Tuesday, January 31, 2006
And I now get the print for free!
Still brilliant at 18. Like I said.
In fact, the absence of solid Midwestern comfort food has posed a challenge for the paper's art department, which requires a certain girthiness of many of the people who pose for the fake news photos.
"Some of our writers, who we would use as body doubles of older Congress people, have started losing weight since we've been here," Chad Nackers, the associate graphics editor, said one afternoon. "That killed us. We used to be able to do Dennis Hastert if we wanted." And Mike Loew, the graphics editor, chimed in, "Oh, yeah, we had all the options, before everyone started eating sushi and getting all svelte."
New favorite site
Dear Word Detective: I was recently sick as a dog, and in my fevered state I began to wonder why we use that phrase. I know that "dog" has long been used in the sense of "bad" ("dog days," "dog tired," etc.), but when did people start saying "sick as a dog" and just why is dog used in this negative sense? I thought dogs were man's best friend. I thought you might be able to shed (ha ha) some light on this issue. -- Lisa Krause, Huntington, MA.
Ha ha indeed. I take it you don't live in a house with two dogs, three cats and enough pet fur flotsam come spring to knit a whole new poodle. And I'll bet you never had to call a computer service to replace your CD-ROM drive because it was clogged with excess cat pelt. What genius designed computers to be big stationary vacuum cleaners, anyway? Something tells me Michael Dell owns goldfish.
Given their devotion to us, you're right, dogs have gotten a bad press. "Dogs of war," "going to the dogs," "hair of the dog that bit you," "dog in the manger" and the like are hardly compliments to our canine pals. ("Dog days," however, is not especially negative, as it referred originally to the ascendancy of Sirius, the "Dog Star," during the hottest days of summer.)
"Sick as a dog," which means "extremely sick" and dates back to at least the 17th century, is also not so much negative as it is simply descriptive. Anyone who knows dogs knows that while they can and often will eat absolutely anything, on those occasions when their diet disagrees with them the results can be quite dramatic. And while Americans may consider themselves "sick" when they have a bad cold, in Britain that would be called "feeling ill." "Being sick" in Britain usually means "to vomit."
So to really appreciate the original sense of "sick as a dog," imagine yourself seated in the parlor having tea with the Vicar on a lovely Sunday afternoon, when Fido staggers in from a meal of sun-dried woodchuck and expresses his unease all over your heirloom oriental carpet. It's actually rather amazing that goldfish aren't more popular.
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
DIY
Devoted as I am to La Panini, I figured I'd save a few bucks by doing for myself. Clearly, a learned art:
All of the others have turned out beautifully, mind you.
Shameless
http://www.runningtimes.com/issues/05may/runningonfull.htm
I didn't realize it was online. They must wait a length of time before uploading print stories to the site. Anyway, my favorite quote:
"Meditate all you want," says Dr. William Scott, "but it’s going to be an overwhelming sensation. When the bladder stretches sufficiently, you’re going to have to pee."
Or maybe this one:
"I think everyone should come up with some mental cue that tells their body that it’s okay to go now," he says. "Especially if you’re going in your pants, which [you’re] so encoded not to do."
Will
Last night my new writers group met at a Chinese restaurant/lounge a few blocks from our apartment. It wasn't an ordinary monthly meeting, but a formal reading. And while I was under the impression that everyone in the group would be sharing, this wasn't the case. Evidently those interested--and there was a 10-person max--were to sign up for a time slot ahead of time. Of course I hadn't. So when I showed up w/ story in hand, not yet anxious, I was a little disappointed to find I was s.o.l.
Then came the announcement that one person on the agenda wasn't going to make it, leaving the 10th slot open. Reflexively/weirdly my hand shot up, and I was in.
Since the group's pretty fiction-centric, short stories/novel excerpts were the order of the evening. The first five went, all talented writers--and equally talented readers for that matter. Measured delivery, expressive voices, the occasional glance up... more than I had in me, I figured. Eh, I was right. We took a short break, during which I drained my wine glass, then the next four went. Again, all good, all w/ a characteristic style. My name was announced and to the podium I shuffled. Strangely I wasn't too wound up, although I dare say my nerves would've been much rawer had I gone w/ the Diet Coke.
Still, I should've been more agitated, considering my ill-fortune in having to follow Mr. Past NYT Columnist (travel writer) in the lineup. I don't remember his name, but he was impressive enough. Thinking about it, perhaps it would've done me well to have worked myself into more of a tizzy. Maybe then I would've sounded a little more human, a little less robotic. Ah, but it wasn't fated. I don't know that I've ever sounded flatter. While I didn't zoom through my story like I do my everyday speech, I couldn't seem to muster any oomph. All of my characters sounded the same--like dead people. I knew this as the words were leaving my mouth, too, but I couldn't seem to break the pattern. Back to the plus-side: I was definitely more relaxed than I've ever been in front of a crowd, which I suppose was good for something. I was even able to appreciate the Hope Sandoval song drifting down from the upstairs bar. This struck me as odd.
All things considered, it went alright. In the very least, I was able to laugh at myself.
The high point of the evening was when Mr. PNYTC approached me once I'd returned to my booth. He said something like this: "I really enjoyed your piece. ... You didn't do it justice reading it the way you did, but I like your style of writing." A nice compliment, and I actually got a kick out of his honesty. People aren't generally so forthcoming w/ the criticism, you know? Especially since we'd never even met.
Last night was a reminder: A savvy reader can do wonders for his/her work. There was a lot of talent in that room, but delivery was definitely a factor. I think a mediocre piece of writing, for instance, can turn *good* w/ the right voice. Encouraging, as it can't be all that hard to master.
Monday, January 23, 2006
Rattus norvegicus
I had no idea what I'd been missing. Ok, I sort of did, but not like now.
So yeah, I finallyfinallyfinally took the plunge: I treated myself w/ the remainder of my RW compensation--the small part left once I'd relinquished a much larger part to my boss, whose December expense check I mistook as a holiday bonus, subsequently dropping it in my checking account and... oh, it's a long story, and one that makes me sound like an idiot. Moving on, I have to question the merit of ever removing the earbuds. It's just so nice. So nice. Because now, see, the wince-reflex won't kick in w/ the reverb of certain individuals' office-voices. I simply won't be the wiser. Yes!
Other: I started reading the rat book over the weekend, and wowie, who knew the little ickies were so complex? Actually, I don't really find them icky--or at least I'm trying to change my heavily socialized ways of viewing them. They make daily feasts of garbage? Aw, so will foxes. They bite babies? Well so have dogs. They sometimes hiss? Hello--cats? They have tails that look like really long worms? Eh, well, ok, that's gross.
Really though, it's a good read. Robert Sullivan staked out a rat-happy alley near NYC's South Street Seaport and proceeded to spend consecutive evenings hangin' w/ the 'dents--isolating personalities, observing social patterns, befriending them. Over the course of A YEAR, no less. I'll admit to being a bit curious, curious as in I'm highly anticipating tomorrow morning's run. We're not far from Edens Alley, see. I want to know exactly where R sat, and hell, if I can catch a glimpse or two, well that'll be fine. Oh geez, I make them out to be rarities. Ahem.
Anyway... Know that rat teeth are almost as strong as steel? That they can gnaw through concrete? That they spread apart when the rat's eating, and that a flap of skin hangs down between them to prevent them from ingesting rocks? They also run faster than people tend to think (but it's so fun to apply the word lumber to them, no?), and they have a great, great deal of sex, and not always w/ regard for gender. Oh my. And I've only just begun.
The book goes beyond straightforward facts and observations, outlining an exhaustive history of rat infestation in the city. In 1960s Harlem, for instance, half of all living quarters were thought to be flooded w/ rats. A man whose name I'm not recalling led huge protests, calling for extermination efforts the gov't refused to fund. It took years, but the neighborhood finally got the attention it needed, and down went the rats, drowned as they were in baths of beer/peanut butter/bacon/et al. Now that's icky.
There she is
Nice essay, although I have to wonder how many Americans who've loudly criticized the pagaent for its *degradation of women* are tuning into Desperate Housewives. Hypocrisy's live & well, of course, but I don't know.
Sunday, January 22, 2006
Up for air
Mm. Today came and went w/o me catching a single breath of its fresh air. I caught plenty of the contained variety, however. That's right--I didn't leave the house. Not once. Not for coffee, not for a run, not for a mid-afternoon snack... not for nothin'.
I blame it all on a ridiculously long lead time. Being assigned an article w/ a SEVEN-MONTH LEAD is just effin' tough, I've determined. Give me a month and I'll churn out excellence; give me three-plus and I'll labor and pick and hyperanalyze and pick more and lose sleep and the end result will be... less than excellent. The reality: It'll be good. But will it have been worth it? Eh, yeah.
It's eleven o'clock. I am first going to wash a very disheveled k10. Then I am going to run in place for three minutes, eat a stack of Saltines w/ cashew butter, and cap the evening w/ a SFU ep-y. We're almost through season four. Finally. I hate Nate right now, btw. Not buying it.
Friday, January 20, 2006
Hehehe
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
This, that
This is getting ridiculous. Scratch that. This has moved far past ridiculous. I worked on the thing all weekend long, pulling hairs out over just which research material--and I have a mountain, nay, a mountain range--to insert. And it's all good. Real good & applicable. The biggest problem, of course, is that I'm allotted a measly 800 words + 200-word sidebar. If the count were twice that, it's safe to say that all of my hairs would still be attached to my scalp. I am going to need some serious work when this is over.
So how, then, did I spend my yesterday? Why, doing more research, of course. I'm just so paranoid about missing some super-crucial bit. But actually, the interview I conducted yesterday should really make the story. I was already planning to discuss Dr. X's study findings, and this part will be all the stronger w/ quotes. Plus, he led me to another contact whose research is, I dare say, groundbreaking in the field (specifically applies to creativity/exercise rather than general cognition/exercise). The relevant study isn't even published yet, and if I can obtain direct quotes from him, well... well.
On other fronts, I was in and out of the Golden Globes last night, and although I was pleased w/ the best drama selection, I was less than w/ the best actor/actress picks. Granted I have yet to see both Capote and Transamerica, but come on! Michelle Williams was effing genius and Heath Ledger, although I'm sick of hearing those oft-quoted lines of his, equally so. Anyway, I plan to see those others soon here.
Speaking of Brokeback, Ariana's housing this op-ed I just read:
"Following four Golden Globes for his latest film, "Brokeback Mountain" director Ang Lee observed that eager audiences across the country, including the conservative heartland, prove that Americans are willing to embrace stories of love in all forms." ... "Would you have predicted such a full embrace for gay cowboys when the movie was first released?"
Hmm, I'm not convinced of the fullness of the embrace. I know a number of liberal-minded folks who've gone to movies like The Passion out of curiosity and/or to understand what they're up against and/or to see what all the fuss is about. Hardly indicative of a full embrace, or even a half-one. Anyway, several readers who weighed in, readers from *the heartland,* reported a much lower level of interest.
Even in cases of Midwest interest/like, seems quite the jump to implicate politics/potential votes. Still, how nice that'd be.
Larry David, for one, has made the conscious & adamant decision not to go.
Monday, January 09, 2006
Congruent
We may not see eye to eye in this particular instance, but I love Orr's concept of reviewing poetry in the form of a poem. Cute.
The heart, it turns out, is more deceitful than it was previously believed to be
If the allegations are credible, then this is disappointing. However, next to this, Frey's story is a drop in the pan.
What a case.
Google, my love
Yet another cool find: this. I'm going to go out on a limb and say this author isn't one to speak on writerly prowess, and I'm not sure I'd agree w/ her assertion, but I'm loving the Oates-Collins connection. Fun when favorites converge.
I am up too late
In tackling my first RW story revision (heard back from the editor a month ago, she of course wants significant alterations), I stumbled upon some great new stuff. Although initially I was loathe to dive back into the research part (already done so much!), it's been kind of fun. Can't believe some of what I missed the first time around. Case in point, this:
"I think that I cannot preserve my health and spirits unless I spend four hours a day at least--and it is commonly more than that--sauntering through the woods and over the hills and fields absolutely free from all worldly engagements. You may safely say a penny for your thoughts, or a thousand pounds. When sometimes I am reminded that the mechanics and shop-keepers stay in their shops not only all the forenoon, but all the afternoon too, sitting with crossed legs, so many of them--as if the legs were made to sit upon, and not to stand or walk upon--I think that they deserve some credit for not having all committed suicide long ago.
I who cannot stay in my chamber for a single day without acquiring some rust, and when sometimes I have stolen forth for a walk at the eleventh hour of four o’clock in the afternoon, too late to redeem the day, when the shades of night were already beginning to be mingled with the day-light--have felt as if I had committed some sin to be atoned for, I confess that I am astonished at the power of endurance--to say nothing of the moral insensibility of my neighbors who confine themselves to shops and offices the whole day for weeks and months, aye and years almost together. I know not what manner of stuff they are of--sitting there now at three o’clock in the afternoon, as if it were three o’clock in the morning."
The excerpt is from an 1851 essay, "Walking," by Thoreau. What a cool discovery. I love the suicide bit--for some reason that line had me rolling. Quite the comic, that man, intentionally or un-. The entire second paragraph is great, too, and one I plan to insert in some form into my article. I love the image of a partially rusted Thoreau, "what matter of stuff they are of," how foreign & senseless he makes these others out to be... Not that I chuckled the whole way through, nuh-uh. It's a beautiful essay. You should read it.
Friday, January 06, 2006
In defense of quietly doing nothing
I'm trying. This has never been an easy one for me, but I'm working on it.
I plan to succeed frequently this year, motivated in part by the realization that being quiet, when combined w/ doing nothing, is the most effective means of protesting this city & its defeaning ways. Of course, I'm not always up for a protest; half the time I'm happy to be swept up in the cyclone, glad for the earsplitting distraction. When it's New York City be damned, however, I'll take a nap. Or better yet, I'll sit on the couch w/ a glass of wine and an empty head. To hell w/ the crazies.
The problem is that my mind and my body like to move. Never still, rarely restful. Whatever it is I happen to be thinking about and/or ruminating on, it sticks in my head like the grime in one of our poor-ass plastic cups, the grime that's earned me many a scolding, source easily deduced. What do you mean you washed it? There are chunks in my water. Most of the time I'm okay w/ the overactivity; after all, many a good story idea has come from these labors. It can also be a giant pain in the a, though, especially when "it" involves some degree of self-flagellation. No good.
This year will be different. This year I'll do as I did last night: I'll lay back on our loveseat, w/ or w/o company, and I'll let my body take over. I'll try for an empty head but I won't push it, w/ the understanding that this is precisely how I'll attain it. If last night is any indication, it won't be so tough; for one, if not the only, advantage of a fifth-floor walkup is the elimination of all but the faintest of outside noise. In fact, it's that faintest of noise--the dulled honking, the muted sirens, that ever-present urban hum--that makes for one of the sweetest, most calming compositions I've heard. Nature CDs be damned.
And if I fall asleep in the process, so be it, though this is probably the least challenging route to peace. A more challenging route: remaining awake, awake and calm w/ cleared head--no newspaper, no book, no people-watching to distract--whilst pressed like a panini (I eat these for lunch daily) between Mr. Stare-Hard, Mr. Poopy Pants, and a half-dozen furry UGGs. Just you try it.
Which halfway reminds me...
"Shadow"
The sun finally goes down like the end
of the Russian novel, and the blinding darkness
over the continent makes me realize
how tired I am of reading and writing,
tired of watching all the dull, horse-drawn sentences
as they plough through fields of paper,
tired of being dragged on a leash of words
by an author I can never look up and see,
tired of examining the exposed spines of books,
I want to be far from the shores of language,
a boat without passengers, lost at sea,
no correspondence, no thesaurus,
not even a name painted across the bow.
Nothing but silence, the kind that falls
whenever I walk outside with a notebook
and a passing cloud darkens my page.
--B.C.
I'm off to the bar. Happy Friday.
Thursday, January 05, 2006
Death of the Great American Chocolate Bar
HERSHEY'S Milk Chocolate, HERSHEY'S Milk Chocolate w/ Almonds, HERSHEY'S Special Dark: fine/yum. HERSHEY'S Limited Edition Twosomes REESE'S PIECES, HERSHEY'S Limited Edition White Chocolate Confetti, HERSHEY'S 'N' MORE Marshmallow: holy eff, where went integrity? Something tells me Mr. Milton S. Hershey isn't turning, but rolling continuously, in his grave. Enough w/ the bastard treats.
I don't get it. Who wins here? Clearly not them, judging by the topped-off boxes of Reese's Peanut Butter & White Chocolate BIG CUP that sit untouched* beneath store counters. Clearly not us; after all, were the 50-cent abominations worth the odd change pooled in the bottom of my backpack, word-of-mouth would've sold me by now.** Their function, then, can only be employment, promising wasted company dollars to product developers and marketing personnel. But poor sales, it's worth noting, don't do much for job security.
Were I a woman of my word, I would've turned and run. But my will is weak, so run I did not, as an hour later found me at home eating this, along w/ a few of my words.
*Almost.
**Not worth it, I concur.
Heaven
Tuesday, January 03, 2006
Best last name ever
Shapendonk.
Monday, January 02, 2006
2006, here I am/come
While there are many more, here's a non-prioritized sampling.
1) Keep writing. Sharpen fiction (your new writers group will come in handy here, as there's not a n/f scribe in the house) while continuing to pitch & write w/ large-circulation magazines in mind. Publish three pieces in said magazines, w/ the understanding that five would kick ass but one or two would do just fine. Blog at least a few times per week.
2) Travel to Europe, possibly hooking up w/ an old I.S.S. friend in Bologna, thereby scoring gratis accommodations.
3) Travel domestically, i.e., taking advantage of $20 Chinatown bus fare. Keep in mind D.C., Boston, New Hope, et al. A road trip to Maine would also be nice.
4) Assert yourself on the job. This will be especially important in the coming weeks, as positions shift and blur.
5) Invite new friendships while continuing to nurture existing ones.
6) Spend more time in the outer boroughs.
7) Knit yourself a bathing suit. It can be done, you know this.
8) Revisit the local UU church scene.
9) With a little guidance, invest.
10) Continue scoping the NYC publishing/editorial scene. Network where possible.
11) Eat dinner in/brown-bag it to work more often.
12) Break from reading contemporary fiction in favor of the occasional classic. (You've read so few!)
13) Dive back into a dedicated running regimen. First up: Train toward a fast 10K. Later in, hope for lotto entry into this year's city marathon.
14) Work toward (electronically) replacing all those stolen CDs... Urg.
15) Lighten up.
16) Enjoy.