Sunday, December 03, 2006
I'm sorry to say, this blog has fallen permanently out of use. But if you're looking to waste time, you can always poke around here.
Thursday, March 24, 2005
Addendum
Just to be perfectly clear, there is, of course, a very large segment of the population not covered by the sweeping generalizations below: People who really don’t care.
And when I say “people who really don’t care,” what I mean is: “people who have a much tighter grip on their sanity than we poor bastards who keep watching the videos over and over again, just to torment ourselves.”
I’d say “people who really don’t care” also includes:
* Those who have an opinion on the matter, but don’t feel a compulsion to share that opinion with everyone they meet. Or blog about it obsessively.
* Those who figure the situation will work itself out eventually and in the meantime, agonizing over it is an exercise in futility, since they are in no position to materially affect the outcome.
* Those who don’t understand the behavior of “people who really, really, really care a lot even though they don’t personally know Terri Schiavo or have anything to gain or lose from the outcome of her case.”
I would dearly love to be a person who really doesn’t care.
Just to be perfectly clear, there is, of course, a very large segment of the population not covered by the sweeping generalizations below: People who really don’t care.
And when I say “people who really don’t care,” what I mean is: “people who have a much tighter grip on their sanity than we poor bastards who keep watching the videos over and over again, just to torment ourselves.”
I’d say “people who really don’t care” also includes:
* Those who have an opinion on the matter, but don’t feel a compulsion to share that opinion with everyone they meet. Or blog about it obsessively.
* Those who figure the situation will work itself out eventually and in the meantime, agonizing over it is an exercise in futility, since they are in no position to materially affect the outcome.
* Those who don’t understand the behavior of “people who really, really, really care a lot even though they don’t personally know Terri Schiavo or have anything to gain or lose from the outcome of her case.”
I would dearly love to be a person who really doesn’t care.
Wednesday, March 23, 2005
Stand Back
I'm about to make several sweeping generalizations.
There are two kinds of people who care deeply, maybe even fanatically about the Terri Schiavo case.
1. People who secretly fear they are bad people because they have been less than perfect caregivers to their children/spouses/parents/etc.
2. People who have suffered at the hands of the first group and live in fear of the day the first group tries to make up for their past mistakes.
I have been a member of both groups at different times in my life. As a fun exercise, I'll let you guess which I belong to right now.
For the first group, letting a loved one go can be wrenching, even if the destination in question is just a college campus in the next state. I cannot even imagine what it would feel like to finally concede that the person in question would like to die, and help that happen.
Under the circumstances, Terri's parents must be suffering horribly. Given the role that Terri's bulimia played in the cardiac failure that brought her to her current state, I imagine they would love to go back in time and address their daughter's eating disorder when it was still a relatively trivial problem. Having failed Terri in this way, the thought of giving up on her must be inconceivably frightening. Once Terri dies, that's it--their final tally as parents will be carved in stone for all time. Deep down in their subconscious, a rough draft of that record has probably already been sketched out: "Failed to save our daughter from her eating disorder, failed to stop her from marrying a self-absorbed jerk, condemned her to death."
I say this because I myself have drafted some personal final tallies of my own and they were (are?) some doozies. "Not fit to be a member of the human race" was a front-runner for a long time. In other words, I understand guilt and regret, and how they prey on you when you're running out of chances to make amends for past actions.
And the Schindlers are not alone in this. Again with the sweeping generalizations: The entire shrieking, hysterical "culture of life" swarm has the same unresolved issue in their lives. They *need* to protest and argue for Terri's continued survival, because in their own lives there are too many un-addressed transgressions, unexpressed regrets.
On the other side of the table are the William Saletans and Dahlia Lithwicks of the world. Individuals who have, in the last two days, drafted, printed and signed a living will specifically excluding everyone they know from the first category from ever making decisions like the ones Michael Schiavo has made.
Maybe Saletan and Lithwick aren't exactly sure what, explicitly, fills them with dread at the thought of a guilt-saturated parent making end-of-life decisions. Judging by the heat and lack of clarity in their recent pieces, probably not.
For myself, I know exactly why I don't want my parents anywhere near the decision making process: They would do the exact same thing the Schindlers are doing, for the exact same reason. Also, because I've spend hundreds of hours in therapy, accepting all the hurtful actions my parents made in the past and I will be damned if let them take another crack at me, conscious, unconscious, vegetative or in any other condition.
How can I make such baldly unsubstantiated statements about this case? One, because everyone else is doing it. (Yeah, I'm looking at you, Dr. Frist. Cripes, I'd put more faith in Dr. Laura's diagnostic skills at this point.) Two, because the shortage of factual analysis and logical reasoning that abounds everywhere outside of the court system (and the cries of shock and outrage regarding the courts' strict adherence to facts and logic) prove my point entirely. Three, because it's my blog and I can do whatever I want.
People are arguing in chatrooms and bulletin boards and every other goddamn place and nearly always, without a scrap of accurate information about the case. Why? Because they're not really arguing about Terri. They're arguing about themselves, their past sins, their past injuries. Most people desperately want Terri to live or die because they can't admit to themselves what it is they really want: A chance to right past wrongs, or immunity from people who've hurt us before.
The final piece of supporting evidence for my theory: This piece, by a disability-rights lawyer named Harriet McBryde Johnson (right on! Harriet power!). It's concise, dispassionate and well-reasoned and makes no personal attacks on either side while making its case. It's the only instance, outside of the courts, of someone logically analyzing the situation. I don't know if the author has accepted her own failings and those of her caretakers, but judging by her ability to talk about the case without hysteria, it's a good bet she's made peace with her demons.
A brief moment of disclosure: I was a philosophy major in college and seeing an entire nation flaunt the rules of logic and dismiss entire two millennia of writings on the unreliability of human perception is more than a little maddening.
Also, I spent most of this week reading "Codependent No More" by Melody Beattie and in between paragraphs, screaming aloud in horror and recognition. When time permits, I'll most likely talk a little bit more about this. But no, it's not a coincidence, my theory about the Schiavo case and reading this book at the same time. And yes, I think the Schindlers are as codependent as the day is long, as is anyone else who things Michael Schiavo should have spent his life chastely obeying his marriage vows to a woman who no longer has a cerebral cortex.
God save us all from people who just want to help.
I'm about to make several sweeping generalizations.
There are two kinds of people who care deeply, maybe even fanatically about the Terri Schiavo case.
1. People who secretly fear they are bad people because they have been less than perfect caregivers to their children/spouses/parents/etc.
2. People who have suffered at the hands of the first group and live in fear of the day the first group tries to make up for their past mistakes.
I have been a member of both groups at different times in my life. As a fun exercise, I'll let you guess which I belong to right now.
For the first group, letting a loved one go can be wrenching, even if the destination in question is just a college campus in the next state. I cannot even imagine what it would feel like to finally concede that the person in question would like to die, and help that happen.
Under the circumstances, Terri's parents must be suffering horribly. Given the role that Terri's bulimia played in the cardiac failure that brought her to her current state, I imagine they would love to go back in time and address their daughter's eating disorder when it was still a relatively trivial problem. Having failed Terri in this way, the thought of giving up on her must be inconceivably frightening. Once Terri dies, that's it--their final tally as parents will be carved in stone for all time. Deep down in their subconscious, a rough draft of that record has probably already been sketched out: "Failed to save our daughter from her eating disorder, failed to stop her from marrying a self-absorbed jerk, condemned her to death."
I say this because I myself have drafted some personal final tallies of my own and they were (are?) some doozies. "Not fit to be a member of the human race" was a front-runner for a long time. In other words, I understand guilt and regret, and how they prey on you when you're running out of chances to make amends for past actions.
And the Schindlers are not alone in this. Again with the sweeping generalizations: The entire shrieking, hysterical "culture of life" swarm has the same unresolved issue in their lives. They *need* to protest and argue for Terri's continued survival, because in their own lives there are too many un-addressed transgressions, unexpressed regrets.
On the other side of the table are the William Saletans and Dahlia Lithwicks of the world. Individuals who have, in the last two days, drafted, printed and signed a living will specifically excluding everyone they know from the first category from ever making decisions like the ones Michael Schiavo has made.
Maybe Saletan and Lithwick aren't exactly sure what, explicitly, fills them with dread at the thought of a guilt-saturated parent making end-of-life decisions. Judging by the heat and lack of clarity in their recent pieces, probably not.
For myself, I know exactly why I don't want my parents anywhere near the decision making process: They would do the exact same thing the Schindlers are doing, for the exact same reason. Also, because I've spend hundreds of hours in therapy, accepting all the hurtful actions my parents made in the past and I will be damned if let them take another crack at me, conscious, unconscious, vegetative or in any other condition.
How can I make such baldly unsubstantiated statements about this case? One, because everyone else is doing it. (Yeah, I'm looking at you, Dr. Frist. Cripes, I'd put more faith in Dr. Laura's diagnostic skills at this point.) Two, because the shortage of factual analysis and logical reasoning that abounds everywhere outside of the court system (and the cries of shock and outrage regarding the courts' strict adherence to facts and logic) prove my point entirely. Three, because it's my blog and I can do whatever I want.
People are arguing in chatrooms and bulletin boards and every other goddamn place and nearly always, without a scrap of accurate information about the case. Why? Because they're not really arguing about Terri. They're arguing about themselves, their past sins, their past injuries. Most people desperately want Terri to live or die because they can't admit to themselves what it is they really want: A chance to right past wrongs, or immunity from people who've hurt us before.
The final piece of supporting evidence for my theory: This piece, by a disability-rights lawyer named Harriet McBryde Johnson (right on! Harriet power!). It's concise, dispassionate and well-reasoned and makes no personal attacks on either side while making its case. It's the only instance, outside of the courts, of someone logically analyzing the situation. I don't know if the author has accepted her own failings and those of her caretakers, but judging by her ability to talk about the case without hysteria, it's a good bet she's made peace with her demons.
A brief moment of disclosure: I was a philosophy major in college and seeing an entire nation flaunt the rules of logic and dismiss entire two millennia of writings on the unreliability of human perception is more than a little maddening.
Also, I spent most of this week reading "Codependent No More" by Melody Beattie and in between paragraphs, screaming aloud in horror and recognition. When time permits, I'll most likely talk a little bit more about this. But no, it's not a coincidence, my theory about the Schiavo case and reading this book at the same time. And yes, I think the Schindlers are as codependent as the day is long, as is anyone else who things Michael Schiavo should have spent his life chastely obeying his marriage vows to a woman who no longer has a cerebral cortex.
God save us all from people who just want to help.
Thursday, March 03, 2005
Count Down
It’s about 58 degrees Fahrenheit in my office right now. And by office, I mean living room. The apartment furnace is on the blink. And by furnace, I mean the ugly, faux-wood-grained metal box bolted to our kitchen wall.
The good news is that our beloved landlord is also in the kitchen, explaining how diesel engines work, lamenting science’s inability to safely handle the waste products left over from nuclear fusion, and yes, praise Jesus, fixing the furnace. Huzzah.
So, soon it will be much, much warmer. And at any rate, it’s still not as cold in our apartment as it is outside our apartment (a whopping 33 degrees Fahrenheit, according to Tom Skilling.) Kudos to the good people at 3M for their excellent Window Insulation Kit--without their excellent product, Mr. Wrath, the cats and I might all be solid blocks of frostbitten flesh by now.
It’s no joking matter, the lack of heat in a city that isn’t expecting to see the far side of freezing for another month or so. And yet, I am sad when I hear the furnace finally tick over and the gas burners go whoom!
Because we are just back from a week’s stay in Los Angeles, and the upshot of the trip is that this is our last March in Chicago, at least for a while. This time next year, our landlord will be laconically commenting on life to new tenants, and we will be paying March rent to somebody we haven’t met yet.
Growing up with four siblings taught me There Is Never Enough to Go Around. Someone else will always eat the last doughnut, finish off the vanilla ice cream, eat your Easter candy. Yes, I notice that these are all food-related situations. I also believe that Anything Good Always Ends. If I have a great book to read or a movie to watch, someone will interrupt me or make me do something else. When I watch TV, I often brace myself for the possibility that a character will die or a mystery will go unsolved, just so I won’t be disappointed if that’s what happens.
The phrase my therapist likes to use for this mindset is “scarcity thinking,” and that’s pretty accurate. Like a survivor of the Depression, I have a tendency to hoard. I don’t necessarily eat a lot of food, but I need to have a lot of food in the house. I buy three times more magazines than I can possibly read on a 4-hour flight. I pack four times more clothing that I can possible wear on a 5-day trip. Until recently, I used to pack 2 cubic feet of skin and hair care products because I couldn’t bring myself to use travel bottles.
Los Angeles was beautiful. I wouldn't be so freaked out if it hadn't been so alluring. Maybe a little smoggy, maybe a little superficial, but beautiful. Weather was in the high 60s or low 70s every day. Blue sky, lots of greenery and tall palm trees. What struck my Midwestern eyes as an extraordinary amount of sunlight. The whole city seemed loosely based on various universally-held ideas about paradise. Plus, it must be said, everyone we met—old friends and new—was unfailingly warm and friendly.
Still, I can’t shake this feeling that making a new home means giving up everything I value in the old home. If we were to move to LA, it wouldn’t be for five months or so. And yet, I am already missing our wonderfully ethical landlord. And yes, my therapist. But also my hair stylist, my dentist, my doctor. The lunch place that makes really good roast beef sandwiches. The spice shop that sells the perfect candied ginger. The take out place where the staff knows I am addicted to their pot pies and chocolate mousse. And yes, of course, our friends here.
Even when I was physically in LA, confronted at every turn by the new things that would replace my old comforts, I was literally homesick. Food smelled weird and inedible to me. If I tried to eat, my stomach cramped. It was unlike anything I’ve ever experienced—like a migraine of the digestive system. Even now, four days after our return, I don’t really have an appetite. It’s as if my body is unwilling to enjoy anything, for fear it will be taken away.
Ultimately, what will come of the trip is anyone’s guess. We could stay right where we are, although that too has certain pains attached. I don’t like to think of myself as someone afraid of change, afraid to take chances. And yet, I’ve done move-to-the-new-city before, and I hate the process of giving up everything I know for a new crop of things I haven’t yet discovered. At some level, I don’t really believe the new crop of things will measure up to the old. A ridiculous belief, but mine all the same.
Part of me is ready to go right now, never mind waiting five months. I read the apartment ads on Craigslist Los Angeles and search real estate listings for Los Angeles. I keep checking the Sigalert website to track traffic levels during the day, to get an idea how long it would take me to drive from this neighborhood to that at 8 a.m., at noon, at 3 p.m., at 6. I surf the Los Angeles blogs and websites before anything else in the morning, wondering what it is like right now.
Another part of me feels like I will never be ready to go. An old, wary part of me, used to finding an empty bakery box on top of the fridge, used to being sent to bed in the middle of an episode of “Dr. Who.” It’s been a comfortable couple of years for the part of me that never thought I’d be able to live my own life and for that younger Harriet, the idea of Los Angeles is completely, utterly terrifying. I don’t know if I have it in me to scare her (me) so badly. And at the same time, I suspect protecting myself from change is not a good idea. Change is inevitable. Better that it should be on something vaguely resembling my own terms.
It’s about 58 degrees Fahrenheit in my office right now. And by office, I mean living room. The apartment furnace is on the blink. And by furnace, I mean the ugly, faux-wood-grained metal box bolted to our kitchen wall.
The good news is that our beloved landlord is also in the kitchen, explaining how diesel engines work, lamenting science’s inability to safely handle the waste products left over from nuclear fusion, and yes, praise Jesus, fixing the furnace. Huzzah.
So, soon it will be much, much warmer. And at any rate, it’s still not as cold in our apartment as it is outside our apartment (a whopping 33 degrees Fahrenheit, according to Tom Skilling.) Kudos to the good people at 3M for their excellent Window Insulation Kit--without their excellent product, Mr. Wrath, the cats and I might all be solid blocks of frostbitten flesh by now.
It’s no joking matter, the lack of heat in a city that isn’t expecting to see the far side of freezing for another month or so. And yet, I am sad when I hear the furnace finally tick over and the gas burners go whoom!
Because we are just back from a week’s stay in Los Angeles, and the upshot of the trip is that this is our last March in Chicago, at least for a while. This time next year, our landlord will be laconically commenting on life to new tenants, and we will be paying March rent to somebody we haven’t met yet.
Growing up with four siblings taught me There Is Never Enough to Go Around. Someone else will always eat the last doughnut, finish off the vanilla ice cream, eat your Easter candy. Yes, I notice that these are all food-related situations. I also believe that Anything Good Always Ends. If I have a great book to read or a movie to watch, someone will interrupt me or make me do something else. When I watch TV, I often brace myself for the possibility that a character will die or a mystery will go unsolved, just so I won’t be disappointed if that’s what happens.
The phrase my therapist likes to use for this mindset is “scarcity thinking,” and that’s pretty accurate. Like a survivor of the Depression, I have a tendency to hoard. I don’t necessarily eat a lot of food, but I need to have a lot of food in the house. I buy three times more magazines than I can possibly read on a 4-hour flight. I pack four times more clothing that I can possible wear on a 5-day trip. Until recently, I used to pack 2 cubic feet of skin and hair care products because I couldn’t bring myself to use travel bottles.
Los Angeles was beautiful. I wouldn't be so freaked out if it hadn't been so alluring. Maybe a little smoggy, maybe a little superficial, but beautiful. Weather was in the high 60s or low 70s every day. Blue sky, lots of greenery and tall palm trees. What struck my Midwestern eyes as an extraordinary amount of sunlight. The whole city seemed loosely based on various universally-held ideas about paradise. Plus, it must be said, everyone we met—old friends and new—was unfailingly warm and friendly.
Still, I can’t shake this feeling that making a new home means giving up everything I value in the old home. If we were to move to LA, it wouldn’t be for five months or so. And yet, I am already missing our wonderfully ethical landlord. And yes, my therapist. But also my hair stylist, my dentist, my doctor. The lunch place that makes really good roast beef sandwiches. The spice shop that sells the perfect candied ginger. The take out place where the staff knows I am addicted to their pot pies and chocolate mousse. And yes, of course, our friends here.
Even when I was physically in LA, confronted at every turn by the new things that would replace my old comforts, I was literally homesick. Food smelled weird and inedible to me. If I tried to eat, my stomach cramped. It was unlike anything I’ve ever experienced—like a migraine of the digestive system. Even now, four days after our return, I don’t really have an appetite. It’s as if my body is unwilling to enjoy anything, for fear it will be taken away.
Ultimately, what will come of the trip is anyone’s guess. We could stay right where we are, although that too has certain pains attached. I don’t like to think of myself as someone afraid of change, afraid to take chances. And yet, I’ve done move-to-the-new-city before, and I hate the process of giving up everything I know for a new crop of things I haven’t yet discovered. At some level, I don’t really believe the new crop of things will measure up to the old. A ridiculous belief, but mine all the same.
Part of me is ready to go right now, never mind waiting five months. I read the apartment ads on Craigslist Los Angeles and search real estate listings for Los Angeles. I keep checking the Sigalert website to track traffic levels during the day, to get an idea how long it would take me to drive from this neighborhood to that at 8 a.m., at noon, at 3 p.m., at 6. I surf the Los Angeles blogs and websites before anything else in the morning, wondering what it is like right now.
Another part of me feels like I will never be ready to go. An old, wary part of me, used to finding an empty bakery box on top of the fridge, used to being sent to bed in the middle of an episode of “Dr. Who.” It’s been a comfortable couple of years for the part of me that never thought I’d be able to live my own life and for that younger Harriet, the idea of Los Angeles is completely, utterly terrifying. I don’t know if I have it in me to scare her (me) so badly. And at the same time, I suspect protecting myself from change is not a good idea. Change is inevitable. Better that it should be on something vaguely resembling my own terms.
Saturday, February 19, 2005
Under: The Weather
Funny story: I don’t like taking cold medicine because it gives me screwy dreams.
The punchline: I have cold that, without any chemical assistance, has now given me two of the freakiest protracted dream sequences of my life.
The cold: Is weird. At first, I thought I’d had one-too-many lattes and was having a caffeine-induced quasi-panic attack, which is a tightness in my chest and a little difficulty breathing. Which then leads me to worry I’m having a heart attack, which ups my anxiety level to the point where the “quasi” in “quasi-panic attack” isn’t really in effect anymore.
Then: I lost my voice. No runny nose, no itchy eyes, just gradual disappearance of my ability to make sound come out of my mouth.
Which: Would have been okay, except that I had a show last night. A show in which I alone sing the first line of a musical number. It has taken me years, to get to the point where I can turn to the audience and belt out the beginning of a song solo. (This doesn’t mean I sing well. But after 30 some years of not being able to sing in public at all, I’ll take what I can get.)
Plus: I was expecting a couple people who had last seen me perform in a show when, again, I alone sang the first line of a musical number. Except that this was when I *couldn’t* sing in public. From night to night, I swung from inaudible croaking to off-key Ethel Merman impressions. This resulted in a) some of the worst stage fright and b) some of the most unintentionally backhanded compliments of my entire life. “Wow, you were really facing your fears up there,” was one that has stayed with me. “Are you taking voice lessons?” (asked in a tone suggesting that my instructor should have her teaching license revoked) was another classic. Not that I hold these comments against the speakers. I have no idea what one says after witnessing an onstage car wreck.
So: I had to do the show. I steamed my head. I drank two large glasses of ThroatCoat herbal tea, both with massive doses of honey stirred in. I sucked Halls throat drops. I drank water. I hummed. Some combination of these things started giving me waves of vertigo about 45 minutes before the show, so then I sat down and hoped I didn’t pass out.
And: It was fine. I sang, I read my lines, I supported my fellow players. The vertigo passed, although Mr. Wrath insists I see a doctor on Monday to make sure I don’t have pneumonia of the ear drum.
The people I was expecting: Didn’t come. Which is too bad, but what can you do?
Sadly: That is not the end of the story. It was my last show with the group and tradition demands post-last-show festivities, i.e. drinking and yelling over loud dance music in a nearby smoky bar.
Post-Smoky-Bar: I felt pretty good. My voice, strangely, came back completely and I thought I was out of the woods.
But no: I apparently disrespected the cold by taking it out drinking last night, because it has kicked into high gear now, waking me up every two hours between 2 and 10 a.m. My nose started running.
It’s on like Grey Poupon: The dreams. Oh, lord the dreams. I thought Wednesday night was some kind of new low: Eight hours, one topic. Bravo’s “Project Runway.” Although sometimes Carson from “Queer Eye” was involved. The assignment changed throughout the night. At first, I think it was something to do with interior design, but the room had to be flamingo pink and lime green. Then it involved redoing the FedEx corporate brand. With glitter. Then there was a showgirl costume competition. For a minute, they were decorating a parade float.
That was nothing: Last night? “Gilmore Girls.” Sometimes Rory had a homework assignment that was due, sometimes Lorelei was freaking out over a guy. Sometimes Sookie was trying to perfect a new recipe. It’s a cliché, but what other word could I use? Nightmare. Totally fucking nightmare. I *like* “Gilmore Girls”, but come on, who wants to dream about a WB show for eight hours? It’s not natural.
Clearly: I am the victim of an experimental form of psychological warfare. Some gov’t operative is pointing a subsonic gun at my apartment while I sleep. Obviously, the device is programmed to repeat selected television programs just below the range of human hearing, in such a way as to infiltrate one’s unconscious. That’s the only possible explanation.
It’s absolutely not the case: That I’ve watched a little too much TV this week. Just so we’re clear on that.
Why: Isn’t Mr. Wrath affected? I don’t know. Maybe he’s onto the plot and is wearing some kind of protective ear plugs.
I: Have broken down and taken some 12-Hour Wal-Phed. Past experience has shown that this substance will materially affect the clarity of my thought patterns.
More so: If I consume caffeine at the same time.
Huh: I guess it probably wasn’t such a great idea to have that grande soy latte, then.
Fuck: This.
Am: going back to bed.
Funny story: I don’t like taking cold medicine because it gives me screwy dreams.
The punchline: I have cold that, without any chemical assistance, has now given me two of the freakiest protracted dream sequences of my life.
The cold: Is weird. At first, I thought I’d had one-too-many lattes and was having a caffeine-induced quasi-panic attack, which is a tightness in my chest and a little difficulty breathing. Which then leads me to worry I’m having a heart attack, which ups my anxiety level to the point where the “quasi” in “quasi-panic attack” isn’t really in effect anymore.
Then: I lost my voice. No runny nose, no itchy eyes, just gradual disappearance of my ability to make sound come out of my mouth.
Which: Would have been okay, except that I had a show last night. A show in which I alone sing the first line of a musical number. It has taken me years, to get to the point where I can turn to the audience and belt out the beginning of a song solo. (This doesn’t mean I sing well. But after 30 some years of not being able to sing in public at all, I’ll take what I can get.)
Plus: I was expecting a couple people who had last seen me perform in a show when, again, I alone sang the first line of a musical number. Except that this was when I *couldn’t* sing in public. From night to night, I swung from inaudible croaking to off-key Ethel Merman impressions. This resulted in a) some of the worst stage fright and b) some of the most unintentionally backhanded compliments of my entire life. “Wow, you were really facing your fears up there,” was one that has stayed with me. “Are you taking voice lessons?” (asked in a tone suggesting that my instructor should have her teaching license revoked) was another classic. Not that I hold these comments against the speakers. I have no idea what one says after witnessing an onstage car wreck.
So: I had to do the show. I steamed my head. I drank two large glasses of ThroatCoat herbal tea, both with massive doses of honey stirred in. I sucked Halls throat drops. I drank water. I hummed. Some combination of these things started giving me waves of vertigo about 45 minutes before the show, so then I sat down and hoped I didn’t pass out.
And: It was fine. I sang, I read my lines, I supported my fellow players. The vertigo passed, although Mr. Wrath insists I see a doctor on Monday to make sure I don’t have pneumonia of the ear drum.
The people I was expecting: Didn’t come. Which is too bad, but what can you do?
Sadly: That is not the end of the story. It was my last show with the group and tradition demands post-last-show festivities, i.e. drinking and yelling over loud dance music in a nearby smoky bar.
Post-Smoky-Bar: I felt pretty good. My voice, strangely, came back completely and I thought I was out of the woods.
But no: I apparently disrespected the cold by taking it out drinking last night, because it has kicked into high gear now, waking me up every two hours between 2 and 10 a.m. My nose started running.
It’s on like Grey Poupon: The dreams. Oh, lord the dreams. I thought Wednesday night was some kind of new low: Eight hours, one topic. Bravo’s “Project Runway.” Although sometimes Carson from “Queer Eye” was involved. The assignment changed throughout the night. At first, I think it was something to do with interior design, but the room had to be flamingo pink and lime green. Then it involved redoing the FedEx corporate brand. With glitter. Then there was a showgirl costume competition. For a minute, they were decorating a parade float.
That was nothing: Last night? “Gilmore Girls.” Sometimes Rory had a homework assignment that was due, sometimes Lorelei was freaking out over a guy. Sometimes Sookie was trying to perfect a new recipe. It’s a cliché, but what other word could I use? Nightmare. Totally fucking nightmare. I *like* “Gilmore Girls”, but come on, who wants to dream about a WB show for eight hours? It’s not natural.
Clearly: I am the victim of an experimental form of psychological warfare. Some gov’t operative is pointing a subsonic gun at my apartment while I sleep. Obviously, the device is programmed to repeat selected television programs just below the range of human hearing, in such a way as to infiltrate one’s unconscious. That’s the only possible explanation.
It’s absolutely not the case: That I’ve watched a little too much TV this week. Just so we’re clear on that.
Why: Isn’t Mr. Wrath affected? I don’t know. Maybe he’s onto the plot and is wearing some kind of protective ear plugs.
I: Have broken down and taken some 12-Hour Wal-Phed. Past experience has shown that this substance will materially affect the clarity of my thought patterns.
More so: If I consume caffeine at the same time.
Huh: I guess it probably wasn’t such a great idea to have that grande soy latte, then.
Fuck: This.
Am: going back to bed.
Thursday, February 17, 2005
Terminology
As previously mentioned, I like to watch Dr. Phil. In particular, I enjoy watching people strive towards a better understanding of each other, however haltingly. It provides a pleasant contrast to the usual simoon of continual misunderstandings.
For instance, Valentine’s Day. If you are a man and watch or listen to manly media, I suspect you were instructed several thousand times in the last few weeks to get yourself to a jewelry store or a phone and order a pendant or pajamas or novelty bear. Such is the firestorm of instructions to this effect that proposing on Valentine’s Day has become something of an arm’s race, with fellas fighting valiantly to plan something spectacular. Even my iconoclast little brother (the one who thinks nose picking is a Constitutionally-protected right) proposed on V-Day.
And the actual instructions in the commercials were worse than useless. One radio commercial I hear a lot advises men to make their gift “personal.” For instance, “if she has a pair of small diamond earrings, perhaps a bigger pair would do the trick.” It makes ladies sound like glitter-obsessed magpies. If a guy buys himself the perfect … cordless drill, say, I don’t think he’d want another for his next birthday. He’d probably want some accessories, masonry bits or something. Who needs two of the same thing? (Not counting, you know, underwear and socks.)
Women, meanwhile, are getting a vastly different message. To wit: If he really loves you, he will magically read your mind and send you the perfect gift. Failure to do so means that he is a borderline sociopath/Neanderthal and Is Not The One.
Bleh.
With such high stakes, it’s not surprising people develop private glossaries of words and catchphrases they use to express complex emotional states. I’m thinking now of the way that “like” became a phenomenally charged verb for me between the ages of 12 and … uh, yesterday. To “like” anyone of the opposite sex was roughly equivalent to admitting there was a sex tape of the two of you in circulation on the internet, the kind of thing you might never live down.
I am as guilty as the next person of maintaining a private cache of catchphrases and the like, to stand in for more nuanced explanations of my current emotional state. With that in mind, I thought it might be time to flesh out …
The Glossary of Harriet
Agathe Brchnya – A fictional housekeeper, employed by an equally fictional director of horror films, circa 1930-1937. Originally from Srebnia, an obscure province of no affiliation, nestled in the foothills of the Ural Mountains. Superstitious, pessimistic, cranky, loyal to a fault. Not above poisoning romantic rivals with a tincture. Handy with a poultice. Appears, unprompted, in our apartment from time to time, to hold forth on topics of the day.
Asshat – Noun. Variation: Assclown. Slow-witted individual who disagrees with me.
Awesome – Adjective. Meaning varies greatly, depending on context. Can mean, literally, the best thing I’ve seen or heard in years. Or, ironically, something of profound ickiness. The latter usage is particularly common in reference to accounts of hopelessly passive aggressive and/or dysfunctional behavior.
A: My parents think I totally overreacted to Henry’s alcohol-induced blackout. They swear he doesn’t have a drinking problem.
B: Awesome.
Beefcake – Term of endearment. Inspired by cat who bears more than a passing resemblance to one of Mark McGuire’s forearms. She’s twelve pounds of feline muscle and appears several times in Jose Conseco’s new book.
Dead People TV – Noun. Any of the several television shows I watch obsessively, specifically “This person is dead, but who killed them?” (Law & Order); “This person is dead, but how did they die?” (CSI); “This person has disappeared and if we don’t find them, they might die!” (Without a Trace); “This person died so long ago, no one has any idea what killed them!” (Cold Case.)
Fortress of Solitude – State of being. A necessary phrase in an apartment where the bathroom door does not lock. Signifies biological processes best conducted in private.
Hey-o! – Asinine expression of enthusiasm. Have declared this phrase the refuge of the cowardly and emotionally immature, after it was used upwards of a dozen times during the toasts at a recent wedding in place of any heartfelt observations or recollections regarding either bride or groom. Fills me with ineffable sadness.
Housed – Verb. As in “You’ve been housed!” Inspired by television show “House.” Features include being misdiagnosed several times, going into seizure 15 minutes after the opening credits, being groused at by your painkiller-addicted doctor, having your attending physicians debate the sanity of said painkiller-addicted doctor outside your room.
Knucklehead – Noun. Listener to or participant in Knucklehead Radio.
Knucklehead Radio – Noun. Testosterone-soaked sports radio, specifically featuring callers who use any pretext to discuss the playoff chances of their favorite teams. The most knucklehead-host on knucklehead radio is King Knucklehead, a title currently held by one Mike North.
Nocturne of the Damned – Proper noun. One of Agathe’s first films. She played Smette, the housekeeper. Also a synonym of any bad experience.
A: The Unemployment Office was a living hell.
B: A Nocturne of the Damned?
A: You said it.
Not So Much– Passive-aggressive evisceration. Used to off-handedly rip the well-intentioned to shreds, particularly in asshat-intensive internet forums. Will wear eye-patch in public for a month if ever used by me in any but a purely referential context.
Rockstar – Noun, adjective. All-purpose term of praise/acclaim, typically used in circumstances of extraordinary sacrifice and achievement. “You made callbacks? You are such a rockstar!”
Shiny – Noun. Alt: The Shiny. Anything new, over-designed, technologically sophisticated, costly and coming with an instruction book thicker than “Pride and Prejudice.” Also, a compulsion to obtain same.
A: Ooh, look! A Razr!
B: Fight the shiny, Harriet! Fight it!
A: Must … have … shiny…must … have…
B: That’s it, we’re leaving.
Tennessee Tuxedo – Term of endearment. Inspired by cat who appears to wear tuxedo. Same cat also known as “Spotfoot” for reasons you can probably put together.
Twilight of the Shrew – Proper noun. Another film from Agathe’s resume. She played Frette, the housekeeper.
Vengepoop – Noun/Verb. Signifies smelly declaration of displeasure on the part of a cat. Usually found a few inches from litter box, but bathroom rugs are also fair game. See also Tennessee Tuxedo, the primary committer of vengepoops.
Tuesday, February 08, 2005
Back Issues
I have a three-week-old issue of The New Yorker on my desk. I want to recycle it, but each time I pick it up, I flip through the table of contents and discover why I’ve been holding on to it. And so, in the name of emptying out my in box, I humbly present
My Funny Rant
(Or More Accurately, My Rant About Funniness, or the Absence of Same in The New Yorker Magazine)
The New Yorker does not understand funny. When the staff needs something funny to put in the magazine, they apparently go to a Rolodex of likely suspects, containing the names of people who have been described as funny within earshot of a New Yorker editor.
(Oh, by the way, I realize that this entire entry will officially blacklist me from The New Yorker for all time. That’s okay. Also, they did once reject an extremely funny piece I submitted. So maybe I’m just bitter. Or maybe The New Yorker staff wouldn’t know funny if it bit them in their bony, Dries-Van-Noten-wearing-ass.)
Ahem. I was saying. Sometimes this approach works for The New Yorker. They got a lot of mileage out of David Sedaris until, to my inexpressible rage, some editor/asshat began to encourage Sedaris to emulate the slow, meditative epiphanies of the archetypal New Yorker short story. I love Sedaris, but his essays for The New Yorker have gradually descended from screamingly hilarious to arthritic and boring. I could kick The New Yorker staff in their collective balls just for ruining Sedaris’ gift for the deftly turned phrase.
Why did they do this? Because they do not understand funny. Which would be okay, if like some wiser magazines, they had steered clear of that which confuses them. Lucky magazine, for instance, does not have a humor column. But no. Like Vanity Fair, The New Yorker insists on dabbling in the alchemy of humor, frequently turning pages that could have contained a shimmering golden Malcolm Gladwell dissertation into leaden poopiness.
Yes, I said poopiness. I am sorry for it, but I am so irritated by this situation, I have slipped into profanity. Phooey to you, New Yorker editorial staff.
Right, right, my actual point. Here is the January 24/31 issue of The New Yorker. On page 48, here is a piece by Andy Borowitz, fleshing out the premise “What if Lindsay Lohan bought some real estate from Dick Cheney?” The whole thing hangs from a precarious ledge of an AP news story, excerpted at the beginning. I have seen other stories of this type. Hell, good friends have both written and sold pieces of this type to The New Yorker in years past.
The difference is that the piece written by said friends were actually funny. That is why they are friends—I don’t socialize with humorless clods, as this rant illustrates. This piece, I regret to say, is not funny. And I could let that go, if the author were new to the magazine, or represented a novel perspective on the human condition. Neither is true. Andy Borowitz writes pieces for The New Yorker approximately once a month and mocking Dick Cheney is like nose-picking—at this point, even President Bush does it when no one is looking.
By the way, Andy Borowitz was a vastly more successful and wealthy individual than myself when he wrote this piece and unless the universe is much more just than I’ve been lead to believe, he still is. Just so we’re clear.
Page 50, on which we are introduced to the gentlemen behind www.collegehumor.com. This piece contains a baldly inaccurate paragraph about Robert Benchley writing for college humor magazines in the 1920s, when of course…anyone? Anyone? Benchley was writing for first Vanity Fair and then The New Yorker in 1920s. Not that this magazine’s fact-checking staff would know that, it’s not like they work at the …oh, right.
More to the point, the entire piece takes it as a given that collegehumor.com is undoubtedly funny, because it gets a lot of web traffic and sells a lot of tshirts. Both The Onion and David Letterman are mentioned, but no attempt is made to determine what actual comedy professionals think of the site. I would love to have heard Onion writer Maria Schneider's opinion of what The New Yorker calls “beer-and-breast-based” humor. Or learn what, if anything, sets this site apart from Fark.com.
But either of these things would have been tricky to introduce, because, as previously established, The New Yorker doesn’t understand funny. And if you don’t understand funny, how can you be expected to distinguish between drunk shirtless girls and actual comedy?
Okay, I’m almost done. Hang in there. One more tirade and I’ll be too worn out to even care anymore. Here we go! Wheee!
Page 100. David Denby on Ben Stiller. “’SCTV’ graduates like Dan Aykroyd, Martin Short and Eugene Levy, despite abundant talent and considerable opportunity did not develop in that way, and their screen careers fizzled out.” Hmmm. What could be wrong with that sentence? What is it? I can almost… oh yes. Eugene Levy is maybe the fourth funniest man on the planet (1). His work in “Best in Show” and “The Mighty Wind” made those films two of my favorite movies of all time.
Granted, Denby has a minor obsession with declaring that various actors are “not stars”—as he snarked about George Clooney recently. You remember George Clooney, right? The guy they call “a modern Cary Grant.” Yes, well, according to Denby, he’s not a star. Too bad, George, thanks for playing.
Back to my main point: Denby could only say this about Levy, could only lump Aykroyd and Short (who have by and large forsaken movies), if he, Denby, had no idea that Levy is a hilarious performer. And why would that be? Because Denby, by dint of working at The New Yorker, does not understand funny.
As promised, I’ve worn myself out and I don’t even have the strength to cram together some kind of concluding paragraph. I showed a writing class the Pythons’ “Restaurant Sketch,” yesterday. Late in the sketch, John Cleese, having screamed himself nearly hoarse, dials it down a notch and laments “Oh, it makes me mad.” That’s about where I am right now. Except that I can’t think too hard about last night’s class or I’ll get upset all over again. I showed my students the aforementioned “Restaurant Sketch,” as well as two Kids in the Hall sketches (“Joymakers” and “Under Control.”) We talked about scene structure for ten minutes. Then they brainstormed thirty or forty stone-hilarious original sketch ideas. I could have wept with joy.
I guess that’s what drives me insane (2). It’s not hard to understand funny. If it makes you laugh—as my students made me laugh last night—then it’s funny. But as good as The New Yorker is as many other things, they just can’t believe it could be that simple. Bastards.
Postscript: The glaring flaw in this argument is that I am very fond of certain New Yorker cartoonists. Maybe the cartoon editor is kept in a quarantined space far away from the rest of the staff, to diminish the effect of the non-funny. That would explain why they run both Bruce Eric Kaplan and Lee Lorenz. Following the theory that it’s an air-born contaminant of some kind, perhaps Roz Chast wears an oxygen mask when she stops by to pick up her checks.
Footnotes:
1. Let me see: Dave Chappelle, Bill Murray, David Sedaris-when-he’s-not-writing-for-the-New-Yorker… Eugene Levy. Yep, fourth funniest man on the planet. Meaning, of all male performers who are funny right now. Not to be confused with funny women, funny writers, and funniest people of all time, which would of course include the Pythons and various others.
2. Well, that, and the fact that, as my Maria Schneider comment implies, there’s not a single woman-as-funny-person reference in the 102 pages. Funny former TV writers, funny kids with their funny website featuring funny pictures of boobies, and an extended mediation on funny male performers. Funny pictures of boobies are great, but they are not the same thing as funny women. Actual funny women? Nowhere to be found. (Well, but then, they did that profile of Tina Fey three years ago, so what do I want out of life?)
I have a three-week-old issue of The New Yorker on my desk. I want to recycle it, but each time I pick it up, I flip through the table of contents and discover why I’ve been holding on to it. And so, in the name of emptying out my in box, I humbly present
My Funny Rant
(Or More Accurately, My Rant About Funniness, or the Absence of Same in The New Yorker Magazine)
The New Yorker does not understand funny. When the staff needs something funny to put in the magazine, they apparently go to a Rolodex of likely suspects, containing the names of people who have been described as funny within earshot of a New Yorker editor.
(Oh, by the way, I realize that this entire entry will officially blacklist me from The New Yorker for all time. That’s okay. Also, they did once reject an extremely funny piece I submitted. So maybe I’m just bitter. Or maybe The New Yorker staff wouldn’t know funny if it bit them in their bony, Dries-Van-Noten-wearing-ass.)
Ahem. I was saying. Sometimes this approach works for The New Yorker. They got a lot of mileage out of David Sedaris until, to my inexpressible rage, some editor/asshat began to encourage Sedaris to emulate the slow, meditative epiphanies of the archetypal New Yorker short story. I love Sedaris, but his essays for The New Yorker have gradually descended from screamingly hilarious to arthritic and boring. I could kick The New Yorker staff in their collective balls just for ruining Sedaris’ gift for the deftly turned phrase.
Why did they do this? Because they do not understand funny. Which would be okay, if like some wiser magazines, they had steered clear of that which confuses them. Lucky magazine, for instance, does not have a humor column. But no. Like Vanity Fair, The New Yorker insists on dabbling in the alchemy of humor, frequently turning pages that could have contained a shimmering golden Malcolm Gladwell dissertation into leaden poopiness.
Yes, I said poopiness. I am sorry for it, but I am so irritated by this situation, I have slipped into profanity. Phooey to you, New Yorker editorial staff.
Right, right, my actual point. Here is the January 24/31 issue of The New Yorker. On page 48, here is a piece by Andy Borowitz, fleshing out the premise “What if Lindsay Lohan bought some real estate from Dick Cheney?” The whole thing hangs from a precarious ledge of an AP news story, excerpted at the beginning. I have seen other stories of this type. Hell, good friends have both written and sold pieces of this type to The New Yorker in years past.
The difference is that the piece written by said friends were actually funny. That is why they are friends—I don’t socialize with humorless clods, as this rant illustrates. This piece, I regret to say, is not funny. And I could let that go, if the author were new to the magazine, or represented a novel perspective on the human condition. Neither is true. Andy Borowitz writes pieces for The New Yorker approximately once a month and mocking Dick Cheney is like nose-picking—at this point, even President Bush does it when no one is looking.
By the way, Andy Borowitz was a vastly more successful and wealthy individual than myself when he wrote this piece and unless the universe is much more just than I’ve been lead to believe, he still is. Just so we’re clear.
Page 50, on which we are introduced to the gentlemen behind www.collegehumor.com. This piece contains a baldly inaccurate paragraph about Robert Benchley writing for college humor magazines in the 1920s, when of course…anyone? Anyone? Benchley was writing for first Vanity Fair and then The New Yorker in 1920s. Not that this magazine’s fact-checking staff would know that, it’s not like they work at the …oh, right.
More to the point, the entire piece takes it as a given that collegehumor.com is undoubtedly funny, because it gets a lot of web traffic and sells a lot of tshirts. Both The Onion and David Letterman are mentioned, but no attempt is made to determine what actual comedy professionals think of the site. I would love to have heard Onion writer Maria Schneider's opinion of what The New Yorker calls “beer-and-breast-based” humor. Or learn what, if anything, sets this site apart from Fark.com.
But either of these things would have been tricky to introduce, because, as previously established, The New Yorker doesn’t understand funny. And if you don’t understand funny, how can you be expected to distinguish between drunk shirtless girls and actual comedy?
Okay, I’m almost done. Hang in there. One more tirade and I’ll be too worn out to even care anymore. Here we go! Wheee!
Page 100. David Denby on Ben Stiller. “’SCTV’ graduates like Dan Aykroyd, Martin Short and Eugene Levy, despite abundant talent and considerable opportunity did not develop in that way, and their screen careers fizzled out.” Hmmm. What could be wrong with that sentence? What is it? I can almost… oh yes. Eugene Levy is maybe the fourth funniest man on the planet (1). His work in “Best in Show” and “The Mighty Wind” made those films two of my favorite movies of all time.
Granted, Denby has a minor obsession with declaring that various actors are “not stars”—as he snarked about George Clooney recently. You remember George Clooney, right? The guy they call “a modern Cary Grant.” Yes, well, according to Denby, he’s not a star. Too bad, George, thanks for playing.
Back to my main point: Denby could only say this about Levy, could only lump Aykroyd and Short (who have by and large forsaken movies), if he, Denby, had no idea that Levy is a hilarious performer. And why would that be? Because Denby, by dint of working at The New Yorker, does not understand funny.
As promised, I’ve worn myself out and I don’t even have the strength to cram together some kind of concluding paragraph. I showed a writing class the Pythons’ “Restaurant Sketch,” yesterday. Late in the sketch, John Cleese, having screamed himself nearly hoarse, dials it down a notch and laments “Oh, it makes me mad.” That’s about where I am right now. Except that I can’t think too hard about last night’s class or I’ll get upset all over again. I showed my students the aforementioned “Restaurant Sketch,” as well as two Kids in the Hall sketches (“Joymakers” and “Under Control.”) We talked about scene structure for ten minutes. Then they brainstormed thirty or forty stone-hilarious original sketch ideas. I could have wept with joy.
I guess that’s what drives me insane (2). It’s not hard to understand funny. If it makes you laugh—as my students made me laugh last night—then it’s funny. But as good as The New Yorker is as many other things, they just can’t believe it could be that simple. Bastards.
Postscript: The glaring flaw in this argument is that I am very fond of certain New Yorker cartoonists. Maybe the cartoon editor is kept in a quarantined space far away from the rest of the staff, to diminish the effect of the non-funny. That would explain why they run both Bruce Eric Kaplan and Lee Lorenz. Following the theory that it’s an air-born contaminant of some kind, perhaps Roz Chast wears an oxygen mask when she stops by to pick up her checks.
Footnotes:
1. Let me see: Dave Chappelle, Bill Murray, David Sedaris-when-he’s-not-writing-for-the-New-Yorker… Eugene Levy. Yep, fourth funniest man on the planet. Meaning, of all male performers who are funny right now. Not to be confused with funny women, funny writers, and funniest people of all time, which would of course include the Pythons and various others.
2. Well, that, and the fact that, as my Maria Schneider comment implies, there’s not a single woman-as-funny-person reference in the 102 pages. Funny former TV writers, funny kids with their funny website featuring funny pictures of boobies, and an extended mediation on funny male performers. Funny pictures of boobies are great, but they are not the same thing as funny women. Actual funny women? Nowhere to be found. (Well, but then, they did that profile of Tina Fey three years ago, so what do I want out of life?)
