Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Tom actually feels sorry for them. He’s so tender-hearted. He thinks the choice was such a monumental goof that McCain is probably already regretting it. And of course, Palin is already being dragged over the coals and the fun has just begun. Surely she’s going to wonder what she’s got herself into. And you gotta figure Bristol is none too pleased with her mom at the moment.
Of course you know that as avid a Hillary supporter as I was, there’s no friggin’ way I’d vote for the McCain-Palin ticket on the basis of genitalia. So put that idea out of your head right now, right here, immediately and you should be ashamed of yourself for even thinking it, if you did.
In truth, while nothing could persuade me to vote Republican, I could have respected McCain's decision to put a woman on the ballot if he had chosen, say Kay Bailey Hutchison or Olympia Snowe, who at least have some chops. That would have been a much better transparent play for on-the-fence Hillary voters than Palin. It wouldn't have worked, IMO, but it would have made a lot more sense and been a lot less insulting.
However, I suspect some of my friends think the seemingly misguided choice of Palin is a slam-dunk for Democrats (if I may mix my sports metaphors). I wish I could feel that confident but I am cautiously optimistic at best.
Maybe it’s easy to feel triumphant if you’re a liberal Democrat in Noo Yawk City, surrounded by others of your ilk. But down here in the Red State Bible Belt, things are not so clear cut. Maybe people who believe in the sort of weird family values folderol that the right wing spouts are just mythological horned creatures to my Yankee buds, but they are real down here.
You don’t think anyone can possibly believe Palin to be a good choice, but can you imagine thinking the way the extreme right thinks about, well, anything? That abstinence education is an effective substitute for sex education? That same-sex marriage is a threat to heterosexual marriage? That the right to bear arms should include AK-47s?
As insane as Palin seems as a running mate for one of the oldest first-term presidential candidates ever (Reagan was older when he ran for his second term), we cannot for a second forget that this nation elected W. Twice.
What are they thinking? I haven't a clue. Do you?
Don’t celebrate yet.
Here are some of the blog posts and op-eds that speak to me on this issue.
My friend Christine's blog post about Palin and her family values makes a lot of sense to me.
NYT columnist Bob Herbert suggests that Palin is just another clever distraction from the real issues of our time—she’s the flag burning gay marriage red herring of this year’s election. Yeah, we certainly are distracted.
And here, LAT columnist Sam Harris wonders why anyone would want an average person--even such a sanctified person as a mommy--in such a powerful position. An excellent question.
And in case you missed last night’s Daily Show, this just slayed me:
monday this n that
Monday, August 25, 2008
I have an op-ed in today's paper. I have received two reader emails so far. One is a very nice note from a fellow who, it turns out, lives right down the street and designs needlepoints. The other is a racist rant from a fellow named Vance who fled my neighborhood in 1970 and sternly advises me to do the same. Yuck. One hates to admit people like him actually exist. Yuck, yuck, yuck.
I have lots of things to discuss here as soon as I have time ... but I have a busy day ahead and now must dash.
quote du jour
Sunday, August 24, 2008
They scream, they sing, they fall down, they take their clothes off, they cross-dress, they vomit.
(Who? Brits in Greece.)
In fact, Tom and I witnessed small-scale British bad behavior flying out of the island of Lesbos several years ago. The airport terminal was full of loud, lumpy underdressed Brits (nobody wants to sit next to your hairy armpits on a small plane) who were sunburned a painful pink everyplace they weren't pasty. We were relieved when they boarded another plane.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Then I read this story in my paper today, about a guy who is being told he can't park his new truck in his own driveway, and it just makes me want to go to Frisco and kick some suburban idiot ass. It makes me want to park my crappy old Honda on the streets of this gated community and leave it there. Or better yet, Tom's tired old Ford F-150, just to make the point. I suppose if you choose to live in a gated community with a homeowners association you are agreeing to abide by the rules ... but that doesn't make people suck any less.
Speaking of you are what you drive, I did enjoy Terry Box's column today, about driving a muscle car.
More buyouts coming at the Dallas Morning News. Wednesday is the deadline for decisions. Then the layoffs start again. Woe is us.
sunday paper wtfs
Sunday, August 10, 2008
First of all, my clan is rarely busting with enthusiasm. They also live far away. And we don’t own a badminton net—just a croquet set we never use. I’m beginning to suspect the stars don’t know what they’re talking about.
You may have seen this story in your own morning paper, if you read a morning paper, which you probably don’t, which explains the state of newspapers in the U.S. today. It’s all about this lady who had her pit bull cloned in South Korea, which got a lot of news coverage. As a result, she was recognized as having skipped bail after kidnapping a Mormon missionary 31 years ago and handcuffing him to a bed and using him as a sex slave.
At the time, she told a judge, “I loved him so much that I would ski naked down Mount Everest in the nude with a carnation up my nose if he asked me to.”
Here’s a column about the day the moving sidewalks weren’t working at Love Field. Thank goodness for rolling suitcases! This writer managed to squeeze 618 words out on the topic, which is impressive in its own way, I suppose. On the other hand—WTF? You get what you pay for, I guess. She’s a “volunteer columnist.”
Finally … not only does the hat look silly, but it’s going to be 104 degrees in Dallas today. Just looking at this picture makes my head itch.
little girls and gang signs
Monday, July 14, 2008
That's a relief.
must we say good-bye to the road trip?
Friday, July 4, 2008
No, really. I know that’s what they were because I saw miniature asses races at the State Fair of Texas one year. They’re cute little donkeys, they look like plush Eeyores, only happier. They were grazing in a big field under a blue, blue sky studded with cartoon clouds.
I was driving by on Texas highway 281, en route from Austin home. I was taking the back roads because Willy Nelson was having a big blowout at Carl’s Corner, on I-35, the main highway. So instead of coping with mind-numbing traffic, I was meandering through small towns, past "hay for sale--square or round bales" signs and roadside fireworks stands and occasionally someone selling peaches and watermelons from the back of a truck. (I should have stopped but that’s tough for me when I get moving.)
I had my mouth set on a Whataburger, but couldn’t find any on this highway so I finally opted for Dairy Queen and was enjoying a Hungr-Buster Junior and Raul Malo on the iPod when I passed those cute little miniature asses.
I don’t care what anyone says, nothing beats a road trip.
I understand that the road trip might lose favor as we become more cognizant of the damage our fuel guzzling ways have wrought, and as gas gets increasingly dear. (I was pleased to have filled up a $3.93 9/10 a gallon, the cheapest gas I saw all the way home, except for the $1.83 sign still up at a long-abandoned gas station. Funny how pennies differences matter to us in this context and no other.)
So I was bummed by this cranky op-ed Michael Paterniti. The New York Times asked several writers to reflect on the consequences, good and bad, of gas prices and a diatribe against the road trip was what Paterniti came up with.
It made me sad and annoyed because I don’t understand dichotomous thinking that says if the stay trip is good then the road trip is bad. I like them both. I have two favorite ways to vacation. One is a long road trip fueled by gummy bears, beef jerky and tunes. The other is a rental cottage or apartment, where I can settle in, learn a place in microcosm and pretend to be a local.
But the road trip is my true love. My first real trip was across the United States with two girlfriends in a baby blue Plymouth Duster. I then moved on to the Greyhound bus, an alternate form of road trip. Then, I got a car. (Yeah—I didn’t learn to drive until I was 19 years old and didn’t own a car until I was 22.)
Nothing, nothing, nothing is better than seeing the country in large scale and small (Texas plains and miniature asses) through a windshield, than singing along with the radio, than road food and road thoughts and, if you have companionship, road conversations. As the body wanders so does the mind.
My alternate route yesterday took two hours longer than the usual route (five hours instead of three) and admittedly, I was a crispy critter when I finally reached my own driveway. The drive also drank half a tank of gas, about $25 worth in my car. And it gave me a Yeti-sized carbon footprint for that one day.
So I understand that the road trip may be an American icon to be relegated to history. I understand that and I hate it and if I must give it up, will do so with deep sadness. When I am old—really old—I will sit in a rocking chair and reminisce about the days when I could just get in my car and go—looking for America and finding it.
Do you like my new business card?
more on money
Sunday, June 29, 2008
So far, email on my frugality op-ed has been almost completely positive, except for the one I mentioned. I got another email from the same guy suggesting my column was less about being frugal than being envious. Well, sure. I've never made a secret that envy is my Deadly Sin of choice. I envy people with money, yup, sure do. I particularly envy people who have money they don't have to actually work for. Wow, wouldn't that be nice?
Still, I've made my choices and it's just nice to be on what feels like winning side of the economy for once.
(BTW, the fellow who emailed concerned about my state of mind commented on an "undertow" of anger in my recent blogs. I told him he flattered me--they were blatantly angry. His concern was really nice, though.)
on being broke
Saturday, June 28, 2008
No, not really, but my op-ed in today's Dallas Morning News welcomes the rest of the world to my way of life.
So far, emails from readers have been mostly positive, with one exception, from a man who accused me of getting satisfaction from the "suffering" of others. I wrote back that he needed to define "suffering." Living within one's means isn't suffering...it's sensible, and if cutting back is that difficult then I guess I do feel sorry for you, and not because you're having to cut back but because it's so painful for you. Time for some soul-searching? Read Mary's companion column about the satisfaction to be found in frugal living. Atta girl!
Another reader, who says he and his wife also life frugally, points out that it appears those who have lived beyond their means will be getting government bailouts, as, he suspects, will the boomers who have not saved for retirement--subsidized by all taxpayers. The grasshoppers may win this round, too.
letters from readers
Friday, June 27, 2008
Among the many joys of my morning paper are the letters to the editor. While we do see many, intelligent, thought-provoking letters, nothing delights me and Tom more than the dopey ones. We're mean that way.
We still quote to each other letters we read years ago--like one from a woman who wrote at length about how they were serving snacks at her bank and there is a bank at her supermarket. "My, how things have changed," she concluded.
She wrote it, the editors ran it, we've been laughing at it since.
The last line of these letters, the wrap-up, is invariable the best part because they tend to make sweeping proclamations, quotable for years to come.
Don't just take my word for it...try this:
MEDIA DISCRIMINATION REMAINS!
Anybody out there listening?
Another reader responded to the letter by pointing out that pico de gallo is a lot healthier than BLTs.
And finally, this one has no particularly quotable last line, but it's very special.
I got yr F word, Sarah.
Then again, imagining a league of ladies breastfeeding "with gusto" is pretty amusing.
Monday, June 9, 2008
What struck me as moronic about the whine is that she’s not actually complaining about boomers. She’s complaining about marketing. I was born on the tail-end of the boom but I take no responsibility for such things as art house revivals of the Rosemary's Baby, innocuous if tiresome public radio features about Valerie Solanas' shooting of Andy Warhol, and, if there's a slow week, maybe even an E! special commemorating the marriage of Jackie Kennedy to Aristotle Onassis.
Daum needs to get out of the office sometimes and stop reading so many press releases—she’s starting to confuse media hype with reality. Of course media companies are going to try to make money out of whatever they can. That’s what they do. Not my fault, chickie.
If you want to wallow in your own pop culture, watch music awards shows. I have no idea who any of those young women in trashy clothes are. Don’t know, don’t care. I don’t blame you for that.
It’s all money and marketing, Megan. As soon as Gen X's anniversaries start rolling around, you’re welcome to throw yourself parades if you want. What big important moments would you suggest we celebrate? I’m sure there is someone ready to make money off it. Actually, I can't begin to articulate how little I care about Raiders of the Lost Ark but I heard an awful lot about it recently. I believe that's your fault?
Tom and I agreed that if she’d wanted a truly compelling angle, Daum would have wondered why classic rock has become such a music juggernaut. She touched on this then veered off into dopey, unfocused griping. No radio stations, no television commercials are safe from wheezin’ geezer rock—and I say this as a wheezin’ geezer. Every time we hear a boomer hit on TV, Tom wonders why they dig so far back. To whom are they selling? We keep hearing about that precious 18-35 demographic--so what's with the Bob Dylan and Beatles?
It could be that old rockers have finally decided that they’ve made their point about integrity but you can’t eat integrity for dinner so might as well sell out and cash in. Maybe the dinosaurs are cheaper than today’s music hitmakers so the advertisers are getting while the getting's good?
It could be that these songs became entrenched at a time when we were not overwhelmed by too much music—when songs had a chance to reach large audiences instead of being quick blips in an ever-increasing barrage of blips. It’s hard for anything to be heard among the racket these days and it’s also hard for artists to mature in our increasingly hit-obsessed media industry.
It could be that radio is full of oldies because younger peeps don’t listen to the radio—they’re too busy pirating music online.
Me, I still like listening to the radio, although I find less and less new music to buy that way, so layered is it under the oldies. (And if I have to listen to Heard It Through the Grapevine one more time, there’ll be hell to pay.)
Daum’s essay had my eyes rolling so hard I almost pulled a muscle. Who’s acting self-important? You want to be center of attention? Go ahead. We’re all waiting.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Here is a link to a slideshow. The was before I bought my shmancy new camera so the photos don't thrill me, but they are documentation of a sort.
I was 10 years old in 1968, the year a two-day riot in the town of Derry was the first stone thrown in what came to be known as The Troubles in Northern Ireland. The Troubles went on for 30 years. For nearly all my life, my mental image of Northern Ireland has been grainy newspaper photographs of people standing in rubble, throwing things. To me, Belfast was a mysteriously angry, dangerous place.
The first thing I did upon arriving in Belfast was take a Black Taxi Tour. My guide, Ken Harper, took me along busy streets lined with small shops in the blue-collar neighborhoods where some of those newspaper photographs were taken. The rubble was gone. The rebuilt streets bustled with the mild business of day-to-day life. Ken pointed out locations of bombings, riots and assassinations, informatively but with a whiff of reluctance. “I call this the ‘gloom and doom’ tour,'” he said with a self-conscious chuckle.
We stopped in a quiet Shankill neighborhood of two-story buildings painted with some of Belfast’s famous political murals. I got out of the car and walked across an emerald lawn to stand beneath the most startling of the bunch. It depicted, against a cerulean background, a man in camouflage clothes and black hood holding a machine gun pointed directly at me. Beneath him were the Union Jack-festooned coats of arms for the Nationalist Ulster Defense Union and Ulster Defense Organization.
Those old newspaper photographs started coming into focus.
These murals remain a constant reminder of emotions that run deep and murky, even as Northern Ireland emerges from its Troubles. The Northern Ireland Office has been dangling financial incentives to paint over the most aggressive with cheerier scenes but many murals remain as compelling documents of a complicated history, as does the so-called Peace Line between the Protestant Shankill and the Catholic Falls Road neighborhoods. The Peace Line is being made higher because, Ken said, kids still throw stones at each other. The best hope for the future, he added, is integrated schools, which still are rare.
But the city really has changed since the times when any day could bring bloodshed in the city. “Happy days,” Ken repeated again and again. “My life is improved.”
Ken didn’t limit our tour to gloom and doom; he also showed me the brighter tomorrow. We drove past the dockyards, where the Titanic was built (OK, that’s a little gloomy but it is among Belfast’s claims to fame). The area is being developed into an entertainment complex and the Titanic Signature Project—a Titanic visitor attraction-- is on the drawing board with a projected opening date of 2012, the centenary of the ship’s disastrous sailing. And the port is seeing new life. In 1999, two cruise ships called on Belfast; in 2006, that number was up to 23.
Ken pointed out Malmaison, one of a UK hipster hotel chain, opened in late 2004, adding to what is now about 2,500 hotel rooms in the city, up from just 900 in 1999. Currently, only about 21 percent of tourists to Ireland come to Northern Ireland but the country is girding for a change. Then he dropped me at my hotel, the pleasantly efficient Europa, famous as the most bombed hotel in Europe and also where President Clinton stayed during his 1995 visit to Belfast. “He was treated like a film star,” recalled Ken.
Clinton even flipped the switch on the municipal Christmas tree, I learned from a small plaque outside Belfast’s massive City Hall the day after my tour with Ken. City Hall is one of Belfast’s sights to see, an elaborate 100-year-old Victorian concoction designed by a young man who won a competition for the privilege.
A City Hall tour includes a stop in the imposing oak and royal red council chambers, where we were invited to sit in council chairs. I plopped into the seat of Alex Maskey, Sinn Fein’s longest-serving councilman. I still struggle to wrap my mind around the idea of Sinn Fein as part of a bureaucracy instead of throwing bombs. Perhaps this is why, unlike the rest of Ireland, which is marketed mostly to older Americans, tourism officials in Belfast are interested in reaching young travelers who might not carry memories of the gloom and doom days.
Because whatever its past, today one could easily just focus only on the pleasures of noodling around this compact and low-key European capital of red brick buildings and pleasant pastimes. The city is easily walkable, the locals are friendly and thrilled to welcome tourists. In a few days’ meandering, I puttered in the tony little shops of Lisburn Road, walked among students near Queens College, sat and watched a young couple and two large hounds frolic in the Botanic Gardens. I visited galleries in the historic Cathedral Quarter, pausing to read neighborhood histories on new street-corner interpretive signs.
At the Ormeau Baths Gallery I stumbled upon a well-attended lecture about jewelry design before wandering up to a particularly nice exhibit of modern Korean ceramics. I braved bellowing music to look at faux vintage t-shirts at Cult, a UK chain store for the young and trendy. I ate fish and chips at John Long’s, a classic fish and chips shop of the agreeably ambience-free variety. I peered at yet more grainy photographs of Belfast rubble in the ragtag but absorbing World War II Memorial museum. Northern Ireland is the back door to England and Ireland and Belfast was heavily bombed in the war. Thousands of people were injured or killed, tens of thousands lost their homes. Poor Belfast, bombed from inside and out.
The famous Crown Saloon, across the street from the Europa, also is a survivor of multiple bombings but has been beautifully restored to its gilded glory. Friends and Belfast locals who took me there explained that although it’s a tourist spot, the Crown is known for pouring a good pint of Guinness so I had my first-ever there and found I liked the bitter, creamy brew. I’m told it tastes better in Ireland, although the Irish don’t drink as much Guinness they once did. They’ve gone all wine bar.
At the elaborate Royal Opera House, I saw a popular black comedy, “The History of The Troubles According to My Da.” The show is hilarious, I know, because the audience was rollicking, but I understood only every 17th word through the chewy accents. Still, I gleaned a plot of one ordinary man’s life tangling with the IRA, with prison, with thugs who beat his son to death--all told with humor that, a local explained, bothers some people, who think it’s still too soon to laugh.
One night I went with friends for dinner at Cayenne, a chic restaurant owned by celebrity chefs Paul and Jean Rankin. Over beautifully prepared entrees of duck and venison, we talked about this and that and The Troubles. My friends are both in their ‘30s and grew up knowing nothing but. Things really are different now, they assured me. It’s not just a front for tourists. Their lives are changed.
But I noticed an older man at a nearby table who was listening to our conversation, his brow furrowed with obvious discomfort over our discussion. I realized that troubles running so deep may never be completely aired out. It ain’t over ‘til it’s over.
Still, my image of Belfast has come into sharper focus and it’s a much prettier picture. Happy days. I fervently hope they remain.
The Troubles in brief
What were those Troubles about? It’s not an easy tale to tell, but in brief:
Northern Ireland’s volatile mix of politics, civil rights and religion had Catholic Nationalists fighting Protestant Unionists for civil rights and Irish independence from the British crown. The first riot started when Catholics in Derry marched for fair housing and voting rights.
The Troubles spread to Belfast and escalated with an alphabet soup of ugliness. Paramilitary groups such as the IRA (Irish Republican Army) and UVF (Ulster Volunteer Force) waged terrorist warfare. Bombings, riots and assassinations became commonplace.
In 1972, British troops fired on protesters in Derry; 13 died that day and one died of his wounds later. This was Bloody Sunday and the events of that day are still under investigation. Nationalists were jailed without trial, hunger strikers, including Bobby Sands, starved themselves to death in prison. Walls were erected between Catholic and Protestant neighborhoods.
After years of closed-door talks, the lumbering descent to hell started turning around with the Good Friday or Belfast Agreement of 1998, helped along by the diplomatic efforts of Bill Clinton. Political power was officially if uneasily divided. In 2005, the IRA formalized a ceasefire.
While troubles linger in Northern Ireland and political turf is still being staked, the recent cordial meeting between Sinn Fein’s Gerry Adams and the Unionist party’s Ian Paisley was a watershed moment. Northern Ireland is hopefully truly moving past its Troubles.
For more information about traveling to Belfast: Discover Northern Ireland and http://www.gotobelfast.com/ (Which for some reason won't accept a link so you'll have to cut and paste. It's a complicated place...)
semantics of commitment
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
It reminded me of the following op-ed I wrote on the subject a while back. It ran in the Dallas Morning News. I actually wrote the column at least a year before I submitted it for publication--I feared the response. But during that time, I had the epiphany that it was OK to piss people off and that I wouldn't die if people disagreed with me, however strongly worded their disagreement. But that's a topic for another post.
And much to my great surprise, the responses I got to the column were weighed strongly towards the supportive. Only a few people hinted that I was on the path to burning in the eternal flames of hell. (My favorite of those e-mails after the column.)
Sure, I'll eat in the kitchen
I’m willing to give up my “marriage.”
That’s not to say I’m packing my bags and walking out on my “husband” of nearly two decades.
But I am perfectly willing to describe our legally-binding, state-sanctioned relationship as a “civil union.” I’m happy to give the word “marriage” to the church and live in a “civil union” if it would bring us closer to equal rights for gays and lesbians.
It is, after all, the religious community in certain permutations that has been most strident in its objections to marriage for single sex couples. And I have no argument with organized religion drawing its line in the sand wherever it wants. They don’t wanna? Fine. They don’t hafta. I’ll keep out of it. None of my business.
But I want them to leave my state out of it.
The compromisers in the debate over gay marriage say that gays should not be allowed to “marry” but should be allowed to enter into “civil unions,” which would give them same the legal rights and privileges Tom and I enjoy.
It’s a squirrely distinction. To my mind the difference between “marriage” and “civil union” is semantics (which is why I’m using quotation marks – they’re just words).
Tom and I were not “wed” in a church but in a park building in ceremony conducted not by a minister but by a justice of the peace. We’ve been “married” ever since.
But except for the word on the license affording us this legal status, what we have is essentially a civil union. Our relationship is sanctioned by the state and carries all the attendant privileges even though no church blessed it.
How is that different from what the compromisers are offering gays and lesbians? Like Tom and me, single-sex couples want to pledge their troth, share their riches and struggles, have family insurance plans and enjoy the law’s acknowledgment of their mutual commitment. Some even want to raise children together, which Tom and I have opted not to do.
So why should what gays and lesbians have be called something different from what Tom and I have?
Because God made Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve?
Fine. But I’m not talking about God. I’m talking about Uncle Sam.
If the religious convictions of a segment of society prevents gays and lesbians from officially sharing the word “marriage” with heterosexuals, then as a nonreligious heterosexual, I’m willing to share “civil unions” with gays and lesbians. What if we make the dividing line between the two states of union not sexual orientation, but religion? Couples of any sexual orientation who belong to religious organizations willing to bless their unions will have marriages. The rest of us will have civil union.
I suppose that will mean many in the religious community will look down on anyone in a civil union. I can live with that. People like me – a secularist in the Bible Belt – become accustomed to scorn and pity from a certain segment of society. It’s not as bad as the condemnation my gay and lesbian friends must withstand. I can live with it.
Because even if we compromise with the term “civil unions” for gays and lesbians to give their relationships legal protection, what we offer in the compromise is separate and unequal. Gays and lesbians in committed and loving relationships – no different from what Tom and I enjoy – would be relegated to the kitchen while everyone else sups on linen and china (wedding gifts, probably) in the dining room.
So I’m willing to join them. I’d rather eat in the kitchen with friends than in the dining room with those who would judge me.
Eddieozment@XXX had this to say about all that:
You can call it sexual orientation if you want. Paul (I know you do not know who I am talking about) called it depravity. I guess pretty soon by your standards your friends can come over with their animals and it will be okay for them to exhibit their beastiality (a sexual orientation). How about the poor pedophile? Is that going to be okay by you? You hammer the church and accuse it of judging. The church does remind itself by way of Romans 3:23 "that all have sinned and fail short of the glory of God". Have you really attempted to rightly divide the word of God? The church is in a constant battle with satan and his fiery darts. My salvation is only granted by God's Grace not by the product of my righteousness. I pray each day for patience, self control and righteousness. I pray for forgiveness when I fail. Do you view the Ten Commandents as a dictation from God to enslave His creation? The laws of God were to show respect for Him and to protect us. The bible tells me not to judge, but that you can recognize people by their fruits. I can not stand idly by when such a horror as Homosexuality infest the whole world. I will vote yes Pro 2. I will pray for you Sophia Dembling to better know Jesus Christ and the love of God.
best news story of the day
Saturday, May 17, 2008
do it this way
Monday, May 12, 2008
Friday, May 9, 2008
On my one trip to Branson, MO many years ago, I stayed at the Music Country Motor Inn because it had a guitar-shaped swimming pool. Too bad the postcard doesn’t do the pool justice.
I don’t remember the room. I do remember seeing Mel Tillis and Shoji Tabuchi. Just what is the Shoji Tabuchi Show that everyone loving American music is raving about? his website asks. A Japanese fiddler. Yes indeedy.
According to this article, when the economy struggles, lipstick sales soar. Interesting. I wonder if then, these women promptly lose said lipsticks, as I do. Yes, the problem continues. Where do they go?
What do you give up when money gets tight? For one thing, Jack isn’t getting shmancy organic biscuits these days. When we have money, I order them online from a small company because with these biscuits, his breath stays sweet. These days, he’s eating semi-fancy Petco biscuits and his breath can knock you over from across the room. We also stop shopping at Whole Foods. Tom Thumb is good enough. We’re cutting back on our meat consumption a bit, too. Which is good for us in many various ways.
I have definitely started watching my driving. The other day I met friends for lunch in Plano, which is a haul for me. Driving home, I realized that gas added about another $12 to the cheap lunch. I watched that gauge as obsessively as I watch taxi meters in New York. (Although that’s less about the price of the ride than the performance pressure of calculating the tip. I calculate and recalculate the tip every time the meter flips.)
What else? I go the library more. I don’t buy many new books but when money is tight, I buy even fewer. I’m somewhat less likely to order wine when I eat out. (Somewhat. Depends on the day of the week.)
The one thing I still can’t bring myself to give up, though, is having someone clean my house every two weeks. It’s a luxury I can no longer live without. Life is short, my house gets really dirty.
Ms. Krit sent that lipstick article, and she sent me this article, about how to buy a dictionary.
Her favorite part and mine:
Look for dirty words.
All parts of English are important, even those trouble-making words that are coarse, derogatory, or sexual. A good lexicographer will include the most common words of all kinds, including ones that can be troublesome.
If a dictionary’s editors have chosen to leave out words they consider offensive, we must also wonder what other words they have left out. What are their criteria for judging words to be offensive? Are they leaving out words that concern any religion but their own? Are they leaving out words that deal with political viewpoints they don’t support? Are they leaving out words simply because they think they’re ugly? Are they including words simply because they like them? Are they deleting insulting words for their own ethnic group and leaving in insulting words for other groups?
See? Profanity does have a noble purpose? Fuckin’ A!
My favorite New Yorker cartoon of the week, right here.
Some Mother’s Day snark for the unsentimental.
Is this the scariest ad EVER? It’s the attack of the mom clones. Not to mention the scary clothes. The outfit on Mom #1 is clearly designed for the mom you hate. Stacey and Clinton, please help.
Here, from my favorite ecard site, is a collection of Mother’s Day cards you would never dare send, much as you might want to.
I’ve seen articles that say people are going to spend more on their mothers this year, and articles that say they are going to spend less. Predictably, mothers say, “Oh, don’t worry about me. I’ll sit in the dark.”
This just in: Mother's Day press release with infuriating unnecessary apostrophes: Wanted to pass along this last minute gift idea for those active mom's or for those mom's that always have sore, tired feet. Please let me know if you would like more information or need any images or product samples.
To add to the idiocy, the message text gives no clue as to what the product is. I would have to open an attachment for any more information. Not gonna do it, Matt. If for no other reason than because you're an idiot. What would your mother think?
Don’t know what to get mom? Perhaps this:
And finally, searches of the week.
My portrait of a xoloescuintle was very popular on Thursday. Maybe someone was passing it around? It was accessed a number of times. Also, from the same page, the photo of the pyramids and my arty farty flower shot.
I was disturbed by the search
i hate ps 166
How could anyone hate PS 166, my beloved alma mater? Now, if they knew Ethel O. Ebin, the principal when I was there, I could understand hating her, nasty old bat. I wish I had a photo of her. She had a grubby beehive hairdo that looked like it housed rodents.
Other searches this week:
Thank God I books for sale Castagnini
inside the brain of a narcissist
negative reviews of elizabeth gilbert's eat, pray, love
gmail emails not reaching their destination
derivation of lithium name
cashmere bouquet plant
customer support gmail
outlook autofill subject line
odd looking dogs
give me obama email adress and guest email@example.com
jack kent cooke Conundrum
gmail to yahoo not getting sent
46/64 baby boomers magazine dallas morning news
CAROLINE HELDMAN self objectification
2008 guess book of jane in the usa @yahoo.com @gmail.com
"black and blue" dallas
fun shit in dallas texas
"Advanced Backup Plug-In"
Menade du: "Advanced Backup PlugIn"
picture of someone eating a twinkie
2008 email contact of directors in bangkok @gmail.com
smacking upside the head emoticon
rooting cashmere bouquet
+27+2008+2009 @yahoo.com OR @yahoo.com OR mail.com "director"
ooed and ahed
"an open mind" book markova
55L alpine pack = too big??
beautiful aunties with saris
That is all. Happy Friday.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
I don’t care about Miller, she’s not my mayor, but aren’t liars fascinating? What are they thinking?
I wonder if most liars get caught in their lies or if we all move about in a swirling soup of others’ undiscovered untruths.
Some lies don’t really matter. If she weren’t an elected official, nobody would care about Miller’s imaginary love affair with cranky old Don Henley. The only reason the story is noteworthy is because such a string of lies seems to lead to an unhinged mind, which might be considered a problem in an elected official.
I like Bill Clinton and honestly couldn’t care less who sucked his dick, but I was annoyed when he lied about it, despite believing he was inappropriately backed into a corner. I’m bummed about Hillary’s Bosnia fantasy, too. (And the whole gas tax holiday idea, but that’s something else.)
I’m a terrible liar. In fact, one might even suggest I’m truthful to a fault. No, I won’t tell you if your haircut is ugly or point out when you’ve gained weight, but I’m no good at saying “everything’s fine” when it’s not. I’m trying to get better at biting my tongue when something is none of my business but even that can be challenging for me if it’s something or someone I care about. Annoyingly—even to myself—-I seem to feel obligated to speak the truth as I see it, which often isn’t the least bit helpful. Mostly, it makes everyone, myself included, uncomfortable.
But telling tall tales like Miller did is beyond incomprehensible to me. What do they accomplish? Such tales wouldn’t boost my ego if I knew they weren’t true, and I would always wonder who could tell all along that I was lying and when I would be found out, stripped naked and laughed at.
My shame muscle is far too well-developed to want to risk that level of shame.
Clearly this is some sort of bizarre compulsion. But what does it accomplish? I’m bumfuzzled.
if it's friday it must be flotsam
Friday, May 2, 2008
First, shameless promotion: Black and Blue and the AllGood Café tomorrow night. Meet me there! The Dallas Observer advanced the show here.
A month or so ago, my brother sent me this link to Missing Money, a site that searches for unclaimed property (i.e. money). He’d searched my name and found money owed to me. I went to the site, filled out the brief form and forgot all about it. Well shiver me timbers and blow me over—a check for $371 turned up in my mailbox last week! Try it.
The email subject line said: Press release
The message said: Hope your readers find this press release of interest.
The press release was an attached Word document.
If ever a presentation begged to be ignored, it’s this one. A subject and message that tells me nothing, and an attachment from someone I don’t know. Maybe it’s a perfectly legitimate release with information that my readers would find of interest but I’m not going to investigate. Hit delete, get on with my life. The world is full of cluelessness.
Here’s a nifty little tip from the NYT tech blog. If you use Firefox, you can bring up the Quick Find box to search a page by just hitting the forward slash key (same key as the question mark). Seconds saved every week!
Texas Tech University psychology department has launched a series of short podcasts about this and that, psychology-ish, featuring interviews with experts here and there. Here’s the homepage. They’re a little homespun sounding but that’s OK.
I don’t know why this story is buried on page 3 of the business section, but it’s big exciting news to me. Gas prices are causing people to “stampede” to small car. Can I get a HELL YEAH?
Unfortunately, this is bad news for SUV and truck manufacturers (i.e. American companies). But it's good for the planet, the highways and my blood pressure, since the mere sight of a Hummer makes it soar. I'm very sensitive that way.
Another of my pet peeves is the luxurification of the world. Have I discussed that before? How we seem to be devaluing all qualities—quaint, cozy, charming, kitschy—in favor of luxurious? It’s one of my favorite rants, I’m happy to go into it if I’ve neglected to rant it here.
Anyway, the DMN has a story this morning that seems to back my point, about a direct sales company called Home Interiors that was extremely successful until new owners decided to aim for the high-end market instead of the cozy low-incomers for whom the brand was developed. It didn’t work and now the company is filing for bankruptcy.
I love having my prejudices affirmed.
The snarky chick-oriented website Jezebel puts an interesting and believable spin on reports that the depression rate in women is twice that of men.
The Jezebel writer suggests that this isn’t because twice as many women as men get depressed but because women are so much more likely to go for treatment when they do. She speculates that many more men are depressed than ever seek treatment. If some dude is walking around depressed but undiagnosed, does he count? she asks.
It’s a good post, take a look.
Jezebel has also alerted me to a Ms. magazine article that sounds interesting, about self-objectification or "viewing one's body as a sex object to be consumed by the male gaze."
The post continues: More and more women are viewing themselves as sex objects, says Caroline Heldman, Ph.D., an assistant professor of politics at Occidental College, and it's due in large part to the veritable onslaught of advertising images that we're subjected to.
I think this is right on right on but the only solution offered, evidently, is to avoid media images objectifying women, but that would pretty much mean locking oneself in a dark room.
Read the post yourself.
I certainly wish I could stop constantly comparing myself with other women--both media images and women I see every day. It’s a miserable pastime, a distracting little drone in my head: I’m fatter than her…I’m thinner than her...fatter…thinner…fatter…fatter…older…younger….fatter…
What a useless waste of brain energy.
Hey, the cool website WorldHum linked to my post this week about how rising travel costs might discourage dabblers from traveling. OK, so I alerted an editor to the post in a bit of Shameless Self Promotion, but he liked it enough to link so that was very gratifying.
Finally, in what may become a weekly voyeuristic feature as long as I feel like it, this week’s Google searches that brought people to this site are:
Thank God I books for sale Castagnini
inside the brain of a narcissist
negative reviews of elizabeth gilbert's eat, pray, love
gmail emails not reaching their destination
derivation of lithium name
cashmere bouquet plant
customer support gmail
outlook autofill subject line
odd looking dogs
give me obama email adress and guest firstname.lastname@example.org
jack kent cooke Conundrum
gmail to yahoo not getting sent
bullies and beeyotches
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
First, allow me to say the obvious: Would the news media be all a-dither if the girls hadn’t been white cheerleaders with names like April, Brittany and Brittini? (Yeah, really.) I say no, but maybe I’m just cynical.
My developmental psychologist friend Lara, who studies popularity and aggression, has blogged on this issue with interesting new insights such as—“the combination of being popular and knowing that you’re popular predicts the very highest levels of physical and relational aggression in a given high school grade.”
You would think popular people would feel so secure they could afford to be nice, but I guess not. Actually, researchers find that being popular and being liked are two different things altogether.
I guess this isn’t surprising, when you think about it.
While popularity wasn’t a huge issue in my high school full of oddballs and artsy-fartsy people, it was big in junior high and I never felt that the really popular girls even liked each other all that much. Rather, they seemed connected in some sort of uneasy bond.
I was not popular in junior high school. The Dedes, Alisons and Amys made fun of me and singled me out for destruction in dodgeball. I wasn’t particularly crushed by this (although evidently, I’ve never forgotten) because I had my own friends outside of school. And that makes all the difference. I suppose not going to a neighborhood school (I was in a horrid private school at the time) helped, since I wasn’t always surrounded by people who didn’t like me. The popular girls lived on the Upper East Side, I lived on the Upper West Side. (Back in the day, this coded as “rich” vs. “not-rich.”) I had friends of my own who were grubby as I.
Among the things researchers know about bullying is that its negative consequences on the bullied are greatly mitigated if that poor soul has one friend. Just one is all it takes. Just one person to confirm that you are not actually the scum of the universe, the butt of all jokes, the whipping post for all. Just one to affirm your humanity.
In junior high, another oddball and I found each other and it then mattered even less that the other girls didn’t like us. Though Eve and I didn’t hang out together outside of school, we both discovered drugs around the same time and bonded over that, transforming ourselves from geeks to freaks and gaining grudging respect that way. (Again, the 1970s. Things were different then.)
Research into childhood abuse at the hands of adults similarly finds that abused children with one adult in their lives who can be trusted implicitly and who advocates for them, are more emotionally resilient than those who don’t.
Which brings me to an interesting op-ed in today’s Dallas Morning News that points out that the only people who can really save kids from kids is kids. Yelling and screaming at schools to end bullying is not productive. Rather, parents need to encourage compassion among their own children. (Unlike, say, the freakshow parents who joined in the MySpace torture of the girl who ultimately killed herself—what a chilling story that was.)
I remember sitting silently and pained a couple of times when school and camp oddballs were tormented—once overtly and once covertly—by the more fortunate. I still feel guilty. Speaking up is horribly difficult under those circumstances, especially for those of us who are not among the chosen.
It was easy in elementary school, when I was both liked and popular, to befriend the girl who was too shy to raise her hand in class and wet the floor instead. I had no fear then and could see past her oddness to her intelligence.
But when you’re unpopular and the attention is directed elsewhere, you learn to bite your tongue and be thankful that for the moment, you are safe.
But perhaps parents of outsider children can teach them of the power and safety of numbers—even if the number is just two.
The last line of Lara’s blog about the YouTube beeyotches is particularly disturbing to me. She writes, “Something tells me this story is being told and retold among their high school peers with a level of awe and respect that would make us cringe.”
Do you think this is true? Are kids this mean these days? And is this the kind of popularity to which outcasts secretly aspire?
If so, what are we doing wrong?
would you want it?
Monday, April 14, 2008
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Weiner says, in part: “What shocked me was that she said I have to stop writing about nice Jewish characters. [In her review, Ms. Smiley wrote that Ms. Weiner "seems boxed in by her chosen genre" and should "address larger questions than the psychological ups and downs of her nice Jewish characters."]
I couldn't believe that made it past the copy desk. The idea you can tell a writer of a specific religion to stop writing about that religion is presumptuous. When an older writer tries to tell a younger writer through a review what kind of career she should be pursuing, it tends to speak to the reviewer's anxieties rather than the book itself…”
I didn’t interpret Smiley’s review as dissing anyone’s religion as much as suggesting Weiner look farther afield for her characters. Big difference. On the other hand, Smiley has written about horses and academia, which is the stuff of her life, so she should talk.
Speaking of chick stuff, Mary and I rented Private Benjamin last night and I am pleased and relieved to report that it held up. Sure, the fashions are 1980s as is some of the humor, but it’s still clever and thoughtful and fun. The cast includes Goldie Hawn, a few minutes of Albert Brooks, Eileen Brennan, Mary Kay Place, Armand Assante, Sam Wanamaker, Harry Dean Stanton…not too shabby. I love it.
More girltalk: A very kind blog reader sent me a link and asked my opinion of this article from The Atlantic, titled Marry Him!--the Case for Mr. Good Enough. It is an interesting argument for women to stop being so picky about their men and "settle" for someone who might be too short or too bald or too something or not something enough. I wasn't sure what to think of it--I had a knee-jerk negative reaction--and hemmed and hawed, but the woman who sent it managed to sum it up in one very neat sentence: I think what she says is to settle, I say is maturity. Yes, yes. Of course. That's exactly what I meant to say.
Deelish for Dallasites: The city elders plan to rename Industrial Boulevard to reflect the glamorous (very distant) future they plan for it. For you outtatowners, Industrial Boulevard is pretty much what it sounds like—a gritty stretch of auto businesses, titty bars, the county jail, bail bondsmen and, as happens to any area that abuts a dry district (that is, areas with no alcohol sales), a whole lot of liquor stores. (Read about it here.)
Among the names being floated:
Big D Boulevard (gak)
Dallas Delta (makes it sound romantic, don’t it?)
Kirk Parkway (presumably after former Mayor Ron Kirk)
Rio Vista (and what a vista the Trinity River offers!)
Stanley Marcus Boulevard (I’d rather see them name the planned Calatrava Bridge for him)
The Promenade (how grand!)
I say call it Beer Run Boulevard.
Speaking of Eileen Brennan, Tom and I watched most of the movie FM the other night. It was mildly entertaining--the hairdos alone gave us something to talk about--but we wondered which came first, FM or WKRP in Cincinatti? Anyone?
Finally, because my workout DVD shelf runneth over, and because reviewing DVDs helps keep me fit, I have decided to launch a second blog dedicated to reviews, called Suit Up and Show Up. I’ve posted a few old reviews and one new one up already and will keep up as best I can. Please check in from time to time if you’re interested, I’ve added it to my blogroll to the right.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
bad headline du jour
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
Hm, somehow the use of "probed" in this headline makes the icky even ickier.
Monday, April 7, 2008
So I’m wondering if the newspaper front page is even relevant anymore. Except for that wee international story and two state stories, how does this front page differ from the Metro section?
Newspapers are so confused these day.
The Metro section front page leads with the story I care about most—four teenagers were arrested as suspects in last month’s 26 car fires in Oak Cliff. Why is that not on the front page rather than the golf balls story? If people decide to live on golf courses, aren’t flying balls, um, par for the course? (Evidently, improvements in golf equipment allow bad golfers to hit balls farther and so the problem is growing. Poor, poor people on golf courses.)
I’m not sure why I’m expected to care so much about this that the story needs to be on the front page of my morning paper. Some people might suggest that it’s because the golf balls problem is in (wealthy) Plano whereas the car fires are in (depressed) Oak Cliff. That’s what some people might suggest. After all, aren’t crime and burning cars par for the course in Oak Cliff? Some people might think so.
Perhaps newspaper redesigns should be less about typeface than how the news is categorized. Perhaps we should have good news/bad news sections. Or rich man/poor man news. And sports, of course—although then we’d have to decide where today’s story about selling top-tier season tickets for the new Cowboys stadium should go. Is this sports or rich man news, since these seat licenses range between $16,000 and $150,000, with an additional $340 per ticket per game. (Woe is me, what is the world coming to?) It’s in the business section today, along with a story about how it’s getting harder to get loans for college. Interesting story and it's in the business sevtion …why?
Maybe we don’t even need to divide the newspaper into sections anymore, although that would make it hard to share in the morning.
An unrelated note: Writing in the New York Times, Nicholas Kristof cites evidence supporting my theory that sexism is more entrenched than racism.
Friday, April 4, 2008
To an extent, of course, I didn’t hear anything I didn’t already know—Craiglist killed classified, advertising is going to the web (where rates are lower), nobody is willing to pay for news on the web, going public put too much emphasis on profits, young people aren’t reading newspapers, yadda yadda yadda.
Nonetheless, hearing wizened newsmen (Ben Bradlee to Ed Asner) and women talk, seeing footage inside daily planning meetings (which I attended from time to time as an assistant editor) and watching newspaper-related clips from old movies made me feel even more poignantly the loss. I had great fun at the Dallas Morning News, when it was fun. Even in features (as opposed to hard news) we felt ourselves part of the pulse of the city . Our perceptions of our importance were greatly inflated, of course, but it was a giddy, heady feeling to be part of something the entire city shared (we imagined). I loved walking into the big, downtown monolith each day, with the pompous inscription carved above the front door:
Build the news upon the rock of truth and righteousness. Conduct it always upon the lines of fairness and integrity. Acknowledge the right of the people to get from the newspaper both sides of every important question.
I loved the pace of the newspaper, loved knowing the people behind the byline, loved seeing myself in the paper, even loved seeing myself smiling up from the bottom of a gerbil tank in my vet’s office one day.
As a consumer, I love that transitional time of day, between sleeping and work, spent drinking coffee and reading my newspaper. Alas, that time gets shorter and shorter as the paper contains less and less to read. The other morning, Tom tossed the newspaper on the bed for me as he does every morning and it felt no more weighty than a napkin hitting the bed. It’s fading. It’s fading away.
But the loss will be more than just about nostalgia. The newspaper really is the watchdog of our democracy and the more it buckles under the weight of the marketplace, the more I fear for us all. Nobody does investigative reporting like the newspapers. Watergate, the Catholic Church scandals, the Walter Reed hospital exposé—all these were the work of diligent, committed, creative and hard working reporters. And believe me, good reporters work their asses off. I’ve seen it.
As the documentary points out, all the TV and radio news shows and pundits draw information from newspapers. Those guys will have nothing to talk about if the New York Times, LA Times, and Washington Post go under. Then it will be all Britney all the time. When it’s not Paris.
What I do? It’s just piffle. I love writing features and I’m glad to entertain people, but you can get features anywhere. OK, they do help the rest of the newspaper go down more easily--I’ll read about the latest Dallas Independent School District scandal if I know I can reward myself with Carolyn Hax afterwards. I would miss features if my newspaper carried news alone. Still, nobody needs them. They’re just newspaper candy.
But we do need reporters, the kind of tough nuts who will knock on strangers’ doors and ask hard questions, who will go past the surface and then past the surface and then past the surface to find out what’s at the bottom. The kinds of people—and they do exist, I know lots of them—who would rather starve than violate the code of ethics by which newspapers operate. (By taking subsidized trips, I cannot count myself fully among them but I am meticulous about fairness in both my travel and non-travel stories.) Bloggers are taking up the slack to an extent, but they are unsupervised and simply not as trustworthy. No, don’t argue. They’re not.
The real bummer is that nobody sees a solution. They laugh about it in the documentary, but it’s a hysterical laugh. An entire, vital industry is scrambling to save itself but nobody knows how.
I feel like I’m standing on shore watching the Titanic go down and can’t do anything to stop it.
hell in a hand basket
Thursday, March 13, 2008
"After the break, Valerie Bertinelli talks about Eliot Spitzer and infidelity."
Great. It’s not enough that we have Spitzer and his stupidityfest--we also must be subjected to a former teen idol’s spin on it. (Am I correct in thinking that everyone—men and women—of a certain age had a crush on sassy little Valerie Bertinelli back in the day? I’m sorry to be hearing her blathering all over the place, promoting her new book. She looks great but she's annoying.)
Read in the newspaper this morning:
Bargains move closer to home
With 3 outlet centers planned to open in ’09, area shopping commutes will get shorter.
Hell in a hand basket, I say.
Friday, March 7, 2008
So, let’s get flotsam!
* Last night I saw a TV ad for a re-release of the Disney classic 101 Dalmations, which was touted as a perfect Easter gift. Um, since when is Easter a gift-giving occasion? Peeps. Peeps and chocolate bunnies. Those are Easter “gifts.” Let’s nip this in the bud right now.
* Product news release of the week:
Before you go to the restroom spray - POO POURRI
You think I could make that up? No, my friends, this genuine new product (being promoted by “Pillowcase PR—we’ve got you covered!”)
Basically, you spray this stuff into the bowl before you foul it and, "...essential oil proprietary formula creates a film on the toilet water surface, effectively trapping embarrassing odors.”
"Imagine . . . Not only not leaving odor behind but also not experiencing any odor while using the restroom. Could it get any better than that? People have said that this product has actually transformed their bathroom experience, and you know what we’re talking about."
Actually, the young woman in the photo here looks like she trapped her embarrassing odors by slamming the lid down and sitting on it. Or, considering the hat, it’s entirely possible her shit don’t stink.
* Which brings me to my next flotsam, this article about a young man in South Pasadena who managed to initiate a No Cussing Week in his town for the first week of March.
You may have noticed that I really enjoy profanity. Sure, lots of people consider it refuge for mini-minds but I can live with that. I’m comfortable with the size of my vocabulary and my intellect. But I enjoy “bad” words. I just do.
I have my standards—I’m not fond of motherfucker but I will toss out an occasional mofo, just for fun. I’m not crazy for cunt, but if I use it you can bet I really hate the bitch. And I do try to restrain myself in company who might be offended, although Mary assures me that my “screwed things up”—tossed out at dinner the other night with a bunch of her church friends---didn’t ruffle a feather. I think that’s the worst I spewed that night…
* How ‘bout these animals, competing in Amsterdam’s stiletto run. I can barely walk in those things…
* I enjoyed this column in my paper today about soul-killing teachers.
Man, who hasn’t had one (or more) of those? I love that this writer dared call them out.
* And finally, apropos to nothing, here’s a fascinating NYT article about the décor in therapists’ offices.
One of my longtime shrinks had a generic print of a Paris street in her office that was poorly framed and slipping in its frame. This picture framer’s wife could barely stand looking at it. Another, who I ended up breaking up with for various reasons, had framed on her wall the famous Saul Steinberg New Yorker magazine cover, View of the World from 9th Avenue. The print came up when I was ending our relationship because, I pointed out, this was a type of parochialism I left New York to escape. It just annoyed me. (So I moved to Texas, where no parochialism exists...)
My last therapist had hanging by her window what, after many months in her office, I realized was supposed to be angel wings, not lungs, as I’d always thought without giving it too much thought. She also had a quietly burbling fountain somewhere in the office. I always thought it was plumbing somewhere deep in the walls.
Well, that’s it for now. If any other flotsam drifts through my mind, you’ll be the first to know. But really, I should get something done today.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Subscribe to Posts [Atom]