The habit of shortening words falls into the category of things that you do every day that make your head explode when other people do them. I say fam. I say nabe. I say b.t.dubs (which is doubly inflammatory because it's an acronym). I say peen; vag. Somehow these versions seem more friendly, more comfortable; the way you might speak if you're in a board meeting or giving a diagnosis and you want to put your audience/patient at ease. "You're gonna need some antibiotics for that wart on your peen; here's a perscrip." Totes.
I instantly hate someone who says amazeballs. I don't know why that is. I like the word amazing; love the word balls, but the two together set me off. The word can be halfway out of a person's mouth and I think: done. It's harsh, I know. But probably not harsh enough. I wouldn't mind if just one person said it: the first person who made it up 4 years ago. I might have thought: Calm down, Gomer Pyle, it's not that exciting; but it wouldn't have irritated me in the same way. There's something about it that seems disingenuous.
Oh yeah, for reals. The person who uses these terms becomes the annoying adult who tries to use teen lingo to bond with the kids, to make himself appear younger and cooler than he really ever was, is or will be.
Click here.
Thursday, April 10, 2014
Wednesday, April 9, 2014
Joyeux Anniversaire Mimi
Things genetically inherited from my mother:
cheekbones
olive skin
thin hair
small frame
weird eyebrows
good health
Things accidentally inherited from my mother:
loud laugh
gullibility
the gasp
early riser
propensity for the dramatic
tendency to speak to a foreigner with a similar accent : (
Things inspired by my mother:
love of outdoors
love of eastern philosophies
love of food
ease in talking to strangers
forgiveness
ability to look at the sunny side
honesty
love of silence
Things not inherited accidentally or genetically from my mother:
small hands and feet
doing the same thing every day
liking strong coffee that tastes like diesel fuel
liking golden retrievers
the ability to meditate every day
Things that make my mother wonder if I am even her daughter:
Being rude
Swearing
Ability to step over a pile of cat vomit without cleaning it up for 2 days
Ability to eat fruit and vegetables without thoroughly washing them first
Loud burping
Happy Birthday Meem!
cheekbones
olive skin
thin hair
small frame
weird eyebrows
good health
Things accidentally inherited from my mother:
loud laugh
gullibility
the gasp
early riser
propensity for the dramatic
tendency to speak to a foreigner with a similar accent : (
Things inspired by my mother:
love of outdoors
love of eastern philosophies
love of food
ease in talking to strangers
forgiveness
ability to look at the sunny side
honesty
love of silence
Things not inherited accidentally or genetically from my mother:
small hands and feet
doing the same thing every day
liking strong coffee that tastes like diesel fuel
liking golden retrievers
the ability to meditate every day
Things that make my mother wonder if I am even her daughter:
Being rude
Swearing
Ability to step over a pile of cat vomit without cleaning it up for 2 days
Ability to eat fruit and vegetables without thoroughly washing them first
Loud burping
Happy Birthday Meem!
Tuesday, April 8, 2014
Gaze (a section of a story)
Ann Finley used to have cocktails every day at five o'clock. She was a slave that way. The clock clicked from 4:59 after the second hand curved past the 12, and she'd put down the spoon, the book, the rake, always with precision, always with intention, rub her hands across each other and walk to the cabinet. First she'd get a glass, then she'd reach into the freezer for the ice tray. Sometimes it was frosted and she had to run it under water, but hardly ever. She'd drop a few cubes into the glass, clink, clink, and then she reached for the bottle. There was nothing sad or Oh, my life, how empty, I'm an alcoholic. None of that. No. It was always: Yes, yes, let's have a party. Fantastic! She loved the sound of ice in the glass once it had bourbon in it. It sounded so festive. It was musical. She'd walk out onto the porch with her packet of Salems, and ease herself into a chair, then she'd cross her legs and have a refreshing sip.
One particular day, she could see into the Humphries yard. It was just smooth grass divided into two parts by a cement walkway. Will Humphrey sat out there with a box of cars. He was seven. His hair was shaved short, so you could see his smooth skin, and he had dark eyes with long lashes. He sat there shirtless, and Mrs. Finley watched his back, the small muscles in his shoulders, the way his fingers held onto the cars. Something in the way his mouth was set, his lips pursed, reminded her of Ben Westin.
Ben was one of the first people in Ann's town to have a car. She remembered how he'd have to run along side of it to get it going, the front door open, one hand on the steering wheel; how the weight resisted at first, how he pushed with his head down like an ox and then, as it picked up speed, he'd jog and then jump in, clicking the door and grabbing the wheel with both hands. Everyone cheered. Ben.
Will's voice was high and purposeful: "Calling all cars. Calling all cars. There's a 6-4 in the mayday at Broad and South. That's a 3-1-8 officer. Wooooo-Oooooo-Woooooo-Wooooooo. Coming through!"
Ben drove Ann and her two sisters home from a church dance one night. She sat in the back by herself, she was the youngest; everyone else sat in the front, breathless and laughing. Ben adjusted the rear view mirror and they caught each other's eyes. The whole way home, he'd look back from time to time, gently holding her gaze.
Will dropped one of the cars he had been holding and slapped the back of his upper arm; he tried to look at his back shoulder but he couldn't see, so he inspected his hand instead. He really studied it, then he wiped his hand on the grass and picked the little car back up. "I said, Step back, people, step back. I have full authority".
Earlier at the church, Ann sat in a chair against the wall watching her sisters dancing. She was 14. She wanted to dance, but no one had asked her, and she was too shy to act like she didn't care. She watched her sisters holding onto each other and laughing with their mouths open.
"Can I sit here?" Ben asked her. Ann smiled and nodded. He sat and they both watched her sisters together. She noticed he was looking down at his shoes. "Why are you wearing your uniform?"
"I'm leaving tomorrow".
"Where are you going?"
"First North Carolina. Then Italy."
"I've never been there".
"Where?"
"Well, either of those places, I mean," Ann felt the heat rush to her face.
"Neither have I actually".
"Italy!"
Ben nodded.
"Are you scared?"
Ben shrugged, "Nah".
"Well, you should dance with me then". She couldn't believe she had blurted out the words.
Ben let out a laugh. It was a happy one. He stood up and took her hand.
Mrs. Finley took another sip of her drink. A breeze passed through the leaves in the tree in her neighbor's yard, and for an instant a spotlight of sun seemed to shine on Will . She noticed peach fuzz on the back of his neck, how it spread up the side of his cheek. "Oh Will," she called. He looked up at her and squinted. "That light, it's just like Tuscany. It's positively glorious".
"Huh?"
"Tuscany. The beautiful, golden Tuscan rays".
Will shrugged and looked down at his cars again.
"It's a marvel, isn't it?"
"I'm kinda busy, Mrs. Finley".
"Of course, you are sweetheart," she said happily, half to herself, "It's fine. I'm just having a party".
One particular day, she could see into the Humphries yard. It was just smooth grass divided into two parts by a cement walkway. Will Humphrey sat out there with a box of cars. He was seven. His hair was shaved short, so you could see his smooth skin, and he had dark eyes with long lashes. He sat there shirtless, and Mrs. Finley watched his back, the small muscles in his shoulders, the way his fingers held onto the cars. Something in the way his mouth was set, his lips pursed, reminded her of Ben Westin.
Ben was one of the first people in Ann's town to have a car. She remembered how he'd have to run along side of it to get it going, the front door open, one hand on the steering wheel; how the weight resisted at first, how he pushed with his head down like an ox and then, as it picked up speed, he'd jog and then jump in, clicking the door and grabbing the wheel with both hands. Everyone cheered. Ben.
Will's voice was high and purposeful: "Calling all cars. Calling all cars. There's a 6-4 in the mayday at Broad and South. That's a 3-1-8 officer. Wooooo-Oooooo-Woooooo-Wooooooo. Coming through!"
Ben drove Ann and her two sisters home from a church dance one night. She sat in the back by herself, she was the youngest; everyone else sat in the front, breathless and laughing. Ben adjusted the rear view mirror and they caught each other's eyes. The whole way home, he'd look back from time to time, gently holding her gaze.
Will dropped one of the cars he had been holding and slapped the back of his upper arm; he tried to look at his back shoulder but he couldn't see, so he inspected his hand instead. He really studied it, then he wiped his hand on the grass and picked the little car back up. "I said, Step back, people, step back. I have full authority".
Earlier at the church, Ann sat in a chair against the wall watching her sisters dancing. She was 14. She wanted to dance, but no one had asked her, and she was too shy to act like she didn't care. She watched her sisters holding onto each other and laughing with their mouths open.
"Can I sit here?" Ben asked her. Ann smiled and nodded. He sat and they both watched her sisters together. She noticed he was looking down at his shoes. "Why are you wearing your uniform?"
"I'm leaving tomorrow".
"Where are you going?"
"First North Carolina. Then Italy."
"I've never been there".
"Where?"
"Well, either of those places, I mean," Ann felt the heat rush to her face.
"Neither have I actually".
"Italy!"
Ben nodded.
"Are you scared?"
Ben shrugged, "Nah".
"Well, you should dance with me then". She couldn't believe she had blurted out the words.
Ben let out a laugh. It was a happy one. He stood up and took her hand.
Mrs. Finley took another sip of her drink. A breeze passed through the leaves in the tree in her neighbor's yard, and for an instant a spotlight of sun seemed to shine on Will . She noticed peach fuzz on the back of his neck, how it spread up the side of his cheek. "Oh Will," she called. He looked up at her and squinted. "That light, it's just like Tuscany. It's positively glorious".
"Huh?"
"Tuscany. The beautiful, golden Tuscan rays".
Will shrugged and looked down at his cars again.
"It's a marvel, isn't it?"
"I'm kinda busy, Mrs. Finley".
"Of course, you are sweetheart," she said happily, half to herself, "It's fine. I'm just having a party".
Sunday, April 6, 2014
RIP Peter Mathiessen
"I learned
early that you can’t get there drunk or smoking dope or hanging about waiting
for your muse. Starting each day is like priming the pump, in my experience;
it’s plain hard labor, hunting the right way to express that thought that had
seemed so penetrating, even beautiful, before you had to reduce it into words.
I liken the donkey work of the first draft to the booster apparatus of a
rocket—the terrible labor of those energies lifting this reluctant mass against
the force of gravity, slowly, slowly, until marvelously—on the better days—the
thing achieves its own momentum, and the dead weight of its booster falls away.
Effortless, it enters into orbit—in short, “the zone”—sailing free and clear
and light and sun-filled, opened wide to the flow of imagination, unobstructed."
-PM
Saturday, April 5, 2014
Opening Day and The Futility of Rage
In honor of opening game day at Dodger Stadium, which transforms my neighborhood into Calcutta on a holy day, I'm reposting an oldie:
There’s no crying in baseball. Everybody knows that. There’s no crying in baseball unless you live in the same neighborhood as the stadium, and a drive down the street that normally takes less than a minute suddenly turns into a never-ending journey filled with pain, remorse, and sorrow.
You can always toot your horn.
Trust me, everyone else does.
I am sitting in my car because I need to get milk, lactaid, if you must know, because we’re done with the dairy. I am sitting here imagining that if I sawed off my arms and both legs with a broken pencil and then crawled to Vons on my bleeding stumps, I would have been back and forth twice already.
Toot toot!
Ok, people keep it going. Keep the flow steady.
An entire family wearing Dodger blue t-shirts walks by me carrying lawn chairs, coolers and a picnic table.
Come on!
Oops, and there’s little Gran pulling up the rear with the hibachi grill in a wagon.
I text all three of my children. “Nice knowing u. Good Luck with everything”.
Dar texts back, “Don’t forget toilet paper. “We R out”.
BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP.
By the time I see the guy directing traffic, I am fully ready to commit a medieval violent act. This guy. What good is he? How dare he try to be authoritative right now. He’s wearing shorts! I glare at him for so long that I get exhausted. Now I feel bad. He’s not even a cop, really. He probably teaches woodworking at a magnet school in Simi Valley. He’s doing this because he loves baseball. He probably gets a season pass in exchange for trying to maintain order in the middle of utter chaos. He is serious with his hand signals though. He is not messing around with his hand-signals and his facial expressions. Bless him. Now I feel bad.
BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP! Come on shitass!
I can’t help myself. I’m not a good person. Even though I feel for this guy, I try to sneak between the cones into a completely empty lane.
He’s got the hand up and the whistle going. He comes at me with his bull-dog face.
“HEY! You can’t wait?”
(I secretly love that he asks me this in utter disbelief rather than just slamming his hand down on the hood of my car and calling me a stupid fucking idiot, which is how we do it in Philly).
I roll down my window and lean my head out like a beautiful blond cheerleader, “Oh darn, I’m so sorry, I’m just trying to get home, I thought that lane was for turning”.
No you didn’t!
(How does he know I’m lying?) Yes I did! I’m sorry.
No you’re not.
(We have the following conversation while I slowly keep driving past the cones onto the empty lane like a tip-toeing Wile E. Coyote)
Yes I am really sorry.
No you’re not.
Yes, I am. I really truly am.
(Then, we’re yelling as I get further away) No you’re not.
Yes I am!
No you’re not.
Yes I am!
No you’re not.
I am. I really really am.
I can see him in my rear view mirror. He is smiling! He is chuckling, that devil. Look at him. I love baseball again, I love the fam in Dodger blue, I love the granny, I love the traffic, I love everyone, I love the stadium and the green grass and the red and yellow seats, I love the cheering and the fireworks that I can see from my window, but most of all I love this guy for recognizing futility when the circumstances are asking for it.
There’s no crying in baseball. And there's no crying in bad traffic. Amen.
And PS, here's the link to Phoebe's Kickstarter page: Phoebe.
And PS, here's the link to Phoebe's Kickstarter page: Phoebe.
Friday, April 4, 2014
Happy Friday
Have a look at my sweet cousin's Kickstarter campaign and support it. Go on!
After a job trading bonds went bad, Brandon Stanton moved to NY and started taking portraits of people out in the street, as a hobby. Then he started printing their stories as well. I posted his blog a few years ago, and since then he has published a book of his photos. Each story is just a paragraph really, but so full and heartfelt and defining. This one below stuck with me all day.
humansofnewyork:
An well-written article about Florida from a new magazine.
A well-written article with a great title from an old website.
Get to work. Test on Monday.
After a job trading bonds went bad, Brandon Stanton moved to NY and started taking portraits of people out in the street, as a hobby. Then he started printing their stories as well. I posted his blog a few years ago, and since then he has published a book of his photos. Each story is just a paragraph really, but so full and heartfelt and defining. This one below stuck with me all day.
humansofnewyork:
"My dad lived in Newark, so he’d pick me up on the weekends and I’d go stay with him. But since he didn’t really get along with my mom, he’d never come over to the house. Whenever his train arrived, he’d just call and I’d go to the station to meet him. But one weekend he was three hours late. I tried to call his phone but he didn’t pick up, so I assumed he wasn’t coming and left to see a movie with my friends. I guess his train showed up a few minutes later. Because my mom said he called as soon as I left. When I finally got in touch with him, we got in a big fight. He was mad that I’d gone to see the movie. He said I didn’t care about him or love him. That was on Saturday. Late Sunday night, I got up to go the bathroom, and found my stepdad and mom crying in the kitchen. They couldn’t even tell me he’d been murdered. They just said that ‘something happened to someone in Jersey.’ I asked if it was my aunt. Then my cousins. Then my grandma. And my mom just kept shaking her head. I went down the entire list of people in Jersey before getting to my dad. And with each name I said, I got more and more scared, cause I knew what had happened."
An well-written article about Florida from a new magazine.
A well-written article with a great title from an old website.
Get to work. Test on Monday.
Thursday, April 3, 2014
Lunch Date Part 3
EXT. Empty diner on the side of the road.
INT. Two people (FATHER and DAUGHTER) seated at table. They are the only customers. They do not have menus. The Daughter looks at the walls that are filled with portraits of dogs and photos of celebrities that no one's ever heard of, and describes them to her Father. This song is playing.
Daughter: This song reminds me of Topanga.
Father: Yeah I think it was playing last time we were in here.
Daughter: Wouldn't that be funny if it was just playing on a loop?
Father says nothing, just listens.
Daughter: Or if there was a tiny person behind a curtain in the back who just kept putting the needle on the record back to track 3.
Father sings with song "Rejoice, rejoice, we have no choice" Like a very old rock star. "But to carry on"
Daughter: Oh my god.
He laughs.
Father: (still singing) Carry on ...Laaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaove is coming. Laaaaaaaaove is coming to us all.
Daughter: You make it sound frightening.
They laugh.
Sound of two people arguing from the kitchen.
Father and Daughter look up. Waitress with long black braid walks from the back to their table. A man with a huge purple birthmark across the lower half of his face stands in the doorway smiling. Daughter leans forward and says, Okay, here we go.
Waitress: Would you like to see a menu?
FREEZE.
***
Okay, I thought if I walked into this scene from a different angle that I might be able to figure it out. I mean there's a weird thing that happens sometimes, especially when you're with a person you've known for a long time, through various stages of your life, which is that you are always three, maybe more, people at once. Then, in the remembering of the scene, and the telling of it, you are another person, embellishing or creating certain details for emphasis. I guess this happens all the time, all day, every day really, even with people you don't know very well. But I think that it gets multiplied by 1000 when you're with your parent. With them you also have unspoken conversations about heavier topics that you touch on and then move away from: perspective, relationships, getting old, dying.
None of it is mentioned usually, but it's there. If you don't have parents, or if you don't see them often, it probably comes up with those you are closest to. Or it will eventually. That's what I wanted to get at, that, and the way that nothing that's ever happened in a David Lynch movie, not the little person who speaks backwards, or the ear found on a sidewalk, or the policeman who weeps at a crime scene, is stranger or more perplexing.
INT. Two people (FATHER and DAUGHTER) seated at table. They are the only customers. They do not have menus. The Daughter looks at the walls that are filled with portraits of dogs and photos of celebrities that no one's ever heard of, and describes them to her Father. This song is playing.
Daughter: This song reminds me of Topanga.
Father: Yeah I think it was playing last time we were in here.
Daughter: Wouldn't that be funny if it was just playing on a loop?
Father says nothing, just listens.
Daughter: Or if there was a tiny person behind a curtain in the back who just kept putting the needle on the record back to track 3.
Father sings with song "Rejoice, rejoice, we have no choice" Like a very old rock star. "But to carry on"
Daughter: Oh my god.
He laughs.
Father: (still singing) Carry on ...Laaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaove is coming. Laaaaaaaaove is coming to us all.
Daughter: You make it sound frightening.
They laugh.
Sound of two people arguing from the kitchen.
Father and Daughter look up. Waitress with long black braid walks from the back to their table. A man with a huge purple birthmark across the lower half of his face stands in the doorway smiling. Daughter leans forward and says, Okay, here we go.
Waitress: Would you like to see a menu?
FREEZE.
***
Okay, I thought if I walked into this scene from a different angle that I might be able to figure it out. I mean there's a weird thing that happens sometimes, especially when you're with a person you've known for a long time, through various stages of your life, which is that you are always three, maybe more, people at once. Then, in the remembering of the scene, and the telling of it, you are another person, embellishing or creating certain details for emphasis. I guess this happens all the time, all day, every day really, even with people you don't know very well. But I think that it gets multiplied by 1000 when you're with your parent. With them you also have unspoken conversations about heavier topics that you touch on and then move away from: perspective, relationships, getting old, dying.
None of it is mentioned usually, but it's there. If you don't have parents, or if you don't see them often, it probably comes up with those you are closest to. Or it will eventually. That's what I wanted to get at, that, and the way that nothing that's ever happened in a David Lynch movie, not the little person who speaks backwards, or the ear found on a sidewalk, or the policeman who weeps at a crime scene, is stranger or more perplexing.
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