Saturday, April 29, 2006
Sweeeeeeeeeet
Iiiiiittttttttttttttttttttt's heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeere!!!!!!!!
I'm feverish. About to pass out. I keep smiling. And shrieking. At the top of my lungs.
Explain: My pa calls and leaves a voice mail, as he's all too accustomed to doing. "So Lou, got my Runner's World in the mail today..." All I needed to hear. Bam, called him back. "What??!! I didn't expect it till next month!" I was so off--how dumb! Anyway, he read it to me word for effin' word, sidebars and all. W/ Dad still on the phone, I decided I'd swing by my block's newsstand. They had June! God they're on top of things. I flipped anxiously ahead... and found it. It looks great! Some of the words are their's, some of mine are rearranged, and one of my sources was entirely left out (sorry guy), but IT'S ME! [Breathe, breathe.] I was so pumped I told the guy at the counter, "I'm in this!" He looked at me confused. "Is this you?" he asked, pointing at the cover model. "Uh, no. Clearly not. I wrote a story!" He could tell my excitement, and I could see he was amused/enthused. "Good luck!" he called as I walked out. Neat! All along the two-minute walk home, I so wanted to YELL out the news. To the bookseller-guy, the old woman w/ groceries in arms, the skater-pair. Get a grip, I know, but give me a few hours at least. :)
Poor qt, PDF to come on Monday:
The week in books
As PEN week comes to a close, I'm disappointed to have made it to only two events (out of 50-something). Still, both ended up being good picks. Today's noon event at Joe's Pub, sponsored by Benetton and part of the Young Writers Series, was a conversation between Argentinian author Rodrigo Fresán and NY-based Jonathan Lethem, in which Lethem interviewed Fresan on his personal history and his book Jardines de Kensington (Kensington Gardens), recently translated into English. The book weaves together two subjects Fresan finds complimentary: Peter Pan and 1960s Swinging London. "Rockers are like Peter Pan: 'Let me die before I get old.'" The book, while well-received in many countries, didn't earn him great marks in his native country (he lives in Barcelona now), where one leftist political review declared it a waste of Fresan's writing time. "If he's going to write about make-believe figures, why Peter Pan? Why not Pinocchio instead? Why write about an aristocratic dead boy over a workingclass hero?"--or something like that. He said that in Latin America, it's often more respectable to write about 'things that matter' than it is to simply 'make stuff up.'
I liked hearing about Fresan himself, man w/ a colorful past. He had a translator w/ him, but only called on him once or twice. To hear Fresan tell it, he was "born dead." He was in fact declared dead upon birth, result of a difficult labor. The, uh, mistake was eventually realized, and it was learned later that he'd been born w/ an extra rib. An interesting bio already. His upbringing was far from stable, as he watched his parents split/reunite/split/reunite about twelve times. He told a story about how his parents would argue over what to do w/ him--'let's take him to the movies; no, let's take him to the theatre.' They'd talk about football games, only because it was considered a fitting activity for a boy. Much to Fresan's disinterest (he hated football), they finally went through w/ the plan, but ended up going on the wrong day--on a non-game day. Sounded like they gave up after that. Fresan related other strange accounts, adding that he'd often console himself w/ "maybe this will make a good short story." I sometimes think along these lines, too. When I find myself in a situation that's less than comfortable, whether intentional or un-, I'll start spinning stories in my head (generally essays). This can actually get pretty disruptive, as it tends to prevent me from being fully in the experience. Anyway, one more thing that stayed w/ me was Fresan's description of Barcelona. He referred to it as psychotic, as containing a bunch of mini-replicas of wordly cities like Paris, London, and Madrid, w/ variations seen by the block. Ha, weird. I'd never heard this.
Another tres cool thing about this particular event: Lili Taylor opened w/ a reading of part of Kensington Gardens. (For those who don't know, Lili Taylor played Lisa on Six Feet Under.) I had a clear view from my seat, and I found myself turning a bit soft, emotional thinking about the role that show played in my life. Trite but so what: I felt like I knew her, like I could've walked right up and given her a hug--a 'knowing' hug. I feel like I'll always think of the SFU characters as people whose stories I watched unfold from a perch fifty feet up from the ground. Sigh.
The other event, "An Evening Without...", was on Thursday at Bowery Poetry Club. Hosted by Anthony Romero, ACLU's executive director, it was a longwinded evening of writers reading writers. Among others, Martin Amis read a piece he authored about Graham Greene, novelist/journalist/WWII British intelligence agent barred from the U.S. in '52 due to a brief stint in the Communist party; Liev Schreiber read work by Dario Fo, denied a visa in 1980 for wanting to help people; Todd Solondz (Welcome to the Dollhouse, Storytelling...) represented Nelson Mandela, who travels here only by way of a special waiver; and Debra Winger read Neruda. The night had a definite charge, even if I was getting a little sleepy toward the end...
Clearly it was a week for readings, as Wednesday found me at Happy Ending for the umpteenth time. Three featured writers, w/ one in particular standing out. Sean Wilsey, of McSweeney's fame & then some, read from his memoir on, you guessed it (did you? I've always considered the name Sean, w/ noted exceptions, to be kind of a skater name), skating. It was the most active reading I've been witness to, complete w/ real live skater moves. Impressive! He's a funny one, that Sean, especially when he's reading about falling. The only person I've ever known to topple his board then 'skate' on his palms down a segment of SF's Russian Hill, sliding under a Honda 2-door to make contact, finally, w/ a nice piece of curb... He's got my vote. Then again, I know so few skaters.
At then end of the day/week, inspired.
Artists
I had a dream last night (really like two hours ago) that longtime friend Tiff and I were celebrating our bdays jointly by engaging in a little art project & friendly competition. Tiff and some friends of hers had come up w/ the idea to create 'task folders' for us both (but Tiff had been involved? hmm), w/ artistic prompts that we were supposed to interpret as we saw fit. We were to then transfer our interpretations to the sidewalks of the East Village using colored street chalk. I noticed that her set--in the dream, they were actually those flimsy pastels--was more robust than mine, as I was handed colored pencils. We started in, and I found myself writing down sentences (don't remember the words), first in cursive, then in careful (pencils so breakable against pavement!) printing. That's all my interpretations consisted of--words. Tiff, on the other hand, was visually crafty, drawing these explosively colorful images on the wall of a nearby building (cheat!) as well as on the pavement below (I think). She'd also turned out a couple of really great portraits on paper, defying the rules yet again. :) I recall being a touch envious, though not at all bitter about it. (Tiff has always been a gifted drawer; back in middle school, I was always trying to adopt her techniques, yet never w/ the desired results. I remember she had a very particular style when it came to drawing heads--catlike eyes, expressive mouths, zany hair.) Still, I was disappointed in my own unadorned output, wishing for something livelier, more colorful.
I woke up shortly after, loving the lingering vividness of the imagery in my mind. The most entertaining dream I've had in awhile. As to what it all means, well, I'll carry it around w/ me today and see what I come up w/. Clearly it has something to do w/ acknowledging different forms of interpretation, yet feeling like my own--ahem, my writing--has a lot of evolving to do, and like my approach is at present too careful (breakable), not free enough. Ah well, years ahead of me still. Years and years.
And what better opportunity?
[So it was on Tuesday evening that about 180 people, spread out across the nervous system and muscular system galleries, settled on to prayer cushions and the bare carpet to meditate for a half-hour among bodies preserved in silicone.]
Thursday, April 27, 2006
Elusive
What's the deal w/ those pesky white deodorant streaks that, regardless of shirt-putting-on technique, magically appear on the lower right side of my (your?) shirtfront? Totally implausible, yet all too real. And how the eff does one get rid of them? I've tried the dry papertowel rub, the damn papertowel dab, the age-old tantrum... Nothing works! Please advise.
Ooh, what's that she's got?
Too much coffee.
Signs
I'm beside myself: I just found Cheez-Its in love, conjoined amidst a napkinful of singles. Can you believe it? And to think that just yesterday I was musing aloud about the death of the fuzed Cheez-It, about how these days--thanks to that necessary evil, Technology?--the little squares are punched along the dotted line w/ obnoxious consistency, as if separation trumps flavor sensation as the number one goal of the manufacturing process. (Although they're still t-t-t-tasty.)
Things can only look up from here.
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
s.o.l.
Makes sense. While I can't claim the same rationale--or any rationale for that matter--I can claim a fair number of incidents involving a high-school me stranded on a freeway shoulder, for some strange reason almost always w/in close proximity of an exit ramp/gas station. You probably drove by a few times. I was the one in blue jellies, swinging a red plastic gas can I stored for nostalgia's sake (okay, for convenience) in the trunk of that old Dodge Aspen (RIP).
Are there reasons to miss cars? I'm scratching my head here.
I'm reminded of a joke I heard recently, as told by one funny lady at Mo Pitkin's. She mentioned a guy she saw in the station the other day, a guy who attempted to hail the 6 train. As if it were a cab. He was so insistent (this one's mine!), she decided to just let him have it; she'd wait for the next one. God, if there's one joke I wish I had on tape.
Sunday, April 23, 2006
Zoo reservations aside...
Pea's off whooping it up in San Antonio (urban planning conference). At first I thought 'how nice, 300 square feet all to myself (& gorilla) for a few days.' Really though, I miss the guy.
And I went to the zoo. Yep, yesterday pal Doug & I braved the rain (me being the bravest, so brave as to pass on the umbrella, real jacket, and sensible shoes) to experience Central Park's finest: monkeys (Petey's still pouting), penguins, sea lions, starlings, partridges, boa constrictors, hissing cockroaches (how creative)... All were dressed to the nines. Cases in point:
This guy's a Red-Handed Tamarin, and Doug's favorite. 
Same guy, a bit closer. (Speaking of, Doug & I noted a tendency to refer to pretty much all zoo critters as male. What's this about? Just us? No?) 
Hsssssss. Their eyes looked to me like perfect Tiger's Eye gemstones. One of these guys was piled all over himself, forming a really, really lax-looking heap that hung over either side of a branch. A common snake pose, I know, but the sight just made me squeamish. Can't explain.
WOOT! This had us busting up--do click to enlarge/read. What a life, what a life. (Takemetherenow.) The Colobus Monkey: stunning with a streak of thick, white hair that begins on the back and culminates in a terrifically long tail (the white breaks up his black outline so as to confuse predators). I didn't get a picture (damn reflection), but there was a baby! I promise, you've never seen a cuter kid (not counting you, Syd). 
Words stick in my throat. I... uh... can't... These, see, are frogs. They never moved. They appeared hollow; empty shells of what they once were. Yet no, so were they always. My brain struggled w/ them.
A skink! The personality! 
Best for last: the famed Central Park sea lions, dishing antic upon antic. 
Not a ray of sun, but did they ever compete for space on those rocks.
Talk about personality. This guy's preferred means of expression was to hang his rear flippers over the edge of the tank, aligning the rest of his body w/ the wall. Disturbing considering my phobia, but I kept thinking of a bloated banana slug curled over the edge of a large Pilsner glass. 
Aww...
Following our zoocapade, D & I hit up Mud for some of Gotham's best (best: this says absolutely nothing at all) and some satisfyingly meandering conversation. How I do love to meander. Anyway, I made it home a bedraggled mess, and all the happier for it.
Making up for gray skies & rain
Here, my friends, is a TV. A TV that, prior to today, sat on the floor. No more! Check out the stand: solid oak, brushed steel... Ha. Oh well, at least the particleboard stain matches the faux wood grain of our primo 80s viewing box. Also, both stand and set were rescued from, that's right, the trash, solidifying their compatibility. (Another man's garbage, right?) Lest you wonder, I don't dig for my goods, just passively survey the sidewalk along w/ the rest of the Village hopefuls. After all, in this city, you never know when you might come up a very big winner--as in, proud new owner of some underappreciated Eames number. Finds of this caliber are the exception, but as long as you're not real picky, it's possible to outfit an entire apartment w/ discardeds in a matter of weeks. See, people abandon all sorts of furnishings--bookcases, mirrors, bedframes, dressers, you name it--upon moving from one residence to the next (just hard to cart things sans cars), so it's simply a matter of time. ["Where Have All the Flowers Gone?" is now playing in my little coffee shop, a song which will always remind me equally of church & Camp Orkila. Damn, what a beaut.] To date--and we've hardly gone out of our way--we've acquired an endtable, a full-length mirror, a few milk crates, and now, ahem, the TV stand. How proud I am!
Erm, there is one problem. Take a look:
I took this picture from the couch. I have a feeling the slant (you know about our playground slide of a floor) is going to present more of a problem now that the set's raised up. But we'll see. It's so nice to have that extra storage below...
Oh, so the acquisition process was kind of wild. As today's run came to a close, I shuffled down 3rd, two blocks from dive-gym. I was thinking about how I should add walnuts & fish oil capsules to my diet, having read a blurb earlier on how omega-3s can relieve exercise-induced asthma (really, this was the exact thought), when the stand appeared in my line of vision. Is it?... Could it?... It is! It's cheap and a little warped, but free! Heart pounding, I proceeded to drag it (wheeled, thankfully) behind me, already mapping its new location in my head. Oh, but wait--the gym. I gave the stand another once-over and decided it was unlikely that other passersby would be as keen as I to its utility, so I tucked it between two dumpsters and planned to return for it after my workout. Dusting off my hands, I continued on my way, then... honk! A taxi pulled up beside me and one of two or three backseat passengers cranked down her window, jamming her head outside. She was around 65 with a mountain of hair. My thoughts first went to my beloved stand. Oh geez, it was hers and she hadn't meant to leave it out, and here she was coming after me. Or, maybe she thought the thing was my own and that I was doing the street (her street?) a disservice by dumping it off. But neither of these was right. Cabrini! Where's Cabrini Medical Center?! she hurled at me. "Uh, it's on 14th," I said, fast realizing this wasn't the right answer. She knew it, too. No! That's not it! That's that other one! "Oh yeah. Um, gosh, you know, Cabrini's definitely right around here, but I can't seem to remember which street..." This response earned me one long, cold stare--even the driver appeared to be hating me. It was like they thought I was hoarding information. Anyway, they eventually sped off, leaving me thoroughly confused. Weird! Of course, I hope the situation wasn't dire, that a life wasn't at stake or something, but I really didn't know the answer! Sheesh. [Oh, Morrissey's on now. Love.]
Computer's about to die. More to come.
Friday, April 21, 2006
A bloody mockery, I tell ya
As I was rounding the track this a.m., sore and impatient, my eyes came to rest on a peculiar individual. Okay, hardly--you see clones all the time. It is, however, unusual to find one in running shoes--that is, running shoes being used for the purpose of running. Here's what else he had on: a baseball cap, hoodie, jeans. A bold fitness ensemble to begin w/, but here's the kicker: the jeans had sag. Incredible sag. As you can imagine, the poor guy was really struggling, trying as he was to keep pace w/ his aptly dressed friend--a regular Brooks ad, that one. I wish I could've laughed (might've eased a little of the physical discomfort), but instead, plain annoyance. I don't know, I just couldn't deal w/ it. The usual lines ran through my head--"pull 'em up!" "why?!"--and I confess to a violent thought or two, but, BUT, to his credit, he'd managed to cobble together a mighty unique gait, which looked something like this: hop (right leg), half-stride (left leg), hop (left leg), half-stride (right leg), and so on. Of course, it was only a matter of time before the hands got involved, clutching desperately at that blasted denim in a methodical left-right rotation.
Whaaatever. Grr.
Handle w/ care
Still on Murakami, still from here:
"... national traditions vary with editing as with everything else. ... (Certainly some countries, Italy being at the top of the list, can be counted on to do absolutely no editing or even, apparently, reading--though the same is undoubtedly true of certain American publishers.) A related subject is national traditions in the manner of publication. In Denmark, for example, many friends there will tell me not to regard a particular novel as a novel at all, but as part of an ongoing novel-in-progress published bit by bit, as it were, so the author could qualify for government grants. ..."
I'd never considered how the editor's role might vary by region. In addition to the above, Fisketjon remarks on the loose hand of Japanese editors, that oftentimes repetitive and meandering text will be left untouched. Whether this is out of respect for the writer, whether it's laziness (in Japan?!) masquerading as respect, whether it's just not seen as editable, it's the way it's done. Knowing this, and as Fisketjon puts out there, how is an English editor-translator team to respond? Western readers are used to a pretty cleaned-up form, thanks in large part to heavy editorial influence. Accordingly, do you deliver the usual, or do you seek to mimic the original in all its repetitive glory? If you start slashing, are you diminishing the story/insulting the writer's intention, or are you simply guarding against readers' frustration? Maybe there's no harm done, as writing techniques such as repetition must serve different purposes across languages. Japanese text crucial to story--creating a certain ambience, maybe--might, once plunked in an English version, add nothing to the reader's experience. Just reiteration. The context wouldn't be there, lost in the cultural exchange. Maybe the best way to tackle this, as mentioned by one of the translators, is to acknowledge in a translator's page that designated style elements were altered so as to present a more coherent English version.
Fisketjon's got me curious about these crazy Italian editors. I wish I could read Calvino in his native language and compare to the English translations.
Food babies
Uh, seen these? They're made of marzipan. Are they a new thing? I'm pretty sure I'm impressed, yet in a guarded sort of way.
Thursday, April 20, 2006
Answers
I tracked down a saved email conversation involving two of Murakami's translators and his Knopf editor. I've only just started reading, but already, fascinating!
[One moment that stood out to me most recently was when I was working on SPUTNIK SWEETHEART: In chapter five there was a short quote from Pushkin's poem Eugene Onegin. In cases like this--quotes in Japanese from other languages--of course you need to find the original language, and with languages other than English, I try to locate a reputable, existing translation. I hadn't realized Eugene Onegin was a book-length poem, and visualized myself sitting there for hours trying to locate these lines in the English version. Fortunately, the lines came early in the poem. What was interesting was that I located four different versions of the poem, from which I copied out these translations of the lines:
(1) He had no itch to dig for glories/ Deep in the dust that time has laid.
(2) He lacked the slightest predilection/for raking up historic dust.
(3) He lacked the yen to go out poking/Into the dusty lives of yore--
(4) He had no urge to rummage/in the chronological dust.
I copied all these down in my notebook, and ended up choosing (final answer?) number one to include in the translation of SPUTNIK SWEETHEART. Seeing all four versions side by side was a mini-revelation to me. When I got home I pinned these all to my bulletin board--where they still remain--as a reminder of a simple truth, namely that there are so many possible translations of even one line. So very much depends on the voice you hear in your head as you read a piece of fiction. That's the voice you're trying most to reproduce when translating something like a Murakami piece. People ask me what's the most challenging part about translating Murakami, and I guess that's the answer: finding, and staying true to, the voice you hear as you read the original.]
On topic
[Only 3 percent of books published in the United States are translations (4,114 in 2005), Mr. Grabois said, compared with, for example, 27 percent in Italy. As a result, linguists contend, much of the English-speaking world knows little of other countries and cultures.]
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
Ruff
Quick, I need some help: How would you best spell the sound of a beagle's bark/howl? I've got something down, yet I need options.
Lost in... you know
Next week is PEN week here in NY, and I plan to hit up several events. They all look great; too bad so many are square in the middle of the day (and on the west side to boot), making attendance a little tricky. For instance, I would love to make it to this--
4:00
Translation and Globalization
Boris Akunin, Roberto Calasso, Raymond Federman, Richard Howard, Elizabeth Peellaert; moderated by Steve Wasserman
As English imposes itself on the world, it takes in very few of the world’s voices via translation. What does this mean for the idea of “world literature” as a universal conversation across all historic periods and languages?
Tickets: Free; (212) 854-1200
Co-sponsors: The Instituto Ramon Llull and The Center for Literary Translation
--and will do my damndest to skip out on work for a few. One reason this topic is of particular interest for me at the moment is because I just finished another Murkami book (Norwegian Wood--an older one, real popular), which confirmed my regard for his writing voice. M succeeds, whether intentionally or not, in allowing readers to run w/ his characters, to take what they will from his own descriptions, then dig a little deeper (not that his writing isn't deep on its own; it is) into the minds of these fictional personalities. So not only do I find myself adopting their emotions, I wind up introspecting--still in their heads--as to the emotional significance. Powerful.
But translation. First, it's really hard for me to comprehend how such a beautiful book could be the product of translation. Not only does it adhere to all the syntax rules (a given, I know), but it reads w/ the distinction, grace, and nuance of all of M's novels. The voice is absolutely consistent, yet in doing a little research, there isn't one single translator who undertakes M's projects, but several. How different would it be to read his works in their native language? Or for that matter, to read any old book in its native language? Anyone? Do chime in. (The only real piece of Norsk literature I ever read doesn't have an English match.) Are we losing much? Looking back on the couple of years I spent studying Japanese in high school (ha! by no means an immersive experience), there are plenty of expressions that would seem to defy translation. I suppose the process would just be a damn tedious one, involving hours upon hours spent at M's side, ensuring that every sentiment comes as close as possible to matching up. Wow, what a job.
Yet think about the kickass writers from Liechtenstein (c'mon, gotta be a few) we're missing. You know that for all the widely shared Murakamis there are bound to a be a few phenoms that for one reason or another never make it from their own country's bestseller list to ours.
Beyond the reading enjoyment factor is the cultural bridge factor. One obvious way to demonstrate understanding & appreciation of a given culture is to show interest in acquiring & dissecting its literature. Because fiction or non-, there's plenty to glean. (Of course, it's not only the U.S. that stands to gain from expanded translation services.)
What we don't know can't hurt us? Uh, yeah...
Prime essay material, right here
Yikes. When running across the Queensboro, I always get a kick out of watching these little guys zip by.
Beyond the usual anxiety that comes w/ being suspended 250 feet above the East River, you've gotta worry about that whole bathroom thing. Those cars are not large.
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
Dimples for President
The girl needs her own blog, clearly.
Saturday, April 15, 2006
Post in.
Depth
I had an excellent conversation w/ a certain gentleman this morning, recorded for potential use in a coming story. As I soaked up the morning sun (thank you, landscape architect), I chatted w/ Charlie about what it means to connect w/ an audience through one's art.
Mr. Nimovitz participated in this year's World Parkinson Congress, sharing his talent as a writer/composer and, consequently, igniting an emotional firestorm. After treating spectators to a string of provocative songs--most original work plus a cover or two--Charlie stuck around to greet his newfound fans. More than half had Parkinson's, others were there in support. Looking around, nary a dry eye in the house. One attendee--also an artist (poet), also w/ Parkinson's--quietly approached Charlie, his kind eyes wet and full of emotion. I'd heard him read his poem earlier--
...Almost secretively
Exquisitely polite
As behooves an English gentleman
As if not to disturb.
So pleasant to meet you
He introduced himself:
Parkinson. ...
--opening his heart to all of us lucky enough to be there listening. Actually, I was familiar w/ his piece prior to the convention, as Pea had showed me several works while prepping for the big weekend. I loved it then, but as is often the case, the live version hit harder.
So Danny* introduced himself to Charlie, his manner every bit as polite as that of the uninvited guest he references above. He followed this up w/ a courteous 'thank you,' his bright blue eyes fixed squarely on Charlie's own, Charlie's response an appreciative nod & a warm 'you're welcome.' Had I been standing further away, the exchange might've appeared as a formality, as a show of everyday thanks. But I stood just feet from the men, and the depth of feeling conveyed as two sets of eyes locked together--the quiet compassion, the unspoken understanding--was shocking. I can see it so clearly today; it's as if I'm still there in that room, privileged witness to an intimate meeting. And while the effect isn't as cathartic, the memory will always serve as a stunning display of empathy.
Today I got to share my experience as an observer of this event w/ Charlie himself, and it just felt good--really, really good. C: "He [Danny] was pretty teary, I remember." We both choked up a bit, and hours after the phone call, I'm still feeling so much gladness. It felt important for me to share my impression w/ him, and I could tell he welcomed hearing it.
*Per Pea, the site that'll showcase all of the WPC art shared--written & visual--is almost live. When it is, I'll link to Danny's poem in full.
Friday, April 14, 2006
(Diabetic) gf in a coma
Sorry for all the links, but this is just too, too good. And timely.
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
Puff
Why, what a funny little invention. A bad idea for me, though. I'm afraid I'd be too tempted to pop the thing.
Monday, April 10, 2006
Sweette
Sunday, April 09, 2006
Me
Here's a swing through my life as of late:
Crazy weather. Yeah I know, weather, boring. But really it's not. The other day I woke up to 51 degrees. Three hours later, 35 and snowing. I'm so done w/ snow, so done. For the most part, though, I can't complain. Take today: 65 and suuuuunny. I'm loving the warmth running up and down my arms as I write from a window seat at a LES cafe, MC Gift Shop ('watches, perfumes, toys' says the sign), Ital('y' missing) Leather Fashion, and Fine & Klein Handbags supplementing my view, Delancey just left. The neighborhood's all aflutter, w/ the discount fur vendors parked in the middle of the street, shouting back and forth and attempting to lure the ladies via shameless flattery; people hanging outside coffee shops sipping their mediocre lattes; kids tossing balls, making mischief. [Oh god, Sublime just came on, opening the floodgates on all things WWU freshman year.] I actually hadn't intended to stop off for a write, but the last tour was full, and I've got some time before the night's reading, so I'll rattle on for a bit. Speaking of that reading, I've been going pretty much every Sunday for the last month or so, and although I rarely recognize the guests (I usually have no idea who's reading until I show up), I just really like going. I love the energy of live readings, and I almost always walk away w/ something, be it inspiration, an evocative line that stuck in my head, a lingering laugh or two (the other week some guy read a story about an imagined relationship between him and Abe Lincoln, about how he'd get up every morning and lovingly comb his lover's facial hair). (!) Always something. Anyway, KGB's like four blocks from our apartment, and the only expense is a beer, making for little reason not to take advantage. Speaking of weekly events, there's another place near our abode that I've been hitting up regularly--for comedy hour. Now, I think about the only Seattle experience I had w/ the funny people was courtesy of Giggles in the UD, and I don't recall being particularly impressed. I think I found it annoying. But oh geez, not here. Chicks & Giggles is what they call their women-only standup session, and in my case, snorting laughter generally subs for giggles. There are usually five or six acts, and at least three or four are bound to hit the mark. (They seem to get the bad ones out of the way early, leaving the best to round out the evening.) Pea came w/ me once, enjoyed it. But I don't know, not enough to keep going back I guess. I'd share some jokes w/ ya'll, but I'd of course miss crucial parts and thus paint a really pathetic picture. If/when you come for a visit, we'll go. [So I kind of like that this is one neverending paragraph, and frankly it's a good exercise for me considering I tend to be really anal when it comes to, you know, 'the topic sentence,' blah blah. Ahem, note the 'paragraph break' proofing mark tattooed on my body.] Let's see, what else... Oh, I spoke w/ a few editors on the phone last week--one from RW, one from Health, one from Women's Health. The RW guy was initially interested in having me interview either JCO or Malcolm Gladwell for their backpage "I'm a Runner" column, and rather than carry on over email, he told me to give him a call. Funny, because I've become so accustomed to e-dealings where my writing's concerned--most editors seem content to do away w/ the whole 'voice thing' and just hash everything out electronically. How weird, really. So anyway, I was pretty nervous to just phone him right up, but the conversation went well. He'd sort of changed his angle since the initial email; apparently the magazine's started to look at having known writer-personalities actually write their own stories. Some Oprah biggie (Nicholas Sparks; I hadn't heard the name, to be embarrassed or not?) has a 5,000-word essay that'll run soon. I don't know, I do like the concept, although I was disappointed to lose that opportunity to contribute. Next up was the Health editor I've been working w/ on the Father's Day 2007 essay. That went well, too, and basically consisted of her verbalizing her style preferences, verifying pay, that kind of thing. I get the impression they're going to let me run w/ my own style, that they're not the heavy-editing sort, but we'll see. My deadline--self-imposed--is May 1. Thaaank goodness. The WH conversation was actually an interview for mb's "How to Pitch." Although I don't get paid for doing these, it's proven to be a great way to initiate relationships w/ editors whose publications I'm potentially interested in writing for. The interview was a success and she liked the result, so we'll see. (I have two pitches in to them, should hear back this week.) Other than that, I've just been keepin' on w/ life. After the evening's reading (ooh, need to leave soon), I plan to take a cup of tea and a book out to our communal backyard. It's absolutely perfect for this sort of thing, w/ rustic picnic table & chair sets, well-maintained flower beds, even two BBQ grills. Mmm, BBQ... I can't wait till summer!!! I know, I know, why not first let spring take firm hold? Anyway, I'm not w/o reservations--today's run unfolded against 61 degrees, which, um, felt a smidge too warm... Assuming I make it into NY this year, it's going to be a(nother) rough summer.
But I'm so not complaining.
Remember this guy? Well, we've now got a Tasti of our own, thanks to Pea's startlingly adept sewing capabilities. Yes, he actually did hit up craig for a machine, and $75 later, walked off w/ the means. ?!?! The talent... I can only dream.
Occasion unknown/unlikely, but the mere $20 I dropped at a new EV thrift store made it somehow worthwhile.
Seamster.
More Tasti. Check out that tail! Oh, and about his missing hairs: Pea insists they'll grow in one of these days. Like yours truly, a late bloomer.
The current state of (part of) our apartment. All about the storage, baby.
LES "Babycakes": adorable retro interior--all authentic--w/ adorable cupcakes to match. I'll be back.
More loot: vintage what-I'm-calling sake glasses, and cheap!
Thursday, April 06, 2006
Fresh words
The other week I went to an art opening that showcased the work of kids involved in a voluntary, after-school program, the name of which evades. Some had contributed paintings, others pencil drawings, comic strips, poetry, you name it. By far my favorite had to be the above, a little acrostic number w/ the best first line ever. Quiet as a stick? How apt is that? Does it get much quieter than a stick? Nope.
Also cool: phonetics.
Mark my word: The girl's gonna be big.
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
Nostalgia?
Not really. I was one of those late bloomers who wanted desperately to join the Period Club, yet by the time I signed the charter, all of my friends--and I do mean all, they'd all gotten theirs--had lost interest. Reason I, uh, bring it up is because one of my co-workers is preparing to give her daughter Period Talk #1. Haha, I remembered the book my ma gave me, and whadaya know, it's still around, albeit w/ a jazzed-up design. I don't know though, I think I like the original better. It was the font, or something.
Anyway, my co-worker just bought it on Amazon.
Anyway.
Shame!
Now had I been copyeditor...
Monday, April 03, 2006
Headphones forgotten at home, always
My dear, sweet co-worker is driving me up walls. While I couldn't have asked for a better cubemate--there's the shared gimmicky-snack obsession (nut butters, mostly), the reader/writer connection (she's a poet), the good-humored banter (she's goofy)--she's mighty fond of singing. Out loud. Sometimes I don't mind this--say, when I feel like singing along. But most times I do mind, and I just can't help but get irrrrritated. Like, near-tantrum irritated. The problem is that she's too dang nice for me to even consider saying anything straightforward, so instead I have my more passive techniques. That aren't working. They never really work, in fact, yet I refuse to stop trying. What I usually end up doing is sighing/complaining loudly about something unrelated to singing, or making a bunch of noise picking up/putting down my phone receiver, in hopes that my interruption will throw her off, that she'll lose the rhythm and in the process lose interest in starting up again. Usually she just looks at me weird and keeps it coming.
Maybe if the singing voice wasn't so vibratoey, so deliberate, it wouldn't be so bad. It's not like she's got a crappy voice; it's just so... vocal.
Help?
CP
xo
Sunday, April 02, 2006
Grr. I need to stop messing w/ bloggy. Again, a mess. I think something's pointing at something wrong. Working on it...