past so it harmonizes more with your present. Me, I'll be using this handy feature to fill in my 40 Days of Lent postings as I want rather than in chronological order. For example, I'm more interested in writing about this week's trip to Hawaii than I am in posting about Godspell or Elizabeth Taylor, so I will write about that first and then go back and post something on each of the earlier days that I missed.
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* Due to either autocorrect or a typo, this originally read as "blob," which come to think of it, might be the more accurate word.
Those of you who read this blog (perhaps I should say "both of you") will have no doubt noticed that I've fallen behind, way behind, with this year's Lenten entries. I'm typing this while looking at a calm Pacific Ocean on my last day in Hawaii, but I can't offer this trip as an excuse:. I was slipping even before I began packing my bag. My tardiness isn't due to lack of ideas or things to write about, either. It's just that unlike previous years, I couldn't make writing habitual, the real reason for taking in this task every spring.
Some, or both, of you may have also noticed that postings suddenly appear dated a few days ago, even though you know you checked the blog* (thank you, by the way) on that day and there was nada. Well, one of the better features about Blogger is that you can alter the date and time of any entry, which offers interesting possibilities for making yourself seem more prescient than you really are or altering your past so it harmonizes more with your present. Me, I'll be using this handy feature to fill in my 40 Days of Lent postings as I want rather than in chronological order. For example, I'm more interested in writing about this week's trip to Hawaii than I am in posting about Godspell or Elizabeth Taylor, so I will write about that first and then go back and post something on each of the earlier days that I missed.
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* Due to either autocorrect or a typo, this originally read as "blob," which come to think of it, might be the more accurate word.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
40 Days of Lent: Day Twelve
New Murals in the Neighborhood
It may not feel like spring yet but there's new murals in the neighborhood. I made sure I got pictures before they were ruined by people writing all over them.
It may not feel like spring yet but there's new murals in the neighborhood. I made sure I got pictures before they were ruined by people writing all over them.
Saturday, March 19, 2011
40 Days of Lent: Day Eleven
The first thing I saw this morning when getting off the subway was a middle aged man with a dark smear of ash on his forehead. "Wait a minute" I immediately thought "is it Ash Wednesday? It can't be. We just had Ash Wednesday." A long moment ensued in which I was completely thrown off my bearings, as if the past two weeks were just a dream. I tried to reorient myself in time: "today is Friday, I'm going to Hawaii next Saturday, Ash Wednesday was a couple of weeks ago, I got ashes at St. Pat's..."
I looked again at the man. What I had mistaken for ash was in fact a large dark mole. Relieved, I thought "he should have that looked at, cause it may not be healthy and it's confusing the hell out of people around him."
I looked again at the man. What I had mistaken for ash was in fact a large dark mole. Relieved, I thought "he should have that looked at, cause it may not be healthy and it's confusing the hell out of people around him."
Friday, March 18, 2011
40 Days Of Lent: Day Ten
Possibility of More Karma
I didn't buy gifts for many people while visiting London and Paris. What I did get, I got as impulse buys. "Oh, here's an [object]. [Person] loves [object]s. I'll get it for them. They'll love it!" For what it's worth, I didn't buy myself that much either.
However, I did make a point of bringing back coins in a variety of denominations as a gift for one of my boss's kids. He's become fascinated by currency and money (the words "apple," "far" and "tree" come to mind), particularly money from other countries. His older brother, on the other hand, is the artist of the family and likes making things, including a Lego picture frame that's much nicer than it sounds.
While pouring the pile of coins onto my boss's desk I suddenly saw my future. Inspired by this gift, his kid will grow up to work in finance - perhaps currency exchange - and become wealthy whereas I inevitably will end up lying in a gutter somewhere. Not recognizing me, he will feel compelled to throw me a few coins as he walks past but not know why, and the universe will then be in balance.
It reminds me of another time I saw my future. A friend was complaining about the unseasonably hot weather and asked "why is it so hot all the time all of a sudden?" I gave her a rather incredulous look, to which she responded "You don't think it's that, do you? Ugh, I hope not." The irony of the situation is that her husband works as a lawyer for energy companies. Hearing her denial, I flash forwarded to see myself crawling across a scorched desert that was probably once a major American metropolis and thinking back on our conversation right before I died.
No, I don't ever see my future as dying peacefully in bed surrounded by my loved ones. Hopefully I'll be pleasantly surprised.
I didn't buy gifts for many people while visiting London and Paris. What I did get, I got as impulse buys. "Oh, here's an [object]. [Person] loves [object]s. I'll get it for them. They'll love it!" For what it's worth, I didn't buy myself that much either.
However, I did make a point of bringing back coins in a variety of denominations as a gift for one of my boss's kids. He's become fascinated by currency and money (the words "apple," "far" and "tree" come to mind), particularly money from other countries. His older brother, on the other hand, is the artist of the family and likes making things, including a Lego picture frame that's much nicer than it sounds.
While pouring the pile of coins onto my boss's desk I suddenly saw my future. Inspired by this gift, his kid will grow up to work in finance - perhaps currency exchange - and become wealthy whereas I inevitably will end up lying in a gutter somewhere. Not recognizing me, he will feel compelled to throw me a few coins as he walks past but not know why, and the universe will then be in balance.
It reminds me of another time I saw my future. A friend was complaining about the unseasonably hot weather and asked "why is it so hot all the time all of a sudden?" I gave her a rather incredulous look, to which she responded "You don't think it's that, do you? Ugh, I hope not." The irony of the situation is that her husband works as a lawyer for energy companies. Hearing her denial, I flash forwarded to see myself crawling across a scorched desert that was probably once a major American metropolis and thinking back on our conversation right before I died.
No, I don't ever see my future as dying peacefully in bed surrounded by my loved ones. Hopefully I'll be pleasantly surprised.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
40 Days of Lent: Day Nine
Godspell's Probably Inadvertent But Nonetheless Subversive Demonstration Of The Religious Impulse
I've always had a soft spot for Godspell, the musical retelling of the gospel of Matthew done as children's theater. The songs are either undeniably catchy or touching, whether or not you agree with the words. The nonstop mugging of the cast gets on my nerves, but it's balanced by beautiful shots of a depopulated New York City. The Last Supper scene always gets to me, more for its depiction of someone saying goodbye to friends he'll never see again rather than for any New Testament reasons.
However, last time I watched Godspell a little bit of business went by and I thought "Did I just see what I think I saw? They couldn't possibly have meant that the way I'm interpreting it." It is, in just a few seconds, an effective demonstration of the religious impulse, almost a parody of said impulse.
It's about 24 minutes into the movie, during the comedy bits that follow the song "Day By Day." The disciples are cavorting in a junkyard (which is a sentence I can't imagine ever writing again) when we see one of them plant a small twig.
Jesus then comes by and waters the twig.
Unbeknownst to the first disciple, another disciple comes along and replaces the twig with a young tree.
The first disciple, while ignorant of the perfectly normal explanation of what has happened, is amazed at this "miracle."
Rather than look for any logical or natural reason for what occurred, she attributes it to Jesus and His magic...
and becomes His follower.
As mentioned above, I don't think this was intended as anything more than comic business. While this is happening, the other disciples are painting each other's faces and playing with a beat up car. Nothing else in the film is as subversive, but it's hard not to see this little vignette as an example of someone becoming religious because, in their ignorance, they attribute to a god or religious leader something that's actually part of the natural world.
I've always had a soft spot for Godspell, the musical retelling of the gospel of Matthew done as children's theater. The songs are either undeniably catchy or touching, whether or not you agree with the words. The nonstop mugging of the cast gets on my nerves, but it's balanced by beautiful shots of a depopulated New York City. The Last Supper scene always gets to me, more for its depiction of someone saying goodbye to friends he'll never see again rather than for any New Testament reasons.
However, last time I watched Godspell a little bit of business went by and I thought "Did I just see what I think I saw? They couldn't possibly have meant that the way I'm interpreting it." It is, in just a few seconds, an effective demonstration of the religious impulse, almost a parody of said impulse.
It's about 24 minutes into the movie, during the comedy bits that follow the song "Day By Day." The disciples are cavorting in a junkyard (which is a sentence I can't imagine ever writing again) when we see one of them plant a small twig.
Jesus then comes by and waters the twig.
Unbeknownst to the first disciple, another disciple comes along and replaces the twig with a young tree.
The first disciple, while ignorant of the perfectly normal explanation of what has happened, is amazed at this "miracle."
Rather than look for any logical or natural reason for what occurred, she attributes it to Jesus and His magic...
and becomes His follower.
As mentioned above, I don't think this was intended as anything more than comic business. While this is happening, the other disciples are painting each other's faces and playing with a beat up car. Nothing else in the film is as subversive, but it's hard not to see this little vignette as an example of someone becoming religious because, in their ignorance, they attribute to a god or religious leader something that's actually part of the natural world.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
40 Days Of Lent: Day Eight
Karma
When I'm keeping my hair short, I go to a cheap barbershop and tell them to sse the #6 guide on the clippers and that it's just like mowing a lawn. However, whenever I decide to grow my hair a little longer, or to be more accurate, lumpier, I go to the rockabilly themed barbershop that's about a half hour's walk from my apartment. I make an appointment with D. and I'm usually happy with the results.
But there is a twist. With D., the longer you can keep him engaged in conversation, the better the haircut you get, so it's best to come prepared with a couple of topics to discuss. I hadn't realized this until one time D. was either talked out or not in a social mood. Then my haircut consisted of clip-clip-clip okay you're done. That's it? Yeah, that's it.
Beyond the obvious benefit to my coif, I enjoy talking with D. for as long as possible because he's an entertaining conversationalist. He once swore me to secrecy before telling his idea for a novel. Upon hearing the idea I regretted my promise and wished I was the sort of person who stole ideas. It was that good. Another time, his story of the police trying and failing to arrest a local drug dealer slowly evolved from "guess what happened in the neighborhood today" to a great unfilmed Keystone Kop misadventure. "He looks like...Stan Laurel" D. said of the drug dealer, an image that still makes me laugh.
So while getting my hair cut last week, I was able to keep D.'s attention for a good long time with stories about my recent trip to London and Paris. "You took your mom? That's so sweet! I'd love to take my mom and dad on a trip overseas, but one at a time, thank you. Not together."
This seems to be the definition of karma: do something nice like take someone on a trip and the universe rewards you with a better haircut. On the other hand, last time I saw my sister, she asked "Did you get a haircut?" Hearing yes, she looked it over before asking in earnest "Did you do it yourself?"
When I'm keeping my hair short, I go to a cheap barbershop and tell them to sse the #6 guide on the clippers and that it's just like mowing a lawn. However, whenever I decide to grow my hair a little longer, or to be more accurate, lumpier, I go to the rockabilly themed barbershop that's about a half hour's walk from my apartment. I make an appointment with D. and I'm usually happy with the results.
But there is a twist. With D., the longer you can keep him engaged in conversation, the better the haircut you get, so it's best to come prepared with a couple of topics to discuss. I hadn't realized this until one time D. was either talked out or not in a social mood. Then my haircut consisted of clip-clip-clip okay you're done. That's it? Yeah, that's it.
Beyond the obvious benefit to my coif, I enjoy talking with D. for as long as possible because he's an entertaining conversationalist. He once swore me to secrecy before telling his idea for a novel. Upon hearing the idea I regretted my promise and wished I was the sort of person who stole ideas. It was that good. Another time, his story of the police trying and failing to arrest a local drug dealer slowly evolved from "guess what happened in the neighborhood today" to a great unfilmed Keystone Kop misadventure. "He looks like...Stan Laurel" D. said of the drug dealer, an image that still makes me laugh.
So while getting my hair cut last week, I was able to keep D.'s attention for a good long time with stories about my recent trip to London and Paris. "You took your mom? That's so sweet! I'd love to take my mom and dad on a trip overseas, but one at a time, thank you. Not together."
This seems to be the definition of karma: do something nice like take someone on a trip and the universe rewards you with a better haircut. On the other hand, last time I saw my sister, she asked "Did you get a haircut?" Hearing yes, she looked it over before asking in earnest "Did you do it yourself?"
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Monday, March 14, 2011
40 Days of Lent: Day Six
Want to check your email but you got your period? No problem!
Seen near the Pompidou Center.
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